by Anne Frasier
“A little.” He draped the cloth over his eyes.
That probably meant not at all. “You should go home for at least a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be okay,” he mumbled. “We need to give the theater one last pass before the crime-scene status is lifted. I’ll be ready to go soon.”
Five minutes later, Jude put her empty cup in the sink, Uriah tossed the wet paper towel in the trash, and they headed for the elevators and the parking garage and Minnehaha Creek Theater. Jude drove the unmarked car, Uriah looking deceptively casual in the reclined passenger seat, dark sunglasses covering his eyes.
Once in the Longfellow neighborhood, Jude cruised slowly up and down streets, looking for anything odd or out of place. Along the way, at various points, she stopped the car and they both got out to talk to people, flashing badges, passing out business cards. If anyone had the slightest bit of something to share, Jude wrote down names and numbers, which would be entered into the case’s database when they were back downtown. Some people were cautious and reserved, but most couldn’t wait to share what they knew or often didn’t know. Sorting through the people who just wanted to feel like a part of the investigation was tedious and time consuming, but it had to be done.
“This neighborhood’s gone downhill fast,” said a woman with a stroller, standing in front of a coffee shop with the peculiar name of Dark Soul. “People are always wantin’ to blame the blackouts, but that’s not what’s happening here. It was going on before that. We need more cops who care. More cops on foot and not in their cars. What about horses? I know they have horses downtown. We should get horses too.”
“I’ll pass on your concerns,” Jude said without trying to explain that those things cost money they didn’t have. She turned to let Uriah know it was time to go, and was surprised to see him squatting in front of the stroller, glasses on top of his head, entertaining the baby with a toy.
The sight was jarring. Maybe it was the collision of two worlds, the normal and the world they lived in—the world of evil beasts who killed for pleasure. But it was also the knowledge that if his wife had lived, he might have a baby of his own now. Death, no matter how it came, changed the course of a life.
A baby . . . She remembered a time when she’d wanted a child, or at least thought she’d eventually have one. Uriah could still go down that road, but she couldn’t fathom anything like that for herself anymore.
He straightened, dropped his glasses over his eyes, and waved good-bye to the little girl.
Outside the theater, they excused themselves to slip through a mob of bystanders and reporters several bodies deep. The perimeter had been narrowed, and the street and sidewalk were no longer blocked. Memorial photos leaned against a decorative wall, along with bouquets, burned and unburned candles, and signs, some written to the killer. Get ready for a life sentence. And: You won’t get away with this.
Their certainty of a quick arrest made Jude uneasy. She wasn’t feeling that confident.
A cop unlocked the door, and Jude and Uriah ducked under the yellow tape to slip inside the building, the deadbolt falling into place behind them. Just the two of them this time. Decorative wall sconces threw light toward an ornate ceiling. The scent of popcorn still lingered.
“Is this as strange as I think it is?” Uriah asked, eyeing the string of plastic evidence cards still on the floor.
She knew what he meant. “The smell of popcorn signals entertainment, however inaccurate that might be right now.”
“We have to rule out someone connected to the theater,” Uriah said.
“I’ll have Detective McIntosh get a list of employees dating back several years,” Jude told him. “But I don’t think we’ll find anything.”
“Just something to eliminate.”
“Agreed. Let’s say there’s no connection to the other two murders,” Jude said. “Is it possible this was supposed to be a massacre and the plan went awry?”
“Unfortunately, people being killed in public places is on a sharp increase, but I’d tend to throw out your theory simply due to the method.”
They pulled out their phones and took photos.
The theater could screen two movies at one time. They searched the adjoining room, finishing with the projection booth. Tomorrow a crime-scene-cleanup company called After the Fact would come in and remove all traces of blood and death. The seats the victims had died in would probably be replaced, but maybe not. A few days later the theater would reopen and the morbidly curious would buy tickets, some just wanting to see the room where horrendous things had happened, others hoping to sit in the actual spot of a murder. It could be good business.
“How’s your head?” she asked once they were back in the car. Somehow it had gotten dark while they were inside.
“Not good.”
“You need to pace yourself.” She eased the car away from the curb. “Let’s both go home, get some sleep, start in again tomorrow.”
He didn’t argue, which meant he must have felt worse than he let on.
His phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and answered in a deceptively strong voice. Then he lied to the caller and said he was feeling fine. Jude glanced over. He was talking with his head back, eyes closed, elbow high. “I’m in the car,” he said. “I’ll call you back a little later.” His next words explained the fake-out. “Give my love to Mom.” He disconnected. To Jude he said in a whisper of explanation, “My dad.”
“You’re a little old to be lying to your parents.”
“He doesn’t have a lot to do now that he’s retired, so he worries about weird things.”
She wondered if Uriah was trying to keep her from worrying too.
CHAPTER 11
After returning downtown to drop Uriah off at his car and swap the unmarked vehicle for her bike, Jude headed for her apartment to feed the cat and take a shower. The Powderhorn neighborhood where she lived was continuing to improve now that the blackouts were practically ancient history. Fewer windows were covered with plywood and graffiti, and days ago she’d actually seen a couple pushing a baby in a stroller. While she’d experienced a brief pang of fear for their safety, she’d also been thankful for their bravery. It took guts to move into a high-crime area.
Inside the foyer of her brick apartment building, she unlocked her mailbox and opened the small ornate door, pulling out two envelopes. One was a card from the girl whose life she’d saved. Both Octavia and her mother, Ana, kept in touch, and they’d all gotten together at a café a few times since the rescue. Jude needed that contact to reassure herself that she’d done the right thing.
The card was handmade, cute, with an orange cat on the front and a note inside.
Let’s meet for lunch soon.
The other piece of mail was from the attorney handling her father’s estate. She’d already told him she didn’t want a dime, but the law had to be adhered to, no matter her wishes.
With one finger, she tore open the envelope and unfolded a letter typed on heavy paper. She scanned the legal jargon, all polite, all archaic. The attorney was letting her know several people had come forward claiming to be legal heirs to her father’s estate. DNA tests were being conducted, and she’d be informed if any produced positive results.
No surprise there. People crawled out of the woodwork when a large amount of money was involved. She had no idea what her father’s estate was worth, but it very well could have been millions.
She refolded the paper and tucked it back into the now-ragged envelope. It was entirely possible her father had other children. Part of her hoped they found someone so she could be excluded from the whole business, over and done with. No court appearances, no lawyers—because the killing of her father and brother, though justified, had complicated everything and invoked what the court system referred to as “the slayer rule.” Normally, a killer couldn’t benefit financially from the person he or she killed. But Jude’s case was different because it could be proven that she’d killed them to sa
ve lives, even though those deaths left her in line for the full inheritance.
She didn’t want it. Not any of it.
“Hi.”
Jude slammed her box closed and turned to see her downstairs neighbor standing a few feet away. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by the letter, and she hadn’t heard him. That didn’t happen very often. He could have attacked her, grabbed her, dragged her off. She had to be more vigilant.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
For all her intuition, she was having trouble figuring him out. Not that she gave him much thought, but she tried to be aware of the people around her, especially the person living below her, pounding on the ceiling in the middle of the night.
She knew his name was Elliot. She’d checked the mailbox shortly after he moved in. First name only. He gave the impression of someone who might be a student, older, nontraditional, someone who’d gone back to school a little later in life, although he had to be several years younger than she was, and seemed more like a kid than an adult. Maybe she guessed student because she found it hard to imagine what kind of job he might have, so she stuck him in a school.
“That’s okay.” She gave him the smile she always gave him, the one that didn’t reach her eyes. The one that didn’t invite conversation, and didn’t invite scrutiny. In the past, her friendly chill had worked. But today he seemed a little more determined.
“I’m thinking about adopting a cat,” he said, “and was wondering if you could recommend a rescue shelter.”
“No idea.” With her back to him, she headed up the stairs. He lived on the third floor, so he jogged up the steps beside her. She tried to ignore him.
“You have a cat. I’ve seen you carrying litter,” he rushed to explain. “I thought maybe you got him somewhere nearby.”
“I didn’t.” She paused on the landing of his floor. “Well, actually, I did. He was feral and I fed him. It just kind of happened.”
He smiled, and she felt a basic human response she didn’t want to feel. Because she understood what he was doing. Trying to get to know her, maybe for romance or sex, but the odds of that being the reason seemed remote. She no longer thought of herself as attractive, and he’d have a much better chance with pretty much anybody else.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a journalist?” That would make sense. Someone like him, someone who wasn’t downtrodden, wasn’t seeking darkness, who looked almost too normal, moving in, asking questions. She could feel his secrets.
“I’m not a journalist. And what if I was?” He pulled out a set of keys and paused in front of his apartment door.
Playing it cool. Most people in Minneapolis knew who she was and what had happened to her. For him to pretend there was no reason a journalist would find her interesting revealed a lot about him. He might have as many secrets as she had.
“Okay, a writer.” Now she followed him, stopping a few feet away, face to face. “Better not write a story about me.” Her voice was like a finger poke to his chest, and he recoiled slightly, taken aback.
He was nice looking. It wasn’t fair, but she was especially suspicious of nice-looking guys; her father and brother had used their looks to get what they wanted, no matter how twisted their desires. Shoulder-length dark hair, sometimes secured in a ponytail at the back of his neck. Well-worn leather bracelet that might or might not have significance. Maybe purchased on a trip to another country, or given to him by a girlfriend or family member who was dead now. Or picked up at Electric Fetus just because he liked it. His irises were almost as dark as his pupils, and his skin tone hinted of mixed race. Jeans, untucked flannel shirt, close shaven. He looked like someone who showered every day, and he always seemed to be wearing clean clothes. That in itself made him stand out in this neighborhood. And made her more suspicious.
“I’m not a writer.” He shrugged. “I’m just a guy who wants to adopt a cat.”
“What do you do for a living?” Her tone was meant to be intimidating.
“Forget it.” He spun around.
As he was inserting the key, she slammed an open palm against his door. He lived right below her. Their beds were probably just yards apart; she needed him to know he shouldn’t mess with her. “What do you do for a living?”
“I can tell you what I don’t do.” He looked at her over his shoulder, all friendliness gone from his face. She suddenly regretted her aggressive response, because she missed the friendliness already. But his next words solidified her earlier suspicions: she couldn’t trust anyone. “I don’t scream in the middle of the night,” he said. “And I didn’t kill my father and brother. Yeah, I know who you are. Everybody in this building knows who you are. I’m just a guy who thought you might need a friend or even just a neighbor to lend a hand now and then. I’m just a guy who’s interested in getting a cat.” The key engaged, and he stepped inside his apartment and slammed the door in her face.
She thought the unpleasant altercation was over until he shouted at her through the door. “I’m a photography major at the University of Minnesota, if you really want to know. But if I were a writer, I could sure write some shit about you.”
Well, hell. How had this happened? How had she allowed paranoia to take over? He was just the guy who lived downstairs. Nothing more. A student. Her first guess had been right.
Upstairs, Jude found a note from the building manager taped to her door, telling her he’d be coming inside soon to attend to a problem with her shower that was causing a leak in Elliot’s kitchen. She removed the note and tossed it and the lawyer’s letter on the kitchen counter, propped Octavia’s card on the shelf above the couch, fed the cat, showered, and heard a knock on the door. Dressed in a T-shirt and underpants, towel on her head, she checked the peephole. Nobody there. She unlocked the deadbolt and chain.
On the floor in front of her apartment door was a plate with foil over it. On top of the foil was a Post-it note that said Sorry. It was signed Elliot.
A plate of anything left in front of a person’s door was suspicious. She couldn’t help but feel freshly annoyed. If he meant it as a peace offering while knowing her history, he should have also known it was a bad idea. Food of the homemade variety in front of a door immediately signaled a trap. But then again, maybe it wasn’t food at all. She bent over and peeled one corner of the foil back enough to see several Oreos.
Oreos. Now that was funny.
She carried the cookies inside, kicking the door shut behind her. Sitting down on the orange couch that had come with the apartment, she tossed the towel on the floor, opened her laptop, and logged in to her bank account, like she’d been doing every day for the past week. Without looking, she grabbed a cookie and took a bite, thinking, What the hell? The most it can do is kill me.
The money she’d been waiting for was finally in her account, all $20,000 from her 401(k). Talk about arriving at the eleventh hour.
The young man at the financial institute had tried to dissuade her from cashing in her retirement funds, citing the penalty and loss, but she’d been adamant. She needed money and she needed it fast.
She had a house to buy.
CHAPTER 12
Jude tugged a black knit cap over her white hair, slipped on a pair of dark glasses, and walked two blocks to the nearest bus stop. No motorcycle today. She didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to herself.
The bus ride took thirty minutes.
Her last-minute disguise worked. Nobody paid attention to her, which was new. She’d gotten accustomed to people shooting her furtive looks. Some didn’t even try to hide their curiosity and would simply stare. A few would come right out and ask if she was Jude Fontaine. If she said yes, they’d press for details of her imprisonment. Some even asked how it felt to kill her own father. “That’s some cold shit, man. Blood is blood.”
She disembarked at a corner not far from her destination, approaching the rest of the way on foot. As she got closer, she noted the reporters and protesters at the auction site. S
he’d expected press, but not protesters. Some were carrying signs that said the house should be razed, the lot left empty. Interesting.
Vendors were set up along the sidewalk, and people stood in line to buy hot dogs, soda, popcorn, and cotton candy. The grass was already packed down, and flattened snow-cone holders seemed to be the signature litter of the day.
A typical Minnesota fall consisted of one beautiful day after the next, the perfect weather lulling residents into denial of the brutal winter just around the corner. Today was one of those beautiful days. The sky was clear and deep blue, the air crisp but not too cool, and the rich and heady scent of leaves underfoot made the scene almost inviting.
She would have preferred to bid online, but Hennepin County required interested buyers to come in person. At the sign-up desk, located next to a gray van parked under brilliant orange leaves that didn’t look real, Jude was given a bidding paddle—a small piece of cardboard stapled to a wooden handle. Her number was seven, which meant there were at least six others bidding on the house. She hadn’t expected to be the only one, but six was a surprising number. Her chances of getting the property dwindled.
There were maybe a few hundred people there, and the size of the crowd made it easier to blend. Her strategy was to hang back, watch the bidding, and enter at the last moment, after most of the others had dropped out.
The price escalated quickly; she joined in, and with each new bid her heart sank a little. Finally, there were only two bidders left.
She didn’t relent, and her competition finally gave up.
She won, with money left over. What a strange way to put it. Like winning a bad dream. Like winning your own private monster.
She could feel eyes on her, feel the media moving in to question the motives of the woman in the black knit cap and dark glasses. Some probably recognized her.
She had twenty-four hours to get a cashier’s check to the bank.