Dirty Deeds (25 page)

* * * *

Louie's vision blurred as she stared down at her friend's body lying on the cold steel table, covered with a sterile white sheet. She looked so small and frail, her dark skin ashen in death. Louie didn't care that Meg had lived a long, full life. It still wasn't fair. Her life was stolen from her and it hadn't been Meg's time to die.

Yet, the truth of her brutal death couldn't be denied. The distinct marks on her neck showed that. Large and purple, the imprint of fingers around Meg's neck would be forever etched into Louie's memory. She'd find out who'd done this.

Louie touched Meg's hair and whispered, "Sleep well, my sweet friend."

Amy gently led Louie out of the morgue and down the hall to the elevators. Neither of them spoke until they were seated across from each other in Amy's office several floors above.

"Any ideas on who or why?" Amy asked.

Louie shook her head. "I don't understand any of it. Who'd want kill Meg? She was a delightful person who was quiet and gentle. I don't know of anyone who disliked her."

Amy's brow wrinkled. "Do you know who she was?'

"What do you mean?" Louie looked over at Amy and wrinkled her brow. Of course she knew who Meg was. She'd seen her almost every day for the last five years.

"Do you know who Margaret Johnson was?"

Okay, maybe there were some things about Meg she didn't know. Those were just details. She knew Meg's heart and that was the most important thing. "I didn't even know that was her name," she finally said. "She went by Meg English."

"English was her maiden name."

Louie studied Amy's face and then shrugged. "I hate to be dense but I'm still not following you."

Amy pushed a folder across the desk to Louie. "Margaret Johnson won the Nobel Peace prize forty years ago for her work with the civil rights movement. That tiny little woman downstairs in our morgue helped to change the world."

Louie stared at the information in the file, unable to reconcile the woman in the photographs and newspaper articles with her spunky yet private friend Meg. As she read, civics lessons from her youth came back to her and she remembered bits and pieces about a woman who stood up when no one else had the courage to do it.

Finally, she lowered one article to the file folder. "I'm seeing but I'm not believing."

"Believe it, Lou. Meg English was Margaret Johnson, and anyone who's done what she did was bound to have enemies."

"Yeah, but in all the time she's lived upstairs, I don't recall seeing many visitors. A family member now and again, and that's about it. She was the gentlest person I think I've ever met."

"But you didn't really know her."

Louie shook her head. "I thought I did. I seem to be finding out lately I've been wrong about a lot of things."

"If you think of anything that might help, call me."

"What about her arrangements?"

"We've been able to contact a niece."

Louie slid the folder back across the desk to Amy. "I'll keep in touch."

As she walked back to her car, Louie wondered how things could have gotten so screwed up in such a short amount of time. A week ago her life was rolling along and now, nothing seemed to make any sense anymore. It seemed as though there was a murder every time she turned around, she was keeping secrets from her best friend, and then there was Paul McDonald…she didn't even want to get started on that quandary. What next?

Chapter Sixteen

Awareness began to creep in, slow and muted, something akin to a fine Monet painting. It was all muddled and out of focus for Chris, and yet it seemed like if he could stand back a foot or two, everything would finally come into focus. Somewhere far in the distance, music played, a soft and haunting melody. He concentrated, the effort almost painful, and began after a time to recognize a familiar pattern to the tune. It was a classic, a Beethoven classic, if his recollection served him right.

Remember … remember, he told himself. It was hard, it made his head hurt, and at the same time it seemed very important to be able to recall the name of the piece. It was weird and disconcerting. It made him want to pound his fists against his forehead—if he could get his hands to move, that is. Nothing on his body wanted to move. Odd.

The music was just as strange. The last thing he remembered, he was on the job hunkered down behind a pine tree, waiting for the Medicine Man to make his appearance at the warehouse. So why now did he hear Beethoven? Somehow, it seemed more important to remember the name of the song than to move his hands.

Then it came to him and relief flowed through his body like the rush of a good stiff shot of whiskey.
Fur Elise
by Ludwig van Beethoven. Ha! Again and again both he and Louie had practiced that piece at the insistence of their mother. He'd found the obligatory piano lessons a drudgery he tolerated because, much to his surprise, his ability to play the piano impressed the girls. Louie'd hated the piano with a vengeance and took every chance she could to dodge both practice and lessons. She played beautifully despite her aversion to the instrument, and he wondered if it was Louie who played the haunting Beethoven now.

Mom had hoped her two children would be refined and gracious. She'd gone to great pains to coax them in that direction very early on. By the time they'd both hit their teens, Mom had given up. Chris had set his sights on the Army Rangers from the age of thirteen, when he'd watched a documentary on the elite special force. His vision had never wavered, and piano lessons had no part in his ultimate goal. Mom's only choice had been to capitulate.

Louie, oh, his beautiful little sister Louise, was a bundle of energy and determination that neither Mom nor Dad ever figured out. Mom had hoped for a ballerina or a teacher. For years, she'd dragged Louie to all the requisite dance and music lessons, to no avail. From the time she could talk, Louie had been determined to follow in Dad's footsteps and become a police officer. As always, headstrong Louie won, much to Dad's immense pride and Mom's dismay. No one would ever have guessed, given the huge smile on Mom's face the day Louie earned her shield, that she'd had any other wish for her daughter. Mom was proud of both her children even if the piano lessons were a bust.

Now, he relaxed and let the familiar sound of
Fur Elise
lull him. It was nice. All the sounds around him were familiar and comforting though he couldn't say why. Figuring out why, not important. At the moment he was content that it was enough. Later, when he felt a bit stronger, perhaps he'd open his eyes and figure out exactly where he was. He only knew for certain he wasn't on that hillside any longer. For now, he'd rest.

A nurse came into the room. "So what's up with you today, Chris?"

Her patient's eyes were closed, his body as still as a statue. The question was entirely rhetorical. It had been five long years of silence for the attractive man who'd intrigued all of them. She'd been here the day he'd arrived and no doubt she'd be here on the day he left. Though none of the staff ever made mention of it aloud, the pattern rarely changed.

She took a cool damp rag and blotted his forehead where tiny beads of sweat had popped out. The monitors that buzzed and whirred next to his bed jumped with activity that was a little out of the norm. She checked them to make certain they were all working as they should. Whatever made them jump could have been nothing more than a random blip of energy. It happened, not often, but it happened.

It could also signal that Chris might be nearing the end. She'd it seen time and time again—that bit of movement, a flash of activity that could give families an unfair and false sense of hope. She was glad his sister wasn't here to see the movement of the monitors.

Chris' younger sister, Louise, or Louie as she asked everyone to call her, came often to sit with her brother. All of the staff was aware of how she held on to the hope that he'd one day wake up. It was a shame because the odds were about a million to one he'd emerge from the coma. It just didn't happen.

It was really too bad he was still so far away from them. Chris Russell was a man who, before the gunshot, possessed all the potential in the world. Even emaciated from years of silence and inactivity, she could see what a handsome man he was. Such a loss that he'd never come back to this world where family and friends held on to hope. It was bound to break their hearts all over again, especially for his sister.

Shrugging, the nurse straightened his blanket, blotted his forehead one more time, and patted his cool hand. Change was in the air; she could feel it. "You rest easy, Chris. We'll be here when you need us. We won't let you go alone."

Looking at the CD player Chris' sister brought in years ago, she noticed that it had ejected the disc. She pushed the CD back in, and once more the classical strains of music began to play softly. She didn't know if he heard the music or if it even helped, but it was pretty and, at least in her opinion, brought some beauty into a world that was otherwise locked in silence.

With one last glance at the monitors that had settled into a familiar, constant pattern, she left the room.

* * * *

Louie had to wait until dark. Kendall Stewart's house still had yellow police tape across the front and back doors, which meant Louie'd have to sneak in. Couldn't do that in broad daylight, so she waited, hoping no one would notice. She had a way of blending into the background, and she was relying on that now. She seemed to pull the shadows around her like Dracula's cape.

Under the cover of darkness, she kept close to trees and bushes until she got to the back door. Picking the lock took a little longer than made her happy. What could she do? It took what it took. She wasn't a professional but it just happened it was one of those little skills that came in handy once in a while. Chris had been able to teach her all sorts of nifty tricks before his accident, and they were lessons she remembered well. When he came out of his coma, she'd thank him again.

With her hands covered by a nice pair of latex gloves, she peeled away the yellow tape with care. When she left, she'd put it back in place and no one would be the wiser about her little nocturnal visit.

Inside, the house was as dark and quiet as a cemetery. Her penlight didn't give her much illumination, but she'd have to make do. It wouldn't be wise to turn on an overhead light and broadcast to the neighbors that the recent murder site currently hosted a visitor. Too many amateur sleuths these days, thanks to reality television and a slew of crime scene investigation shows. She didn't need either the complication or the annoyance, so penlight it would have to be.

She stepped carefully to avoid the blood-covered floor. The stains left a detailed picture of the violence that had claimed Kendall's young life. Once past the scene of the shooting, Louie went through the rest of the house, room by room. She hoped that she'd find something to help her understand both Kendall's connection to James McDonald and the reason why she was killed. As random as the killing seemed, Louie was convinced it was anything but.

Kendall had been a tidy woman. The only mess in the house had been created by her murder and the subsequent investigation. Fingerprint powder was smudged everywhere and blood stains streaked the otherwise lovely kitchen floor. She pitied the cleanup crew saddled with this job. Few people thought about the aftermath of violence and what was often left behind for the families. Another piece of the heartache Louie didn't wish upon anyone.

Her gaze went to the floor and she sucked in a breath. She didn't need an outline to remind her where the body had been. She could see it all too vividly in her mind, blood and all. Chills still went up her back at the memory. She'd seen many dead bodies in various states of decomp, but that didn't mean she ever grew accustomed to it. Death was cruel and it was ugly. There was no getting around it. Anybody who did, well, she had the name of a good shrink.

She stood in the kitchen and tried to get a sense of what had happened that night. She closed her eyes and remembered what she and Paul had seen: the trail of blood, the position of the body. Opening her eyes and turning in a slow circle, Louie walked to the kitchen sink. A window above the sink opened to the backyard. Although it wasn't a large yard, it did have several old maples big enough for a man to stand behind, unseen from inside the house. Correction … big enough for a man and a rifle to stand behind.

When she'd been here the night Kendall died, Louie hadn't had enough time to study the window. She had the time now. Though the window didn't shatter, the hole was surrounded by a network of cracks. One big wind storm and the window would give it up.

"You son of a bitch," she muttered.

He'd been outside in the yard, probably waiting for James to run to his girlfriend. Actually, it was pretty faultless logic. But why had Kendall been killed rather than James? What did she do? Or more likely, what did she know? This was the kind of crime that pissed off Louie the most. It wasn't fair that a woman died just because she knew or was involved with a man. Kendall didn't do one single thing wrong and still she'd lost her life.

Once more Louie closed her eyes. This time she put herself in Kendall's shoes. She envisioned Kendall standing at the sink when out of the inky darkness a shot hits her in the chest. At first she doesn't understand why suddenly there's a burning sensation in the middle of her chest. She spins, lurches for the phone, and falls. As she drops, she realizes in an instant that had to have seemed more like an eternity, that someone has shot her. She looks down in amazement at the flowering red stain as it spreads across the front of her shirt.

Louie mimicked the imagined movements, falling to the floor near where Kendall had lain while managing to avoid the police marks and dried blood. She wanted to understand, but she couldn't disturb anything. She stretched her right arm out above her head where she remembered Kendall's had been, and turned her head, so her cheek rested against the cool tile floor. She could smell the faint though unmistakable scent of blood.

Louie slowed her breathing and relaxed. She listened to the sounds of the refrigerator running, the occasional car driving by on the street outside, a dog barking. She went outside herself to become Kendall Stewart and a whole new world was revealed. Her eyes scanned the floor from where she lay looking for something, anything that the police might have missed.