Love is Murder (26 page)

The lights went out. She’d gone to bed. Gone to bed mad, always a big mistake.

His heart became hard, a rock in his chest. How could she? How dare she?

* * *

“I’m Caitlyn Kennedy, Channel Two News. Good night, Nashville.”

“And you’re smiling, you’re smiling, now look at your notes, and…we’re out.”

The cameras shut off, and Caitlyn had that moment of déjà vu she experienced every time she wrapped. New city, new studio, new crew���same old, same old. Reporting the news was the same everywhere.

“Great show, Caitie. You’ve really got something special behind that desk. The camera goes on and BAM—you are on fire.”

She smiled at Kevin Claueswitz, her new news director. He was a good guy, ready to take a chance on her from day one.

“Caitlyn, phone!”

Her heart skipped a beat. Surely not. There was no way…She raised the receiver to her ear.

“I hate the red polish, Caitlyn. I’ve told you that.”

She smashed the phone down, heart so suddenly in her throat that she ran from the room, barely made it to the ladies before she choked up her meager dinner in the toilet. She sat, after, with her head against the cool tiled wall, and cried.

* * *

Michael hadn’t seen Caitlyn for a week. He knew she was still upset with him, though he’d apologized a thousand times. He wasn’t schooled in the moods of women, couldn’t figure out exactly what she wanted from him. Hadn’t he declared his love properly? Was he so bad in bed that she wasn’t willing to do it again, and didn’t want to hurt his feelings by sharing that with him? He couldn’t help himself; he loved her too much to just walk away. He wished he could take back that night, undo the passion they shared, start over anew. He racked his brain. How could he unwind the clock?

Flowers. Women loved flowers.

He went to the shop down the street and spent too much money on a multicolored spray of roses. Left them on the front porch without a note. She’d know who they were from. She’d always known.

* * *

Caitlyn sat on the edge of the chair in Kevin’s office.

“I know you’re scared. But, Caitie, I promise, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Kevin…”

“I talked to a couple of homicide detectives. The laws are ridiculous. Basically he has to hurt you before they can do anything. So here’s the name of a guy. He’s one of the best private investigators around here. I think he can help. At the very least, he can find ways to keep you safe. I know it’s only been a month, but we don’t want to lose you, Caitie. You’re a great reporter and a fabulous anchor.”

Caitlyn took the small beige rectangle from Kevin, holding it gingerly in the palm of her hand. She glanced at the embossing—William Goldman, Private Detective. She stashed the card in the back pocket of her jeans, feigning nonchalance.

The moment she left Kevin’s office, Caitlyn’s phone was out. Goldman answered on the first ring.

* * *

Michael went by the house with more flowers, irises this time, her favorite, but it was locked, a new gold dead bolt affixed to the door. Defeated, he sat on the front steps, shredding the flowers into bits. He wasn’t sure what was happening. Two things he knew for certain—they’d made love, and she’d suddenly turned cold, distant. Like she didn’t love him anymore. But that couldn’t be true. Michael had seen the look in her eyes as he entered her, watched her pupils dilate in pleasure, saw the tiny vein rise in her left temple, felt her breath quicken and her muscles spasm around him. He may not be well versed in the ways of love, but biological responses were impossible to fake. You can’t react like that, so organically, and make it feel like a lie.

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe she wasn’t as ready as she told him. Or maybe, just maybe, he was wrong about her.

Maybe she was like his mother after all.

He hardened his heart.

* * *

Goldman looked like something out of a comic book. Huge, bulbous eyes, a broad forehead, a cauliflower nose flushed with rosacea. He lumbered when he walked. But his eyes, round blueberries tucked into the folds of his cheeks, were kind, and Caitlyn felt safe with him.

They met for the first time in a dark bar in Printer’s Alley, next to a strip club. Goldman arrived late, breathless, covered in a sheen of sweat. Caitlyn wondered if he’d taken the advance payment she’d couriered over the day before and had himself a moment next door.

They went over it all, that first night. How the calls had started. How the caller invariably knew what color toenail polish Caitlyn was wearing. How he expressed his dislike for anything that made her “look like a whore.”

How he hadn’t stopped calling, for weeks on end. The things he said. Little tidbits shared about her day. A comment about the brand of tomato juice she’d bought. A recommendation that she fill her Beemer at the gas station two blocks from her house, because the prices were better.

He’d noticed when she switched from lattes to green tea because the caffeine coupled with the stress was eating her stomach apart.

“Going through your trash,” Goldman said, which made it all worse.

The Huntsville police hadn’t been able to do much. He used a disposable cell phone and they couldn’t trace the number. They didn’t have the personnel to have a constant presence, but they’d watched her at odd times, hoping to catch a glimpse of her stalker. It hadn’t worked. And now the Nashville police were saying they couldn’t do anything, either.

She was tired of being scared.

Caitlyn started to cry. Goldman reached a meaty hand over and patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“It’s gonna be okay. You just wait.”

* * *

Michael had been patient, and kind. He’d been more understanding than a man could ever be expected to. He sent flowers, he wrote beautiful love notes, he called, he dropped by the house. Caitlyn refused to accept any of his overtures. She wouldn’t see him. Damn, he knew having sex so soon into their relationship was a mistake.

He didn’t know what to do. And he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he was losing her.

And he refused to lose her.

* * *

Goldman had a plan. He and Caitlyn met in a coffee shop off Broadway, someplace completely anonymous where she could go in dark glasses and hide from the eyes that bored into the back of her neck at all hours of the day and night.

The detective had found some sort of new 007 device that could trace the calls she was receiving day and night using GPS. Even if the cell number itself wasn’t available, the illicit company who made the device could monitor the calls, triangulate the caller’s whereabouts using the mapping software. It was cutting edge. That’s what he told her. She didn’t care. Caitlyn just wanted the damn phone to stop ringing. She wanted her life back.

They decided to try the very next night. She made sure to paint her toes vermilion and wear open-toed shoes. Bait.

Goldman came to the studio, watched her do her bit. He had the device hooked up to the phone.

Like clockwork, the creep called as she wrapped the show. When she answered, he asked why she was meeting strange men for coffee during business hours. She felt the fear crawl up her spine. He knew. He knew everything. He was inside her head. Knew what she’d think next, what decisions she’d make, where she would go, what she would do.

She flubbed their planned script. “What do you want?” she screamed into the receiver. He simply hung up. Goldman shook his head. Not enough time for the GPS to react.

“We’ll try again tomorrow. At least you know he’ll call back,” Goldman said.

* * *

It was time. Time for Michael to pull out all the stops. He needed to see her. He dressed carefully, certain to look his best, yet able to blend into the night. He went with black, head to toe, slimming, tasteful. If Caitlyn was going to be this woman—this whore, this slut—then she’d have to answer for it. Michael had turned his entire fucking life upside down for her, and this was the way she repaid him? No. He wouldn’t stand for it. She would be made to understand what she’d done.

He stood on the street outside the house and called her cell phone.

* * *

Goldman was right. As soon as the cameras went off the next night, the phone rang.

Caitlyn’s hands were shaking. She needed to play this just right. She took a deep breath and answered.

“Hello?”

“Nice show, Caitlyn.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated for effect. “You’ve been calling me for months. We know each other so well now. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“I’ve got him. I’ve got him.” Goldman mouthed to Caitlyn, making a rolling gesture with his hand, silently telling her to keep him talking.

He barked a laugh in her ear. “You don’t need to know my name. Just know that I love you. Isn’t that enough? I call you all the time, just like a boyfriend should. I compliment you. I give you flowers, write you notes. I make sure you know what I like. I give you advice on your career. We eat and drink and make love, at least, we did until you decided to dump me. After all this time, Caitlyn, you really keep playing this game? Why do you think a name will make any difference?”

“It’s not a game. I want to know your name. It means a lot to me.” Her voice was small, pleading. Just how Goldman wanted her to play it.

“I’ll tell you my name, Caitlyn. My name is—”

There was a click in her ear.

“Oh, shit! I lost him. Goddammit it to hell, Caitie, we had him. Let me see, let me see…”

Goldman’s eyes were transfixed on the little LED screen. Caitlyn put the receiver down on the table, a small trickle of sweat slipping between her breasts.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”

“You found him?”

Goldman smiled hard, and relief streamed through her body, so overwhelming that she needed to sit down. This, this, freak had ruined her life. Now it was time for payback.

“I got him. I got him. 4679 Old Hickory. Jesus, Caitie, he’s calling…”

“From my house.”

* * *

Michael walked through the familiar rooms, as strange to him now as if he’d never seen them. He stopped in the living room, where a picture of Caitlyn rested on an end table. She looked so damn happy.

The pain in his chest was crushing. She was happy before he came into her life. How was that possible? Could it be so? Could she have been happy without him? All these months, Michael knew every smile was for him, every hair flip, ear touch, lip compression, tongue lick. It was all for him. Caitlyn had stared out at Michael from that television screen and loved him.

Hadn’t she?

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Goldman whispered as he loaded a fresh magazine in his Glock.

“Just give me the goddamn gun. I’m a big girl.”

Goldman handed the weapon to Caitlyn. She hefted its unfamiliar weight in her right hand. A good, solid piece of metal. A life taker. Perfect.

“Caitlyn, we can call the police. They’ll be here in less than five minutes.”

She faced him, her features softened. “Goldman, you know they won’t help until he hurts me—that’s why I had to bring you into this. This ends, now. If you don’t want to be there, want the deniability, I suggest you leave. Because I’m going into my home and stopping him once and for all. I won’t ever be free unless I do this. He’ll keep following me, keep calling me, keep stalking me.” Her voice shook on the last note and she cleared her throat. “No. I won’t let this go on any longer. Are you coming or not?”

Goldman nodded. “Of course I’m coming. Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen.”

They got out of Goldman’s beat-up maroon Thunderbird, shutting the doors quietly behind them. She could feel the caller in the air, that palpable sense of foreboding she always got when he was near.

The house was dark. The light in the living room was off. She never turned it out, kept the switch on the wall taped to the on position so it couldn’t be accidentally shut off. That one light kept the darkness at bay, kept him away from her life. He was in there, pawing through her possessions, making himself intimate with her things. How many times had he done that, she wondered? Five? Ten? A hundred?

How many times was the recurring nightmare, that he watched her sleep, real?

She took a deep breath. Felt the metal of the gun hard in her hand.

She was in control now.

Emboldened, she stepped up to the front door. It was unlocked, slightly ajar. If he knew they were coming, he would have shut it behind him. Right?

She eyed Goldman, nodded and pushed open the door with the toe of her boot. It swung wide into the gaping darkness.

She slipped through, waited for her eyes to adjust to the light.

A shadow moved. She turned to face it. Extended the gun toward the outline that was him.

“Don’t do that, Caitlyn.” The bastard’s voice was gravelly. “You don’t have to do this. I forgive you. I understand. We can try again. Maybe a new town, less distractions. You don’t have to work. I’ll provide for us.”

“Jesus Christ,” Goldman whispered.

The shadow moved to the right and Caitlyn fired. The muzzle flash blinded her for a moment, but she fired again, and again, and finally, when her fingers went numb, she heard Goldman yelling at her to stop.

The lights came on. Caitlyn saw the man who ruined her life, lying on the floor. He stared at her as if she were the only person in the world. He looked vaguely familiar, but she brushed that away. He didn’t deserve her concern.

She watched the puddle of blood spread across the hardwood, catching the edge of the carpet, and smiled.

“I like red polish, you son of a bitch.”

* * *

Michael stared at the face of his love in awe. He’d made her happy at last. He could see it in the manic smile, the fire in her eyes. He’d been forgiven. He knew, now, that she was truly, madly, deeply in love with him. At this moment, she adored him. He was complete.

And so it was done.

He sang himself to death, the words he’d written for her whispered into the ether as the world went black.

“If God is one, and man is six, together they make seven. I loved you, darling, loved you long. I’ll wait for you in—”