Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

Two men came up to Zac then. “We’re so sorry,” one said. Zac shook their hands. He patted one on the shoulder with his left hand.

And I saw then that on Zac’s left hand was a massive bruise. It covered the base of his thumb, the knuckles of his first two fingers. Its blue-black color seeped toward the center of his hand.

I felt my eyebrows knit together as I stared at it.

Zac must have seen my look. When the men left, he glanced down at his hand. “I had an accident at our house in Long Beach,” he said. “I was cutting up the dead wood that fell during the winter. The whole stack fell on my hand.”

I wanted to say, The dog ate my homework once, too. He just happened to get a bruised hand at the same time his wife was beaten and killed?

“Look,” he said, his voice laced with undisguised frustration. “The cops have already seen this, all right?” He lifted his hand then, holding it, clenched, in front of my face.

I drew back instinctively.

“Jesus, you’re scared of me?” he said, his voice raised. Over his shoulder I saw a couple of people turn and stare.

“I’m not scared, Zac.” I made my tone soothing. But truthfully, I was scared. This whole situation was spiraling out of control, and seeing Zac’s raised fist made me think how terrified Jane must have felt on the night of her death. I was sick at the thought, sick with the realization that Jane had died, not in a bed surrounded by relatives, but facedown on the floor of her house, her skull bashed and bleeding. Someone raising a fist, or some other object, over and over. Someone wrapping that scarf around her neck.

Zac dropped his fist and breathed out hard. The anger disappeared from his features, and for a moment anguish returned, like a bird landing on a familiar branch. I wondered if he would cry. “I loved Jane. More than anyone. More than anything.”

“I’m sure you did.” That was the truth. I didn’t doubt for a second that Zac had loved Jane. Probably immensely. But had he loved her so much that he could no longer tolerate her stepping-out behavior? Had it made him a little crazy?

I looked around to see if anyone had been watching our conversation. A few people nearby turned away. Elsewhere, people talked in muted voices and drank fast.

A tall man came up behind Zac then. His silver hair was coifed, and he had a strong body that looked like something you’d see on a thirty-five-year-old, rather than the sixty-five years he probably had seen. Jackson Prince.

Prince gave me a sad smile, clearly not recognizing me from the station, then touched Zac lightly on the arm. “I have to leave,” he said in his signature melodic voice. I’d heard he could woo a jury in two sentences.

“I just wanted to say how much I adored Jane,” Prince said. “I respected her work immensely. She was one of the best.”

She was one of the best who was about to bust you for something big.

Zac shook his hand. “Thanks, Jack. That means a lot.”

Prince murmured a few more words about Jane and promised to check in with Zac to see if he needed anything, then he turned and made his way through the multitude of mourners, moving lightly on his feet, nodding hello to people at every turn.

Zac stared at Prince’s retreating back, then at one of the windows overlooking Chicago Avenue, as if he was looking for his wife, who might any minute be running, late, up the street.

He turned back to me, his eyes lasering onto mine. “You should know, I told the cops I thought you were with Jane Friday night.”

Again, that irrational guilt rippled through me. I felt my throat tightening. “Zac, that’s not true. Even if it were, what are you trying to imply? That I was the one who hurt Jane? That’s ludicrous.”

“Is it? Guys were always getting intense about Jane. I’ve seen it more than once. So why should you be any different? And Jane was always up-front about how she didn’t want to leave her marriage. I wondered when someone would get too intense and not be able to take it. As far as I know, you’ve been seeing her for a while. As far as I know, she was breaking up with you.”

I groaned with frustration. “Zac, I told you I was with someone Friday night.” I looked at Q. “Please tell him.”

Q grinned. “Her first one-night stand,” he said to Zac. “I’m so proud.”

He turned to Q. “You meet this one-night stand?”

“No, but I got all the gory details.”

Right then, I saw him standing near the front door. Mick. The writer. His gray hair and tanned youthful face made him stand out from the crowd.

“That’s him!” I said.

I looked back and saw that Zac’s eyes hadn’t left mine.

“Zac,” I said, insistently, “that is the writer who Jane was with the other night.”

I pointed. We all looked in the direction of the door.

But Mick had disappeared.

I dodged mourners as I hurried toward the door, trying to catch up with Mick.

C.J. was suddenly in front of me. “Iz, you were great today. Really.”

“Thanks, C.J.” I stood on my toes to see over her shoulder. I couldn’t see Mick.

C.J. kept talking. “You do need to adjust a lot of things. Tomorrow let’s get you in the editing bay to watch the tape. You’ll be able to see issues that need working out.”

“Great. I’ll come in early and stay late. Look, I’ve got to run.”

“Don’t forget to look over your scripts tonight.”

“Got it.” I didn’t tell her that I also had to work at the Fig Leaf tonight.

I dashed around her, heading fast toward the entrance. I came out into a marbled foyer. A hostess stood behind a podium, a vacant smile on her face.

“Did you see a guy with a tan and gray hair come out here?” I asked her.

“A guy…? Um, now who were you looking for?”

He must have left. The elevator to the lobby was right there. I hit the button, then looked at the display. The elevator was stopping in the lobby now.

“Are there stairs to the street?” I asked the hostess.

I wanted to catch up to Mick. I wanted to find out his last name so I could give it to Zac and prove to him I wasn’t the one with Jane that night. I wanted to ask Mick why in the hell he’d been following her, whether it was really for a story or something more sinister. I wanted to give his answers to the police and let them decide if he was telling the truth.

The hostess gestured with a game-show wave toward the elevator. “This will take you right downstairs.”

“Yes, but are there actual stairs?” I couldn’t hide the impatience in my voice, causing her smooth brow to crinkle.

“There is an emergency exit.”

“Where’s that?”

But then the elevator dinged behind me. The doors opened and people flooded out, most of them heading to the memorial.

I dove inside. When the elevator reached the lobby I swiveled my head around, searching for Mick. No sign of him. I ran out into the street, crossing my arms against the late-afternoon chill. And then I saw him-I recognized the gray hair and the blazer he’d been wearing-walking west on Chicago, then taking a right onto Wabash.

Tucking my purse under my arm, I sprinted after him as fast as my high heels would let me. I’d gotten used to heels over the years. I was one of those freaks who said, I actually prefer high heels, and mostly meant it. But running in them was a different story. You simply couldn’t run heel-toe, heel-toe, the way you would with normal shoes. Instead, you had to do a ridiculously silly flat-footed, bouncy jog. And in his flat shoes, Mick was moving much quicker than me.

I turned the same way as him when I got to Wabash. I saw an open door to a bar called Pippins. Was that the arm of his coat, the flash of his gray hair entering the place? I bounced/jogged to Pippins like a lame deer and stepped inside. A bunch of college-age students with about ten pitchers of beer on their table were almost the only patrons. An older man, a professor type in a blazer, was taking a seat at the bar. Definitely not Mick.