Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  “So you came back searching for Mister Moneybags.”

  “Yeah, Martin was a real possibility. Maybe he’s not rich-rich, look at his cramped lifestyle. Probably doesn’t have the kind of money Brad had. That guy really threw it around, but he was already married. You know, I couldn’t even locate a credit report on Martin.”

  “The wealthy don’t need credit reports.” Sandy was eager to hear all this; eager to have the woman discard her disguise and answer questions. Nevertheless, none of it would keep her behind bars. Sandy needed specific information about how she’d carried out the murder, in case she somehow slipped out of the noose Sandy was tightening around her neck. She needed to get this woman on the subject of the actual murder. “Tell me about the Prius.”

  “You mean like fuel economy?”

  “Sure, I’m taking a survey. More like how does a waitress afford one fully loaded. All at once fifty grand shows up in your bank account. Who gave you the money?”

  “I make good tips. I had a good night. You gonna turn me in to the IRS?” She chuckled. “So, when you gonna tell them I’m not guilty of murder?”

  “But you are guilty of murder.”

  “Hey, you said I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I said you didn’t kill Brad.”

  “I don’t get you. Then who did I kill, Cock Robin?”

  “I spent some time up in Palm Point nosing around and asking about you.”

  She looked as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. “What? You were in Palm Point?” Her eyes widened. “You asked about me up there?”

  “I dropped in at Knockers. You’ve some nice friends in there. One of them mentioned you dating a married guy. Some electrician...Gary something?”

  “You talked with him?”

  “I went straight to his wife. She was happy to speak with me. She’s still upset about you screwing him—go figure. She said one night she followed the two of you to a neighborhood bar north of town called the Jolly Roger. I drove over there. The bartender remembered you bringing your breasts in there several times with Gary and also with some big shot.”

  Priscilla’s mouth dropped.

  “The fifty grand didn’t come from Brad. It came from the big shot, didn’t it? It was the payoff.”

  “You don’t know shit. So I’m seen with some heavy-hitter. That's your story?”

  “I started tracing the guy. You know who I came up with, Jack Bichadel. You used to date him. Probably met at Knockers. He was rich, you wanted money, and he knew it. Later he had a problem with one of his employees, and he thought of you. You’re a hired killer.”

  “You have your head stuck up somewhere. None of this has anything to do with Brad.”

  “I know what it has to do with and I know how you did it.”

  “You couldn’t know. Nobody knows.”

  “Everyone was guessing whether or not you had killed Brad. You hadn’t planned it that way, but it was a nice smoke screen to cover up what you were actually guilty of. You didn’t care as long as no one was talking about the courtyard murder. The police were going crazy trying to pin his suicide on you instead of the actual murder. That was okay with you, wasn’t it? But the suspicions kept growing, got out of hand and you lost control. Now you’re behind bars.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “My guess is Jack Bichadel gave you the gun and told you exactly how to pull it all off. How to phone Martin and mention sexy photos. How to lure Margaret Frome down to a meeting after dark in the courtyard. And how to frame Robert Frome for his wife's murder.”

  “That case is closed. Her husband shot her and hung himself as the police moved in.”

  “Then who took a shot at me? It also bothered me that Martin definitely received a phone call from a woman. If the husband was the only person involved, then who was the woman who made the phone call?”

  Priscilla said, “That Margaret woman phoned him to meet her there.”

  “Why phone? She didn’t need to sneak down to the courtyard if her husband was out of town. Why meet in the courtyard or in public at all? Why not drop around to Martin’s office, or have him come up to her apartment? No, the late night meeting had to be a setup. So I wondered who the woman was who spoke with a southern accent. I remembered you could easily fake a southern accent because you had done it perfectly performing Stella in Streetcar. Isn’t that what your drama instructor told you? That was clever of you on the phone pretending to be Margaret Frome.”

  “Wasn’t me. I was at the Beachland Club all night, I’ve got witnesses.”

  “Who in hell do you think you’re dealing with? Of course, I checked at the club. The bartender and one server said you were there that night. They don’t remember the exact time. My guess is you snuck out, changed into the pizza boy outfit—which in fact was just a cheap blue jacket, your hair up under any sort of cap and an empty pizza box. It’s only a four-block drive to the Azul Del Mar condo. You shot her, took the manila folder out of the pizza box, put the gun back in and strolled out. No one pays any attention to pizza delivery guys. Didn’t take much role-playing. Then you went back to the club for another drink and dance.”

  “Okay, go to the head of the class. None of this is going to do you any good.”

  There it was. She had confessed in so many words. Just keep her talking. “You screwed up by not placing the manila envelope in her lap before you shot her. And why the envelope anyway? There never were any photos, were there? I suppose you wanted us to think photos actually existed, and the husband grabbed them and left the envelope.”

  “Yeah, Bic came up with that gimmick. Martin didn’t know her, so I just needed to disguise my voice somehow on the phone. That was fun. I could tell Martin bought the whole gig. I was to talk about the sexy photos as though they were the big problem between husband and wife. Then the envelope found on the body would connect the husband to the shooting instead of some outsider.”

  “And then we inadvertently tipped you off to Ted Cobalt when we mentioned we were going to meet him late one night in the office. You ran the name past Bichadel. He started watching Ted, became convinced he was the one Margaret passed the files to. That’s when his goons followed him to Park Beach and tried to kill him and me to recover the documents.”

  “Do you have any idea how you’re screwing everything up? I didn’t know there were bitches like you who just run all over the place finding out stuff about people that’s none of their business.”

  “Don’t you hate it when that happens?” Sandy was pleased that Priscilla’s reactions confirmed many of her suspicions. “Where did you learn to handle a gun?”

  “Lots of cops around Knockers. I dated one who showed me some stuff. I told Bic I couldn’t hit a barn. He said just press the barrel up against her forehead, hold your breath and don’t close your eyes as you pull the trigger.”

  Sandy noticed the woman’s eyes never flickered as she described cold-blooded murder. Sandy didn’t hear the rest of the words. She thought of Margaret sitting there in the courtyard frozen with fear as Priscilla brought the gun closer and closer to her face. The woman had just admitted to one of the most brutal crimes possible. Sandy was thinking that by jumping up suddenly she could stretch over the table and smash Priscilla hard in the face. She took her hands off the table quickly and clenched them into fists. Her pulse was racing, and she started feeling tightness as she visualized doing it. At that moment, a wave of nausea came over her. She stopped to take a few breaths. The intense anger passed.

  Priscilla must have sensed something as she leaned back. “I’m sorry she’s dead, but I had my own problems. Don’t you understand that?”

  “You took a life. You took someone’s life away from them for a lousy fifty grand.”

  “One hundred.”

  “What?”

  “Bic gave me fifty thousand cash up front. It was the second half that went into my bank account when the job was complete.”

  “Where’s the first half?”

 
“Paid some bills, unbelievable credit cards, bought a bunch of stuff.”

  Any sympathy Sandy harbored for this woman had faded. “And let’s not forget you tried to kill me as well. I suppose you’re sorry you took a shot at me, but after all you’ve got your own problems.”

  “Just trying to scare you off—wasn’t aiming at you. Bic didn’t know about my shooting at you. Actually, he’d told me to get rid of the gun immediately.”

  “Instead you waited then tossed it in the dumpster at the victim’s condo to keep suspicion on the husband.”

  “Why am I even talking to you about this? I’m not arrested for shooting that woman, and you’ve no fucking proof.”

  “I was tipped off when you told Jaworski the fifty grand came from Brad. I knew it didn’t. It dawned on me the money had trapped you. You couldn’t explain it. If Brad hadn’t died, no one would ever have checked your bank account. You wouldn’t have needed to explain anything. That money in your account is a big reason why you’re sitting on that side of the table right now. You had to say it came from Brad. You couldn’t admit it came from Bichadel.”

  “Yeah, Jaworski was trying to trap me. He comes out with he knows the money came from Brad. I wanted to deny it but how else could I explain it? No way was I going to mention Bic. You know, no one except you has me connected to the courtyard shooting.”

  “We all have our cross to bear—I’m yours. So, the second fifty grand from Bichadel went into your account, and you bought the Prius. Brad never gave you anything.” Sandy now understood it all, however, there was still no hard evidence.

  She paused to consider what she was about to do. She had decided to commit a crime of omission: she would withhold the evidence of Brad’s intention to commit suicide. If she came forward with Brad’s note, Priscilla would go free. She shuddered with the thought that she had the power to frame the woman for the murder of Brad merely by keeping quiet. Wouldn’t that be justice?

  Priscilla said, “You can’t prove any of this.”

  “I don’t need to prove it. All I need do is keep my mouth shut and you stay in prison for killing Brad. If the judge had a fight with his wife that morning, he could put you on death row.”

  She squinted, not getting it at first. Sandy watched as the woman’s expression went from confusion, through disbelief and eventually to angry understanding. “Wait a minute...wait a damn minute. I didn’t kill Brad.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And you have no proof that I killed Margaret Frome.”

  “I don’t fucking care.”

  Priscilla jumped up kicking her chair back. The guard rushed over and gave her a warning.

  “That’s not fair. I could die if you keep quiet!”

  Sandy thought sadly about young Margaret Frome who would never get to finish her life and her brokenhearted husband swinging from the ceiling fan in the home he once shared quietly with her. Sandy looked down at the back of her right hand. “And I would die if I didn’t keep quiet.”

  “But you positively know that I’m innocent of killing Brad.”

  “People know what they want to know, kiddo.”

  Priscilla clenched her hands into tight fists. The color in her face had faded and was now a washed out pink. Sandy tried to keep her own tenseness hidden.

  “You’ve no proof that I killed Margaret Frome. You’re playing judge and jury.”

  “You left out executioner.”

  “I’m not even arrested for the courtyard shooting.”

  “I run a lousy courtroom.”

  “You’re not permitted your own courtroom. You have to follow the law. A little goody-two-shoes like you shouldn’t do this. This is wrong. I could be in prison for years.”

  “Think of it as a new start.”

  “Up yours. I don’t need your damn suicide testimony anyway. I’ll be out of here fast. Bic’s got a whole building full of high-powered lawyers.”

  “I just love sticking pins in your balloons. Right now, he has all those lawyers busy keeping himself away from you and the courtyard murder. He doesn’t want any connection with you now.”

  “He won’t do that. He said he’d set me up in a public relations business and give me the Bichadel corporate account.”

  “What he’s giving you is the shaft.” Sandy could sense the waves of desperation starting to drift across the table. Yet, nailing Priscilla wasn’t good enough; Sandy wanted Jack Bichadel to receive a lethal injection. With Priscilla’s cooperation and some luck, Sandy might hit upon a solid link between her and Bichadel. Something good enough to go after him as a murder conspirator. Under Florida law, conspirators face the same first-degree murder penalty regardless of who pulls the trigger.

  “He doesn’t want me running to the cops. I’ll spill my guts out. Everything I know. I’ll cooperate in his prosecution. With me, they can nail the big guy.”

  “Do you know why he wanted Margaret Frome out of the way?”

  “No, why?”

  “I didn’t think you knew. You’ve no evidence to tie him to it, and you’re not even aware of his motive for wanting her dead. You can’t go to the state attorney for a deal because you’ve nothing to trade.”

  “I hate this stupid town. Park Beach sucks. It’s the ass end of nowhere. And I never thought I could hate someone so much as you.”

  “Ain’t life a bitch? Face it, Prissy. You committed murder for a lying male. Didn’t your mother warn you about such men? Bichadel screwed you. He gets both you and Margaret out of his life. You get a bunch of worthless promises, a new car you can’t drive in prison and free room and board for life.”

  “I can prove we had an affair.”

  “That’s kid’s stuff. You’re saying he’s connected to the murder because you slept with him a few times? He’ll laugh it off. You’re just some easy lay he discarded who’s mouthing off. Rest assured before a smart guy like him would hand you a hundred grand and a lethal weapon, he erased all connections with you. I’m in awe of your ability to delude yourself.”

  “It’s not working out, is it?” She sank down in her chair. “All I wanted to do was to change my life. You know what bothers me?”

  “Men who ignore you?”

  “No, all that women’s liberation bullshit. They can shove it. It doesn’t give you what you need. Marrying a rich guy is where it’s at. You gotta have a man with money otherwise you have to work and worry about taking care of a lot of dumb stuff. The job at Knockers isn’t too bad, but they expect you to work almost every day. It’s fun showing off and watching all the guys making asses out of themselves while trying to act cool. But how many millionaires are going to stroll through that place? For a while, I thought I had a chance with Bic. I was hoping we might get closer after I helped him out. Once he did say he wanted me as a friend with benefits.”

  “Where’s the benefit, Prissy? Is he going to buy you health insurance?”

  “Brad would have been a good catch, except he was already married. I’m not against breaking up a marriage, but that takes a lot of time.”

  “I suppose it’s easier with a single guy who can suddenly get the hots and fly you off to Vegas on the Honeymoon Express.”

  “Brad had the money, but I was just a great lay to him. Martin isn’t poor, but he’s sort of a tightwad. He took to me immediately and treated me as if I was special. Wanted to know what I was thinking. How I felt about things. And what I was going to do with my life. How many guys stay around in bed long enough to ask about your hopes and dreams? I almost had him.”

  “You weren’t even in the game with Martin. What do you have left right now out of that hundred grand? Twenty, thirty thousand? Not even enough for a retainer. Your attorney will zip through your money like a fraternity through a beer keg. Takes a lot of money to fight a murder charge. You’re going to end up broke and still in prison. You’re going to be innocent until proven penniless.”

  “Why me? Why was I singled out for all this trouble?”

  “You sound like
an alley cat saying, ‘What did I do to deserve all these kittens?’”

  Priscilla looked down at her cuffed wrists. “This is horrible and isn’t fair.” Her voice was now tense and high pitched. “I didn’t kill Brad.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I just said I’m going to see that you die in prison for it.”

  “You know, the whole plan didn’t seem too difficult. It wasn’t personal or anything like that. It wasn’t like I knew her.” She moved closer and forced a smile. “You’ve got to save my ass. Please Sandy, I’ll do anything.”

  Sandy was waiting for those words. An admission of defeat. She thought about Jack Bichadel going free, going about his slimy business, getting away with murder. There must be a way to get him. “We must come up with a piece of solid evidence that links you to Bichadel. A link that changes all this into a sensational murder-for-hire case. When you accuse him with that link in your pocket, the state attorney will be extremely interested.”

  “That’s no sort of deal. I stay in prison either way. Why should I help you nail Bic?”

  “Because without my help the most happiness you’ll have for the rest of your life will be the ten minute breaks from your job of cleaning crap out of the seat of men’s jumpsuits in the prison laundry. Because all of your friends will smell worse than you do. Because you’re going to look like shit within six months, and that’s how you’re going to stay for the rest of your life.”

  Her face screwed up in pain, but she sat silent listening to every syllable.

  “On the other hand, how about getting back at Bichadel for using you and then leaving you to take all the blame? After both of you are indicted, I’ll come forward and get you off the hook for Brad’s death. Things will go easier for your sentencing when I inform the court of your cooperation. Personally, I believe you should serve serious time, but eventually you’ll get out. However, it won’t work unless we have the golden link between you and Jack Bichadel.”

  “Like what?”