“What’s the bad news?”
He looked at me for a beat.
“One day, in the near future, I want you to tell me a happy story about yourself and your past. Something good that happened to you.”
His voice was almost sad. I searched his face, which was not hidden behind a cop mask just then. I was looking for signs of pity but didn’t find any. Mostly I saw kindness and caring. Who was this guy?
“I have stories like that,” I said.
I realized I was trying to reassure him. Not everything in my past is horrible, even if that was all he’d heard. More surprising was the realization that I wanted to tell him those stories. And I wanted to hear his. I wondered how long he’d be around, what would happen next, what we would do once this case was over. I didn’t know much about Ellmann, but I liked him. I wanted us to get to know each other. Given my history with people in general, and with men in particular, that was an entirely foreign attitude for me.
What was happening to me? Maybe it was the alcohol. I pushed my empty glass farther away. I noticed my hand was shaking. But that had only to do with what had happened at Pezzani’s.
Ellmann noticed the shaking, too.
“Are you really okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m not.”
He sighed. “I’m really sorry about what Pezzani said. He had no right.”
I shrugged. “He’s entitled to his opinion. What hurt the most—” I choked back a sob and took a breath. “It was the look. The same one everyone has when they find out. It’s like they see me as a monster.”
“You’re not a monster.” He leaned forward, his elbows in his knees. “You’ve been through stuff most people could never imagine, and you’ve survived. Most people couldn’t deal with what you’ve had to. They see a person they know they could never be. And they make themselves feel better by labeling you a monster.”
Tears ran down my cheeks silently. I really wanted his words to be true. But something inside me refused to believe it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, getting up as I wiped at my eyes. “Your day’s been stressful enough. Hell, your whole week.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He was suddenly behind me, his big hands on my shoulders.
“Why are they trying to kill me? Who are they? What did I do to them?”
“I don’t know.” He rubbed my arms gently, mindful of the bandages. “But I’m going to find out. And I’m going to stop them.”
“I don’t need a rescuer.”
“I know. Maybe I’m rescuing them.”
I chuckled softly.
His touch was warm, comforting. I wanted to melt into him, let him be a source of solace, but I feared I knew what was coming: the same reaction I got from everyone who knew—my mother, ex-boyfriends, past friends, Pezzani. I knew it would break my heart if I let him get close now and he left later. Better he leave now. So I pushed him.
“I killed someone tonight,” I said, turning to face him. “I chose my life over his.”
He looked at me, his eyes studying mine. I wasn’t exactly sure what I saw in his. This wasn’t his cop face, but he was guarded. I worried I knew why.
“And I don’t feel bad about it,” I said softly, tears running down my cheeks. His hands reached for my shoulders again. “I’ve done it before, and I’d do it again. That’s the kind of person I am.”
Something in his eyes changed, but there was no disgust, no fear, no judgment. Only pain. He was hurting for me, because of what I was going through, what had happened to me.
“You’re the kind of person who did the only thing she could do,” he said, his voice even and sure. “The kind of person who knows she didn’t do anything wrong.”
Despite my tough talk, the tears flowed freely, and I sobbed softly.
He pulled me into his chest, wrapping his long arms around me. I felt his strength, his security. I wanted to linger in it, allow him to hold me up, if only for a moment. Still, I hesitated.
I could feel that whiskey beginning to swirl around in my brain now. It had only been one drink, but it never takes much, and the alcohol played on my thoughts all the same.
I pulled away and wiped snot and tears from my face. Ellmann brushed back a strand of hair, his hand lingering on my face.
“Why don’t you look at me the same way they do?” I whispered.
“What way?”
“Like I’m a monster.”
It obviously hurt him that anyone saw me that way. Why? Had he killed someone? Did he know what it was like for people to look at him that way? Is this why he seemed to see me differently?
“I don’t see a monster,” he whispered. “That’s not why you scare me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve seen the real you. I’ve caught glimpses of that girl every now and then, when you weren’t looking. She could never be a monster.”
His eyes darkened slightly, and then I knew why he was so guarded. It was personal. He wasn’t guarding Ellmann the cop; he was guarding Ellmann the man.
He wanted to kiss me, but he hesitated. Without thinking, I stepped closer and stood on my tiptoes, giving him permission. And he lowered his mouth to mine.
Suddenly my body was warm in places I’d forgotten about (places Pezzani’s kiss hadn’t awakened). I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled me closer. When our kisses grew hungrier, he picked me up and laid me on the bed. (If he noticed the extra forty-seven pounds, he didn’t let on.) He pulled the gun off his belt and set it on the bedside table, then he paused.
“What about Pezzani?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“What about you and him?”
“No such thing. Never was. Never will be.”
He looked relieved. “I thought you were together.”
“No.” If I was honest, it had been Ellmann from the beginning. I waved a hand between us. “He didn’t make me feel like this.”
Ellmann just smiled and kissed me again.
_______________
Something on the periphery of my consciousness wasn’t right. It mingled with the horror playing out in my subconscious. Sweating, panting, trembling, I sat up and scrambled backward. In my dream, my father, whose face I’d been able to see clearly through the black ski mask, had held a gun this time. Instead of chasing me, he brought the gun up and aimed, controlling his breathing, choosing his shot. He’d always been a frighteningly good shot.
With bleary eyes, I quickly took in the room, which I hadn’t yet placed. Then I heard the voices on the other side of the door—the reason I’d woken up. The fear was immediate and nearly complete, eclipsing all other judgment and dictating all behavior.
I looked around the room, searching for anything I could use to defend myself or for a place to hide. Outside, there was some shuffling, some more talking, whispers now, then movement against the door. There was some rattling and banging followed by the unmistakable sound of the keycard sliding into the door. Panic seeped in around me like black oil, blotting out all sensory information and stalling my thinking. My heart hammered against my chest.
The lock beeped and retracted, then the handle turned and the door opened. Finally, my attention skimmed over the Sig Sauer on the bedside table. Blindly, I clamored for it, grabbing it up. Holding it in both hands, I swung it toward the door as someone stepped into the room. My index finger began squeezing the trigger.
“Whoa,” the person said. “Easy.”
His voice was calm and steady, and it penetrated my panic-stalled brain.
Ellmann stood in the open doorway, his cell phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, both hands full: one with a brown bag and the other a drink carrier. He was wearing the same clothes, though the shirt now hung unbuttoned over the t-shirt, and his aviator sunglasses.
Suddenly the pressure from the fear and panic was gone, though I still felt both quite potently. I lowered the weapon quickly and dropped it onto the bed at my feet. My stomach r
oll with nausea as I realized how close I’d come to pulling the trigger.
With shaking arms, I pushed myself back against the headboard and pulled the sheet over me. Ellmann shut the door and walked to the small table.
“No, not you,” he was saying. “Listen, I heard you. I’ll do what I can. I need to go.”
He deposited what looked like breakfast on the table then put the phone in his pocket.
It was daylight, sun streaming in around the heavy drapes over the windows. I finally remembered where I was and why. I also remembered what I’d done the night before, both at Pezzani’s as well as with Ellmann in this very room. Nausea rolled through me again.
Ellmann came over and picked up the gun, returning it to the bedside table. I heard something else heavy drop beside it: his gun. He sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped me in his arms. He kissed my forehead.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. I could feel his heart beating just a little too fast. “I didn’t even think about it when I opened the door.”
He’d thought about the possibility of someone else coming through the door, though. My gun had been on the table when I’d gone to bed. He’d moved it closer.
“It wasn’t just you.” My mouth was dry, my voice hoarse. “I was having a nightmare.”
“Must have been some nightmare. I’ve never seen anyone look so terrified.” His voice was a tight whisper.
Yeah, so terrified I’d almost shot him. I shuddered. And swallowed down the bile that rose in the back of my throat.
“It’s over now,” I said. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. Fear and panic weren’t going to get me anywhere, and I had things to do. As I thought about the fact that I was homeless, carless, and in job-limbo, I felt depression calling to me again. Add to that list being marked for death and mixed up in a major crime, and my thoughts went immediately to the Jack Daniels still sitting on the table.
“Did you bring coffee?”
Ellmann didn’t push me. Allowing me to change the subject, he kissed my forehead again and got up.
“I walked to Einstein’s for bagels and coffee. I don’t know what you like, so take your pick.”
I smiled. “Sounds perfect. You know, I’m beginning to suspect you’re a pretty sweet guy.”
He shrugged and grinned. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? It’ll ruin my reputation.”
I got up and dressed, my thoughts inevitably drifting to my reason for being naked in the first place. I’m not the type to fall into bed with someone I know so little about. The night before was very much out of character for me. Maybe it was the trauma of having just used deadly force to defend a second attempt on my life. Maybe it was the hurt of the rejection from Pezzani. Maybe it was the shot of whiskey. Maybe it was the way Ellmann made me feel. I didn’t know. More likely, it was all of these things working together. And because I had no experience with this, I didn’t know what to do next.
I joined him at the table, discovering the fortunate news that he and I have similar tastes in coffee and bagels. I took my choice of coffee, and Ellmann had his choice of bagel. We were both quiet for a while as we ate and sipped.
“What’s the deal with Tyler Jay?” I asked.
He looked up. “We chased down the leads you gave us, but he was long gone by the time we got there. We’ve got an APB out on the Honda you described, but we’re not hopeful. It came back registered to Derrick Bilek, the dead guy in your living room.”
“Little car for such a big guy. Are you sure?”
He nodded. “That’s what the DMV has on file.”
“What about hospitals? I know I hit that second shooter last night. There were a couple drops of blood on the stairs that could not have come from anyone else.”
Again he was nodding. “We know. Initial forensics says there were two different blood types. It’s way too soon for DNA, so that won’t help us right now. No one showed up to the ER at PVH or MCR with a gunshot wound or any other injury that could possibly be a gunshot wound. I’ve got a guy making the calls to other hospitals like Greeley, Loveland, Cheyenne, Denver, but I’m not sure we’ll find anything. He might not be able to go to a hospital.”
“Because I killed him, or because he’s Tyler Jay?”
“Either. Although, I’d be surprised if he turned up dead. There wasn’t enough blood for a serious injury.”
“He split the second I hit him. It’s possible he wasn’t in the house long enough to bleed.”
“Anything is possible.”
“Aside from Tyler Jay, how does Derrick Bilek tie to Stacy Karnes?”
He was about to take a bite but stopped and looked up at me. Slowly, he set the bagel down. “No.”
“No, what?”
“The answer is no.”
“What’s the question?” I knew the question.
“Whatever you have in mind about Tyler Jay or any of the rest of this mess, the answer is a big no.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” I said. I knew exactly what it meant.
But who was I to let a little thing like Detective Ellmann stop me?
After breakfast, Ellmann left to go to work, and I showered and dressed. I went to the office and arranged for another night. I was climbing onto the scooter as my phone rang.
“It’s Manny. Are you able to stop by?”
“When?”
“What are you doing now?”
“What’s wrong?” All my little antennas were standing up at attention.
“You need to see this.”
“Now’s good. I’ll be right there.”
_______________
It was a ten-minute drive from the Inn to the garage. I parked outside the small, dingy office and bypassed the door, seeing no one inside. Both garage bay doors were open, and four men were working inside. Two were working on a Lexus SUV on the lift, while the other two had their heads under the hood of my truck still sitting on the ground.
“Manny?” I called to the group at large.
Both men looked up from my truck. The smaller of the two wiped his hands on a rag as he walked toward me. When his skin was as clean as it would get without the aid of soap, water, and professional-grade degreaser, he extended it to me.
“I’m Manny.”
“I’m Zoe.”
He was five-six with shoes on, his black hair long and hanging on either side of his eyes. He had brown skin and tattoos covering both arms, visible around the greasy t-shirt he wore. He had hazelnut brown eyes and a goatee. His jeans sagged slightly on his hips and were as dirty as his shirt.
“Let me show you,” he said, tipping his head over his shoulder toward the truck.
We walked over and stood in front of it. The other man, who resembled Manny, was still standing beside the truck. We all looked on, and for a moment we were like mourners at a funeral.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
“We figured out what the problem was,” Manny began. “It was the fuel pump. That’s simple enough to fix. When we went looking, though, we found a bunch of interesting stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Parts that don’t go on a Scout. Whoever’s been working on this truck changed parts out of the electrical, fuel, cooling, and exhaust systems.”
“That son of a bitch,” I breathed. “That son of a bitch!”
“All of that contributed to the problems you were having. How much did the guy charge you?”
“More than four thousand over the last year.”
Manny was nodding his head. “Yeah, some of those parts have been in there for a while. Who’s this mechanic?”
“Leonard Krupp. Know him?”
Manny looked pained. “You could say that. Listen, this isn’t the first time good ol’ Lenny’s done something like this.”
“Lenny was friends with the guy who owned this thing before me,” I said. “Stan vouched for him. How could he do this to his friend’s car? This Scout is a classic.”
“Sometimes money is mor
e important than friendship,” Manny said philosophically. “You should ask Ellmann to go visit him with you and get your money back.”
“Ellmann? Why would I bring him?”
“The power of the law. Sometimes people respond to that sort of force.”
“I’ll be more effective without him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Ellmann has to stick to the law and keep things legal. I’m not really limited that way.”
Manny and the second guy both smiled.
“Can you put all these parts in a bag or something?” I asked.
“When are you planning to visit Lenny?” Manny asked.
“As soon as you get the parts out of the truck.”
“Give us fifteen minutes. And I want to go with you.”
“Usually I’m a solo act, but I’ll make an exception on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever happens at Lenny’s stays at Lenny’s.”
He grinned wider. “Deal.”
True to his word, the parts were all in a plastic grocery sack Manny had lying around the shop fifteen minutes later. We climbed onto the scooter and motored over to Krupp’s garage while Manny’s friend started putting the truck back together. I was horrified by the number of parts in the bag: the thing was so full the handles wouldn’t meet. I could only imagine the price tag on this garage visit, and I saw the balance of my checking account drop dramatically.
I parked outside Krupp’s office and went inside. While there was activity in the open garage, Krupp was visible behind the desk, talking on the phone. An elderly woman sat in a chair, waiting. I walked in as if I owned the place and dumped the parts onto the counter. They bounced and clattered to the floor. Krupp stopped speaking mid-sentence and stared at me open-mouthed. I couldn’t be sure of the expression on his face, but my bet was anxiety. The old woman looked scared.
Krupp mumbled something about calling back later and hung up. As he did, his demeanor shifted, and he slid a defensive mask onto to his face. When he looked back at me, he was aiming for indifference—falling short, but aiming all the same.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, waving his hands over the parts.
The Trouble With Murder Page 20