Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  So much for our brilliant plan.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We sat without talking as Aileen strummed her guitar. Soft music filled the cramped little car, washing away the tension and horror of the past few days. I relaxed into the soothing tunes. It took me a few minutes to realize what I was hearing.

  “Aileen, I didn’t know you could play guitar like that.”

  She glanced over at me without missing a gentle beat. “Like what?”

  “Quietly.”

  She bent her head to focus on the strings of her guitar. “Yeah, and if you ever breathe a word of what you’ve just witnessed, you’re dead meat. Your drumming career will be over before it ever sees the light of day.”

  I laughed. “My lips are sealed.”

  I never saw Pete coming. He opened the car door and slipped into the back seat. He had spoken the truth—he was a mess. The jeans and flannel shirt he’d fled in last night were streaked with dirt. A baseball cap pulled low shaded his face, but it couldn’t hide the damage. His left eye was swollen completely shut—a slit in the mass of bruises discoloring his face and running down his jaw. Cuts and scratches scattered across his face like highways on a road map. He leaned forward and squeezed my shoulders. “Thanks for coming to pick me up.”

  I stared at him for a full minute before I found my voice. “What on earth happened to you?”

  Sighing, he wrapped his arms around his chest. “I told you, I had a rough night. It looks a lot worse than it is, really.”

  “You gotta learn how to fight, Moron.” Aileen frowned at him, arms folded on her guitar. Her pink-and-green hair quivered as she shook her head in disapproval.

  Pete smiled slightly. “It was six to one, Aileen. I could have used you on my side, for sure. Though some would say I got what I had coming to me.” He sighed again and passed a hand over his jaw.

  “What do you mean, you got what you had coming to you?” I scanned his battered face. “You didn’t deserve this!”

  He shrugged. “I went to deliver the money—money I owed that I should have paid before I left Hollywood. They took the money and then they clobbered me. I never had a chance. They knocked me out. When I woke up, it was morning and I was at the bottom of the ravine. And here I am, looking like I got hit by a train and trampled by a herd of cattle at the same time. It could have been worse.” His lips trembled. “They could have killed me.”

  A surge of anger welled up inside me. “Those jerks!” I cried out. “They’re the ones that need to go to jail!” I reached for my phone.

  Pete caught my hand. “No, Daria! This has got to be the end of it.” He plucked the phone out of my hand. “Please, this is important. I can’t say anything about Kinney and his thugs, ever. If I turn them in, they’ll hunt me down and kill me. Maybe not today or next week, but they’ll find me.” He gripped my hand so hard it hurt. “Yeah, they deserve to go to jail. They’re scum. But I don’t want to live my life looking over my shoulder for a hit man.” He fixed me with his good eye. “Please, Daria. Don’t say anything about Kinney, to anyone. It’ll just make things worse.” He glanced at Aileen, who watched silently. “Please.”

  I pulled my hand away. If that’s the way he wanted it, who was I to oppose him? I swallowed my thirst for justice and gave him my best dumb-brunette expression. “I don’t know nuthin’.”

  He leaned over the seat and hugged my shoulders. “Thanks, Daria.”

  Aileen handed me her guitar and cranked the engine. “So where’s your truck, Moron?”

  * * *

  Wright Street in the Flats was deserted when we pulled up next to Pete’s truck. He heaved himself out of the car and started checking it for damage. I opened my door, but Aileen grabbed my arm before I could get out. “According to our plan, your brother is the only one who’s come to you. You sure he’s not here to knock you off?”

  I stared at her, aghast. “Aileen!” I slammed the car door closed and faced her. “It couldn’t have been him. He was knocked out in the ravine. He couldn’t have killed Emmett.”

  “He could have been lying—”

  I gasped.

  “But not likely,” she hastened to add. “He certainly got beat up and dragged through the dirt.” She popped her everlasting gum at me. “I’d put him in the clear. Which leaves you with three possibilities. What can you conclude?”

  “I conclude that we had a stupid plan. All we succeeded in doing is alerting the murderer that we’re onto him—or her—when we’re really not.” I scrambled out of the car and leaned in through the open window. “And now you’re taking off for some gig and don’t have my back anymore. What kind of plan was that?”

  She snorted. “I trust your brother—he’s got your back.” She waved her long black fingernails and peeled out from the curb.

  Despite what I said to Aileen, I did feel a little funny getting into Pete’s truck with him after considering him as a murder suspect. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he started up the truck and pulled out onto the road. His hands were caked with dirt, but he looked a lot more relaxed than I would have expected after getting beat up and spending the night unconscious in a ravine. He seemed like he had no more worries.

  His calmness vanished at the sound of sirens behind us. He stiffened, then followed the car in front of us as it squeezed onto the shoulder. He pulled his baseball cap low on his forehead and turned to me.

  “If they pick me up, remember, don’t say anything about Kinney. I got beat up by some muggers in the woods. Okay?”

  The sirens screamed behind us. “Muggers in the woods? That’s your story? Great. I guess I’m the one who’s got your back.”

  Pete smiled his thanks. The sirens were almost upon us. He clenched his eyes shut as the sirens screamed up behind his truck. They swept on by, streaking down the highway in a flash of noise and light. They didn’t care about Pete.

  Pete laid his head down on the steering wheel for a second, then squeezed back into traffic.

  “You gonna spend your life looking over your shoulder for the cops?” I asked.

  He smiled ruefully, his hands shaking a bit. “Not likely. They’d probably track me down by midnight.” He glanced over at me. “I’m gonna turn myself in. I’ve taken care of Kinney’s money, so I don’t need to worry about his thugs coming after us. Then, when you tell them who the murderer is, they won’t have any use for me anymore.” He shot me an encouraging smile that didn’t reach his eyes, which were filled with anxiety again.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t really know who the killer was.

  We drove in silence to the police station. Pete pulled into a visitor’s spot in the lot. “It’s a thirty-minute parking place—think that’ll be enough?”

  I groaned and grabbed his arm to keep him from getting out. “Pete, I lied. I don’t know who the murderer is. That was just a test, to see if the real murderer would give himself away.”

  He sank back into the seat, looking incredulously at me out of his one good eye. “You lied to me to find out if I was the murderer? Seriously?”

  It sounded ten times worse when he put it like that. “It was a trap. It was Aileen’s idea, to call all four suspects and see which one would come to try to knock me off. You came, but declined to knock me off. You passed the test.”

  “Top marks for gullibility, it seems.” He sighed. “So you’ve got nothing when it comes to keeping me out of jail?”

  My heart ached for him. “We’ve got three other suspects. A very short list. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

  Pete closed the door and cranked the ignition.

  “What are you doing? Did you change your mind about turning yourself in?”

  He pulled out of the parking space and circled through the lot. “I’m gonna need more than thirty minutes.” He scanned the parking lot, deliberately avoiding my eyes. “These three other suspects. Is one of them going to come and try to knock you off, then? Are you
going to be okay?”

  “I never really thought one of them would come after me.” I pushed aside the thought of McCarthy, Jim, or Torey hunting me down with a bayonet. It was so far-fetched as to be completely ridiculous. “I’ll be fine.”

  Pete pulled into a new spot and turned off the truck. He turned to me. “Don’t come in. Don’t watch. Just work on that short list, okay?” He climbed out of the pickup, squared his shoulders, and strode into the police station without looking back.

  I sat in his truck for the next thirty minutes, praying that he would come back out and we could drive away together.

  No such luck.

  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I hopped out of the truck and slammed the door behind me, as if the loud noise would give me courage for the task ahead. I followed Pete’s steps and entered the police station.

  The double doors led to a tiny reception area with doors on both ends and a desk shielded by a bulletproof window. Two orange chairs made of hard plastic with metal legs stood next to the entrance.

  I went up to the information desk and pressed the button on the wall. It took about ten minutes, and repeated button-pushing, until a receptionist appeared. “Yes?” Her voice was distorted by the round, stainless steel speak-thru. “Can I help you?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to ask. “My brother just came in here. Pete Dembrowski. I wanted to see how he was doing.”

  “One minute.”

  One minute stretched into five and then ten. I sat down in one of the orange chairs and closed my eyes, trying not to think. But I couldn’t relax. I kept checking the time, getting more and more nervous as the minutes ticked by. Just as I was about to jump up and start whaling on that buzzer button, one of the side doors opened and McCarthy walked through. Not the person I wanted to see, but infinitely better than no one at all.

  “Daria! You do show up in the oddest places.” He didn’t seem surprised to see me in the slightest.

  I glared at him. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?”

  McCarthy grinned. “I was stalking you again, my dear Daria. I’m always on the lookout for a good photo, but there’s one photo I don’t want to take.” His shutter clicked even as he spoke. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He pressed his lips together and looked away, just for an instant. Then, smiling, he said lightly, “I’m not finished with the Daria Photos yet.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve only got one thing on your mind.”

  He grinned. “So, have you come to expose the murderer?”

  Was that it—he was here because I told him I knew who the murderer was and he wanted to find out? Or did he want to silence me before I had a chance to expose him? I chose to ignore his question.

  Unfortunately, no one could ignore Sean McCarthy and get away with it. He sat down beside me and started fiddling with the buttons on the back of his camera. He pulled up the photo he’d just taken, of me sitting on the orange chair in police station purgatory. “I’ll call this one, ‘Moment of Truth.’” He looked at me expectantly. “Have you told the police yet? Or do I get to find out first?”

  “You don’t get to find out first.” I sighed. “I haven’t gotten to see any police officer yet. I’ve only been here for forty-five minutes now.”

  He grinned. “The last time I got arrested, it took two hours for them to get around to booking me. They put me in a room and left me there. I thought I was going to die of thirst.” He leaned over and stage-whispered in my ear, “You could just skip the cops and let a hungry photojournalist crack the case. I promise I’ll credit you as my source.”

  I scooched away from him. “What do you mean, the last time you got arrested? There were other times?”

  He shrugged. “Any journalist worth his salt gets arrested from time to time.”

  “Oh, right. Unveiling corruption and defending the First Amendment and all that?”

  His grin widened. “All that. With a bit of disturbing the peace and maybe some illegal fireworks thrown in for good measure.”

  It was my turn to smile. I could totally see him setting off fireworks while fully expecting to talk his way out of the consequences. “Laurel Springs is a hotbed of corruption, or so I’m told.”

  The side door opened, and Officer Carson stepped out. The harsh fluorescent lights gleamed on his bald head.

  “Ms. Dembrowski. You have some questions for me?” He waved his hand to indicate that I should follow him.

  I jumped up and nodded at McCarthy. “Try not to get arrested again anytime soon.” As the door closed behind me, my words echoed in my mind. McCarthy was on my short list of potential killers. If my calculations were correct, he stood a one-in-three chance of getting arrested for murder.

  Carson led me into a brightly lit room furnished with only a steel table and two chairs, one on each side. A one-way mirror loomed on the wall. I pushed away the thought of a crowd of cops watching us and listening to my every word.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Dembrowski. I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind, and then we can address any further concerns that you have.”

  I clenched my hands together. “First, can you tell me about Pete? Did he get arrested?”

  Carson frowned. “Your brother has been taken into custody. I have some questions for you about his activities. Can we proceed?”

  I nodded numbly.

  “When did you get in contact with your brother, Ms. Dembrowski?”

  I jumped at the accusatory tone in his voice. He made it sound like talking to Pete was a crime. “This afternoon.”

  “Did you call the police, as instructed?”

  I flinched. “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”

  Carson refrained from lecturing me on my civic duty. “So your brother called you, and you met him in the Flats. Were you surprised to see his injuries?”

  I nodded, shifting in the hard metal chair.

  He tapped his forefinger on the slick tabletop. “He give you any explanation for them?”

  “He said he got beat up.” My heart started to pound. What would I do if Carson asked straight out about Kinney?

  “He didn’t run into the wall or fall down the stairs, then?” His eyes bored into mine.

  I shook my head. “He said he got beat up.” So far, nothing but the truth.

  “Did you witness this beating? Do you know who hit him? Were there any weapons involved?”

  I clenched my teeth together and shook my head with what I hoped was an innocent shrug. I imagined a suave lawyer sitting next to me, advising me to answer the questions yes or no, and not say anything else. Maybe I should ask for an attorney.

  “Tell me about your brother’s connection with Emmett McDowell,” Carson ordered.

  “They knew each other from Hollywood, and high school before that,” I said. “They didn’t get along.”

  “In other words, they hated each other, then and now. Am I correct?”

  I shrugged again, and my imaginary lawyer nodded approvingly.

  “You were present when your brother threatened McDowell, were you not?”

  “Um . . .”

  “I’m told his exact words were, ‘I will send you straight to hell.’ Do you think your brother murdered Emmett McDowell?”

  So, this wasn’t about Angeline in Pete’s bedroom, or even Kinney. As I feared, Carson suspected that Pete had killed Emmett. “No! I’m sure he didn’t.”

  Carson leaned forward until his face was inches from mine. “How can you be so sure?”

  I bit my lip, flinching away from him. “I know Pete. He wouldn’t kill someone and stuff him in the trash. I’m sure of it.”

  Carson pulled a plastic bag out of a drawer. Slipping on a latex glove, he reached into the bag and extracted a battered Phillies cap. “Recognize this?” He shoved the cap in my face.

  I recoiled from the stench, which flipped me straight back into the janitor’s closet with its gruesome garbag
e can. My voice shook. “I saw that cap in the trash can, next to the . . . the hand.” I closed my eyes.

  “You did, did you?” Carson’s voice assaulted me. “Funny—you didn’t mention that to the investigators at the scene. Was it because you recognized it as your brother’s hat?”

  My eyes flew open. I stared at Carson for a long minute, my mind racing. Finally I decided to trust him with the truth. I looked him in the eye, and in a small voice said, “I thought it was my brother’s hand.”

  Carson gaped at me. I pressed my advantage. “I thought someone had killed Pete. He’d been threatened by some thugs. I thought they had come back and killed him. But it wasn’t Pete—that’s all I could think about, that it wasn’t Pete.” I shivered, reliving the intense relief of that moment.

  “Do you recognize this hat as your brother’s?” Carson demanded.

  I rubbed my arms, trying to get the shivering under control. “Pete has a hat like that.” I bowed my head in defeat. “It looks like his.”

  Carson dropped the foul cap on the table in front of him. Planting his hands on either side of it, he leaned forward to pin me with his penetrating stare. “So, Ms. Dembrowski, can you explain to me why your brother’s baseball cap was found in the trash next to a dead man?”

  I raised my eyes to his face, putting every bit of conviction I had into my voice. “Because he was set up. Officer Carson, somebody’s trying to frame Pete for murder. They’re trying really hard to get him locked up in jail. They planted Angeline in his bedroom, and they planted his baseball cap at the murder scene.” I gripped the table’s edge and looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “You’re playing right into their hands! You think you’ve got the murderer, but really he’s on the loose—who knows what he’ll do next!”

  Carson jumped up. “You show a shocking lack of faith in police-investigation methods.” He snatched up the baseball cap and strode out of the room.