The Trouble With Murder (6 page)

I went to the garage and pulled
cardboard boxes from behind a large stack of plastic storage bins. I’d saved
them from my last move, knowing I’d need them again. I carried an armful back
inside to the basement and taped them together.

The bookshelves had already been
cleared and the knickknacks wrapped up. I took a box to the desk and arranged things
inside, filing away loose papers in the drawers. It was mostly mindless work,
and I felt my thoughts drifting. I knew their direction, and I didn’t want to
go there. I put my iPod on its base and called up my favorite playlist then
cranked the volume.

I took two more boxes and went to
the closet. I tried singing along while I stuffed sheets and other linens into
them. Inevitably, my mind wandered.

What I knew about Stacy Karnes was
minimal. She was currently renting a house near campus and was interested in
moving. On the phone, I’d asked her if her lease was up, and she said she’d
found someone to sublet. Elizabeth Tower wasn’t too far from campus, but it
wasn’t as near as her current place. And while the apartments were competitively
priced, she would end up paying almost three hundred dollars more.

Back at my office, I’d started a
file on her. After speaking with her, it was clear she was sold; looking at the
place was merely a formality. I’d run a background and credit check on her. The
results were in her file. From what I recalled, her criminal history was
nonexistent, and her credit was in good standing, even if her score was on the
low side. That isn’t uncommon for people her age.

It was May. May was a very busy
month for move-outs and new leases because of school, but still it seemed
strange for Stacy to be moving. Typically kids move the last week of May, not
the first.

I realized this was more a gut
feeling than a position based on facts. But her lease wasn’t up, she hadn’t
gotten a new job, she wasn’t moving in with a boy- or girlfriend. Why did she
suddenly want to move?

I
was moving because I had
ugly thoughts about the people I lived with more often than I felt was healthy.
“Stressful” didn’t begin to cover what it was like living with my mother.
Bradley and the others didn’t help anything, either. Was it possible Stacy was
moving to get away from her roommates? Given the amount of rent she was
currently paying, she had to be one of at least three
—
more likely four
—
people
living in the same place.

I left the boxes and walked away
from the closet, pulling out my laptop. I sat at the empty desk and brought up
the
Fort Collins Coloradoan
website. Stacy’s attack didn’t make the
front page of the newspaper, but I did find a little blurb about it. It was
minimal, lacking insightful or significant details, and reported the police
were withholding the name of the victim. This told me nothing new, so I opened
dexknows.com. I didn’t have access to all the same search systems from home as
I did from the office, but I could still dig up some basic information.

I searched the last name
Karnes
and
the first initial
S
and got a few hits. After reviewing the photos I’d
taken, I saw one of the results matched the address on her license. Next, I did
a reverse search of the address and wrote down the names that came up. I also
did a reverse search on all of the phone numbers in her call history, only a
couple of which back to landlines, for which I also wrote down names. I
searched county property records and discovered the house Stacy rented was
owned by William Rivas. He might be worth talking to; he could know why Stacy
Karnes was suddenly so interested in moving.

Next, I Googled Stacy’s name. One
of the top hits was for Facebook. I opened a new window and brought up
facebook.com, signing in as my friend Jill. I don’t have a Facebook page, and
Jill always uses her dog’s name as her password. People should never use the
names of family members or pets as passwords; they are too easily discovered by
people with more malicious intentions than me. I used the “search for more
friends” function to bring up Stacy Karnes’s page. I couldn’t believe how much information
was accessible via Facebook; I scribbled several pages of notes.

Her boyfriend was Tyler Jay. When I
typed him into Dex, I got nothing back. I couldn’t find a Facebook page for
him, either. I typed his name into Google and hit pay dirt.

One of the top results was a link
to the Larimer County Sheriff’s Office website. It took me to the county’s most
wanted list. Tyler Jakowski, a.k.a. Tyler Jay, was at the top. I had to
consciously snap my mouth closed as I read the page. Jakowski was wanted on
suspicion of murder, six counts of felony assault, two counts of rape, and a
slew of other things. His physical description was listed and his mug shot
provided. At the very bottom of the page it said, “$15,000 reward for information
leading to the apprehension of Tyler Jakowski.”

Fifteen thousand dollars?
Interesting. More interesting was the question of his possible involvement in
the attack on Stacy Karnes. According to the information I’d just read about Jakowski,
he certainly had it in him to stab a woman. Karnes’s Facebook page reported no
troubles in their relationship, but perhaps she hadn’t updated it yet. Or maybe
her recent feelings were on Twitter, which I wasn’t interested in checking. Or
maybe Stacy didn’t put her every emotional whim online. Maybe he was mad at her
for dumping him. Or maybe she had an as-yet unrecorded criminal history to
match his and their latest scheme had caused some sort of disagreement between
the two of them that turned physical.

If I were wanted for murder, among
other things, where would I go? If I had the means, I’d get the hell out of
Dodge. But what if I had a significant other? Would that be reason enough for
me to stay? If it were, where would I go? Where did most boys go when they got
into trouble? If the boys I knew were any way to judge, the answer was home to
Mama.

I spent ten more minutes digging
into Tyler Jakowski and filled several more pages of notes. I was fairly
confident I had some decent places to start looking.

Looking for what?
I asked
myself, getting up from the computer.
Why would I go looking for Tyler Jay,
a dangerous criminal?

He might have something to say
about what happened to Stacy
, I answered as I threw some more linen into a
box. He was capable of stabbing a woman. Actually, he was capable of more
—
much more, according to his
wanted poster. And what if he was responsible? Did I want to be that close to
him?

The rational side of my brain
kicked in with a reasoned argument. Tyler’s wanted poster listed him as five-ten.
It had been difficult to discern last night because the figure was completely
obscured by black clothing and everything happened so quickly, but, standing
barefooted, I am five-eight. When I’d come face-to-face with the dark-clad
figure in the lobby, I’d been wearing heels that added two inches to my height.
The attacker had been shorter than me; of that, I was certain. Still, it
wouldn’t hurt if I saw Tyler Jay myself.

This argument persisted as I filled
the last of the boxes I had stashed. When they were full, I dragged out plastic
storage bins and began filling them. I had a stack of pants in my arms when I
heard the doorbell. I deposited the stack into a bin and stood as the bell ring
for a second time. I was halfway up the stairs when the visitor began pounding
on the door.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered
under my breath as I walked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think my house was
on fire.”

“Police!” a gruff voice barked.
“Open up!”

Just what my day needs,
I
thought.
More police.

I threw the lock and yanked the
door open. I stared out at the man on the porch, making no effort to conceal my
irritation.

“What’s the emergency?” I snapped.

He held open the jacket of the
inexpensive, tan-colored suit he wore, showing me the badge clipped to his
belt. I glimpsed a holstered gun to go with it. Now
this
guy looked like
a detective.

“Detective Hensley,” he snapped
back. “Fort Collins Police Department. I need to speak with Mrs. Grey. That
you?”

“Why all the racket?” I pressed.
“What if no one was home?”

“The garage door is standing wide
open.” This was all he said, as if it was explanation enough. “Are you Mrs.
Grey?”

He was relatively lean for a cop,
though his gut seemed to be slowly getting away from him. He was in his
forties, not quite six feet tall, and had dark hair that was starting to gray.
He seemed as annoyed as I was, and I wondered if he’d arrived that way or if
I’d brought it out of him. On the one hand, it seemed fitting; he’d brought it
out of me. On the other, it didn’t seem prudent to annoy detectives who came
beating down your door.

He lifted his eyebrow expectantly
and waited.

“Mrs. Grey is my mother, and she’s
not home at the moment. I’m Zoe Grey.” This wasn’t the first time my mother had
run up against the law. At least he wasn’t here for me. “What did she do now?”

“You’re the one I need. Please open
the door. I have some questions to ask you.”

Bummer.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard
a cop say those words, either, and unfortunately I didn’t think it would be the
last. Talking to cops who think I’ve done something wrong is one of my least
favorite things to do. This is followed closely by talking to cops who know
I’ve done something wrong. These encounters weren’t any more pleasant when I
knew I’d done nothing wrong. Cops aren’t great conversationalists.

“Did Ellmann send you?” I sighed
and moved away from the doorjamb, leaving the door open. “I mean, it’s just
paperwork.”

“No. What paperwork?”

Behind me, I heard Hensley step
inside and close the door.

“Never mind.”

I went to the kitchen and pulled a
glass from the cupboard. Hensley came in behind me, no doubt taking in the
house around him with the keen eye of a detective.

“Are you here alone?” he asked
casually. “Or do you have company?”

It was the Axe; I was positive.

“Just me,” I said, mentally moving
“shampoo” to the top of my shopping list.

I wasn’t sure what state the house
was in, but I knew my reaction to having him inside would tip him off whether
he saw anything or not. My mother, while in her manic states, kept everything
cleaned to a blinding polish. But she didn’t have the best judgment and often
brought home things she shouldn’t have, things of the chemical variety. I
crossed my fingers nothing had been left in plain view and went to the water
dispenser in the fridge.

“Water?” I asked.

“No, thanks.”

I carried the glass to the
breakfast bar and climbed onto a stool. I indicated the others, and Hensley
took a seat. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small notepad similar to
Ellmann’s. Did they issue those with badges? He flipped back several pages.

“Twenty thousand dollars of White
Real Estate and Property Management’s money is unaccounted for,” he said
casually. Any annoyance he’d felt earlier was either gone or strategically
hidden beneath his well-practiced neutral cop-face. “Know anything about that?”

I took a sip of water and shook my
head. “No, I don’t. It was just brought to my attention this morning.”

“I have documents on my desk that
indicate otherwise.”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble
to cover their tracks, then. I don’t steal.” Not anymore, anyway.

“Don’t you?” the cop asked. He
flipped another page then stopped. “You have a history of theft.”

He was bluffing, and doing a damn
fine job of it; I was a little bit impressed. My last arrest had been at the
age of eighteen and wasn’t for theft. Everything before that was sealed in my
juvenile record. It was possible for the police to petition a judge to unseal
those records, but there would have to be a very compelling reason to do so. I
doubted my implication in the embezzlement was sufficient. Still, had I not
known this, I would have believed he knew more than he did. I made a mental
note to watch what I said.

“You’re a terrific liar,” I said,
smiling conspiratorially.

“It isn’t a lie.”

“As far as you’re concerned, I’ve
been arrested one time, and that was for assault, not theft.”

“A judge has unsealed your record.”
A wild stab in the dark, and while I knew it was precisely aimed, he did not.

Hensley was a good interrogator. He
had no doubt wrapped up more than a few cases by just talking with people,
causing them to incriminate themselves. I would have believed him had I not
known better.
That
was a little intimidating.

I shook my head. “My lawyer would
have been notified as a matter of procedure. He would have then called me.
Since I haven’t heard from him, I know no such thing has happened.”

“You seem quite familiar with the
law, Ms. Grey. Have you had legal training, or is it all from experience?”

“I pay attention.”

He waited a beat, but I said
nothing more. He flipped to a different page in the notebook and tried another
track.

“I looked at your financials,” he
said. “You’re making ends meet now, but times are a little lean for you,
comparatively. You were once making more than a hundred thousand dollars a
year. Did you get tired of this low-rent way of life? Twenty grand would go a
long way in putting you back into your former lifestyle.”

“Twenty thousand? Are you kidding?
Let me hit the highlights for you. The last year I was in Denver, I made a
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which you already know. Twenty grand is a
drop in the bucket when you’re pulling down almost eight times that. So, if my
end goal were to go back to that lifestyle, and I chose theft as my means of
doing so, twenty grand wouldn’t make a dent. More importantly, I have
absolutely no interest in going back to that lifestyle. Mark White begged me to
take Barry Paige’s job. The salary he offered me would have been a hell of a
lot more than twenty grand, but I turned him down.” I reached for my glass.
“Have any more theories?”