by Nick Pirog
Something important.
...
I'm surprised to find Lassie still curled up next to me twenty-three hours later. He bats his eyes at me and he still looks tired. I think he would happily have slept for another twenty-three. But I don't have a litter box and I'm guessing he has to take care of business.
I open the door to a small third-story balcony. I have a long dead plant and I rip it from the planter and scatter the remaining dirt in a heaping mound.
Lassie is still on the bed and I tell him, "Go pee and poop on that mound of dirt."
To my absolute amazement, he does.
Holy shit.
"Good dog."
I head to the opposite window and peer out. There are still two police cars parked in front of the house. Crime scene tape has been strung around the perimeter of the wrought iron fence.
I plop down in front of my laptop and pull up the local news.
Young Woman Slain.
Being that Alexandria is only fifteen minutes from the White House and is home to a huge percentage of bigwigs, I expect a bigger story, but the report is just the basics. No name. No age. Simply that a woman was found strangled in the garage of her home in Alexandria. No suspects.
Once Lassie and I have eaten, I call my dad. Knowing he is coming two nights later to play cards, we only chat for a couple minutes. I wait for him to ask about the murder, but he doesn't. I will tell him in person in two days. His face will be priceless.
As for the murder, I wonder if the police have connected the woman to the most powerful man in the world yet. Was she one of Connor Sullivan's aides? An intern?
And what about the President? Who should I tell? Should I write an anonymous email and send it to the Alexandria police. I wasn't so naive that I thought I could accuse the President of the United States of murder and not face some sort of repercussions. No matter how sure I was that it was him – and I was unwaveringly positive – there would be backlash. Not to mention how unbelievable the idea was. First, where was the President's Secret Service? Did they know? Had they arranged the tryst? Did the President somehow sneak from the White House unknown? Could it happen? I wasn't sure. What I did know was that when the President should have been asleep in his bedroom at the White House, he was in the house across the street from me strangling a woman to death.
I'm about to start crafting said email, when I notice a small rectangular card near my front door.
"Grab that card," I tell Lassie.
He jumps off my lap, licks the card, but comes short of retrieving it.
I shake my head at him and grab it.
Ingrid Ray, Alexandria Homicide.
The police had probably spent the better part of yesterday canvassing the neighborhood to see if there were any witnesses. Knocking on my door and not getting an answer, she'd slipped her card under my door. I pull out my cell phone and dial. She would no doubt be asleep, but I plan on leaving a message that I'd heard about the murder, but I hadn't seen anything.
Surprisingly, she answers.
"Ray, Alexandria Homicide."
"Oh, hi, um, my name is Henry Bins. You slipped your card under my door?"
"Where do you live?"
I tell her.
"I'll be there in five." She hangs up.
I look at Lassie and say, "Well, that didn't go according to plan."
...
She shows up seven minutes later.
It is 3:33 a.m.
She has auburn hair held pack in a ponytail. She is clad in jeans and a Washington Redskins hoodie. She doesn't have a trace of makeup on. She doesn't need any. High cheek bones. Brown eyes. Too attractive to be a cop, which probably accounted for her no-nonsense demeanor.
"So, you always up at this time?" she asks, taking a seat at my kitchen table and running her hand over Lassie's arched spine.
I decide for the short answer. "Yep."
"You some sort of weird writer or something?"
"Nope. Day trader."
"It's night. Wouldn't that make you a night trader?"
I smile. "It's day somewhere."
"Right, right. What markets do you trade it? London? Tokyo?"
"Uh, yeah," I manage.
"So, are you up for the day or finishing for the night?"
"Up for the day.” Not a total lie. Only my day has fifteen minutes left. "Early bird and all that."
She forces a smile, then after a deep breath, asks, "You hear about the girl that got killed across the street? You know, between all that trading that you do?"
"Yeah, I heard about it."
"Where?"
"Where what?"
"Where did you hear about it?"
"On the internet."
"Right, you're always on that thing. With all that trading in Tokyo you do."
I force a smile.
It is 3:49.
I have to wrap this up before I pass out in front of this lady or at least before any more of my stupid lies – which I wasn't even sure why I was telling – start to pile any higher.
"You see anything, anybody walking around or anything?"
I shake my head. "I was pretty busy two nights ago, didn't even look out the window."
"Who said anything about two nights ago?" Her eyebrows furrow.
"Oh, I thought I read that she was killed two nights ago? Was she not?" I stammer. "Was she killed last night?"
She stares at me for a couple seconds. "Not sure. Coroner still trying to figure that one out."
"Well, I didn't see anything last night either."
"What about three nights ago. You see anything suspicious three nights ago?"
I shake my head.
"You know her?"
"Who?"
"The girl from across the street. You know her? Ever meet her? Ever take her out for coffee?"
"No. Never met her."
She nods. Stands. "Well, if you hear anything, or remember anything, give me a call."
"I will."
My phone rings. Change that, a phone rings. Not mine. My cell phone is set to the standard BA-RING. This ring is set to chimes.
"You gonna get that?" she asks, nodding towards the couch where my sweat pants and hoodie from the previous night are strewn.
"Naw, probably not important."
"You get a lot of unimportant calls at four in the morning?"
Remember how I'd had a feeling I'd forgotten something? Something important. Well, I had. I try to keep a straight face as I realize the phone ringing is the dead woman's. I'd forgotten to put it back under the car because I'd been overcome by the smell. And doubly stupid, I'd left the phone in the pocket of my sweat pants.
"Tons," I reply to her question.
"How many cell phones do you have?"
"Just the one."
She opens the door, then pulls her cell phone from her pocket and hits a couple buttons. My cell phone, the one in my pocket, BA-RING, BA-RINGs.
She ends the call with a grin. "I'll be in touch Mr. Bins."
And then she's gone.
I look down at Lassie.
"What just happened?"
He didn't know either.
~Four~
I wake up on the couch with the cell phone in my hand. The last thing I remember is pulling the phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and seeing that it is 4:00. I'd attempted to find a decent sleeping position, but had failed. Miserably. I'd slept with my feet up on the sofa and everything else corkscrewing onto the floor.
I can feel the pattern of the carpet on my cheek and know I look like someone has branded my face with a cheese grater. I'm not sure where Lassie slept, but as I roll over onto my back, he appears on my chest and begins licking my forehead.
“Hey, cut that out,” I say, although I kind of enjoy it.
Pushing Lassie off, I stagger to my feet and realize just how angry my spine is (which I'm pretty sure is now shaped like a double helix.)
After a five-minute shower – a minute longer than I ever allow – I
can stand up relatively straight. Opening the fridge, I decide I can't stomach another sandwich and grab a yogurt and a piece of banana bread. Lassie splits both with me.
I pick up my phone to text my dad and see I have three missed calls. All are from the same number. Detective Ray.
Based on my performance from the night before, I'm guessing while I might not be a suspect in the woman's murder, I am at least a person of interest.
I look at the pink Samsung on the counter. How could I have been so stupid? How had I forgotten to put the phone back under the car? But to my credit, had I stayed in the garage a single moment longer, I would have left some very acidic chunks of Henry Bins behind.
I'm not sure what course of action I'm willing to take with the detective. I couldn't give her the phone without her knowing that I had been inside the house. And without the phone, they may never be able to connect the woman to Connor Sullivan.
Conundrum. Check.
I decide my best bet is to write an anonymous letter and mail it, along with the cell phone, to the Alexandria Police Department.
But first, I need to go for a run.
The time is 3:22 a.m.
Lassie is pawing at the front door as I pull the beanie down over my ears.
“What do you want buddy? You want to go outside?”
Meow.
“Promise to come back.”
Meow.
I open the door and he darts out.
The corpse of the woman continuously creeps into my thoughts as I run, but each time I am able to ward it off with a tight squeeze of my eyes and a gaze up at the starry sky. This is my time. Not hers.
After two miles, the muscles in my back start to relax and it no longer hurts each time I inhale. As I head back, a shadow darts out from behind a tree and into my path.
“Ahhh,” I scream.
Under the streetlight I can see him smiling.
Once I get my heart rate back under 200, I say, “Have you been waiting there all this time just to jump out and scare me?”
Meow.
I make a scary face and claw the air at him.
He claws back.
Best friends.
“Come on, let's go.”
I start running and he falls in next to me, gliding along silently.
As we take the steps up to my third story condo, I'm startled to see two people walking away from my door. Detective Ray is wearing a brown jacket and her hair is down. It is longer than I would have thought, cascading down well past her shoulders. She reminds me of René Russo from the Thomas Crown Affair. (It is my dad's favorite movie and one of just twelve I've seen. I’d watched the original and the remake over the course of a month. I prefer the original but I also prefer to see René Russo naked.) The gentleman with Ray is twice her age and three times her size. His head is shaved bald and he has a perfectly trimmed goatee circumventing nearly invisible lips. He is more muscle than fat, but barely, and he wears his Men's Warehouse attire smartly.
“He always come running with you?” asks Ray, bending down on her haunches to pet the approaching Lassie.
“Sometimes.”
She nods her head upwards and says, “This is my partner, Cal.”
I nod my acknowledgement and step past them.
“We have some questions for you,” barks Cal, the words aimed at my back.
“Then I shall answer them,” I say bending down to untie the key from my shoelaces. “I could do something later this week.”
“How about right now?”
I look down at my cellphone. It is 3:48.
“Why are you always checking the time?”
I glance up at Ray with raised eyebrows.
“Last night, I must have seen you check the time on your phone eight, nine times.”
Was she counting? I squint at her, but say nothing.
“What's one minute to the next at three in the morning?”
Those minutes are my life, I nearly scream. Those minutes that you take so much for granted because you get a thousand of them each day are priceless to me. Your life is measured by title, wealth, and status. My life is measured in grains of sand, trickling from one teardrop to the other.
My nostrils flare when I'm angry and I wonder if Ray feels a small gust of wind. Taking a calming breath, I ponder telling her that I'm Henry Bins and I have Henry Bins. I don't.
“I’ve always just been a little OCD like that. We all have our quirks, am I right? What's yours Cal?” I'm guessing it's his goatee. It is too perfect. Rulers, levels, and protractors have been consulted in its creation.
He isn't amused.
I put the key in the lock, twist and pull. I ease the door open four inches and Lassie darts through. With a puff of my cheeks, I say, “I can't really do this right now. How bout tomorrow. Say 3:15?”
I don't wait for a response, though I’m fearing if there is one, it will be, “We have a warrant.”
A response does eventually come.
“Callie Freig.”
I'm dazed. Not because the name means anything to me, it's just a name, a woman's name, indistinguishable among any of the seven billion on this planet. But because she has been humanized. As in birth a fat, crying, pink baby becomes Jake or Molly, the woman in death had become Callie.
The two detectives use my second of stunned silence to move past me. I sidestep them and knowing they are too far in to forcibly remove them, I retreat two steps.
The phone – Callie Freig's phone – is on the table next to the laptop.
“Hey, can you guys take your shoes off?”
Not an unreasonable request and both lean down to comply. The kitchen table is ten carpeted steps away, but it would look odd if I didn't also remove my shoes.
“Just set them outside.”
Slightly more unreasonable, but my only chance.
In the split second it takes for both to toss their shoes outside, I flick the beanie. It flips end over end, hits my laptop, and then falls.
“What?” Ray asks, cutting her eyes at me. “What's so funny?”
“Nothing.” I'm just an amazing beanie tosser is all?
Flipping my shoes next to the door, I say, “So, who is Callie Freig?”
Table of Contents
Eight in October
Encore in October
End in October
Author’s Note
3 a.m. teaser
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Eight in October
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Encore in October
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
End in October
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
&nbs
p; Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Author’s Note
3 a.m. teaser