An Equation For Murder

by Jayne Nichols

  “Are you heading over to the hospital?”

  “Not today. Amanda and I are going shopping. We haven’t had much mother-daughter time together.”

  “Have you told her about… us?” Sam watched while the pink in her cheeks deepened in color. He couldn’t remember a time when he enjoyed the experience so much.

  “Jennifer did. The night before our dinner date.”

  And that precocious, little six-year-old had seen him kiss her cheek the day he’d driven them to the airport. Since there hadn’t been an us until now, he hadn’t thought to consider the upshot of that impulse. The only previous comment Lillian had made about her daughter concerned her wedding ring. “So, how did she react?”

  Lillian’s gaze drifted to the window. “She loved her father and misses him very much.”

  “And she doesn’t want you to love anyone else.” He wanted to gather her into his arms. Had they been anywhere but in his classroom, he might have. “I’m so sorry, Lilly.”

  She walked slowly to the door, then turned around. “I’m not.”

  Sam let her go. He had an appointment to keep, and Walter would not be understanding if he arrived late.

  The crowds had thinned with the start of class. Jake’s was a popular steak and rib place far enough off campus to avoid the majority of college kids rushing to grab a bite between classes. The portions were large, but much too expensive for Sam’s pocketbook. Sam hadn’t eaten there since before he and Rachel divorced. Walter was waiting for him in a corner booth.

  “I was beginning to think you had forgotten our appointment.”

  “Of course not, Walter. I was held up by a student with a question.” Which was literally the truth. “And this is farther to walk than I remembered.”

  “How is Rachel? And Benjamin?” Walter handed Sam a menu. “He must be a teenager by now.”

  “Not quite. He’s twelve, going on twenty.”

  Walter chuckled. “Donna and I were never blessed. You are a lucky man, Sam.”

  Yes, he was. In so many ways. Sam turned to the menu’s lunch page. His favorite prime rib dip was still the Tuesday special. He closed the menu and waited while Walter signaled to the server that they were ready to order. Once the man had left, Walter wasted no time getting to the point of the meeting.

  “I understand that you have a third-floor library room reserved three days a week. I thought you’d given up tutoring after the Pratt business.”

  Sam had lain awake most of the night both preparing for this moment and dreading it. No wonder he’d missed the button on his shirt. Or been ill-equipped to deal with the complexities of chapter ten. It was going to take much more than Lillian’s new dinner menu to get him back on track—if he still had a job to go back to after today’s interrogation. No point in evasion. After teaching at Sherman Dodd for thirty-five years, Walter knew every trick in the book.

  “I do, and I had. This is a special exception.”

  “Mrs. Moore, you mean?”

  So, Walter had done some sleuthing. No point in denying it. “Yes, and though it’s been a number of years since Lillian has opened an algebra book, she’s improved her overall grade from an F at the beginning of the semester to a B.”

  “A testament to your teaching ability, no doubt.”

  Sam frowned. Since coming to Sherman Dodd, he and Walter had become friends as well as colleagues. Sarcasm did not become him. “Yes, and to Mrs. Moore’s desire to work hard and learn.”

  “Damn it, Sam, I thought you’d learned your lesson. Perhaps I was mistaken four years ago when I stood by you against Cynthia Pratt’s allegations.”

  For the second time in his life, raw fear closed Sam’s throat and crawled down his spine. Had Walter not believed in his innocence after all? He would not stand by and let the dean sully a good woman’s reputation. Or his own. He and Lillian had done nothing wrong. He had no reason to be ashamed of their relationship, wherever it stood at the moment.

  “What are you insinuating, Walter?”

  “I saw you leave the library with her.”

  Sam swallowed his anger. “I’m not hiding the fact that I’m tutoring her. For reasons of her own, she doesn’t want it common knowledge…” That we’re seeing each other. That we’re falling in love. “…that she was failing.”

  “I saw the two of you in the parking lot at Yanni’s Taverna. Don’t lie to me. That was no pat on the back you gave her.”

  “She’s not a nineteen-year-old girl in need of psychiatric treatment.”

  “No, Sam, she is Lillian Moore, the widow of Russell Moore, a retired Navy captain who gave twenty-five years of his life to protecting this country—and my friend. She is the mother of two grown children, a member of the San Sebastian Country Club, a docent at the hospital, and at least ten years your senior.”

  Sam had no idea that Walter and Lillian’s dead husband had been friends. Why Lillian had chosen not to mention that to him didn’t matter now. “Yes, Walter, she is all of those things, but she is also the woman I’m falling in love with.”

  * * *

  Jorgé’s hand trembled so badly that he blew his keypad entry code twice. On the third try, he heard the beep, the light turned from red to green and the lock to the back door of the museum clicked open. He wiped his hands along his pants, then propped the door open and deposited his cleaning supplies in the back hallway. The museum staff kept only a few items on hand in the tiny supply closet next to the kitchenette. Jorgé brought the serious stuff with him.

  The museum director had left a long list of special needs lying on the counter, all of them having to do with the Mayan exhibit. While he read through it, he sighed and started sorting the supplies he would need for the various jobs listed.

  “What am I, your slave?” he grumbled while he pushed his cart through the museum toward the reception area in the front. He liked to work front to back. That way he wouldn’t track anything over an already clean area. Jorgé turned on the lights in each room as he passed through it. He stepped into the doorway to the main exhibit room and stood transfixed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he whispered.

  Jorgé had seen a lot of different exhibits during the six months he’d worked for the janitorial service, but nothing quite like this. Each individual item had its own special lighting. In the center of the room stood the replica of a Mayan village. Jorgé circled the table, examining the tiny, intricate huts, people, and animals surrounded by jungle. At the far end of the table was a plaque dedicating this exhibit to the artist, a young woman who was to have attended in person to discuss her exhibit, but who had died unexpectedly.

  A series of metal stands joined by ropes surrounded the table to control the flow of visitors. Attached to the top of each stand was a small glass case with a picture of one of the items from the village and a description. And every damned one of them was smudged with fingerprints. The Mayan exhibit was going to make his job tonight take a whole lot longer than he’d expected. But then, he told himself, it would be for only a few more nights. After he retrieved the mask and made his escape to Mexico, he would never clean another toilet for as long as he lived.

  So, where was the Jaguar mask? The two men had led him to believe that it was a valuable artifact worthy of the center display. Evidently not, he mused, searching through the various glass cases for a match to the mask he carried at the bottom of his cart. What if it wasn’t part of the exhibit, after all? Would the two men believe him if he told them it wasn’t here? Or would they shoot him? He didn’t think they would let him keep the money, let alone live to spend it.

  Jorgé was methodical. He searched the room the same way he cleaned the museum. From one end to the other. Minutes later, he stood before a corner cabinet, staring at the Jaguar mask sitting alone on the first shelf. He had not been asked to help set up the display, but he’d often taken them down, so he knew what he had to do to remove and replace the mask. No wires. No alarm. The mask sat on a simple velvet cloth, leaning against a pillow that Jorgé k
new was filled with sand. Sand and pressure sensors that would sound a silent alarm if the mask was moved. Not so easy to steal. However, Jorgé was not there to steal it, exactly. He needed only to replace it, but for that he would need to turn off the alarm. The only spot that could be a problem. If his timing was off by so much as one second, he could end up needing his newly acquired ten thousand dollars for bail.

  His orders had been to finish cleaning the museum and return for several nights thereafter. No suspicion must be allowed to fall on him. No alarm must be sounded. And Jorgé intended to follow those instructions to the letter. He wanted to get safely across the border, collect his forty thousand dollars and either join the cartel or disappear. Alive.

  Jorgé took his time. Hurrying made him nervous, and nervous hands could set off the alarm. Remain calm. He took a deep breath, thought about the marijuana he had stashed at home in the toe of his dress shoes. When this job was done, was he going to celebrate… Don’t think about that. Two hours later the glass cases sparkled, the wood floor shined, and the bathrooms smelled fragrantly of deodorizer. He packed everything back into the van.

  One last job to do.

  On the kitchenette counter sat the box with the counterfeit mask. He put on a fresh pair of vinyl gloves, removed the mask carefully from the box, and returned to the Mayan exhibit. His hands grew damp inside the gloves as he carried the mask to the corner display case. He placed the fake mask in readiness on the floor and opened the case. He’d practiced this exchange at least fifty times at home. Timed the run from the alarm in Kessler’s office to the display case he thought was to be in the middle of the room. Now it was a greater distance to the mask, and he would have to negotiate the table. He rehearsed the procedure several more times using the clock on the wall. He needed ten seconds. Any more time than that and the alarm would wake the dead and automatically send the police. Maybe he would be able to convince the cops it was an accident. Maybe not.

  Jorgé was not a particularly religious man, at least not since he’d grown big enough to leave home and work in the melon fields, but right now, with his future dependant on how fast he could run, he thought it couldn’t hurt to say a prayer. It was not going to get any easier, nor would he get any swifter, the longer he delayed. Please, God, I know I’m a terrible sinner, and this isn’t exactly legal, but I need you to help me be real careful right now. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but then he wasn’t much of a believer.

  Ten seconds. The last run had taken him eight. Kind of like being a bronc rider, he thought.

  Okay, Jorgé, you be a rodeo cowboy for the next eight seconds.

  Take a quick breath. Turn the museum alarm off. Run like hell! Down the hall. Around the table. Pick up the fake. Grab the real one. Position the fake in the display case. Run like hell back down the hall! Turn on the alarm.

  It took him nine seconds.

  No time to rest. Go back to the room with the Mayan exhibit. Make sure nothing looks different. Check the mask. Looks okay. Close the case. Wipe off fingerprints. Get the hell out of the building. Shit, man, you need to get into better shape. Anxious to be away from the museum, Jorgé nearly forgot to set the alarm on the outside door and had to go back. Once inside the van, he closed his eyes. I made it, God. Gracias.

  It was always a good idea to say thank you to God.

  Jorgé’s street was dark. He parked in his regular spot and let himself into the apartment as quietly as possible. Leaning back against the door, barely breathing, he listened for any noise from the bedroom. Nothing. Good. Mariah and the baby were asleep. Now that he had the mask, he thought he could relax, yet for some crazy reason his whole body quivered.

  Chill out, mi amigo, you did it. Now all you have to do is stash the mask for a couple days. Then you can head for Mexico and leave all this crap behind.

  The baby’s car seat sat in its usual spot on the floor in the small dining area. Mariah’s co-workers had given her a surprise baby shower, and the car seat had been their gift to her. Jorgé set it on the table, felt for the compartment at the forward end, and pressed on it to make it open. He had found the space totally by accident the first time he’d hooked the car seat into his truck. It faced backwards in the seat which hid the compartment from view, so Mariah had never seen or used it. The space was perfect, just big enough to hold both the mask and his stash of cash, now less the $370 he’d paid for the gun, ammo, and grass. He figured the car seat would be perfect for getting the mask across the border, but just to be sure no one found the compartment—accidental like—he sealed it tight with crazy glue.

  His work done for the night, Jorgé took off his shoes, lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. Moments later he was dreaming of warm, sandy beaches and compliant senoritas. And nearly fifty grand with which to start a new life. Far away, he heard the baby cry, and Mariah get up and go to him.

  Jorgé knew he had to get away. His life here sucked big time.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jorgé woke to loud knocking on the front door.

  “Jorgé Molina, are you in there?”

  Shit. What time was it anyhow? Sprawled as he was on the couch, he couldn’t see the clock, but his mother’s screech could be heard on the next street. He hadn’t heard Mariah leave for work, but she was obviously gone. Yawning and groggy, he picked up a note from the counter and opened the door to a woman big as a tank and meaner than any killer dog.

  “Did I wake you?”

  His mother had a way with the obvious. “Lose your key?”

  “Must’ve left it home.”

  Jorgé didn’t need this. Not today. “Go home, Mama. I’m awake. Me and little José will be just fine. We’ll have a father and son day.”

  She stared up at him, frowning like she didn’t believe he was capable. “You’re sure?”

  Did he look like he wasn’t sure? He swallowed an angry retort. “I’m good.” Normally, he slept while his mother took care of the baby and Mariah was at work, but evidently his loving wife had decided not to wake him. “Mariah left me a list. I’ve got this. Go on home. Spend the day with your husband.” Make his life miserable.

  “I could do some shopping.” She patted his cheek. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Like hell. Once she was out the door, he checked on the baby, changed his wet diaper and fed him a bottle of formula. Done. He put the baby into the crib for his morning nap and took a short shower, then settled down on the couch with a six pack of his favorite beer. His favorite being anything cheap. Someday soon, he would be able to buy the good stuff. While he watched the rerun of last night’s football game, he smoked one entire bag of weed. Rudy was right. It was real smooth. Relaxed, he considered his future, pictured himself as a person of value to Carlos and his friend. That’s right. A person of value…

  “George Molina, you son of a bitch!”

  Ice cold water splashed into his face. He shot off the couch, his shirt drenched. “What the hell!”

  “Where is your mother?”

  Jorgé had seen Mariah angry before, but this time she was super pissed. “I sent her home.”

  “So I see. That way you could get drunk and high and let your son cry alone in his crib all afternoon. What kind of a father are you?” She shoved a dirty diaper in his face. “Your son is hungry and filthy, and this is how you spend my hard earned money? On booze and drugs?”

  “Maybe I spent my own money.”

  “Like you make so much?”

  That was a low blow. He worked hard and damn well deserved more respect than she gave him. Besides, she’d called him George, knowing how much he hated the American version of his name. “You bitch. That baby is all your fault.”

  “Oh, sure. Blame me. Like you didn’t have anything to do with it. Face it, George. You’re just plain worthless.”

  Before he could stop himself, he doubled his fist and slammed it into her face. She flew backwards, then dropped to her knees. Fueled by rage, booze and drugs, he grab
bed a handful of her blonde hair, pulled her to her feet and hit her again. Blood spurted from her nose. She twisted out his grasp, turned to run for the door, but he cut her off. Missed capturing her arm and seized a handful of dress instead. The cloth ripped from shoulder to waist, exposing her breasts encased in the flimsy red bra he’d bought for her right after José was born. He hadn’t seen her in it. Or out of it. Hadn’t touched her for four damn months. Two before, two after. She wasn’t healed yet, or so she kept telling him. It would hurt. She wasn’t ready. But damn it. What about him? Didn’t it matter how he felt? What he needed? Wanted? If he was ready?

  Mariah stared wide-eyed at him, her sides heaving, and suddenly he didn’t care if it hurt her. Or if she wasn’t ready. He was. She must have read his mind, seen the lust in his heart because she turned around and made a mad dash for the bedroom. Slammed the door in his face and locked it. No lock was going to keep him out. Two solid kicks, and the lock broke. The door swung open. She backed away from him, looking frantically toward the crib where the baby lay crying. Jorgé wasn’t all that much bigger than she was, but hard work had made him strong and muscular, and right now he liked the fact that she was obviously afraid of him.

  “Don’t, Jorgé.”

  “So, now you remember my name. I’m your husband. Trapped legally.”

  She held the dress tight across her chest as he approached her. “I need to tend to Joey. He’s hungry.”

  “So am I.” Jorgé pushed her onto the bed. Avoiding her fingernails reaching for his face, he caught hold of her hands, held them secure above her head, and hit her hard across the jaw. “And our son’s name is José. Never call him Joey again. Understand me?”

  When she spit at him, he slapped her face, splitting her bottom lip. The rage exited him. The power of it gave him strength. While she lay crying, he unbuckled his leather belt and pulled it from his jeans. Folding it in half, he snapped it tight. The fear in her eyes drove the adrenalin faster through his body. He grinned. Her terror excited him. He grabbed for her ankles when she fought to get away. Slapped the belt across her thighs. Her scream set his cock on fire. Never had he wanted her so much.