I walked in the door and saw the back of her head. She didn’t get up from the couch or turn around.
“Michael, I know you’re not happy with me, but let’s not drag ourselves into another fight,” she said, sounding agitated before I said hello.
Another fight? When did we have a first fight?
I walked into the room, talking to the back of her head. “First of all, thank God you’re okay. You haven’t been at home and you’re not returning my calls.” I hoped I didn’t sound bitter.
I walked around to face Marisa. She looked uncomfortable, her eyes purposely not connecting with mine, arms folded under her armpits, and her right leg kicking as though she had just downed two energy drinks.
“Michael, I’m not sure I want to talk about us,” she said.
“What the hell should we talk about then?” I sat three feet from her on the couch, hesitant to move any closer. “I go away to uncover details about a murder, then I come home to see someone has replaced my best friend and lover with an imposter.”
“Michael, you’ve been putting all these other things before us. They just aren’t that important. You need to let people do their jobs. You have your own job to worry about and here you are running around like you’re Sherlock Holmes or something.”
I leaned forward and my arms became more animated. “Uh, Marisa, you were supportive of me diving into this. I need to be part of the solution and you understand that, or at least you did. Now it seems like you’ve completely changed your tune.”
She looked straight ahead, her leg still kicking like an oil well pump.
“Does this have anything to do with the person you had dinner with last night?” I asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking—”
“Stu saw you at the pub with another guy.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t know what Stu saw, I just know I didn’t see Stu. I shouldn’t feel like I’ve been arrested for murder, so back off with the interrogation!” she snapped, and glared in my direction. “The only person I know who’s been arrested for murder is Reinaldo. We just need to let the process run its course. He’s all but admitted doing it, right? We need to get this behind us and move on.”
She shot up from the couch and stomped away. I reached for her arm, but she knocked my hand away.
“For the foreseeable future,” she said with her back to me, “I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom. I’m not sure I can continue this relationship in its current state. You’ve given me no choice.”
She disappeared into the darkness of the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind her. My arms fell to my side like limp noodles. Tears swelled in my eyes. I didn’t chase after her. I was exhausted and she was in no mood to talk, certainly not rationally.
For the second straight night, I fell asleep on a couch.
Chapter Sixty-Three
I turned onto my right side and bounced my knuckles off the edge of the oval coffee table, reminding me of another fitful night. I rolled off the couch and toddled to the bathroom. I found only remnants of Marisa—makeup and hair products—left on her vanity. She had again successfully shunned me.
I thought about calling in sick and pulling the covers over my head, but I knew I had some investigative work to tackle. I couldn’t let my personal drama completely disrupt my productivity. After a five-minute shower, I rushed outside to my car with a wet head, scooping up the paper on my way.
The car didn’t start on the first try. The battery sounded sluggish.
“Come on, baby.” I patted the faded dashboard and turned the key again. The engine caught on the second try. Frost had covered my windows, and a kid must have etched some message on the windshield. I rarely cleaned my car. This was probably a Wash Me reminder.
I grabbed my ice scraper, got out of my car, and read the message. Back Off or Pay Price. My breathing stopped.
Who?
I looked in all directions. Newspapers littered driveways. A couple of neighborhood cars drove down our street.
As the car warmed up, I unfolded the paper and saw Stu’s articles. Most of the information I’d learned from Rosemary wasn’t in either of his stories, at least not the controversial pieces.
Why?
Someone was sending me a message. An uncomfortable prickle shot up my spine, like I’d touched a live wire.
Peering between the letters on my windshield, and not thinking with a clear mind, I slammed the gas and squealed out of the neighborhood. I dialed up Arthur’s admin, then realized the sun was melting the evidence.
“Tell Arthur and Stu to meet me out front in five minutes,” I said hastily, then hung up just as quickly. I skidded to a stop, jumped out of the car and took a picture of the windshield. Not a perfect replica, but it would do. I sent off a quick text of the picture, then inhaled a deep breath as I tried to calm my nerves. I coasted the last two miles and pulled into the parking space right in front of Arthur and Stu, both shivering from the blustery north wind.
“Stacy said you sounded panicked, but you look like you’re just out for a Sunday drive,” Stu said, blowing warm air into his cupped hands.
I pointed to the mostly melted windshield. “That was evidence. Did you get my text?”
They both shook their heads, looked at each other, then pulled out their phones.
”This is your windshield?” Stu asked, and I nodded.
“I only see B-a, then o-r, then i-c-e,” Arthur said, his teeth nearly chattering.
“Bag or ice?” Stu’s face was now a splotchy red, his lips turning a shade of purple.
“No, it said, Back off or pay price.”
Both Arthur and Stu ceased movement. The blunt message had nearly melted, but it resonated in all of us. We realized we had crossed someone’s boundary line.
“Gentlemen,” Arthur said as we reconvened in the warmth of his posh office, “unless a trick is being played on Michael, it appears we’ve touched a nerve with someone.”
“And he or she didn’t waste a bit of time before responding to the news stories,” I said. “They hit the paper this morning, and then someone writes a threatening note on my windshield before eight thirty a.m.”
Stu said, “Think about it. I wrote the stories, but my car wasn’t touched. They went after you, Michael.”
More silence.
I put my hand to my chin and felt stubble. I’d forgotten to shave. “Is it possible someone—the wrong person—found out I talked to Rosemary? What she knows could be damning to Omaha Gas and especially this Tony person.”
“Michael, I know we didn’t discuss this, but according to your notes, you saw Karina up in Stillwater with another woman,” Arthur said. “Do you think she’s involved in this ordeal?”
“These days, I’m not sure who to trust anymore,” I said, thinking about Marisa. “I know Karina is still married to the person charged in the crime, and Tiffany may have been having an affair with Reinaldo. But I can’t see how Karina is connected to Rosemary, Omaha Gas, or this threat.”
“Threat indeed,” Arthur said. “We’re not going to be intimidated by these thugs.”
“By the way, I spoke to one of the police investigators yesterday evening,” Stu said holding up his pen. “Off the record, he said they’re feeling pressure to provide as much as evidence as possible to convict Reinaldo. I’d questioned some of the info from the coroner’s office on cause of death and asked if any other suspects were considered. He just shook his head.”
“We could be overreacting a bit, but we can’t be sure.” Arthur opened his hands. “Who knows what we’ve stumbled upon?”
“I don’t know what kind of resources you have, Arthur, but I think we need protection for Rosemary.” I scratched the hair on my face. “Too many signs are pointing to Stillwater right now, even though the murder took place right here.”
“We’ll figure something out there.” Arthur wrote notes on his yellow pad inside his portfolio. I noticed for the first time that his hair was sticki
ng out in all directions and his wire framed glasses were crooked on his nose. He looked slightly maniacal. “Michael, I think it’s best you and Marisa move into a motel for now. I think you should use a different name, just to be safe.”
“I’m not going completely underground. That’s ridiculous. I have a job I’m getting paid for. I can’t just walk away, certainly not now. But I am concerned about Marisa, so changing our sleep location might not be a bad idea.” I wondered if a different setting would add more or less stress to our relationship. We laid out the coverage plan for the next day’s paper.
I needed to locate this Tony person. And I had to find out who the man was at the pub. The more I thought about it, I realized I never asked Marisa the obvious question: Did she have family in town?
Chapter Sixty-Four
“Do you want me to tell him the truth? Do you want me to tell him you screwed a married man and got knocked up?”
Tony paused, forcing Marisa to visualize the images she thought had forever been buried.
“Do you want me to tell him you were nothing but a worthless little slut when you were fifteen years old?”
Marisa’s chest heaved. She gripped a tissue against her face to hold back the tears. It had happened more than half her life ago—her youth and virginity stolen. Tony stood in the doorway of his apartment wearing a wife-beater, one arm leaning against the frame, his jeans unbuttoned and partially unzipped. His enormous body made it impossible to see around him into the apartment. She had begged him not to meet in public again. Stu had seen them together, which itself caused issues between her and Michael. She stood in the hallway of the apartments, visibly shaken from the merciless verbal attacks.
“I’m trying to stop Michael…” Marisa wondered what connection Tony had to Tiffany and the gas company, and who’d sent him.
The giant creature had bumped into Marisa a couple of days earlier at the grocery store. He slipped a note into her coat pocket. It said she needed to meet him at the pub that night, unless she wanted Michael to learn the sordid details of her affair with a wedded man.
Marisa had paced around the block twice before finally entering the downtown bar. She could feel his penetrating glare from across the room. She shook her head slowly as she walked toward his table. His grim expression curled into a gratifying smile.
“She’ll have an iced tea, and I’ll take a coffee, black,” Tony had told the waitress without looking away from Marisa.
Marisa glanced at the man then looked away. She grabbed the silverware and felt the pronged end of the fork. Her breathing was choppy, her heart thumping her chest. She pressed her thumb against a single tine and closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to keep her emotions at bay. It wasn’t working. Her stomach felt queasy. She looked up at the man, who just stared at her…through her.
“We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes and you haven’t said a word to me about this note.” Marisa unclenched her fist to expose the crumbled paper.
“Thank you,” he said.
Marisa was confused momentarily then noticed the waitress standing at the table with their drinks. When the waitress stepped away, he’d grabbed his coffee and slurped a mouthful, his mammoth hands encircling the large mug.
“Do you remember the blood left on the motel sheets?” he’d taunted.
“What are you saying?” Her voice began to shudder.
“Did you feel abandoned when he wouldn’t return your calls?”
Her hands trembled as Tony had tortured her with every wretched detail she’d hidden deep in her brain. “Why are you doing this?”
“You were all alone and fell into a deep depression. You had nothing. You were worth nothing.”
Marisa had wanted to reach across the table, grab his shirt, and beg him to stop. She felt like all of her blood had been drained from her body.
“If you don’t persuade Michael to stop his investigation into Tiffany’s murder and anything related to Omaha Gas, Michael will hear your entire pathetic story. And you’ll fall back into your hopeless, dismal despair.”
She shivered as she recalled the horrible meeting. She hadn’t slept since then, desperately searching for the courage to take the virtual gun out of Tony’s hand by admitting to Michael what had transpired years before. She feared her past mistakes would change Michael’s perception of her, his love for her, and she would lose him forever. Tony’s blackmail attempt now tainted her personality—just like the original incident had so many years ago. She so badly wanted the menacing threat and Tony to vanish, so she could resume her quiet life with Michael.
As she stared at the industrial-carpeted hallway floor, she prayed for it all to go away.
“More prying. More articles. You haven’t done your job.” Still standing in the open doorway to his apartment, Tony reached around his back and tossed the crinkled newspaper into the hallway. It hit the floor in a flurried mess.
Maybe someone will walk by and help me, she thought without much hope. “I’ve tried, Tony, believe me.” She looked left then right in desperation, but the hallway remained vacant. “You know that trying isn’t good enough.” His voice was eerily calm. “You must get him to stop. I’ll give you two more days. Then I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”
Tony moved closer to Marisa, his gigantic bare foot landing on her shoe.
“Chuck got a piece of you back when you were young and raw,” he said, now whispering into her ear. “I might have to taste you myself. I’m wondering if you’ve gotten better, like a fine wine.”
He rubbed his hand on her crotch, while groping her breast. He licked her neck, then bit it. Marisa jerked backward.
“You’re disgusting!” She wiped the saliva off her neck.
“I could take you now, but I have some work to do.” He leered at her.
She turned to walk away, distraught, unable to speak. “One more thing, lady.” His gravelly voice frightened Marisa more than anything he’d done thus far. “I can tell Michael your slutty little story.” He grabbed her shoulder-length hair and yanked her head back to his chest. She cried out. “Know I have experience in things you couldn’t possibly imagine. And you probably wouldn’t find them very appetizing.” He shoved her forward like a stuffed animal.
She fell to her knees, her self-worth shredded, pure terror racing through her veins. Bracing her arm against the wall, she struggled to her feet, her wobbly legs unable to maintain her equilibrium, as if she’d just consumed a liter of vodka.
“Don’t forget,” he yelled, causing her to turn her head slightly as she staggered down the hallway. “If you don’t deliver, you will pay the price. And so will Michael.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Arthur spent his entire afternoon working the phones. It took four calls, three transfers, and two voicemails before he finally spoke with a person of influence and authority, the vice president of medical operations for the Bloomfield Assisted Living Center. Even across the Red River border, Arthur’s family name and reputation as a publisher apparently carried enough weight to steal a few minutes with the busy executive. Once Arthur was convinced the conversation would go no farther than the two of them, he asked for the administrator’s support to temporarily change Rosemary’s residence and approve the continuance of her care and medications she desperately needed.
Arthur realized he was asking to circumvent the normal patient release process. He finally persuaded the VP when he conveyed his heightened concern for Rosemary’s safety, saying her knowledge about Tiffany’s tribulations put her in grave danger from powerful and threatening people.
The two men worked through the details of the transfer. Arthur said a gentleman wearing a New York Yankees cap and driving a blue truck would arrive to pick up Rosemary in four hours. The person in the pickup would then inform the VP of Rosemary’s new address.
Arthur’s remaining afternoon was interrupted with unsolicited calls, but none was from his youthful wife, unfortunately. The chief of police called to ask if
Arthur’s reporters would share everything they knew about the investigation, to which Arthur responded in the manner of his grandfather who’d held the publisher’s position before him. “You can read further information on this investigation just like everyone else—in tomorrow’s paper!” he said. “Now, good day, sir.”
The second unsolicited call was even more unsettling.
“Hi, Arthur. It’s Karina.”
Arthur began fidgeting with his Montblanc pen. He recalled the conversation earlier in his office, in which he, Stu, and Michael debated the role Karina might have played in Tiffany’s murder.
“Karina, I hope you’re feeling better,” he said.
“I’m in good health, physically and mentally. Thank you for asking.” Her voice sounded pleasant. “I need to take an extended leave of absence. I can’t return to work while Reinaldo is accused of murdering an innocent young girl.”
Arthur heard sniffles.
“I understand it’s difficult,” he said, relieved she wasn’t returning to her editor duties any time soon.
“Besides, I’m bonding a bit with my mother,” she said.
That’s not the only person you’re bonding with, he thought but dared not say.
“Take your time. The paper will still be here, like it has been for the last seventy-five years.”
Relieved to hear more energy in her voice, Arthur noted she didn’t ask about details of their murder coverage. Maybe because she was out of touch or didn’t want to stir emotions about Reinaldo, she simply avoided going there. Stacy buzzed in to say he had another call.
“Oh, good God, what now?” he asked to his longtime assistant.
“It’s Michael Doyle, sir. Do you want me to tell him you’re in another meeting?”
“Oh, no. Yes, I’ll take the call,” Arthur said.
He punched the line. “Michael.”
“Arthur, I wanted to let you know that Marisa and I’ll be staying at the Como Motel, just outside of town. There isn’t much out here, but I guess that’s good.”
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