The Night in Question

by Nic Joseph

  Of course not.

  Sighing, she sat back in her chair. It just wasn’t enough.

  They needed help.

  It was time to go public.

  • • •

  Later that evening, she stood in a bathroom in the precinct, waiting to go outside to talk to a room full of reporters about the murder at the apartment on Oak Street. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, this was the only other situation where she got nervous, besides online dates, the only other time when her mouth became dry and her palms began to sweat. She could talk to almost anyone about anything, but add a camera and a room full of people, and her entire body suddenly became a cottony mess of nerves.

  She remembered the first time she did an interview on the job. It was a domestic violence case, and a reporter had thrust a microphone in her face, the light of the camera blinding her.

  “Tell me about what happened,” the chipper reporter had said.

  Claire had felt her blood run cold and her mouth become dry.

  “I…um…I…”

  Her partner at the time had jumped in, but she’d been called “I, um, I” for a solid year after that.

  The bathroom in the police station felt small and confining, but Claire needed a moment to pull herself together. It was a single stall, unisex bathroom, and she’d stepped inside and locked the door before turning on the water and leaning over the sink.

  Breathe.

  She could ask Greg to do it, or her boss. But she wasn’t the kind of person to ask for help, not for something like this. If she avoided it enough, everyone would pick up on it, and if there was one thing she had learned, people liked to see you uncomfortable. Whether they liked you or hated you, people enjoyed seeing you squirm.

  “I, um, I” was proof of that.

  So she acted like the press conferences didn’t affect her at all, and she’d been able to ward off too many of them. When they came up, she did what she was doing now: walked into the bathroom, splashed a bit of water in her face, took a few long, deep breaths, and tried to psych herself up.

  It was barely working this time.

  The good news was, after this evening, they’d be getting tons of tips about the murder on Oak Street. Too many, really. They’d collected all the information they could before going public; they’d identified all the party guests except for the artist, Chris. They’d also talked to several of the victim’s family members and coworkers. Now, it was time to announce it to the public and see what else came in. There’d be a flood at first, of course. So many people thought they had information about so many things; some even seemed to enjoy calling the tip line. Some people were lonely and just wanted to be a part of the action; others truly thought they had something that would contribute to the case. It would take time to sort through it all, but she knew that there’d be a gem in there. Something that would help them catch the person who had done this.

  She gripped the side of the sink and looked into the mirror.

  Get over it, Claire.

  You have to do this.

  She began to go over all the reasons that she should, starting with the image of the victim’s bloodied face, which had been haunting her since she first saw it.

  That was how it worked: she saw victims, and they stayed in her mind, just out of sight, until she solved the case. She knew deep down that was the reason why she’d never left a case unsolved; she feared that if she did, the image would eat her brain from the inside out and drive her insane.

  Claire grasped the sink as she felt the anger rolling through her body, all the way to her fingertips. She could see the body at the top of the stairs, and she felt the fire rising. She had to solve this case, and if standing up in front of those cameras was the only way to do it, then so be it. She would have to get up there and describe the events that took place, answer a few questions, and ask the public for help in bringing justice. She’d have to be calm, show strength, and allow just the slightest bit of sadness to remain behind her eyes, for the family’s sake.

  But for Claire, she’d be talking to one person in particular.

  One of the six party guests.

  Meggie Bentley or her boyfriend, Patrick?

  Emma Bentley?

  Andrew Brighton?

  Joshua, the quirky store owner?

  Or the artist with the red shoe—Chris?

  The murderer would be doing something mundane right now, watching television or eating a meal. Hoping that the day of reckoning would never come, that there was a chance in hell fate would pass over this one particular case.

  Then Claire would appear on the television and make it clear that wasn’t the case. Not with her in charge. She would stare into the camera and make it clear:

  I will find you.

  Her pep talk was working, and Claire felt her nerves subsiding just slightly. She splashed some more water on her face, careful not to wet her clothes. She straightened up and looked at herself in the mirror. Reaching into her bag, she took out a tube of lipstick and smeared on a deep eggplant color that was perfect against her dark-brown skin. She fluffed her curls a little bit and then took a step back from the mirror.

  Go, go, you can do it!

  It was silly, the little chant she sometimes said when she was feeling nervous, but it always helped. She’d been muttering it to herself when she walked into the restaurant to meet Bill. Claire bent her elbows, lifted her fists in front of her face, and punched the air a few times. She owned a kickboxing workout tape, which she did in her living room sometimes, and she ran through one of her favorite sequences.

  Right hook, left hook, uppercut, jab.

  You don’t get to kill people, you motherfucker.

  Right hook, left hook, uppercut, jab.

  You don’t get to take another person’s life.

  Right hook, left hook, uppercut, jab.

  I’m coming for you.

  Claire grabbed her purse and swung the bathroom door open, stepping out into the empty hallway.

  “Go, go, you can do it,” she muttered very quietly to herself, hoping that would help keep the nerves in check. She clenched her hands at her side. For good measure, she lifted her arms and did one more little punch, a right hook, followed by a left, and then quickly let her arms fall by her sides. She straightened her shoulders and continued walking.

  “That’s new.”

  Claire sucked in a breath and stopped before turning around to see Greg walking toward her from the other end of the hallway. She felt the heat rise to her face as he walked up, a small smile on his face.

  “Moonlighting as a boxer?” he asked.

  “Moonlighting as a stalker?” she asked, continuing to walk briskly toward the stairs to get to the press room. “Where are you coming from anyway?”

  “Um, the other bathroom behind the storage room,” he said, his eyes darting to the floor. He coughed uncomfortably. “No one usually uses it, but…well, this one was occupied for a while.”

  Claire’s eyes widened, then she started walking more quickly. It was just Greg, and she realized that she’d rather him think she’d been on the toilet that long than know the truth.

  As if he had his suspicions, he walked quickly to keep up with her. “You ready for this?”

  “Yeah, of course,” she answered quickly, maybe too quickly, and she forced a smile. “When have I not been?”

  “Never,” he said, and there was a confidence behind the word that made Claire uncomfortable. “I’ve never seen you not be ready for anything.”

  Claire stopped walking and frowned. “That sounds suspiciously like a pep talk,” she said. “Are you trying to psych me up for this?” she asked.

  Greg smiled, his brown eyes twinkling in the fluorescent lights of the precinct basement. “Absolutely not, Puhl, I would not dare—”

  “Because if you were, I’d
tell you I don’t need your patronizing pat on the back to know that I’m going to crush this.”

  He nodded. “Absolutely,” he said again, and then he lifted his hands in the air and made a quick jab with his right fist. “Go get ’em.”

  Claire grit her teeth as he chuckled again, then she turned and stormed up the stairs.

  Go, go, you can do it.

  Chapter 21

  Paula

  The day after

  I arrived at the truck stop off I-90 just before four thirty. I walked inside, planning to launch into a speech or ask Hooks questions about the previous night, but he wasn’t there. Instead, a tall man I’d never seen before walked over, asked me my name, and handed me a large duffel bag.

  “The phone?” he said.

  It was suspicious as all hell, but neither of the two customers nor the attendant at the small convenience store looked up.

  I reached into my pocket and took out the phone, handing it to him. A moment later, the man was gone, and I sat there staring at the bag. I waited a few moments, gathering the courage to stand up and leave, the bag in my hand. It had to weigh at least twenty pounds, and I tensed my biceps to hold it and walk naturally back to my car. I left the truck stop and drove almost halfway home before I reached over and unzipped it with one hand.

  And then I saw green.

  I didn’t know how much money it was, but it didn’t seem to matter, since it was more money than I’d ever seen in my entire life. I felt a wave of guilt rush over me as the reality of what had just happened settled in.

  He’s the bad guy.

  He’s cheating, and he wants to hide it.

  It’s not your fault you saw him.

  He can afford it.

  I said it over and over to myself as I drove home, the duffel bag full of cash on my passenger seat. I felt sick but also a bit excited as I thought about what was inside the bag.

  I was doing this.

  No—I’d done it.

  What had started out as just a ridiculous, passing notion had turned into a huge bag of cold, hard cash.

  And as bad as I’d felt about what I’d done, I couldn’t help but feel…giddy.

  We could afford the surgery.

  It was an odd and uncomfortable reality, one I’d wanted since Dr. Bryant mentioned it was even a possibility. Now it was actually on the table, and I had only two options:

  Give it all back.

  Or resign myself to move forward and live with what I’d done.

  The answer seemed simple enough.

  Who had time for a conscience when your whole future was on the line?

  I walked into the house around 6:00 p.m. I knew Keith would be home soon, so I walked quickly with the duffel into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and turned on the light.

  There weren’t many hiding places in the house. I’d found that out when we first moved in and I tried to hide a watch that I’d gotten Keith for his birthday. I’d bought it an entire month in advance and stashed it at the back of the coat closet. Keith had walked into the bedroom one night, holding it his hands.

  “What’s this doing in the closet?” he’d asked, a frown on his face.

  “Uh, happy early birthday?”

  I opened the closet door and got down on my hands and knees. The very bottom of the closet wasn’t actually a shelf; it was just the floor of the bathroom. It was covered in bottles of nail polish remover and other toiletries. I began to pull the items out, lining them up on the floor in front of the vanity. When at least half the space was cleared, I pushed the duffel bag inside before placing each of the bottles back, one by one.

  I heard a noise and the sound of the front door opening. I stood back up as I heard Keith’s voice.

  “Hey, you here?”

  “Yep! One second!” I said.

  I took a final look around and then opened the door, walking out into the living room. Keith was sitting on the couch, the remote control on his lap, and he smiled as I walked into the room. He already had a bowl of cereal in his hands, and he shrugged.

  “Sorry, I was starving,” he said.

  I smiled. “I’m not really hungry.”

  I sat down on the couch beside him and watched as he shoveled the cereal in his mouth, his eyes glued to the screen. He was even eating his cereal in a different way since he’d been contacted by the wonderful and famous Ryan Hooks. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt as I thought about how I’d dashed out earlier that afternoon and told him I would spend a couple hours driving DAC when, in reality, I’d gone to the truck stop. He hadn’t even batted an eye.

  There was a commercial on, and I watched as a family stood in the middle of a kitchen, drinking orange juice.

  Keith had launched into another story about his upcoming trip to Indianapolis, but I found myself tuning out, my attention going back and forth between him and the family on the TV screen. The news returned, and the anchors began to go through their stories.

  A car accident on I-94 that left two people dead and one in critical condition.

  A jewelry store robbery up in Evanston.

  “I’m glad I’m not going to share a room, though. We only had three rooms reserved, and there are four of us going.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said, still zoning out.

  I sat up straighter when the anchor spoke again, and suddenly, a blue bar appeared across the bottom of the screen with the headline for the next story.

  Body found in Gold Coast apartment.

  It didn’t really stand out to me, not more than any other “body found in X neighborhood” stood out to me these days. Terrible, sad, tragic, but sadly, far from unique.

  I watched it with half my attention as Keith continued to talk.

  “Luckily, Erin and Alison wanted to share, so the rest of us get our own rooms.”

  A body was found late last night in the 100 block of West Oak Street in the Gold Coast.

  “I don’t know what we would’ve done if they didn’t, but I have a feeling I would’ve gotten my own room, no problem. There’s gotta be some perks to this, right?”

  The woman has been identified as a resident of the apartment building where her body was found.

  “Paula?”

  The television cut away to a woman standing behind a podium in a room full of police officers. She was African American and looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, with huge brown eyes and curly hair pulled tightly back from her face in a low ponytail. She was staring out at the crowd in front of her, addressing them with a sort of ease that you had to be born with.

  I watched as the detective linked her fingers, placed her hands on the podium, and stared assertively into the crowd.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she said. “We responded to the incident at three o’clock this morning. The victim has been identified as Beverly Brighton, a Chicago-area lawyer. We are treating this as an open homicide. We’re looking into all aspects of the case and would encourage anyone with any information whatsoever to come forward to help bring justice for Mrs. Brighton.”

  Chapter 22

  I've never been shot before, but I have to imagine that the feeling that came over me as I watched the detective on the news had to be pretty damned close. I flopped backward against the couch as if I’d been struck and then sat frozen for a few moments. Keith was still talking, and the woman’s mouth was moving on the screen, but my head was filled with a shrill, high-pitched sound that blocked everything else out.

  She’d just said that Beverly…

  …was dead.

  Beverly.

  The woman who I’d shared a dinner table with last night.

  Not just dead.

  Murdered.

  I choked on my next breath and then coughed loudly, bending over at my stomach as I gasped for air. Keith stopped talking and f
rowned, concern covering his face, but I raised a hand and shook my head as the coughing fit consumed me. When it was done, I took a long, slow breath, and he smiled.

  “You all right?”

  I nodded, and he went back to his story. I pretended to listen, but my gaze was on the screen. The woman speaking to the small audience was Detective Claire Puhl, her name printed at the bottom of the screen for a few seconds before disappearing. She was dressed impeccably—a perfect-fitting navy suit over a patterned green shirt and dark-purple lipstick that was both stylish and professional. She was talking about the details of the case—the neighborhood, the building, and, of course, Beverly—and every word that came out of her mouth was measured and said with confidence. It sounded like she was reading from a script, even though I had a feeling she wasn’t. Her face was made up of almost all sharp, angular brushstrokes, her eyebrows heavy and defined, her cheekbones high and pronounced. She looked like one of those people who meant every word they said and rarely joked around.

  I swallowed.

  “To anyone who has any information at all, I invite you to come forward using the tip line that’s on the screen,” she said. “The smallest detail can help solve this case and bring closure to the victim’s family. We need the entire community involved to catch the person who did this.”

  The news then flashed to shaky footage of the apartment building, and my stomach sank further, even though I didn’t think it had any lower to go.

  I was just there.

  It looked so different on the screen than it did in real life. Not just because of the haze of police lights in the frames and the buzz of activity as they showed the street I’d been on so many times in the last week. No, it looked different because it wasn’t supposed to be real—just another blurry image of any Chicago apartment building that you see flash by on the news each night.

  “We are doing everything possible. If anyone has any information on the killing of Beverly Brighton, please give us a call,” the detective was saying, and they flashed back to her press conference. “It’s the eyes and ears on the ground that are responsible for solving most cases like this, and we’re really looking for justice for Beverly and her family.”