MQuinn 03 - Lethal Beauty

by Wiehl, Lis

  Still, he was beyond lucky. He had more money than he had ever seen in his life and tonight he would have a beautiful woman by his side. And it wasn’t like Song had come onto him because she knew about the money. No, it was because she had genuinely been attracted to him. For a second he imagined how he would tell their kids someday, “Yeah, your mom and I met when she literally ran into me!”

  Tonight they were going to go out dancing. He wasn’t even sure how that had happened. They had been talking at the coffee shop, and she had asked him what he liked to do in his free time. He had started to stutter, trying to think of something besides “play video games,” and then he had remembered that tonight there was going to be a band in the bar down the block. And then somehow Song was agreeing to meet him there without his being exactly sure how it had happened.

  Always he had watched and wondered how other guys did it. How did they get dates? How did they get girlfriends? And lately, how did other guys get wives? Everyone else had gotten the girl, gone to college, taken exciting jobs.

  Even though she didn’t know about the money, Song must have picked up on the confidence it had given him. His life was finally beginning to change.

  And tonight it wouldn’t be like the other times he went to bars. Always standing on the edge with a beer, bobbing his head in time to the music, trying to look like he was having fun. Going home by himself at the end of the night. The only time he didn’t feel totally alone was when he went outside for a cig break. At least when you had a cigarette you could nod companionably to your fellow smokers. You could ask for a light. You could complain about the jerks who glared at you. You could let people who claimed they were quitting bum a smoke.

  Sometimes a local band was playing at one of the neighborhood bars, usually with guys his own age, only they actually knew how to play a guitar. They probably knew how to read music, even. Warren could read a blueprint, but music had always been beyond him. In sixth grade he had struggled through weekly lessons, trying to learn how to play the guitar his mom had bought at Sears, until finally he gave up, both he and the teacher relieved when it was over.

  Song would never know that he had failed even at that.

  There was one thing that bothered Warren. That made him feel a little guilty when he thought about Song. It was that she looked a little like the dead girl. Like Dandan. Could they have known each other?

  But Song had said she had come over here when she was a baby, and Dandan had only been in the US for a few weeks before she was killed.

  His last day at work—which he hadn’t known was going to be his last day at work—had been like any other. He had gone to the main office. Drunk coffee with the guys. Finished up paperwork from the day before. Got in the service van to go out on calls. Spent his day installing outlets, switches, and garbage disposals. He had solved one customer’s problem in ten minutes. But because Stirling Electric billed by the hour, she had insisted on getting her money’s worth. She had actually handed him a broom and made him sweep the dining room and kitchen before she let him leave. And he had done it!

  The last call was for some people who wanted a light fixture moved from one side of the front door to the other. It was already a complicated job, but this home was made of brick, a rarity in Seattle. He spent a big chunk of the afternoon figuring out which bit of Romex wire went to the front-door light fixture, then finding the breaker and disconnecting the wire, cutting the wire in the attic, jumpering to new wiring inside a junction box, securing it to the rafters, then running the new wire for the new fixture down. Hammer drilling and then chiseling out the bricks and then installing the new metal box. Figuring out there was a bit of dead space, scooping away insulation, and fishing down his new Romex cable.

  Being happy with how everything had gone until it turned out that the owner expected Warren to not only have on hand some mortar and bricks, but also to have bricks that exactly matched the ones used in the house, like he was a brick mason as well as an electrician. The owner had ended up cursing Warren out in the driveway.

  The next day it had been a relief to go to jury duty, even though he knew it was just trading one kind of hassle for another.

  After he had been picked for a jury, he had gone out to lunch. He had been sitting at a table by himself in the corner, looking at his phone, when this guy appeared at his table. Just materialized, like a ghost or something.

  “Warren?”

  He jumped, then tried to cover it. “Yeah?”

  If he was a ghost, he was a very solid-looking ghost. No more than five foot nine, but two hundred twenty pounds. Easy. A shaved head, a round face, a big neck, heavily muscled shoulders.

  There was no one else around, but even so, the guy sat down and leaned close, pitched his voice low, just for Warren’s ears. “Warren Paczkowski? The electrician who is twenty-eight years old? Who lives at 4927 Terrace Drive, apartment 15?”

  Warren’s eyes had widened at that.

  “Yes?”

  “We have a deal we want to talk to you about.”

  “I don’t work off the books.” Well, he did, occasionally, but not for some guy who just came up to him in a restaurant.

  “It’s not about your electrical skills.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s about your jury duty.”

  “What about it?” Warren was suddenly aware of how close the guy was. Too close.

  “We want to make you a deal. We want you to vote not guilty.”

  “But the case hasn’t even started yet. And you want me to vote that the guy is innocent?”

  “I didn’t say that.” The man’s voice was calm, but with a flick of menace. “I said not guilty.”

  “Why should I do that?” Warren wasn’t fishing. He genuinely wanted to know.

  “Because we can make it worth your while.” A pause. A smile. “Very much worth your while.”

  Sometimes being an electrician was like being a detective. If a neutral wire was loose, it could cause crazy problems in the rest of the house. The trick was finding it—it could be in the switch box, an outlet, a light fixture, the attic, the panel, at the meter, or even out by the city. You had to think logically and test your assumptions. And working with electricity could be dangerous. Even deadly, if you didn’t know what you were doing.

  So why was this guy here? Why did he already know so much about Warren? He must be the mob or something. All right, Warren knew the mob was Italian, and this guy didn’t look Italian. But still, he looked dangerous.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I don’t think we want to go there, do we, Warren?”

  “But what if everyone else votes guilty?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Just keep saying you don’t think he’s guilty. If you stick to your guns, they can’t force you to say anything different.” He slid over a paperback. It was a thriller about a hit man. “And here’s a little food for thought.”

  After he left, Warren found ten one-hundred dollar bills tucked in the middle of a scene where the hit man took out a juror who refused to cooperate. He got the message.

  It hadn’t been easy. In the jury room, they had all yelled at him. Warren had just gone to that place he had started going to when he was a kid and his parents were fighting. Or when they were mad at him over something he had broken. Turned their voices into white noise, like an ocean. When the real Warren was tucked away inside, safe. It had only hurt a little when that pretty girl, Naomi, had gotten so mad at him.

  He wasn’t a dummy. Had Leacham killed that girl? No doubt. But she was dead. There was nothing Warren could do to bring her back. He had looked up online what would happen next. If Warren stuck to his guns, there would be a hung jury, and the prosecutor could refile the charges. Meanwhile, Leacham wouldn’t dare do something like that again. Not when he would go to prison. A man like that—how long would he last in prison? He was soft.

  Warren finished buttoning his shirt, then tried to fluff his hair just the right amount. He checked his phone f
or the time and swore. Song might already be there. She had wanted to meet him there, which he guessed was smart. Someone who looked like she did had to be careful. He slipped on his coat and hurried out of his apartment.

  He saw her as soon as he walked in the door, as pretty as he remembered and even more petite, despite the high, high heels. She had already ordered a pitcher of beer, and as he slid in across from her, she handed him a glass. She kept pouring, and soon she was ordering another pitcher.

  With every sip, Warren let himself relax. He bounced his feet, more or less in time to the music. Finally he coaxed her out onto the floor and started swiveling his hips. For as pretty as she was, she wasn’t that good of a dancer. Jerking her limbs, her face a mask behind those plain black glasses that just made her look sexier. It made him feel protective. She was clearly as nervous as he was. Had been. Because with every glass of beer he felt a little more sure of himself.

  Finally during a slow song, she leaned closer. And closer. Until he felt her lips grazing his ear.

  “Tell me a secret,” she whispered. “Tell me a secret nobody knows.”

  CHAPTER 32

  SUNDAY

  Bo drifted up from sleep. Where was she? She was lying in a warm bed, her breath slow and rhythmic. She sniffed. Why did the sheets stink of cigarettes?

  She jerked fully awake. With difficulty, she pushed herself up on one elbow. Her left hand, which had been curled under her cheek, was asleep, as dead as a fish. She flexed her fingers, trying to get the blood flowing, then pushed herself up a few inches farther.

  Warren was behind her, his body spooning hers, fast asleep with his face half mashed into his pillow. He didn’t stir.

  It came back to her now, how they had ended up back here, at Warren’s apartment. Warren had been so drunk he was stumbling. Bo, on the other hand, had been clear-eyed and clear-minded. Willing to do whatever it took to get Warren to confide in her.

  He had wanted more than kissing and fumbling, but he had also been so intoxicated he could barely walk, let alone get his thoughts straight enough to try to persuade her to have sex. In the end they had fallen asleep on his bed, cuddling.

  In her sleep, Bo’s body had forgotten who he was. What he had done. Betrayed her. She had a sense memory of curling into the sheer animal warmth of another body in bed. They had slept entangled, as innocent as two puppies, but she should have been watchful. Awake. While he was sleeping, she should have slipped out of bed and searched for evidence.

  The sheets were pale blue. They seemed clean, and she was grateful for that. Only partially covered by the top sheet, Warren was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, blue plaid boxers, and socks that were both black but of different lengths.

  Bo was still fully clothed except for her shoes and coat. But what had barely covered her when she was standing upright and tugging it all down or up into place was now doing a less than adequate job. Her special glasses were on the bedside table.

  Last night Bo had thought Warren would confess. “Tell me a secret,” she had whispered in his ear on the bar’s dance floor. Waiting until he was so drunk he could barely keep to his feet. He was swaying from side to side, nodding his head, shuffling in place and letting his arms swing in what she guessed he thought passed for dancing. Bo hadn’t gone out dancing since she was young. And she hadn’t been young for years and years. “A secret no one else knows.”

  “You want to know?” he slurred. “You really want to know?” A musky perfume surrounded him like a cloud. Sickeningly sweet, but not quite enough to mask the smell of his cigarettes. And underneath, the sharp, earthy scent of his anxious sweat.

  “Yes.” She only had eyes for him, for this man with the ugly hair and the sad eyes. It was only later that she realized that if he had told her something, the recording device hidden in her glasses would probably not have worked. Not with the din of the band playing and the other patrons’ shouted conversations.

  “I like you.” He grabbed her wrist and looked deeply into her eyes, his own eyes almost comically wide. “I really like you.”

  And then Warren planted a wet, slobbery kiss on her mouth. Beer and cigarettes and cologne, all right under her nose.

  She had had to bite her tongue to keep from heaving.

  The thing was, she had thought he might really have been on the verge of saying something. That he had considered it, but he hadn’t been quite drunk enough to think it was a good idea.

  Now she slipped her glasses back on.

  “Hey, Song,” he said softly from behind her. “So you’re awake? Good morning, gorgeous.” He patted the top of her hip and then let his hand rest there.

  She forced what she hoped was an appropriate smile on her face and rolled over to face him.

  “Hi,” she said softly and reached out to push his ridiculous two-tone, two-length hair out of his eyes. She should be grateful he hadn’t tried anything while she slept. Although watching him wake up, smacking gummy lips, softly groaning as he put a hand to his head, it was clear that he might not have been capable of anything.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone up here,” he said. “And never anyone so beautiful.”

  That wasn’t much of a surprise. For an answer, she giggled. Bo had done that a lot last night. A giggle bought her time to think, to craft the right answer. Sometimes it distracted Warren enough that she didn’t have to answer.

  He rolled away from her and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the night table. The table was a giant wooden spool that must have once held wire.

  “Do you mind not smoking?” She hated the smell.

  Warren put them down. “Sure, babe.” She could see his desire for a smoke warring with his desire for her. “If it bothers you.”

  “After I met you yesterday, I googled you, you know,” she said.

  “What? You did?” He looked pleased. And also nervous. “What did you find?”

  “Your Facebook page, for one thing.” Warren had sixty-seven friends. “But mostly I found articles about a trial that just ended. You were on the jury.”

  He looked away from her, running a thumb over one eyebrow. “Yeah, that was a tough case.”

  “What was it about? I don’t really follow the news.” What would she reply if he asked what she did follow? But Warren kept silent, so Bo added, “I didn’t really understand it.”

  “The case was about a girl who died. She worked in a massage parlor. But she did a lot more than give massages, if you know what I mean.”

  He was looking at her with his head tilted, so Bo nodded to show that she did understand. Her heart was a stone.

  “She got into a fight with a customer. He said she tried to rob him, that she held a knife to his throat. The prosecutor said the customer was the one who brought the knife and that he was the one who attacked her, not the other way around. Both of them pretty much agreed that there had been a struggle and the girl ended up getting stabbed. She died. The customer said it was self-defense and the prosecutor said it was murder.”

  “According to the article, you thought he was innocent.” Bo tried not to let any heat show in her voice. Inside, she was crackling with anger, but she kept her voice soft. “You were the only one.”

  “No. I voted that he was not guilty. There’s a difference.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about that now. Not when I’ve got such a pretty girl in my bed.” He moved closer. “Here, let’s take off those glasses. We don’t need them getting in the way.”

  He reached out before she could stop him, his fingers pinching the hinges as he pulled them free. “Hey, these things are heavy!”

  Her heart stilled, a bird trapped in the cage of her bones.

  “Why in the world do they weigh so much?” His eyes narrowed.

  The words came to her, saving her. “Because I have a strong prescription.”

  He turned the glasses around and put them on his own nose. He squinted as he scanned the room. Then he turned to Bo, his features bunching
together. “How come if you have such a strong prescription, everything looks exactly the same when I put them on?”

  Bo opened her mouth to explain.

  She just didn’t know what she would say.

  CHAPTER 33

  It was a Sunday morning like any Sunday morning. That’s what Marvella Lott would later tell the homicide detectives. At least it was until the stranger walked in.

  When he came in, Marvella was still standing outside the doors to the chapel, holding her stack of programs. Church was about to start, and no one had come in from the street for the last couple of minutes. Richard, the other greeter, had already gone in, complaining that his hip was killing him today. On the other side of the swinging doors, Abigail Endicott started playing the melody of the choir’s first hymn.

  Marvella was just about to slip into the chapel when the visitor walked in the church’s main doors.

  She didn’t recognize him. His bald head reminded her of a peeled potato. It was topped with a wide-brimmed white knit cap. He was a big man, more muscular than anyone she had ever seen. A chest as broad as a tree trunk. Not young, not old. Dressed in an open jacket that didn’t look warm enough for the weather.

  In the chapel, the choir started into “Our God Is a Great God.”

  “Would you like a program?” Smiling, she held one out to him.

  The man didn’t put out his hand. Didn’t even really look at her. He just kept walking forward, looking almost mechanical. Had she not spoken loudly enough? Marvella’s smile wobbled a bit.

  “They’re free,” she said. Sometimes new immigrants or people who had never been to church were reluctant to take one, afraid there would be some kind of quid pro quo.

  She glanced down at his hands as she waited for him to reach out for one of the programs. His gloved right hand began to reach inside his jacket as he walked past her. But what was that under the jacket? Tan, leather—it looked like a shoulder holster. A snake uncoiled in her belly.