Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  When the prime crime moment came, she would probably have little to add that he hadn’t already heard.

  CHAPTER 55

  Usually I snooze through the early-morning newscasts. Most of the time, the stories are just a rehash from the night before. The real news of the day hasn’t happened yet unless you count an occasional overnight fire or a preview of scheduled events.

  Restless animal noises woke me. Dogs whimpering. Cats hissing. Birds scratching. Also, sleeping in Noreen’s bed creeped me out, and I had nightmares that my boss lay curled on the mattress next to me. Waking up, I realized the snoring shape was Husky.

  I clicked on the TV remote thinking the news might bore me back to sleep. Instead a picture of me dominated Channel 3’s screen. I turned up the volume and heard a recitation of all the national investigative awards I’d won and how much the world was a better place because of my stories. A few seconds later, news control cut live to a dark exterior of my house with police cars parked in front.

  That’s when I found out I’d been murdered.

  CHAPTER 56

  I turned on my cell phone I’d powered down the night before because the vibrating noise kept the animals up, and saw numerous missed calls from the station, Garnett, and my parents. While I was far from dead, I feared this news could kill them.

  I didn’t bother listening to any of the messages, but speed dialed my mom and dad and heard a raspy, exhausted voice on the other end. I couldn’t tell who was speaking or what they were trying to say.

  “Mom? Dad? It’s Riley.”

  Frenzied sounds came over the line. “Calm down,” I urged them. “It’s me. Your daughter.”

  “Riley?” I still couldn’t be sure who picked up the line.

  “I don’t know what anyone told you, but I’m fine. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “They told us you were dead,” I now recognized my dad’s voice. “Father Mountain is on his way down from the Cities to pray with us. We called him when we got the news.”

  “They were wrong, but I can’t talk long. I need to straighten out this blunder. Is Mom there?”

  “She fell asleep.”

  “Well, wake her up and tell her you have some good news.”

  “No, you better tell her yourself, she’ll think I’ve been dreaming.”

  “Then put her on the other line.”

  She thought she was dreaming. Then she made me prove my existence by quizzing me about the name of my favorite doll when I was a little girl. Finally, convinced I was alive, she started going on about how this horrible ordeal would never have happened if I’d let them get me a dog like they wanted.

  “Then we’d know you were safe,” she said.

  Being surrounded by a trio of dogs who all wanted to go outside, I insisted that her idea, while thoughtful, was unnecessary. My last words to her before I hung up were, “Don’t bring me a dog.”

  They had just suffered an incredible shock, but so had I; hard to believe we were finding time to argue about pets. Then I called back, trying to be more positive.

  “Tell Father Mountain hello from me.” He would be glad not to have to bury me in the country cemetery with all the other Spartz descendants, though I was curious what he would have said about me from the pulpit.

  “Tell him yourself, Riley, he just pulled into the yard.” Then she passed the phone to the priest with the message that I was not dead after all.

  “You must have a powerful guardian angel, Riley,” Father Mountain said. “You must never take his work for granted.”

  And I had to admit, he had a point. “I have felt his presence around me, Father.”

  Then in thanks to my protector, he urged me to recite with him his special prayer. “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom his love commits me here; ever this day be at my side to light and guard, to rule and guide.”

  Then on a less spiritual note, I let Husky, Blackie, and Speckles out to do their canine business while I tried brushing animal hair off my only set of clothing while searching for my car keys. Because it was early in the day, and being a weekend, traffic was light. As I drove toward my house, I called the assignment desk and demanded a retraction.

  • • •

  Dolezal could have killed her while she slept amid a tumble of blankets. But he needed to see the look of recognition in her eyes before the blow fell. Eliciting that wide-open fear was part of his mission—the money shot. So he stood over her, held the club high, and whispered, “Taunting Teresa is tempting death.”

  She lifted her face from the pillow, glanced in confusion toward the source of the noise, and within seconds, was literally screaming for her life.

  On his end, his past pursuits were always hushed, but now a crazed wail, in harmony with hers, escaped his throat simultaneously.

  The woman was not Riley Spartz. But he had to kill her anyway.

  In a frenzy, he pounded her head until he could no longer tell he’d attacked the wrong target.

  Her blood dominated the bedroom. The spatters ricocheted across the covers, floor, and ceiling. Seeing his image reflected in a full-length mirror on the wall, Dolezal felt more like an angel of death than on any of his previous missions. Damp and sticky, he stripped his clothing. Then he spread his arms and tilted his head downward in his well-practiced cemetery stance, but felt no pleasure because he knew he had failed his dark icon.

  He turned his shirt and pants inside out, wiping the blood from his face with his underwear. Then he dressed and prepared to leave the grisly scene behind.

  He longed to pose this woman’s body like his beloved matriarch and give her corpse wings for eternity like the others. But he knew better than to draw the powerful shape; he did not have permission and the Black Angel would be angry.

  CHAPTER 57

  My street was crowded with law enforcement and media, roped off to gawkers. I parked around the block and walked toward the pandemonium, a scarf shielding my face. The officer in charge of crowd control would not let me pass.

  “Behind the line,” he barked.

  “But I live here,” I shouted. That made no difference. He figured I was one of many residents of that block and would just have to hang out elsewhere until the police gave the all clear. I needed to be more specific. I dropped the scarf. “I’m the deceased.”

  That got his attention, but he just thought I was some wacko.

  “I’m Riley Spartz,” I told him.

  He flashed a light in my face and that was one of those times when I wished I hadn’t left the house without makeup. Because of my disheveled appearance, he seemed unsure of my identity. I reverted to my broadcast voice. “Riley Spartz, Channel 3 news, reporting.”

  That did it. He grabbed my arm and marched me past the police tape and up to my house where I crashed into Detective Delmonico, who was just coming out the door.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” he yelled. He could tell I wore no badge or uniform and thus did not belong near the crime scene. “Get her out of here.”

  “I think you better take a look,” my escorting officer said. “Inside.” He pushed me into the foyer and out of view of the media.

  The detective’s face grew pale when he realized who was standing in front of him. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled my face close to his. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I want to know.” I shrugged his hands off me. “How come everybody thinks I’m dead?”

  “Because we got a body inside your house that’s been identified as you.” He emphasized the words “body,” “your house,” and “you.”

  A body? He could only be talking about Laura. I feared she must have killed herself after all the converging events. I wished I hadn’t confronted her so harshly, adding to her turmoil.

  “Her name was Laura Warner,” I said. “It must have been suicide.”

  “Heard her name, but can’t confirm the victim’s identity,” Detective Delmonico continued. “But I’ve seen the remains, and this was absolutely no suicid
e.”

  “Well, somebody clearly messed up on the identification, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you guys messed up cause of death, too. By the time I get off the air, you’re all going to look like idiots.”

  “You want to call someone an idiot, start with him.”

  Delmonico pushed me into the dining room where a man sat in the dark, seemingly in a stupor, his face to the wall.

  The detective motioned with his head that I should approach. So I walked over and found Nick Garnett holding a framed picture of the two of us, arms entwined, that normally rested on my fireplace mantel.

  He didn’t seem to realize anyone, much less me, stood behind him. So I rested my hand on his shoulder and murmured his name. “It’s okay, Nick. I’m here.” He didn’t respond. I knelt in front of him, cupping his chin in my hands, and kissed his lips. “I love you.”

  He seemed mystified. “Were you right about angels, Riley? Are you a visiting angel even now?”

  I shook my head and my dark hair fell loose, over one eye. “I’m no angel and you know it.”

  “Zombie is more like it.” Delmonico came over to our corner. “Garnett, you ID’d the wrong broad with the crushed skull. Your girlfriend is alive and as big a pain as ever. The guys and I are drawing straws over who has to tell the chief.”

  Garnett looked from one of us to the other, not believing the apparent miracle.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Does this feel like a kiss of death?” I planted another one across his mouth and this time he responded, desperately.

  “I’ll give you two lovebirds a couple of minutes for crime scene courtship,” Delmonico said, “then I need a statement from you.” He was pointing at me. “But first, I better confirm to your media pals you’re most definitely still alive and kicking, though I’m sure some will be disappointed by the news.”

  “Are you going to tell them the name of the real victim?” I asked. Laura was still on my mind.

  “I see no need to rush down that path again.” He glared at Garnett. “We’ll verify the identity of the deceased first.”

  Through the front window, we watched Delmonico approach the row of cameras. We couldn’t hear what he said, but less than thirty seconds later, he was walking back toward the house, not taking any questions. Flashes from still cameras lit his moving shadow.

  Garnett and I had less than a minute alone. “What are you even doing here, Nick? You’re supposed to be in Washington.”

  Garnett stood, pulling me tight against his chest. My head tucked under his chin. “I was being spontaneous, like we talked about while discussing your ghostwriting adventure. So I caught a plane to Minnesota to prove I was the more impulsive one.”

  Instead, he was the more tormented one. “I let myself in with my key and found you, well, not you. Her. Horrible.”

  His face looked grim and pained—unusual for a veteran homicide investigator. Of course, he’d never handled the murder of anyone he loved. I started to explain about the other woman in my bed, but he put his finger on my lips to stop me.

  “Later. Tonight has taught me a lesson about delaying happiness. Waiting is wasting. Never again. Spontaneous forever.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. Inside, a ring—a large, deep-red, oval stone surrounded by small diamonds. “It’s a garnet,” he explained. “So we can always be together.”

  Then he got down on one knee and took my hand in his. “Riley Spartz, will you marry me?”

  CHAPTER 58

  Fancy restaurants. Beautiful scenery. Exotic locations.

  Many married couples revisit the romantic settings where they pledge their devotion to each other and officially become engaged. What was I supposed to say?

  A cadaver lay in the next room. I smelled blood. I smelled like dogs. My lover and I were surrounded by guns inside and paparazzi outside. Was this a day we would ever want to remember as the start of our lifetime together?

  But Garnett had been through hell, and seemed to need proof I was actually back from the dead. Seeing me walking among the living didn’t appear real enough to his tortured mind. The proposal seemed his way of cementing the present with the future. Might accepting his offer of matrimony be a means of finding good in evil, and making the day bearable?

  I couldn’t bring myself to speak, so I simply smiled. He took my gesture as affirmation and slipped the ring on my finger.

  “Now you can live the life of Riley,” he said.

  Then Detective Delmonico stepped back in the room and Garnett scrambled to his feet, possibly not wanting to seem too sappy in front of another homicide cop. I put my hand in my jacket pocket so the sparkle of the gem wouldn’t attract attention.

  The detective pulled up a chair at the dining table and motioned that Garnett and I should join him. He pulled out a tape recorder, hitting the Play/Record buttons. He was being nicer to me than normal, probably because Garnett was present.

  “So tell me what you know about the unfortunate lady in the next room, Ms. Spartz.”

  “I’d like to see her first.” It seemed the decent thing to do.

  “No,” said Garnett. No hesitation.

  Delmonico agreed with him. “I wouldn’t advise it. In fact, I won’t allow it.”

  “Then how are we going to avoid another case of mistaken identity?”

  “We’ll use fingerprints and DNA to verify who you say she is. Trust me, looking at her won’t help. So tell us why you weren’t here last night and why she was.”

  I explained I hadn’t been home because I’d been dog-sitting for my boss outside of the metro area. I hoped I wasn’t being considered a suspect, because my alibi witnesses could only bark.

  Explaining my relationship with Laura Warner was more complicated. “The more I learned about my old college roommate, the less I wanted to stay in touch. It was a reunion gone bad. And yesterday I had told her this was the last night she could stay here. Laura was supposed to be gone when I got back today.”

  “You two had the only keys to the house?” Delmonico looked at Garnett and me for an answer. “None hidden outside?”

  I shook my head. “Laura had a spare so she could get in and out.” That’s when I realized I should be mourning for Laura, instead I was relieved not to be dead myself. I felt selfish, wearing an engagement ring while she wore a body bag.

  I twisted my new jewel nervously, wondering if her death had anything to do with the choices she made in life. Then the obvious question occurred to me and would probably make headlines across the country.

  “Why do you think the killer decided to go after them both?” I asked. “Did he develop a sister fetish?”

  Neither man answered. Garnett finally spoke up. “We can’t be certain the same person murdered both.”

  “Two sisters murdered by two different killers in barely two weeks?” I asked. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Forensics might tell us more, but the crime scenes had differences,” Delmonico said. “We’ll have other questions later, but you can leave while we finish in here.”

  I asked about grabbing some clothes from my closet, and was told nothing from the bedroom. I settled for a makeup case from the bathroom. And then on the dining room table, I noticed my yearbook, wide open. Two pages torn out, crumbled in a tight ball of paper. Unfolding them, I found my photo and Laura’s on one page. On the other, a picture of the man she’d accused of rape.

  Garnett looked at my discovery and motioned for Delmonico to come over. Had Laura, infuriated, ripped the pages as a hurtful message? Or had her killer?

  “Speaking of murder motives,” I told the detective. “You might want to ask your chief about this man.”

  Then I saw Laura’s giant purse on a chair by the table, threw it over my shoulder and, not wanting to discuss the subject further, left with Garnett on my heels. We disregarded my car since it was parked far away and raced to his rental, which sat in front of the house.

  I saw the rear lights of his
vehicle flicker, signaling the doors were unlocked. Then the media swarm hit. We pushed through to try to reach the car. Photographers stuck high-definition cameras in my face and I was again aware how bad—and old—I would look on-screen without airbrush makeup. I was glad Noreen was out of town and not watching the news.

  Reporters yelled questions like “How come you aren’t dead?” “Is anyone dead?” “Are you the killer?”

  I wanted to just drive away, but I figured they’d only chase after us in their media caravan and I didn’t want to end up like Lady Di, crashing in the Lowry Tunnel, paparazzi on my heels. So while Garnett climbed into the driver’s seat, I decided to throw them a sound bite.

  Turning to the mob of microphones, I said, “As you can plainly see I, Riley Spartz, am alive. Quite alive. The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

  Then I scrambled inside and shut the door. Garnett turned the engine over and said, “Not bad. The Adventures of Mark Twain, 1944, though I can’t remember who played the title role of Samuel Clemens.”

  “Me neither.” I was about to compliment him anyway when Jenny from Channel 8 jumped in the backseat demanding an interview. We’d been too slow to hit autolock.

  “Get out,” I said.

  “Just one more question, Riley, is that an engagement ring sparkling on your finger?”

  My mouth opened wide, but before I could stammer an answer, Garnett pulled out his Glock. “You heard her. Get out. And when I shoot I’m talking bullets, not video.”

  Now Jenny’s mouth was open wide. She hurried out the door and we took off down the street before she could close either.

  I motioned toward my car parked up ahead, but Garnett said we’d come back for it later. He slowed enough for me to reach back and shut our car door tight before we entered the freeway.

  “Where are we headed?” Garnett asked.