I left the bathroom and crept down the hallway and into the living room. The same smell which had accosted me on my last visit with Mike nearly bowled me over this time. It was worse than before. I pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket and used the screen as a flashlight as I scanned the entire room. Once again, there was nothing but trash and mildewing laundry strewn about the couch, armchair, and floor. I saw nothing at all that I could use to prove Mike was the one who killed my husband.
I twisted my phone around and shined it into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a small l-shaped countertop. More filth. Empty pizza boxes, cups of curdled milk, dishes stacked sky high in the sink. I saw a roach scuttle across one of the dishes and I nearly vomited right then and there. I realized the kitchen was not a likely hiding spot for any damning evidence and I wasn’t about to stick around with roaches crawling around everywhere, so I turned off my phone screen and headed back down the hallway. Luckily, the light from the half-moon outside allowed me to see at least a few feet in front of me.
Damn it, I thought. I had been certain Mike would be too stupid or too stoned to get rid of any evidence, but either there was none to begin with, or he had disposed of whatever he might have had that would incriminate him. I tiptoed back into Mike’s bedroom so I could exit the way I had entered—through his bedroom window—but just as I was about to climb out, I realized I hadn’t really looked through his bedroom.
Again I slid my phone out of my back pocket, turned on the screen, and shined it around the room. Same things I had seen on the way into the house. Clothes everywhere. And women’s underwear, of all things. I stood there for a second wondering if they held any significance until I remembered him telling me about his girlfriend Angie. Angie liked to wear really tiny thongs, apparently.
I gave the room one last look and just as I was about to give up and turn for the window, I noticed the edge of some kind of grey box sticking out from underneath Mike’s disheveled bed. When I bent down to inspect the box, I noticed as soon as my fingers touched the corner that it was a fireproof safe. I pulled it out and looked at it with bemusement. What on earth could someone like Mike possess that was valuable enough to keep in an expensive fireproof case? My first guess was money. But what if that wasn’t it? What if the evidence I had been searching for was inside that box? I had no choice. I had to take it with me.
I tossed it out the back window, climbed out of the window, landed on the grass, then picked up the box and ran swiftly to my car. I threw the box in the passenger side, then climbed into the driver’s side and took off slowly so as not to draw any attention to my car. I kept my headlights off until I reached the end of the street and turned onto Short Shun Drive.
My heart was racing and my hands were trembling. I couldn’t believe I had not only broken into someone’s house, but I had stolen their safe, as well. Besides the tube of lipstick I had stolen when I was eighteen, I had never committed any crimes, let alone felonies. I felt sick to my stomach and ashamed of myself. At the same time, I told myself there was no other way to prove my innocence. And who wouldn’t go to such extremes to find their loved one’s real killer? Then I thought about what Mike would do when he discovered the safe was missing. At first, I thought he’d naturally call the police. But then, I realized that Mike hated the police and that he lived outside the law. He couldn’t have the cops examining his house with all the drugs and paraphernalia lying about. It depended on what was inside the safe, I finally decided.
When I arrived home, I lugged the fireproof case into the house, carried it through the kitchen, and laid it on the coffee table. It was eerily quiet in the house, so I turned on the television and sat down on the sofa with my elbows on my knees. Now what? I had managed to break into Mike’s house. I had managed to search it without being caught. And I was able to steal something without anyone noticing. Now the damn thing was sitting inches from my face and I had no idea what to do next. I couldn’t break it open, could I?
Why the hell not? What was one more crime on top of all the others I had committed that night? Besides, what good was the box going to do me if I didn’t know what was inside? Why steal it if I wasn’t going to look inside?
I pulled out my laptop and opened a new Google page. My fingers hesitated above the keys. My years of working as a paralegal had taught me that a person’s search history was not only discoverable during an investigation, but was admissible in court. There had been many cases in which the suspect was done in by the internet searches they had conducted within the days prior to the murder of their spouse.
I shrugged my shoulders and continued on with my search, figuring if I was ever actually suspected of breaking into Mike’s house and stealing the box, I’d dispose of my computer entirely. I typed “how to break into a fireproof safe” in the search engine. Amazingly, there were sixty-eight thousand results. I clicked on the first article below all the video how-to’s and up came a page that laid it out step-by-step. Apparently, I would need a flathead screwdriver, a paper clip, and tweezers. I quickly gathered up the needed items and sat back down in front of my laptop and the box.
I inserted the screwdriver where the key would normally go then turned it counter-clockwise until I heard a “click.” Next, I straightened out the paper clip and slipped the end of it into the upper part of the lock, above the screwdriver. I then slid the tweezers in underneath the paperclip. Finally, I turned both the tweezers and the paperclip until I heard the lock disengage. I had done it! Little ol’ me had actually picked a lock on a safe! I couldn’t believe it actually worked.
Slowly, I lifted the lid to the safe and when I saw what was stored inside, I almost passed out. There, in the bottom of the fireproof safe I had stolen from Mike Thompson’s house, was a large, black and silver handgun. The barrel was silver, as was the trigger, but the butt of the gun had a hard, black grip. I knew absolutely nothing about guns, so I knew I’d have to use the internet again to search what type of gun I was looking at. I didn’t want to pick it up and get my fingerprints on it, but I wouldn’t be able to see it well if I didn’t.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a hand towel from the handle of the stove and ran back to the couch. I slowly picked up the gun using the hand towel so I could see it better. The only distinguishing marks were the words ‘Smith & Wesson’ and ‘caution—capable of firing with magazine removed’ etched on the side of the barrel.
I entered those words into a new search bar and found out that the gun was a Smith & Wesson, .45 caliber handgun. A large caliber gun! Ryan had been killed by a large caliber handgun, according to the police. I was sure it was probably stolen or bought on the black market and was almost certainly untraceable. I flipped the gun gently over to the other side and, sure enough, the serial numbers had been filed off. This proved it. Mike Thompson had definitely been the one who murdered Ryan. Why else was he hiding this gun?
But then it occurred to me. What could I possibly do about it? I couldn’t very well take the gun to the police and say, “Hey, look what I stole from Mike Thompson’s house.” I racked and racked my brain for any way I could get the gun to the police without implicating myself in felony robbery. If I just dropped it off anonymously at the police station, they would have no way of knowing it belonged to Mike Thompson. They would, however, likely run fingerprints on the weapon and I doubted very highly Mike was smart enough to wipe it down or wear gloves. But it was still too risky.
The only conclusion I could come to was that I had to return the gun to Mike’s house before he got home and then call the police with an anonymous tip to search Mike’s duplex. That way, they would find all the drugs he had in his possession, which would be enough to hold him for a few days while they processed the gun for fingerprints and DNA.
I looked at the clock on the wall—two twenty-five. If I hurried, I could probably sneak it back in before he returned home in the morning from his night shift job. It was very risky. I had lucked out the first time, not being s
een by any neighbors or passersby. I was increasing the odds by returning for a second trip. But it had to be done. I had no other choice.
After gently returning the gun to the fireproof safe, closing the lid and relocking it, I climbed back into my car and headed toward Wichita.
***
Just as I had the first time, I parked a couple of blocks down and walked up his street. When I approached the house, I was relieved to see there was still no one home. I walked stealthily around the side of the duplex and opened the back window. I climbed in through the opening, pulled the safe in after me, and slid it back under the bed, exactly as I had found it. Quickly, I climbed out the window and ran down the street to my waiting vehicle. With my headlights still turned off, I drove until I was back on Short Shun again. I turned my headlights back on and drove back to my house.
When I pulled into the driveway, I parked the car and sat there breathing deeply, relieved that I pulled it off. I had never done anything like that before and I was lucky beyond all measure that I wasn’t caught in the act. Then my thoughts turned to the gun I had discovered in Mike’s fireproof safe. What were the odds that Ryan’s dope dealer, the man I already suspected of killing him, was in possession of a large caliber handgun, similar to the one used to kill him? The odds were astronomical. Yes, Mike definitely killed Ryan. Now…how to prove it?
The police had to find the gun. And they had to check it for fingerprints. I pulled out my phone and was about to call NPD dispatch when I realized they would probably see my cell phone number on the caller ID. I wasn’t sure if it would work or not, but I dialed *67 before I dialed the number for dispatch, hoping it would block my number.
The dispatch operator asked if I needed the police, fire, or EMS. I told her I wanted to leave an anonymous tip regarding the murder of Ryan Carter. She put me on hold. A few seconds later she returned to the line and advised me that the detective in charge, Jim Dorne, was off duty, but I could leave the information with her and she would pass it along to him in the morning. I drew in a deep breath and exhaled.
“Okay,” I said. “I have reason to believe that Mike Thompson is in possession of the murder weapon. It is in a fireproof safe underneath his bed.”
“And how do you know this?” she asked.
“I’d rather not say. But I’m positive that it’s there. Along with several prescription bottles of narcotics that aren’t prescribed to him. His address is 201 Wichita Drive.”
I disconnected the line and noticed my hands were trembling again. Surely they would follow up on the tip. Surely they would go to Mike’s house tomorrow and they’d find the gun and match it to Ryan’s head wound and to Mike’s fingerprints. I was proud of myself. I had promised I would find Ryan’s killer and clear my own name, and I had done just that. Now, all I had to do was sit back and wait for a call from Dave telling me Mike had been arrested and that all charges against me had been dropped.
I walked up the sidewalk to the front door and put my key in the lock.
Shit, I thought. I forgot to call about changing the locks. Then I remembered it might not matter after Monday.
Chapter 22
When I opened the side door, I was instantly grateful I had turned the thermostat back a couple degrees. I was sweating from a combination of the hot July night air and my exploits at Mike’s house. Ryan and I used to argue over what temperature to keep the thermostat on. I was always hot, so I preferred a crisp sixty-eight degrees, while Ryan thought it was a strain on the electric bill, so whenever my back was turned, he’d crank it up to a balmy seventy-two. I smiled at the memory, even though it would have caused a fight if he were still alive.
I threw my keys and phone on the counter and kicked off my flip-flops. The empty space on the kitchen counter where the roses had been sent a shiver up my spine and reminded me once again that someone had been inside my house. Someone had touched my things. I felt so angry at the intrusion.
I had left the television on when I left in a hurry an hour prior, and I could hear a rerun of Friends playing in the background. It was the episode where Ross insisted to Rachel that they were on a break. Which made me think of Ryan and Lindsey. Which made me mad all over again.
I went to the freezer and grabbed my pint of Haagen-Dazs Caramel Cone ice cream. It was three in the morning and I was hungry and tired. But I was still a bit keyed up, so I figured I’d plop down on the sofa and watch a Friends marathon until I calmed down enough to go to bed. I grabbed a spoon from the drawer, slammed it shut with my hip, and shuffled through the kitchen toward the living room.
As soon as I rounded the corner, I dropped my ice cream and spoon. I wasn’t alone. There was a man sitting on my couch. I don’t know why I didn’t run screaming in the other direction—I must be highly susceptible to shock. His back was to me, but I guess he heard me drop the ice cream because he reached up his hand and clicked “pause” with the remote control. He slowly stood and turned to face me.
“Welcome home, darlin’,” he said with a Jack Torrence smile and a Matthew McConaughey drawl.
It was Merle. My dad’s idea of a babysitter. He didn’t have his sunglasses on this time, so I could see his features plain as day. He wasn’t much older than me, I guessed. Maybe early forties, at most. His hair was black and slicked back with some kind of pomade. The pockmarks I had seen before were more pronounced than I had realized, and his eyes were dim and fixed on me. His clothes were different, though. He was wearing cheap polyester dress pants, a black belt, and a white button down long-sleeve shirt.
“What are you doing in my house?” I asked, startled.
“Why, darlin’, I thought we could enjoy a nice quiet evening watchin’ TV together.”
Was he serious? Was he delusional? I couldn’t tell if his smile was genuine or ironic. Without thinking, I played along.
“It’s very late. I think I’m just going to go to bed now, so if you’ll just leave your number, I’ll call you tomorrow and maybe we can talk.”
“But darlin’, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Um…all right. Let me just go freshen up a bit, okay?” I was hoping he’d let me go to the bathroom and I could grab my phone from the kitchen counter and call the police. No such luck.
“No, I don’t think so. Besides, you look beautiful as always. I like ya just the way ya are.”
I weighed my options quickly. If I made a run for it, perhaps I could grab my cell phone and a knife from the knife block and make it outside before he could reach me. But knowing my luck, he’d catch me before I could make it to the side door. Plus, it would probably piss him off. If he didn’t already have intentions of hurting me, he would then. I had no choice but to keep up the ruse.
“Do you like Friends?”
“Huh? Oh, that silly TV show? Nah, I never watched much TV. I was in prison for a long time, ya see, and they only allowed us an hour of television a week. When I do watch it, I prefer somethin’ a little more educational.”
“You were in prison with my father.” It was a statement more than a question.
“Yep. Your father, he’s a saint. He saved my life. Those men in there…they were, well, takin’ advantage of me, ya see. And your father, he made ’em stop. I owe him my life.”
“So you agreed to watch after me. I appreciate it. I really do. Now, if you don’t mind, maybe we can catch up some other time? I’m awfully tired and I—”
“Nonsense,” he said as he stepped from behind the couch toward me. “See, I’ve waited a long time to get to spend some one on one time with ya. I’ve been watchin’ ya for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Almost two years now.”
“But I’ve only seen you recently.”
“I was tired of hidin’. Always in the background. No appreciation.”
“Oh, I appreciate you looking out for me very much. But I’m fine. I really am. You don’t need to watch out for me anymore.”
“I don’t think that’s true. You need me now mo
re than ever. You don’t have to pretend anymore.” He took another step closer. I was trembling from head to toe but I didn’t want him to see, so I slid my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “Oh, hey, did you like my roses? I know you love red roses.”
Oh my God. He sent the roses. Of course he did. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
“Uh, yeah. I did. Red’s my favorite color. How’d you know?” Lie. Purple was my favorite color. He didn’t know me at all. For all the time he’d spent watching me, he knew nothing about me.
“All the ladies love red roses. The smart ones, anyway.”
Next came the question I wasn’t sure I should ask. But I figured if he had done what I thought he’d done, he’d want me to appreciate it.
“So, you’re the one who killed Lindsey? You killed her for me?”
“Damn skippy.” He brushed his hand through his slick black hair. “I killed that whore for ya. Aren’t ya going to thank me?”
Now we were standing only inches apart. I could smell the stink of cigarettes and beer on his breath. It took all the willpower I had in me not to scrunch my nose up and back away.
“Oh, yes,” I said with a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“I thought ya’d appreciate that.” He raised his arms and made a choking motion with his hands. “I choked the life right out of that little heroin addicted whore. Watched as the life drained out of her dull little eyes. I wish you could have seen it, Libby.”
Like Father Like Daughter Page 19