Seeing the Light (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 1)

by E. C. Bell

  The big guy shifted uncomfortably. He had no idea what he was holding in his hand, and since there was no-one to beat up or squeeze the life out of, he obviously wanted to shift the thinking duties to someone else.

  “You wanna see it? Yeah. I’m on my way.” He clicked off the phone, and heaved a sigh as he kicked the Navigator to high gear, heading to the good end of down town.

  I crossed my fingers, hoping wherever he was heading was within my stupid ten block radius, and for once, I was in luck. At nine and a half blocks, we stopped in front of a glass and steel tower, and the bruiser shoehorned himself out of the Navigator. He entered the building, heading for the elevators. It didn’t take long before we were packed in that elevator with a lot of other people, and let me tell you, I was making many of them extremely nervous. We shot up to the twenty-first floor. It didn’t surprise me at all when I saw the name on the door as the bruiser pushed his way into the office. “C&R Holdings.” Coulda made money on a bet like that.

  The bruiser barely glanced at the petite woman sitting behind the desk as he walked to a door to an interior office. As he reached out to put his hand on the door knob, the door flew open and Carruthers stepped through, acting a lot less cool, calm, and collected than usual. The big guy jumped back like a frightened girl.

  Without a look up—way up—Carruthers hooked a finger at the guy and turned back into his office. The bruiser followed, as meek as a lamb. He shut the door behind him, then stood, quietly, before the desk.

  “I told you to take care of Marie Jenner,” he said.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” the big guy replied, but he sounded nervous. Really nervous. “I think you want to see what she handed me.”

  “Give them to me,” Carruthers said, and the big guy handed over the envelope, apologizing quietly for having ripped it. Carruthers paid him no heed, placing the sheets of paper before him on the desk and staring at them, going from one to the next very deliberately. If the vein on his forehead hadn’t started to throb, you would’ve sworn he was reading the Sunday funnies.

  “That idiot!” he finally growled. “I told him to treat his wife with more respect. Look at this!”

  The big guy obediently stared down at the pages on the desk top. They were upside down, and he had no clue what they meant anyway, but he stared at them all the same. “Just look at what that idiot has done,” Carruthers said again, his voice sounding strangled.

  “Yeah boss.” The big guy hung there, staring at the pages, waiting for his next instructions.

  “I have had just about enough of Miss Marie Jenner,” Carruthers said. “She has to go.” He tapped the photocopies of the bank statements. “So does Helen Latterson, unfortunately. Make her disappear. Make them both disappear. Understand?”

  “Yeah, sure thing, boss.” He turned to leave, stopping when Carruthers rapped his knuckles, hard, on his desk. “This gets handled today. Both of them. Today! Understand?”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  “Try not to hurt the kids.”

  The big guy nodded, then his forehead knotted. “What about the guy the Jenner broad is hanging around with?”

  “The caretaker? Eliminate him, too. He’s nothing to me.”

  “Got it.”

  So did I. I got it in spades. I needed to get back to Marie before the big guy found them and killed them. Killed them all.

  Marie:

  Breakfast, and What Happened After That

  Breakfast was great, until Farley came back. I was slopping a piece of brown toast in the last of the egg yolk left on my plate when he burst into the restaurant, screaming his head off.

  “Helen!” he yelled, flying through a number of patrons, and putting about half the breakfast crowd off their eggs and bacon. “It’s Helen!”

  I was proud of myself. I didn’t jump when he exploded into the room screaming like a banshee. I wanted to enjoy the last of my breakfast, and nipped off a piece of the yolk-soaked bread, and rolled my eyes at him. So the big guy actually had been sent by Mrs. Latterson. What could possibly be the problem with that?

  “It’s Helen!” he yelled again. Louder this time. As though he thought it would help.

  “So, do you think Mrs. Latterson will pay that invoice?” I asked James. “Or will she try to stiff us for that, too?”

  “Only if the big guy was really working for her,” James said. “However, Sergeant Worth can deal with that.” He turned back to his own piece of toast, which was generously slathered with strawberry jam.

  I gave Farley my best “What’s your problem” look, and turned back to my meal.

  “The guy who picked up the envelope wasn’t sent by Helen Latterson,” Farley said. “He was one of George Carruthers’ goons. Carruthers sent him to talk to you about the $50,000 cheque. You remember that? He hadn’t heard from you, and was making absolutely sure you were doing what you’d promised. “

  I gasped. It was Tuesday. He’d been expecting a call from me, thanking him for the $50,000, and promising I would leave town, and stay out of his life forever. Instead, I’d sent him an invoice intended for Latterson’s wife, with photocopies of the bank statements that showed Carruthers had paid Latterson two days before Farley had been killed.

  “He took one look at the bank statements and went ballistic,” Farley continued. “He said that you had just signed Latterson’s wife’s death warrant, and told the goon you both had to die. Jesus, Marie, the goon is going to Helen’s house right now, because of what was in that envelope. And he’s going to kill you next! So quit screwing around with the toast and call the fucking cops! Right now!”

  I threw down my knife and fork and pushed my chair back so fast it slammed into the chair behind it.

  “I have to go,” I said to James, who was staring at me, openmouthed, strawberry jam dripping from his toast. “I have to make a phone call.”

  “Right now? You’re not finished with your breakfast —” Then he really looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Please pay the bill and come up to the office. I’ll tell you as much as I can when you get there. God, I have to go!”

  I dashed for the door, more frightened than I had been in a long time. I could feel James watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face, but I didn’t have time for him. I had to phone the police.

  I tried getting hold of Sergeant Worth, but her phone was still going to voicemail, so I dialed 911 instead. Explained everything as well as I could, and that Sergeant Worth should be informed. “Please send police to Helen Latterson’s house right now. She’s going to be killed, and it’s because of me. Something I did. You’ve got to save her. Please!”

  I was still on the phone when Farley came in. I was impatiently drumming on the desk with my fingernails, then really had a look at them. They were ragged. The past few days had done nothing for my manicure.

  “You and Jimmy boy are in trouble, too,” he said. “Did you mention that?”

  No, I hadn’t. In my haste to try to save Helen, I’d forgotten that James and I were next on Carruthers’ kill list.

  “I think I’m a target too,” I said. Saying it out loud like that frightened me so much, I started to cry. “Please stop him. Please.”

  I grabbed an invoice sitting on the desk and read the address to the operator. “That’s where I am. Please hurry. Yes. I will. Yes I’ll stay on the line. Thank you. Thank you.”

  I covered the receiver with one hand, and leaned back in my seat, suddenly too exhausted to move.

  “Everything I do turns to shit,” I whispered. “I can’t keep going on like this.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Farley said, looking like he couldn’t believe he was going to have to give me the “Come on, buck up speech,” not when there was a hired thug coming to do major damage if the cops didn’t catch him first.

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even put the phone back up to my ear, even though I could hear the emergency operator calling my name. I sat in the chair like a r
ag doll, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Not everything you do turns to shit,” he said.

  “Name something that hasn’t.”

  He thought for a bit.

  “Can’t think of one thing, can you?” I knew he wouldn’t be able to. It was all my fault.

  “Well, not off the top of my head, but give me a minute.” He thought a bit more, and then shrugged. “You’ve had an eventful couple of weeks.”

  He tried to keep his voice light, like I had all the time in the world. Like there wasn’t a big, probably ugly guy coming to kill me. Still I couldn’t move. It was all my fault.

  “You can think all day,” I said. “You won’t come up with anything.”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “Yes, I’m still here,” I said to the 911 operator, and then slapped my hand over the receiver again.

  “What should I do now?”

  “I would suggest getting the hell out of here,” he said. “If you want to live.”

  “First I have to get rid of some of those files,” I turned on the computer. “Before the cops get here.”

  I clicked on the Farley file, and deleted the document that James had read. The one about Farley moving through the Three Phases.

  “What was wrong with me?” I asked. “Starting a file like that?”

  “Maybe you wanted somebody to find it,” Farley said. “Maybe you want somebody to know your secrets.”

  “No,” I said, making absolutely sure the deleted document was gone, never to be retrieved. “If people knew everything about me, they’d think I was crazy or something. And then they’d leave.”

  “Not everybody leaves,” Farley said. Then he glanced over at the half-closed door and frowned. “Where is Jimmy? It wouldn’t take a monkey this long to pay a fucking restaurant bill.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I opened the document I’d taken from Carruthers’ computer called “my bio” and stared at it, wondering if I needed it, or if I should delete it too.

  “Did I tell you that I finished reading Carruthers’ biography? He met Don Latterson in college. They were best buds.”

  “Interesting,” Farley said. “I guess.”

  I decided to keep it, and moved on to the next document. It was the spreadsheet Carruthers had put together, showing how he would turn downtown Edmonton into Las Vegas north, if he could just get rid of the Palais. That one needed to stay, too.

  Farley looked back at the door. “I have a suggestion, since it looks like you’re not going to leave this office. Instead of dicking around with the computer, why don’t you come up with ways to protect yourself?”

  “Why? We got them,” I said, holding up the receiver. “It’s all good.”

  “Just call it a feeling,” he replied. “At least lock the fucking door. Something.”

  I shook my head. “I have to wait for James.”

  Farley frowned and pointed at the partially open door. “Maybe that’s who I hear,” he said. “I think he’s listening to you, Marie.”

  “Jesus,” I growled. “Just what I need.”

  If James was outside that door eavesdropping on me, after all our talk about being able to keep our own secrets until we were ready to divulge, then it was a good thing I’d called the police. I was going to kill him.

  I dropped the telephone receiver on the desk and stormed over to the door.

  “James,” I said, flinging open the door. “You promised my secrets were my own.”

  That’s when I found James lying unconscious in the doorway of the outer office, and George Carruthers standing outside the door, listening to every word I’d said.

  See? I was right. Everything I touch does turn to shit.

  Marie:

  Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun

  I always thought if I ever found myself face to face with a maniac with a gun that I’d keep my cool and figure out a way to disarm him, possibly with a neat karate move or something. It didn’t happen quite that way.

  I barely even saw Carruthers past the barrel of the gun. It looked huge, and deadly, and I knew at that instant that I was going to die. So, I screamed like a girl and tried to slam the door shut. It didn’t work. Carruthers got his foot in the door, then muscled his way inside.

  I made a move toward the desk, thinking that if I could get the desk between him and me, I’d be a teeny bit safe. “Stand perfectly still,” Carruthers said, in a slow measured tone that did nothing to make me feel any better at all.

  I stopped, and went back to staring at the black hole of the business end of the gun. It was starting to look a mile across.

  “Where’s your friend?” he asked.

  “He’s out there with his head kicked in, you bastard!” Farley yelled.

  I didn’t say a word. Just stared at the gun, and tried to keep from wetting myself.

  Carruthers looked around. “I heard you talking to someone in here. Who was it?”

  “I’m right here, you prick!” Farley screamed, which did no good whatsoever.

  “There’s no one here but me.” I tried to make my eyes move, to look at Carruthers, but I couldn’t. They were glued to the end of that gun. “I was talking to myself.”

  “Oh.” Carruthers glanced around the room, then back at me. “You talk to yourself. Well, who knew.” He brought the gun up a hair, so that is was pointing at my head. “Stand perfectly still. You and I need to have a talk.”

  I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. I felt absolutely frozen.

  “Good girl.” Carruthers took a deep quick breath in, and blew it out, as though steadying himself. “Very good. Now I want to be very clear about this next bit, because if I’m not and you screw it up and I end up killing you, I would feel bad. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Where have you put the originals?”

  “The what?” I could barely breathe out the words.

  “The original documents. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I hazarded a glance up at him, and wished I hadn’t. Believe it or not, the look on that man’s face was more frightening than the gun barrel. He looked like he was ready to pull that trigger. Like he didn’t care whether he got the documents. Like he just wished I was dead.

  “Quit playing with me, girl. I’ve had as much as I can stand. You have fucked up EVERYTHING—” and he suddenly screamed the words as fury overtook him—“EVERYTHING since the Palais. You stole my files from the computer in my old office, and you read my biography, which is in the first draft stage and you should never read the first draft of anything . . .”

  He took another deep breath, trying to pull himself together, and then spoke in a monotone that scared me more than his screaming fit had. “Get me the bank statements you stole from Don Latterson’s office right now, before I put a bullet between your eyes. Have I made myself clear yet?”

  “Yes. You have. Please don’t kill me, I know what you want now, I was scared, they’re in the desk drawer, can I go back and get them?”

  I had no idea where James had put the originals of the bank statements. I just needed to figure out a way to keep the maniac from pulling that trigger before the cops arrived. The emergency operator was still on the line, and if I could just get close enough to the receiver, she’d hear everything.

  Finally, I’d have a witness who wasn’t dead. If I could survive the next five minutes.

  I was so afraid, I could barely control the shaking of my hands as I pointed at the desk. Carruthers took a menacing step toward me, and I cowered back.

  “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me,” I begged. “I’ll do whatever you want. I promise. Just don’t pull the trigger. Please!”

  “Jesus, shut up!” he barked. “Yes, go to the desk. Get them, right now.”

  I skittered over to the desk, trying not to look at the telephone receiver sitting next to the keyboard. “Do you want me to delete your biography from this computer?” I asked. My voice sounded so shaky, I almo
st didn’t recognize it.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Delete all the files. You have three minutes.”

  “All the files off the computer? I’ll need more time than that.” The gun came up and aimed between my eyes again, and I nodded. “Okay.”

  Very carefully, I sat down at the keyboard. “I’ll delete the files first, okay?” I said. I started clicking on the keyboard, my hands still shaking so badly, I couldn’t make the stupid thing work properly, and all I brought up was one of James’ dead uncle’s Solitaire games. I deleted it, and Carruthers smiled. He obviously thought I’d deleted some of his stuff. So I clicked on one more of the Solitaire games, and deleted it, too. Just as long as he stayed on the other side of the desk, I didn’t need to lose any of the proof I’d gathered. However, if he decided to watch what I was doing, and caught me deleting nothing more than Solitaire games, I was dead. Literally dead.

  “Once I’m done here, I’ll get the bank statements,” I said. My voice sounded strangled. “Would that be all right?”

  “Whatever.” Carruthers acted bored, and the stubby nose of the gun pointed down, a little. “I have a meeting in half an hour, and it’s across town.”

  “Oh.”

  I heard a faint noise from the reception area of the office. I glanced up at Carruthers’ face, but he didn’t look like he’d heard it. “What kind of meeting?” I asked.

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?” Farley cried. He looked absolutely beside himself, but I wished he’d shut up. I needed to listen, hard. “He’s a fucking looney, don’t antagonize him . . . “

  I chanced a glare at him, and he looked confused, but shut his mouth. Thank goodness. If James was waking up, we were still in lots of trouble. But if it was the police . . .

  “It’s none of your business, little girl,” Carruthers said. He brought the gun barrel back up to level. “Get to work on those files. You have two minutes.”

  “No, a minute can’t have passed yet,” I said. “Are you sure a minute’s gone by?”

  I glanced past him to the half-open door, seeing a grand total of nothing in the darkened reception area. I hammered away at the keys, bringing up files and deleting, deleting. “It only felt like a half minute,” I said. “Maybe even less than that. Maybe it’s because you have a gun pointed at me that time feels like it’s slowing down. Is that the way that works? If a gun is pointed at your face, time slows down, but if you’re holding the gun, time seems to go by quicker?”