Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

More sniffling. “It’s Wyatt.”

I hate to say it, but I felt relief. “What did he do?”

“You mean who did he do?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah. Where are you?”

“Armitage and Sheffield.”

“By the Twisted Lizard?”

I glanced across the street and saw the underground Mexican place. “Yeah.”

“Perfect. I need a dark bar and something with a lot of tequila. Can you meet me there?”

“Of course.” I gestured for Mayburn to pull over and told Maggie I’d be waiting.

Mayburn drew over to the curb and opened the black thong box. Using a pen, he lifted it, grinning.

“What is it? Why do you look so happy?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Eighty-five percent of my job usually involves surveillance. I sit for hours in a fricking car outside a fricking apartment building with a fricking camera pointed at the front door. This-” he raised the thong higher “-is the highlight of my week.”

“Men are so weird. I wouldn’t be getting all excited if you gave me a pair of boxers.”

He held the thong toward me. “This is not the same thing as boxers. This is something different.”

I remembered putting my thong on, sharing it with Theo. “Good point.”

“Anyway,” Mayburn said, “I’ll drop this off at the lab. And I’ll get your scooter. Either I’ll have someone help me get it in the van or we’ll drive it for you. Give me the keys.”

I handed them over. For some reason, I didn’t want to leave the van, which seemed like a little container of quasi-normalcy. Joking with Mayburn about thongs was as far away from a murder investigation as I could get.

“What are you doing the rest of the day?” I asked Mayburn.

“I have to meet Lucy at her kid’s soccer game in ten minutes.”

“Wow. The soccer games now, huh?”

“Shut it.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said.

“Don’t get all sentimental.”

I opened the door. “See ya.”

Fifteen minutes later, Maggie was tiptoeing down the stairs of the Twisted Lizard into the dimly lit bar. She wore dark jeans cuffed at the bottom, her little feet in pink loafers. Her golden hair was a mess, as was her face.

I hugged her, then grabbed a napkin from the bar and wiped the mascara from under her eyes. “What do you want to drink?”

Maggie ordered a margarita. “On the rocks. With double tequila.”

“What happened?” I said when her drink was delivered.

“It was just like last time.” She sniffled, started to cry. “I mean, you told me it would be the same thing. You told me.”

“I was just guessing. And hey, he looked devoted to you the other night at my mom’s house.”

“Yeah, exactly. He looked devoted. And he acted devoted to me at his house after dinner. It was amazing. I was actually thinking we might get engaged this summer.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and then…” She trailed off, gulped her drink, and glanced at me. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” More sniffling. “But you have to drink with me!”

She began to cry, so I quickly waved at the bartender and ordered a Corona.

“Okay, Mags,” I said. “What happened?”

“Like I said, same thing. I mean, almost exactly the same thing. We went out last night. Had an amazing time. Today, I left around noon to work on your case. I wanted to do some research about the term ‘person of interest’ and how often those persons are converted to suspects.”

At the thought, my stomach gripped.

“When I got to the office, I worked for a while,” Maggie said, “and then I decided to work out. My gym bag was at his place, because I’ve been staying there so much. I knew he didn’t have anything going on today, so I just dodged over there.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Yep. He was with someone. I mean, they weren’t having sex. It wasn’t exactly like last time, but they were getting ready to go out to lunch. She was clearly picking him up for a lunch date, like no big deal, like I hadn’t been there just an hour before.” Her face crumpled and more tears streamed down her face.

“Well, maybe it was a friend of his. I mean, did you stop to ask who it was or did you just storm out?”

“I didn’t have to ask!” Her voice rose. “This was the woman he dated last year, the woman who broke his heart. I knew because of the pictures that are still around his house. And when I came in, you should have seen his face. It said everything. When I took him outside and asked, ‘Is this what it seems?’ he said, ‘Yes.’ Just like that. He said yes!”

“What a total jerk.”

This only made her cry more. “He’s not! He’s actually a good guy. He’s just not in love with me.”

I pushed her drink away and turned her so that she was facing me. “Mags.”

She searched my eyes. “I know. Don’t defend him. I know.” She sagged forward, crying.

I held her, gesturing over her back at the bartender that we were fine, just a little crying jag. And honestly, it felt good to be the one propping someone else up for a change.

When she was done, she wiped her eyes on her cocktail napkin and sucked down the rest of her drink. “What’s going on with you?”

I looked at the festive colored lights above the bar. “Well, let’s see. Theo came back from Mexico.”

Her face brightened. “Excellent! And will he tell the cops he was with you Friday night?”

“We called and left Vaughn a message. Theo says he’ll explain.”

“So why do you look miserable?”

“Because I found out that he used to sleep with Jane.”

“No fricking way.”

“Yep. He flirted with me when we met to get back at her.” I shrugged.

“Iz, I have to tell you no matter what his motivation was, this isn’t good.”

“What do you mean?”

She grimaced. Glanced down, then back at me. “Think of how this is going to look to the cops. After Jane died, you got Jane’s anchor chair and her ex-boyfriend.”

R eporters and cameramen littered my lawn. I felt immediate sympathy for my downstairs neighbors for putting up with this.

Unfortunately, it looked like Bunny Loveland had put her media beatings on hold. I paid the cabbie, then pushed past them all, shoving blindly at those who surged around me. As I hurried toward the building, I kept my head down, ignoring the calls of “Izzy! Izzy!”, deliberately tuning out the questions, although snippets of them permeated my resolve-…kill Jane?…wanted her job?

I fumbled at the door, trying to get my keys in the lock. I could feel the reporters behind me, could hear the whir of shooters with their video cameras, could hear the snapping of the photographers. I felt trapped there, in front of my door, my fingers groping to get the right key, reminding me of my struggle to get in that metal box only a few hours ago.

Finally, I got the key in the lock, swung the door open, jumped inside. I slammed the door against the melee. Panting, I stood inside, letting the cool dark of the hallway wash over me. When I’d caught my breath, I started up the stairs.

But something seemed wrong, felt awry. As if I wasn’t the only person in the stairwell. I froze, listening for any sounds. Nothing. Just my crazy imagination. I took slow steps, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. And yet I felt something.

Calm down, I told myself. Calm down. I kept climbing, and my breath became short again, partly from the exertion and partly because my nerves were singing from the crush of reporters outside.

I was about to turn the landing and go up the last flight of steps when I heard a man’s voice. “Izzy.”

It came from above. It came from my place.