I'll Kill Her for You

by Steve Richer

  “And what, Officer?”

  The man looked uncomfortable as he approached. “Uh, that burner phone we found at the crime scene. You thought it was the trigger mechanism for the bomb and wanted it processed quickly?”

  “What about it?”

  “The lab is still going over some of it but the fingerprints on it are a match. They belong to this uh… Mr. Winslow.”

  Kwon grinned from ear to ear. “Lawson Winslow, you’re under arrest for the murder of John Tilley.”

  “Ho ho ho!” Mick said to the three other Rolling Stones as he entered the warehouse.

  He locked the door behind him and waved cheerfully. It occurred to him that he should have called himself Nick instead of Mick since it was Christmas. Jolly old St. Mick didn’t have the same ring to it though, he decided.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Keith asked, getting up from his chair.

  “Please watch your tone. It’s Christmas, you should be happy. At least I’m in good spirits and I come bearing gifts.” He displayed the plastic bag from Dollar Tree he was carrying as if it was Santa Claus’s own pouch. “I have presents for everyone.”

  Sporting a big smile, he pulled items from his bag one by one: a diagnose-your-neurosis wheel, toilet paper with printed political quotes, a whoopee cushion, and an eraser shaped like a human ear.

  “Will you cut that shit out?”

  “It’s the time of year when you should be cheerful, Keith.”

  “Well I’m not happy, okay? I’m not happy I had to be involved in a goddamn gunfight. That wasn’t supposed to happen! The whole thing turned into a shit show.”

  Mick put all the gag gifts on a couch and removed his coat, as if it was all a process to calm his nerves.

  “I know that not everything turned out the way we had thought it would.”

  “No shit!”

  Behind Keith, Charlie and Ronnie were a little more sheepish.

  “Keith, I need you to relax, to take a breath. Go see if there’s any eggnog left.”

  “Fuck the eggnog! Nobody said anything about me being chased like that. I had to shoot at that bitch.”

  “I know, I was there the whole time watching, remember?”

  “What if a surveillance camera caught me? It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. We’re fucked. We’re all fucked!”

  Keith was pacing back and forth until he finally decided to go to the makeshift coat rack and grab his bomber jacket.

  “Stay right there,” Mick ordered. “These things happen, all right? It happens, we deal with it. That’s how it’s been happening since the beginning. There’s a snag, we deal with it. Ronnie, any mention of surveillance cameras or suspects?”

  Ronnie double checked his computer and shook his head. “I got nothing like that.”

  “Good, good. See, Keith? We’re always one step ahead.”

  “In fact,” Ronnie said, a smile creeping over his face. “Lawson was not only detained but I’m getting word that he’s being charged with murder. It’s happening right now, I see the timestamp through the police records. They just did it.”

  Mick clapped his hands and laughed. “This is excellent!”

  “Excellent?” Charlie said, running her hands to her hair while Keith was still pacing nervously. “How can this be excellent, Mick? This screws up our entire plan.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Charlie took a deep breath like she was about to explain molecular biology to a three-year-old. “Mick, you don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t. If Lawson is arrested for murder that means he’s in jail. And with him in jail then he’s useless to us. How are we supposed to blackmail him when he’s behind bars?”

  “I told you already this wasn’t an issue.”

  “Yeah but at the time I didn’t think it would go that far.”

  The leader came closer and put his hands on her shoulders, smiling gently. “Charlie, and you guys too, I need you to relax. I need you to trust me. I’ve been planning this score for a long time. I’ve spent years making sure every little item on my list is tiptop.”

  “But…” Keith said, unsure.

  “Trust me, guys. Please. Everything is going to be all right. Very soon now you’re all gonna have more money than God. Are you with me? Come on, I need to hear it.”

  “I’m with you,” Ronnie said.

  “Charlie?”

  She nodded. “I trust you.”

  “Great. Keith?”

  The tall man slowed his pacing as he considered the question. After long seconds, he met his boss’s eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Awesome. You won’t regret it, I promise. I invested too much into this. It won’t fail.”

  Mick picked up the gag gifts and put everything in the bag again before heading to the small room at the back of the warehouse.

  Chapter 28

  It was as a notorious felon that Lawson walked out the New York County Courthouse.

  He had spent not quite twenty-four hours in jail but for him it was the equivalent of doing hard time. It didn’t matter that he was innocent. He knew that every time his name would be written in the media from here on end, it would come with a mention that he had been charged with murder.

  “We’re coming out the front door,” Weibel said to him, never breaking his stride.

  “Can’t we go out the back?” Lawson asked. “The last thing I want right now is to face a pack of reporters.”

  “Bullshit. That’s exactly what we need. The world has to see that you’re so harmless that you’ve been granted bail. The court doesn’t release violent offenders. So if you’re out, that means you’re as soft and cuddly as a dachshund puppy.”

  “Man, come on…”

  “You don’t have to say anything, kid. Just look browbeaten.”

  “That won’t be hard.”

  Lawson couldn’t quite believe he’d been arrested and had spent the night in jail. On Christmas, no less. Thanks to the high-priced lawyer and his connections, his arraignment was fast-tracked. The district attorney fought tooth and nail for bail to be denied.

  After all, Lawson was not only responsible for John Tilley’s death but was also the prime suspect in two other murders, Sue Parnell and Addie Burgess. But a compromise was struck. They agreed on a mind-boggling five million-dollar bail as well as an ankle monitor. It felt like walking with a five-pound ball strapped to his leg.

  “Lawson!”

  He turned to his left, expecting a paparazzi having made it past security, but instead found Morgan coming toward him. Before he could do anything, she was hugging him.

  “Hey, sis. What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t think I’d stay home, did you? This is so awful.”

  “I didn’t do any of it, you have to believe me.”

  “Of course, none of us believe this nonsense.”

  Behind was her husband Joe and he shook hands as well as exchange a few platitudes. What did you talk about anyway after leaving your arraignment?

  The next familiar face to show up was Tom Marulli. It felt strange to see him here, probably the most honest person he knew being in a courthouse.

  “Buddy, how’s it going? You didn’t have to come.”

  “What are friends for, right?” Tom said. “Listen, I talked about it with my wife and if you need a place to stay, I have a room for you. I mean, if you’re willing to put up with a toddler and the worst meatloaf you’ve ever tasted.”

  Lawson was touched and was about to agree, anything to avoid staying with family, but he remembered the bail conditions. He winced.

  “You’re still in Queens, right?”

  “Not high-end enough for you?”

  “They put this little bracelet on me,” Lawson said, lifting the cuff of his pants to show off the black device. “They got me on a leash. The GPS in there won’t let me go outside of a strict rectangle: 72nd Street to the north, this courthouse
on the south, and I have to stay between Park Avenue and 9th.”

  “Really? That’s harsh.”

  “My lawyer here says they mostly don’t want me to go out of Manhattan because that’s where the airports are.”

  It didn’t seem to be enough that they had already confiscated his passport. Lawson felt like a child and it was even more humiliating than sleeping in a dirty jail cell. He continued to chat with Tom, Joe, and Morgan for a few minutes but soon Weibel signaled that it was time to go.

  He was grateful for their presence but he couldn’t shake his disappointment that his parents hadn’t shown up. His uppity brother not being there? That was expected. But his parents? Wasn’t it their responsibility to look after their kids no matter what?

  Lawson felt more alone than ever.

  As they reached the top of the steps, he saw the horde of cameramen and journalists and photographers and cut-rate bloggers waiting for him near the street. It gave him chills and he cinched his jacket – an off-the-rack pea coat Weibel had gotten him since his clothes had been taken into evidence.

  “Something I’ve been wondering,” Lawson began in order to keep his mind off the gauntlet waiting below.

  “What?”

  “How come you knew so much about my case when you showed up at the precinct yesterday? I never met you before and you already knew about the evidence and whatnot.”

  “I’d been getting calls from your buddy John ever since the police first questioned you. He wanted me to take your case and he sent me the files. I wasn’t sure you were worth my time, honestly.”

  “And now I am?”

  “Like I said before, Morris Jernigan called in a favor. On Christmas too. Jesus Christ, kid. Do you have any idea how much trouble I am in right now? I may as well start shopping for wife number three.”

  They began walking down the broad stone steps and already they could hear the questions shouted at them.

  “Lawson, why did you do it?”

  “Are you claiming your innocence?”

  “Are you gonna argue temporary insanity?”

  Weibel couldn’t hide his happiness at the attention but he held up his hands as if answering questions was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Please, my client is innocent and my office will prepare a statement later today.”

  “Is it true that he killed John Tilley because he found out he’d killed Sue Parnell?”

  “There are only two things that cannot be disputed today. One, my client is innocent of all charges. And two, we can’t wait to prove in court how preposterous these charges are. Thank you.”

  Weibel pushed on Lawson’s lower back so he would walk faster and soon they made it out of the cluster of reporters. A black Cadillac Escalade was waiting on Centre Street. They hastened to it, Lawson getting in the back while the lawyer sat up front in the passenger seat. An assistant was driving.

  “Hello, son.”

  He found his father sitting next to him.

  “Dad. Were you in court?”

  “I was in the back. Did you think I would abandon you?”

  Lawson didn’t reply directly because he was bound to say something hurtful. Instead he decided on another approach.

  “I’m innocent, you know. I don’t know who’s doing this but I’m being framed. Someone wants to hurt me, they want to hurt the family. I’m being manipulated, blackmailed into doing things, but I swear I never killed anyone.”

  “I know. We don’t hate you.”

  “So now it’s we?”

  “Your mother feels the same way. She knows you wouldn’t kill anyone, no matter how many stupid things you’ve done in the past.”

  “She has a great way of showing her support.”

  David sighed. “She’s devastated. Put yourself in her place for a minute. All her life has been about keeping up the family name, maintaining the reputation. All that she’s worked for these past thirty-five years is going up in smoke.”

  “Because of me,” Lawson mumbled, rolling his eyes.

  “She’s having difficulty coping with this. Try to understand for a minute, son.”

  “Try to be accused of fucking murder for a minute, dad! Try to be rejected by your own mother, see what that feels like!”

  There was silence in the car. The driver didn’t even look in the rearview mirror and Weibel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, focusing on his phone.

  “She loves you, Lawson. She hasn’t been the most affectionate person, I admit that, but she does love you. This could…”

  “What?”

  “This could be what we need to get closer.”

  “Stop watching Dr. Phil, dad.”

  Yet Lawson knew what he meant. The bail conditions stipulated that he needed to stay with family members. Morgan lived in Westchester County and it would take an act of Congress to bunk with Noel. That left his parents. He had no choice, he had to stay with them until the trial was over.

  For the street cred, Samuel Weibel had his offices in Hell’s Kitchen, at the westernmost limit allowed by Lawson’s ankle monitor.

  The building was unassuming but inside it looked as if the Sharper Image catalog had exploded. The decor was tacky and everywhere there seemed to be a different gadget or what passed for smart design for a twelve-year-old. The backlit jellyfish aquarium was especially off-putting.

  But Lawson didn’t linger on this. Instead, he was happy to see that Bailey was waiting for him there. He found it reassuring that she smiled when she saw him.

  “How was the slammer?” she asked.

  “Oh you know, had to fight three guys named Bubba. Nearly got shanked in the yard. And please don’t let me ramble on about the communal showers.”

  She smiled again. “Here, I figured you’d need another one.”

  She handed him a new phone. He inspected it briefly and it struck him how addicted he was to this type of device now. She had put some contacts in there but it was otherwise a clean slate.

  “All right, now what?” he asked as everyone followed Weibel into a conference room where coffee and pastries had already been laid out.

  He removed his coat, grabbed a cinnamon roll, and sat down while everyone followed suit.

  Weibel cleared his throat. “From a legal standpoint, we have this thing by the balls. They have conjecture and circumstantial evidence which amounts to a big bag of dick.”

  “What about those fingerprints they say they have?” David asked.

  “Come on! A phone found near the scene of the crime? Could be anything. Maybe Lawson touched it when he fell. Maybe somebody planted those prints. It can be done, you know. I have this consultant, used to be CIA, he’ll testify to this. They invented the damn method!”

  “Still, that means I have to wait for a trial, right? That’s gonna take what, a year? A year of living with this shitty ankle monitor?”

  With my parents, he didn’t add.

  “That’s how it works, kid,” Weibel said as he reached for a doughnut.

  After a pause, Bailey spoke. “I might have something. After the guy I chased got into a car, I saw something fall out of his pocket. I went to pick it up. It’s a dry cleaning ticket.”

  “And?” Lawson perked up, his pastry all but forgotten.

  “Yesterday was Christmas so it was closed. I couldn’t talk to anyone. But I’m heading there now. Maybe that’s the clue that we’ve been waiting for.”

  Lawson did his best to keep calm. Maybe that was the glimmer of hope he thought he had lost.

  Chapter 29

  Bailey regretted having mentioned the dry cleaner’s ticket to Lawson and everyone else. Truth be told, she had wanted to prove her worth, that she was still useful because she blamed herself for not having caught the man in time.

  But what if by doing this she had given Lawson false hope? That would be even more crushing for him. The stub might turn out to be nothing after all, chiefly given that the man had worn gloves and she doubted they could lift fingerprints off this sort of
paper.

  She also considered passing the evidence onto the police. Having been law enforcement herself, that’s what she would have wished if it had been her investigation. However, two things convinced her not to follow this course of action.

  Firstly, there was no chain of custody. The police wouldn’t take it seriously if the private investigator hired by the suspect came out of the blue with a piece of evidence. They would dismiss this as just another ploy for the rich playboy to get off scot-free.

  Secondly, and more importantly, she didn’t think the police cared anymore. Detective Munson seemed competent enough but the entire department was convinced that Lawson was behind everything. They had even arrested him already. It was in the DA office’s hands now. It was political.

  Prosecutors in cases like these, going after wealthy socialites, they weren’t in it for truth and justice. No, they were careerists vying for higher office. Nail a famous Park Avenue family and suddenly you’re on your way to Washington.

  If she presented the new evidence to them they would blow her off, there would be no changing their mind because as far as they were concerned, losing grip on their suspect was akin to admitting they were wrong.

  And a politician is never wrong.

  That’s why Bailey had to do this herself. She would take this investigation as far as she could and hopefully present evidence that the prosecutors wouldn’t be able to ignore. That was the plan anyway. All she had was a lousy piece of paper.

  She found the dry cleaning business just off Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. It was shabby, uninviting, but then again she had never encountered a dry cleaner that looked like Bloomingdale’s. She parked and approached the storefront, thankful that the generic Open neon sign was on.

  “Hi,” she said, as she entered.

  She looked around and was relieved there was a camera in the corner, by the door. There was a middle-aged man wearing a green tracksuit behind the counter. His face was so pale she wondered if he was half vampire. He looked up from a car magazine, his face a mask of boredom.

  “Yes?”

  “Merry Christmas. Some cold spell we’re having, uh?”

  His eyes swept up and down her body. She was offended before realizing he was wondering why she didn’t have any clothes to bring in for a cleaning.