by Merry Jones
“Seriously,” Joel went on. “That stuff with the kiddie sex? That was all Derek and Somerset. George and Jonas. Those guys were pervs. But Derek said he’d pull the plug on my agency, ruin me unless I helped them out. Believe me, Elle. They make me as sick as they make you.”
I tossed a wad of cocktail napkins at them. “Wipe the blood off your faces. You want to look good for the cops.”
Ted held a few to his mouth, leaned his head against the bookcase, closed his eyes.
“Elle. Please. Be reasonable. I’m not one of those scumbags.”
“No? Is that what you told Sherry McBride?”
His eyes shifted. “Who?”
“Before you killed her. Did you tell her you were a good guy? That you weren’t like the others? What did you tell her? That you were trying to stop them? Or expose them as pedophiles? Did she trust you and actually hand the files over?”
“Pedophiles?” Ted’s eyes opened. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Oh, her.” Joel ignored him, furrowed his brows as if in thought. “You mean the bimbo. Charlie’s—his secretary.” He sighed. Rubbed his eyes. “Okay, here’s the truth.”
The truth?
“Sherry was blackmailing them. Derek, Somerset, Ogden, Jonas. They wanted to get rid of her, but that’s all I know. Ogden took care of it. But I have no idea if he killed her. He might have hired somebody.”
“Yeah. Probably they hired you. Otherwise, how would you have her flash drive?”
“Her flash drive? Oh, the flash drive I brought Derek?” He shook his head, smiling, as if I had it all wrong. “That was delivered to me. By a messenger.”
I shook my head. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Joel never ran out of them.
“You killed a woman?” Ted looked disgusted. “Dude. That’s lame.”
“You knew I was Charlie’s wife.” I might as well clarify. Not that it mattered. “You went out with me to try to find his copy of the files.”
“No. Not true—well, at least the part about why I went out with you.”
Ted eyed Joel sideways. “You’re dating this asshole?” One eye was swelling. He was going to have a shiner.
“Believe me, Elle. You’re wrong. That part was real. I care about you.”
“Aww, shameless bastard.” Ted scowled. “Moving in on a grieving widow.”
My wrists ached from holding the gun. But things were beginning to make sense. Even little things. Derek must have told Joel that Charlie called me “Elf.” So Joel used that name to get my attention. It had been no coincidence. And Derek had known that Charlie gave me red roses for every occasion.
“Come on, Elle. They had me by the balls.” Joel held his hands out as if to say, “How can you blame me? Nothing was my fault.”
I remembered meeting him. The rose he gave me. The rose that later moved through the house. Appearing magically on the floor of the kitchen or the bedroom. And suddenly, I had a theory.
“You have keys.” Did everyone have keys to my house? He must have lifted my keys and somehow made copies—or Derek had copied Charlie’s and gave the copies to Joel. No matter how he got them, he was able to get in.
“Keys to what?” Again, the innocent expression. Joel, acting ignorant.
I moved away from the bar, stood beside the sofa. Pictured Joel sneaking into the house to search for the flash drive, taking the rose from spot to spot to spook and distract me. To toy with me. Had he also whispered to me, pretending to be Charlie?
“Don’t pretend, Joel. You know to what. You came here after I left Jeremy’s. You let yourself in and snuck around, looking for the flash drive.”
Joel’s eyebrows rose in the middle. He looked perplexed. “Elle, honestly. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you saying someone was in your house the night I met you? Because it wasn’t me. Maybe it was this guy. He’s the one who had Charlie’s keys.”
“Fuck off. Sicko bastard.” Ted hissed. He met my eyes. “It wasn’t me.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. The truth is, Elle, whatever you think of me, our time together was real. And I—Let’s just say I’m disappointed that tonight didn’t work out.”
My head was ringing. The voices drifted, sounded muted and faraway. Was I going to pull an Elle now, with a gun in my hands? No. I couldn’t. Probably I was experiencing the after-effects of the gunfire. Or a concussion. Probably I needed more pills.
At any rate, I’d had enough. Derek was dead in the closet. Ted had probably stabbed him, just as he had Charlie. Joel or Ogden had murdered Sherry McBride. I didn’t want to look at either of them or hear any more. I leaned on the back of the sofa, holding the now two-ton gun with both fatigued hands. The police would be there any second. All I had to do was hold on until then.
Apparently, they both saw that I was weakening. And neither wanted to wait for the police. Suddenly, as if they’d rehearsed it, they bounced to their feet and ran in opposite directions. Maybe they knew I wasn’t a good shot. Maybe they gambled that I couldn’t hit a moving target. Maybe they didn’t believe I would actually hurt them. Whatever their thoughts, they sprinted at me, Joel from the left and Ted from the right. I tightened my hand around the gun, shouted, “Stop,” before I fired, missed Ted, blew a hole in the wall over Charlie’s desk, and stumbled backward with the recoil as Joel rammed himself into me, grabbing my left arm. I twisted my right arm to aim at him, ready to shoot. But Ted took hold of my right arm. Two against one. I still held the gun, but couldn’t aim it at either of them. I remember telling myself to kick. Or try for a head butt. I squirmed to get free.
“Got to go, Elf,” Joel grinned, eyes twinkling.
I glared and thrashed, wishing I’d blown his head off.
“Rain check on dinner?” His whisper was throaty. Suggestive.
Suddenly, my jaw slammed backward. I saw a flash of white. And then I was on the floor beside the sofa. Without the gun. Ted was gone, Joel darting out the door.
I tried to get up. The walls, the floor wouldn’t hold still. I held onto the back of the couch, anchoring myself, hearing commotion in the hall.
“What the fuck?” Joel’s voice pierced my sore head, an octave too high.
“It wasn’t me, Charlie—” Ted squealed like a puppy. “It wasn’t. I swear.”
I crossed to the doorway, off balance. Stepped into the hallway, clung to the wall.
Joel and Ted stood by the coat closet. Derek’s shoes protruded into the hall.
“What are you doing, man—” Joel gaped at Ted. “Put that thing down.”
“All I wanted was for you to share. I’m your fucking brother.”
“Dude—who are you talking to? Stop playing around. We got to go.”
“Don’t, Charlie. Please—”
I heard Charlie, like a rumble of distant thunder. I moved slowly, unsteadily, unable to hurry.
Ted chattered. “You wouldn’t help me. You turned me away like I was garbage. What was I supposed to do?”
Another ominous rumble. A shadow rising in the corner. Charlie, gathering rage.
“You’re freaking me out, man.” Joel danced around, edgy. “I’m gone—” But he didn’t leave. He was fixated on Ted.
“Okay. I’ll tell you why. I thought you were divorced. Single. And if you died single, I’d be next of kin. Me and Emma would inherit the money.” Tears rolled down Ted’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Chuckie. I am. I asked you nicely, but you told me to get lost. Your own brother—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Joel jabbed Ted’s shoulder. “Let’s the hell out of here.”
Joel stared at Ted. Ted didn’t notice. He held the gun to his temple, bargaining with a shadow.
Sirens wailed outside.
“Come on, man,” Joel urged. “Put the gun down.”
Oh God. The shadow swelled, and I swear I heard a bellowing roar.
Ted whimpered like a scared little boy. He pressed the gun against his head. “Please, Chuckie. Don’t—”
“Charlie!” I
ran, holding the wall. “Stop—”
I needed Ted alive. To talk to the police. To confess.
The sirens screamed. The doorbell rang. Someone yelled, “Philadelphia Police! Open the door!”
Joel looked around, backed into the dining room.
Ted pleaded. “Charlie—Chuckie—Please—”
I yelled, “No—Don’t!”
But Charlie didn’t listen. The gun went off one more time.
Even with half his forehead blown away, Ted lived long enough to tell the police that he’d killed Charlie. Well, not exactly. What he said first was: “It was. Me. Charlie.”
I stood behind the freckled redheaded cop kneeling beside him. I called out, “Tell them why, Ted. Tell them why you did it.”
Ted gurgled.
A burly black cop bellied up to me. “Move back, ma’am.”
The redhead asked, “Who’s Charlie? Where is he now?”
“Tell them, Ted.” I called. Didn’t budge.
“What’s he saying?” A skinny mustached cop turned to the burly one.
“I don’t know. Bus here yet?”
“No, but he won’t make it onto the bus—”
“Officers, please. Listen to him, will you?” I interrupted. “It’s a dying confession.”
“Ma’am,” the burly one put his hands on my shoulders and began shoving me, physically, from the scene.
“That’s my brother-in-law. He’s dying. He killed my husband. Listen to—”
“Ma’am, move away. You don’t want to make this hard on yourself. Let us do our job.”
I argued. He threatened to arrest me. Like I cared. If they didn’t hear Ted’s confession, I would go to prison for the murder he’d committed. I tried to get around Burly, back to Ted.
“Ma’am, I’m warning you—”
Over his high, wide shoulders, I could see more cops. They swarmed in with the EMTs. And someone I never thought I’d be happy to see, Detective Nick Stiles.
Hours must have passed. Darkness deepened and lifted. I noted location changes. My house. An ambulance. The emergency room. And, finally, Susan’s house.
I leaned into the cushions of the floral sofa, and Becky handed me steaming tea. Susan sliced the freshly baked lemon poppy seed cake she’d brought to the coffee table. Handed out plates.
Jen grabbed the first one, complaining. “You cut such skinny pieces, Susan. Are you saying we’re getting fat? Or just charging by the slice?”
“Behave, Jen.” Becky smirked. “We have company.”
Detective Stiles accepted a plate, smiling. “No need to behave on my account.” His smile was lopsided, marred by the scar that crossed his face. Even so, I adored it. Thought it was fantastic. Hadn’t seen it before. Was elated to be with him when there was reason to smile.
Susan took the last plate and took a seat on a wingback chair. “So. Should I do the honors?” She reached into a bucket of ice, lifted a bottle. When the cork popped, everyone cheered. Well, not Detective Stiles. He sipped coffee. But the rest of us whooped without reserve.
Susan poured. Toasted. “To the end of a terrible ordeal. And justice.”
“And Elle surviving.” Becky chimed in, squeezing my arm.
“And the Fantastic Four.” Jen added. She occasionally called us that, like the comic book.
“To friendship.” I lifted my glass, looking at them one at a time. Becky, Jen, Susan. And finally, Detective Stiles. Who wasn’t really my friend. But at that moment, I loved him as if he were.
Detective Stiles was on duty, couldn’t have champagne, but he raised his coffee cup, silently accepting my toast, and we drank. We ate tart and sweet moist cake. Breathed freely, without fear.
“I think you owe Elle an apology, Detective,” Jen drank her glass in one gulp. Poured herself another.
“Well, actually—” he began.
“No, he doesn’t, Jen.” Susan scolded. “He was doing his job.”
“Oh, KMA.” Kiss My Ass. Jen swallowed, as usual, bickering with Susan. “We all knew she was innocent.”
“Look. Even Elle didn’t remember what happened and couldn’t give herself an alibi.”
Detective Stiles didn’t try to interrupt. Just sipped coffee, listening.
“But she’d never have killed anyone. Especially Charlie.”
“Detective Stiles was just following evidence and procedure—and he went out of his way to bend rules for Elle. We should thank him. Just back off, Jen.”
“FY, Susan.” Jen glowered. Downed her second glass. Poured a third.
“More cake, Detective?” Becky offered.
Jen said she wanted more, cut several slabs. Thick ones.
“So,” Susan sipped champagne, “it’s over.”
Detective Stiles shifted in his chair. “Well, not entirely.”
“What do you mean?” Susan stiffened. “She didn’t kill anyone. Derek was dead before she shot him, and Ted gave a dying confession—”
“Whoa, hold on, Susan.” Again, the crooked smile. “Relax. No charges are being filed against Elle. But still, four people are dead. It’s not over. We need statements. There’s a ton of paperwork. Elle’s house is still a crime scene. And she might have to testify, if we can ever find the creep behind all this.”
“Who was behind it?” I had no idea which creep he was talking about. “Was it Ogden or Walters?”
“No. All those guys were just members.”
“Members?” I closed my hand around the stem of my glass. “Of what?”
“Oh—she doesn’t know,” Becky swallowed cake. “She was in the hospital.”
I’d stayed overnight for observation, due to a concussion. But I insisted on leaving, got released by lunchtime. Hadn’t slept. Felt woozy. Wanted to go home. But couldn’t until the police were done there. Lifted my glass and sipped cool bubbly.
Two men had died in my house—counting Charlie, three.
Then again, Charlie wasn’t quite dead. I considered telling them that he’d killed Ted. That it hadn’t really been a suicide. But I decided not to. Last time I’d mentioned Charlie, no one believed me. They’d said it was my imagination. My need. This time would be no different.
“Are you listening? Elle? Hello?” Susan clapped her hands in front of my face.
“She does that,” Becky explained to Detective Stiles. “She wanders in her mind. We call it ‘pulling an Elle.’”
“I wasn’t doing an Elle.” Was I? “I was just thinking.” Wondering, in fact, how my hallucination of Charlie’s ghost—something I’d imagined—could have killed Ted. Unless Ted also hallucinated Charlie—maybe out of guilt? And he’d been talking to his conscience? His own imagined Charlie? Or maybe—could Charlie really have been there? Both Ted and I had sensed him. Was it possible? And if so, would he still be at the house when I got back?
Would he ever leave?
Did I want him to?
I couldn’t be sure. I still didn’t know what Charlie had been intending to do with the flash drive. Blackmail the men? Blow the whistle on them? And I didn’t know why Sherry McBride had a copy of the drive. Was it Charlie’s backup? Was she operating on her own, blackmailing the men independent of Charlie?
Damn Sherry McBride. Charlie’s “girlfriend.” But he hadn’t loved her. Had he?
My head hurt. I sipped champagne, watched the five people gathered around Susan’s big round kitchen table. Encircled in a glow. Tea, coffee, cake, champagne.
Listened.
“—But that’s just one of the names.” Stiles had a soothing baritone. “He kept changing it so he wouldn’t get caught—”
“Because he has it online, and the servers could catch on, shut him down, and get him prosecuted.” Susan interrupted. “‘Kid Love’ is less erudite than most of the names. But he hops around, changes sites and names. Basically, it’s an international pedophile club. He arranges travel to countries that look the other way and tolerate adults using child prostitutes.”
He arranges travel? I’d lo
st the thread of conversation. Were they talking about Joel?
“He hooks his pervs up with kids as young as they want,” she went on. “Infants. Toddlers. The site offers ‘erotic experiences that supercede—’ what was it again? ‘The narrow limits of gender, race, and age’?”
“No, the ‘bourgeois limits,’” Becky corrected.
“Sickening.” Jen grimaced, stuffed more cake into her mouth.
But Joel had said he only made travel arrangements for Derek’s clients, nothing more. Another lie? Why did I still want to believe he was innocent? The man had lied to me, kidnapped me, helped Derek try to kill me, maybe even murdered Sherry McBride. And still, I had trouble accepting that he was the one who arranged trips for pedophiles. Joel was unquestionably the group leader they were talking about. Not Derek or Somerset or Ogden or Walters. Joel. The travel agent. The leader of the group. The one holding the camera? I pictured him, standing with me at my door, pressing his lean, long muscled body against me. Kissing me ever so gently—it was all fake. Every word, every gesture, every touch had been calculated. Designed to manipulate me and get his hands on Charlie’s flash drive.
Even so, I needed to hear it.
They were still talking. The conversation had moved on. I interrupted. “What’s the name of the guy with the website? The one who organizes the pedophiles?”
“Right now, he’s going by Lowery.” Stiles sucked a poppy seed from between his teeth. “Joel Lowery. Has a local travel agency called Ma—”
“Magic Travel.”
“So yesterday wasn’t your first contact? You know him?”
Yes. I did.
And no, I didn’t.
I wondered where he’d gone. How he’d gotten out of the house so quickly when the police arrived. He hadn’t driven away. His van was still parked in front of my house, loaded with equipment. Joel. I remembered his charm, his smile as he pulled a quarter from my ear. A scarf from the air. A rose from nothing.
Actually, it was no surprise that he’d vanished; the man was a magician.