You Don't Know Jack (23 page)

I shoved out into the wet night, and immediately spider feet skittered over my skin again. I hurried through the empty parking lot to Old Yeller, made sure no one lurked inside the Mustang, then locked myself in and tore out of the parking lot. It was too dark, traffic too heavy to detect any one vehicle that might be following me down I-405 to Renton.

Sometimes only speed blows off the stench of rage. I was mad as hell, reeking of it, and driving on the slippery road as though I could outrun my fears. Stupid. Really stupid. But damn it. Someone had tried to kill me. Twice. Tears threatened. Pity tears. I swiped at my eyes. I was glad Stone didn't care enough to stick around and make sure I got home safely. Who needed him? Not me.

Full blown pity parties are best when attended alone.

Nothing like some well-meaning, party pooper — aka friend — to drop in and talk you out of it. Or the State Patrol. Spotting twirly red lights ahead, I eased off the gas. Last thing I wanted was more interaction with cops.

My phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Private caller. Probably the jerk who'd left all the hang-ups. I punched "send" and screamed: "Don't you know it's against the law to use your phone while driving?" I hit "end." Wow. Venting felt good. Great, actually. Sort of like being in control.

How had things gotten so bad so quickly?

Two weeks ago I was an aspiring writer, supporting myself on a series of part time jobs. Like other women my age, I dreamed of a career I loved, a hot relationship, eventually marriage and children. Okay, so my sex life sucked and I was barely making ends meet; I was getting by.

Two weeks ago, I seldom saw, let alone spoke to my rat-fink, first ex-husband. Now he was dead and we spoke nearly non-stop.

Two weeks ago, I shared an amazing friendship with my BFF. The trust, the fun, the understanding. Now he was accused of murder and might very well be convicted if I couldn't figure out who kept trying to kill me.

I needed a time machine. I needed to travel back two weeks and drag Apollo to Disneyland, the happiest escapism on Earth. No frowny faces or killers allowed.

Sadly, until I became a mad scientist, I was stuck in the here and now. That meant solve this case or die. The thumb drive nestled my breasts. Obviously the closest I was getting to sex for a while. Maybe the information I'd downloaded would hold the key to identifying the killer. Pity party done. I had direction and purpose again.

Traffic lightened at the I-90 corridor, and I made the trip from Bellevue to my parking lot in under twenty minutes.

I shut off the engine. I regretted not "borrowing" Carter's laptop for a thorough search. I know, dumb idea. If that computer held anything incriminating and I found it by less than legal means, whatever proof there was would be inadmissible in court. No help to Apollo.

The parking lot was all but empty this time of night. I glanced around, leery. Cautious. The light I'd left on in my apartment outlined Ken-doll's form on the window blind. All seemed normal. Safe. Still, I dashed for the stairs to my apartment, key in one hand, pepper spray in the other. The stairwell was empty, overhead light on.

I darted up the stairs, itching to collect the forwarded e-mail. I wanted to pour over a print out of the synopsis to make sure my initial read-through was correct. My chilled body, however, yearned for a long soak in a bubble bath with a cup of soothing tea nearby. Okay, I'd read the hard-copy while I bathed.

I reached my apartment door. My phone rang. Private caller. I answered. "Hello?"

Nothing.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

My temper reawakened. "I can hear you breathing, asshat."

An eerie voice said, "Mind your own business or you're the next to die."

I dropped my phone. The lid flipped shut. All chance to trace the call was lost. Not that I knew anyone who could trace a phone call from a cell phone anyway.

I hustled into my apartment, locked the door and engaged the chain. The only light was the one I'd left on in the kitchen. The living room was all shadows, Ken-doll a lumpy silhouette. I was breathing hard, shaken from the scare in the hallway. Where was Apollo? He should have been here by now. I stuffed my gloves in my pockets, shrugged off my jacket, and tossed it onto the hook by the door. I had to listen to my voice messages, but first I wanted the hard copy of Lars' synopsis.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Maybe Apollo had been here, grown hungry and gone after something to eat. I grabbed a banana and peeled it on the way to my office. The sweet, ripe scent elicited another comment from my stomach. My home felt as empty as my belly, only eerily quiet. I talked to Ken-doll, needing to fill the shadowy silences. "Ken, you won't believe what I found out today about Lars."

I flipped on my office light. Glanced at the suspect board, switched on my computer and inserted the thumb drive into the USB port. Between bites of banana and as I waited for the computer to boot up, I said, "Remember when I said I was sure Lars had some devious motive for wanting me to follow Bruce? Well today I discovered what that was."

I paused, giving Lars opportunity to pop in and defend himself, but since I'd found and read the synopsis and discovered his dirty little secret, he'd gone mute. I muttered, "That's right, hide from me, coward. Be glad you're out of reach of my wrath."

Even threats didn't rouse him. I opened Word and loaded the synopsis onto my hard drive. "His latest book is based on the murders attributed to the Black Boutonniere Killer. Lars only wanted me at the nightclub where Bruce works, where the first two victims had worked, in hopes that I would discover whatever Stone knew about the case but wouldn't share with Lars. I don't know why Lars assumed Stone would tell me, but he did, and he also figured I'd pass the info onto him to use in his current manuscript."

The unfinished manuscript. Key word: unfinished. I put paper into the printer. When I'd lived with him, Lars wrote a fast, rough first draft of his books. Always. But not this time. Why was this book different? Was it the story itself? Lars, the man of a thousand plot ideas, had based his latest novel on an actual ongoing murder case. The synopsis was more like a re-enactment of the crimes than a piece of fiction, and I was struck again as I re-read it, why the manuscript remained unfinished. Lars had no ending until the BBK was caught.

But he had had a deadline. No wonder he was desperate.

The ramifications of my discovery reverberated through me like echoes off a canyon wall. Jarring and chilling.

I watched the printed pages easing from the printer. I should be furious at Lars for using me, and I guess part of me was, but another part, the writer part, felt sad for him. Why had Lars locked himself into such an impossible situation? The only reason that made sense was critical writer's block. The kind that kills a career. The panic he must have felt. The pressure to produce.

Should I worry for my own storytelling lifespan? Did my creative well that seemed so full of ideas — all filed for future use — have limited depths? Like Lars, would I one day hit a wall cutting off the words and inspiration? The thought threatened to make me sick.

No. I couldn't dwell on that right now. I had to figure out which of my suspects was determined to kill me. I glanced at the list, weighing what I'd learned today against previously known motives. I made notations and studied the board more.

Bruce and Carter Hawks had dropped from prime positions to lower possibilities. Since I was now positive Lars plagiarized Ruth Lester's story for his last published book, she owned a spot near the top of the list. My favorite suspects, however, remained Frankie Steele and his sister Eve. I added her name below Frankie's. Other than the overheard death threats, though, I had yet to find a motive for them. What had I ever done to either of them to make them want to kill me? Another question I had to find an answer to.

I gathered the synopsis pages from the printer and sat at my desk to listen to the 14 voice messages. Everyone wanted something: Mom and my aunts a check-in, the Golden Oldies to know what they could do to help, Dinah Edger an update, and Duke Maddox a date. I deleted the hang-ups.

Apollo's message was that he was heading back here from Bruce's to await my arrival. So, where was he? It was getting late. If he'd gone out for food, shouldn't he be back? I smiled at my fretting. Maybe Duke had invited him to dinner when he couldn't reach me. I could text, but wanted to hear Apollo's voice. Instant assurance that he was okay.

In the other room, I heard a familiar ringtone.

I glanced toward the doorway. Crap. He
had
been here and then left without his phone. That new phone was usually attached to his fingertips. I couldn't imagine him walking out without it, and even if he did, why hadn't he come right back and retrieved it?

Had something happened to him? Something that kept him from returning?

I felt that spider-leg skittering over my skin sensation and my legs went sluggish. I reached the living room, switched on the over head lamp, and stared at the mess near the window. Ken-doll was slumped over in his chair. Dark liquid puddled on the pale oak flooring at his feet.

My mind rejected what my eyes were telling it. I stumbled toward the mannikin, my limbs like concrete. My flesh icy. I should be screaming toward the fallen form. But the only sound I managed was a whimpering denial.

This was no life-sized doll-man. This was a human being. The thick pool defiling the floor was blood. In the blood a black carnation floated. I dropped to my knees, my heart crashing through my stomach. I reached trembling hands for him. "Apollo?"

It's the oldest trick in a magician's book. Smoke and mirrors. Make the audience look east while the true sleight of hand takes place west.

I'd been distracted by a master conjurer, kept occupied with Lars' synopsis and the aftermath of being shot at, while the evil sorcerer attacked Apollo.

Who had my BFF opened the door to?

The question possessed my numbed mind as I recalled my apartment door being torn from its hinges. How had help known to come? Had I called 911? I couldn't remember. Not important, I supposed, since they had come.

"Was the door locked when you returned home, Jack?" Stone asked me again, his voice gentle, his moss green eyes kind.

How many times had he asked me that? Once? Twice? Ten times? The first thing I recalled clearly was Duke Maddox standing over me, then a lot of strangers arrived, some in police uniforms, some in EMT gear, and then Stone was there, walking me out of the apartment, downstairs to the strip mall parking lot and into Sharkey's Tattoo Parlor.

The four of us gathered on the grouped leather seating that served as Sharkey's waiting area. The red and blue and green inks seared into Sharkey's skin were so vivid I could see his pores, the muted pink stipe in Duke's navy tie so bold it made me blink, and an old scar on Stone's chin so raw and fresh, I winced. I inhaled, smelling coffee and leather oil and dust and three different types of aftershave, the odors as biting and sharp as my memory was dull.

Emergency lights blinked across the windows like erratic Christmas lights distracting me. Why were my senses hyper perceptive while my brain seemed stupefied?

"The crime scene crew are gathering evidence," Duke said, his courtroom voice dialed down to match the concern on his handsome face.

"Why aren't we at the police station?" I looked from Stone to Duke to Sharkey, three large men in whose presence I normally felt safe and protected. Three very different men. Stone as rugged as his name, Duke as polished as his, and Sharkey as buff as a UFC contender with a fetish for inked sharks.

Stone answered, "The Renton Police would normally have jurisdiction, but they called me in when they spied the BBK's calling card."

The black carnation floating in Apollo's blood appeared in my mind's eye with a clarity I would rather eclipse, but that seemed to lift some of the fog from my senses. I asked Duke, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on you..."

I didn't remember his arrival. "Did you call 911?"

"No, you did."

I released a taut breath. Thank God I'd done something for Apollo. Little as it was. Late as it was. Sharkey put his beefy hand on my shoulder, offering me a shot of whiskey. His solution to shock. As I sipped the burning liquid, he asked, "Can you recall if your door lock was intact when you returned home, Jack B?"

I coughed, giving him back the shot glass. A bracing warmth spread through my core. "My phone rang as I reached my door. It was the killer. He warned me to stop investigating. The call shook me up and I had trouble getting my key into the lock. I think it was locked, but I can't swear to it. I came inside. The light over the stove was on. In the kitchen. I-I went to my office without turning on the living room lights or I'd have seen him sooner." God all that valuable time lost — the difference between life and death.

Stone covered my hand with his, a lifeline pulling me back. "You're doing good. Just another couple of questions. It's important that we get after this jerkwad as soon as possible, babe."

I nodded. I knew the first twenty-four hours could mean the difference between solving a crime and never solving a crime, like my dad's murder. "I don't know anything. I can't help."