Couldn't Cheat Death

by A. P. Eisen

  “Yeah, I have that as well.” Rob flipped through his pad with one hand and pointed at his computer screen with the other. “To add even more strength to the argument that Amy’s story is complete BS, he even put down his manicure appointments, hair appointments, and tanning appointments. Every fucking thing was documented, including his fucking. Let’s not forget his little rating system. One star equaled a dud in bed, never to be seen again. Two—only if desperate or drunk enough. Three—if stood up and bored. Four—definite repeat performance, and five stars”—Rob snorted and shook his head—“bang me through the mattress, baby.” He paused. “This guy, man. I wish he was still alive just to shake his hand.”

  Paul allowed himself a faint smile. “So she lied about that…” He tapped his jaw with his fingers. “She most likely took her son to the playground and played in the sandbox, which means she would have sand in her sneakers from the sandbox as well.”

  “True, but is that enough to give us a warrant to search her house? ’Cause it sure as hell isn’t enough to arrest her.”

  “I know. And don’t forget there were sandy footprints next to Jerry’s body that the forensics team took those high-res pictures of. After we finish this, we should check in with them again to see if they’ve come up with a sneaker brand. Then, if we find the shoes Amy wore, and if they’re sneakers, we can match it up.” He’d already checked with them once today, and they’d said nothing yet.

  “Miracles of modern science.” Rob gnawed on his pen.

  “Only if it helps us solve this case,” Paul said grimly. “If it doesn’t, it’s a useless expensive toy.”

  The desk phone rang, and seeing it was Rodriguez from Forensics, he grabbed it. “Monroe.”

  “Paul, it’s me, Manny. I got it.” The restrained nervousness in the man’s voice wasn’t lost on Paul. He wasn’t the only one who wanted this solved.

  “Good. Give me the details.” Rob watched him take down the information, and Paul could see his partner’s rising excitement. It was the same with him. That tingling sensation that filtered through his blood, knowing they had something plausible. Credible. “Manny, I could kiss you. Thanks, buddy.”

  “Go get ’em, Bulldog.” Manny laughed and hung up.

  “What have you got?” Rob asked the second he ended the call.

  “Adidas, men’s size nine and a half. Tread has a circular pattern under the big toe. Model name is Samba. Worn down on the outer edges of the heels.”

  “Supinated gait,” Rob muttered and wrote it down.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have the same thing. It means your shoes wear out more on the outside heel, with almost no wear in the middle of the foot. Look.” He stood and put his feet together. “See my heels?”

  Paul examined Rob’s feet and saw what he was talking about. “Yeah. Exactly what you said.”

  “Drives Annabel crazy ’cause I have to buy new shoes so often.”

  “Okay, so now we have another piece of the puzzle. We know what shoe the killer wore. We need to find out about the bartender uniform, including footwear. Does Amy change into the uniform at work and put her stuff in a locker, or does the staff come in dressed for work?”

  “Good question. My guess would be they change, but we can call and find out.”

  One step ahead of Rob, Paul had already pulled his phone out and was dialing Cliff.

  “Hello? Paul?” Cliff sounded a bit guarded.

  “Hi. We’re at the station going over information and need your help.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “Whatever you need.”

  “How about if we come over? It’s almost lunchtime, and we can talk face-to-face.”

  In a softer tone, Cliff said, “I’d like that.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you in about half an hour.” He ended the call and shut down his computer. “Let’s go talk to Cliff.”

  “And maybe score some lunch?” Rob rubbed his flat stomach. “All work and no food makes Rob a hungry boy.”

  Paul patted Rob on the back as they walked out of the precinct to the car. “You had two doughnuts.”

  “Three, but that’s not food.” He pouted.

  “Oh, brother. That might work on your wife, but it has zero effect on me. Come on, big boy. I’m sure Cliff can hustle you up some food.”

  As they got into the car, Rob said, “You and that guy have gotten pretty friendly.”

  “Yeah. It’s been nice catching up. We’ve even gone running a couple of times.” Why the hell did he go and say that? But when Rob said nothing further, Paul wondered if he wanted Rob to ask him so that he could volunteer the information about himself and Cliff.

  They parked in the garage and entered the hotel. Paul’s gaze swept over the lobby, noting the small groups of people clustered about with books in hand. He hadn’t realized this convention lasted as long as it did. At the front desk, Preston greeted them with a smile.

  “Good morning, Detectives. Mr. Baxter said for you to go right through.”

  No more flirty ways from the young man, and Paul acknowledged him with a quick smile. “Thanks.”

  He and Rob took the now-familiar path to Cliff’s office. He knocked on the door.

  “Come on in.”

  Cliff was on the phone at his desk but waved them inside. “Ryan, I have to go—talk to you later.” He set the phone down. “Detectives, have a seat. Can I offer you anything? Coffee, water…”

  “Rob would like to have lunch, and we need to talk to you about what we discovered.”

  “Not a problem. Here’s the menu. Let me know what you’d like, and I’ll put in the order; then we can talk.”

  Throughout the conversation, Cliff avoided eye contact with him. It was almost like the first time they saw each other the day of the murder. A little cool and impersonal, which considering what they’d done the night before, seemed downright odd.

  Then again, what the hell did he know about anything? Maybe Cliff had decided he no longer wanted to be a part of Paul’s life and wait around for him to decide who the hell he was.

  Couldn’t blame the man, but Paul had sure as hell learned on the job not to jump to conclusions, so at some point they’d be having a more personal conversation.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cliff prided himself on keeping the conversation on a professional level. He’d spent the past ten minutes explaining to Ryan—who had called to tell him after some in-depth thinking that it would be one of Cliff’s more stupid ideas to get involved with another closet case—that Paul was different.

  Internally, he was still squirming from Ryan’s well-meaning but brutal assessment.

  “Yeah? He fucked you, I bet, but he won’t hold your hand in public. Don’t let him lead you around by the nose with his big dick.”

  Wincing, Cliff tried to inject a little humor. “Now there’s a picture.”

  “I’m not laughing. You’re gonna get fucked over again, and it might feel good while he’s pounding you in bed, but you forget I saw Lincoln turn his back on you. You deserve better than some guy who can’t figure his shit out.”

  “Who says I have my own shit figured out? Do you? Does anyone?”

  “I know what I don’t want. I don’t want a guy who can’t admit to himself who he is and won’t acknowledge me in front of his peers.”

  “And I can’t walk away from someone who’s obviously struggling.”

  “Cliffie. In your own words you told me that even this morning, as soon as his partner showed up, you had to leave.”

  “Because I chose to, not because he asked me to. He’s investigating a murder, Ry. That’s his top priority, not making me feel good about myself.”

  “That’s the point,” Ryan said sadly. “He shouldn’t have to work at making you feel good. It should come naturally.”

  But Cliff had never felt good about himself. The night with Paul brought his fantasy to life, and Paul not only didn’t disappoint, he far exceeded Cliff’s dreams. Smashed them, in fac
t. Cliff had never lacked for companionship. He’d had enthusiastic lovers, sweet lovers, and lovers who played his body with skill and precision. But he’d never had a man like Paul, who touched him as if it meant something. As if he was worthy.

  To now sit across the desk from Paul and discuss something as mundane as lunch, when this morning Cliff had fallen to pieces with Paul inside him, seemed almost laughable, but as Paul had said, at the moment his focus needed to be on the murder.

  “Do you want something to eat, Paul? We might as well all order lunch.”

  “Sure. The turkey—”

  Cliff cut him off. “Club, no mayo, and fruit instead of fries. I remember. Rob, what about you?” After Rob decided, he placed their order.

  Paul studied his pad. “Okay. So we got the results back from the shoeprint analysis. They’ve determined the sneakers are Adidas Samba, size nine and a half.”

  “Could be a small foot for a man or a larger foot for a woman, but not out of the ordinary at all.”

  “Yep. Now, about the employees’ uniform. Do you have a specific one for footwear for people, or can they wear what they want?”

  “Also,” Rob interjected, “lockers. Do you give employees lockers to hang their clothes in, and if so, does Amy Parsons have one?”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa. Okay. I don’t actually know all the details about the restaurant uniforms, but they change here before starting their shifts. Yes, we do have lockers for employees, especially people in food service. We don’t want them bringing in outside allergens or contaminants. We have to be very careful of that.”

  Paul and Rob wrote down everything he said, and Cliff could see how well the two men worked as a unit. Knowing how closed off Paul kept himself, it made Cliff happy to see Paul had a person to trust and count on.

  The knock on the door could only mean their food had arrived.

  “Come on in,” he called out, and the door opened. Rob and Paul stood to make room for the man holding a tray with their sandwiches.

  “Here you go, Mr. Baxter. Did you need anything else?”

  “No, we’re good, Kevin.” As the server left, Cliff poured three cups of water from the cooler by the window. “Water’s okay, right, guys?” Both men agreed.

  During the course of the meal, Cliff learned a bit more about Rob—his devotion to his family, his fondness for football, and the respect and admiration he had for Paul. Cliff liked the man immensely.

  “All right,” Cliff said as they were finishing their lunch. “So where do you want to start? We can go to the lockers first, or to the restaurant and ask Jade about their uniforms. As a matter of fact, hold on a sec.” He pulled up the schedules on his computer. “Amy is working the bar today. Why don’t we stop by?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Paul popped the last grape into his mouth, brushed off his hands, and rose from his chair. “Ready when you are. Let’s go speak to her. Are you done, Rob?”

  “I swear,” Rob grumbled, “if this is what you’re like during sex, no wonder—”

  “Oh, shut up and let’s get going,” Paul cut him off, an embarrassed red flush staining his neck above the bright-white shirt collar. For a second Cliff met Paul’s eyes, and he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing out loud, but Rob was no slouch as a detective and saw right through him.

  “See? Even Cliff thinks you’re too much. Right, Cliff?”

  “Absolutely.” He nodded, pretending to be serious. “Paul, you’re way too uptight. You really need to find an outlet to let off some steam.”

  They left the office, Rob leading the way, and Paul took that opportunity to whisper in his ear, “You think you’re funny, huh? Are you volunteering to be that outlet maybe?”

  “Perhaps,” Cliff murmured back as he turned to lock the door behind him. He heard Paul’s low chuckle.

  When the three of them entered the lobby, Cliff asked, “Should we all approach at once, or will you two go first, and I’ll join you afterward?” Exciting as it was to be part of the investigation, Cliff’s nerves still played havoc underneath his skin.

  “I think that’s a better idea. Rob and I will go talk to Jade Kennedy, and you can chat up Amy. You know her. See if you can find out what kind of sneakers she wears when she’s not at work.”

  “Will do.”

  Paul left with Rob, and Cliff couldn’t help but watch them until they entered the restaurant. Until a week ago, he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on Paul Monroe for years. Now he couldn’t get him out of his mind.

  Except he’d been entrusted with a job. With Amy the top suspect now—a fact he still couldn’t wrap his head around—he took what he’d been asked to do seriously and thrust aside all thoughts of the night he’d spent with Paul, as well as the temporary hurt when he drove away that morning, leaving the playground.

  Paul hadn’t asked him to, but Cliff didn’t want to put the man in an uncomfortable position where he’d need to speak to Rob about the case and at the same time explain Cliff’s presence at eight in the morning.

  Amy stood behind the bar, chatting with two customers, each with a drink before them. While Cliff had been excited for Paul that he likely solved Jerry’s murder, it hit him hard that this woman he’d known and worked with might be the killer. He swallowed and pasted a smile on his face as he approached her.

  “Cliff, how are you? Here for lunch?”

  Those same brown eyes he’d seen for years gazed back at him, and Cliff plumbed their depths to catch a glimpse of subterfuge but found nothing. Maybe Paul was wrong. Maybe it was a terrible coincidence.

  “No. But I could use an iced tea.” He took a seat at the bar. “How’s business? Steady?”

  “Mmm, yeah.” As she talked she scooped ice into the tall, thin glass and filled it with his tea. “These conventions are always good. They sit and drink and the tips get bigger.”

  “Do they? So you’re making more money now, working the weekend shift again?”

  “Yeah, definitely. It was tough there for a while. Mason is growing so fast, seems like every month he needs new clothes and sneakers.”

  His fingers tightened around his glass. “Oh?” He hoped he sounded casual. “Sneakers are so expensive these days. I wait until mine have holes in the bottoms before buying a new pair.”

  Her brows shot up. “I think you can afford to change them up more often. There are some really good sales at the Runner’s Edge. I have to get Mason a new pair of Adidas, and they’re only thirty dollars.”

  “Really? That’s amazing. I’ll check it out.”

  “He only likes a certain kind—a skater-type sneaker called Samba—so they call me when they get them in. And the good thing is that we even wear the same size, so we can share sneakers.” She laughed, and Cliff forced himself to join her, while his insides twisted into a knot and he alternated between wanting to faint or puke.

  Shit, shit, shit. It’s her.

  “Oh?”

  “Or even worse, I’ll put on the wrong ones and get a foot full of sand from the sandbox at the playground.”

  “I forgot to tell you. I saw you last night on the news, when you were protesting the closing of the park early.” Cliff held his breath, gauging her reaction.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes flashed. “It’s terrible that they want to do that to the kids. Mason’s aide has been taking him to the park whenever I have a late shift, and if that’s taken away from them, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “I thought Jerry took him when he’d come over and help out.”

  Her eyes narrowed briefly, but then her brow smoothed over. “Well, he did. When he could. I never said he did it every day.”

  A customer called Amy over. “Excuse me.” She hurried away.

  “Take your time,” he croaked out faintly, his head whirling, but he still managed to finish the task Paul and Rob had assigned to him, which was to get a glimpse of her shoes. Feeling a bit foolish but refusing to let that deter him, Cliff reached over to scoop up some peanuts from the bow
l, using that as an excuse to peer over the bar. He zeroed in on her feet, noting Amy wore plain black slip-on shoes. Not sneakers. He wondered if they were in her locker.

  A combination of nerves and excitement bubbled through him, and he rose from his seat. He’d only taken a few steps when Amy called out to him. “Didn’t you want anything else?”

  “No. I have everything I need. Thanks.”

  Careful to keep his stride even, Cliff left the bar to go directly to the front desk and called Security. “Brian, I need the master key to the employees’ lockers.”

  Although each employee had a special code to enter into their assigned locker, the hotel had a master key to open the lockers in case an employee refused to empty their belongings or simply forgot their code.

  “Sure. Be right over.”

  It took less than five minutes for Duffy to come over with the key. The front desk clerk continued to help customers but Cliff could see him shooting curious glances his way.

  He returned to his office to do a fast check on the employees’ locker assignments, then took the stairs down to the lower level. The employees-only area was where the workers changed into their uniforms, or could sit at one of the long tables to relax, read, or have a snack. There were restrooms and vending machines. On the left side of the large room was the men’s locker room and on the right, the women’s. He knocked on the door of the ladies’ locker room, and not receiving an answer, entered.

  He located Amy Parsons’s locker in the last row on the bottom level, inserted the master key, and kneeled down to open her locker. When he peered inside, he noticed a pair of black sneakers, worn at the heels. Heart pounding, he reached inside to pull them out.

  A foot pushed him to the floor and onto his stomach.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He rolled over and attempted to stand, but Amy kicked him hard in the groin. Pain lanced through him, and he saw stars. When he was able to focus again, Amy’s angry face came into his line of vision.

  “I…uh…” Fear dried up any excuse he might’ve come up with.