Over My Dead Body

by Dave Warner

  And then he read the story, noticed the name. Her father was a cop.

  Him.

  And angry as he was, he knew then that here was his purpose, to deal with those who had escaped their deserved punishment. Harry Watson had saved the life of the stupid, murdering young bitch who had killed his wife, and in the time it had taken to do that, Harry Watson had also forfeited the life of Lee. She could have been as successful as Georgette Watson. Her sweet nature would have been suited to any number of caring professions, doctor, nurse, teacher.

  In the end however, he had been presented with his chance. Fate owed him that much. It had snatched from him his whole world, those he loved more than life, murdered by a couple of kids whose only thought had been to get high. They had created chaos, death, misery, and their punishment had been nothing: a ‘try better next time’.

  Fuck that. Harry Watson’d had twenty years more to spend with his daughters than he got to spend with Lee and Stephanie. Twenty years of gnawing pain, guilt, loneliness. No, Watson wasn’t as directly responsible as that murdering bastard or his bimbo girlfriend but Watson could have saved Lee. The autopsy indicated it was a matter of minutes. If that had been Watson’s own daughter, it would have been a different story. Watson would have moved heaven and earth, or died trying. Well, Lee would get justice, Watson was going to become acquainted firsthand with a father’s pain, no miracle this time.

  You’ll be able to taste the loneliness, Harry, the dark nights when you can’t sleep so you get up and try and watch television but that doesn’t work so you head outside and walk, anywhere, and all you can hear are their screams, and all you can see is the fear in their eyes. Over and over, each new night another brick, sealing you in to your own endless hell. You drink, and that works for a while. And then it’s a scourge, drinking is all you do and you’re no good to anyone. And you lose everything.

  Until fate drags you back, sits you down and says, ‘Is that all you’ve got you pathetic coward?’ And you see light, sense there is hope. But you have to be the one, nobody else can end the hell. There had been false starts, doubts. And then after he had built real momentum, setbacks. First Georgette Watson went overseas. Then the Englishman turned up to complicate matters.

  But it was all for the better, actually. It had given him time to plan properly for the Borello bimbo, and there was something more enjoyable about stretching out the climax of his work. Quite fortunate, the whole casting agent thing. He’d only started that six years ago because it was a job that gave him plenty of time to drink, had low overheads, and his social interaction was limited to words on a computer screen, or the odd meeting and audition. It only occurred to him around a month ago that he could use that with the other daughter. Good God, another actress, just what the world needed.

  There was a real chance he wouldn’t get away with it, he knew that. He’d hired this dump using a false name, paid cash, called her and said he needed to see her immediately, told her to come alone, not to tell anybody because there was a total embargo on the script – all things that would hinder detection. But actors talked, incessantly. She might have told somebody: her father, the sister. If so they would run a check and no doubt eventually they would discover the agent was the same man who had lost his daughter because of Harry Watson’s failure. Then they’d come looking for him. Maybe they’d find him, but if they did, it would have been worth it. And perhaps they wouldn’t. Perhaps she had told nobody, and then their leads would turn to dust and his precautionary absence may become a short vacation, no more.

  As Simone reached the door, her phone began ringing in her shoulder bag. Likely it was Georgette. She did not want to let her down but she had to be strong. She checked the phone – yep, Georgette. She silenced it, let it run to voicemail. She cleared her head the way they had taught her in drama class. Leave yourself behind, that was the mantra. Whatever words you find in front of you must become yours, strip away the you who you woke up as.

  It was freezing in this room. It was nothing more than a big empty space that still smelled of whatever heavy-metal band had used it for rehearsal last. The single-bar radiator was feeble and he needed every thread of his overcoat to keep the chill at bay. There was a knock on the door. Right on time.

  He felt in the pocket of his coat, reassured himself the cord was there. He opened the door. And there she stood, quite a pretty thing, really.

  ‘Simone, come in to my ice block. It’s freezing in here. I apologize. I never would have booked this if I had known.’

  ‘Never been to a warm rehearsal room yet,’ she laughed.

  He closed the door, heard the lock click.

  ‘You came alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have told nobody?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. They rang to say they were running slightly late so it’s a good thing I was able to make it after all. It is a very secret project.’

  ‘Can I ask who?’

  ‘That would spoil the surprise.’ He indicated a metal fold-out chair. ‘Just sit hit here and take a read.’

  He’d left out a script on the chair for her. It was a shocker some waitress had insisted he read while he was trying to have a quiet coffee.

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘We’ll get to that. Just take in the general vibe.’

  Of course, they wouldn’t actually get to reading for any part. She’d be dead before she had finished the first page. He walked around behind her. His hand reached in and began to pull out the wooden handle of the garotte. It fit nicely between his ring and index fingers. He felt charged.

  Georgette was falling to pieces. She’d tried Simone’s phone, got only voicemail, screamed a message for her to head for a police station. Tried again. Same deal.

  ‘What’s Ambrose last name?’ Harry’s voice yelling now at her through the speaker.

  ‘I don’t know. She never mentioned –’

  She heard Harry roaring at somebody to try St Christopher’s, find a number on a kid, Ambrose, who directed the play.

  Holmes came on, tense but calming.

  ‘All patrols have been notified to keep watch for her vehicle. Did she reveal a destination?’

  ‘No. Ambrose was driving … wait! Rockaway and …’ What was it, what was it? Newton? No. ‘Newport!’

  Harry started barking into his radio, ‘Concentrate the search in Brooklyn, Brownsville, anywhere on or near Newport.’

  ‘You’re doing well, Watson. You don’t happen to have a copy of the theatre program with you? That might help with Ambrose’s name.’

  She cast about desperately. There was one in her apartment, she thought, not here. Her mind was churning.

  ‘What about Valerian? You could try him.’

  ‘I did already. He is at a different school and only knows Ambrose by his first name.’

  I must have read that program twenty times, she thought. Ambrose what? She tried to picture it, conjured Ambrose’s face … Flash!

  Ambrose had sent her that photo!

  ‘Call you back,’ she yelled. Her fingers danced, found the text Ambrose had sent. She called the number. It rang, a long burr.

  26

  The girl was reading, engrossed in the awful script. She wasn’t even looking at him. He raised his arms, formed a perfect loop.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Fuck. He just had time to drop the garotte back in his pocket as she swung around.

  ‘It must be them,’ she said, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

  Calm, stay calm. So far you have not even committed a crime here. But they must not see your face. He waited. Perhaps whoever it was would go away. Another thump. Damn. He walked to the door. It was thick to keep in sound. He opened it a crack, presented no more than one eye, keeping his body behind the door.

  A teenage boy stood there, alone.

  ‘Get lost,’ he hissed at the boy.

  ‘The chick needs to move her car.’

  ‘What?�
�

  The boy sighed like he had important stuff to attend to. ‘The chick asked me to mind her car. Looks like they are getting ready to tow it.’

  Simone was confused. It sounded like Ambrose but she hadn’t asked him to mind the car. What was it? Had something happened to Sherlock maybe? Something terrible? She looked over at Keely, who was clearly pissed but trying to not show it. At least Ambrose had thought on his feet and wasn’t giving too much away. Keely would think it highly unprofessional of her to have brought him along. Keely arched a brow at her. Ambrose’s voice came though.

  ‘Look, doesn’t matter to me if they tow it, but I want my ten spot.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said and dived into her purse and headed over. What the hell was up?

  She noticed that Keely remained behind the door. Her eyes met Ambrose’s. What was he trying to tell her?

  ‘Lady, I’m sorry, I done my best but they got a truck and all. I told them you’d only be a minute. You need to move your car.’

  None of which made sense because, as Ambrose well knew, her car was already in the lot out back. Obviously he wanted to speak to her in private but surely it could wait?

  ‘I can’t do that right now.’

  She looked at Keely who nodded approval of her hard line.

  ‘They’re going to tow it. You’re crazy. What’s so important you can’t move your car?’

  She turned hopefully to the agent.

  ‘Perhaps I might …?’

  Keely said gruffly, ‘Move it into the back like I told you. Then you, scram,’ he pointed at Ambrose.

  She stepped out and whispered, ‘What’s going on?’

  But Ambrose didn’t answer, just dragged her away from her car and towards the street. As they reached the end of the short alley entrance to the lot, strong arms seized her and pulled her against the wall. Cops, a male and female uniform. Four more moved quickly up the alley to the building. She looked fearfully at Ambrose who held up his hand to stop her speaking. She heard somebody thumping on the door again and then shouts like at the start of a Shakespeare play.

  ‘On your knees. Hands on head. Now!’

  This is real fucking drama, she thought, looking up to see a whole line of squad cars arriving.

  Holmes peered through the viewing mirror. It was his first real look at Burgess. By the time he and Harry had arrived at the intended murder scene, Burgess had already been surrounded by police dressed ninja-style. He looks a lot like my baker, Chipworth, thought Holmes. Chipworth took too much rum and it showed in the area between his eyebrows and nose. Burgess was, or had been, a heavy drinker. Saving Simone had been touch and go. In all honesty, he had thought they might already be too late. When Georgette had called them back to say she had Ambrose on the line and that Simone had already been inside the building at least five minutes he had grasped that there was no time to wait for police, that Simone’s life rested at that moment squarely on the narrow shoulders of the schoolboy. But Burgess, if he had not already killed Simone, would likely do so immediately he knew the game was up. After all, that was the singular aim of his whole grand plan. Escape would be but an afterthought to the fellow who was bent on revenge. It was Ambrose who had come up with the idea of pretending to be paid to watch Simone’s car but they dare not risk the boy’s life as well. He was told to stay out of reach and to delay as long as he could. That he had done magnificently. Harry, recovered now, stood next to Holmes. His reunion with Simone had been very emotional. Holmes felt a pang that he himself would likely never experience that with a child of his own. The voice of Carter, the male detective, sounded clearly through speakerphones above his head.

  ‘So how did you meet Rebecca Chaney?’ asked Carter.

  ‘I first met her as Becky Borello after the drugged-up little slut killed my wife and daughter.’

  ‘You’ve been following her all this time?’

  ‘No. I had an awakening, I suppose you would call it. About a year ago I understood that it was my task to restore the moral balance of the world. Nobody else was going to. I’d been all this time punishing myself and my loved ones, instead of those who deserved to be punished. I went to her old neighborhood. Her parents are still alive. It wasn’t hard to learn she had changed her name and then I tracked her down via Facebook. Staged a meeting in a bar at happy hour.’

  ‘No offense, but you’re telling me she went for you? You sure you didn’t just grab her?’ Gomez this time, the female detective. Holmes could see they were using her to goad him.

  Harry whispered, ‘She’s making it airtight, making sure his confession matches the science and more important that she is in no way leading him.’

  Burgess sat back, relaxed. ‘Being a casting agent has its value. Everybody wants to be a star. Believe me it wasn’t hard.’

  ‘Smug,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The word one would use to describe him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Harry nodded. ‘Smug. Like he’s holding some ace.’

  Carter said, ‘How long have you been tracking Simone Watson?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘What were your plans for her?’ It was a routine question but for the first time Burgess balked.

  ‘Strangle her,’ he said.

  ‘And dump her in the river like Rebecca?’

  ‘What’s it matter now?’ Still sitting back like the cat swallowed the cream.

  Harry said, ‘I expected Burgess to clam up, demand a lawyer but the guy is revelling in it, like he’s a winner.’

  Carter said, ‘You think it was okay to strangle Rebecca Chaney because when she was fifteen she went on a joyride that turned into tragedy?’

  ‘Becky Borello, you mean? It’s not a matter of being okay. It’s a question of what is just.’

  ‘So you admit you killed her?’ Gomez.

  ‘Yes.’ Not the slightest hesitation.

  ‘And wanting to kill Simone Watson, who has never done anything to you, that was just too?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps not to her, but if you look at the bigger picture. Our warplanes bomb targets where innocent people will very likely be killed. But it is calculated by somebody to be morally acceptable because it achieves a higher goal. Collateral damage, I believe is the term.’

  ‘But when you target that civilian just to punish somebody …’

  ‘Evil begets evil.’

  ‘You think Lieutenant Watson is evil?’

  ‘I think he was criminally negligent. And still is. “Save Me”. He should have realized then if he’d been any good. But I guess that’s why he’s not in here now.’

  Holmes looked at Harry, who shook his head and through gritted teeth said, ‘I’d love five minutes alone with him.’

  ‘You sure you’re okay? I could come over to the station?’ Georgette had never been so grateful to be able to talk to her sister. She had been trying to keep her mind on the lab work but it was proving impossible.

  ‘I’m fine, truly. You guys saved my ass. Ambrose was Oscar material.’

  Georgette asked what was happening and Simone explained that Burgess was being interviewed and that Harry and Percy were watching on.

  ‘You’re in love with him.’

  It was a statement Georgette felt unable to contradict. ‘Unless I find something, I’ve as good as signed his death warrant.’

  ‘Don’t give up.’

  But Georgette had just finished looking at the latest results. All bar four of her hamsters were showing some signs of impairment.

  Simone must have picked up on her silence. ‘You want me to come over?’

  ‘No, I need to keep ploughing on. But keep an eye on Sherlock. I think the process has started. He’s trying to act like nothing’s happening …’

  ‘Why not tell the world who he is? You would have every brain in the world helping.’

  ‘He doesn’t want that.’

  ‘Sometimes we have to not get what we want.’

  ‘There’s one option I’ve been
thinking, if I can’t crack this.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Three weeks ago she would never have trusted Simone but that was three weeks ago. ‘I could refreeze him.’

  Just like John Watson had done, she thought.

  Holmes watched Burgess through the glass and sensed the ghost of something he’d seen before. He threw memories out of his suitcase, willy-nilly, like a bride searching for a misplaced engagement ring, pinned it down: Henry Irving, the master actor. Holmes and John Watson had seen him numerous times. There was a theatricality about Burgess though he disguised it deftly. Burgess was, Holmes reminded himself, at home in the theatre but it wasn’t just that. Smug. Too smug. Holmes turned down the volume on the microphone feed.

  ‘Something is not quite right.’

  Harry nodded. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

  ‘We’re missing something,’ Holmes said.

  Harry said, ‘Like he’s playing with us.’

  Holmes’ brain was a toboggan down an icy slope. The Rebecca Chaney crime scene loomed.

  Think. Something is not right. In your brain at the time you realized it, but you were distracted and your brain is not what it was. The crime scene. Rebecca’s apartment. Why is that stabbing you?

  ‘Did they find an extra baking dish at Burgess’s apartment?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘The techs will be there for hours.’ Harry dialled. ‘Of course, he may have several.’

  Somebody came on the phone and Harry asked about the missing baking dish. Holmes felt he was pushing through a heavy snowdrift.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he heard Harry ask. Then Harry ended the call. ‘No baking dish at all. Only a microwave. He could have ditched it. No freezer where he must have kept Rebecca but it looks like he has a lock-up in Brooklyn not far from where he lured Simone. Likely where he stored the body.’

  Holmes did not bother with photos this time, he simply transported himself back to that crime scene. The mirror, ‘Save Me’. Just above his eye line.