Never Girl

by Ana Valen

  “What makes you say that?” she asked, staying back by the coffee table.

  “Susan’s home didn’t have signs of forced entry—no scratch marks, no broken windows, nothing like that. If there were, Susan would have noticed this. She also would have noticed misplaced items, which the person would have done while looking for her phone. That never happened. This means they got in easily, probably with a key, and they knew exactly where she kept her things.”

  “Maybe not. After all, you don’t know Susan. And you got in easily.”

  “That’s because…”

  “Because what?” she followed.

  “Because you gave me the key.” He lowered his head slightly. “It was you.” He turned back.

  Claire stood there clutching a Beretta M9, the weapon by her leg.

  “It was you,” he repeated.

  “It was. But still I can’t see how you placed me there.”

  “The video footage.”

  “What footage?”

  “The footage you streamed when you were inside of Susan’s home. You went upstairs, apparently to use the restroom, but you actually went to her bedroom. After you entered, you walked straight to a bedside drawer and retrieved Jessie’s set of keys. How did you know the keys were there?”

  She swallowed.

  “Because you put them there. And while you were up there, you used her computer. But this wasn’t to check her Internet history. You added to it. You went online and logged into that dating webpage. You did this because you knew I would image her computer. You wanted me to find that in her history.”

  She took a breath. “I have to admit, Harlan. You’re pretty damn good. Too good. I was hoping you would piece together what happened without identifying me. That way, I could escape without killing you. I’m sorry. But that’s impossible now.”

  “Why did you have me investigate this at all?”

  “Look around you. What do you see?”

  He did exactly that. Then it hit him like a freight train. He couldn’t help but smile. “I see. I also have to admit something. I never saw this coming.”

  “You weren’t supposed to. But you’re too damn good. And now do you see why I can’t let you live?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I truly am.”

  “Don’t apologize. Besides, I should thank you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I learned something over the past few days. I learned that life does mean something. It means potential. As people get older, this becomes less apparent, because they become set in their ways. But you can see it in the young. When life is just getting started, the possibilities are endless. So we’re not simply matter floating around the universe. We’re uncertainty waiting to be realized.”

  “You’re right. But my potential has ended. My brother is at fault for this. That’s why I killed him. But with you, it’s not personal.” She raised her pistol.

  He took a breath and closed his eyes. Funny. He realized the meaning of life at the very end. But it was worth it. Not only did he learn an invaluable lesson, he would no longer snuff out the potential of others. He found peace in that. He found tranquility in that. For those sensations alone, it was worth it.

  ***

  Claire pulled the trigger, and the Beretta made a thunderous crack. In nearly the same instant, Harlan’s head snapped back and he fell to the floor.

  With the pistol still raised, her hand started shaking. All the pent up tension came flooding out. Disregarding this, she ran up to Harlan and assessed him. He was dead. That much was obvious. The round penetrated his skull just above his right eye. As for his eyes, they were half-closed and glassy. But just in case, she aimed at his chest and fired two more ear-splitting rounds.

  She placed the Beretta on safe, ran to her purse, and slipped the pistol inside. Purse in hand, she hustled through the apartment, searching for Harlan’s room. She found it, darted inside, and stopped at a bedside drawer.

  She reached into her purse and pulled a zip-lock bag, one holding another pistol. The pistol was the one she used on Jessie, and which she stole from him a week before his murder. She unzipped the bag, making sure not to touch the weapon. After working the pistol onto the drawer, she went back into her purse and grabbed a canister of disinfectant wipes.

  She headed back to the living room, pulled one of the wipes, and started covering any surfaces she had touched. The cleaning job was messy, but that was fine. Her only goal was keeping the police from identifying her right off the bat. That would buy her enough time to disappear.

  With her cleaning duties complete, she placed the canister inside her purse. She also threw in the used wipes and started for the door.

  Outside of the apartment, she donned a look of fearful desperation and started running. She searched for anyone nearby, but she didn’t find a single person. She ran downstairs and kept looking. A few people stood by their doors, no doubt wondering what the noises were. When they spotted her, they ducked into their apartments and shut their doors. That didn’t surprise her.

  A man stood further away talking on his cellphone. All the while, he looked up towards Harlan’s apartment. Perfect. She ran towards him, still appearing crazed.

  “I don’t know,” the man said into his phone. “There were three loud noises. Bang-bang-bang. Just like that.”

  “I need your phone!” she shouted, bouncing from foot to foot.

  “What?” the man said.

  “I need your phone! I was on the second floor! I saw the shooter!”

  “Shooter? Those were gunshots?”

  “Yes! And I saw the man leaving! I need to call the cops!”

  “Jimmy,” the man said into his phone, “I’ll call you back. I’ll call you back!” He disconnected and started dialing. “911, right?”

  “Yes. Hurry!”

  “Here!” He handed her the phone. “It’s dialing!”

  When she placed the phone to her ear, the female dispatcher finished her greeting.

  “Yes,” Claire quickly said, “I’m calling to report gunshots.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Where are you?”

  She gave the apartment name and cross streets.

  “Are you hurt?” the dispatcher continued.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Is anyone else hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I was walking by the apartment when I heard the shots. I saw the shooter run out.”

  “Do you know where the shooter went?”

  “Not really. I ran in the opposite direction.”

  “Can you give me a description of the shooter?”

  “White, I think. Maybe six-feet tall. He was thin, I know that. And he had on dark clothing.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Units are on their way. And stay there. The police will need to speak with you.”

  “Sure. That’s fine.”

  “And please stay on the line, okay?”

  “Yeah. No problem.” Claire hung up and handed back the phone.

  “What did they say?” the man asked.

  “The cops are on their way.” She turned to leave.

  “You’re going?”

  “Yes, I’m going.” She increased her hysteria. “Oh, my God. I think he saw me. I think he saw me!”

  On the verge of tears, she ran across the street and headed for her car. After climbing inside, she fired up the engine and sped away. As she fled, police cruisers streaked towards her, their lights and sirens blaring.

  Chapter 34

  Detective Raven approached her cubicle, removed her jacket, and hung it on her chair.

  “How did it go?” Adams asked, seated at his desk and checking more police reports.

  “Fucking ridiculous.”

  He turned to her. “Jeez. Where did you have lunch? I’ll make sure not to go there.”

  “Huh?”

  “When we talked on the phone, you said you were going out to lunch. Obviously, it didn’t go so well.”

  “Oh.
” She planted herself. “Yeah. Lunch sucked. Anyway, we need to rethink the case.”

  “Rethink the case?” He gestured towards his documents. “We’re about to take everything to the prosecutor. In fact, I called the DA’s office and told them to expect us. We can go now if you’re ready.”

  “Negative. There’s no way Susan was involved. Claire was behind this. I know that for a fact.”

  “No, that’s your intuition. And unless you have something stronger, it won’t fly.”

  She ground her teeth. She did have something stronger—Claire admitting her involvement. But like many times before, her off-the-books investigations wouldn’t work with Adams. And that said nothing of the prosecutor.

  “Well?” he prodded. “Do you have anything else?”

  “Screw it.”

  “Screw what?”

  “Trying to cover my ass. I’m just going to tell you.”

  He grimaced with dread.

  “Alright,” she continued, turning her chair towards him. “I have another update, one I didn’t mention earlier.”

  He placed his report on his desk, turned back to her, and crossed his arms.

  “I ended up—”

  Adam’s desk phone started ringing.

  “Dammit,” he said. “Hang on.” He picked up the receiver. “Detective Adams. Yeah, that’s right. I’m working the Jessie Jacobson case.” His eyes slowly widened. “Sergeant, wait a second.” He waved her over, put the call on speaker, and hung up. “Sergeant Sims?”

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “Okay. You’re on speaker and my partner is here. Repeat your last.”

  “No problem. I think we got your Jessie Jacobson shooter. About twenty minutes ago, dispatch received calls for gunshots. The shots came from inside an apartment. When patrol units arrived, they cordoned off the area, searched the apartment, and found all kinds of evidence. They also found a body. The evidence pertains to Jessie Jacobson.”

  “What kind of evidence?” Raven asked.

  The Sergeant sniffed. “The kind you won’t believe. The kind that makes a case airtight. Trust me. You’ll wanna come check this out.”

  “We’re on our way,” Raven said.

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” Adams added. He ended the call.

  Raven threw on her jacket, and Adams did the same. They promptly hustled towards the exit.

  ***

  Raven and Adams arrived at the apartment complex. She parked the Crown Vic, shut off the engine, and they rapidly climbed out. To save time, they drove with their suit jackets on.

  They hustled into a beehive of police activity. Black and white police cruisers blocked off the area, while uniformed officers held back bystanders. Overhead, a police helicopter carved wide circles. Down below, SWAT officers swept the area, all of them carrying military-style body armor and combat rifles.

  She and Adams cut through the spectacle and started up the steps. On the second story, they hooked a right and approached an officer with a clipboard.

  “Are you the detectives?” the officer asked.

  “That’s us,” Adams said. “Detective David Adams and Detective Stacy Raven.”

  The officer scribbled their names onto his sheet. He then turned towards the open apartment. “Sergeant Sims!”

  “Yeah?” hollered a voice from inside.

  “The detectives are here.” The officer turned back. “You can head in.”

  “Thanks,” Adams said.

  Raven and Adams pulled latex gloves and slipped them on. After stepping into the unit, they abruptly stopped. A massive officer approached them, the cop built like an NFL lineman.

  “Detectives,” he greeted. “I’m Sergeant Sims. I spoke to you over the phone.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sergeant,” Adams said. “I’m Detective Adams, and this is my partner, Detective Raven.”

  “Detective Raven,” Sims said with a nod.

  She nodded back.

  “Well,” Sims continued, “today is your lucky day. This case is done.” He turned and gestured at the apartment.

  She and Adams gave the room a cursory glance. Her eyes immediately gravitated towards the body.

  The victim lay on his back. He was white, probably five-foot ten, and looked about upper twenties. He had an entry wound over his right eye where blood oozed out. The exit wound wasn’t visible, but blood had pooled beneath his head, making it clear that the round passed through. The victim also had two entry wounds on his chest. Beside him, a crime scene technician processed the body. The technician looked up and smiled.

  “Adams and Raven,” Jim Curry said, the same technician that processed the Jessie Jacobson crime scene.

  “Hey, Jim,” Adams replied. “What do we have?”

  Curry looked to the body. “What we have is the owner of this apartment, probably.”

  “What makes you say that?” Adams asked.

  “He has the key to this place.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet. I just got started. I’ll give you an update in a minute. In the meanwhile, you should check out everything else. You won’t believe it.”

  She and Adams glanced around some more. It seemed like someone had just given a presentation. A number of poster boards were up on easels, and the posters contained all sorts of information. But so what? Why was everyone making such a big deal about this?

  She and Adams stepped towards the boards and looked over the data. Slowly, she parted her lips.

  “What the fuck?” she whispered.

  “I agree,” Adams said.

  Before them was a detailed description of the Jessie Jacobson murder—the target location, movement to the target location, timelines for the movements, precautions and considerations, everything. There was also information for Susan’s house, which was apparently an integral part of the plan. The assailant broke inside, swapped her phone with a replacement, and used the original to place the texts.

  “That’s how he did it,” Adams said. “That’s how the shooter made it seem like Susan sent the messages.” He pointed at the first board. “And this is why we never saw the shooter. They used the freeway to reach the hiking trail.”

  “Susan?” Sergeant Sims said. “Do you mean Susan Wright?”

  She and Adams turned.

  “Yeah,” Adams said. “You know her?”

  “I learned about her five minutes ago. Check this out.” Sims walked to the coffee table.

  She and Adams followed him, and watched as Sims pulled a pen from his shirt. He used the pen to open a folder on the table. Inside the folder was a dossier on Susan, including her personal information, electronic information, home address, everything.

  “Oh, man,” Adams said. “This is a kill order.”

  “You think so?” Sims asked.

  Adams looked at the poster boards. “It has to be.” He turned to her. “Right?”

  Raven didn’t answer. Her head was in a thousand places. Her theory about Claire didn’t just unravel, it detonated. That made speaking difficult.

  “Raven?” Adams asked.

  “Maybe,” she quietly answered. “Maybe.”

  “Detectives,” called a female from a bedroom.

  She and Adams made their way over. Sims followed right behind.

  “Yeah?” Adams asked, speaking to a crime scene photographer.

  “I just shot the room,” she said. “You might wanna check out the closet.”

  She and Adams walked over and looked inside. The closet contained a massive gun safe, tactical gear, multiple sets of black clothing, and multiple sets of black boots.

  Sergeant Sims whistled behind them. “This dude was an assassin. No question about that. And dollars to donuts, that safe is filled with silenced weapons.”

  “I’m betting you’re right,” Adams said, poking around the closet.

  Raven simply stood there. How was this possible? How did this apartment owner suddenly become the killer? If he was involved, he should’ve left some evidence in his
wake. As it happened, they completely missed him.

  “Ah, hell,” Sergeant Sims said.

  She and Adams looked over at Sims, who stood by a bedside drawer.

  “What?” Adams asked.

  “What type of round killed your guy?”

  “.40 cal. Why?”

  “Check this out.”

  She and Adams walked over, and she immediately tightened her mouth. Atop the bedside drawer was a Smith and Wesson M&P 40, the weapon chambered in .40 caliber.

  “Son of a bitch,” Adams said.

  “Is that your gun?” Sims asked.

  “Maybe. Ballistics will make sure. But at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me. Hell. At this point, I’m sure we’ll find a video confession.”

  “Confession?” Sims asked. “Those murder plans in the living room are all the confession you need. Not only that, this dude has all sorts of assassin gear, along with target orders for that Susan person. This is your guy, hands down.”

  “That’s what it seems like,” Adams said. He turned to her. “What do you think?”

  Sims looked to her as well, and both men kept staring, probably because she hadn’t responded. She paid them no mind. She kept her eyes on the Smith and Wesson, the weapon all but mocking her. A second later, she shook her head in disgust and walked out.

  What… the fuck… was going on?

  Back in the living room, she stopped by the body. “Have you identified him?” she asked Jim Curry.

  “I believe so.”

  Adams walked up with Sergeant Sims.

  “Let’s see,” Curry continued. He picked up the victim’s wallet, opened it, and pulled the driver’s license. “Harlan Nichols.” He looked up. “Ring a bell?”

  “No,” Adams said.

  She shook her head.

  “Well,” Curry went on, looking through the wallet some more, “what else do we have? Oh. We have a vet.”

  “A what?” Adams asked.

  “A veteran.” Curry pulled a card. “VA medical ID. This guy’s prior service.”

  Sergeant Sims smirked. “And he has military training? Boy, oh boy.”

  Curry used his gloved hand to lift up the victim’s shirtsleeve.

  “What’s that?” Adams asked.