by Tracy Weber
“I understand, and I promise to only take a few minutes of your time. In fact, we don’t need to talk about your husband’s death at all. I’d actually like to learn more about his life—specifically about the company he formed while you were married.”
“That’s ex-husband. We were divorced, remember?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I don’t think I can help you. I wasn’t involved in the day-to-day operations.”
“I don’t need specific details about how he ran the business, Mrs. Yeates,” I assured her. “I’m more interested in the human aspect of Mr. Levin’s story. How a man who was focused, intelligent, and dedicated enough to build a company from scratch ended up living on the street. I hope my story will illustrate how quickly life can change. One spate of bad luck, one uninsured illness, one accident—poverty and homelessness could happen to any of us.”
After several seconds of silence, I heard the click of a lighter and Madeleine’s deep inhale. “The human aspect, you say.” Her tone softened. I felt her resistance dissipate, dissolving like the curly wisps of smoke from her cigarette. “Well, here’s something you can put in your article. George was a good man, with a good heart. He’d been on the street for a long time, but he was about to turn his life around. If he hadn’t been killed, things might have ended very differently for him.”
I sat up straight, paying close attention. “You’d spoken to him recently?”
“Yes, twice, actually. The first time was the Friday before his death. He told me he’d just come off a three-day bender, but that it would be his last.” She paused. “And you know what? I believed him.”
George’s missing days. That’s how he spent them—drunk in an alley somewhere. I didn’t know which to feel: elated that I’d finally solved that part of the puzzle or heartbroken that George’s last actions had been so predictably self-destructive.
Madeleine’s voice grew pensive. “George wanted to get in touch with our daughter. In hindsight, I never should have told him where she lived. It was unfair of him to just show up on her doorstep after all that time …”
“How long had it been?”
“Years. George left when Sarah was thirteen. It scarred her, in so many ways. I’ve tried to get her into counseling, but she’s as stubborn as her father.” Madeleine took another long drag on her cigarette. “I hoped that if George apologized and came back into her life, Sarah could finally heal.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. At least five awkward seconds passed before she continued.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You’re a complete stranger—a reporter, no less.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Yeates. I won’t print anything about you or your daughter.” I smiled at the irony. In the midst of my subterfuge, I could still offer one piece of truth.
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded sad. “Honestly, I feel a little guilty. I had no idea George was looking for money. If I’d known, I would have given it to him myself—anything to keep Sarah from getting hurt again. But he never asked. I suppose he didn’t want to make waves with my husband.”
“You said he contacted you again?”
“Yes, two days later, shortly after he saw Sarah. Their meeting didn’t go well. Sarah’s reaction was a real wake-up call for George. He called to say he was sorry for all of the heartache he’d caused, for both of us. He said he’d make it up to us one day …” Her voice trailed off.
Make it up to them? Could George have been trying to reconcile? “Sounds like maybe he wanted to get back together.”
“It’s a little late for that now. I’m remarried.”
I thought of the happy-looking family in George’s photo. “That wouldn’t necessarily keep him from trying.”
“A different man maybe, but not George. George wasn’t exactly a fighter.” Madeleine paused. “I think he wanted forgiveness—to know that I didn’t hate him.”
“I’m so sorry.” The words weren’t enough, but they were all that I had.
“Me too. I’m just grateful that I had a chance to give it to him.”
Madeleine wasn’t exactly the raving lunatic I’d hoped for in a murder suspect. She still cared about George—too much to have hurt him. Our conversation was one more dead end in a series of failures. I should have been disappointed, but honestly, I felt relieved. Before he died, George had made peace with at least one of his loved ones. That had to count for something.
“Do you know if Mr. Levin contacted anyone else?”
“I’m sorry. Other than Sarah and me, I have no idea.”
That wasn’t the answer I wanted. “Perhaps someone who wasn’t as compassionate as you? Maybe an investor or partner who was still angry about the business?”
“I don’t think you understand,” Madeleine replied. “The only person still upset about that business was George. He took that failure harder than anyone. I don’t know if you were around Seattle back then, but dot coms started and folded all the time. Investing in one was like buying a lottery ticket. You crossed your fingers and hoped to win big. And a very few people did—make it big, that is. Most, however, were lucky to get part of their original investment back. George’s investors knew the risks. They only gambled with money they could afford to lose.”
I stood up and paced, nervously playing with the phone cord. I had to be missing something. “What about his employees?”
Madeleine laughed, but without humor. “Sure, they were upset at first, but then they moved on to the next big idea. Everybody moved on but George. He blamed himself way too much. That’s probably why he turned to alcohol in the first place. He couldn’t take the weight of all that responsibility anymore.”
I could practically feel my last lead slip through my fingers. Out of sheer desperation, I tried one final maneuver. “That’s very understanding of you. But I’m betting not everyone felt the same way. One of my sources said that George’s business partner was pretty upset at the time. I know I’d have a hard time letting go if someone betrayed me that way.”
Madeleine’s friendly tone vanished. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one betrayed anyone. And what’s that got to do with your story, anyway?”
I backpedaled quickly, hoping to avoid yet another dial tone. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mrs. Yeates. I’m just trying to understand the pressures George faced—pressures that may have ultimately led to his demise.”
“Well, scratch Robert off your list. I don’t think George felt too badly about him, in the end. Robert may have lost money, but he ultimately got what he wanted.”
“What was that?”
“Me. Robert is my second husband.”
_____
We spoke for about ten more minutes, but the conversation felt more and more like a dead end. Madeleine wasn’t my killer, and try as I might, I couldn’t get her to name any other suspects. She promised to have Robert give me a call, but I suspected my conversation with him would be equally fruitless. Robert had an alibi. Unless he had an accomplice, he couldn’t have committed murder from nearly a half continent away. George’s life story was certainly tragic, but it didn’t contain any rage-filled enemies lying in wait for the opportunity to strike.
I felt more frustrated than ever. Almost four weeks had passed since George’s death, and I wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery than when I started. No matter who I questioned, no matter how hard I thought, I still ended up in the same place. Nowhere.
So I decided to stop thinking and clear my mind. My yoga practice was slow and gentle, focused on linking movement and breath. Forty-five minutes later, I rested in Savasana, hoping meditation would quiet my chatterbox brain. It worked, to a point. My mind was quiet, but definitely not still. Instead of listening to a barrage of random thoughts, I was besieged by a dizzying tornado of interconnected images.
First I saw Sarah’s beet-red angry face, then mud splashed in al
l directions as Bella knocked Trucker Man to the ground. Detective Henderson arrived next—the saliva in his beard reflecting the police car’s flashing lights, followed by George’s broken skull lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. Rene’s Ralphie appeared, complete with his ridiculous ponytail, right before I saw Tiffany and her too-tight jeans, Charlie’s beard, and George’s gym bag. Next were my broken car window and Jake angrily hiding under the desk at Pete’s Pets. I even saw Momma Bird’s crazy pink flamingo hat.
The murderer had to be someone I’d spoken with. Someone George would meet in that parking lot. Someone who knew enough about me to know that I posed a threat. Someone who—
I sat straight up and opened my eyes. I knew exactly who’d killed George. I even thought I knew why. I’d figure out how to prove it later, but first I had a more important priority. My prenatal class started in fifteen minutes, so I pulled out a phone book and dialed the first listing.
“AAA Lock and Key. How can I help you?”
twenty-nine
I scheduled a locksmith for early the next morning. Sixty minutes later, my prenatal students lifted their hips to the sky while pressing hands and heels to the ground in a final Downward Dog.
“This feels delicious,” one of them groaned. Downward Dog was always a favorite of the prenatal crowd. The inverted position stretched the backs of mom’s legs, released baby’s weight from her back, and gave her a few treasured, ache-free moments.
“Can’t we stay here all night?” another interjected.
I smiled. Yoga is ideally practiced in silence, but this group of future moms liked to chat: before, after, and especially during class.
After resting on their sides in a modified Savasana, the moms-to-be slowly lumbered to their feet and began putting away the myriad of yoga props needed to support pregnant bodies: blocks, straps, blankets, bolsters, and yoga mats.
“Great class tonight, Kate.”
“My back feels so much better.”
“I think my ankles are even less swollen.”
Jenny gave me a big hug. “See you next week, Kate. You know, I might survive this pregnancy yet.”
I ushered the final straggling students out the front door, double-checked the lock, and grabbed Bella’s leash for our evening cleanup ritual. Three steps into the yoga room, I saw it: Jenny’s purse, sitting on top of the yoga mats. I couldn’t help but chuckle. If Jenny did survive the pregnancy, I’d have to keep a close eye on her in Mommy and Me. She might forget the baby.
Still laughing, I slipped on my shoes and went out the back door to get Bella from the car. I snapped on her leash. “Come on, pup. You’ve been stuck in here long enough.”
Bella and I opened the back entrance to the sound of knocking at the front. At least Jenny didn’t get all the way home this time.
Bella burst into action, barking and lunging, faithfully protecting her studio from evil yoga student intruders. “Hang on a second, Jenny!” I yelled. “I’ll put the dog away and be right there!” I slipped off my shoes again, dragged the scratching, snarling dog to the bathroom, and jogged back to grab Jenny’s purse.
I should have listened to Bella.
By the time I reached the lobby, Jake stood inside, smiling and jangling his keys. I pasted on a fake smile.
“Hi, Jake. What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d stop by to check on the lights.”
My stomach dropped to my toes. I hadn’t complained about the lights in over two weeks. My words sounded forced, even to me. “Oh, well, you know … I think they’re fixed now. Really … they haven’t given me any trouble in days.”
Timing is everything. As if on cue, those bulbs started flickering like bizarre strobe lights. From light to black and back again, freezing every movement in an erratic series of freeze frames.
Jake’s eyes locked with mine in sudden understanding. His right upper lip lifted in an evil grin as he reached back and easily locked my finicky door—the same door I’d been struggling with for weeks. As for that damned pepper stray, it nestled next to my billfold, deep inside my purse—which was safely locked in the filing cabinet.
If there truly was a God up there watching, he had one sadistic sense of humor.
Jake pulled out a revolver and pointed it at my chest.
“Go into the yoga room, Kate. Now.”
I tried to obey, but my feet were frozen to the carpet.
Jake touched the gun to my sternum.
“Move.”
I moved.
As we backed past the “No Shoes Allowed” sign, panic bubbled up in misplaced hysteria. I burst into giggles. “Sorry, Jake, you’ll have to take off your boots.”
Jake wasn’t amused. “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you.” He closed the yoga room door behind us. “How did you figure it out?” His face betrayed nothing more than a sense of idle curiosity.
My only hope was to keep him talking. “It was three things, really. First, I couldn’t figure out who George would meet in the parking lot, of all places. George never stayed near the studio at night. The murderer had to be familiar with the area.” I backed cautiously away from Jake, glancing left and right, looking for something, anything, to distract him.
“Second, I couldn’t fathom why George would leave Bella trapped in her crate alone. Everybody else dismissed it, but I knew he locked her up for a reason. At first I thought he was protecting her. But it finally occurred to me—maybe the murderer insisted. Maybe the murderer was afraid of her.”
Bella barked louder as she frantically tried to claw her way out of the bathroom.
“But ultimately, Bella convinced me. She always liked people before George was killed. I couldn’t figure out why that changed. For a while I even blamed myself. But it finally clicked. She doesn’t like a lot of men these days, but she really hates you.”
“That stupid dog. As soon as I get done taking care of you, she’s next.”
My mouth went dry. Of course. He’d kill Bella, too.
Fear yanked my mind from thought to desperate thought as I tried to come up with a plan that would save us both. No one could see into the windowless yoga room, so I couldn’t signal for help. I scanned the room for a weapon, only to see those useless foam yoga blocks. I couldn’t even make a run for it. No matter how fast I ran, Jake’s bullet would be faster. I had to buy time. If I stalled long enough, maybe someone would hear us. Maybe Jenny would come back for her purse. Maybe—
My knees buckled under a terror so white-hot it felt icy. Oh, no. Please, God, please don’t let Jenny come back. Please don’t let her get hurt because of me. Black spots danced in the periphery of my vision. I gulped in air and tried to stay upright. I couldn’t pass out. Not now. I needed to think.
Somehow, I managed to keep talking. “I can’t figure out why, though. Why kill him? What could George possibly have on you that would be worth killing over?”
“That lowlife scum must have been watching me. He knew I was sleeping with Tiffany.”
My jaw fell open. The spots stopped dancing. My feet found solid ground. This had already been the craziest night of my life. Here I stood in my own yoga studio—a place that promoted nonviolence and inner peace—staring at a murderer’s handgun. I truly thought nothing else could surprise me.
I was wrong.
Jake was a murderer; I’d already deduced that much. Jake was a cheater; well, duh.
But with Tiffany?
I stared at Jake, dumbfounded. “Why in the world would you cheat on Alicia with Tiffany?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Jake replied sarcastically, “but my wife’s not exactly a thing of beauty these days. There’s only so much baldness and puking a guy can stand before he has to get his needs met elsewhere. And Tiffany was oh, so happy to oblige. Only that stupid bum figured it out somehow. I thought we were careful, but he must have
seen us. Guess I should have sprung for a hotel room.”
“And George blackmailed you.”
“Yeah, and the idiot couldn’t even do a decent job of that. He asked for $48,000. What kind of blackmailer asks for a stupid number like that?”
It seemed odd under the circumstances—I was, after all, about to be shot—but I felt relieved. I knew exactly where George had gotten that number. I’d done the calculations myself. Bella’s medicine would cost $4,800 per year, and she was likely to live another ten years. Forty-eight thousand dollars would pay for Bella’s medicine for the rest of her life.
I’d been right all along. George had been an honorable man. He may have committed a crime, but he wasn’t a criminal—not really. He was simply a good man, desperate to save the life of the one he loved.
“Truth is,” Jake sneered, “I would have given him the money, but my wife controls the bank accounts. I could never get that kind of cash without her noticing. I offered to pay him over time. I even offered him a bottle of booze for his troubles.” Jake gripped the gun harder. “But the idiot insisted on getting it all right away. I guess he figured that once Alicia croaked, he’d never see another dime.”
“But Alicia adores you! She never would have believed George. And even if she did, so what? Washington is a community property state. If Alicia divorced you, you’d still end up with half of her money. You’d be a very rich man.”
“You’d think,” Jake replied. “But Alicia’s family attorney is a shark. He talked her into making me sign a prenup. If she divorces me, I get practically nothing.” His eyes turned cold. “I couldn’t risk it. Not when I’m this close. Especially not after all the work I’ve done to get her to trust me again. The doctors didn’t expect her to last this long. With any luck, in a few short weeks she’ll be dead and I’ll inherit everything.”
My heart broke for Alicia. Of all people, she deserved better.
Jake continued, “It’s not my fault, you know. I didn’t plan to kill him. But that bum made me so mad that I lost control and hit him over the head with the bottle.” He grinned cruelly. “Frankly, killing him that way shouldn’t even count as murder. Everyone knows these guys all eventually die by the bottle. I just sped up the process a little.”