A Model Murder (The Dead Ex Files Book 2)

by Claire Kane

  “Missing?” Lacey repeated, eyes widening as she crouched next to the table. “For how long? Who are they? D-do you know them?”

  Again, the redhead spoke. “We know of them. They come here. They’ve been missing for, like, a week.” She glanced at the brunette. “Emily, didn’t Brittany say something about maybe going home early for Christmas?”

  The other girl, Emily, nodded. “I think her parents were taking her to Cabo or something.”

  “Oh,” sighed the redhead. “She is so lucky.”

  Lacey sensed the subject getting away from her. “You said they’re both your sorority sisters,” Lacey repeated. She gestured at the TV, where the news had moved onto a weather report. “Was the girl on TV in your sorority as well?”

  The brunette shook her head. “No.”

  Lacey pursed her lips. “You seemed to think that murder could be related to your girlfriends’ disappearances; why’s that?”

  The redhead grimaced. “We don’t know if they are. It’s just all really freaky, with the timing and all. And, like, the girl on TV—she’s drop-dead gorgeous. So are Brittany and Shayla. Our sorority sisters. Maybe there’s some kind of psycho perv out there.” She shuddered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I think we’ve had too many late nights,” she said, locking eyes with her tablemate. “Don’t you?”

  The brunette nodded vigorously as she sipped at her drink. “Yeah. I should be thinking about finals.”

  “Or about Bret,” the redhead retorted. Her friend’s face flushed, and she swatted at the redhead.

  “Okay,” Lacey said, sensing she wasn’t likely to get anything else out of them. “I just, well, I’m in a bad neighborhood. It got me thinking. Thanks for your time.”

  “Sure,” the redhead said. “Nice meeting you.”

  The brunette grinned suddenly, an impish glint in her eye. “You know, you’re actually just as pretty as that girl on TV. Maybe you’re next.” She made a spooky noise, then the two girls laughed. Lacey forced herself to laugh along with them, hiding the fact that her insides were quivering. She thanked the girls again, then headed for the back room to put away her cleaning supplies. All she’d gotten was the hunch of a pair of college girls, but she knew well enough that even a hunch should never be totally dismissed. She pursed her lips and pulled out her phone. She may not have a job at KZTB any longer, but she still had connections.

  A few seconds later, a text message to an old friend marked her official entry into the investigation of the murder of Jessica Simcox.

  TWO

  Lacey stepped out of her black Lincoln MKZ into the cracked parking lot of her new apartment complex. Thankfully, she already owned her expensive ride. And the high-priced security system with GPS tracking. She glanced back at it; the elegantly sleek lines and shine of pure luxury didn’t quite fit in with the random beaters nearby, one even spray-painted. Another had its front bumper off and hood up, nobody nearby working on it. Gazing a little farther down the row of cars, she caught sight of an Escalade, though it would do well without the ridiculous rims and window tats.

  Pulling her purse up higher on her shoulder, she headed toward her bottom-floor apartment. A swirl of smoke caught her attention, leading to a man in a tank top. “'Sup?” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Lacey gave a curt hello and hurried on her way, hearing her neighbors shrieking at each other all the way through the stucco walls. Something about not locking a door. Before locking, and chaining, her own front door, the sound of an ambulance whined in the distance.

  “Nainai,” she called toward the backroom. “I’m home.” She didn’t expect an answer—her grandmother was usually asleep when she got home—but it made her feel better all the same. She slipped off her shoes and turned her thoughts carefully back to the morning news. She hadn’t been able to get it off her mind since first hearing about it, and she had difficulty believing the other disappearances were merely coincidental. A healthy dose of paranoia and over-analysis, she found, had helped propel her as a good investigative reporter. Yet before she could do much investigating, she still had to deal with the home front.

  Surveying her tiny new living room, she sighed at just how much work moving was, even after hiring someone to do the hauling. Knowing that moping was useless, she reluctantly grabbed a box cutter and went to work on the nearest box.

  She had barely gotten the thing open, and was fishing out some plates, when her phone buzzed once; a text. Lacey nearly dropped her load, but managed to safely stash the plates on the counter while she scrabbled to unlock her phone. Cathy Higgins, her old editor from KZTB, had texted her back. This place sucks without you, the message read. I wish they’d come to their senses and hire you back.

  Lacey tapped out a reply. I’ll be fine. Have you happened to hear anything more about that Simcox murder?

  She waited a moment before another buzz. Not yet, Cathy said. Why?

  Lacey bit the corner of her lip, hesitating. Who was the witness? she finally typed.

  Right away, the reply came. You know that’s confidential.

  It was. Cathy would never be caught texting confidential information. She could lose her job. So Lacey pressed Cathy’s contact picture on the phone’s screen, and it started ringing.

  The answer was quick, Cathy’s voice an excited whisper. “Hey, Lacey.”

  “So spill,” Lacey said, raising her brows expectantly.

  “Okay, so sources say it was a homeless man. Goes by the name Teddy.”

  “A homeless man?” There were plenty of homeless people on Seattle’s streets. “Teddy?”

  There was an audible sigh. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Thanks. That’s good. I appreciate it. Looks like I’ll be busy calling the name ‘Teddy’ at random transients.”

  “Wait—what?” Cathy said with disapproval. “You’re not really going to look for that man, are you?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said as naturally as if she were speaking of shopping.

  “But why?”

  “B-because,” she stammered, thinking of the dream. “I-I have to know more. The victim was Victor’s ex.”

  A pause. “You mean, like you.” Lacey heard a pregnant silence on the other end of the line. Eventually, Cathy exhaled slowly. “Is there something you’re not telling me? What am I missing?” Lacey could imagine the suspicious squint behind her friend’s cat-eye glasses.

  “N-no, it’s nothing. Just chalk it up to the investigative journalist in me. Hey, listen, I’ve gotta go.” She didn’t, but there was no way she was up for being interrogated by a fiery redhead on a roll.

  “But—”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Wai—”

  Lacey pressed the “End” button with her french-tipped thumb. She went and sat on the living room floor in thought. “Oh, Victor,” she said, brushing wisps of long dark hair behind her ears. “I could really use a listening ear right now.”

  An old woman’s voice answered, “What was that?”

  Lacey started and lithely leapt to her feet, hastily smoothing her blouse and hoping her eyes didn’t show how she felt. She’d been so focused on her conversation that she hadn’t heard her grandmother getting up. But as she looked at Nainai, who was wheeling herself into the room, she knew there was no fooling the older woman.

  “Nothing, Nainai. Just talking to myself.”

  “More like talking to that studly guardian angel,” the woman said, eyes twinkling.

  “He’s not my guardian angel, Nainai. You know I don’t believe in those.” She knew her lie wasn’t fooling anyone. She’d not only seen the spirit of Victor St. John, her one-time boyfriend, but had interacted with him for weeks, as, together, they worked to figure out who exactly had killed him and why. She shuddered at the memory of how that had ended.

  Nainai piped up. “Remember, Confucius say, ‘Better a dead boyfriend who still loves you than a living boyfriend who is a jerk.’”

  Lacey sighed and changed th
e subject. Her grandmother was known to say made-up Confucius sayings on a whim to get a point across. “I’m almost done unpacking.” It was partially true. At least she'd had the help of a moving crew to move her out of her luxury condo. She shuddered to think at how much of her dwindling savings had been shunted toward their assistance. Were it not for her need to care for Nainai, she’d have just done it herself.

  “Then sit, Lacey. Sit on the couch and talk to your grandmother for a while. You’ve been so stressed lately, and it makes an old woman sad to see it.”

  Lacey grimaced but complied, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands; it wouldn’t do to let Nainai see just how desperate she’d become. “Yes, Grandmother?”

  Nainai frowned. “You haven’t called me that since the night Victor died. And you took forever to tell me that he had. Shame on you for making me think you still had a good prospect you weren’t panning out.”

  Lacey closed her eyes so Nainai wouldn’t see her roll them.

  “I saw that, baby girl.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Confucius say, ‘Until senile dementia sets in, Nainai gets smarter with age. Notices more.’” The woman rolled up alongside the couch and gently placed a hand on Lacey’s knee. “Lacey? Look at me.”

  The former TV reporter bit her lower lip, but, after a protracted moment, did as Nainai asked. She saw wisdom and a comforting love in her grandmother’s gaze. She wanted to dissolve into tears and throw herself into Nainai’s arms as she’d done when she was a child. Only she wasn’t a child anymore; she was a big girl, and she could handle this just fine.

  “You’re young, yet, Lacey,” Nainai said quietly. “You have so much time left to live and love and make mistakes.”

  “You think it was a mistake for me to quit KZTB?”

  Nainai shook her head and held open her arms. “Come, child.”

  Lacey hesitated again, but, once more, obeyed her grandmother and embraced her.

  “When you first told me you had quit your job,” Nainai said, “I thought the loss of my Feng Shui had cursed us. Only now I see that you left behind employment for a wicked man who wanted to abuse you. You were right to leave.”

  “So why doesn’t it feel right? Why won’t they take me back?”

  Nainai squeezed her granddaughter. “Such questions are beyond even Confucius sometimes. But perhaps the universe has something larger for you than just being on television. Besides, maybe they will come to their senses and offer you your job again. In the meantime, at least you have some work.”

  Lacey pulled away from her grandmother, grimacing openly. “Yeah. As a barista on the U of W campus. Two, part-time shifts a day.”

  Nainai raised her eyebrows. “And what’s wrong with that? It pays you, it gives reasonable hours, and it lets you meet plenty of young men closer to your age.”

  Lacey pulled away, making a disgusted noise. “No, it means I’m a professional woman making minimum wage at a job where I get ogled by frat boys and yelled at by little girls who don’t have half my education but think they’re smarter than me just because I wear an apron with a logo at work.” She thought, briefly and bitterly, about her failed attempts to sell a ring worth $22,000. She'd been unable to get an offer over $2,000. Even if she took the offer, it wouldn’t be much of a financial cushion.

  “Gratitude is a hard attribute to cultivate, granddaughter.”

  Lacey stood. “Please don’t go philosophical on me, Nainai. I worked hard to get where I am. I had my future in the palm of my hand.” She looked around her apartment again. “And I went and gave it all away like an idiot. And now we’ve got to move into a hovel just to make ends meet.”

  “But you are still alive,” Nainai said. Then, in a firmer tone, added, “It is time you stop complaining and do something about your life. Your life is a blessing. Use it like one.”

  Lacey’s fists clenched, and she checked the time on her phone.

  “I’m going to make some tea while you vent to your man,” Nainai said. “Let me know when you decide to take charge of your life again.”

  Lacey heard the rustle of rubber tires on matted carpet, but didn’t watch as her grandmother rolled herself to the kitchen. She fought the urge to help, knowing she’d be rebuffed yet again; in the three months since Lacey had left KZTB, Nainai had insisted on taking care of herself as much as she possibly could, and proved that Lacey’s stubbornness was, indeed, an inherited trait.

  Glancing back at her phone’s texts, Lacey said out loud, “I am taking charge of my life. Life just isn’t cooperating.” She took a deep breath. “What would you do, Victor?”

  Nainai’s words echoed in her mind. Perhaps the universe has something larger for you than just being on television.

  She decided a brisk walk was in order, where the news said Jessica’s body was found. At the cross streets of Seneca and Western.

  THREE

  Heaven was a place fit for a king. Of course, it had a King, so that made sense. Victor chewed on a grape, in thought. His first Elvis sighting had happened just hours after arriving here, or rather “crossing over,” as they called it. Now the sideburned singer played the ukulele in the shade of a palm tree, not far away, in the Grand Courtyard. Women still fawned over him. Why he insisted on wearing jumpsuits, up here, was beyond Victor. At least the white color and blingage fit in with most other angels who preferred light, airy colors. Victor, on the other hand, opted for a simple blue shirt and jeans. He liked the frayed knees, jokingly referring to them as his holy pants; other angels didn’t seem to get his sense of humor. Maybe they’d been dead too long.

  “Eyes up, pretty boy,” a familiar voice said, interrupting his thoughts. There, suddenly sitting on his patio-style table, was Rao, his former pet cat and now spirit guide. “I’ve got news.”

  “I don’t care about your Quidditch tournament.”

  “Croquet. Croquet! Anyway, that’s not what I was going to say…”

  “Well, then, what?” Victor crossed his arms, leaning into the table.

  The black and gold tabby raised a brow. “You do know angels aren’t supposed to be depressed, right?”

  Victor raised his dark eyebrows in return, as if to ask, “Is that all?”

  “Look around you! This is Heaven, for goodness' sake! Stop with the moping already. It’s getting sickening.”

  Victor sat back with a huff. “Do you blame me? It’s been months now since I’ve spoken to Lacey. I haven’t even been allowed a glimpse at her in The Pool.” That reference had nothing to do with catching a peek at his ex in a bikini. The Pool was a beautiful patch of crystal-clear water where angels got live visions of their loved ones down on earth. It was considered a privilege, and not to be taken advantage of. Most angels had to earn it.

  The tabby rose to all fours, staring emphatically with her sparkly green eyes. “Listen to me, my news has to do with Lacey.”

  “Do I get to see her in The Pool?”

  “Not if you paid Peter in a pound of shillings,” she said.

  That earned an eye roll. “Then what? Tell me!”

  “She’s in danger, Vic.”

  *

  It was dark out, the sun slipping away in a deep purple horizon behind downtown’s myriad of skyscrapers. Lacey stepped along the damp streets, having parked in her old spot in the KZTB garage. At least she still had that perk, until her pass expired. She soon left behind the KZTB tower, its lit-up letters glowing red behind her. Western and Seneca were quite a walk, but the transient nature of homeless people meant she might find this “Teddy” anywhere. She may as well start somewhere.

  She searched while she walked. Most of the next hour was fruitless, if pleasant. Lacey struggled not to be distracted by the decorations scattered throughout downtown ahead of Christmas. The local storefronts, and even some apartment complexes, were beautiful. Wreaths adorning doors, Christmas trees glittering just within. The window displays were especially attractive, with their fake snow. Despite the distracti
ons and the growing cold, she pushed on, talking to what seemed like dozens of shiftless vagrants. A startling number of them were women, and none answered to the name “Teddy.” As she shivered, she wondered whether she’d be giving herself away too much by simply visiting the various shelters nearby. She worried that she might have to, and began contemplating how she’d do that without drawing attention to herself. The obvious answer was her old standby—undercover work.

  She was still sorting out the particulars when she finally reached Seneca and Western.

  As she passed a nail salon, a tinkling bell caught her attention. Lacey glanced over to see a man who almost looked homeless himself, a threadbare black beanie on his head, standing next to a hanging money bucket. “Merry Christmas,” he called at her. “Ho, ho, ho, and all that.”

  She stopped and pulled out her wallet. Unzipping it, she quickly confirmed all she had was a Subway Sandwiches punch card and one shiny Macy’s card. “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyebrows pressing together. “I-I wish I could.”

  “It’s for the kids, lady,” he insisted, his raised eyebrows melding into his beanie.

  “I’m sorry.” Lacey kept walking.

  “Rich brat,” he muttered.

  Lacey scowled, speeding her pace. What was that about? she wondered, making a mental note to call the store manager with a stern complaint. Shoving her wallet back in her purse, she peeked in at the gun nestled beside it.

  Looking back up, Lacey started at the realization that, in her distraction, she’d nearly stepped on a homeless man who was nestled between a pair of hedges ringing a parking lot. She stumbled around him, in his thick bundle of tattered blankets, catching her breath and pulling her red coat closer around her. She wanted to move on, to get out of this place. She had nothing particular against the poor, but she’d been around long enough to know that rich, attractive girls should best avoid certain areas of town at night—and certain people. Still, she was Lacey Ling, investigative reporter extraordinaire. She’d always been able to handle herself just fine. And so she crouched beside the man, whose scraggly, gray hair poked out from beneath a trapper cap, and nudged him. The only reply was a small mumble and heavy snoring.