The Trouble With Murder (7 page)

“From what I hear, you don’t think
much of Mr. Paige. Maybe stealing the money was your way of flipping him the
bird. Or maybe you have some kind of problem with Mr. White.”

“It’s no secret I think Paige is a
waste of space and a tool to boot. But this money was stolen from White Real
Estate, not Paige, and I have no problems with Mark White or the company.
Furthermore, embezzling from White Real Estate would have played right into Paige’s
hands because he’s been looking for a reason to fire me since we met. I
wouldn’t make it so easy for him. And, if I were truly guilty, I never would
have left my fingerprints, so to speak, all over everything. Whoever is
responsible drew big, red arrows pointing right to me. Why would I do that to
myself? Why would I not even
try
to cover my tracks?”

“Embezzling money can be tricky. Or
maybe you never believed you’d be discovered and didn’t bother to be sneaky.”

I snorted. “That’s the mark of a
novice. Anyone with a criminal history is thinking one thing when they break
the law: don’t get caught. The only way I would have stolen that money would
have been if I was positive it wouldn’t lead back to me.”

“But you didn’t steal it?”

“No. I’ve learned a few things so
far in life. One of them is you have to earn your way. Stealing is not earning.”

It was a hard-learned lesson, but
it’d finally sunk in.

Hensley was scribbling notes, and I
thought I could almost see the wheels turning. With anyone else that would be a
relief, but with cops it always gives me a sense of unease. Their minds are
trained to pick apart everything, turn everything around, suspect everyone. I
don’t like when I’m the suspect.

“So you have a moral problem with
stealing?”

“All I’m saying is I have principles.”
I sighed. “You said you looked at my financials. Did you find twenty thousand
dollars?”

Of course not.

“Yes,” Hensley said.

I felt the bottom fall out of my
world. The blood drained from my face, and I gripped the counter as a wave of
dizziness washed over me. I prayed I’d misheard.

“Excuse me?”

“I did check your bank accounts.
There are deposits totaling twenty thousand dollars from Wednesday and
Thursday. Fifteen thousand was transferred out to accounts we’ve traced back to
the Cayman Islands. The other five is still in your account.”

My brain scrambled to keep up.

“No, that can’t be right,” I said.

“Did you make the deposits into the
wrong account? Like you said, you would have intended them never to be
discovered.”

“No, I didn’t make any deposits.
Oh, shit,” I said as realization struck. “You seriously think I did this.”

“Yes, I do. So far, everything I
dig up points straight to you.”

I suddenly felt sick.

“But what about the books?” I asked,
grasping at straws now. “Won’t you go over the accounting records? There is no
way twenty thousand dollars was stolen from the company in two days. That’s too
obvious. More likely, it was siphoned off in small amounts over a period of
time. If the records show that to be true, can’t you trace where that money
went, find who really stole it?”

“We’re looking at the books now. Is
that what you did: siphoned the money off slowly, in small amounts?”

“What? No. The books will show you,
I didn’t steal any money.”

“If there are any inconsistencies,
we’ll find them. But I have a feeling we’re going to find the money leads back
to you, one way or the other.”

If I was seriously being considered
a suspect, that changed everything. For one, I needed to stop talking. If
Hensley wanted to ask more questions, he was going to need a warrant to hand to
my lawyer.

“I’ve said all I’m going to,” I
said. “Please leave.”

“Formal charges of fraud and
embezzlement will be filed against you. The paperwork the company has proving
your guilt is pretty thorough and convincing.”

I reached into my pocket and
withdrew the card White had given me a few hours before. I slid it across the
bar to Hensley. “Contact my lawyer if you have more questions.”

I carried my glass into the kitchen
and stood staring at Hensley across the counter, my arms over my chest and a
dark look on my face. In no rush to comply, he stared back at me for a beat or
two, then slowly closed his notepad and returned it to his pocket. He picked up
the card, studied it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket with the
notebook. Then he eased himself off the stool and strolled to the front door.

When he was gone, I threw the
deadbolt and spun on my heel for the stairs.

A smarter person might have been scared of being convicted
of a felony and sentenced to prison. Maybe I’m not that smart. Mostly I was
pissed. But prison was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to know who
had really stolen that money. Then I wanted to have a talk with them about
pointing the finger at me. I didn’t appreciate the finger-pointing.

When I hit the front door, I saw some
thunderclouds had rolled in and it was beginning to drizzle. I grabbed a jacket
and the Cushman then buzzed away from the house.

As I rode, I reflected on my day.
It hadn’t started well and had only gotten worse. I called Amy to commiserate
because this always makes me feel better. I used a hands-free earbud and hoped
she could hear me over the wind and the engine.

Amy Wells and I grew up together.
We’d known each other since before either of us could walk, and at that age it
doesn’t take much to form a friendship. But whatever bond existed between us,
it had sufficiently held us together for the last twenty-four years. Her life
had been just as hard in its own way. This hardship was one of our binding
threads. Amy is the only person who knows my life story, knows everything about
me, my every sin, and loves me anyway.

The line rang then dropped to
voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. It was Friday night, and
chances were good she had plans with her fiancé, Brandon. Overall, I think Brandon’s
an all right guy, and he’s probably perfect for Amy, so it doesn’t bother me
too much that she spends so much time with him.

Wal-Mart isn’t my favorite place to
shop, but I needed a couple things, and I didn’t want to go to more than one
store. That is one thing Wal-Mart has going for it: one-stop shopping. I took
Lemay Avenue north past Mulberry and pulled into the parking lot, which is huge
and poorly designed. I buzzed the Cushman into a motorcycle spot, killed the
engine, and pushed down the kickstand. A thin man with leathery, weathered skin,
frizzy, gray hair tied in a long ponytail, and full riding leathers eyed the
Trailster as he strolled over to his Harley.

“Great bike,” he said. Prepared for
sarcasm, I glanced up only to find sincere reverence in his eyes. Perhaps he
also had a history with Cushman scooters.

“Thanks.”

We nodded to one another, then I
hurried into the store. A particularly rough gust of wind whipped around me as
I hit the sidewalk and ducked inside.

The enormous warehouse-like
building that is Wal-Mart is a fluorescent nightmare with a horrible
soundtrack. There are directional signs hanging everywhere, but none of them
actually point to anything. It’s hard not to feel like a rat in a maze in this
store.

My first stop was the shampoo
aisle. Then I went looking for electronics. Finally I spotted the TVs mounted
on the exterior wall; I never did see a sign.

After a trek through the
department, I saw thousands of electrical devices and components, even
answering machines. Who uses answering machines anymore? But I didn’t find what
I was looking for. I didn’t find any employees, either.

In the neighboring shoe department,
I finally spotted one: a woman who looked busy. Watching as I walked over, I realized
she merely
looked
busy, a skill she had no doubt honed to shiny perfection
her entire working life. She was actually accomplishing very little.

“Excuse me,” I said, attempting to
be polite (benefit of the doubt and all that). “I have a question.”

She cocked a hip to the side as she
turned to face me, planting one fist on said (ample) hip, and stared at me. The
name badge pinned to her shirt at her right (also ample) breast read
wanda
.

“Yeah? How can I help you?” Her
tone left no room for doubt about her interest in helping me.

I bit back my kneejerk response.
And despite my best effort, the words “game on” flashed on and off in my mind.
“I need help in electronics. Is there someone available?”

“His name’s Cody,” she said,
turning away from me again.

I took a breath. “Cody doesn’t seem
to be around. Would you be able to call him for me?” I eyed the small walky-talky
clipped on her belt.

“Well,
I
don’t know where he
is.”

I was quickly losing my patience.
Patience isn’t my strong suit, anyway. Between the hospital ordeal and Hensley,
I was just about taxed.

“Does Cody wear one of those little
radios?”

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging but not
turning back to me. “We all got one.”

I waited a beat, long enough to be
sure she had no intention of helping me, then stepped forward and yanked the
radio off her belt.

“What the hell, lady?” she
demanded, spinning around to face me once more. She tried to swipe the radio
out of my hand. “Give that back.”

Our exchange had drawn the
attention of nearby customers. Most pretended to be shopping while really watching
us. And it was too late to turn back now; at this point, I felt I was
committed.

I stepped back and looked at the
radio. It wasn’t even on. I switched it on and hoped it was on the right
channel, since it was unlikely Wanda would give me any information.

“Yo, Cody,” I called into the radio.
“It’s Wanda in shoes.”

A few seconds later the radio
crackled and a voice came over the line.

“Go for Cody.”

I wasn’t sure if this was expected
radio-speak or if he was just being funny.

“Customer in electronics needs
assistance. You got that?”

“On it. Cody out.”

I was pretty sure now Cody was just
being funny, and I have to admit, if I had to use radios all day long, I would
resort to the same tactics.

I winked at Wanda then left, still
holding the radio. The walk (or hike, depending) back to electronics was quiet
and I encountered no one. I looked around for some sign of Cody when I arrived
in electronics but found none, so I went to the register counter in the middle
to wait. Several other customers had gathered, milling around like lost sheep,
waiting to check out or ask questions. Why do people shop here?

After a minute ticked into two, I
lifted myself up to sit on the counter and wondered if I’d been stood up. Why
was
I
shopping here? Just as I wondered if RadioShack was still open, a
young man, not yet twenty, tall and lanky with pimples on his face, wandered
over. He openly looked me up and down. Then he tipped his head at me.

“You the one who needed some help?”
His voice was a bit nasally, and he probably got mixed up with his sister on
the phone, if he had a sister.

“I’m looking for a digital audio
recorder. I can’t seem to find one. Do you have any?”

“A what?” the kid asked.

I sighed. “You know, like a tape
recorder, for taking notes and stuff.”

“Like messages?” he asked. “Well,
we call those
answering machines
, and they don’t use tapes anymore.”

I took a breath and tried again,
exercising exceptional restraint, I thought. (Patience: not my virtue.) “If I
wanted to record my professor’s lecture, what would I use?”

“You’re in college?” the kid asked,
again looking me over. “Shouldn’t you be done with school by now?”

What the hell is wrong with kids
these days?

“What about my question?” I asked.

“Well,” the kid said, shrugging and
turning away as he spoke. “We got these things over here, but I’m not sure it’s
what you’re looking for.”

I hopped off the counter and followed
Cody. He stopped and pointed to several items laid out on the shelves in front
of us. I squatted down for a closer look. The first box I saw read in bold letters
digital audio recorder
. Imagine
that.

I confirmed I’d found what I needed,
and Cody took his leave, carrying Wanda’s radio with him. I quickly compared
the items and chose one, mostly based on price. The stupid little thing was pricey.
I managed to purchase it without encountering any more major hang-ups then sat
in the parking lot inserting batteries and trying it out. Convinced it was in
working order, I stuffed everything into my backpack and buzzed out of the lot.

_______________

It was too early to continue with my get-out-of-jail plan. Instead
I cruised over to Stacy’s place.

There were several lamps on throughout
the house. The windows and doors were open to let in the cool evening air. The
wind had persisted throughout the afternoon and now the air was muggy. I parked
across the street a couple houses down and sat, waiting, watching. There was a
lot of activity in the neighborhood, but no one seemed to pay me much mind, although
the scooter drew a few looks.

After a few minutes, I saw a girl in
cotton shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, her dark blonde hair piled messily on
top of her head, rise and walk across the front room of the house. I could see
the blue lights of a TV flashing on the walls. When she returned, she was
sipping something from a glass. She crossed the room and dropped out of sight
again. So far, she was the only one I’d seen, though Stacy shared the house
with three other girls. I decided to give it a shot.

I crossed the street and knocked on
the screen door. A moment later the girl I’d seen appeared before me. She was
five-six and had pretty brown eyes, except I saw something dark flash in them;
it looked a lot like fear. More noticeable was her surprise. This was followed
closely by confusion.

She was obviously wondering who I was
and what I wanted, so I attributed her guarded manner to her suspicion, but
that didn’t feel quite right.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Is Stacy home?” I asked.

Something in the girl’s
presentation changed, then she seemed to work herself up, as if she would burst
into tears. After a moment of thought, she pushed the screen door open and
waved me in, returning to the other side of the room. She sat down on a brown
leather sofa, which I suspected was the real deal given the faint leather scent
in the air. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them
as I sat in a nearby chair, also leather, also real. And very comfortable.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” she said
softly. “But Stacy was attacked. She’s in the hospital.”

I feigned surprise, widening my
eyes. “No!”

Reading people and lying are two
skills I’d honed to perfection early on in life. Then, they had been survival
tools. Later, I’d used my power for evil. Now, I try to use my powers only for good.
I thought this qualified.

“Yes!”

“I can’t believe it! What happened?
Is she okay?”

I took in the room as well as the
girl. The spaces I could see from where I sat were well furnished, and
everything seemed rather expensive. Certainly, these weren’t the furnishings of
a typical college crash pad. One or more of the people living here had money.
It was possible someone’s parents were funding their college experience; I’d
seen that more than once as a leasing agent. But I suspected that wasn’t the
case for Stacy.

The girl shook her head. “No one
really seems to know yet. The police are looking into it but don’t have much.
She was stabbed last night. She’s in critical condition.”

“I can’t believe it,” I said again.
“I just saw her in class, you know? How unreal.”

Something else flashed in her eyes,
but it was gone almost before I registered it.

“Tell me about it. I’ve been
freaking out since I heard.”

“Why? Are you afraid something
might happen to you?”

She shrugged and glanced at the dark
windows, all of which were open. “Maybe. You know, the cops don’t know what
happened. Maybe it wasn’t random.”

Her tone made it clear she had a
theory she wanted to share. It didn’t take much prompting for her to do so. But
it didn’t feel like a girl confiding a private speculation, which furthered my
suspicion.

“If it wasn’t random, then what? I
mean, Stacy seems like such a nice person.”

“Oh, she is, you know, it’s just
that . . .” The girl shrugged again, searching for the right words. “She maybe
got mixed up with a bad guy.” She sighed. “Stacy would deny it to the end, but
her boyfriend isn’t a great guy, you know? I just, uh, I just wondered when I
heard, that’s all.”

“Had they been fighting or
something?” I asked, continuing my performance. “Is he dangerous?”

“I don’t know. I just know a couple
days ago he was in a big hurry to get out of town. He wanted her to come with,
but she didn’t want to just pack up and leave. She’s a pretty good student and
actually likes school. From what I could tell, he wasn’t planning a vacation,
you know?”

No, he was planning to skip town,
trying to stay one step ahead of the cops looking for him.

“Geez! What’s this guy’s name? Does
he go to school here? Would I know him?”

She shook her head. “No, he’s not a
student. His name is Tyler Jay. He’s got lots of tattoos, most pretty
cheap-looking, and a nasty scar above his left eye. He gives me the creeps,
always has. I always worried he was going to hurt her.”

“And now you think he might hurt
you?”

She shivered, but it didn’t feel
quite genuine. “I don’t know, I really don’t. I hope not. He has no reason to.”

I wasn’t the only expert liar in
the room. I couldn’t help wondering what, exactly, she was lying about, and
why.

“And you think he may have hurt
Stacy because she wouldn’t go with him?”

“It’s only one theory. You know,
the cops aren’t sure it was random.”

“What makes them think it was
targeted?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. She
was in an apartment building on Elizabeth when it happened. She still had her
purse.”

“Was she visiting someone? Maybe
they saw something.”

Another flash of something, there
and gone before I could really identify it. But her eyes darkened a couple
shades.