A Genuine Fix

by J. C. Kenney

  They were sharing a laugh when Ursi and I arrived on the scene.

  “And here is one of our most prominent bicyclists.” Larry stepped off his bike and came to shake my hand. “She’s a big influence in our effort to make Rushing Creek more bike-friendly with the installation of bike racks like this one.”

  “Really?” His comment caught me completely off guard. Sure, it was common knowledge that I didn’t own a car, but I’d never asked for the installation of bike racks. I was happy about it, but I couldn’t claim the idea.

  “Yes. I first noticed you riding your bike back in the spring and having to lock it around telephone poles. I thought why not put a few bike racks around town? The response has been positive, and it even inspired me to get this beauty.” He returned to his bike and put on his helmet. “It’s a great way to get around town, and I’ve even lost a few pounds. Well, I’ve got an appointment back at the office. See you all soon.”

  Kim had to get going too, leaving me with a wide-eyed Diane, who was running a cloth over the candy-apple-red rack, and a disinterested Ursi, who was leaning against one of bars that anchored the rack to the sidewalk while she groomed herself.

  “What do you think?” Diane stuffed the cloth into her hip pocket and gazed at the rack with a rapturous smile.

  “That you’ve finally met your soul mate.”

  She threw the cloth at me. “I’ve been asking for one of these since the first one went up in front of the municipal building. Do you have any idea how much this will help business, especially with the high schoolers?”

  I shook my head. Diane, who was as thorough and methodical as a brain surgeon when it came to business decisions, probably had a three-inch-high stack of paper in her office on the subject.

  “Some research indicates a five to ten percent boost in traffic when one of these is installed in front of a business. So far, the evidence around town is anecdotal, but they seem to be having a positive effect. Your sister told me at a Chamber of Commerce meeting that her bike rack is completely full on the weekends, and she’s noticed a corresponding boost in sales.”

  “Wow. Maybe I should look into getting one installed in front of the bookstore.” My alarm went off, signaling my hour break for lunch was over. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll stop by soon for some hot chocolate and to catch up.” I gave her a hug. “If I can get through the overflow crowd, that is.”

  On our way home, we stopped by the bookstore to tell Renee about Diane’s bike rack. She promised to get on the phone with the mayor to ask for one that very afternoon.

  I had to give Larry credit. Installing bike racks around town was a great idea. It was a tourist-friendly move. It showed young people they were welcome downtown. And if it meant more and better places where I could lock my bike, who was I to argue?

  My chat with Renee was the final straw for Ursi, who had curled up in a ball at my feet, so I carried her upstairs and placed her on her favorite couch cushion. She rewarded me by licking my hand and giving me a soft meow before tucking her nose under a paw. Within a minute she was snoring, a sign she was in a deep sleep.

  My webmistress skills were improving at a glacial pace, but they were getting better, so it took only a couple of hours until I had the agency website updated to my satisfaction. I posted news of the update on the private agency social media loop and turned my attention to a three-chapter submission from an author interested in working with me.

  The submission was good. Technically, it was rock-solid, with only four grammatical errors. The story had an interesting hook, and the characters were unique. There was only a solitary problem.

  I didn’t love it.

  In my role as an agent, I couldn’t represent a manuscript in good conscience if I didn’t adore it to the point where I would fight tooth and nail to see it get published. If I was going to invest my time in a story, I had to believe in it with all my heart.

  I liked the submission, but like didn’t make the cut. So, with a tinge of disappointment, I sent the author an e-mail letting him know I wouldn’t be able to offer representation on the manuscript. I added a line at the end of the e-mail to let him know I’d be interested in seeing other material he might have in the future.

  One never knew what the next big hit might be in this business that was so dependent on subjective tastes and ever-changing trends. Maybe his next project would knock my socks off. I truly hoped so, because I believed in authors and the stories they want to tell.

  With a feeling of accomplishment, I shut down my computer, then spun my office chair around in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle a few times to celebrate an uber-productive day. I almost fell to the floor when I got out of the chair but steadied myself by leaning on the desk while Ursi gave me a long look to say she didn’t approve of my youthful behavior.

  “Not everybody can be dignified all the time like you, missy. Remember that while I make your dinner. Come on.”

  The word dinner registered, as she practically jumped in the air while executing her own one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and trotted off to the kitchen.

  While we ate, I plotted out my plan to make my night as productive as my day. Lori’s confirmation of the lawsuit settlement was troubling. I reviewed the notes from my conversation with Roger, but didn’t find anything regarding a specific settlement amount. As I closed my notebook, I was certain of one thing.

  I didn’t trust Roger.

  To be honest, I didn’t trust any of the suspects, but there was one way to rule Roger in or out. It would have to be done after dark.

  When the clock on my phone flipped to ten, I gave Ursi a kiss and slipped out of the apartment via the patio and descended the escape ladder. It was a five-foot drop from the bottom of the ladder to the concrete walkway beneath, but I landed with a minimum of fuss or, more importantly, noise.

  Going out the front door would probably have been safer, but I didn’t want to take the chance of bumping into Renee in the hall between our apartments or someone seeing me in front of the building. It was probably paranoia, but given the stakes of my adventure, the risk of a broken ankle seemed like a better alternative to running into someone.

  I was in a tiny courtyard that ran the width of the building and was eight feet deep. Six-foot-tall privacy fencing enclosed the courtyard, providing seclusion from the alley on the other side of the wooden structure. Green outdoor carpeting had been laid to give the impression of an urban oasis.

  A gas grill was stationed in one corner of the courtyard, next to a stack of plastic lawn chairs. Every month, weather permitting, Renee invited her tenants to join her in the courtyard for a cookout. It was always a pleasant few hours and brought back fond memories from my New York days.

  The focus of my attention this evening wasn’t the grill or the chairs. It was my bike. Normally, I kept it inside, on the landing, just outside my front door. If it was muddy or if I’d just washed it, I left it in the courtyard, locked to a drain pipe.

  Earlier in the evening, I’d taken it to the courtyard under the pretense of giving it a good cleaning. Now, as I guided the bike through the gate and into the alley, I was entering ninja mode.

  My nocturnal adventure had begun.

  It was a bad idea to ride a bike at night without lights or reflectors. Then again, what I was about to do was worse. It was an I-could-get-caught-and-spend-time-in-jail level of bad idea, but it was a risk I was willing to take. Being content with talking to people and hoping they’d be honest had left me going in circles. It was time to go on the offensive.

  As I pedaled through town on my way to Parke Landscaping, I rehearsed my plan. It should take less than an hour to pull off. It was foolish, dumb, and insane, but if I pulled it off, I’d have Georgie’s killer in my sights.

  Rushing Creek was the type of community where they rolled up the sidewalks at night, so I was confident I’d make it to Parke Landscaping’s gr
avel drive without being seen. I let out a long breath in relief as I turned off the road. My confidence had been justified.

  Step one accomplished.

  When I made it to the gate, I stashed my bike among the nearby trees and took a few minutes to get my breathing under control. From my wooded vantage point, the coast was clear. A few security lights mounted on telephone poles were on, but the place appeared deserted.

  I counted to ten and then made my move. A quick climb over the gate was followed by a sprint to the building’s back door. Still no signs of life beyond an owl hooting in the distance. I was in luck. The door’s only lock was in the doorknob. That would save me time.

  Now for the hard part.

  Once I had gloves on, I pulled a thin, metal device, a hook pick, from my pocket and inserted it into the keyhole. During my early days in New York, I had a bad habit of locking myself out of my apartment. The locksmith bills were expensive and embarrassing, so I talked a friend into teaching me how to pick a lock.

  After a few lessons, I became quite adept at picking locks. While it had gotten me out of a tight spot more times than I cared to admit over the years, it was a skill I kept to myself. Not even Sloane knew about my criminal talents.

  With the patience of a bomb defuser, I maneuvered the pick and worked the doorknob, holding my breath to help me feel the pins come into alignment. It was a quality lock, but no match for my skills. I had the door open in three minutes. With no lights or sirens going off.

  Step two accomplished.

  Once inside, I used a tiny penlight to guide me to Roger’s office. I had the hook pick at the ready, but his office door was unlocked. Roger appeared to be a trusting soul, like most folks in Rushing Creek. I started to ponder the drawbacks of my distrustful nature but shelved the topic for examination another day. There were more pressing matters at hand.

  I thanked St. Nicholas, the patron saint of repentant thieves, that I remembered the filing cabinet from which Roger had taken documents on my last visit. My luck was holding as the top drawer opened without so much as a whisper.

  The drawer was full, so it took a while to flip through the files. I wanted to linger over a few documents, but time wasn’t on my side. With nothing related to a workplace injury lawsuit, I went to the drawer that was second from the top.

  My fingers were well-oiled machines as I flipped through the files, which were labeled in a large, easy-to-read font. I was near the back of the drawer when I hit pay dirt. A manila folder containing two inches worth of documents was labeled alonso, g–work comp claim.”

  Step three accomplished.

  With my heart racing, I placed the file on Roger’s desk and checked my watch. I’d only been in the building fifteen minutes. Plenty of time. I scanned the pages. They confirmed what Roger and Lori had told me. Georgie was fired for failing a drug test taken after the accident. He then filed a lawsuit alleging that the drug test was flawed and that he was terminated by the company to avoid paying for injuries sustained in the accident.

  So far, so good.

  My heart began beating even faster when I turned to a letter that included the words “Settlement Offer” in the page’s header. I was about halfway down the page when the lights came on.

  “Hold it right there.” The tone of Roger’s voice was cold, hard, and angry. But that wasn’t what frightened me. What frightened me was the blood-chilling sound that followed the command.

  It was the metallic click of a bullet being loaded into the firing chamber of a gun.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I raised my head at a glacial pace until I made eye contact with Roger. With my heart jackhammering against my breast bone and my brow dripping with a cold sweat, I stepped away from the desk and raised my hands.

  Roger’s eyes went wide. He let out a blistering string of curse words hot enough to melt iron. With the gun pointed at me, he went to the desk and spun the file around so he could see what I’d been reading.

  “You need to tell me how you got in here and what you’re doing. Right now. Or I’m calling the police.”

  “Lori told me you guys settled the lawsuit and made a settlement payment to Georgie, which you failed to mention when we talked.” I jabbed my finger at him. It wasn’t the best move to make in the direction of someone who was pointing a gun at my chest, but I wanted to put him on the defensive. “Since you weren’t straight with me, I had no choice but to find out for myself.”

  “By breaking into my business? Christ, you’re a bigger nutcase than Mayor Cannon says you are.” His voice was still hard enough to crush rock, but he lowered the gun.

  “Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “The mayor and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. What matters is that file definitively clears you of any suspicion.”

  “Why should I be under suspicion?” He narrowed his eyes as he raised the gun again. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “That your insurance carrier paid the termination retaliation settlement.” I pointed at the file. “That a check was cut before Georgie was killed. Which eliminates any incentive for you to knock him off to avoid making that payment.”

  He flipped through some of the papers in the file. “For argument’s sake, why should any of what you just said matter?”

  Good. I had him talking, which, combined with the lack of sirens, seemed to indicate he hadn’t called the police yet.

  “Because Chief Roberson wants someone collared. The sooner the better.” I really meant the mayor, but what with Roger and Larry’s friendship, I thought it better to place responsibility on someone else.

  “Since I found the body, they brought me in for questioning, thinking maybe I’d done it. Evidence they’ve found since then has ruled me out, so the police will have to cast a wider net. Do you really want to risk being caught in that net, and even mentioned as a possible suspect? What would that do to your business?”

  He chewed on his lip. “Everyone knows I didn’t kill Alonso. How’d you get in here, anyway? I could have you jailed for breaking and entering.”

  “The back door was unlocked, but that’s not important.” I went to the page identifying the date the check was cut. The longer I kept him thinking about why I was in his office instead of how I got into his office, the better off I’d be. I hoped.

  “What’s important is this.” I tapped my index finger on the photocopy of the check. “This was put in the mail three days before Georgie was murdered. Lori says she hasn’t seen it, so where is it? Did he deposit it? If so, where? Did he spend it? If so, what on?”

  “Just like the old saying, follow the money.”

  “Exactly. Don’t you see? You could tell the police about this. I have no idea where the trail will lead, but people will know you gave them this tip. Georgie may have been a loser, but his daughter will still have to grow up knowing her father was murdered. This information could help catch his killer. And bring Brittany justice.”

  I was laying it on thick, but I didn’t want to take the chance of underselling my hand. I still had to figure out a way to get out of here, after all.

  “You know I hated Georgie, right? The man stole from me. He stole from me when he crashed that truck, and he stole again when he filed that lawsuit. I didn’t want to settle, but the insurance company did. They were holding the purse strings. What choice did I have?”

  He thumped his fist on the desktop. “That punk was stoned when he drove my truck. I should have had him thrown in jail. And yet he had the nerve to sue me. How do you think that makes me feel? I was the victim, and he was the one who got paid. What kind of justice is that?”

  “An utter lack thereof.” Since insurance paid the settlement, my sympathy for Roger was muted somewhat. But having been on the receiving end of Georgie’s shenanigans, I understood Roger’s frustration.

  “You’ve got that right.” He sighed and dropped into his chair behin
d the desk.

  “Which is why this is about doing the right thing. Don’t think of it as doing something for Georgie. Think of it as doing something for Brittany. She’s a victim, too.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.” He waved the gun at me. “After you tell me how you broke in.”

  My shoulders sagged. Well, it was foolish to think he’d let me waltz out the door with nothing more than a wave good-bye. I’d concocted a story, and I needed to stick to it.

  “I told you. The back door was unlocked. Come see for yourself.”

  He waved the gun toward the door. “You first.”

  I kept my mouth shut as we walked through the building. There was no way I was going to risk complicating things by saying something that might come back to bite me. On our way, Roger told me to stop while he checked the windows.

  Every window was locked.

  When we reached the back door, he flipped on the lights and bent over to get a close look at the thumb turn, the component in the center of the doorknob. The edges of the thumb turn were oriented vertically, indicating the door was unlocked.

  With the lights on, my attention was drawn to the top of the door frame, where a sensor was mounted. God, I was such a dummy. There must have been a keypad up front that I failed to notice.

  I’d tripped a silent alarm system when I opened the door. The alarm company must have called Roger, and he came to investigate. I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow as I envisioned how the scene would have played out had the police arrived on the scene instead of Roger. Talk about a close call.

  “I’ll be damned.” Roger opened the door and rotated the thumb turn ninety degrees until it was oriented horizontally. As he did so, the bolt glided out of its housing. He rotated the thumb turn back, and the bolt slid back until it was flush with the door’s edge.