The Devil Makes Three (24 page)

#

I hadn’t shopped with my mother in years, since every time we went she ended up sniveling to herself behind my back. I’m sure she constantly reminisced on the last time she shopped with Maren, and occasionally I wondered if she didn’t wish it had been me instead.

Thoughts like this had done little to progress our relationship over the years, and was one of the main reasons I shied away from shopping with her at all. Even so, I was not ignorant to my mother’s talents. She could shop with the best of them, reducing my father’s hard earned money to zilch in no time. Or so he complained.

Today was no different and for hours she dragged me through the mall, stopping in every clothing store and forcing me to try on at least three outfits per stop. The only part I didn't feel like complaining about was the shoes. Of course, I needed shoes and I love shoes. She bought me four new pairs, one for each occasion: running shoes, spiky black heels, sandals and sensible flats.

At the end of the day, I didn't want to think about how much money she had spent and made sure I thanked her profusely. It was an uncomfortable situation, to say the least. I had the means to purchase these things myself, but she didn't know that, and I saw no legitimate way of telling her. She would want to know where the money had come from.

We unloaded the bags from the car and I fished the key for the empty apartment above the funeral home garage from my pocket. Slowly, we trudged our way up the stairs and I pushed the door open.

The apartment was in no way special, but it wasn't bad either. The door entered into a living area with a kitchen at its back, separated by a bar. The best thing about the place, by far, was the kitchen. Under a bay window sat a little breakfast nook, almost like a restaurant booth, with a polished table and padded bench on three sides. Off to the right side of the front door were two bedrooms with a bathroom between them.

The apartment had been vacated three years before when my father let go his other night employee. The guy’s job had been to pick up dead bodies when the funeral home was closed, and in payment received a small fee at pickup, and lived in the apartment for free. But since my father’s business had grown so large in the last few years he had switched to a call service, putting the young man out of a job.

“It could use some cleaning,” my mother said, looking around. “We'll get some supplies from the funeral home, and a vacuum. Now, where are those hangers we bought?”

Sighing, I set to work at her side.

#

During the day my phone would not stop ringing. Katie called three times. Collin called twice, no doubt alerted to my situation by Cohen who probably heard it through the office. I even received three calls from numbers I didn't recognize, two of which left messages. I listened to the voicemails reluctantly, worried I might hear from Cohen. Luckily, only Paul Devon and the fire inspector called, the latter wishing to go over the results of the investigation with me.

I called the fire inspector back first and took his information in stride that it did, indeed, seem the iron had started the fire, and that basically nothing was salvageable. I failed to mention to him that Candy had probably used some sort of accelerant. After all, it was his job to figure these things out and if he missed it, in this case, all the better. Corbin was much more qualified to deal with her than any government official. After relating this information to my mother, who in turn mourned my decision to ever inherit the beastly ancient appliance in the first place, I then called Paul Devon back.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he said when I identified myself. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” I felt myself blush at his affectionate tone and I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You didn’t need to worry about me.”

“It’s okay. I worry about everything. Listen, I couldn’t help myself and went over to your place this morning. I was poking around behind the police tape and found something.”

“Oh yeah?” This invasion of my privacy made me cringe. It didn’t matter that nothing had been salvageable. I still didn’t want strangers pawing through my rubble.

“It was in the bathroom, by the sink area under the burnt cabinet.”

“What is it?” I asked, almost dreading his answer for some unknown reason.

“A bunch of emeralds and diamonds. I think there was some gold there too, but it had melted into a mass of ash-ridden kack.”

“Kack?” I asked, trying not to laugh at his home-made verbiage. I was suddenly so happy I didn’t mind the absurdity of those around me, even my mother. The news that my jewels had survived the fire made everything bearable. All I had to do was have them cleaned and reset later. I could have kissed him had he stood right in front of me.

I set a time to come pick up the jewels from him and hung up the phone, doing a little jig in the middle of my new place. My mother, watching me with wary eyes, dared a small smile, frightened by my uncharacteristic good humor.

The only one person who didn't call me all day was Corbin, and I tried to ignore the fact that this bothered me. I wanted to tell him about the jewels, even though he probably wouldn’t care. And he needed to be informed of Candy’s obvious unbalanced nature. Sticking a bullet in him was one thing, but burning down my apartment was completely another. Of course, the anonymous number that hadn’t left a message could have very well been him, but I didn’t think so. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have called on the number he always used.

It was well after dark when we finished cleaning. Carting the supplies back to the funeral home I couldn't help but wonder how this was going to work out. My mother had practically driven me to drink in the last three hours. And now she could conveniently access my place whenever she wanted.

Not that I thought she would use the spare key to come in. I just knew she would knock on my door every other day.    

I deposited the cleaning supplies back in the store room and ventured to the office to see how Hawkeye was doing. He lay cuddled up on the couch as before, this time surrounded by a mound of fur. I could relate. All this stress was making my hair fall out too.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?”

My father’s voice made me jump and I did some heavy breathing in order to relax. Once calm, I replied that I hadn't really thought about it.

“You can stay here again tonight, and tomorrow we'll get you some furniture.”

“You don't have to get me furniture, Dad.”

“Well you can't live without a bed and at least a few other things.”

Reluctantly I agreed.

Knowing I would be on the premises, he called off Dustin another night and I was left to my own devices once more. Mrs. Eddleson, President of the local Daughters of the American Revolution chapter, had been buried that afternoon, but with nothing of value, leaving fairly little to keep me occupied. This meant I would have to actually study for my upcoming midterms.

Getting onto the office computer, I was glad to see the files Katie had e-mailed me after Candy broke my laptop still sitting on the hard drive. I couldn't remember if I had saved them to my folders or not and had avoided looking for fear that I hadn't. Printing everything off, I set down to memorize my essays.

Halfway through Collin's study guide I got the feeling someone watched me. Other people experiencing this sensation in a funeral home might have been freaked. I took it in stride.

“I know you're there, so there's no point creeping around.”

What did shock me was who appeared. Of all the people to be breaking and entering, Collin was the last one I expected. Even Cohen would have been less of a shock.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, tossing my work aside.

“You never answered my calls. Do you have people staring at you often in here? You don't seem particularly upset,” he said, stepping into the room.

I shrugged and stroked Hawkeye. “People come and go.”

“This late?”

“Were you here for a reason?”

My tone must have implied I was in no mood to humor small talk.

“I was worried about you.”

“Really? How interesting. Especially after earlier this week. As you can see I'm fine.”

“Were you in your place when-”

“No. I was out with friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes. I have friends. Shocker, I know.”

“I'm glad.”

“That I have friends, or that I wasn't in my apartment?”

“Both, I guess.” He grimaced and glanced around the office, trying for casual but failing.

“Collin, why are you really here? I bet you could have gotten this information from Cohen, since the FBI was there. So why the B&E?”

“I didn't break anything.”

“Then how did you get in here?”

He shrugged. “I picked the lock.”

“Picked the lock? On the gate? And the front door?”

“Yeah. It's a useful skill I learned while doing my grad work.”

I shook my head and couldn't help but wonder about his gene pool. “And what about the alarm code?”

“What alarm?”

I smacked my forehead and dashed for the phone. Sinking into the desk chair I rooted around for the security password while the phone rang.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, as I greeted the security phone center lackey.

After dealing with a security officer for a few minutes, assuring her that I was not being held hostage, and that all was right in my corner of the world, I hung up the phone and went back to my seat, giving Collin a ferocious glare. Corbin, he wasn’t. I never once had this trouble with him. I didn’t know how he got past the alarm, but never once had he tripped it.

“I really am sorry.”

“You said that already. Now I'm wondering why you're still here.”

He studied his hands for a moment, then moved towards a chair, closing the door behind him. “I don't know why I'm here, really. I tried calling you last night, but you didn't answer. Maybe you were asleep.”

“Oh. That was you. I didn't have the energy to talk last night and I never bothered to check today.”

“I feel like I gave you the wrong impression when we spoke last. And I can't help but think about it.”

“The impression that you were throwing me under the bus with the murder issue?”

“I didn't throw you under the bus.”

“What exactly was that, then?”

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't know. This whole situation just feels funny to me. I never once dreamed that my mother's murderer would himself get murdered one day. And to be honest, I don't know if I could exactly blame the person who did it. But is that really a healthy response? No. Of course not.”

“It's not exactly the Christian response, I suppose. But there are those out there who might share your opinion.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Yes. Can you honestly say Martins’ death is a tragedy?”

“Of course not.” I gathered Hawkeye up in my arms, using him as a barrier between Collin and myself. I scratched the insides of his ears, making him purr. “I've never once pretended that it was a tragedy. Martins deserved what he got.”

“Yes. But who gave it to him? I mean, who besides us had reason to get rid of him?”

I shrugged, wondering how Corbin had gone about fixing the situation. I hadn’t heard back from him since and I didn't want to get myself into trouble with the current conversation. “He was a criminal. I'm sure he must have had associations with other criminals. It's probably not even related to us. He probably just pissed someone off and wound up with a gut full of bullets. I mean, he made me uncomfortable enough to buy a gun and I've never thought of owning a gun before in my life. Who knows who else he annoyed.”

He nodded slowly. “I suppose so.”

“But you're the criminology professor. Don't you have some theory? And what does Cohen think?”

Collin shrugged. “Cohen still hasn't told Rogers about the second gun accusation, and Richard the Shark isn’t talking to her, so as far as the authorities are concerned, they seem to have hit a wall.”

“Why is Cohen poking around in this situation, anyway? Can he honestly call it a tragedy? Is he really looking to bring the murderer to justice?”

“I think he wants to shake the murderer’s hand.”

“And then convict them.”

“Something like that. As for me having a theory, I'm a professor, not an agent. There are aspects that I'm sure I haven’t heard.”

We came to a halt in the conversation. I didn't know what else to say and apparently neither did he. I simply hoped he didn't straight out ask me if I'd done it.

“Are you angry with me?”

His question came out of the silence like a shot in the dark. I stared at him for a moment, unsure how to answer.

“You are angry with me,” he said with a sigh of regret.

“I don't know.” Could I justify being angry with him? After all, I had murdered Martins. Any suspicions he had were justified. “Oddly, you were one of the top few people I wanted to talk to last night.”

“Oddly?” He questioned my choice of words.

“Well yeah. After our last conversation, we didn't exactly have a good feeling.”

“That's my fault. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to feel like I was throwing you under the bus, as you say. I just didn't know what to think.”

“Let's not talk about it anymore.”

“I suppose I should go then.”

I shrugged, reluctant to give up my company now that I had gained some. “You don't have to go. We could... discuss something else.”

“Such as?”

“I don't know.”

He considered me for a moment. “We could discuss how we feel about our argument.”

“Didn't we just do that?”

“I mean from a more personal point of view.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You first then.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “I can't help wondering if I'm setting myself up for trouble. But then, I can't stop thinking about you either.”

“Like in a stalking way, or in a sweeter, healthier way?”

“Healthier. Maybe not sweeter. It's definitely intense, whatever it is.”

I smiled deviously. “You like me.”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“How much?”