Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (27 page)

The detective motioned with his head that I should approach. So I walked over and found Nick Garnett holding a framed picture of the two of us, arms entwined, that normally rested on my fireplace mantel.

He didn’t seem to realize anyone, much less me, stood behind him. So I rested my hand on his shoulder and murmured his name. “It’s okay, Nick. I’m here.” He didn’t respond. I knelt in
front of him, cupping his chin in my hands, and kissed his lips. “I love you.”

He seemed mystified. “Were you right about angels, Riley? Are you a visiting angel even now?”

I shook my head and my dark hair fell loose, over one eye. “I’m no angel and you know it.”

“Zombie is more like it.” Delmonico came over to our corner. “Garnett, you ID’d the wrong broad with the crushed skull. Your girlfriend is alive and as big a pain as ever. The guys and I are drawing straws over who has to tell the chief.”

Garnett looked from one of us to the other, not believing the apparent miracle.

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Does this feel like a kiss of death?” I planted another one across his mouth and this time he responded, desperately.

“I’ll give you two lovebirds a couple of minutes for crime scene courtship,” Delmonico said, “then I need a statement from you.” He was pointing at me. “But first, I better confirm to your media pals you’re most definitely still alive and kicking, though I’m sure some will be disappointed by the news.”

“Are you going to tell them the name of the real victim?” I asked. Laura was still on my mind.

“I see no need to rush down that path again.” He glared at Garnett. “We’ll verify the identity of the deceased first.”

Through the front window, we watched Delmonico approach the row of cameras. We couldn’t hear what he said, but less than thirty seconds later, he was walking back toward the house, not taking any questions. Flashes from still cameras lit his moving shadow.

Garnett and I had less than a minute alone. “What are you even doing here, Nick? You’re supposed to be in Washington.”

Garnett stood, pulling me tight against his chest. My head tucked under his chin. “I was being spontaneous, like we talked
about while discussing your ghostwriting adventure. So I caught a plane to Minnesota to prove I was the more impulsive one.”

Instead, he was the more tormented one. “I let myself in with my key and found you, well, not you. Her. Horrible.”

His face looked grim and pained—unusual for a veteran homicide investigator. Of course, he’d never handled the murder of anyone he loved. I started to explain about the other woman in my bed, but he put his finger on my lips to stop me.

“Later. Tonight has taught me a lesson about delaying happiness. Waiting is wasting. Never again. Spontaneous forever.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. Inside, a ring—a large, deep-red, oval stone surrounded by small diamonds. “It’s a garnet,” he explained. “So we can always be together.”

Then he got down on one knee and took my hand in his. “Riley Spartz, will you marry me?”

F
ancy restaurants. Beautiful scenery. Exotic locations.

Many married couples revisit the romantic settings where they pledge their devotion to each other and officially become engaged. What was I supposed to say?

A cadaver lay in the next room. I smelled blood. I smelled like dogs. My lover and I were surrounded by guns inside and paparazzi outside. Was this a day we would ever want to remember as the start of our lifetime together?

But Garnett had been through hell, and seemed to need proof I was actually back from the dead. Seeing me walking among the living didn’t appear real enough to his tortured mind. The proposal seemed his way of cementing the present with the future. Might accepting his offer of matrimony be a means of finding good in evil, and making the day bearable?

I couldn’t bring myself to speak, so I simply smiled. He took my gesture as affirmation and slipped the ring on my finger.

“Now you can live the life of Riley,” he said.

Then Detective Delmonico stepped back in the room and Garnett scrambled to his feet, possibly not wanting to seem too sappy in front of another homicide cop. I put my hand in my jacket pocket so the sparkle of the gem wouldn’t attract attention.

The detective pulled up a chair at the dining table and motioned
that Garnett and I should join him. He pulled out a tape recorder, hitting the Play/Record buttons. He was being nicer to me than normal, probably because Garnett was present.

“So tell me what you know about the unfortunate lady in the next room, Ms. Spartz.”

“I’d like to see her first.” It seemed the decent thing to do.

“No,” said Garnett. No hesitation.

Delmonico agreed with him. “I wouldn’t advise it. In fact, I won’t allow it.”

“Then how are we going to avoid another case of mistaken identity?”

“We’ll use fingerprints and DNA to verify who you say she is. Trust me, looking at her won’t help. So tell us why you weren’t here last night and why she was.”

I explained I hadn’t been home because I’d been dog-sitting for my boss outside of the metro area. I hoped I wasn’t being considered a suspect, because my alibi witnesses could only bark.

Explaining my relationship with Laura Warner was more complicated. “The more I learned about my old college roommate, the less I wanted to stay in touch. It was a reunion gone bad. And yesterday I had told her this was the last night she could stay here. Laura was supposed to be gone when I got back today.”

“You two had the only keys to the house?” Delmonico looked at Garnett and me for an answer. “None hidden outside?”

I shook my head. “Laura had a spare so she could get in and out.” That’s when I realized I should be mourning for Laura, instead I was relieved not to be dead myself. I felt selfish, wearing an engagement ring while she wore a body bag.

I twisted my new jewel nervously, wondering if her death had anything to do with the choices she made in life. Then the obvious question occurred to me and would probably make headlines across the country.

“Why do you think the killer decided to go after them both?” I asked. “Did he develop a sister fetish?”

Neither man answered. Garnett finally spoke up. “We can’t be certain the same person murdered both.”

“Two sisters murdered by two different killers in barely two weeks?” I asked. “I don’t believe it.”

“Forensics might tell us more, but the crime scenes had differences,” Delmonico said. “We’ll have other questions later, but you can leave while we finish in here.”

I asked about grabbing some clothes from my closet, and was told nothing from the bedroom. I settled for a makeup case from the bathroom. And then on the dining room table, I noticed my yearbook, wide open. Two pages torn out, crumbled in a tight ball of paper. Unfolding them, I found my photo and Laura’s on one page. On the other, a picture of the man she’d accused of rape.

Garnett looked at my discovery and motioned for Delmonico to come over. Had Laura, infuriated, ripped the pages as a hurtful message? Or had her killer?

“Speaking of murder motives,” I told the detective. “You might want to ask your chief about this man.”

Then I saw Laura’s giant purse on a chair by the table, threw it over my shoulder and, not wanting to discuss the subject further, left with Garnett on my heels. We disregarded my car since it was parked far away and raced to his rental, which sat in front of the house.

I saw the rear lights of his vehicle flicker, signaling the doors were unlocked. Then the media swarm hit. We pushed through to try to reach the car. Photographers stuck high-definition cameras in my face and I was again aware how bad—and old—I would look on-screen without airbrush makeup. I was glad Noreen was out of town and not watching the news.

Reporters yelled questions like “How come you aren’t dead?” “Is anyone dead?” “Are you the killer?”

I wanted to just drive away, but I figured they’d only chase
after us in their media caravan and I didn’t want to end up like Lady Di, crashing in the Lowry Tunnel, paparazzi on my heels. So while Garnett climbed into the driver’s seat, I decided to throw them a sound bite.

Turning to the mob of microphones, I said, “As you can plainly see I, Riley Spartz, am alive. Quite alive. The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

Then I scrambled inside and shut the door. Garnett turned the engine over and said, “Not bad.
The Adventures of Mark Twain
, 1944, though I can’t remember who played the title role of Samuel Clemens.”

“Me neither.” I was about to compliment him anyway when Jenny from Channel 8 jumped in the backseat demanding an interview. We’d been too slow to hit autolock.

“Get out,” I said.

“Just one more question, Riley, is that an engagement ring sparkling on your finger?”

My mouth opened wide, but before I could stammer an answer, Garnett pulled out his Glock. “You heard her. Get out. And when I shoot I’m talking bullets, not video.”

Now Jenny’s mouth was open wide. She hurried out the door and we took off down the street before she could close either.

I motioned toward my car parked up ahead, but Garnett said we’d come back for it later. He slowed enough for me to reach back and shut our car door tight before we entered the freeway.

“Where are we headed?” Garnett asked.

“The station.”

“Police or television?” he asked.

“TV,” I responded. “I want to stay clear of the cop shop.”

I had noticed a Channel 3 rookie reporter getting pushed around at the scene, so I texted him an exclusive. “MURDER VICTIM IS LAURA WARNER NOT ME.” I added that he could meet me downtown for an interview, but to give me at least an hour to look decent.

I realized the police had their own reasons for holding off releasing Laura’s name, but decided Channel 3 deserved the scoop much more than Channel 8, and even though I couldn’t cover the story myself, I could be a source.

My cell phone rang almost immediately, and I figured it was him wanting more details, so I answered. Instead it was Noreen.

“Oh Riley, I heard you were dead. Then I heard you weren’t. And I was so relieved. I thought, Thank God she’s alive.”

The depth of my news director’s emotion touched me. I wasn’t taken aback that my parents, lover, or childhood priest would grieve my death, but that my boss gave a damn was unexpected and gratifying.

Before I could respond, Noreen continued. “Because if anything happened to you, who would take care of the animals?”

With that, I disconnected her.

“Who was that?” Garnett noted I hung up without saying anything.

“Nobody important.”

I
let my fiancé wander around the newsroom while I headed for the basement to shower. Usually only photographers used the on-site facilities, but I was beyond dirty. I needed to wash away all of the morning.

Garnett made the same claim. “It’s okay, Riley, we’re engaged.” But I turned down his offer to join me under soap and hot water. “Wouldn’t be professional.” The last thing I needed was to be caught showering with my boyfriend at the station. As an internal matter, it probably wouldn’t get me fired, but it would get written up in my personnel file and future bosses would think I was a slut.

Luckily, I always kept an extra on-air outfit at the station for emergencies, so when I walked into the green room, I was presentable neck to toe. I let Garnett sit on the stool next to me as I tried to make my face and hair decent.

“Tell me about the crime scene,” I said, as I ran a hot-air brush through my hair. “Delmonico said it was different from the others.”

“In some ways it was different, in others similar. She was also clubbed to death.”

“Was there an angel chalk shape?”

“That was the biggest deviation. The body wasn’t posed or outlined.
But the killer might have been spooked and left in a hurry. Or might be trying to throw us off. Or might have been someone else entirely with a personal motive.”

I shook my head at the latter, still not buying into the two-killer theory. Although I had to acknowledge that after what I’d learned about Laura recently, others might have motive to want her dead.

“Why did you think Laura was me?”

“Well, she was in your bed.” He seemed to hesitate, so I prompted him. “And?”

He looked away when he answered. “And basically, her face was gone.”

I didn’t like that image and wished I hadn’t asked and he hadn’t told me.

“Overkill,” Garnett continued. “Someone was very angry.”

“I’m glad he wasn’t angry at me.”

“I’m not sure you can be sure he wasn’t.”

“What do you mean, Nick?”

“I don’t think we can rule out
you
being the killer’s target.”

“I might buy that if we didn’t have two dead sisters. That connection seems too strong to discount.”

“Regardless, Riley, me and Saint Glock are going to stay by your side until things look clearer.”

No argument from me. Though I hadn’t yet shared with him whose roof we were going to crash under tonight.

As for the place I called home, I was glad I rented on a month-by-month basis, because I swore never to sleep there again. I wouldn’t want to touch anything a killer touched.

Except his story.

My face looked normal again—for television, that is. A layer of loose powder over airbrush makeup gave me a uniform complexion for the critical lens of high-definition cameras.

My fiancé—I rehearsed the word in my mind, because I wasn’t
sure how easily it would roll off my lips—kept telling me how I didn’t have to go to all that cosmetic fuss for him.

“I’m not, Nick. I’m doing it because viewers are more likely to believe I’m alive if I don’t actually look dead.”

The large mirror, bordered by Hollywood lights, made the finishing touches to my face easy. I was inches away from lipstick when Garnett stopped me for a smooch.

As our lips parted, he whispered, “Just wanted to practice kissing the bride.”

“Maybe we need another try,” I replied.