I'll Kill Her for You

by Steve Richer

  She sighed. “No, I phoned the lawyer representing them, Sheldon Worrall, but he hasn’t returned my call. I was about to try again. Or I could go by Wolf. I know he eats there most weekdays.”

  “Forget it,” Lawson said. “Send me his number and I’ll call him myself. Calling him a worthless cocksucker might sound more threatening coming out of my mouth than yours.”

  “Thank God! I was wondering how I’d be able to say what you told me to say without, you know, going to hell.”

  “You’re already going to hell, Midori. You work in Hollywood.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Send me what you have, I’ll keep you posted. Bye.”

  He hung up and ten seconds later he received Sheldon Worrall’s number which he dialed immediately.

  “Worrall and Associates,” a pleasant female voice greeted him.

  Lawson pictured someone not much different from Chloe, probably hired for her decorative features rather than skill.

  “Yeah, hi. Can you get me Sheldon, please? This is Lawson Winslow, CEO of Park Avenue Media.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Worrall is currently unavailable.”

  “Can you patch him through anyway? It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry,” she began again.

  “Look, this is about a $30 million deal. You can just page him and tell him I need to speak with him. I don’t want to tell you that two hundred jobs are on the line or anything, but two hundred jobs are on the line here.”

  “Mr. Winslow, Mr. Worrall really isn’t in the office right now. I swear, I’m not making this up. I’m not playing a game. Calls to his phone are going straight to voicemail. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Lawson was getting annoyed but he could tell she was sincere. She was too apologetic and confused to be lying. He thanked her and hung up.

  That’s when he realized he had walked half a mile into the park already. It was almost quiet around him, the sounds of the city receding into the background. There was a thin layer of snow that couldn’t quite cover all the grass. He felt peaceful for the first time in twenty-four hours.

  But that changed when he received a call from an unknown number.

  “Good afternoon, Lawson. This is the killer speaking.”

  Chapter 10

  Lawson nearly dropped the phone. This wasn’t just a text message anymore. It wasn’t pixels on a small screen. This was real, this was a man’s voice.

  “Look,” he began, doing his best to keep himself from sounding terrified. “I don’t know what you want but you have the wrong guy, okay? You’ve been doing this to the wrong person.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be, Lawson. You have been chosen to play this game with me.”

  “I don’t wanna play a fucking game with you!”

  “Unfortunately, you don’t get to decide that.”

  Doing his best to think rationally, Lawson focused on the voice. It was neutral and very clear. It was as if it was being digitally altered although it didn’t sound like a typical computer voice.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know if you had fun being interviewed by the police this morning,” the man said.

  “They think I killed the girl,” Lawson said, keeping his voice low as if he could be overheard, which was impossible since he was by himself, the closest person being a hundred yards away.

  “That was the point, Lawson.”

  “Why? Who was the girl? Why did you kill her at my parents’?”

  “Now now, don’t let me spoil the surprise so soon. First, we have to build a relationship you and me.”

  “A relationship? How about you build a relationship between my foot and your ass?”

  “Lawson, I think you should accept sooner rather than later the fact that you’re not in a position to argue with me. I have you by the proverbial balls. You will do whatever I say or you will get arrested for the murder of that poor girl.”

  Lawson shook his head, priming himself for the confrontation. “That won’t work. I’m innocent, I have the truth on my side.”

  That killer laughed. “That’s cute. Did you know that it has been estimated that four percent of death row inmates are actually innocent? Four out of a hundred people suspected of murder have been arrested, convicted, and still they are waiting to be executed even though they haven’t done the crime. Is that the kind of odds you’re willing to bet on?”

  “But I didn’t do anything!”

  “That’s not how the police see it. You know what they do? They follow the evidence.”

  “You have no evidence against me, motherfucker!”

  “I have the girl in your room, I have a witness who saw you there, I have your fingerprints on the doorknob, the baseball bat, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I have the phone company records listing the text messages between us. Why, you were essentially asking me to kill her for you!”

  “You son of a bitch…”

  “Or I can do you a favor and make sure that these records disappear,” the killer offered.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Are you willing to take that chance? Look at your phone, I’m sending you something.”

  Sure enough, two seconds later Lawson’s phone beeped. It was an image, a screengrab which detailed the text messages from last night. As he looked closer, he saw that this was an internal document from the phone company, not just a typical bill or printout.

  “What’s this?”

  “Exactly what it looks like. I have the power to make these disappear. Or I could send them to the police. They would be at your door in less than an hour. You get arrested, your family is destroyed, the company stock goes down the tubes, essentially ruining what it took more than a hundred years to build.”

  “And the alternative?” Lawson asked, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “The alternative is you play a game with me. You do what I say.”

  “That’s called blackmail.”

  “Only if you want to get technical about it.”

  “You want money, is that what you want?”

  The killer chuckled again. “No, that would be too easy for you. As I say, we’re playing a game. The rules are simple: you obey and you stay out of prison. You don’t comply and, well, the consequences are out of my hands.”

  “What do you want?” Lawson asked again, gritting his teeth.

  “We’re going to start with something simple, just to get acquainted with each other. You’re gonna make your way to the corner of Ridge and Rivington and smash a police car’s windows.”

  Lawson was stunned. It was definitely not what he was expecting. “What?”

  “Ridge and Rivington, you smash a police car’s windows. If you don’t complete this, the phone records get sent to that lovely detective with the perpetually stained shirt. If you complete it, you’re in the clear. I have you under surveillance so don’t try to chicken out, I’ll know if you don’t go through with it.”

  “But…”

  “In or out, Lawson?”

  It was all happening so fast that Lawson replied without thinking. “In.”

  “Good. You have forty-five minutes, starting now.”

  The line went dead.

  Lawson was out of breath even though he had done nothing aside from talking. But his nerves were shot. He could only focus on the inevitable outcome of him not complying.

  He had been grounded dozens of times, had been suspended from school, even arrested for a DUI once, which was why his fingerprints were in the system. However, the possibility of going down for murder – a crime he hadn’t committed – was too awful to consider.

  He had to do this.

  His first thought, of course, was to pretend he had performed this but the killer had said he was being watched. He didn’t want to believe it but it made sense. The guy knew about Detective Munson’s stained shirt and when the cops ha
d showed up at the party. He had access to his phone records.

  He was always a step ahead. In what possible world could he hope to deceive him now and not go through with this? No, he had no choice. If this could potentially put an end to this situation, he had to try.

  Chapter 11

  He had no idea where Ridge and Rivington was located so he pulled up a map on his phone. Christ, it was downtown, more than five miles away. It would take forever to get there and he had – he glanced at his watch – only forty-four minutes left.

  He started running back toward the entrance of Central Park, thinking about how to go forward. It would take at least half an hour to get down there, maybe more if there was a traffic jam. And then he had to find a police car to vandalize.

  He reached Fifth Avenue and hailed a cab. He was about to give the precise address when he thought better of it. What if the crime was linked back to him? He had to muddy the waters.

  “Kips Bay,” he told the driver.

  How would he do this anyway? He had done a lot of crazy shit in his life but he’d never committed a real crime. And in this day and age, what was the penalty for destroying a police car? The cops didn’t screw around anymore. They shot you for failing to raise your hands fast enough.

  He switched cabs within sight of the Flatiron Building, as if in a trance. His blood was pumping like the last time he’d run three miles on Venice Beach.

  If somebody saw him doing this misdeed, he could wind up dead. Killed in the act. But if he didn’t, he would be framed for murder. He was fucked either way but this one left him with a sliver of hope.

  The minutes ticked down and traffic was a slog. Could he do this? Could he do it on time? Down in the East Village, Lawson had the driver pull over. He paid and ran out, looking for another yellow taxi.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked for sole greeting.

  Lawson looked at the map on his phone and searched for a location. It had to be close enough for him to walk to his destination, but random enough so that the driver wouldn’t remember him for being in the same vicinity as the vandalized police car.

  “Hamilton Fish Park,” he said.

  If the man was surprised by why anybody would want to go there, he didn’t show it. He switched on the meter and shifted into gear. Almost thirty-five minutes had already passed and time seemed to be speeding up. Meanwhile Lawson was stuck in place.

  During the ride, he did his best to psych himself into going through with it. He couldn’t back out now. His freedom was on the line. And why was this even happening? Who was that guy on the other end of the line?

  This had to be about money; the Winslow family was among the wealthiest in the country. So why not come right out and say it? What were these games about?

  “We’re here,” the driver said after coming to a stop.

  Lawson paid him, including a generous tip which he instantly regretted. He didn’t need anyone remembering his face around these parts. But it was too late. He couldn’t ask for the money back anymore, right?

  He stepped out of the car and somehow it was even colder than before in spite – or because – of his sweaty face. His body was functioning on adrenaline and fear. He took off jogging toward Ridge Street before heading south to Rivington.

  “Come on, come on…” he mumbled to himself, scanning the area for a police car.

  The killer hadn’t told him which police car to smash. Would there even be one? What if there wasn’t? What if this was a trap, that he was meant to fail?

  He looked at his watch: there was only a minute left!

  “Goddamn it…”

  The one-way street was extremely narrow. On each side the brick buildings seemed to be schools. Yes, he thought as he ran down the sidewalk. It was definitely some sort of elementary school on the right. Then he saw it.

  Parked on the curb fifty yards ahead was a white NYPD squad car. He ran toward it and his heart skipped a beat when he saw that it was empty. This was a post 9/11 world, he figured there were officers patrolling the school hallways. This gave him a window of opportunity.

  But how the hell do you break a car window?

  That’s when his phone beeped. He had set up a timer and his time was up!

  “No no no!”

  He looked around frantically until he saw a trashcan on the street corner. It was mostly empty and, more importantly, it wasn’t bolted down. It was made of steel mesh. The timer continued to shriek. It was now or never.

  It was freedom versus a murder indictment.

  He grabbed the trashcan, lifted it chest high, and charged the police car. Using all the strength he could muster, he rammed the corner of the bin into the rear window, shattering it on impact. Then he did it again, this time on the right-side windows.

  A truck was coming and he would have to go into the street to do the other side. Lawson decided not to chance it. The killer hadn’t specified how many windows he had to break. He judged that this was enough to fulfill their agreement.

  Thankful that he’d been wearing gloves because of the weather and that he wouldn’t be leaving fingerprints, he dropped the trashcan onto the sidewalk and ran away, going south until he found himself standing under the Williamsburg Bridge.

  His phone rang and he picked it up at once.

  “Very good, Lawson. You’re a man of your word.”

  “Of course, I am. Now I did what you wanted, leave me the hell alone.”

  “Unfortunately, you didn’t follow the rules.”

  “What?!”

  “You didn’t complete the task within the allotted forty-five minutes.”

  Chapter 12

  Lawson was seething but this sentiment was overshadowed by the anxiety flooding his body. The breath was knocked out of him and he collapsed against the concrete wall of the underpass.

  This couldn’t be happening! After all he had risked, it had been for nothing.

  “No,” Lawson said faintly. “I did what you said. I did exactly what you told me to do. I wasn’t too late, your watch must be wrong.”

  There was no answer. He saw himself being walked away in handcuffs by two officers in blue as Detective Munson looked on.

  “Please,” he begged.

  That’s when the killer started laughing. “Relax, Lawson. I’m simply messing with you. You did go over the time limit but it was close enough, I’ll have to give you that one.”

  Lawson gasped as he realized he had stopped breathing. “I passed?”

  “You passed.”

  “So I’m off the hook now? I’m free?”

  The laughing stopped. “No. You’re not even close to being free, Lawson.”

  “You son of a bitch! You said I would be! You said that if I did this it would be over.”

  “You know what just happened, Lawson? By doing this for me, you just proved that you’re willing to do anything. So I wonder, what else will you be prepared to do? How far will you go to save yourself?”

  “But…”

  “The first round is over. Rest up. We’ll talk again soon.”

  The phone went dead and Lawson stared at it as if it was an alien artifact. How could he have been so stupid? In hindsight, it was obvious. You give a dog a cookie and he’ll keep coming back. That’s exactly what he’d done with the killer. He had followed his order and now he had him by the balls.

  There was only one way out of this situation: he had to stop being his bitch. For that he needed help. He didn’t trust the police, not with what they already had against him, but maybe there was someone else he could turn to.

  He felt empowered by this new sense of purpose. He could do this. He could try to turn the tables on this killer. But one thing at a time. First, he had to leave the crime scene without being detected.

  He looked left and right, didn’t find anyone staring directly at him, and went back toward Rivington to hail a taxi. He found one at the corner of Ludlow and hopped in.

  “Midtown,” he told the driver. “Third and 53rd.”

/>   For the first time in an hour he relaxed, feeling some of the tension seep out of him. He wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot, but in the backseat of the car he felt like no one could touch him. He felt safe, if only for a little while.

  He discovered he was famished as he made his way out of Lower Manhattan but getting a bite to eat would have to wait. Besides, he was going to his father’s office and that alone made him queasy.

  The WWG Center loomed ahead as the cab dropped him off. The skyscraper rose high into the air and it was by far the most attractive building on the block, a construction of steel, dark granite, and black glass. It was the headquarters of Winslow World Group.

  The lobby was vast and cavernous, the ceiling thirty feet high. In an area where real estate cost a fortune, it was rare to have such a spacious lobby. It had been designed this way, he remembered his grandfather mentioning. He had wanted the place to be inviting, lulling you into a false sense of security before going upstairs and pouncing on you – in a business sense, obviously.

  There were three bulky men standing guard through the lobby. They wore gray slacks and navy blazers. They smiled at everyone who was close enough. Their eyes however didn’t follow suit. Lawson knew his family had the best security money could buy.

  Since the company was the only tenant in the building, the reception desk was in the lobby and Lawson went to it. A woman in her thirties was behind the imposing granite counter.

  “Hi, I’d like to see David Winslow.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked pleasantly.

  Lawson knew she didn’t handle appointments but she was tasked with the initial vetting. “I’m his son, Lawson David Winslow III.”

  She smiled, not taking him seriously. He wondered if she heard that often from hotshot executives from other companies trying to make their way upstairs.

  “Just phone it in, all right?” he added. “This is kind of an emergency.”

  “Sir, if you have an appointment…”

  “Okay, look.” He produced his driver’s license and showed it to her. “See? I’m the son and I need to talk to him.”