What am I doing? I asked myself. Am I trying to figure out who assaulted Stacy Karnes?
If I was doing this, why was I doing it? Did I think finding the person responsible would make me feel better, would absolve me of some degree of guilt? I couldn’t deny somehow that math added up in my head. But I had other things to figure out, things in my own life, like my job. My musings were interrupted when I saw Detective Ellmann turn the corner and walk toward me.
He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his gun and badge casually clipped to his belt. And he was hot. I had no other choice than to admit it to myself. I was also very much aware of the fact that I was dressed in my sweaty gym clothes and still smelled like a man.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I didn’t know you also policed the hospital and its visitors.”
He stopped in front of me and planted his hands on his hips. He wasn’t amused. And I saw him discreetly sniffing at the air. Undoubtedly, he’d also detected the Axe. Despite the fact my hair was still wrapped tightly on my head, it was pretty powerful.
“Tell me you’re not here seeing Stacy Karnes.”
“Nope. Stacey Barnes. The volunteer sent me to the wrong room.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You can’t be here; you can’t visit the victim of the crime you’re involved with. It looks bad and complicates things.”
“Involved? Whoa. You can’t seriously think I hurt her, . . . can you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. We’re investigating an assault, maybe an attempted homicide; we have to rule everyone out. That includes you.”
I sighed and did a mental head slap as a couple pieces fell in place.
“That’s why you were at the office this morning, talking to Paige,” I said. “You can’t talk to me because you think I had something to do with it.”
“I need to rule you out,” he repeated. “And you still need to come to the police station and sign paperwork.”
“The sooner you ‘rule me out,’ the sooner you get back on track.”
“Right. When were you planning to come to the station?”
“Isn’t it sort of a twenty-four-hour place? I have stuff I need to do, so I can come by later tonight.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew another card, which he passed to me. “I wouldn’t want you to inconvenience yourself or anything,” he said, stepping around me. “Call me when you’re planning to come in and I’ll meet you there.”
“It’s on my list,” I shot back. “I’m going to get my hair and nails done now, then I have a massage and shopping to do, but maybe sometime after that, you know, unless something else comes up.”
He lifted a hand and waved it without slowing or turning around.
I was almost overwhelmed by the urge to give him a hand sign of my own but managed to resist, taking the elevator and exiting the hospital without any gestures.
_______________
It was a relief to discover the house empty when I got home. I had no idea where anyone was, and I didn’t care. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and, with any luck, they’d all stay gone for another couple hours.
I went to the garage and pulled cardboard boxes from behind a large stack of plastic storage bins. I’d saved them from my last move, knowing I’d need them again. I carried an armful back inside to the basement and taped them together.
The bookshelves had already been cleared and the knickknacks wrapped up. I took a box to the desk and arranged things inside, filing away loose papers in the drawers. It was mostly mindless work, and I felt my thoughts drifting. I knew their direction, and I didn’t want to go there. I put my iPod on its base and called up my favorite playlist then cranked the volume.
I took two more boxes and went to the closet. I tried singing along while I stuffed sheets and other linens into them. Inevitably, my mind wandered.
What I knew about Stacy Karnes was minimal. She was currently renting a house near campus and was interested in moving. On the phone, I’d asked her if her lease was up, and she said she’d found someone to sublet. Elizabeth Tower wasn’t too far from campus, but it wasn’t as near as her current place. And while the apartments were competitively priced, she would end up paying almost three hundred dollars more.
Back at my office, I’d started a file on her. After speaking with her, it was clear she was sold; looking at the place was merely a formality. I’d run a background and credit check on her. The results were in her file. From what I recalled, her criminal history was nonexistent, and her credit was in good standing, even if her score was on the low side. That isn’t uncommon for people her age.
It was May. May was a very busy month for move-outs and new leases because of school, but still it seemed strange for Stacy to be moving. Typically kids move the last week of May, not the first.
I realized this was more a gut feeling than a position based on facts. But her lease wasn’t up, she hadn’t gotten a new job, she wasn’t moving in with a boy- or girlfriend. Why did she suddenly want to move?
I was moving because I had ugly thoughts about the people I lived with more often than I felt was healthy. “Stressful” didn’t begin to cover what it was like living with my mother. Bradley and the others didn’t help anything, either. Was it possible Stacy was moving to get away from her roommates? Given the amount of rent she was currently paying, she had to be one of at least three—more likely four—people living in the same place.
I left the boxes and walked away from the closet, pulling out my laptop. I sat at the empty desk and brought up the Fort Collins Coloradoan website. Stacy’s attack didn’t make the front page of the newspaper, but I did find a little blurb about it. It was minimal, lacking insightful or significant details, and reported the police were withholding the name of the victim. This told me nothing new, so I opened dexknows.com. I didn’t have access to all the same search systems from home as I did from the office, but I could still dig up some basic information.
I searched the last name Karnes and the first initial S and got a few hits. After reviewing the photos I’d taken, I saw one of the results matched the address on her license. Next, I did a reverse search of the address and wrote down the names that came up. I also did a reverse search on all of the phone numbers in her call history, only a couple of which back to landlines, for which I also wrote down names. I searched county property records and discovered the house Stacy rented was owned by William Rivas. He might be worth talking to; he could know why Stacy Karnes was suddenly so interested in moving.
Next, I Googled Stacy’s name. One of the top hits was for Facebook. I opened a new window and brought up facebook.com, signing in as my friend Jill. I don’t have a Facebook page, and Jill always uses her dog’s name as her password. People should never use the names of family members or pets as passwords; they are too easily discovered by people with more malicious intentions than me. I used the “search for more friends” function to bring up Stacy Karnes’s page. I couldn’t believe how much information was accessible via Facebook; I scribbled several pages of notes.
Her boyfriend was Tyler Jay. When I typed him into Dex, I got nothing back. I couldn’t find a Facebook page for him, either. I typed his name into Google and hit pay dirt.
One of the top results was a link to the Larimer County Sheriff’s Office website. It took me to the county’s most wanted list. Tyler Jakowski, a.k.a. Tyler Jay, was at the top. I had to consciously snap my mouth closed as I read the page. Jakowski was wanted on suspicion of murder, six counts of felony assault, two counts of rape, and a slew of other things. His physical description was listed and his mug shot provided. At the very bottom of the page it said, “$15,000 reward for information leading to the apprehension of Tyler Jakowski.”
Fifteen thousand dollars? Interesting. More interesting was the question of his possible involvement in the attack on Stacy Karnes. According to the information I’d just read about Jakowski, he certainly had it in him to stab a woma
n. Karnes’s Facebook page reported no troubles in their relationship, but perhaps she hadn’t updated it yet. Or maybe her recent feelings were on Twitter, which I wasn’t interested in checking. Or maybe Stacy didn’t put her every emotional whim online. Maybe he was mad at her for dumping him. Or maybe she had an as-yet unrecorded criminal history to match his and their latest scheme had caused some sort of disagreement between the two of them that turned physical.
If I were wanted for murder, among other things, where would I go? If I had the means, I’d get the hell out of Dodge. But what if I had a significant other? Would that be reason enough for me to stay? If it were, where would I go? Where did most boys go when they got into trouble? If the boys I knew were any way to judge, the answer was home to Mama.
I spent ten more minutes digging into Tyler Jakowski and filled several more pages of notes. I was fairly confident I had some decent places to start looking.
Looking for what? I asked myself, getting up from the computer. Why would I go looking for Tyler Jay, a dangerous criminal?
He might have something to say about what happened to Stacy, I answered as I threw some more linen into a box. He was capable of stabbing a woman. Actually, he was capable of more—much more, according to his wanted poster. And what if he was responsible? Did I want to be that close to him?
The rational side of my brain kicked in with a reasoned argument. Tyler’s wanted poster listed him as five-ten. It had been difficult to discern last night because the figure was completely obscured by black clothing and everything happened so quickly, but, standing barefooted, I am five-eight. When I’d come face-to-face with the dark-clad figure in the lobby, I’d been wearing heels that added two inches to my height. The attacker had been shorter than me; of that, I was certain. Still, it wouldn’t hurt if I saw Tyler Jay myself.
This argument persisted as I filled the last of the boxes I had stashed. When they were full, I dragged out plastic storage bins and began filling them. I had a stack of pants in my arms when I heard the doorbell. I deposited the stack into a bin and stood as the bell ring for a second time. I was halfway up the stairs when the visitor began pounding on the door.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered under my breath as I walked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think my house was on fire.”
“Police!” a gruff voice barked. “Open up!”
Just what my day needs, I thought. More police.
I threw the lock and yanked the door open. I stared out at the man on the porch, making no effort to conceal my irritation.
“What’s the emergency?” I snapped.
He held open the jacket of the inexpensive, tan-colored suit he wore, showing me the badge clipped to his belt. I glimpsed a holstered gun to go with it. Now this guy looked like a detective.
“Detective Hensley,” he snapped back. “Fort Collins Police Department. I need to speak with Mrs. Grey. That you?”
“Why all the racket?” I pressed. “What if no one was home?”
“The garage door is standing wide open.” This was all he said, as if it was explanation enough. “Are you Mrs. Grey?”
He was relatively lean for a cop, though his gut seemed to be slowly getting away from him. He was in his forties, not quite six feet tall, and had dark hair that was starting to gray. He seemed as annoyed as I was, and I wondered if he’d arrived that way or if I’d brought it out of him. On the one hand, it seemed fitting; he’d brought it out of me. On the other, it didn’t seem prudent to annoy detectives who came beating down your door.
He lifted his eyebrow expectantly and waited.
“Mrs. Grey is my mother, and she’s not home at the moment. I’m Zoe Grey.” This wasn’t the first time my mother had run up against the law. At least he wasn’t here for me. “What did she do now?”
“You’re the one I need. Please open the door. I have some questions to ask you.”
Bummer.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard a cop say those words, either, and unfortunately I didn’t think it would be the last. Talking to cops who think I’ve done something wrong is one of my least favorite things to do. This is followed closely by talking to cops who know I’ve done something wrong. These encounters weren’t any more pleasant when I knew I’d done nothing wrong. Cops aren’t great conversationalists.
“Did Ellmann send you?” I sighed and moved away from the doorjamb, leaving the door open. “I mean, it’s just paperwork.”
“No. What paperwork?”
Behind me, I heard Hensley step inside and close the door.
“Never mind.”
I went to the kitchen and pulled a glass from the cupboard. Hensley came in behind me, no doubt taking in the house around him with the keen eye of a detective.
“Are you here alone?” he asked casually. “Or do you have company?”
It was the Axe; I was positive.
“Just me,” I said, mentally moving “shampoo” to the top of my shopping list.
I wasn’t sure what state the house was in, but I knew my reaction to having him inside would tip him off whether he saw anything or not. My mother, while in her manic states, kept everything cleaned to a blinding polish. But she didn’t have the best judgment and often brought home things she shouldn’t have, things of the chemical variety. I crossed my fingers nothing had been left in plain view and went to the water dispenser in the fridge.
“Water?” I asked.
“No, thanks.”
I carried the glass to the breakfast bar and climbed onto a stool. I indicated the others, and Hensley took a seat. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small notepad similar to Ellmann’s. Did they issue those with badges? He flipped back several pages.
“Twenty thousand dollars of White Real Estate and Property Management’s money is unaccounted for,” he said casually. Any annoyance he’d felt earlier was either gone or strategically hidden beneath his well-practiced neutral cop-face. “Know anything about that?”
I took a sip of water and shook my head. “No, I don’t. It was just brought to my attention this morning.”
“I have documents on my desk that indicate otherwise.”
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks, then. I don’t steal.” Not anymore, anyway.
“Don’t you?” the cop asked. He flipped another page then stopped. “You have a history of theft.”
He was bluffing, and doing a damn fine job of it; I was a little bit impressed. My last arrest had been at the age of eighteen and wasn’t for theft. Everything before that was sealed in my juvenile record. It was possible for the police to petition a judge to unseal those records, but there would have to be a very compelling reason to do so. I doubted my implication in the embezzlement was sufficient. Still, had I not known this, I would have believed he knew more than he did. I made a mental note to watch what I said.
“You’re a terrific liar,” I said, smiling conspiratorially.
“It isn’t a lie.”
“As far as you’re concerned, I’ve been arrested one time, and that was for assault, not theft.”
“A judge has unsealed your record.” A wild stab in the dark, and while I knew it was precisely aimed, he did not.
Hensley was a good interrogator. He had no doubt wrapped up more than a few cases by just talking with people, causing them to incriminate themselves. I would have believed him had I not known better. That was a little intimidating.
I shook my head. “My lawyer would have been notified as a matter of procedure. He would have then called me. Since I haven’t heard from him, I know no such thing has happened.”
“You seem quite familiar with the law, Ms. Grey. Have you had legal training, or is it all from experience?”
“I pay attention.”
He waited a beat, but I said nothing more. He flipped to a different page in the notebook and tried another track.
“I looked at your financials,” he said. “You’re making ends meet now, but times are a little lean for you, co
mparatively. You were once making more than a hundred thousand dollars a year. Did you get tired of this low-rent way of life? Twenty grand would go a long way in putting you back into your former lifestyle.”
“Twenty thousand? Are you kidding? Let me hit the highlights for you. The last year I was in Denver, I made a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which you already know. Twenty grand is a drop in the bucket when you’re pulling down almost eight times that. So, if my end goal were to go back to that lifestyle, and I chose theft as my means of doing so, twenty grand wouldn’t make a dent. More importantly, I have absolutely no interest in going back to that lifestyle. Mark White begged me to take Barry Paige’s job. The salary he offered me would have been a hell of a lot more than twenty grand, but I turned him down.” I reached for my glass. “Have any more theories?”
“From what I hear, you don’t think much of Mr. Paige. Maybe stealing the money was your way of flipping him the bird. Or maybe you have some kind of problem with Mr. White.”
“It’s no secret I think Paige is a waste of space and a tool to boot. But this money was stolen from White Real Estate, not Paige, and I have no problems with Mark White or the company. Furthermore, embezzling from White Real Estate would have played right into Paige’s hands because he’s been looking for a reason to fire me since we met. I wouldn’t make it so easy for him. And, if I were truly guilty, I never would have left my fingerprints, so to speak, all over everything. Whoever is responsible drew big, red arrows pointing right to me. Why would I do that to myself? Why would I not even try to cover my tracks?”
“Embezzling money can be tricky. Or maybe you never believed you’d be discovered and didn’t bother to be sneaky.”
I snorted. “That’s the mark of a novice. Anyone with a criminal history is thinking one thing when they break the law: don’t get caught. The only way I would have stolen that money would have been if I was positive it wouldn’t lead back to me.”
The Trouble With Murder Page 6