Unzipped

by Lois Greiman

  My mind whirled over the conversation I’d just had, desperately searching.

  Thirty seconds later I was skimming the R’s in the phone book. I found a William Reeves with shocking ease. He was listed at 24371 Wilbur Drive in Fontana.

  L aney.” My heart was beating like an African war drum.

  “Mac. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” I resisted the urge to look out the window again. I’d done that a dozen times already. The Mazda was still there. “Laney,” I said. “I need help.”

  I t took me a few minutes to find a skirt I thought might look similar to something Mrs. Al-Sadr might wear. I knew a modicum about Muslim garb from a woman with whom I had once worked. She’d kept every inch of skin covered and spent most nights in lusty fornication.

  Tying a dishtowel over my forehead for a hijab, I used a bedsheet for the khimar. It draped to my hips and looked ridiculous. The veil I cut from an old scarf looked just as idiotic, but I hoped to hell that anyone who saw me would assume I was my Allah-fearing neighbor.

  When I stepped out the back door, not a soul was in sight. My house stood between me and the blue Mazda. Still, my heart was beating against my ribs like a ball-peen hammer as I crawled over Al-Sadr’s fence and into their backyard. Elaine was waiting at the end of their walkway in her Mustang. I bisected my neighbors’ perfectly manicured lawn without looking back, opened their wire gate and did my best to keep from scurrying into Elaine’s car like an overdressed rat.

  Laney’s hair was tucked under a baseball cap. She wore baggy jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt. “Where to?” she said, and did a U-turn in the middle of Opus Street.

  I was sweating bullets when we passed the Mazda, but I managed not to stare. Instead, I watched it in the side-view mirror until we were out of sight. It never left its parking spot.

  Finding William Reeves’s house was relatively simple. Convincing him I wasn’t a mass murderer was more difficult. Luckily, Laney had worn a tube top under her sweatshirt. We were inside Billy’s living room not thirty seconds after she unzipped it.

  “Yeah, says I got the car in on the seventeenth like Gilly told you.” He was bent over his PC.

  I felt light-headed and breathless. “Do you remember anything about its condition?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. We don’t worry ’bout that kind of thing. Say, listen, I promised to meet some buddies in a half an hour and—”

  “This is extremely important,” I said. “Life or death.”

  “Sorry.”

  I glanced at Elaine. She leaned forward, nearly brushing his shoulder with her breast as she pointed to the monitor. “Mack Brady,” she said. “Is that who took the car?”

  He would have answered, but his mouth had fallen open and his eyeballs had become adhered to her chest.

  It didn’t take us long to arrive at Brady’s house. He was sitting in a porch swing sharing a Bud Lite with his Labrador retriever. Preliminaries were brief, but his memory was phenomenal. “Don’t need to look it up,” he said. “I remember the car. Damned shame. Had upholstery like butter, but them brakes was shot to hell. You’ve gotta downshift on them steep grades. You’d think folks would know that if they’re gonna spend seventy grand on a vehicle.”

  In less than ten minutes we were heading west on the 10. My mind was spinning. Someone had disabled Victoria’s brakes. I was sure of it. But who? It couldn’t be Rivera. He was a cop. That sort of thing only happened in mystery novels. And I had almost done the horizontal mambo with him on the floor in my vestibule. Not that I was all that attracted to him or anything, but if I were, and he was a murderer, what kind of person would that make me?

  “You have to call the police.” Elaine’s voice was tight. I felt sick to my stomach.

  “I can’t,” I said. I’d given her all the information I had. It had sounded just as garbled out loud as it did in my head.

  She watched the road and nodded finally. “You can’t go back home.”

  I wanted to be brave, to assure her that I’d be fine, but I had no reason for such suicidal optimism.

  “You can stay with me,” she added.

  It was tempting, but I shook my head. She’d already gone out with Solberg. No one should sacrifice too much. “I’ll check into a hotel.”

  “All right.” I could tell she didn’t like it, but she agreed. “Which one?”

  My mind was too overloaded to deal with such a mundane decision. “I’ll have to pick up a few things. Toothbrush. You know.” My head felt as if it were being crushed.

  “The Mazda’s gone,” Elaine said, glancing down Opus.

  I wondered if she thought I was losing my mind. I wondered if she was right. I looked down Vine Avenue. There were seven cars parked along the street. I couldn’t tell if any of them were occupied.

  “Drop me off at Al-Sadr’s,” I said. “I’ll go in the way I came out.”

  She gave me a worried look.

  “I’m sorry to drag you into this, Laney.”

  “You kidding?” she asked and lowered her voice like someone I was maybe supposed to recognize. “I live for this shit.”

  I had no idea who she was impersonating, so the world hadn’t gone completely insane.

  “Do you want me to wait in the car or come in?” Her face was pale, but her voice was steady. A friend to the bone.

  “Pick me up,” I said. “Same place in fifteen minutes.”

  It was difficult to force myself out of her car. I felt exposed and vulnerable, even behind the veil. But if my neighbors wondered why I was climbing over their fence in a bedsheet and granny skirt, no one made mention. Down the block, a screen door slammed and someone yelled. My breath hitched but I kept walking, straight to my back door. Once there, I pressed up close to the wall and glanced right and left. I don’t know what I expected to see or what I intended to do about it, but I had my pepper spray and my keys and enough heart palpations to kill an ox.

  The lock stuck for a moment, but finally I was inside. The phone was already ringing. I dropped my stuff beside the door and fought with my makeshift veil as I hurried toward the phone.

  I wasn’t going to become a Muslim any time soon, no matter how much sex they got.

  Snatching off the bedsheet and dish towel, I answered in my sports bra and woolen skirt.

  “Chrissy, where were you? I was just about to call the police.”

  “Mom. Hi. I just got—”

  “You’re supposed to be resting. The doctor said.”

  “You talked to the doctor?”

  “He seemed smart. Is he single?”

  I slipped out of my shoes. My head was beginning to throb. I doubt it had any connection to the concussion, and probably wasn’t directly related to the fact that someone was trying to kill me.

  “I don’t know. Listen, I—”

  “I think I should fly out there and take care of you,” she said, and suddenly the idea of being murdered didn’t seem so bad.

  “That’s not necessary. Really. I’m fine.”

  “You’ve always tried to be too brave.”

  I wondered vaguely if I could possibly twist that into some kind of compliment.

  “Remember the time you jumped off the roof with your brothers? Remember how that worked out?”

  “I didn’t jump off the roof.” I covered my eyes with my hand, trying to hide from the world. “Pete pushed me.” Which wasn’t exactly true. He was threatening to push me. I’d panicked and fallen. But the results had been the same. A broken thumb and a fear of heights. “Anyway, I don’t have much time, Mom. I promised Elaine I’d—”

  “How is she? She sounded worried sick when she called.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “When are you two coming home?”

  The question sent me into panic mode, because despite everything I’d learned during the first three decades of my life, the idea was almost appealing.

  “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m sorry, I’m on the other line.”

&nbs
p; “They can wait. I’ve—”

  “It might be my doctor,” I said, and hung up in raw panic. Leaning my butt against the counter, I covered my face and tried not to cry.

  “Chrissy.”

  I spun like a top at the sound of my name.

  Dr. David smiled as he rose from my La-Z-Boy. “That was indefensibly rude.”

  28

  Some men are warriors and some men are weenies. The trick is figuring out which is which.

  —Elaine Butterfield,

  on dating

  “DAVID!” I’m not sure what I was thinking in those first few moments. Maybe that he had come to save me. And although I’ve been told I’m overly suspicious, usually by boyfriends who are screwing my hairdresser, it took a second for me to realize the oddness of the situation. “What are you doing here?”

  I skimmed my gaze past him, half expecting Elaine to pop up and say she’d let him in.

  “I have to tell you . . .” he began, advancing a couple steps. “I’m quite impressed.”

  “I don’t . . .” My mind was reeling now, and I think I said something clever like, “How did you get in?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have a security system. But they’re costly, aren’t they? And . . .” He glanced about my pea-sized kitchen. “Times are hard. Still, you have a fine mind. It’s rather a shame.”

  “A shame?” There was something in his tone that finally made my mind kick in and my stomach clench.

  “You know, Chrissy, I’m going to miss you,” he said, advancing another couple inches.

  “Am I going somewhere?” I asked, and backed away.

  He laughed. “You see, it’s repartee like this that makes you so intriguing.”

  “Uh-huh.” My mind was spinning out of control. Logic insisted this wasn’t what it seemed. No one had ever tried to murder me before. Therefore, it couldn’t happen this time, either. But instinct suggested otherwise. “Why are you here, David?”

  He shook his head, his expression disappointed. “You’ve been digging too deeply.”

  And then I knew. “Kathryn!” I gasped. “You’re protecting her.”

  He stopped in his tracks, waiting, brows raised.

  “She killed Bomstad, didn’t she?”

  He smiled blandly.

  “She killed Bomstad,” I continued, breathless and crazed. “But you can’t protect her.”

  “You think not?”

  My mind screamed that I should find an avenue of escape, but it seems that when intellect is most needed, it is also most lacking. “No,” I said, cautious now. All I had to do was keep him talking for a while. Keep him interested. “She had an affair with Bomstad,” I lied. “Did you know?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said.

  “What?” I rasped, and he laughed.

  “What else do you know, Chrissy?”

  My mind kicked back into gear. “I think . . .” I inched toward the phone. In the movies, the protagonist always keeps the murderer talking until she can brain him with the blender. I didn’t have a blender. But the phone was antiquated and oversized. It would have to do. “I have reason to believe she killed Stephanie Meyers, too.”

  “And my wife?” he asked.

  “Her, too.” I felt strangely disembodied, as though I were watching the scene from above. “Her brakes were tampered with. As were mine.”

  He raised his brows, looking genuinely surprised. “She disabled your brakes?”

  It was the first sign of hope. “Yes,” I said. “She’s not well, David. I’m sorry.”

  He scowled, his expression introspective. “But she is beautiful.”

  “Yes. Yes, she is. But you can’t save her.”

  He stopped and sighed. I held my breath. He shrugged. “You’re right, I suppose,” he said. “Or would be, if I were trying to save her. But I fear . . .” He shrugged. “I’m only trying to save myself.”

  “I know you love her, but . . .” It was then that the truth piled in on me. “Holy mother of God.” I could feel the blood drain from my face. “You did it. You killed them.”

  “I realize now that my arrival here was a bit premature,” he said. “But see, you were bound to come around to the proper conclusion eventually.”

  “You killed them.” For a moment I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I couldn’t think of anything at all, then, “Why?”

  “Oh, come now, Chrissy . . . Why? Bomstad was a worthless waste of flesh. The human equivalent of a cockroach.”

  I tried to formulate some sort of question. Nothing came.

  “He was blackmailing me.” He shook his head as if mildly surprised by a piece of gossip heard over a late-night latte. “After he found out about Stephanie, he tried to blackmail me.”

  “About Stephanie?” My tone was breathless, my mind reeling. “You . . . you killed her, too?”

  “I did,” he said, “but Andrew didn’t know that. And he was far too slow to figure it out. But he did know about my affair with her. And you know how the board would feel about that.” He faked a shudder. “God forbid we should socialize with our clients. Well, true . . .” He smiled, looking absolutely normal, in perfect mental health. “I admit I did a bit more than socialize.”

  “And . . . your wife?”

  “She was just . . .” He sighed. “She was so very tiresome.”

  “So you killed her?”

  He lifted his hands, palms up.

  “Why not divorce? Why not—”

  “No prenup,” he said. “But you’re failing to see the bright side here, Chrissy.”

  “There’s a bright side.” I was thrilled to hear it.

  “There’s always a bright side. You should know that, in our profession.”

  “What is it?”

  He smiled. “Their deaths were perfect for them.”

  I stared at him. “I have to admit, I was hoping for more.”

  He laughed. “My wife was a grasping bitch. Clothes, clubs, cars. You know, she had forty-two handbags. Not forty. Not forty-one, but forty-two. She died on her way home from a weekend shopping spree.”

  “You killed her because of a . . . purse?”

  “Come now, Chrissy, surely you know murder has been committed over far more trivial things.”

  “And Stephanie?”

  “She was unstable. I couldn’t trust her to keep our little affair private. So moody. So dramatic.”

  “But you were in Washington when she died.” I blinked like a moron. “You said so.”

  “Seattle.” He laughed. “Yes, I was. So nice to know you were listening. I even gave a speech there. But later that night, while my little prerecorded message was calling her answering machine, I was making sure she took her prescription. It was quite ingenious, actually. An overdose was her perfect demise.”

  “And Bomstad’s was Viagra.”

  “Obviously. He first saw you when you came by my office. Did you know that? He was threatening to expose me even then. Thought you were”—he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers—“hot. Hence he came up with the harebrained idea of pretending impotency.” He shook his head and chuckled a little. “God knows the Bomb was no genius, but he was entertaining.”

  “So you killed him,” I said, still numb.

  “Without remorse,” he admitted. “But if it makes you feel any better, I will regret your passing.”

  “It doesn’t really.”

  He was advancing. I was retreating.

  “What of the fact that it is your own intellect that has caused your demise?”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t really do anything for me.”

  “But it will be the perfect death.”

  “Which is?”

  “A burglary gone awry.”

  I shook my head, confused.

  “Look around you, Chrissy. Despite your above-average reasoning ability, you’re really nothing more than white trash. A run-down little house, no security system. And your yard . . .” He gave a delicate shudder.
“Put a washing machine and a couple of beer cans out there and you’re in Alabama.”

  “You’re doing this because you don’t like my yard?”

  He was smiling at his own wit. “I’m doing this because you can’t leave well enough alone,” he said. “I’m doing it with this”—he pulled a knife from somewhere behind him—“because you don’t have a stereo.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. Sick and faint. “You’re insane.”

  He laughed. “Insanity, as you well know, is highly subjective,” he said, and raised the knife.

  I was frozen in terror. “Please,” I said, but I saw in his eyes that I was wasting my breath. He was going to kill me . . . without remorse.

  I leapt for the doorway, but he was already after me. I felt something skim my back and screamed. He laughed. The sound echoed in my brain. I dashed around the

  La-Z-Boy, panting and trembling.

  He halted on the far side, blade held toward me.

  I was only a few feet from the door, and I had the advantage of youth. He was only slightly farther away and had the advantage of insanity.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Chrissy,” he said. “Indeed, I know every thought that goes through your head. You’re weighing your chances. But you can’t win. You know that. I must win. For if I fail, I will lose everything, and I’ve worked too hard to let that happen. I’m sorry. Truly,” he said and sprang around the chair.

  I jerked away, but he was already changing direction. I tried to adjust, to spurt toward the door, but my skirt tangled around my legs and I fell. He was on me in a second. I rolled onto my back, but he was atop me. The knife slashed toward me. I kicked out of pure instinct, striking out in wild terror. He stumbled to the side. I scrambled to my hands and feet, but he was right behind me. I could feel him there, breathing on me, grasping for me. I grappled forward. My fingers brushed something. Pain slashed across my arm. I screamed, closed my fingers, and twisted toward him. The fan struck his head. The noise echoed sickeningly in the room. He staggered backward. Blood was dripping down his forehead. He touched it with his free hand, then stumbled toward me.