What an ironic twist.
“So,” Nerd began. “What did you learn on the field trip?”
“I saw him,” I said, trying to contain myself. “He is big. The pictures online didn’t show us just how big. I can do this, but will need to get close.”
“You saw him?” Nerd asked. “Did he see you?”
I shook my head. “I stayed for a drink, watched him talk to the bartender, and then I went home.”
“What’s he doing there?” Nerd chirped, his cheeks turning red. “Is the apartment his?”
“One at a time,” I answered, raising my hand to calm him down. “I don’t think anyone lives upstairs. According to the bartender, also the owner, most of the building is used as a distillery for White Bear Whiskey. He even gave me a card.” I fished one out from my purse and handed it to him.
“This is good,” Nerd said, speaking more to himself than to me. He flicked the card with his fingers and added, “They’re legal, so there will be plenty to find online that I can check out.”
“Why?” I asked, and then shook my head. “Never mind that. Our mark works for the distillery. He drinks there too, but delivers in the afternoons. If I can get his attention, get a few drinks in him . . .”
“How?” Nerd asked. “I mean, no offense, but you’re not exactly his type.”
“What do you mean, not his type?” I asked, frowning. Till now, I’d always thought of myself as being any man’s type. “And how would you know his type?”
“What I mean is that he likes them young, really young. Makes sense, right? Think about what he did, why he got locked up in the first place.”
“Yeah,” I answered, remembering the pretty girl with the sunny highlights. I suddenly felt old and passed over. I tossed my hair to one side and added, “But you haven’t seen me. Really seen me.” Nerd shrugged with a laugh and then brought his backpack around, resting it between us, perched like some grand prize waiting to be shared.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes . . .” I answered, uncertain to what he was referring.
“Say the word and I can toss what’s in my backpack away. Never to be seen again. Otherwise, there is no turning back for either of us.”
I felt my neck stiffen, realizing the line I was about to cross meant some of the risk was on my shoulders too. I moved to the edge of my seat, eager to see what he’d brought. “Show me,” I insisted.
“Committed!” Nerd said flatly as his hands disappeared inside the backpack. A moment later, he held up a clear plastic sandwich baggie with a syringe and a stout glass vial inside: brown, slender, a metal hat on top with a dim blue-rubber cap. And inside the vial, a liquid that could have been any color and made up of anything. I knew it was the strychnine. “This is it. I even managed to swipe a syringe from my dog’s vet . . . well, you don’t need to know that part.”
“How did you get it so fast?” I asked, feeling inspired by Nerd’s efficiency. “Wait, I don’t want to know. That’s another area we’ll keep to ourselves. Safer that way and—”
“Less incriminating,” he finished for me.
“May I?” I asked. My fingers clutched at the sandwich baggy like a jeweler would a rare gem. “How much?”
“Three grand,” he said, and at once my eyes bulged. I winced. “That’s not a bad price, considering the form.”
“Considering the form?” I asked. I had assumed the cost would be a few hundred. Nerd turned the bag over to show the label on the brown bottle. It was in a foreign language, but I’d seen the writing enough on television to recognize it. “Is that Russian?”
“It is,” Nerd answered excitedly, his voice pitched high. “Liquid. Potent. A good call, don’t you think?”
“And that’s why it is more?” I asked, still not understanding.
“Look at this. We’re not talking about crappy, powdery stuff that’s been cooked up in some schmo’s kitchen,” he explained. “This is manufactured. A high-potency injectable. One shot of this and Wilts is down in under ten minutes.”
The syringe’s needle seemed sturdy enough, but I was still going to have to get close. The image in my mind of Todd Wilts suddenly made me nervous. Not so much a fear of him, but the dangerous possibility of the hit going terribly wrong. I touched the syringe through the clear plastic and tried to see the needle through its cover. If it was too thin, there was the risk of it breaking before I got to use it. But if it was thick enough, I’d be able to plunge it, sink it like a knife, and deliver the poison.
But then I saw the problem and let out an impatient huff.
“What? What’s wrong?” Nerd asked as he began to inspect the bottle.
“How are we supposed to get the poison into the syringe safely?” I asked, answering his question with a question. “I don’t think we want to chance that rubber cap. Do you?”
Nerd raised one brow, then winked. The expression didn’t seem natural for him, but I understood the sentiment. He held up a finger, telling me to wait. Then he produced the biggest sandwich baggie I’d ever seen. Identical to the smaller one, but the size of it was comical.
“We’ll use this,” he said. “Probably overkill, but that’s the point. We want to be safe.”
“What are we supposed to do with that?”
“Observe,” he instructed, placing the vial and syringe into the larger bag and zipping it closed. “With a five-gallon bag, you can fill the syringe, put the caps back on, and reseal, all through the plastic. No need to touch anything directly or risk getting some of it on you.”
As Nerd spoke, I could see that whatever was bothering him was steadily moving on, clearing from his mind like a passing fog. His mannerisms had become more animated, more normal, more of what I’d grown accustomed to seeing. And that made me more comfortable too.
“Or . . .” I began, then dug into my purse to show him one of my own tricks. “We could use these.” I flashed him a pair of latex gloves that I’d swiped from Steve’s car.
“Yeah, that’d work too,” he grinned, peering down at the bag in his lap. “Not sure how old this is. Might be best to use both.” Nerd handed me the bag—then the corners of his mouth turned down as though he’d just stepped into a pile of dog shit.
“So, you’ll add the three grand to the forty percent?” I asked, hoping the job paid more. “You know, we took a bit of a risk buying inventory before knowing if we got the job.”
Nerd shook his head. “We got it!”
“We did?” I yelled, clapping my hand over my mouth. I tipped my head back and quietly stomped my feet with excitement. “How much?”
His face soured, and I felt a twinge of disappointment. “Only eighteen.”
“Eighteen hundred?” I asked, dropping my shoulders and foolishly wondering if there was a return policy on the strychnine.
Who was I kidding? My first job and I’d already put us in the red.
“Eighteen grand,” he announced and then pitched his eyes up, moving his lips without saying a word. “So that makes my cut a little over ten and yours a little under eight.”
“That’s doable,” I said, realizing how much money we’d earn for a few hours’ work.
Eight thousand to me. What kind of dent in law school tuition would that make? Was that how much a life was worth? I shook off that last question. After all, the mark meant nothing. The act meant nothing. This is work. No emotional connection. A paycheck going to a greater cause.
“You thought it should have been more?”
“If I’m right,” he began as he pointed toward the red links. “We’ll find marks for thirty grand, maybe even some for fifty grand.” The numbers sounded staggering.
Why so high? How much was there to gain by someone else’s death? And then I thought of all the murder-conspiracy and thriller novels I’d read over the years.
A sense of relief came over me. If fiction was based on real life, then our potential market was huge.
“I guess fiction is real, and fairytales can come true.”
“Huh?” he asked.
“Never mind,” I answered, waving off what I said.
“When?”
I took a deep breath and answered, “Tonight.”
TWENTY-ONE
TONIGHT WAS THE first night of the rest of my life—that is, a life after Todd Wilts. But Steve had other plans for me. We’d just finished dinner when somehow the conversation wrapped back around to a mention of my blouse and the night of the homeless man’s death. That is the way Steve put it, “the man’s death.” He didn’t call it what it was: murder. I rushed to clean the dishes, hiding in the invisibility of being busy—a cue he usually took as my being on the fringe of caring. Like I said, I could be a bitch sometimes. And always when it worked in my favor. I needed it to work in my favor now.
I watched the clock, knowing the hours Todd Wilts would likely be at the tavern. He’d told the bartender that he wanted to get shit-faced drunk after he was done for the night. I wanted to be at the tavern before eleven. Late for a Thursday evening, but still early from a college student’s perspective. They’d be filling the White Bear, cooking up the start of a long weekend by then.
My plan was to dress up to look like a grad student, seducing my mark and getting close enough to lead him somewhere private, alone. The clock showed nine. I anxiously scratched at my arms. I slipped away for a few minutes to rehearse how to fill the syringe, holding the brown bottle of strychnine in one hand and the syringe in the other.
“Did you drop it off?” I heard Steve ask, but my mind was elsewhere. “Babe?”
“What, Steve?” I asked, hurrying my hands over a plate before dumping it on the dish rack. “Sorry. Little rushed.”
“Rushed for what?”
“I’m supposed to meet with Katie later for a couple of drinks. I told you last week. Remember?” I asked. That was lie number one for the evening. Katie’s involvement was purely fictional. Steve looked uncertain as he tried to focus on a memory that wasn’t there. I rolled my eyes immediately and added, “You forgot, didn’t you? She was supposed to catch me up on what’s going on with her and Jerry?”
Steve gave me a quick nod as if he remembered. He always preferred agreeing rather than admitting he’d forgotten. Now who was lying? I tried not to laugh.
“Your blouse?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.
“Which blouse?” I answered, playing dumb to what he’d said earlier.
“The one you were wearing the night you fell at the library,” he said. He touched my shoulder, drawing my attention away from the sink. Lie number two for the night was coming. I could feel it. “I picked up the laundry from the dry cleaner, only they didn’t have your blouse. Said that you never brought one in.”
“The torn-up one?” I asked, traipsing my hand over the front of the shirt I was wearing and then wishing I had avoided touching the buttons. “Tossed it.” Steve’s face emptied, becoming blank as if all his thoughts were lost. I turned back to the sink, keeping the conversation insignificant. But inside, I was nervous and scared. I squirmed at the sting of sweat beneath my arms.
“Wait, what do you mean you tossed it?” he asked, raising his voice. I thumped my hand on the faucet, shutting off the water, doing my best to look annoyed.
“It was ruined. Cheaper to buy a new one,” I answered, lifting my brow as though his tone surprised me. “It was an old blouse. I’ve got a dozen more. And since when do you care at all about my clothes?”
There was moisture on his upper lip, and the sight of it kept me from turning back to face the sink. His lip twitched too, but he tried to hide it. His warm hands were on my arms then, his eyes locking with mine, searching for a truth that I had to keep hidden.
“What happened after you left the library?” he asked. I shrank away when I heard a strange tone in his voice. It wasn’t harsh like he’d use in an interrogation, but soft, a near whisper. It cut right through me. He was afraid for me. “Please, Amy. Please try to remember.”
“I . . . I told you,” I repeated, stammering. My voice cracked against the sudden dryness in my throat. “Tripped and fell. Hit the railing.” I tried to bring my hand up to my head, but Steve closed his hands tighter, gripping my arms as though he would try and shake the truth out of me.
“Do you still have the blouse?” he pleaded now. I shook my head as images raced through my mind. I saw charred remains of the fabric, black snowflakes being picked up and whisked into the breeze, carried by the dying heat of the small fire.
“I don’t,” I said flatly. “What is it? Why do you need it?” He pushed off then, nearly shoving me away as he leaned against the kitchen counter and drove his face into his palms.
“Do you remember that night?” he half asked and half stated. “The night we skipped dinner because of the crime scene outside of Romeo’s?”
“Yeah, sure,” I answered. “But what’s that got to do with my blouse?” I kept my voice level, thin, and directed, but my insides tumbled out of control. I braced against the counter, clutching it until my knuckles hurt.
“We found something at the scene, and God help us, I think it’s from your blouse.”
“What?” I nearly shouted, doing my best to sound surprised and oblivious. Steve only shook his head, waving his hands at the air. “What was it?”
“Best you don’t know. Not yet.” I touched him then, rubbing my hand against his arm, trying to soothe what troubled him. He shook his head. “If only you still had the blouse.”
And I realized then that his hope was in finding that the evidence collected that day couldn’t be connected to my blouse. With the blouse destroyed, that was already the case—he just didn’t know it, yet.
“If there is anything I can do to help . . .” I began to say, but he only gave me a brief glance before leaving the kitchen. I reached through the tension, hoping Steve would take my hand, but he ignored me.
“Enjoy your drinks out with Katie,” he said, his voice rigid and trailing down the hallway as he made his way into his office. If he’d brought home the case files, a glass of wine might be in order. Who knew? One of the case files could be about my homeless man.
It was clear to me now that the homeless man had grabbed my buttons, holding onto them as I’d taken his life. Steve thought he recognized them but wasn’t able to marry them up to my being there—not without the blouse. There were a hundred other scenarios Steve would consider before considering the one that put his wife at the scene of a murder.
What if the homeless man had simply walked by the library, finding two creamy moons staring up at him from the sidewalk? Would he believe that?
And then there was the obvious choice—telling Steve the truth.
This last option had never crossed my mind. I had been attacked by the homeless man. That part was true. The man’s intentions were to rape me and then slice me open, like he’d done to another girl. And then it occurred to me that the homeless man was just like me. He was a hunter, a prowler, and he would have continued doing what he’d been doing if I hadn’t ended him. If it had to happen, if I had to offer a story, it would be the truth. All of it. From the blade held to my neck to the hit I’d planted against his head and then taking the knife from him. It would be a terrific story of self-defense. And to better the story, I’d add how I was filled with shame and embarrassment that kept me from coming forward. Isn’t that always the case?
I could get away with this, I thought.
The only thing I’d have to leave out of my story was just how much I enjoyed murdering the man.
TWENTY-TWO
I ASKED MYSELF a thousand times whether I could look the part. Could I pull this off? Skinny jeans were what the college girls wore. I had confirmed it when driving around the local campus after my first field trip. I had made other mental notes too: shirts, hairstyles, and shoes to name a few. A grad student could get away with looking older, but I wanted Todd Wilts to see me, and I needed Todd Wilts to want me.
The only suitable pair of jeans I had wer
e already too small—Levis from my college days. I tried them on, pulling on the denim, feeling the tightness wrap around my thighs like a stocking. They were uncomfortable, but to pass as skinny jeans at the White Bear, they were perfect.
And in the same bin of old college clothes I found a sultry black top, a V-neck, extra low in the front, with bare shoulders. The top would offer plenty of distraction, giving my mark something else to look at when I was close to him. I changed my hair a half-dozen times, and then my shoes three or four more. Todd was a big boy and, at best, I came up to his shoulders. I would need leverage to plunge in the syringe. At the back of my closet, I found a pair of black pumps—a bit high in the heels. I’d have to lean on my toes when the time called for it. They were dusty and hadn’t been on my feet in years. I winced when squeezing my toes into them. They would hurt, but I’d make them work.
I glanced in the mirror hanging on our bedroom’s closet door, keeping the lights low, careful to try not to stir Steve from his sleep. I blinked when I looked at my reflection and shook my head. I’d done it. I thrust my front out and arched my back, pushing myself into a sexy curve. I looked damn good—hot.
“Let’s just hope Mr. Todd Wilts thinks so too,” I said under my breath.
Seeing isn’t feeling, though, and I hoped some of that confidence I saw in my bedroom mirror stayed with me. I stopped at one point, on the bridge over Neshaminy Creek, ready to turn my car around and call it off, my nerves getting the better of me.
There’s no way he’ll think I am a college student.
But the need to feed came—the hunger pangs more physically present than I ever could have imagined. It wasn’t about the money. I wanted to do this, needed to do this. Vampires were real—I believed that now.
I rolled my car window down, letting the late-autumn air tumble inside and caress my bare shoulders like a trainer relaxing an athlete. A crescent moon hung in the star-filled blackness—a glowing sickle threatening to cut open the sky. It was all I needed to see to urge me on.
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 13