Disk of Death Page 3

  I rushed up the stairs and with a shaking hand, jabbed my key in the lock, turned it, and threw open my door. I expected cops to be crouched behind it, guns drawn. When no such event occurred, I slammed the door shut behind me, threw my purse on the oak end table, and high-tailed it to my bedroom. My clothes lay scattered around my room willy nilly, so I gathered hem together. I had to hurry, had to get the hell out of town. No time to waste.

  As I packed, I considered where I could go. To run away and leave things hanging would bring suspicion like nothing else. A murder rap would follow me forever. According to all the television crime shows, no statute of limitations on that.

  Who could I trust to help me? I stood in the middle of the floor, chewing my fingernail. Katie still vacationed in Ireland, probably pub-hopping with some green-eyed Irishman. I couldn’t inform the Mamas — they would faint. Or worse, they would force me to call the cops. They would make me do the right thing and turn myself in. They believed in the justice system. That would never do.

  Then, like a lightning bolt from God, I remembered Dwayne’s card. He was a freaking private investigator now; surely he could help? Maybe he could keep me out of jail until he cleared my name off of the cops’ most wanted list.

  Relieved, I finished tossing a week’s worth of clothes, make-up, and necessary toiletries into the red duffel bag I used for the gym. The bag smelled a little strong, but I didn’t care. My perfume could wipe out the stench of dog shit at fifty paces.

  I dug Dwayne’s card out from where it had been tossed on my dresser. Saying a mumbled prayer, I called him up on speaker mode and checked my texts. My phone icon showed that I had four voice mail messages. I suspected the Mamas—Aunt Nancy and Aunt Tillie, had been bombing me since this morning’s debacle. They would be hunting me down soon.

  Dwayne didn’t answer. I called again. This time while the phone rang, I traipsed around the house making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. When Dwayne’s voice mail answered, I panicked. “Answer the phone, damn it.”

  He picked up the fourth time I called. He sounded sleepy. “Hm?”

  “It’s Shannon. Wake up man, I need help.”

  “What?”

  “Your help. I need you.”

  He grunted in the phone. “Wh-what? Help you? What are you talking about? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m in some trouble, D. Where can I meet you? At your office?”

  “Hell, Shannon, I’m still in bed. We partied all night. Can’t this wait?”

  “I’m sorry. It can’t. I feel like crud too, but this is serious. There’s something going on. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come there.”

  He exhaled loudly. I gave him time to wake up and let his powerful detective brain kick in. “Um, no. You probably should just meet me somewhere.”

  “Okay then. Your office? It’s business. Did you hear what I said?”

  “Um. Yeah, I heard you. The office is, um, being painted. Let’s meet at that bistro over there in midtown. Off Poplar.”

  “Simple Simon’s?”

  “Yeah. Gimme a few minutes to brush my snags and splash some water around.”

  “God. Okay. Please hurry, Dwayne. This is life or death.”

  We disconnected. My heart beat in frantic thumps, and my head pounded in time. I grabbed a bottle of Ibuprophen from the kitchen cabinet and dumped a few into my hand. It trembled so badly, I had to clench my fist. I closed my eyes and inhaled deep breaths.

  Dwayne could fix this.

  Damn it. Act normal. Yeah, right.

  I shouldered my bag, locked my apartment, and strolled out, trying to look nonchalant. My knees knocked like a woodpecker on a water oak. No strangers. No cops. Relief washed over me as I cranked my car, and rolled out of the lot.

  The sound of the car’s engine humming was like a litany. Rick is dead. Rick is dead. Dead. D-E-A-D. Not like in the movies, where people revived and performed in a new one tomorrow. He was no longer alive. I drove while waves of grief rolled over me. I was only twenty-six. How could this have even happened?

  Chapter 7

  Simple Simon’s is a strange eclectic place where freaks, geeks and has-been hippies hang out drinking coffee or tea, and eating flaky croissants. Several rooms of the building house art deco pieces, and local craftsmen display wares of unusual pottery and sterling silver jewelry. Even strange-colored furniture finds its way into the various spots around the place. The scent of musky, sweet incense floats by every time a new person enters.

  Ignoring the unique clutter, I ordered a French vanilla cappuccino filled to the brim with non-fat creamer, and sweetener. I rested my butt on a lumpy couch and scanned the big front window for Dwayne. The clock on the wall ticked off the minutes, but nothing would hurry Dwayne Brown. He was such a girl; he would have to shower, shave, shine, and sparkle before he set foot out of his place.

  Which brought me back to my dilemma. Until this mess was cleared up, where would I hide? I could stay with Dwayne if he had room. We were friends. We could make good roomies, at least for a while, or until Katie returned in twelve days. She would put me up if I still needed a place. Then I shook my head at my own insanity. How could I even consider involving my friends? It was murder for crying out loud.

  What a loser. Endangering the very people closest to me. But maybe it would all be over by the time Katie returned, and Dwayne, if he accepted the job, would be like my official defender. My avenging angel.

  I peeked out the window again before letting my brain pick up its tired catalog of troubles. How long did it take to find a killer? Once the scumbag had been caught, I could come out of hiding. Cops had forensic stuff to cut the chase these days. Surely they would find whoever had done this quickly? And what about my DNA? Oh yeah, there would be some. I’d practically lived there. And now he was dead. God, I couldn’t even go to his funeral. They would spot me for sure. I imagined how that would be: arrested at Rick’s funeral.

  I bit my lip to keep from crying. Why did this have to happen? I craned my neck to see if Dwayne had strolled in and I’d missed him. No luck. I gulped in deep breaths, reassuring myself that I was probably in the last place the cops would look.

  During my second cup, Dwayne finally passed by the window. I set the mug down and rose to wave him over, lifting a tiny smidge from my panic. The sight of his beaming face did a lot to brighten my spirit.

  He wore camouflage shorts and a tee shirt that read, If I throw a stick, will you go away? in big white letters. “Miss Shannon, what are we having today?” he asked, in a sing-song sort of way, like he spoke to a small child.

  “We are having a hot beverage in a sturdy mug to keep our hands from shaking,” I answered, trying to imitate his greeting.

  He rolled his eyes and ordered a cup of decaf. Black. Same as old times. He sipped. “Perfect.”

  “Dwayne. I need help.”

  “Uh huh. But you still ain’t told me what your problem is yet, and of course, my being a dumb-ass—”

  “Have you read the paper or seen the news yet?”

  He laughed, sitting back against the couch. “Hell, Wall-ass, I ain’t had time for hardly a face wipe-off. You made it clear I needed to beat feet over here with a quickness.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll give you that.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “Rick was murdered last night.” My lower lip wobbled, but I bit it and refused to cry. Not here in front of him. Later I could bawl a lake full, but not now.

  He set his mug down and gaped at me. “Furniture dude? Sheee-eet.”

  “Yes, but it gets worse.” I lowered my voice even more. “I sort of need digs. I need a place where I can’t be found. I’m hiring you, Dwayne. Oh, and that five thousand I won? It’s yours.”

  He sat straighter. “Oh no. What are you saying?”

  I sipped my coffee and averted my eyes.

  “No. Tell me you did not go to that man’s house last night after I left you.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell you.”

 
“Oh shit, now it’s clear as plastic wrap. You went over there and caused a stink because you were as drunk as a jay-bird, and now they have reason to think you could have done it, right?” His voice rose to a squeak.

  “Just get me out of this mess and find out who killed Rick.”

  He scowled at the ceiling for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you have a place where I can stay, and you’ll take the case, damn it.” My vision blurred.

  “I can’t. My place is being—whatchamacallit? Fumigated. I’m staying at my granny’s.”

  “Will she care if I stay there, too?”

  “With me?” His eyes widened.

  “Dwayne Brown!”

  He caved. “Okay, okay. Damn, girl. But Granny won’t like this.” He paused to think. When he glanced back at me, it was too late. I reached up and wiped the tears away. “Aw, honey, don’t cry.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m scared. And, I don’t have anyone else.”

  “What about those crazy aunties of yours?”

  “No. I can’t get them all riled up on account of this. They would do something terrible, like make me go to the police.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s not a bad idea.”

  “What?” I whispered, glaring at him. “I can’t do that. I had motive and opportunity.”

  He took stock of the people milling all around us, and slugged down the remainder of his coffee. “We ain’t gabbing about this here. Let’s go. Damn, how do I get myself into this shit?”

  I wiped my face on a crumpled napkin and followed him out without comment. He wouldn’t have heard me anyway, as he’d worked himself into a “state” as my Aunt Tillie always called it. He’d get over the shock eventually, and hopefully soon. I needed him to be at top speed for me to get through this.

  If I could avoid cops for a short while - get this whole matter situated - life could resume its normal crappy track. The problem? Time was not on my side. And South Lake was not a very big place to hide in.

  Chapter 8

  Dwayne gave me quick directions to the Shady Oasis Trailer Park on the east side of town in case we got separated. It was near the main highway and reputed to be a hotbed for crime since Larry Lewinski had lived there. Larry, better known as the Loose Cannon, was captured after he broke into Brad’s Paint Emporium and ran out with a few gallons shoved into the bed of his pickup.

  He must have driven too fast and too furiously, because the cops followed the trail of dripping paint into Shady Oasis. They found him huddled in a storage shed.

  This bit of trailer park history did nothing to deter my plans to hide out there at Dwayne’s grandmother’s place. If the little settlement of trailers and their owners could embrace Larry, the thief, they would love me, the suspected murderess.

  I turned onto the dirt road and drove down the hill. Most of the trailers were old and rusty from too many rains and not enough maintenance. Aluminum awnings covered battered charcoal grills and flimsy lawn furniture. Some had small two-step stoops instead of decks.

  I spotted Dwayne’s faded red Mustang in front of one of the few well-cared for trailers. No toys strewn about the yard, and no vicious barking Rottweiler straining against the end of his rope. I sighed in relief. Kids and dogs would undo me today.

  The front door opened and Dwayne stepped onto the graying, wooden steps. His wrinkled brow was as out of place for my happy-go-lucky buddy as a tornado on a sunny day. “What took you so long? I thought you were right behind me.”

  “Cop on my tail. Had to drive the speed limit,” I whispered as I drew near.

  He held the door open for me. Once inside, air blew up my legs from its vent in the floor. The place reeked like backed up sewage, and I fought the urge to pinch my nostrils closed.

  Dwayne must have read my mind. “Cabbage.” He pointed at a pot gurgling on the stove. “You took so long I decided to start our dinner. Humble though it is.”

  “No offense, but it smells like something. . . died.”

  He sighed. “Considering your situation, that’s an interesting choice of words. Cop didn’t follow you into the trailer park, did he?”

  “No. He turned off at the highway.”

  His whole body relaxed.

  “Where should I put my stuff?”

  “Oh, um, how about in there?” He pointed to the bedroom at the front of the trailer. “Private. Has a small bath off it, too.”

  I smiled. “This is awfully nice of you, Dwayne. It’ll be perfect.”

  I hauled my stuff into the room where fake wood wallpaper masqueraded as paneling. I took in the single bed adorned with a black comforter set, a four-drawer chest painted Chinese red, and a sliding door, which hung slightly askew, revealing a partially filled closet. Room for more. I peeked into the tiny bath. Toilet and sink, with no room to spare for a tub. I shrugged. These sparse digs would be fine. At this point, I appreciated anything without bars. I dropped my duffel on the bed, tossed my purse on top of it, and tried to relax before returning to the living room.

  When I walked out, Dwayne stood at the stove stirring the cabbage. The odor smelled stronger than before. Aunt Nancy always said the more you stir a stink, the worse it smells. She must have been cooking cabbage at the time.

  “So, do you have a game plan yet?” I asked, coughing slightly.

  He shrugged, then tossed some crushed red pepper into the pot.

  Oo-kay. Chicken Hut after dark for fingers and fries.

  “Come on,” I said. “You’re the man. You gotta have a plan.”

  “Yeah, and no. First, we gotta get the lowdown on what’s happened. I mean what did the paper say? Do they have any leads? How was Dude killed?”

  “He was…” I couldn’t say it. The thought of what happened to Rick unsettled me. As the saying goes, shit got real. Depressed, I plopped down in the lime-green recliner.

  Dwayne pivoted around, spoon in hand. “He was what?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t even think about how he died. It must have been terrible.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re gonna get all soft and mushy on me.” He laid the spoon down and picked up a dishtowel, wiping his hands as he walked over to me. “Listen, Wall-ass, this is your life, your damn freedom we’re talking about here. You can’t get all emotional and shit.” He stopped in front of me, hands on hips, towel dangling. He reminded me of Aunt Nancy when she planned to argue.

  I nodded. He was right, but in my mind, it was more complex. I had been involved with the man. I might have been the last person to see him alive. I might have been the last one to let him live.

  “There’s only one small problem,” I said.

  He tilted his head. “Only one?”

  “At least in my mind. I wonder if I killed him. You know, if I did it.”

  “What?” he yelled, before slapping my leg with the towel. “You fuckin’ did not say that. You did not just say that.”

  “I’m sorry, Dwayne, but I was so drunk. I think I was there. I don’t remember what happened after he opened the door and threw money at me. It’s like I blacked out. I mean I was awake and all, but the details of things are fuzzy or non-existent. I could have gone in there and done it. I was pissed at him. You’ve never seen me really mad. You’ve only seen me fortified with alcohol which only makes me seem mad.”

  “Look, you got pissed, but you didn’t kill. And I ain’t sitting here listening to you talk stupid. I mean how the hell could you have done such a thing and come out of it without, you know, evidence or something on you?”

  I cast a glance at my shirt. The tank I’d worn to Rick’s apartment was in my laundry hamper, wrinkled, but unsoiled.

  “He was s—stabbed,” I stuttered as realization set in.

  “See?” Dwayne declared, waving the towel at me. “You didn’t have no blood on you nowhere, did you?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. What if—”

  “It means everything. Look,” he
interrupted, plopping down on the arm of the chair. “Dude was a big business mogul, right? He probably had enemies. Somebody out there did him in for some reason, but shit, we both know it wasn’t you.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Shannon.” His expression reminded me of a schoolteacher’s when you forgot your homework. “You can’t even say the word stabbed without going green. Do you really think you could do such a thing, drunk or sober?”

  He was right. No way I was a murderer. Unless alcohol gave me superhuman powers and a stomach of steel, I was as innocent as a newborn babe. The cops wouldn’t see things the way Dwayne did. “I practically lived in the man’s apartment. There will be forensic evidence. Hair, fibers, fingernail clippings, etc. They’ll suspect me. I could be arrested for suspicion.”

  He stood and paced a few steps before turning around, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh, so you think because your hair or some fibers from your clothes are in the freaking carpet they’ll say you did it? What about hair from the neighbor’s dog? Will they look for him, too?”

  The way his voice rose at the end of his question told me he didn’t believe it was of any consequence.

  “The neighbor doesn’t have a dog, but yeah, that would be evidence. And the fact I was there at the same time Rick was killed, well, it’s suspicious. Don’t you think?”

  He laughed. “Hell, no. I think they’ll want to clear up a few things with you, but they won’t be ready to burn your scrawny ass at the stake over it. I say go to the cops. Declare your innocence.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. Another headache began to make itself known in a nasty way. I needed a shower, some food, and a nap. “Will you bail me out if they arrest me?”

  He smirked and strolled to the pot of cabbage. “Dinner’s gonna be late.”