by Irene Hannon
So the cops were still poking around, trying to solve the twenty-four-year-old mystery. That meant they hadn’t found anything more than the detective in Columbia had. Nor would they. The only way ancient history would become an issue was if one of them talked.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
Erika grabbed a cut-crystal tumbler—Waterford, perhaps?—from the bar and plopped into the chair on the other side of the small table. Once she had the bottle open, she poured herself a generous drink, straight up.
While the other woman began to sip her scotch, Jessica crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. No need to waste a lot of time on conversation . . . but she’d chitchat until Erika had one drink under her belt. This would be easier if she was starting to feel the buzz.
It didn’t take her college chum long to toss back the first drink—or refill her glass.
As Erika set the bottle on the table, she inspected the untouched wine glass. “You’re not drinking your chardonnay.”
Jessica picked up the glass by the stem and took a sip. “Very nice.”
“Only the best for Jack.” Her mouth twisted, and she swirled the amber liquid in her tumbler. “So we’re good on the money thing?”
“That’s why I’m here.” She set her wine down again and reached into her bag to withdraw an inch-thick packet of fifty-dollar bills encased in plastic wrap. “Arranging the transfer of that much money will take a few days, but I brought some cash from home to tide you over in the meantime.” She set it on the table between them.
Erika perused the stack. “How much is that?”
“Twelve thousand dollars.”
She blinked. “You keep that kind of money in your condo?”
“I like to have cash on hand.” Pocket money now, but since the day her father had cleaned out her bank account and taken off after Jason died, she’d always kept an emergency stash.
Who knew it would ever be used for an emergency like this, though?
Erika picked it up. “I’ve never seen this much cash in real life—but it’s kind of a small stack. Is there really twelve thousand dollars here?”
“Yes. Trust me, I’ve counted it. I’ll have to make arrangements for the rest.”
“No rush. This will last me a few weeks.” She set the money back on the table, picked up her glass again, and raised it. “To peace of mind.”
Jessica retrieved her own glass and tapped it against Erika’s. “The perfect toast.”
She continued to chat until Erika was halfway through her second glass, then tipped a small splash of wine onto her slacks. “Oh no!” She set the glass down and used a cocktail napkin to blot at the stain. “These are brand new too. Do you have any liquid laundry detergent?”
“I don’t know. Our maid takes care of that kind of stuff. Let me check the laundry room.”
The instant Erika disappeared out the door, Jessica reached into her tote bag, removed the plastic-wrapped packet of hot-pink pills, and set them on the table. Reaching deeper still, her fingers closed over the steel barrel of the compact Beretta Charles had always carried when he’d volunteered at that free clinic in the worst part of North St. Louis.
He’d never needed to use it.
But it would serve a purpose tonight.
She felt around until her fingers found the grip, then pulled the weapon out, weighing it in her hand. So small—yet so deadly.
Slipping her finger in front of the trigger, she lowered her hand to her lap, pointed it at the fireplace . . . and waited.
Thirty seconds later, the tap-tap-tap of Erika’s heels sounded as she crossed the marble foyer.
It was time.
Absolute calm settled over her. No blip in her pulse. No change in respiration. No quiver in her fingers.
Most people would be nervous about taking a life.
But she wasn’t most people.
Erika circled in front of the chairs, bottles of laundry detergent and stain remover in hand. “I wasn’t sure exactly what you needed, so I brought . . .”
Jessica lifted the gun and aimed it at the other woman’s heart.
The sudden widening of Erika’s eyes was almost comical. “What . . . what are you doing?”
“I’m not paying you any money, Erika.”
Some of the color drained from the other woman’s complexion. “Look, it’s not . . . we can . . . you know . . . talk about it, okay?” One of the plastic bottles slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the floor. She didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m done talking. Put down the other bottle and sit in your chair.”
She hesitated.
“Now.” Jessica flicked off the safety.
“Okay, okay.” She sat quickly, setting the container beside her, never taking her gaze off the gun. “Why don’t we forget about the money. I’ll . . . I’ll figure something else out.”
“The money isn’t the only issue. You’re a loose end, Erika—and a potential impediment. I don’t like either.”
Beads of sweat broke out on Erika’s forehead, and she twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, okay? I did a dumb thing. I should never have threatened you. I promise I won’t talk to the cops.”
“Like I said, too late. You might change your mind down the road.”
“I won’t—I promise!” A flash of panic ricocheted through her eyes.
“Sorry. I can’t take that chance.”
“So you’re going to . . . to shoot me?” Hysteria raised the pitch of her voice. She was breathing faster now. Hyperventilating, like she had all those years ago on that rural roadside.
“If it comes to that. I hope it doesn’t.” And it wouldn’t. Erika was too chicken to call her bluff. She motioned toward the packet of pills. “Pop out two of those and take them.”
Erika looked at them, and her skin lost the last of its color. “W-what are they?”
“Benadryl.”
“Benadryl?” Her face went blank. “I don’t get it.”
Of course she didn’t. Erika never had been able to put two and two together until too late.
“You don’t have to get it. Just take them.”
She picked up the card of pills and fumbled with the plastic wrap. By the time she’d removed it, her fingers were shaking so badly it took her several attempts to pop two out.
“Wash them down with that.” Jessica tapped the bottle of scotch with the barrel of the gun.
“Alcohol and p-pills don’t mix.”
“It’s only two pills, Erika. Take them.”
She chewed on her lip but followed the instruction. As she started to set the glass down again, Jessica motioned to it.
“Finish the scotch.”
Holding the glass with both hands, Erika did as she was told.
“Very good. Now fill it up again. All the way.”
Erika’s eyes grew round. “I can’t drink that much!”
“Do it.”
Flicking a terrified glance at the gun, she complied, spilling some of the alcohol on the table as she poured.
“Now we’re going to play a little game.” Jessica leaned toward her. “Like college kids do. You’re going to drink that whole glass. In five minutes.”
A bead of sweat trickled down from her temple. “That’s too much—even for me! I’ll get sick!”
The woman really was a moron.
“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. But if you’d rather . . .” She raised the gun.
“No!” She picked up the glass, sloshing out more of the liquid, her gaze darting around the room, as if she was seeking a way out.
There wasn’t one.
Jessica looked at her watch. “The clock is ticking.”
The room went silent as Erika coughed down the liquor.
As she drank, Jessica calculated. Factoring in spillage, Erika would probably ingest about seven ounces in this round. She’d already had two generous drinks, bringing the total to eleven or twelve ounces. That should do the trick for most people—
but considering how much her one-time classmate drank, her tolerance could be higher than average. Better too much than not enough.
Erika finished the glass in four minutes flat.
“Excellent. Now have one more for the road.”
Tears began to trickle down Erika’s cheeks. “Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”
She gave a derisive snort. “I was never your friend, Erika. You were a means to an end. I needed your father’s connections. It was his influence that got me the internships I wanted and the job I needed to launch my career. Back in the day, he’d do anything for his daughter’s best friend.” She gestured to the bottle. “Pour.”
Hand shaking, Erika picked up the bottle again. “I guess Joe was right about you.”
Her fingers tightened around the gun. “Joe is a nobody. His opinion means nothing. Fill it up more than halfway and drink it fast.”
Jessica waited until Erika downed the last of the liquor, then leaned back in her chair.
It was done.
Erika stared at her. “Now what?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For the problem to go away.”
“What are you talking about?”
She picked up her glass of wine. Took a sip. It really was a very good vintage. Jack might be a jerk, but he had excellent taste in wine.
“It’s simple, Erika. I’ve worked for years to get where I am. Whenever something—or someone—got in the way of my plans, I dealt with the problem. You’ve become a problem . . . like Charles did.”
Erika blinked, as if she was having trouble focusing. “Charles, your hushban?”
“Yes.” Why not admit it? Erika wouldn’t be telling any tales.
“He had a heart attack.”
“Yes, he did. Amazing what a few too many whiffs of amyl nitrite can do to a man with coronary artery disease.” She swirled her glass but kept the gun aimed at Erika.
“You . . . you killed Charles?” Horror filled Erika’s eyes as she whispered the words.
Jessica shrugged. “Let’s just say I facilitated his demise. Some powdered Ambien in his salad dressing, plus a jigger of tasteless vodka in his iced tea, put him to sleep. After that, all I had to do was break a few capsules of his amyl nitrite and hold them under his nose. Can I help it if his blood pressure dropped and his cardiac rhythm went berserk?”
Erika blinked again. Her eyes were beginning to glaze. “I thought you . . . loved him?”
“Love?” She gave a disparaging sniff. “Love is a highly overrated emotion. Peterson-Bradshaw is a family-oriented company that holds traditional relationships in high esteem. Having a husband was desirable for career purposes. So I did my research and found the perfect candidate—a wealthy, lonely, childless widower in desperate need of female companionship.”
“Then why . . . why did you k-kill him?” Erika was struggling to form words now.
She took a sip of wine and inspected the clear, golden liquid. “Unfortunately, after three years he decided he wanted a divorce. That was unacceptable. It would have derailed my career. What choice did I have?”
Erika slumped in her chair but managed to cling to lucidity. “Joe always said you were coldhearted, but you’re worse than that. You’re . . . you’re evil.”
“Evil.” She twirled the stem of her glass. “An interesting concept. One we might debate if your brain was fully operational. But I prefer to think of myself as practical.”
“Don’t . . . you have any . . . conshience?”
Jessica leaned toward her, anger nipping at her composure. “Yes, I have a conscience. I think it’s wrong for anyone to take what someone else has worked hard to earn. Your husband stole money from retirees. My husband was going to steal my career—just as you were. That’s wrong.”
“At leasht I . . . never killed anybody.” Her eyelids flickered. Drifted closed. A moment later, her head fell forward, chin resting on her chest.
Jessica glared at her. Who did Erika think she was, making judgments? What did a privileged little rich girl who’d always had everything handed to her know about life? Had she ever lain in bed at night, too afraid to sleep for fear the rats that came out in the dark would bite her? Had she ever been called filthy names by her father and made to feel like a worthless piece of trash? Had she ever been betrayed and abandoned? Had she ever had to claw her way out of the gutter and painstakingly create her own destiny, earning every single thing she’d acquired through her own sweat and wits?
No.
And who was she to point fingers and talk about conscience, when she’d resorted to blackmail herself?
Jessica took another sip of wine, letting the alcohol relax the tight muscles in her shoulders.
Erika was nothing.
And she’d soon be history.
As she finished her wine, she watched the other woman’s breathing slow, just the way Charles had described early in their relationship when he’d lost a college-age patient to alcohol poisoning after the kid spent a night binge drinking. The alcohol would continue to enter Erika’s bloodstream faster than it could be metabolized by her liver, depressing the central nervous system. She’d go into a coma. Soon, her heart would slow and her breathing would stop . . . unless she died first by drowning in her own vomit.
Jessica wrinkled her nose.
Not the most pleasant way to go.
On the other hand, Erika was out of it. She’d never know what caused her death.
Only the coroner would.
And it would be ruled accidental. A distraught wife, her husband sent to prison, her fortune ruined, a heavy drinker and smoker, who’d decided to drown her sorrows . . . and ended up dead.
Those two cops who’d visited her might wonder about the death, but there would be nothing to tie Jessica Lee to it.
Just as there was nothing to tie her to Alena.
Leaning down, she opened her tote bag and set the gun inside. Then she withdrew a pair of latex gloves and the novel she was reading. It was hard to say how long it would take for the alcohol to finish the job, and sitting around doing nothing was boring.
As she opened the book to the marked page, she took a mental inventory of the tasks to be accomplished before she left.
Put on the gloves.
Wipe the door handles on the car with the soft cloth she’d brought.
Wash the wine glass and wipe the stem.
Collect the plastic wrap for later disposal.
Return the bottles of cleaning solution to the laundry room.
Tuck the gift bag back in her tote to ditch in a trash container on the way home. No need to worry about her fingerprints being on the scotch; the clerk had put it in the bag for her.
Finally, let herself out the back door, skirt around front in the shadows, and walk back to her car, half a mile away in the parking lot where it had “broken down.”
Piece of cake.
She picked up her book, sparing Erika no more than a quick glance before she got back to her story.
One down.
One to go.
18
Mac pulled in behind the Carson police cruiser parked in front of Erika’s house. As he braked, Lisa slid out from the driver’s seat and slipped on her uniform jacket.
Adjusting his tie, he joined her at the end of the flagstone walk that led to the columned entry of the two-story house.
“Going the official-looking route for round two, I see.” He nodded toward her uniform and the car.
“Yeah.” She flipped her hair out from under the collar of the jacket. “Police accoutrements have a certain intimidation effect.”
“You might want to use the same strategy if we revisit Jessica. I doubt our polished PR executive would appreciate having a uniformed law enforcement officer come calling at her swanky office—especially one who’s next in line for the CEO spot.”
“That thought did cross my mind. I don’t see her being intimidated, but the embarrassment factor would be hu
ge. If today’s visit doesn’t pan out, I may give it a try. Joe’s an untapped resource too. I’d have paid him a visit already if he was local.” She motioned toward the curving walk. “Shall we?”
“After you.”
He followed as she walked toward the door, passing first one newspaper, then another, both encased in plastic wrappers. When a third came into view, he stopped.
“Lisa.”
She paused and turned. “You noticed the papers too?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m thinking she might have skipped town after I called and left the message about wanting to talk with her again. That will complicate things—or slow them down, at the very least.”
“Maybe she just hasn’t bothered to pick them up. She’s had a lot on her mind lately.”
“Possible. Let’s find out.”
He drew up beside her as she ascended the porch steps and pressed the bell.
After fifteen seconds, she tried again.
Still no response.
“I guess tipping her off to my visit wasn’t the best idea.” Lisa huffed out a breath. “For all we know, she took off for Tahiti.”
“Maybe Jessica can shed some light on her whereabouts.”
Lisa cocked her head. “Are you thinking we should drop in and pay her an unannounced visit today?”
He shrugged. “Your call—but you’re in uniform, I cleared my schedule, and there isn’t any reason to wait.”
“Good point. We could talk about the DNA sample, bring up the ring again, have her run through the events of that night once more. Let’s do it.”
As they started back down the walk, a slightly stooped man with thinning gray hair came out of the front door of the house across the street and headed their direction.
Lisa leaned closer. Close enough for him to catch a faint whiff of the fresh, sweet fragrance he’d come to associate with her. “Wanna bet that’s the neighborhood busybody?”
“I don’t bet when the odds are against me. He looks the type.”
“They can be a font of information.”
“True.”
They waited at the end of the walk for the man to approach.