“I’m Detective Ellmann,” he said. His voice was deep and sure. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his breast pocket. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Detective? What’s with the uniform? Don’t detectives wear bad suits?” I looked him over, taking a closer look at his badge. Sure enough, it said detective.
“Sometimes detectives wear uniforms.” This was clearly a sore subject. “Mind if we get back to the matter at hand?”
“Sure. Is the girl going to be okay?”
“Don’t know yet. But her injuries are serious. What’s your name?”
“Zoe Grey.”
“Do you live in the building?”
“No. I work for the property management company. I was scheduled to show Stacy an apartment.”
And I’d been late.
“Do you know Stacy?”
I shook my head. “No. She called my office this morning asking for the appointment. That was the first time I’d talked to her.”
“I understand you were the first person in the lobby after the assault. Can you tell me what happened?”
I told him what I’d heard and seen, everything I knew of what happened, which amounted to a whole lot of not much. He dutifully scribbled notes in the small notepad. When I felt the interview was winding down, I asked if I could leave.
He studied me for a beat, and I had the distinct impression he saw the thing I didn’t say. I didn’t like it. Usually, I’m much better at making sure this can’t happen. I attributed this fluke to the fact that I was still slightly stunned and unprepared for police scrutiny.
Nearby, another officer concluded an interview and sent his witness on her way. Spying Ellmann, the officer ambled over. As he did, his eyes flicked my direction and he looked me up and down. I felt a wave of disgust roll through me.
“Ellmann,” the officer interrupted. “We’ve talked to everyone.” His nameplate said pratt.
Pratt was about six feet tall, with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. He was very slender; even the gun belt and assorted cop paraphernalia were unable to hide how narrow his hips were.
“You the one who saw the whole thing?” Pratt asked me.
I nodded.
Something dark seemed to skitter across his brain and he tried to suppress a smirk.
“Since you touched the body,” he said, again looking me up and down, “we should probably take your clothes into evidence. I’ll bag them.”
Body? Stacy had been alive when she left. Had that changed?
It seemed Pratt volunteered to see me in the buff a little too quickly.
“No,” Ellmann snapped before I could respond. “Why don’t you take measurements of the parking lot?”
It sounded a lot like the fireman’s c-spine direction to me, but I might have misinterpreted. Maybe parking lot measurements would prove useful to the case.
“Stacy’s dead?” I asked after Pratt had sauntered away, obviously grumpy. There was fear and sorrow in my voice that surprised even me.
Ellmann looked back to me, his eyes slightly wide. That was the only indication of what he was thinking or feeling; everything else was carefully secured behind his well-practiced cop-face.
“No, she’s not dead,” he said. His tone was reassuring, certain. “Last I heard from the hospital, she’s in surgery. I’m not sure yet what her prognosis is.”
I exhaled, unaware I’d been holding my breath.
Oh, thank goodness.
“Are you sure you don’t know her?”
I looked up at Ellmann and nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“I have everything I need for now. If there’s anything else, I’ll be in touch.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card, which he gave to me. “Call if you think of anything, no matter how small. And you’ll need to come to the station tomorrow to sign some paperwork.”
I tucked the card into my pocket, then picked my way across the parking lot back to my truck. The lot had cleared considerably, though a small group of people was still gathered on the sidewalk just beyond the police boundary, watching. I climbed into the truck, then maneuvered out around the remaining emergency vehicles and drove home.
Home as it stood now wasn’t a comforting thought for me, although I planned to remedy this on Saturday, when I moved into my new place. The house I would live in for two more nights was large: five bedrooms, one of which was a separate, private guest suite. There was also a two-bedroom apartment above the garage. Every one of the five bedrooms was currently occupied. So was the apartment.
When I was eighteen, I’d moved to Denver for the man I’d thought I was going to marry, and while the relationship hadn’t worked out, the new job had. It was my first taste of property management, and I discovered I had a knack for it. I rose through the ranks quickly and was making an obscene amount of money. Among other things, I began purchasing property.
My mother has never been much of a mother. It wasn’t long before she’d needed a place to stay. I wouldn’t have thought much of this except at the time my brother, Zach, was still in her charge. So I’d purchased a house here in Fort Collins and moved them in, renting out the apartment and guest suite to help cover the mortgage. I’d debated bringing Zach to live with me, ultimately deciding against it because I didn’t want to uproot him from the only life he’d ever known, and the metropolitan part of Denver I was living in then wasn’t the type of place where teenagers could ride their bikes in the streets.
But this is why kids shouldn’t make decisions like these, because I realized later what Zach had really needed was a mother and a role model, not his friends or afternoon bike rides. His first run-in with the police at age fifteen had gotten my attention. His second a month later got me packing.
Initially, I’d rented a condo. But it became clear that simply being nearer wasn’t making an impact. Zach was arrested for the first time for smoking marijuana two weeks after I’d moved back. I really didn’t want to live with my mother again; there was a reason I’d moved out when I was seventeen. But I’d proven time and again I’d do anything for my brother, and at that time, the simplest thing was to store my stuff and move into one of the open basement bedrooms.
I’d planned on the arrangement being temporary, just long enough to put Zach back on the right course. But that had proved a more difficult task than my twenty-one-year-old self could have anticipated. Zach barely graduated high school, got arrested a couple more times, did a brief stint in juvenile detention, and had his driver’s license revoked. Finally, at twenty, he seemed to have grown up a bit. He’d held a job for eight months without any incident and almost perfect attendance. He’d gotten his driver’s license back. And he had enrolled in community college where he was going to class regularly and making a considerable effort to maintain decent grades.
All of this meant I could move out without feeling as if I was abandoning him again. He was even talking about renting a place of his own with a couple of his buddies. So most my stuff was already packed, and Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.
I was considering taking a short vacation. Not to go anywhere, but just to have time off work. Life had been exceedingly stressful for me lately. And so very monotonous. Somewhere along the line I’d settled into a routine, and now it consumed my life. I thought a few days off work would be nice. I could relax, settle into my new place, maybe do some fun stuff, something new and different. As the house loomed nearer and nearer, the idea sounded better and better. I made a mental note to speak to my boss about it tomorrow.
As usual, the house was as bright as noon when I returned. Didn’t matter that it was nearly midnight. I grabbed my bag and shuffled to the door, doing my best to prepare myself for what I knew was waiting. Mostly I failed miserably.
“Where the hell have you been?” my mother snapped when I came into the kitchen. She was dressed in sweats, a rag in one hand and cleaning products in the other. The kitchen smelled strongly of bleach, with scents of other cleaners choking the ai
r.
“And why are you dressed like that?” Her familiar tone was harsh, unkind, accusing. “What kind of trouble have you been getting into? You’re always in trouble. Ever since you were a baby. Not like your brother; no child sweeter than that boy. Sometimes I wonder how you could be mine.”
I looked down at myself as I shuffled to the cupboard. (I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it.) My black trousers were wrinkled, and I suspected the smudge on my right knee was blood. My blue top was equally rumpled and hanging off my shoulders slightly crooked. It was easy to understand my mother’s alarm, given my current state and the vain importance she placed on appearance.
I pulled down a glass and filled it with ice water.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I said, hardly aware of her tone anymore, but not wholly able to ignore it, either.
“No, we will not! When are you going to grow up? Some of us have real jobs and responsibilities. At least your brother is trying to make something of himself. When are you going to do the same? You’re always in trouble.”
Someone had put the record on the player, but it wasn’t aligned correctly. The record turned, played the same few lines, then circled back to play them again. Always the same few lines.
“I know,” I said, leaving the kitchen. Most of the defeat and sorrow I heard in my voice was the result of what happened to Stacy Karnes. But not all of it. In any case, there was no point engaging her; she couldn’t be reasoned with when she was in this state.
The guest suite door opened and Donald poked his head out. He was one of two unrelated people currently living in the house. Not an altogether bad guy, I was fonder of Donald than any of the other renters, past or present. He was five-nine with a slight paunch, in his late fifties, had perfectly trimmed—if outdatedly styled—gray hair and brown eyes that were always seen through thick, dark-framed glasses.
“What’s all the racket? I heard yelling.” He looked me over through bleary eyes as he adjusted the glasses on his nose. “What happened to you?”
“Work turned into a witness-for-the-police thing when I sort of saw a woman stabbed. How was your day?”
He shrugged and stuffed his hands into the pockets of the red plaid bathrobe neatly tied around him. “Boring.”
“Lucky bastard.”
2
I rolled out of bed after hitting the snooze button three times. I hadn’t slept well. I’d had vivid dreams that were ugly and destructive.
My life got off to a rocky and violent start. From violent, it phased to uncertain, but always it was hard. I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly to help deal with what that means. Normally, I’m rather well-adjusted, all things considered. I still have patterns of learned behavior I have to work to overcome, but usually I’m successful and can function without major incident in polite society.
But when I experience violence, physical or emotional, whether I’m a participant or an observer, the result is the same. The dreams, sometimes better described as “nightmares,” return, and I find I can be irritable, my temper short. From the moment I’d heard the scream last night, I’d known what I was in for. Walking into that lobby, physically confronting the attacker, and seeing Stacy Karnes’s body had cracked some of the retaining walls, and my past was seeping back out. I would need to get it under control, and fast.
The coffee pot was empty, as usual. Every morning I was the last to get up, and every morning I found the pot empty. Eternal optimist that I am, I always secretly hoped there would be a cup left, but there never was. Skipping it, I went back downstairs to shower.
I stripped my clothes off and caught a glimpse before I went to the shower. Frowning, I walked back to the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw. Perhaps it was merely the result of my uncharitable mood brought on by the lack of sleep and caffeine, but I didn’t think so. That wasn’t the whole story, in any case.
I’d noticed a slight weight gain after returning home. My family life has always been a huge source of stress for me, and stress seems to negatively affect my metabolism. The weight gain had continued until Barry Paige had been hired, at which point it exploded. See, Paige takes his position as my supervisor more seriously than necessary. In the last eight months, I’d gained thirty pounds. That’s more than a woman should gain while pregnant. I’m not pregnant. It was as if the stress I was feeling from every direction had shut off my metabolism, allowing every ounce I ate to slide right down to my butt and stick. My butt and my stomach and my thighs and that place along the back of my arms. Didn’t matter that I’d become more conscientious of what I was eating. I’m five-eight most days, five-nine on good days; I don’t have a lot of extra height to accommodate or offset the additional weight. And in the last two years, the additional weight totaled forty pounds. All right, forty-seven.
Today it looked more like seventy. This was how I knew I was feeling unfriendly. The stress had brought gray hair, too, though I’m only twenty-five. And my skin had been nearly flawless until recently. Now there are noticeable lines around my eyes and mouth. These irritate me most.
I saw the look in my eye then turned away from the mirror. My eyes fluctuate between deep green and hazel depending mostly on my mood. Just then, they were burning green: a reflection of the strong emotion I was feeling.
I stood under the water for several long minutes, until I was thoroughly soaked, then reached up for my shampoo. I knew the instant I lifted the bottle what I’d find, but (optimist, remember?) I popped the cap and held my hand open, squeezing all the same. Nothing came out but a swish of air.
Not to worry. I always keep an extra bottle of everything stashed behind the tampons under the sink. Dripping wet, I got back out and pulled the cupboard doors open, searching for my hidden cache. I couldn’t find anything. Confused, I removed everything until I’d reached the back of the cupboard. The only items remaining were deodorant and body wash.
I replaced the items I’d removed and went back to the shower, colorfully cursing Bradley, the college student renting the third bedroom in the basement. He shared a bathroom with Zach and me, one he hardly ever cleaned, and he had a habit of helping himself to whatever he could find. It hadn’t been until he’d brought his boyfriend home that I’d understood why he was always using my products.
A quick search of the available items in the shower left me with one option. I picked up Zach’s shampoo-and-body-wash-in-one and sniffed at the top. It smelled like a man; no way around it. But I had to wash my hair with something. With a sigh, I squirted some out and lathered it through my hair. I needed to have a conversation with Bradley sometime soon. And I was seriously considering raising his rent. Had I been planning to stay past tomorrow, I would evict him instead.
I twisted my long hazelnut-colored hair up and tied it in a knot on top of my head, pinning back my long bangs. (Probably it was good Bradley wasn’t home when I got out of the shower.) My hair is a hot mess as often as not. Reminiscent of a 90s-era Julia Roberts; it is thick, wavy, and has a mind of its own. Today, of course, it would have to stay up in order to cut down on the Axe smell. I did the best I could to make it look presentable then left it to air dry. Out of habit, I tucked two extra hairpins into my pocket, just in case I needed reinforcement later.
Early in life, my mother had instilled the importance of such vain undertakings as makeup, hairspray, push-up bras, and control-top pantyhose. While I’d given up most of that as a gesture of rebellion, I still can’t bring myself to leave the house without mascara. And for work, I always wear complete makeup. It just doesn’t feel right not to. So, I did the makeup thing in a hurry, then pulled together a passable outfit of brown slacks and a green top. I grabbed my bag and hit the door.
My first appointment was at eight. It took some negotiating, but the late walk-in client from the night before had finally agreed to come back first thing this morning. It meant coming in an hour early, but to get him out of my office, I’d agreed.
I checked my mirror and changed lanes, grimacing at
the recurring thoughts of the night before. I wanted to blame the walk-in client for making me late to meet Stacy Karnes, but that wasn’t fair. Sure, his timing had been unfortunate, but I should have been firmer about cutting the meeting short. I was responsible for keeping my own schedule, and I was responsible for being late.
I couldn’t help but think about how different things would have been had I gotten there on time. I’d been a mere moment too late to intervene before Stacy was stabbed. Had I left on time, had the lights and traffic been different, had I arrived a minute earlier, would Stacy be lying in the hospital today? I couldn’t help but think not. I realized, had I been any earlier it could just as easily have been me lying in the hospital today. Or the morgue. I also knew I couldn’t help the fact Stacy had been in the lobby at that specific time. But she had been there to meet me, and that left me feeling more than a little responsible for what had happened to her. I knew this sense of responsibility and the associated guilt were the heaviest assaults against my retaining walls.
Traffic wasn’t cooperating. My goal had been to stop for coffee on the way to the office, but all hope evaporated when I caught the third consecutive red light after leaving my house. If this continued, I’d be late as it was. Being late wasn’t something I tolerated well under the best of circumstances. After last night, I didn’t think I could tolerate it at all. I pulled my cell phone from the cup holder, wishing it were a perfectly blended, chocolate-flavored coffee instead, and dialed the office. The receptionist answered on the second ring.
“White Real Estate and Property Management. This is Sandra. How may I help you?”
Sandra York was new, having started six months ago. Overall, she did an acceptable job, but she wasn’t a natural for the role, and she wasn’t highly motivated to compensate for any deficiencies.
“It’s Zoe. I need a favor. I have a meeting at eight; I left the info on your desk last night. Can you call the guy and let him know I’ll be five minutes late?”
The Trouble With Murder Page 2