A Killer's Kiss

by William Lashner

  “But you’re on the wrong trail,” I said. “She wasn’t at the house at the time of the killing.”

  “You’re sure of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s sure of it, Hanratty.”

  Hanratty just stared and chewed.

  “She has an alibi,” I said. “And I found it.”

  “You found her alibi,” said Sims with an unconcerned voice. “Really, now?” He looked up at Hanratty, raised an eyebrow. “Tell me all about it.”

  “A kid named Jamison,” I said. “I found him at an unlicensed Jamaican juke joint last night. He was with her at the time of the murder.”

  “And what, may I ask, were the doctor’s wife and this Jamison doing that night together?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “But she’s not cooperating.”

  “Well, there you go. Maybe you’ll find out at trial.”

  “He’s a cutie-pie, isn’t he?” said Hanratty.

  “And where is this juke joint you mentioned?” said Sims.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Let me rearrange his face,” said Hanratty.

  “If you choose not to tell us the details,” said Sims, “and she chooses not to cooperate, then maybe we’ll choose not to believe you.”

  “Suit yourself, but you might want to turn your attention to other suspects, since there’s a gaping hole in your case against Mrs. Denniston.”

  “It’s not a hole. Even if the alibi pans out. You can still be guilty of murder if you don’t pull the trigger. We’d just have to add conspiracy to the murder charge.”

  “And who would be the co-conspirator?”

  “Tell him, Hanratty.”

  “You,” said Hanratty.

  “Surprise surprise,” I said. “Hanratty thinks I’m guilty. The thing you’re both missing is the why. Why would we want to kill her husband? I admit that she was an old girlfriend. I admit that we were trying to figure out if we wanted to try again. That might be a bit unseemly, but it’s not a crime, at least not in this state. Divorce is legal, last time I checked. So there’s no motive.”

  “What about the prenup?” said Hanratty.

  I tilted my head, felt sweat pop up like popcorn on the back of my neck. “Prenup?”

  “Don’t even bother, Victor,” said Sims. “A sharp guy like you, if there’s a prenup, you know about it. The way it worked, if she left him, she got not a penny.”

  “But there was nothing to get. It turns out the doctor was broke. Nothing to him, and you know it, too.”

  “But maybe you didn’t.”

  “If I was sharp enough to know about the prenup, I would have been sharp enough to get a grasp on the guy’s net worth before shooting him in the head for his wife, don’t you think?”

  “Hanratty doesn’t think you’re that sharp. Hanratty wants to bust you right now.”

  “And Hanratty thinks his haircut is quite becoming. But you know better than to charge anyone until you check out the suspects with the best motive of all.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Hanratty. “And who are they?”

  I raised a finger like I was about to perform a trick. Julia and I had planned to set up Miles Cave as the prime suspect for the murder, but that was before I realized someone was setting me up to play the Cave part. The letter in my pocket would stay there until I got home, when I would destroy it, I decided. But even with Miles Cave out of the picture, when it came to those with motives against Wren Denniston, there was no shortage of options. I lifted my briefcase onto the table, opened it, pulled out a file with the words COMPLAINT LETTERS written in Margaret’s script on the cover, spun it across the table toward Sims.

  “These are the letters from the investors who lost money with Inner Circle Investments, irate investors who all seemed to blame Wren Denniston for the loss. Some of the letters are pretty strongly worded. One said, and I quote, ‘You bastard, you deserve to die.’ You might want to look at that one twice.”

  As Sims reached for the file, I pulled it back. “Mine.”

  “We’ll make copies and then give them back,” said Sims.

  “Just be sure you do. I might need them if you fellows keep trying to lay a frame around me and Julia.”

  “You don’t trust me, Victor, do you?” said Sims.

  “Not an inch.”

  “But a centimeter maybe? At least that. Tell me you trust me a centimeter at least. Because, believe it or not, I want to help you. Listen to me, Victor. I admit I might be wrong about Mrs. Denniston. And I admit I might be wrong about you. As a matter of fact, there is nothing I want more than to prove it. Help me prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Talk to Mrs. Denniston. Tell her to answer our questions. Tell her to cooperate for both your sakes.”

  “And if not?”

  “What do you think, Hanratty? How would our boy Victor look in orange?”

  “Peachy,” said Hanratty.

  20

  When I got home from the Roundhouse, I set a little bonfire in the bathroom sink. Then I took a long shower to wash off the sweat from the interrogation and the gunk from my hair and the oily sheen left on my skin from proximity to Sims. Showered and shaved, powdered and puffed, I put a towel around my waist and called Julia.

  “How are you?” I said.

  “Bewildered.”

  “I understand. Today was a shock, I’m sure. Do you want me to come over?”

  “No.”

  “But I need to see you. Right away.”

  “I don’t think we should see each other,” she said. “Not now and not for a while.”

  “Why not?” I tried to hide the whine in my voice but failed abysmally. I was showered and shaved, powdered and puffed, and ready for action. “There is something important I need to talk to you about.”

  “So talk.”

  “I don’t want to do it on the phone.”

  “I’m surprised. It’s easier taping a phone call than wearing a wire.”

  “Julia?”

  There was a strange pause, and then she said, “Where were you this afternoon, after you left my husband’s office? Why didn’t you call me right away?”

  “I was detained.”

  “Lawyers are always so busy.”

  “No, really detained. By the police. They picked me up at my apartment. They had questions.”

  “And you had answers, I’m sure.”

  “They didn’t want my answers, they wanted your answers. What are they asking you? What are you refusing to give them?”

  “They keep asking about Wren’s business affairs. But I don’t know anything about Wren’s business affairs. I never cared enough to learn. I guess that makes one of us.”

  “Julia?”

  “You should have seen your face, Victor, when that Nettles character told you my husband didn’t have any money. It was like one of your pathetic little dreams was crawling underfoot and he had stepped on it and squashed it flat.”

  “I was simply surprised. Weren’t you?”

  “Not about that. I could tell that things had gone wrong with Wren’s business. By the end his mood had turned so sour it could only have been caused by financial disaster. What surprised me was you. You were so shocked I almost felt sorry for you, even though it wasn’t your money. And then I learned you were at the police, blabbing away, and I figured you found a way to deal with your disappointment.”

  “Who told you I was at the police?”

  Another pause. “Did you do what you promised? Did you tell them about Miles Cave? Did you start them on the chase?”

  “No,” I said. “I couldn’t. Something happened.”

  “Yes, something has happened. I hoped we could trust each other. From the start that’s what I hoped. And you promised me that we could.”

  “We can, still.”

  “I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

  “All I want to do is help you.”

  “No you don’t, Victor. You can’t forgive
me, so you’re going to pay me back.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Even if you don’t recognize it yet, that’s what you’re doing.”

  “Julia, listen. Things are getting hairy.”

  “Shave.”

  “Someone’s trying to set me up.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the prenup?”

  “Would that have tempered your interest?”

  “It would have been nice to know about a prenuptial agreement between my old fiancée and her murdered husband when I’m being questioned about the murder. Julia, we need to stick together if we’re going to get through this. I know you didn’t kill your husband, and you know I didn’t kill your husband.”

  “Do I?”

  “Stop it. Just stop it. This is going from bad to worse. Someone is playing us both, one against the other.”

  “Oh, Victor. All the scheming and plotting, the whispered warnings and secret messages.”

  “What whispered warnings?”

  “When did love get so hard?”

  “I had that very same thought.”

  “It’s not supposed to be like this. Why can’t it just work out and everyone be happy until they die?”

  “It can. We still have a chance to make it work.”

  “No, I don’t think so anymore. I thought we did, truly, but I can see now any chance we had was murdered along with Wren.”

  Another pause, and the soft whisperings of a voice not Julia’s.

  “Is somebody there?” I said.

  “Take care of yourself, Victor.”

  “Who’s there? Julia? I’m coming over.”

  “Don’t. We need to stay apart. They’re watching us both.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, no I’m not, Victor.”

  “Let me come over.”

  “Gwen will take care of me, she always does.”

  “Is she there now, Julia? Is it Gwen who’s with you?”

  “I’m sorry, Victor. For everything I’ve done. And everything I’m going to do. I’m sorry.”

  “Julia?” I said. “Julia.”

  But I was talking to the ether, because she was gone, leaving me with the peculiar sensation that I had just been involved in a three-way skirmish between a horny toad, a chameleon, and a snake.

  And the horny toad had lost.

  21

  THURSDAY

  Something woke me up that very night. I couldn’t tell if it was a dream or a noise doing the waking, but I was already awake when I heard the refrigerator door open. You know the sound, the pull of the handle, the thwump of the door unsealing, the rattle of bottles, as prosaic a domestic sound as exists in this world.

  Except I live alone.

  I rolled out of bed and landed on my feet as quietly as I could manage. Light was slipping through the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door. I looked around for something to grab. My clock radio read 4:06 before I yanked the cord out of the wall and raised overhead the heavy rectangle with its sharp edges.

  The hiss of a beer bottle being opened. A swallow. Some sort of soft conversation and then the television being turned on. There were at least two of them, and they weren’t trying not to be heard, which was troubling. Did they even know I was here?

  I crept to the bedroom door, slowly turned the knob, gently pushed the door ajar, silently peeked through the crack, the clock radio held high and ready.

  I guess I wasn’t as silent as I thought.

  “Hey, bo,” said Derek Moats, sitting in my easy chair, feet propped on the coffee table, remote in one hand, beer in the other. He stared right at me with a not-so-bright smile. “You want to join us?”

  I pushed the door fully open, the clock radio still hoisted, and took a step forward.

  “What the hell are—” was all I got out before I saw the other man, standing by my dining table, tall and broad, with tattoos and dark glasses and a porkpie hat. It was the big guy from the Jamaican juke joint. And he wasn’t looking too pleased.

  “You remember Antoine, hey, bo?” said Derek.

  “Yes, of course.” And strangely, even though they had broken into my apartment, as I stood before the two of them in my boxers and T-shirt, I suddenly felt humiliatingly underdressed. “What’s going on?” I said, lowering the clock radio so it covered my crotch.

  “Antoine just wanted to go for a ride,” said Derek. “Catch you up to date on the news.”

  “News?”

  “I guess you haven’t heard.”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t heard. But couldn’t we discuss this at a reasonable hour, and maybe at my office?”

  “Antoine thought you’d want to hear it right away and see it in person.”

  “That was kind of you, Antoine.”

  “And without no delay.”

  I looked at Derek, who was no longer smiling, and then at Antoine, who was just then scratching a thick bicep.

  “You mind if I get something on?” I said.

  “It’d do us all a favor if you did,” said Derek. “But don’t take too long, and don’t make any calls, all right? Antoine is feeling a little antsy right about now. Ain’t you, Antoine?”

  Antoine didn’t respond.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. “Make yourself at home.”

  “We already done that,” said Derek, raising the beer. “You got that HBO?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Groovy. I think they got them strippers on this time of night.”

  Back in my bedroom, I put down the clock radio, slipped on a shirt, a pair of jeans, the heavy black shoes with the steel toes. This was getting to be an unpleasant habit. I glanced at the phone beside the bed and debated using it, but then who would I call? The police? And say what? That a client and his pal, who had helped me find an alibi for an accused murderer, had broken into my apartment and now I wanted them arrested? No, I wouldn’t call. I’d play it cool. I could play it cool, sure. But first I had to check out the bathroom, because, frankly, having these two guys in my apartment in the middle of the night scared the piss out of me.

  “All right, gentlemen,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster as I walked to the refrigerator. I opened the refrigerator door, leaned in, took out a beer of my own. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Turn off the set, mon,” said Antoine. “We going now.”

  “Ah, Antoine, dude, look at the size of her mammaries. You could feed small countries with them beauties.”

  “Turn it off,” said Antoine. Derek did as he was told. “You made me promises,” Antoine said to me.

  “Did I?” I unscrewed the bottle top, took a swig, coughed embarrassingly when too much went down my throat. That’s the way it is when you’re racked with fear, even the most instinctive acts are no longer instinctual.

  “You made promises.”

  “Okay, yes. I did.”

  “You said you keep them police out of it.”

  “I said I would do that if I could. And I only told the bare bones of what I learned.”

  “Old saying,” said Antoine. “If fish nevva open him mouth, him wouldn’t get ketch.”

  “What the hell does that mean? What happened?”

  “Let’s be going now, Derek,” said Antoine.

  “I’m not sure if I really want to go for a—”

  “Why this bwoy keep jabbering?” said Antoine. “Derek, why this bwoy, he still jabbering?”

  “I don’t know, man. He’s an idiot, I guess. You mind if I turn the telly back on, see if that girl with the rack is still dancing?”

  “Let’s be going,” said Antoine.

  “Damn shame to miss all of that,” said Derek as he stood up from the chair and dropped the remote. “What about the beer? There’s some left in the fridge. Shame to waste it on Victor, isn’t it?”

  “Take it,” said Antoine.

  22

  “I had enough of this urban blight,” said Derek,
as he drove my car north, through the dark city streets. Antoine was sitting next to Derek in the front seat. I was alone with my anxiety in the back.

  “I was thinking about moving out to the burbs,” said Derek, in a monologue without end. “I could kick up my heels, watch the big screen. Or maybe find some desperate housewife desperate for a bone. That’s what I hear about them burbs, full of women just looking for someone who knows how to treat them right while the husbands are toiling for the green.”

  “And you’re just the one they’re looking for,” I said as I stared out the window, trying to figure where we were headed.

  “Why not? Maybe a place in Jersey. That would cinch it, don’t you think? Jersey housewives, as ripe as them Jersey tomatoes. Just not as red. And without the stems.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You be seeing soon enough,” said Antoine.

  Derek turned left and then right again, past dark streets with collapsing houses and junked-up yards. And then we hit the railroad tracks, and I felt a sense of dread, which deepened when I smelled the smoke.

  “One of them big houses,” said Derek. “You know them things they building on every last open lot, all turrets and windows and the fancy driveways. Like what T.O. was doing them sit-ups in front of. That was in New Jersey, wasn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s what I want. What does that set you back, Victor?”

  “About a million,” I said.

  “Really, for that crap? Got to work on my balling, I suppose.”

  The smell of smoke grew stronger. We followed the tracks down toward a passel of bright, blinking reds and blues and a ring of arc lights.

  We drove slowly past the lights. Fire trucks and police cars, all in front of some abandoned lot, surrounded by a pile of abandoned cars, the arc lights illuminating a smoldering pile of cinder, covered by twisted bits of corrugated metal. The stench of burning turned my stomach.

  A group of uniformed cops and firemen was surrounding a man, who peered past the crew of officials and right into the car as we passed.