Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (19 page)

“What have you done?” I mumbled, disappointed in myself. I had just inadvertently brought my hit’s DNA into our home—forever connecting this house with Todd Wilts. Shaking my head, disgusted, I tore the shirt off in a single motion. I rolled it into a ball and then used the tape from beneath my breasts to cinch the cloth ball tight, carefully wrapping the stain in the center.

“Loved that shirt,” I whispered as I stuffed the evidence under the sink. I made sure to hide it deep inside, behind the toiletries and cleaners and my lady things that Steve always managed to knock over. Nobody would see the shirt, let alone understand what it was if they did.

“Two down. Burn that one tomorrow.”

I had to get better at this. I’d watched the forensic shows on television enough to know that I’d broken a dozen rules.

How much of my his DNA had transferred to me when I’d touched him? And how much transferred to my body and then the inside of my car and our home?

But none of that mattered. None of it should ever matter. It only mattered if I were to become a suspect. As long as I remained unsuspected, I was safe.

The excited charge waned in me after a cool shower and a glass of wine. I’d found the endless pool of energy did have a bottom, but there was enough in reserve to carry me through the night. I’d take a small nap before Steve and the kids were up and then send them off into their day before finally laying down to sleep longer. Nerd would be waiting for me in the early afternoon. We’d completed our first contract and earned our first commission. It was time to pick up the next job.

I cleaned up, poured some wine and went snooping in our home’s office. From the looks of Steve’s desk, he’d spent the evening in and out of the office too, leafing through one particular case. Papers and photographs were strewn across the top, shoved around like a deck of cards. In my heart, I feared that it was the case about the homeless man. They had the buttons, that was something, and Steve seemed convinced that he needed my blouse.

I pinched the corner of a photograph and slipped it out from beneath a short stack of court documents. As the crime scene photo came into view, I nearly spilled my wine. The photograph showed me John’s beautiful face—a bullet hole above his eye, his perfect skin blown apart and caving into a black chasm. His eyes were open, which surprised me. Just half slits, but enough to see them staring up at me. There was no color in them anymore. The piercing sea-green that captured every girl’s attention had turned pale, almost gray or white beneath a dull film. A lump of hair and skull and brain matter spilled out of the top of his head where the bullet had exited, showing the small eruption of gore that had killed him.

I gasped and turned away, hating to see my friend like that. I put my mouth to the lip of my wine glass, spilling the fruity taste onto my tongue.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Steve?” I mumbled, trying to understand what it was my husband was searching for.

“Maybe this was John’s fate,” someone had said at the funeral. I’d wanted to turn around and smack that person in the mouth. Steve had held my arm, coaxing me to remain calm, and soothing me. A cop’s wife never wanted to hear those words. And it wasn’t just me; the moist eyes of those around the casket had stared sharply, fixing hurtful, witching looks on the asshole behind me.

“It’s fate, I’m telling you,” he’d continued. I had begun to spin around again, but stopped short when Steve spoke up.

“Maybe you need to shut up,” Steve had whispered harshly over his shoulder. I hated that there was some truth in what was being said. But sometimes the truth was best left unspoken. I shook my head, hearing and feeling the echo of the man’s sentiment.

Fate could be cruel. A minute more, a minute less, and John would still be alive.

Fate
is
cruel,
I thought.
A moment, a flash, a pull of a trigger, and lives changed forever.

John’s family was in my mind, and the sting of a tear came to my eye. Maybe John’s death had given Steve the idea, a small miracle, that he should take charge of his own fate.

“Is that why you’re looking at these?” I slurped down what remained, chasing the earlier whiskey buzz, and swiped at my eyes before pouring enough wine to fill the round glass again.

A yellow legal pad lay cocked and lifted at one corner, cradling another pile of case files. A pen sat atop, perched and threatening to roll. All the markings on the page were in Steve’s familiar scratchy handwriting. I peered over my wine glass, gulping faster, pouring more, beginning to feel a little drunk. Fleshy blue lines had been scrawled across the yellow page. The curvy scratches connected circles with other circles and dates held inside penned boxes, along with names.

Names? What names?
I wondered, thinking John’s case had been open-and-shut.

At the center, I saw one name that Steve had firmly traced over and over again, circling it until he’d nearly torn through the paper: Todd Wilts.

W
HEN I FINALLY
laid my head on my pillow, I was drunk from the wine. I pushed what Steve had written on the legal pad to the back of my mind. I stared up at our ceiling and imagined beaming lights of vibrant colors jutting across our bedroom. My body thumped to a bass tone that wasn’t there but that rattled our bed, humming through me in a steady rhythm.

I was in the tavern again, surrounded by college students and drinking shots with Todd. He gave me a starved look that said “I want to fuck you,” and then placed a shot glass in front of me. A woman’s moan sounded from far away. I threw the shot of White Bear Whiskey to the back of my throat, choking down the fire in one gulp, and heard the moaning cries come again.

The smell of diesel fuel and the sound of gas station bells forced my eyes open. I’d dozed. She hated it whenever I fell asleep. “After all,” she’d said, “I’m doing this for you too.” The moaning became loud—a man’s voice whispered sex-filled words I’d heard before, but his voice was new. The air was moist with humidity, steamy. I sat up and peered through the car window. Semi-trucks were parked around us, but behind them I saw the woods and heard the chirp of tree frogs singing while fireflies danced, blinking on and off like strings of holiday lights.

The man was almost done, and the woman was close behind. By now, I’d learned the sounds and recognized the changes in their breathing and the whispery chatter that went back and forth, leading, urging, and encouraging. When I looked over the seat, her lips were in full view, her finger poised and pressing against them.

Shush
, she motioned. I moved forward, climbing from the trunk of our station wagon to the middle seats—my skin was sweaty-wet and slipped against the vinyl. When I made my way to the floor behind the front seats, I found the belt she’d placed there. I picked it up and traced the wings on the buckle, running my finger over the raised metal.

“Make a loop,” I whispered, remembering what she’d showed me, pinching the belt’s hole over the metal stud. “Backward and inside out so the buckle faces me.” Then I wound the tail around and fished it through the hinged ring. The noose was ready. I grabbed the loose end and glared above as the sounds of their sexual peaks rained over me. She eased his head back with a practiced proficiency, her fingers in and out of his mouth, perching his neck over the edge of the seat. He made sucking noises and his panting became heavy, filling the car with the smell of liquor. And when he began to grunt, I raised the belt loop and did what I was told, throwing it over his head. The leather stretched immediately, creaking as it cinched tight against his neck. I hung on, my body bouncing up and down while he choked and tried to free himself. Her moaning was all I could hear then, like an explosion of thunder after a lightning strike. She held on too, riding him, her hands clutching his neck. She climaxed then—her screams heightened by the sudden death of her lover. There were no sounds after that. Only quiet satisfaction.

My eyes opened wide with a start, my stomach flipping and groaning harshly. A dull throb ached in my balloon head. I had seen more of the dream this time. I remembered more of it too. And it scared me that I knew who the little girl was: it was me. I wanted to cry.

I rushed into the bathroom, the urge to vomit making my mouth water. All that came up were gassy burps. I managed to hold it in, making it to the sink where I hung on to the stone lip and rushed water over my face. I’m not sure how long I stayed like that; I might even have dozed in that position. Until I heard Steve getting out of bed.

Waking in a haze, bloated, bleary-eyed, and seeing doubled images—all the bad that comes with a gut-wrenching hangover—marked my morning. The front of my head weighed me down like a stone. The drinking didn’t help, and though I can be a lush at times, I think the hit against the wall made the morning worse. The mark above my eye had swollen horribly, turning into a juicy bruise full of color. That would definitely turn some heads. I should have put an ice pack on it instead of cracking open a bottle of wine. I scooped a finger-full of concealer and creamed it over the egg, wincing when I neared the center.

Another look in the mirror gave me the urge to vomit again. That last part was all wine. I was sure of it. I still felt drunk. No wonder, since I had finished the entire bottle while pouring over every case file on Steve’s desk. I had stayed up until I heard the first of the early morning traffic, searching for connections that related to my first mark.

Steve entered the bathroom and lifted his nose as he passed me. I wouldn’t have time for a shower. I headed for the kitchen to get the day started. Our bed called to me, urging me to climb in, and every part of me wanted to wrap myself up in a blanket and stay there until the storm in my body passed.

Maybe later
, I promised myself as the sound of the shower came on.

The rest of the morning came and went like the dream I’d had—my body in motion but my mind a vaguely detached observer. I wasn’t entirely there, yet I’d managed to make my way to the kitchen and go through the motions of getting the kids breakfast and sending Michael off to school. Steve barely said a word. No amount of alcohol was going to rinse away the tension from the night before. While he didn’t mention my missing blouse, his frustration and suspicions, and maybe even mistrust, lay on me like an itchy blanket. There was only so much of it that I could take.

“He’s a cop,” I told myself. “You’re only fooling yourself if you think that this is going to pass.”

I caught him glancing at the empty bottle of wine in the sink, tilting it as if reading the label.

“We’re doing this now?” he asked, his voice sarcastic and uncaring. But what hurt more was the purposeful distance he put between us. He never made eye contact, not once, and even seemed to go out of his way to avoid me. We’d had tense times in our marriage before, but nothing like this. It was taking us to the edge. I could feel us getting closer. It wouldn’t take much more before falling into that place that was so impossibly hard to climb out of.

“Just had a few glasses,” I said, but I heard the slur in my words and stopped talking out of embarrassment. I caught his stare, brow raised and wondering if I was still drunk. I tried to make it sound better than it was, adding, “Had some drinks with Katie too.” I began to clean the kitchen, trying to look busy. My hands jittered as I picked up and put down flatware and plates for no reason other than to burn nervous energy. I’d lied. I’d been lying. I felt guilty. And that was what Steve was picking up on, he just didn’t know it.

But nothing I could say or do would help. Steve didn’t care about the drinking. We’d been drunk around each other a thousand times—played drinking games, nursed each other’s hangovers. He did care about the truth. The air between us was only going to get thicker as long as the truth about what happened with the homeless man stayed hidden from him.

W
HAT I’D LEARNED
from Steve’s notes was that Todd Wilts had been a known acquaintance of one Luis Garcia, the man who’d shot and killed John. Steve wasn’t just browsing through John’s case file to feed some morbid act of mourning—he was investigating. He’d found a clue that had connected Luis to Todd. Picking up and reviewing all known acquaintances was any detective’s usual procedure. But, in this case, Todd happened to be my first job. By now my first contract was completed and my hit, my mark, was lying on a steel table, growing colder and awaiting an autopsy.

What did that mean for me? For Nerd?

There was one other name on the notepad. I could almost see the hesitation in Steve’s handwriting: Jerry. And below his name, Steve had added the word “license.” Katie’s husband wasn’t having an affair—he’d gotten himself involved with the folks at the tavern. I just didn’t know with what exactly, and maybe it was better that I didn’t. College kids might like the tavern for the dancing and the booze, but it was business when it came to the liquor that Sam had told me about.

Was there more? Why would Sam pay Jerry?

For most of the morning, I remained puzzled by what Steve had written on his notepad. Jerry? Even as Katie waved to me at Romeo’s—our weekly lunch had come around again—I couldn’t stop wondering what connection her husband had to Todd Wilts. I waved back to her and opened the door to the café. This would be a short lunch; Katie said that she wouldn’t be able to stay, and I was eager to meet with Nerd and discuss what I’d found anyway. While the flash drive he’d given me was great for browsing the Deep Web, I thought—hoped, really—that he’d know of a way to find out how Jerry was involved with the White Bear.

“What happened to you?” Katie asked, but I hardly heard her words. For the first time in our lives, I was concerned for my friend. She wasn’t dressing the business part today. Jeans and a shaggy mop of hair, with a shirt and jacket that had clearly just been thrown on. She gazed at my head. “Did Steve . .?”

“No. Nothing like that,” I answered, interrupting with a wave of my hand. I led us to a table by the tall windows and ordered wine spritzers. It was hair of the dog for me. I hoped a drink would smooth the rough edges. I just wasn’t sure a wine spritzer would be enough. Given how Katie looked, though, I thought she might need much more than a spritzer.