A Kiss Before I Die (4 page)

Men and women came through the front door as she was walking down the wide staircase. Wilcox was greeting them. He was like a real estate agent at an open house. 

This is the living room, to the left is the kitchen, and over here we have the murder scene…
 

He gave Sam a spiteful look, as if she’d taken too long to get ready for a dinner party. A woman his height was with him. She wore an FPD uniform. 

“This is Samantha Moretti, the owner of the property. And this, Ms. Moretti, is Foursquare’s Chief Augustine Henderson.” 

She was tall like Wilcox, and like Wilcox may have played football; she was an unattractive giant. Her attitude, without having spoken a word, was one of anger and the anger circled her like chained caged tigers.

They did not shake hands.

“What happened here, Ms. Moretti?” 

“Do you have a warrant?” 

“
Excuse me
?” 

“A
warrant
. Do you have a warrant?” 

Sam looked to her lawyer.

“They have authority based on my call. A warrant is being issued for the remainder of the house and its contents although probable cause will allow them wherever they want. Standard procedure.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Sam said.

“You’re welcome,” the lawyer said.

Henderson crossed her arms under her flat chest, pulling her dark blue tie tighter around her neck. Various chevrons, buttons, and badges adorned the equally blue shirt.

“You have a blood soaked driveway, a laundry room that appears to double as a slaughterhouse, and you’ve spent the night in jail and you want to know if
I
have a
warrant
?”

“I was in jail last night based on a false police report, which I’ve explained to Mr. Wilcox, which he’ll be conveying to the court next week. Also, for the record, one of your boys – I think his name was Jameson? He copped a feel when I was in cuffs, no pun intended. Because of the false report and the officer’s lack of professionalism, I was locked out of my house so Mr. Wilcox assisted me with re-entry. He discovered the blood, alerting me to both areas. I haven’t seen either area and have no desire to. Or was that too much information?”

She did want to see it. She wanted no chance of a false memory that might implicate her in the death of a man she didn’t know. What she already knew was bad enough.

“You haven’t
seen?
The
blood
?”

Her incredulousness was theatrical, a grade school teacher mocking a student. She looked to Wilcox with the same theatrically dumbfounded face.

“To my knowledge that is correct. Ms. Moretti has been in my presence since her release and I can testify that, for this afternoon only, she has not seen the laundry area or driveway and that I am, in fact, the one that pointed out these areas to her. When we find the body the blood came from, maybe we can determine a time of death. But for this morning and afternoon, and at least for a portion of last night, she has an alibi.”

Augustine Henderson mentioned the son of god and walked to where photographs and measurements were being taken.

“Check the reservoir,” Henderson said. “Maybe she dumped him there.”

Sam, watching her walk away, whispered, “Is she a bitch or what?”

“Don’t antagonize her,” Wilcox said. “She’s under a lot of pressure.”

“The poor thing.”

“Check it at the door,” Wilcox said.

A man close to her height approached them.

He was youthful looking with blond hair and fair white skin. He was smiling, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, removing latex gloves.

“Morning, counselor.”

“How are you, Jeff?”

“Excellent, excellent. How are the girls?”

They shook hands.

“Wiser than their father last we spoke.”

They laughed.

“Detective Jeffery Debozy, this is my client, Samantha Moretti.”

He extended his hand. He struck the right balance of politeness and regret.

“I’m happy to meet you, Samantha, but I am sorry to be here.”

“Jeff’s been with us, what, five, seven years?”

“More than that I think. Around, ten, yeah, little over. I need to ask you a few questions, Ms. Moretti. As I’m sure you’ll have no problem providing direct, factual answers, and I’m sure we’ll have no trouble with your representative letting us talk privately. She is your client, right?”

It was her turn to laugh.

“When do I sign the confession?”

They all laughed.

“That’ll make it easier,” Debozy said.

“I’ve wanted to get this baby Lindbergh thing off my chest for a while now.”

She guided Debozy to the library and bar, what her godfather had referred to as ‘Holy Ground’.

Her godfather loved his in-laws and said his wife’s parents had given him his life some of his happiest memories, that the library and bar was his shrine to them. 

She never knew her godfather to drink or take any drug stronger than his prescribed painkillers. Laurie, her godmother, had been a poster child of sobriety. Sometimes her godfather seemed stoned, but she knew when his pain was severe he lost track of his meds. The account of his life included drug abuse and alcoholism and sometimes, as she read and re-read his story, he seemed so stupid…and sad. She knew Laurie sometimes seemed to cry over nothing, but her mom, Juliet, said Laurie was not weak and believed in God and a life beyond the physical.

Samantha understood the words of faith and death but didn’t believe the emotion of faith and death.

You were here.

Then you weren’t.

And that was that.

Once inside, door closed, the detective set up a small micro-cassette recorder on the coffee table between them.

“You still use those things?”

“It’s old school, but reliable. No one can claim electronic interference or any other excuse for the recording. We transcribe everything and make copies so it’s all good.”

“Wow. How about that?”

“Testing, testing, one two three…”

He rewound and played the tape so she could hear it.

“Does that sound all right to you, Samantha?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…”

He began to record again.

He read her Miranda Rights.

Did she understand her rights?

She did.

Okay.

“Today is March twenty-seven, two-thousand-thirteen, and it is three-twenty-four p m. My name is Jeffery Debozy, and I am a detective with the Foursquare New York police department. This is an interview with Samantha Moretti. Ms. Moretti, can you tell me the time and date, please.”

She did.

He asked if she was speaking of her own free will, and did she understand that had the right to counsel, and that anything she said or did could be held against her in a court of law.

She did.

“Where should we begin?” the detective asked.

He was a jovial, relaxed man.

She liked him.

“Wherever you’d like,” Sam answered.

Jeff Debozy smiled.

“First thing that comes to your head…”

“My lawyer, Thomas Wilcox, Junior, age forty-nine, representing The Wilcox and Associates, a New York State law firm, an institution responsible for managing an estate worth more than some municipalities, murdered private investigator Frederick Burleson. He will murder me in the next twenty-four hours unless you, Jeffery Debozy, help me. You cannot discuss this with Foursquare police chief Augustine Henderson as she may have colluded in the murder of Mr. Burleson and may be assisting Mr. Wilcox in the planning of my murder. Mr. Wilcox has the gun in his possession. He allowed me to handle it earlier when I was unaware of its significance so you will find my prints on it. You must relieve him of that weapon. Or he may try to plant the weapon somewhere in this house or in my belongings.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the detective said, holding a hand up. “Slow down. Repeat that.”

“You heard me and it’s on tape and we don’t have time. The longer we’re in here the more suspicious they’ll become and that increases the odds you’ll be murdered, too…”

“Why would anyone murder you?”

“I inherited thirty-million dollars in property, cash, and investments.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“Are you an honest man, detective?”

The detective cleared his throat in an odd manner.

“Are you currently on any medications Ms. Moretti…?”

She reached to her ankle and took out her gun. It felt like the warm handshake of an old friend.

“I have a twenty-two caliber handgun. I’ve pointed it at detective Jeffery Debozy of the Foursquare police department. Do you agree this is a factual statement, detective Jeffery Debozy of the Foursquare police department?”

The detective did not flinch.

“Yes. I agree.”

“Do you agree the muzzle of the gun is two inches from your nose and that if I pulled its trigger you would suffer immediate harm?”

“It
is
a twenty-two?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s fair to say I would need, uh, repairs.”

“Do you agree at this point my tone and manner is not indicative of murderous intent but rather one of fact and reasonableness?”

He paused before he agreed.

“What is the date and time, detective?”

“Today is March twenty-seven, two-thousand-thirteen, and it is…three-twenty-six p m.”

“How long does an interview like this take, detective? Generally? In minutes.”

“In this setting, fifteen to twenty.”

“Are you a drinker? Alcohol?”

“Yeah. But I don’t handle it well.”

“Good.”

She went to the bar, retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was nearly full, clamped the cap with her teeth, twisted the bottle open and handed it to him.

“Drink.”

“What?”

“Drink. I will tell you when to stop…”

“I need a glass.”

“I like you, Jeffrey Debozy. And right now I’m the only person in your world you can trust. So please don’t stall or clear your throat again. Drink.”

He did. One swallow.

“Again. It will get easier. I will let you know when you’re done. Drink.”

She reached for the recorder.

“I’m taking this.”

Debozy nodded.

“Drink,” she repeated.

She monitored the time and the bottle.

“I feel sick.”

“Good. Drink.”

The bottle rapidly depleted to the two-thirds full mark. The detective reached his limit in less than five minutes.             

“You’re goings to kill me?”

Samantha Moretti smiled.

“I’m doing just the opposite – keeping you alive longer.”

“Do me a favor,” the detective said.

“What’s that?”

“If it turns you’re innocence and sane, both I hopes, let’s get together…for a drinks….”

“Oh, for god sakes…” 

His head lolled to his right. She checked his pulse and lifted his left eyelid:  he was dead drunk but not dead. She let him keep the bottle, cradling it in arms. She searched him, confiscating his wallet, badge, and cuffs. She left his money, ID, and credit cards on his lap. She just needed something for the badge. She put on his overcoat: it was blue and the letters FPD were embroidered on it. She turned the recorder off, flipped the cassette over, pushed record, and set the small device at the top of a shelf, pointed forward.

She locked the door from the inside as she left. 

It was then she noticed the doors, indeed the house, was somewhat overbuilt. The biggest bad wolf wouldn’t be able to blow this place down.

Good luck with the door
.

She kept her eyes forward on indeterminate points and walked confidently out the front door, which was unguarded, unmanned. There were cars everywhere and police everywhere:  the locals and the troopers and who knows who else. She walked without swagger or anger, without looking beyond the scope of her immediate need:  her Camaro.

She pressed the remote starter as she walked to it. The exhaust sound was the only problem:  the car growled. Her boldness fooled the men outside the house. They were also looking at her body, each unaware she was about to become a fugitive charged with murder.

She was in the car and moving forward over the lawn between two trees before one of the officers realized her departure was a bit too dramatic. He waved her down, getting too close for her to pass him comfortably.

“
Ma’am! Ma’am
!”

She slowed and almost stopped, but didn’t.

She powered her window down.

She flashed the detective’s badge. 

“
Move
!”

He threw his arms up as if surrendering and let her pass without further interference.

The Camaro was the perfect car for her. It had a manual six-speed and a top end of 180 MPH. It was a no-bullshit car made for the autobahn and country roads of New York State.

She sped through the east side of town at what her dad used to call Warp 10, one-hundred-wonderful miles per hour. The road she took circumvented the town and its main arteries; it had few stop signs. However it was the type of road that as you rose over a crest  you were was as likely to find a long black empty ribbon or a herd of cattle or sheep moving from field to field, guided or unguided. People had died or been disfigured on roads like this as an errant pork chop or hamburger strolled to greener pastures.

The Vernon Castle farm was the logical place to go and there, she imagined, she could make a last stand or propel herself out. 

But that would be her last stop. 

It was 4:15. The clouds and snow were moving in and darkness was coming: three hours to sunset and an hour of it, more like forty-five minutes, would be the drive home.

She’d been living in her parents’ house since their deaths five months ago; there were weapons, food, and comforts waiting for her there. Her father collected and restored trucks. She thought of swapping out the Camaro for one of his favorite projects, a Chevy Tahoe. Later escape might mean going off-road, blending in, possibly crossing the border into Canada. There was a cottage in Kincardine the family owned free and clear. It was seven to eight hours away in fair weather. There was another property in Michigan, in a place called Harsens Island.

She parked behind an abandoned gas station.

She needed to think.

She needed to talk to Burleson’s wife.

She needed to find out what she thought her husband was working on, if she knew who his employers were.

She found a scrap of paper in her glove box; she punched in “305” on her GPS system. 

It made three suggestions:

305
Sandya
.

305
Salyes
Street. 

305
Scananonga
Ave. 

None of them looked correct.

She re-entered 305 and the same addresses popped up again. 

Laboring to sort the letters and locations, she drew a rough map indicating where she thought she was and then made stars where she thought the addresses were. This took precious minutes but she knew if she didn’t organize first that the FPD would find her wandering the streets asking passersby’s for directions to a street she couldn’t read, to a house she’d never seen.

305.  305.  305.

She would go west, south, and then gradually travel north, zigzagging until she reached the last address.