Assignment Austin

by Lucey Phillips

  “We’ll see,” I said, smiling.

  Kara looked over her shoulder and then back at me.

  “Have you seen Lacey?” she asked. “If we don’t get eliminated, we’ll probably be playing the Violent Crown later today.”

  “Do you think she knows about Neil getting arrested?”

  Kara rolled her eyes.

  “I know I should stay off of Facebook, but I couldn’t help it,” she said. “Lacey was all over the place gloating about justice for Uncle Harris.”

  Ouch. Did Kara think justice was playing out here? Did I?

  Before I could think of a tactful way to ask Kara those questions, Mia skated up to us.

  “Hi, Jae,” she said cheerfully, before she began pulling on Kara’s wrist, guiding her across the track. “It’s almost time for the whistle.”

  When they were gone, I looked around for the father-and-son pair I’d wanted to interview. Hopefully, I could get a couple quotes before the bout started. The Wreckers were playing the Terminators in the first round. After that, the Violent Crown would play the Tejones. Then the winners would meet for the title game.

  After a couple minutes of wandering around, I found the two fans I was looking for. They were buying T-shirts at the merch table.

  I introduced myself. They were familiar with Alt News America, but neither of them seemed to recognize me or my column. Despite that, they acted excited about the prospect of being in my story.

  The two explained that they became interested in derby when their neighbor, a business sponsor of the Terminators, gave them free tickets to a bout.

  “There’s nothing like it,” the dad said, smiling. “These women leave it all out there on the track—but they have a sense of fun, too. You don’t see that in sports these days. It’s all big-money big-business competition now.”

  A screeching whistle pierced the air. The man and the boy both looked over my shoulder at the track behind me. I thanked them and stepped away, allowing them to find their seats to watch the bout.

  I pressed the “play” button on my digital recorder to make sure it picked up the dad’s last statement—it would make a great quote. But when I held the speaker to my ear, all I heard was a low-pitched hum.

  I pushed the buttons some more, but I couldn’t get the interview to play. Evidently, none of the conversation had recorded.

  Frustrated, I hurried out of the main arena and ducked into a weight room. I was hoping I could remember enough of the conversation to piece together a couple decent quotes.

  I sat on a workout bench and began writing furiously. I could feel my phone vibrate in my bag. Focusing on my efforts to remember the interview, I ignored my phone.

  I was interrupted again when I heard a distant voice behind me.

  “Lacey, I think they’re starting,” one woman said. “Wanna watch?”

  I looked around. Past a row of treadmills, there was a wide doorway leading to another room. Maybe the Violent Crown was using that space as a locker room.

  Another female voice answered the woman.

  “Not really.”

  The sound of that voice and its blunt intonations immediately brought up my memory of the day Lacey confronted—and nearly started a fight with—Kara at the rec center. It was definitely Lacey’s voice.

  I forgot all about writing the fan quotes and strained to listen as Lacey continued.

  “I guess I should be relieved that they got him,” she said. “I mean, I am relieved, but I thought I would feel okay about everything if they made an arrest.”

  Her voice cracked. For just a second, I forgot about what a bully she was, and about her family’s vulgar display of new money, and I pitied her.

  “But now that it’s over, I really have to face the fact that he’s gone,” she said, her voice shaking now.

  The first woman said a low “Aww.”

  The two were quiet for a moment. I stared blankly at a rowing machine in front of me. I clutched my bag and my notebook, ready to bolt if I heard them coming my way.

  “I’m sorry I’m crying,” Lacey said. “I haven’t really cried at all. When my mom told me Uncle Harris was gone, I just sat and stared. I was too mad to even cry. But now…”

  I remembered Rocky’s notes. It said Rita was notified about Harris’ death in person by uniformed officers. It was at seven in the evening on the day of Harris’ murder. Rocky’s notes said Rita and Lacey had been together at Lacey’s house since noon that day.

  Then I remembered the day Lacey confronted Kara at the rec center. She said something about getting a phone call notifying her about Harris’ death.

  How would that be possible if uniformed officers made the notification in person at Lacey’s house? Police policy is always to notify the spouse first—before phone calls start going around.

  It sounded like Lacey was weeping now. Maybe she was sincere about her grief. But about Rita’s alibi? Lacey was obviously lying.

  “Here, I’m going to get you some water,” the unfamiliar woman’s voice murmured in the other room.

  I heard shuffling coming from the other room. It seemed to be getting closer. Clutching my notebook and my bag, I ran out of the weight room. I needed to find Colin—we had a lot of work to do. I couldn’t be exactly sure what happened, but so far, it looked like an innocent man was in jail and a killer might be free.

  I walked back into the main arena. When I didn’t see Colin immediately, I decided it was much too crowded to look for him so I took out my phone to call him. The phone screen displayed three missed calls—all from Quinn.

  I ignored those notifications and called Colin. He answered on the third ring.

  Colin’s “Hello” was almost drowned out by the announcer’s flamboyant statement, “And the jam goes to the Capitol City Wreckers,” which I heard over the speaker system and through the phone.

  “Where are you?” I asked him.

  “Down by the scoreboard.”

  “Meet me…” I glanced around the large entrance area where I was standing. “Meet me at the ticket table.”

  “On my way,” Colin said, his tone serious, as if he’d already picked up on the urgency in my voice.

  While I waited, I called Quinn back.

  She answered immediately, but I could barely hear her, so I walked into the women’s restroom, where there would be less crowd noise drowning out Quinn’s voice.

  “I was wrong about Neil,” Quinn said. “Rita’s alibi is a lie.”

  “I know, I just heard—wait, what?” I asked, my thoughts spinning.

  “When I was looking through the bank’s security camera footage—you know, looking for Bonnie and Dylan—I was watching the parking lot feed and guess who comes rolling up to the drive-through?”

  Her tone had shifted from serious to triumphant. But I didn’t have time for any theatrics.

  “Spit it out, Quinn,” I said.

  “It was Harris Myer in his truck. Rita was in the passenger seat.”

  “I knew it!” I hissed into the phone.

  A woman who had been washing her hands gave me an annoyed look while she balled up a paper towel, threw it away, and walked past me. I looked down at the ground, biting my lip.

  “I know!” Quinn practically shouted. “I went ahead and sent the screen shots—they’re date- and time-stamped—to the police, you know, using one of my blind IP addresses.”

  That meant the police would get the image as an anonymous tip, hopefully protecting Quinn from getting caught hacking.

  “Beautiful,” I said, marveling at how the case was coming together.

  There was a flush. A frizzy-haired woman emerged from the middle stall. At first she ignored me, then she did a double-take.

  It was Rita.

  I looked at the floor, my palms instantly slick with sweat.

  She went to the sink closest to where I was standing, and began washing her hands. I didn’t dare look at her, but I could sense her turning her head at least twice to look at me.

&nb
sp; My cheeks burned as I scrambled to remember what my end of the conversation had sounded like. Rita was obviously glaring at me in anger. But was it because she knew she was caught? Or did she remember me as the wayward gym-goer who was snooping around the back offices at SoCo Athletics?

  My cheeks got hotter and hotter. It seemed like Rita was just biding her time, maybe deciding how she would confront me. Finally, the tension got to me. I bailed.

  “Gotta go,” I muttered to Quinn before I pushed my phone into my bag and moved toward the door.

  I found Colin beside the ticket table. He had his weight resting on his good leg, with his injured leg slightly bent at the knee, while he scanned the crowd.

  “Hey, we gotta scoot along,” I said to Colin as I put my hand on his back and gently nudged him toward the door. We went outside, then walked around to the side of the building where there was nothing but a dumpster and a brown patch of sun-scorched grass.

  First, I told Colin about what Quinn had found—evidence that Rita was with Harris, not Lacey, right before Harris was killed.

  “She sent the evidence to the police,” I said. “It must have been Rita all along.”

  Colin shook his head. “Okay, the theory that the wife did it makes so much more sense. He was hit in the head with a blunt object in the middle of the day. That’s a spontaneous crime of passion—too sloppy to be pre-planned.”

  Then I tried to explain Lacey’s contradictory stories about how she was notified of Harris’ death.

  “The first time we ever saw her—when she was yelling at Kara—she said she found out from a phone call. Then today, she said it again. She said her mom called her,” I said.

  “But Rocky’s notes say Lacey was with Rita when officers told her what happened,” Colin said. “So Lacey’s mom and Rita are sisters, right?”

  I nodded. I knew what he was getting at.

  “You think Rita confessed to Lacey’s mom after she killed her husband, then they arranged for Lacey to give Rita a false alibi?”

  “She got to Lacey’s house just in time to look shocked when the officers came to tell her Harris had died,” Colin said, folding his arms across his chest. “You think they’ll let Neil go and arrest Rita after they see the video capture from Quinn?”

  “I hope so,” I said, looking around us.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well,” I sighed, “I’m probably overreacting, but I ran into Rita in the women’s restroom and she looked at me, kind of, I don’t know, ragey.”

  “What?” Colin’s mouth dropped into a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “She was in one of the bathroom stalls when I was on the phone with Quinn.”

  “Jae!”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “I don’t think I said anything major—anything that gave us away… but…”

  “What, Jae?” There was an edge in Colin’s voice. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear.

  “Well, you know how I had that little run-in with her when I was looking around the gym? When I got that phone?”

  Colin nodded.

  “I think she might have recognized me from that,” I said. “She gave me some mean looks the last time I saw her at a bout, too.”

  “Maybe we should get out of here.”

  “No way,” I said. “I want to write about the Trash Bash. Plus maybe they’ll come here to arrest Rita. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”

  “We’re the worst,” Colin said, shaking his head and laughing. “I’ll stay. But we’re staying together. If the cops show up, things could get kind of weird.”

  We got back into the arena just in time to see the Wreckers lose their bout. They were out of the tournament.

  They filed out of the arena, toward their dressing room, while the Violent Crown came onto the track. With the exception of a little trash talk and a couple thrown elbows, the two teams glided past each other uneventfully.

  Lacey was there, stone-faced through her warm-up laps. I scanned the crowd for Rita, but I didn’t see her. The place was even more packed than it had been when we arrived. Finding her now, in this crowd, would be almost impossible.

  I looked to Colin, who had put his camera away.

  “Do you need anything else?” I asked. Now that the Wreckers were eliminated, I didn’t feel like staying. Even if that meant missing out on Rita’s dramatic arrest.

  “Nah, I’m good,” Colin said.

  I wasn’t sure if my interviews had quite captured the fans’ perspective I’d been looking for today, but I knew I had more than enough material for my Assignment Austin story. Besides, I was tired and Colin’s ankle looked like it was expanding before our eyes.

  “Wanna get out of here?” I asked him.

  He smiled at me, and we started walking toward the door.

  | Twenty-one

  It was dark by the time Colin and I got back to the Bluestem Inn. We had stopped for dinner and called Lance to tell him things were wrapping up in Austin. Boston was our next scheduled city.

  Boston had a rich history that had always intrigued me. And I was relieved to know we would be getting a break from the central Texas heat.

  Lance was still talking to us through the car’s speakers when we parked the rental vehicle in the Bluestem’s lot.

  “What about the murder thing?” Lance asked. “Quinn’s been acting really distracted the past couple days. You got her helping you on that?”

  I wanted to avoid the issue—and any more admonishments that Lance had for us.

  “It’s wrapping up and it looks like the derby team I’m writing about is going to be in the clear,” I said. Maybe I was trying a little too hard to sound casual. “So it shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lance said flatly. He didn’t believe me. “I’ll have Larry set you up on flights to Boston tomorrow then?”

  I looked at Colin, who nodded in agreement.

  “You don’t want a break?” I asked him. “You can go home for a while if you want?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right,” I told Lance. “Tomorrow works.”

  Colin was limping again. As we climbed out of the car, he caught me staring at his injured ankle, which was, again, taking on a grapefruit-like appearance.

  “Don’t say it,” he said. “It’ll probably be back to normal by the time we get to Boston.”

  I scowled, but stopped myself from arguing with him. I grabbed his heavy camera bag from his shoulder. Colin tried to reach for the strap, but missed.

  “No way,” he said, hobbling along behind me as I walked toward the inn’s main building. “I’m walking you to your cottage.”

  “Not today,” I quipped over my shoulder. He had no choice but to follow me toward his room.

  Colin reluctantly accepted my help into his room and even let me get a bag of ice for his ankle before we said good night.

  While I followed the path back to my cottage, I checked local news sites on my phone, hoping to see that Neil had been released and Rita was in custody. But there were no updates on the case at all.

  Seymour was sitting primly by the flower pot on the cottage’s porch. He gave me a hello chirp and stepped toward me.

  “Hi, buddy,” I said, reaching down to pet him. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

  He started to purr, so I sat on the step to indulge the kitty a little longer. He almost seemed to be smiling as I rubbed the back of his head.

  But then I felt his little muscles stiffen under my hand. Seymour lowered himself into a defensive crouch, the fur on his back and tail suddenly standing on end.

  I jerked my hand away when the cat hissed. There was a shuffling noise in the gravel behind me. But before I could turn to see what it was, something hard and blunt landed on my shoulder blade, throwing me onto the porch, face down.

  The next few seconds were a flurry of more hits, Seymour’s hissing, and cat claws digging into my arm as he made his escape, running across my body and into the brush beside the cottage.
Even though I was on the floor, I managed a couple good upward kicks, which landed on my attacker’s torso, causing a strained, exhaling noise behind me.

  That gave me enough time to scramble to my feet, standing with my back to the front door of the cottage.

  Finally I could see who was ambushing me—Rita Myer. She was holding a steel rod with grip tape on both ends and a hook in the middle. It looked like some random piece of exercise equipment.

  “You. Ruined. Everything,” she snarled, clutching her abdomen with one hand while gripping the bar with her other.

  Breathless from the blows to my ribs and back, I panted, “You killed your husband?”

  “I’ll never give you the satisfaction of a confession.”

  “You know they’re coming for you,” I said.

  She swung the bar at my head, but I caught the end and used it to shove her back, a couple steps away from the porch. Rita lunged at me and I ran.

  She was blocking the path back to the inn’s main building, so I had no choice except to run toward the trees and the stream on the other side of the cottage. Maybe I would be able to lose her in the darkness back there.

  My messenger bag was bouncing on my hip, slowing me down, so I pulled the strap over my head and dropped it on the ground.

  There was only enough light to see the big tree trunks. I was able to navigate around them, but weeds and branches scraped against my skin and pulled on my clothes. Rita’s noisy breathing and heavy footsteps felt like they were just a couple yards behind me.

  At one point, I heard a swoosh of the metal bar slicing through the air behind me, then a dense thud as it made contact with a tree.

  Then there was nowhere left to run. The stream took a sharp turn and I was stuck in a triangle of a steep bank leading down to the water, a thick patch of briar bushes, and Rita wielding her weapon.

  I considered scaling the slope and crossing the stream. It probably wasn’t more than knee-deep. But would I be able to outrun Rita? Or would I just be leading her to a more secluded area where she could kill me?

  I decided to stop running. Maybe I could stall for time until I thought of something better.

  “It’s too late,” I said between panting breaths. “The evidence is all out there.”