A Vision of Murder

by Victoria Laurie

  “He’s a good friend.”

  “Is he single?” I asked innocently.

  “Yep. He runs through the ladies. Even in college he’d never go out with a girl more than a few times. One of those confirmed bachelor types, I guess.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said as we rounded into the elevator.

  “What do you mean?” Dutch asked finally catching on to my sarcastic tone.

  “Nothing,” I said. “That was some music he had going in there.”

  “Yeah, T.J.’s always had really weird taste in music. Can you believe he likes show tunes?”

  “Get out!” I said, my tongue firmly in my cheek.

  “I know. Weird huh?”

  “And I like his sense of decor, too. Those chairs were really comfortable.”

  “He’s always had a great eye for furniture. Did I tell you he practically decorated my whole house for me?” Dutch’s house looked like it’d been decorated by a professional. Being a true guy’s guy, I’d always wondered how he’d managed such style.

  “It’s like something out of that show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” I said as we got out of the elevator.

  “Yeah . . . I mean, what?”

  I paused as we reached the lobby doors to the outside. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

  “About what?” he said, his face scrunching up in confusion.

  “T.J.,” I said, pushing backward against the door. “You do realize he’s gay, don’t you?”

  “What?” Dutch exclaimed, completely flabbergasted as he followed me out. “He is not!”

  “Is too,” I sang and began to saunter ahead of him toward the car.

  “There’s no way!” Dutch said from behind me, his cane clicking on the sidewalk as he hurried to catch up.

  I kept going but turned around to walk backward just to taunt him. “Gay as a Liza Minnelli groupie! Gay as a Barbra Streisand look-alike contest!”

  “Abby,” Dutch growled.

  “Hello, Dolly!” I sang in an off-key loud voice, quite enjoying the moment and how uncomfortable my boyfriend suddenly looked. “Well hello Dolly! It’s so nice to . . . oh shit!” I squealed an instant before a man dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and ski mask darted out from behind a building and barreled right into me, laying me out flat in the snow.

  “Hey!” I heard Dutch yell a few yards away.

  As I fought with the bulk of the man who lay on top of me, it took me a moment to realize he was tugging at the box I carried under one arm. My senses were momentarily dulled by the impact and he was able to snatch the box from my grasp. Just as he got up to bolt with it I heard a loud Whack! over my head and the thief went down on top of me again. Regaining my senses I managed to get an arm free and reached for the box, just as another Whack! sent echoes across the campus.

  “Let go!” I shouted as I clutched at the box, as yet another Whack! sounded above me and my attacker groaned loudly and let go of it. I kicked at him as I pulled the box to my belly while he rolled painfully away clawing his way up to run and dart back around the building. As I got to my knees I watched him go as Dutch’s cane flew in the air after him and clanked off the side of the building he’d darted behind. Still trying to catch my breath I felt myself lifted from my knees and Dutch began to poke at me checking for injuries, a rather pained look on his face. “Son of a bitch!” he growled, as he looked me over. “You okay?” he asked, sounding anxious.

  Clutching my painful bruised side, I said, “Yeah, I think he just knocked the wind out of me. . . .”

  Suddenly, from behind us we both heard a shriek and an, “Ohmigod!!!” The ear-piercing sounds came from the same direction and we both turned to see the source as we saw T.J. running pell-mell straight for us, waving his hand in the direction of the mugger. “I saw everything from the window!” he said when he reached us, his breath ragged from the run. “I raced down three flights of stairs! Dutch, are you all right?” he asked, his eyes panicked as he grabbed at my boyfriend to check for injuries.

  “Uh . . . I’m fine, T, it was Abby who . . .”

  “You could have been killed!” T.J. wheezed. “If it hadn’t been for that cane he probably would have murdered you!”

  Ah, now I knew what the whacking sound was all about.

  “Really, T.J., I’m fine,” Dutch said, becoming embarrassed as a few students paused to stare at the commotion. “It’s Abby I’m concerned . . .”

  “Oh, and to think I almost lost you!” T.J. said as he flung himself at Dutch and clutched him tightly.

  Dutch caught my eye over T.J.’s shoulder and despite my own discomfort I had to flash him the full grill before mouthing, “Told you so . . .”

  We made a report to the U of M campus police department, and a mere forty minutes later were on our way home again. We avoided the topic of T.J. altogether as I was sure Dutch didn’t want to talk about it, but kept the conversation light for a while before Dutch finally said, “You know what’s funny?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Why didn’t that mugger take your purse instead of going for the box?”

  I looked over at him for a moment, considering that question for the very first time. I’d been so surprised by the attack that I hadn’t wondered why he would fight me so hard for the box, and not my pocketbook. “Maybe because my purse was tucked securely under my arm, with the strap over my shoulder. It would have been a lot tougher to take that away from me, whereas the box was just being held in my hand.”

  “So why target you at all?” Dutch replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That campus is crowded with easier targets, Abby. There are women all over the place, some with purses, some with backpacks. You’re just holding a box in your hand. What’s the attraction?”

  I puzzled over that for minute before answering, “It looks like a jewelry box. I mean, that’s what I thought it was when I first looked at it.”

  “There’s no way that guy had time to scope us out long enough to assess what type of box you were carrying before he attacked you, Edgar. Remember, we had just come out of the building.”

  “So what’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying someone knew what you had and wanted to take it from you.”

  “You think someone followed us to U of M?” I asked, subconsciously checking the rearview mirror.

  “I’d pretty much bet on it.”

  “But who knew I had the . . . oh crap!” I exclaimed, slapping my forehead.

  “Yep, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “But, Dutch, I just don’t get that kind of vibe off of James. Really, I can’t imagine he’d have anything to do with this.”

  “The only other person that knew about the box was Dave, and I doubt he was your attacker.”

  “So, do you think it was the same guy that attacked me in my house?” I asked as a chill spread up my spine.

  “Do you?” Dutch said, throwing the question back at me.

  My intuition chimed in and I said, “Yeah, I do. I think it was the same guy, which doesn’t necessarily point to James. Anyone could have been watching Dave and I go into that house and come out with a box.”

  “Who else could have known it even existed, Abby?”

  My brows furrowed in frustration. I heard what Dutch was saying, but it just didn’t make sense. Intuitively I knew James was a good guy, and this wasn’t his doing.

  That did not deter my boyfriend, however, from pulling out his cell phone and making a quick call to yet another friend of his. “Hey Milo, it’s me. Listen, I need you to do a background check on James Carlier. I don’t know where the guy lives, but he owns that jewelry shop in Birmingham where I bought Abby’s necklace. You remember it? Good. Call me when you have something,” and he disconnected.

  “You took Milo with you to pick out my birthday present?” I asked.

  “Have you seen Noelle’s collection?” he answered, referring to Milo’s wife. “Milo knows his way around a good piece of bling, let
me tell you.”

  I smiled ruefully. Dutch was revealing lots of little secrets today.

  Later that night as I lay cuddled in Dutch’s arms and the sound of his steady breathing told me he’d beaten me to la-la land, the phone on the nightstand chirpped and I reached for it quickly, not wanting to disturb him.

  “Hello?” I whispered.

  “Abby?” came a familiar voice.

  “Hey, Milo, I’m sorry but Dutch is asleep. Can we call you in the morning?”

  “Sorry, I know it’s late,” he began. “But this really can’t wait. You know that guy that owns that jewelry shop Dutch wanted me to check out?”

  Behind me I could feel Dutch moving groggily. He was waking up. “Yeah?” I whispered.

  “His store just got robbed.”

  I abruptly sat up and swung one leg out of bed. “We’ll meet you there,” I said and clicked off.

  Twenty minutes later a slightly rumpled Dutch and I pulled up to a stream of police cars lining the street in front of Opalescence. We were stopped by a patrolman who tried to wave us away, but Dutch flashed his badge, and we were allowed to park at the end of the line. As I backed into a space I spotted Milo talking with a group of police officers and off to one side I saw James with a blanket around his shoulders and a paramedic attending to a sizable welt on his forehead. “Ohmigod!” I said as I hurried to unbuckle my seat belt. “James is hurt!”

  I rushed out of the car and headed in his direction, and from behind me I could hear Dutch call to me. I ignored him and beelined it for James who looked up at me and did a double take at my appearance on scene. “Abby?” he asked when I drew close. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I heard you’d been robbed, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do.”

  “How did you hear I’d been robbed?” he asked.

  Ooops. “Uh . . . it was on the news?” I tried.

  “The news? It’s not even eleven, and I haven’t seen any reporters yet. What news station knows I’ve been robbed?”

  “Okay, so the truth is my boyfriend is a retired cop, and he still has his police scanner. That’s him over there with the cane.”

  “Cane?” James said, looking at me sharply, then over to Dutch. When he looked back at me his eyes were wary. “Thank you for coming, Abby,” he said, “but the police seem to have things under control, and I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

  “Ah,” I said a little taken aback. “Are you all right at least?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you know who robbed your store?”

  “No.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  I looked at James for a long moment, the play-ground chant echoing clearly in my head. Why would he lie? And why was he acting so wary of me all of the sudden? “Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll stop by next week after you’ve had a chance to tend to your business and check in on my order . . .”

  “Don’t bother,” James said with ice in his voice. “The thief took your sister’s earrings along with most of my inventory. I will mail you out a refund check for your deposit tomorrow.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

  James let out a deep sigh and replied, “No. I’m just overwhelmed with what’s happened here tonight. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “Of course. I’ll leave you to get bandaged up and talk to the police. I’m sorry about your store, James.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your coming down.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  Sometimes, ya just gotta throw in the towel. I nodded my good-bye to him and turned back in the direction of Dutch and Milo, who were huddled together near my car.

  When I reached them Milo asked, “So what did he have to say?”

  “He said he doesn’t know who robbed his store.”

  “Baloney,” Milo scoffed. “The Birmingham detective who interviewed him says he thinks the guy’s a probable for insurance fraud.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “His story just doesn’t add up. First of all, he says he was here late doing paperwork, but when he was asked what type of paperwork he said he couldn’t remember. He claims he forgot to lock the front door, and that’s when the perp just walked in, found him in his office, thumped him on the head and made him open up all the jewelry cases, leaving with about thirty grand in merchandise and all of the cash he had on hand. When the detectives asked him about the tape for his video surveillance cameras, which are all over the store, he says he never put one in the machine.

  “He also couldn’t give a good reason why he didn’t trip any one of the six silent alarms he has planted around the shop. And he doesn’t have a clear description of the suspect. All he’ll tell us is that the guy was black, with an attitude.”

  Dutch snorted. “So that narrows it down.”

  “Exactly,” Milo retorted frostily. “I mean, I know to white guys like him we black folk probably all look alike, but you’d think he’d be able to give us a little more to go on than black and attitude.”

  “Milo, I don’t think James is a racist,” I said, stroking his arm sympathetically. Detroit had its share of racial issues, and they often leaked north of the Eight Mile border, so I could appreciate why he was sensitive to the implication that black meant bad. “However, I do believe it’s pretty obvious he’s trying to throw you guys off the scent. I’m not buying into the insurance fraud theory, though.”

  “Then why lie about the assailant?” Milo asked.

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Still, it might be a good idea to check into his financials,” Dutch said, giving Milo a measured look.

  “You FBI guys have all the resources,” Milo snickered. “By the way, I wanted to let you know that up until tonight, Carlier checked out okay. There’s nothing in his record other than a speeding ticket two years ago and some sort of domestic dispute about five years ago involving Carlier’s brother.”

  Buzz, buzz, buzz . . . My intuition chimed in. I cocked my head and followed the train of thought. “Milo?” I asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “What exactly was the dispute about?”

  “Well,” Milo said taking out a small notebook he had tucked away in his overcoat. “About five years ago James and Jean-Luke Carlier were living in that house you just bought over on Fern, and according to neighbors Jean-Luke was seen chasing James around the house with a knife.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.

  “Nope, it’s the truth. Turns out when the police arrived Jean-Luke had calmed down and James refused to press charges. Both men claimed there was no knife and the neighbors must have been mistaken.”

  “Weird,” I said. My spidey-sense insisted there was a connection to what happened then and what took place tonight, so I asked, “And where is Jean-Luke these days?”

  “He’s in Mashburn.”

  “The mental hospital?” Dutch asked.

  “The very one,” Milo answered. “About a week after the domestic dispute Jean-Luke was declared legally incompetent and admitted by his brother who had obtained power of attorney over him.”

  “And he’s still there?” I asked.

  “There’s been no release form issued, so yeah, he’s still there.”

  I darted a look back at James who looked tired and worn down. Everyone seemed convinced he was hiding something, but intuitively I knew he wasn’t about to crack. Whoever assaulted and robbed him wouldn’t be revealed until James was ready to come clean.

  “Come on, fella,” I said tugging on Dutch’s arm. “There’s nothing more we can do here tonight, and I’ve had a long day.”

  Milo waved good-bye to us and took his leave, and Dutch and I headed home. During the drive I asked, “Can you really get information on James’s financial records?”

  “His tax returns at least.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Hopefully, only a day or so. I’ll make a call first thing in the morning and get
the ball rolling. And the next time I ask you to stop on your way out of the car, friggin’ stop, would ya?”

  Dutch’s tone turned icy as he said that last part. His tone and the implication that he had command over me made me furious. I seethed quietly for a moment as I discreetly looked for a pothole. Finding a huge one not far up the road I aimed the Mazda toward it and just as we were about to run over it Dutch reached out and yanked the wheel back. “Hey!” he shouted at me. “What gives?”

  “You’re not the boss of me, you know!” I yelled, yanking the steering wheel away. Sometimes I’m so mature.

  Dutch sighed heavily, and began in a calm voice, “Edgar . . .”

  “I survived just fine on my own until you came into the picture, you know!” I added, my anger at his verbal spanking getting the better of me.

  “I’m aware of that . . .”

  “No you’re not! You’re constantly on me about the choices I make, like I can’t even go to the bathroom without your permission or something!”

  “Abby . . .”

  “Do you even know how difficult it is being your girlfriend?”

  “Excuse me?” Dutch asked in a voice that was definitely taken aback.

  Ooops, I’d gone a little overboard with that one. “I’m just sayin’ that maybe I need a little space, you know, some room to friggin’ breathe. . . .”

  “You want space? You need to breathe? You got it, babe,” Dutch snapped, then turned away from me and looked out the window.

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. How had we offended each other so easily in such a short period of time? We’d been getting along so well lately too. A minute later I rolled into Dutch’s driveway and cut the engine. Without a word he got out and walked into the house, making a point not to look back. I sat inside the Mazda for a few minutes, feeling dejected and thinking about how to make amends. Finally, I went into the house and found Dutch making up the couch. “You’re sleeping down here?” I asked, failing to keep the hurt out of my voice.

  “Thought I’d give you some space,” he snipped.

  “Whatever,” I answered, throwing up my hands in surrender and trudging up the stairs. I spent the night tossing and turning, while wishing that Dutch would change his mind and come up to cuddle with me, but he never did.