“Anything else in here?” I asked.
“Not that I saw,” Steve said.
“Okay. The cell phone is on the nightstand by the bed. And I would probably wager that this woman’s number is in the phone, but you know how that goes.”
“The crime lab has to deal with the phone first.”
“Right,” I said. “Let’s see if we have anything in here.” I unfolded the leather trifold wallet and removed the man’s ID. The name was Nicholas Ludwig, age forty-three, height six foot one, weight one ninety-five. Hair brown, eyes brown. Aside from him being a year older than I was, his statistics matched mine to the letter. I looked at the man in the driver’s license photo. Statistics aside, no one would confuse us. The man had a bulbous nose and a hairline that was desperately trying to get as far away from his eyebrows as possible. Thankfully, my hairline was still holding true, and my nose was pretty much standard issue. The address on the ID was the home we stood inside. I passed the license to Steve, who had a quick look.
“That’s our guy downstairs,” he said.
“Yeah. Let’s see what else we got.” I rummaged through each section of wallet. He had a health insurance card, a few credit cards, some department store loyalty cards, and random business cards—a couple of which were his. It seemed he had been general manager of a retail sporting goods store. Each item I removed was set on top of the dresser.
“Grab Colt,” I said. “I’d like him to take a couple photos of this stuff so I don’t have to write down every name and number of every card in here.”
“You got it,” Steve said.
“Then run the woman’s name and see what we come up with.”
Steve gave me a nod, and we walked from the bedroom.
CHAPTER 4
Chris lay in bed, staring at the slowly spinning ceiling fan. His head throbbed. Flashes of his night flickered in his head. He saw lights streaking by his car windows. He saw a woman’s face. He saw flashes of her struggling. Chris had awakened an hour earlier when his alarm clock went off. He hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. Daylight had overtaken the room as he lay there. Chris imagined that it was around eight, yet he hadn’t heard Grace’s alarm, meaning it was still sometime before then. He glanced down at his wife’s arm draped across his chest. It stank of flowery soap. He looked at her. She faced him with her head on a pillow. The sight of her disgusted him. He’d be killing her shortly.
A moment later, Grace’s alarm sounded on the far side of the bed. It was time for her to get up and go to work. He heard his wife grumble then felt her move. She took her arm from where it was draped over him and rolled over to silence her alarm.
“Why aren’t you up?” she asked.
“I am up,” Chris said.
Grace raised her head from her pillow, turned, and faced him. “You’re not going in today?”
“No.”
“What do you mean? Since when don’t you go to the store on weekdays? And why is there dirt on your face?”
Chris squinted hard and cracked his neck. The store she referred to was one of his Brother’s Subs sandwich shop franchises. He had a total of four but only one that was local. He had an office in the local store, where he went daily. The other three were in the Orlando area, and he stopped in only once or twice a month. Grace’s question didn’t warrant another response—he’d already told her he wasn’t working and didn’t know what was on his face. He needed to get to the bathroom and eat some painkillers. Chris sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed.
“I asked you a question. Can you answer me?” she asked.
“Because I don’t feel like going in today.” Chris rose and used the dresser to steady himself. He looked at the hand that he’d used to brace himself. Dirt was caked under his fingernails. There appeared to be some dried blood under them as well. His knuckles were busted up, but he didn’t remember punching anyone. He turned his hand and saw a big cut on his right palm. He vaguely remembered cutting himself in the process of stabbing the guy his wife was screwing. Chris squinted hard again. “Shit,” he said.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Grace asked. She threw her blankets off and stood up.
Chris passed her for the bathroom without looking at her. He walked to the medicine cabinet and began digging through the medications inside. He found a bottle of ibuprofen, dumped five pills into his hand, then popped them in his mouth.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Grace asked. “What are you taking those for? And seriously, why are you so dirty? You were in bed like that?”
“My head is killing me. Just get off my ass for a second. Damn,” he said.
Grace stood in the bathroom doorway, blocking Chris’s exit. He pushed his way past her.
“You stop and tell me what is going on. What happened last night?” she asked.
Chris stopped as he was about to leave the bedroom and turned back toward her.
Grace stood with her hands resting on her hips, seemingly waiting for some explanation. Chris looked her up and down as he scratched his right butt cheek under his white boxer shorts. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail as it always was when she slept. Her face was thin, her cheekbones high. She wore a small yellow tank top and a pair of white linen pants. A mark on her left shoulder caught his eye. Chris rubbed his eyes with his dirty fingers and focused for a better look. It appeared to be a faint bruise from a bite mark.
“You’ve got a bite mark on your shoulder. You should have told him to be more careful.”
“What? What are you talking about?” She turned around and went to the mirror.
Chris left the bedroom and walked downstairs. He needed some coffee in him and to sober up a bit before he killed her. He had a few things that he wanted to say to her, and he wanted them to come out clearly. Chris walked into the kitchen and went to the coffeepot. The machine was set on a timer every morning, so a carafe of coffee awaited him.
After grabbing a cup from the cupboard, Chris filled himself a cup. He took a sip, put his back to the counter, and set the cup down. He figured he’d make Grace a cup as well.
Chris took another big cup from the cupboard and poured half a cup of coffee. He went to the refrigerator with it and splashed in some creamer. The cup still had about an inch and a half of available space. Chris smiled. He set it on the counter, went to the cupboard below the sink, and grabbed the bottle of drain cleaner. He topped off her cup, placed it on the breakfast bar, and took a chair. Chris thumbed through a magazine as he drank his coffee. At eight thirty, Grace walked downstairs, dressed business casual for her day at work. Grace was a big shot Realtor in the area. Big shot or not, Chris still made double what she did.
“We’re going to talk about this,” she said. She leaned against the breakfast bar on the far side.
“You want to talk about some guy that you’re screwing who’s been biting you?” Chris asked. He didn’t take his eyes from the magazine page he read—a story about the airline industry.
“That’s a burn from my hair straightener. It’s been there for, like, a week.”
“Sure,” Chris said. “And I’m the stupidest person alive, so I totally believe that.”
“Well, it’s the truth, so.”
“Right,” he said. “And I’m that stupid.”
“Whatever. I want to know what happened last night,” she said.
Chris nodded at the cup of coffee, which she grabbed by the cup’s handle and slid closer to herself.
“There’s your wine,” Chris said. He jerked his chin at the empty bottle on the counter near the microwave.
“It looks like you helped yourself to it. Is that why you’re so hung over?”
“Partially,” he said.
“What time did you get home?” she asked. “I waited up, I called, and I sent text messages. You never responded. I was getting worried.”
“But you went to sleep, anyway,” he said. “You were so worried that you went to sleep. Are you going to drink that coffee?�
� He pointed at her cup.
She raised it. “Just tell me what happened. When did you get home?”
“I don’t know. A couple hours ago,” Chris said.
“A couple hours ago. What the hell were you doing? I thought you were almost home when we talked. I asked you to grab me some wine and that was it. You never showed up and never responded. I probably called you ten times, left you messages and everything.” She raised the cup toward her mouth. “Did something happen?”
“Yeah. I ended up going out,” Chris said.
Grace set the cup down without taking a drink. “You went out? What does that mean? Went out where?”
“I bought your wine and then thought that maybe I should go and have a drink and think about things a little. Well, I ended up drinking at some shitty bar until I was stumbling drunk. After that, I drove into the city and got a whore. A really rough one. Like the twenty-dollar-for-whatever kind. I was with her until, like, four thirty. We did it on a dirty mattress behind a motel. I strangled her when I was done. I honestly don’t even remember why. After that, I drove home—drank your bottle of wine on the drive.”
“What in the hell are you talking about? Why are you saying any of this?”
“You’re the one who wanted to know what I did.”
“Chris,” Grace said. “You’re not making any sense. Is something really wrong, babe? Should I call Dr. Zayn?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’m just kidding. Bad joke.”
“This is more than a bad joke,” she said. Grace raised the coffee cup to her lips and blew across the top.
Chris perked up, watching and waiting for the moment she realized something wasn’t right with her morning Joe. He knew the drain cleaner wasn’t going to kill her, but the thought of the bitch drinking it entertained him.
Grace pulled in a big gulp. She coughed, spitting up some of the liquid she’d just drunk, and slapped the cup down on the breakfast bar. Coffee and drain cleaner from inside the cup spilled out.
“Something the matter, babe?” Chris asked.
Grace grabbed the edge of the breakfast bar with both hands and leaned over between her outstretched arms. She coughed and gagged as she faced the floor.
Chris went back to his magazine article. “Problem with the coffee?” He saw her look up.
“What the hell is wrong with that?” she asked. She gagged again.
“What do you mean? It’s the same as we always get. Espresso roast. It’s just that and creamer.” Chris snapped his fingers. “And drain cleaner. That’s probably what you were tasting. Drain cleaner.”
“What?” she asked.
“I put drain cleaner in your coffee because you’re a filthy cheating slut.” Chris set his magazine down and rose from his chair.
“What?” Grace asked. “Chris.”
“No, no,” Chris said. “Just let me talk.” He walked his coffee cup to the sink and set it down inside. He took two steps toward the cupboard area, to the empty bottle of wine, and faced his wife. “I was parked out front of your boyfriend’s place last night when I called you. See, my flight came in at noon. I knew you were cheating on me and had already made up my mind about what I was going to do, but I needed solid proof. Something undeniable. So I figured I’d see what you did when I wasn’t around. When I got back, I drove to your work. I waited there until you left, and I followed you from work straight to the guy’s house. You pulled into his garage like you lived there. I waited for hours. After I called and told you that I was almost home, I watched you pull out and flash your lights at him as he blew you a kiss.”
“Chris, I can explain.”
“Oh, you can?” he asked. “You’re going to tell me what? Why you started screwing some other guy? What the reasoning was behind it? Why you felt the need to break our marriage vows? Why would you even marry me if you knew that you were a cheating bitch?”
“I’m sorry, Chris. It just happened. I don’t know what else to say. I love him.”
Chris laughed. “You love him?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant for it to be like this.”
“Well, it’s like this now, and you’ll have to deal with the consequences. You, and the other two, are going to deal with the consequences.”
“What are you talking about?”
Chris scooped up the wine bottle by the neck. “I told you about the hooker. But before her, and the booze, I killed the asshole you were screwing. I marched right up to your boyfriend’s front door after you pulled away. I ran my knife into him. You know, the one I keep in the door of my truck. The one you got me for my birthday. He just stood there and took it. He didn’t even try to put up a fight. I stabbed him a half dozen times in the belly and two more times in the throat. His neck looked like a damn water feature with all the blood spraying out. You should have seen the look on his face, trying to grab his throat and cling to life. I told him who I was. I was going to come straight home and kill you last night but decided to let loose a little bit first.” Chris took a step toward her. “See, I wanted to have unprotected sex with the roughest, cheapest, most low-down hooker I could find then come home to have sex with you. I figured if it was all right for you to screw people and come home to sleep with me, that maybe I should do the same. But here’s the thing. I got home, looked at you lying in bed, and knew that I wasn’t going to be able to go through with it. I wouldn’t be able to perform. Think about that. I could perform for a prostitute missing teeth in an alley, but not you. That’s how I feel about you.”
Grace stepped back from the breakfast bar. She held her hand over her mouth. Chris didn’t know whether her look indicated shock or fear or nausea from the drain cleaner. It didn’t matter. She took another step backward.
Chris followed her and spoke as he walked. “It felt so good, Grace. The hooker, I guess I didn’t really have a reason to kill. I’m blaming that one on the alcohol. Maybe it was because she kind of reminded me of you, so I imagined it was you that I was killing in that dirty alley and then choked her to death. It’s going to feel even better killing the real thing, though. As soon as you’re dead, I’ll move on to the other two. I’ve made up my mind. Each of you filthy, cheating, awful bitches that decided to screw around on me are going to die.”
“Don’t come any closer,” Grace said. She held her palms out toward Chris.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Chris said. “This is your only possible future.”
Grace spun around and took two running strides toward the home’s front door. Chris ran after her, getting within striking distance in the middle of the living room. He raised the wine bottle over his head as he ran and brought it down into the back of Grace’s skull. She dropped to the carpet.
Chris grabbed her by one of the pantlegs of her slacks and dragged her back to the kitchen. Grace didn’t move a muscle. She was out cold.
“We have to do this where it’s a bit easier of a cleanup,” Chris said. He pulled her to the tile near the breakfast bar and kicked the two barstools away. He positioned her face up and delivered a blow. Her skin opened across her forehead and right eye. Chris looked at the bottle then brought it down across her forehead again. The strike didn’t catch her flush, and the bottle hit the floor and shattered. “Son of a bitch,” he said.
Grace made a noise and moved her head. She was still alive.
Chris looked at what remained of the bottle in his hand—the neck of the bottle and a sharp three-inch shard of glass from the bottle’s side. He crouched over his wife and slid the shard into her throat. “Till death do us part, dear,” he said.
Blood bubbled from her mouth and spewed from her neck.
Chris stared into her eyes as the life faded from them.
CHAPTER 5
Detective Daniel Ryan stood next to me in the home’s kitchen. On the breakfast bar was a printout of our homeowner’s information. Beside it, we had the same for the woman, Grace Mercer. Neither had a record, though Grace had a couple of traffic violations. The sh
eet said she had a gray 2014 Acura as her registered vehicle. The woman was thirty-six, blond and blue eyed. Her height was five foot nine, her weight one twenty-five. Both sheets were basically copies of their driver’s license information and DMV records, nothing more.
“So we need to find this woman and see what she knows,” Ryan said.
“She’s looking like our best lead right now.” I glanced up from the two pieces of paper. Detective Ryan had been in our unit for two years, and prior to that he’d been in Robbery at the Miami-Dade Kendall District on the south side of town. Ryan was in his early thirties and married for the second time. His face was round, as if he still had a layer of baby fat that he needed to grow into, or out of. “The address is about a half hour from here,” I said. “As soon as we’re set with this scene, that’s where I’m headed.”
“The location is still us?” he asked.
“North of the line, so yeah,” I said. The line I referred to was Highway 41, or SW Eighth Street, or Tamiami Trail. They were all names of the same road that stretched across the greater Miami area in a straight horizontal line. North of the line was my team. South of the line belonged to Lieutenant Mateo Lopez and his crew. We had a night shift, which handled the entire area, and a cold case division. That was Miami Homicide—twenty men to handle the roughly eighty homicides that Miami-Dade County averaged in a year. A few years back, when the homicide divisions all got pulled from the individual precincts, expanded upon, and joined into the “homicide bureau,” we had almost double the men. I was one of seven lieutenants. Each lieutenant had a sergeant and four detectives who reported to them. That was on top of our cold case and traffic homicide divisions. It was overkill. We had guys constantly doing nothing. The unnecessary manpower went on for about a year before the bean counters realized how much was being spent. Between early retirements, transfers, and promotions, they shaved twenty-some men from Homicide and about a million and a half in annual salary. I went from four detectives to two. One of my guys retired, and another transferred. The truth was, while we still had murders and a hell of a lot of drug crime, we no longer lived in the killing field that was nineteen eighties cartel-land Miami.
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