A Kiss Before I Die (3 page)

Sam returned to Deerfield shortly after 10:00. She dumped the bloodied clothes at the V.C. landfill. It was open all hours despite the gate that closed it officially. You unhooked the chain, opened the gate, dumped, closed and re-chained.

She parked the Volvo in the garage. She found a can of transmission oil and poured it over the area the dead man had covered. The oil, she knew, would be a shade of red that would at least obscure seen and unseen blood. She found a snow shovel, heaved some of the frozen stuff from the side of the house, and left if for the next morning.

The water was running in the upstairs sink; it gave her comfort. She closed the shutters and blinds on both levels. She assessed the weaponry her godfather had in his library – and throughout the house. He didn’t have an alarm system but had enough ordnance to conduct a small battle. 

She removed groceries from the Camaro. She showered and used the bathroom, swallowed her second caffeine tablet, and prepared and ate four egg whites, garnishing the food with pepper. She put
Grosse Pointe Blank
on the living room TV.

She kept her gun close. She waited for the inevitable, sure of herself, but unsure of when the next violent act would be delivered.

The doorbell rang shortly before midnight.

“Hi, how are you?” she said aloud as she approached the door. “Did you get our house warming gift?”

Through the peephole, she could see her caller was dressed for the occasion. She placed her gun on the edge of the umbrella stand. If this was a ruse, it was beautifully orchestrated.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“How can I help you officer?”

There were many rules in her father’s profession. One was that you didn’t kid authority unless you understood the man representing the authority. Your attitude and pose had to be simple: don’t waste my time and I won’t waste yours.

“Ma’am was you a recent guest at the Foursquare Hotel?”

“Yes.”

And never say more than you need to.

“When did you check out, ma’am?”

“Tonight.”

“What time was that, ma’am?”

He didn’t ask her what her name was. He already knew the answers to his questions. This wasn’t bad or good. It just was.

“Earlier.”

“You are Samantha Moretti, correct?”

Maury-yeti
.

“How can I help you officer?”

“We have a complaint that you triggered a fire exit alarm and didn’t settle your bill before disembarking. We’re here as a result of said complaint.”

Disembarking
.
We’re
.
Said complaint
.

Officer Dan Judd had so busy reciting his pre-programmed speech he wasn’t aware he was talking to her boobs. Men were like this. They talked to your chest when they we’re trying to engage your brain…or at least distract it.

She heard the second officer, unseen, kicking at the driveway snow pile that covered blood and oil.

This was not acceptable.

She stepped forward, sending Judd, as her Uncle Benny used to say, ass-over-tea-kettle, closing the door behind her, locking it, knowing she had no keys or license, socks or shoes. The second officer came running. Officer Judd read her Miranda Rights from a small card. 

As the second officer, a younger man, guided her to the car he maneuvered his right hand from her waist to her right breast, his fingers making a slight push, copping a partial feel, probably thinking she wouldn’t notice or care, or be too frightened to react.

She smiled pleasantly at the idiot as she adjusted herself in the plastic backseat of Judd’s cruiser.

“You’re lucky,” she said.

Thomas Wilcox was a deep sleeper. When she woke him he said he wasn’t her lawyer and to leave a message at the sound of the beep and hung up. 

The third call got his attention.

He asked what time it was.

“After four, I think.”

“Okay.” She could tell he was rubbing his eyes. “See you around two. I have to meet a judge at nine. I’ve got lunch at noon.”

“I don’t have shoes. They took me in my bare feet.”

“Sue me,” he yawned. “What’s your size?”

“What?”

“Shoes.”

He arrived when he said he would, shortly after 2:00 p.m. He brought her a new pair of
Vans
. They appeared in court, posted bail, and scheduled a court date for the following week.

She was grateful. He drove her to Deerfield.

“So, did you get any sleep?”

She had.

“So, tell me about it.”

“We’ll plead no contest and pay the ticket.”

“You wish. Judd? The cop you assaulted? He’s a great guy but doesn’t like being pushed, literally or figuratively or, what’s the word? Metaphorically?”

“I think,” she said. “I can’t remember.”

“Who does?”

“Writers.”

“Not necessarily.”

“If you say so.”

“So you pushed him?”

“I tripped.”

“You’re what? One hundred? One-ten? That’s quite a trip considering he’s maybe two, give or take.”

“I was standing higher, in the doorway, and he was lower, on the stoop, and as a bonus he was on an unsalted sidewalk. Are you going to defend me or prosecute?”

“Usually a bit of both.”

“You want the truth?”

“No. Just something practical. I like what you said, though. It makes sense. How could you topple someone that size?” He laughed. “There are plenty of people that would like to see that.”

“Judd on his ass?”

“Yeah. Any cop for that matter. Tell me about the alarm.”

“Nolo contendere.”

“That may cost you a few dollars. Or time. Probably dollars. I know the judge and he’s reasonable. But they have you on tape. DVR.”

“Nuts.”

“That’s a defense.”

Looking out the window of his Silverado, her eyes squinted and the corners of her mouth rose. 

Houses, yards, cars. A woman jogging. A man watching them pass as his leashed dog turned white snow yellow.

“You’re funny for a lawyer.”

“You know many?”

They were approaching the 5 freeway.

“Just one.”

“That’s surprising. I mean, you’ve been here, what? Two days? You assaulted one man after causing his car to crash. You’ve skipped on a hotel bill. You pulled a fire alarm at the same fine establishment. Then, for a nightcap, you knocked a cop to his ass.”

“The cop slipped. The other cop, by the way, felt me up when I was shackled. I had reason to pull the alarm. I left a c-note on the dresser. And the truck came out of nowhere.”

“So you assaulted the driver.”

“He was injured in the wreck and I didn’t want to get involved. I’m not a doctor.”

“You knocked him to the ground from what I saw.”

“I helped him lay down. He was injured.”

“You kicked him.”

“I put my foot under him to brace his fall.”

“Fair enough.”

Traffic was heavier than it had been the day before. The lawyer was pushing 70 as they ramped up the hill.

“What about the Wal-Mart girl?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This girl, this kid in a serious drunk showed about ten and said she was there to party. Said you offered to pay her for sex. So she says. The hotel clerk put two and two together and here we are. He thought you were a prostitute.”

Sam laughed and didn’t stop until they were in the driveway. He parked behind the Camaro. Her laughter was contagious and Wilcox joined her. She finally caught her breath.

“You’re serious?”

“He was. And she was. I dismissed it out of hand when she showed up with her druggie boyfriend. I was bailing you when they came in with her song and dance.”

“What did you do?”

“Asked her how old her boyfriend was.”

“You’re going to keep making me guess on all this?”

“He’s twenty-two. She’s sixteen. Age of consent in our fair state is seventeen. See? You all have a nice day now, ya hear?”

He was relaxed. Suspenders, belt, tie, and nicer shoes than he’d worn the previous day.
U2
pulsed from the stereo.

“Thanks for bailing me.”

“My pleasure.”

“So,” she said, drawing the word out for a second. “You’re officially my go-to guy in the law and order department?”

“Unless you have an objection, your honor…”

“No, no, we’re cool.”

She opened the door as he put the truck into drive.

“You haven’t told me why you pulled the alarm.”

She looked over the hood of the truck. The sun was brilliant but there were many clouds. It was going to snow again.

“You know, I left in a rush last night. I don’t have a key for the house. Or a phone.”

He looked out his windshield and nodded, glancing at the clock on the dashboard.

“It’s cold. Get back in.”

He called
Bob’s Lock and Key
. He explained it. When he clicked off, he told her Bob had helped him with evictions.

“You’re saving my ass left and right, today, you know that counselor?”

“I’m protecting my investment.”

“Nice.”

“You’re words, not mine.”

“I swear to god…”

“We have fifteen minutes, maybe less. Tell me why you pulled the alarm.”

She realized the sun had melted most of the snow on the driveway, but that a mound, no bigger than a plate, sat in the middle of a large, black stain.

“I was being followed. Stalked. I was frightened and wanted to get out of there before he could find me again.”

“The man in the red truck?”

“No. He was driving another Ford. A green Taurus.”

Wilcox looked at her quizzically, saying nothing until she looked at him, looked into his eyes. They were a dark shade of blue.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

Her dark olive eyes betrayed her.

“Straight up, Sam.”

“He was thin, tattoos, knuckle to elbow, on his neck. Made me think of a meth addict.”

“Caucasian?”

Her mouth went dry.

“Yes. A goatee and he wore this little hat.”

Her words were failing.

“His name is Fred Burleson. He retired from Foursquare P-D. About a year ago and works privately, independently, insurance fraud mainly.”

Sam tilted her head against her window.

“I heard he didn’t come home last night. His wife called me, along with some other folks.”

A truck with
Bob’s Lock and Key
emblazoned on its side pulled in front of them, parking over the plate of snow and dark black stain.

“He’s dead. I found him in the driveway.”

Wilcox powered his window down, left the keys in and ignition on, and silenced the radio.

“Stay here. I’ll handle this.” He reached behind her seat, produced a pistol, and placed it in her lap. “Now put your seat down and don’t look out the window until I come for you.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.”

The man in the truck was writing something on a clipboard. He hadn’t looked at them. She put the seat back.

Wilcox leaned over her and kissed her lips.

“Trust me.”

Wilcox knew the locksmith, Jim. She heard them. The man named Jim commented on the Camaro, said it was a sweet ride. Wilcox explained he had a ditzy client that had locked herself out of her own house. The locksmith laughed and said all women were ditzy.

Samantha rolled her eyes.

She heard a buzzing-vibrating. She looked to where the lawyer had his phone before he called the locksmith. It wasn’t there. The buzz came from the glove box. She opened the glove box. The buzzing continued for a brief second and stopped. It looked like a Samsung. A wallet was next to it.

The door to the house was unlocked and opened. 

She reached to the lawyer’s jacket and felt the lining and within a few seconds found his wallet.

Wilcox thanked Jim the locksmith.

She took the cell phone from the glove box.

Twenty-seven missed calls.

They were talking and laughing.

She examined the wallet.

Jim was telling the lawyer Wilcox a joke.

The New York State driver’s license in it belonged to Frederick Burleson. He used to live on 305 Scandia Road. Or was it
Sandya
Road?

With her iPhone, she took a video of her examining it, checking the wallet, and then showing how she hid both the wallet and Samsung under the front driver seat, disabling the device.

The locksmith pulled away and after a minute, no more than two, the lawyer stood outside the driver window, reached in and turned off the engine.

“They dumped him in front of the garage?”

“Yeah.”

“And you poured oil on it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, let’s go inside and sort it out.”

She sat upright, gun in hand.

“What was this for?”

“I believe you, if that’s what you’re asking. Bring it if you want.”

She pushed open the door with her foot, gun loose in her right hand and lifted her left hand indicating he should stop.

He did.

She listened. She could hear the water. Inside she handed him his gun and he accepted it.

“It’s empty, by the way,” he said.

“We can’t assume we’re alone.”

“I meant the gun. The gun is empty.”

“Why do you have an empty gun?”

“It’s for show.”

“Jesus, that’s a good way to get killed.”

“I’ll put it in the truck.”

She took the gun she’d left on the umbrella stand and motioned she was going upstairs. She scanned the rooms and closets, took a glance into the attic, returned to the bathroom and turned off the water.

Wilcox was at the bottom of the stairs.

She went to the TV and turned it off; the DVD had shut itself off the night before.

“Tell me about Freddy.”

“I told you.”

She sat on one of the couches. He took a chair by the fireplace, looking toward the front windows. All the shutters and blinds were closed. She repeated what she’d said, rearranging the words slightly. A confession needed to be consistent.

Wilcox listened without interruption or facial reaction.

“Same question as before, Sam. Why?”

She regarded him curiously. 

“Why did you kiss me?”

He blushed as he answered.

“I thought I should kiss you before I died. It was a bad impulse and I apologize. I took advantage.”

“You thought you were going to die? From what? You gave me an empty gun…”

“I don’t know. It was – I can’t explain it. Tell me about Freddy. Where is he? Why didn’t you go to the police? Did you kill him because you were frightened? Was it accidental or deliberate? Did you shoot him or did you…?”

“What is
wrong
with you?”

“…stab him? There’s blood and oil on the driveway, and you’ve committed a series of misdemeanors and potential felonies since you came to our little town. I need to know why Freddy’s dead.”

“So you don’t believe me?”

“I believe the blood on the driveway. I believe you’re not telling me everything.”

“He was following me.”

“Understood.”

“He showed up here uninvited and dead.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to continue talking over me?”

“Pretend I’m the police and consider they won’t be nearly as polite.”

She paused, staring at him.

He spoke when it was obvious she wasn’t going to.

“This is all lawyer client privilege until I think otherwise.”

“I thought our relationship was inviolable.”

“That’s a good word but you have blood outside and up to this point you’ve said
nothing
to indicate you
didn’t
kill him. It’s been more of a declaration of guilt. From what I can tell you’re at least an accessory.”

Here is the map. You are here.

“My parents had an unusual profession. They worked for various syndicates and the F B I when needed. That’s how they came to be employed by the late senator, by the way. Besides their personal relationship, which you know from god-dad’s stuff.”

“That’s in your favor.”

“I’ve been indoctrinated to react the way I did. A dead man at your front door and a call to the police wasn’t in my best interest.”

“And now?”

“I don’t think they’ll understand why I hid him.”

Wilcox leaned forward uneasily in his chair.

“Not to mention it’s against the law. Where is he?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Okay…”

“This Fred of yours looked like an addict and wasn’t wearing a coat. He was following me and he made a phone call on his cell phone. He put a nail under my tire to give me a flat and I wasn’t about to end up raped and murdered.”

“He didn’t
like
wearing coats. He
was
pale. He was
born
pale. And he was probably cold. Maybe he called his wife and said he’d be late for dinner. Tell me about the tire.”

She did.

“How do you know he staged the nail?”

This caught her. She didn’t. She’d made an assumption.

“Did you search him for a wallet or phone?”

“Yes and he had nothing. That was the other item. If I had a wallet I could’ve googled his name, researched it.”

“Why would anyone kill and dump him at your doorstep?”

“I don’t know
why
anyone would try to scare me by killing an ex-cop. What sense does that make? He was meaningless to me. So it has to be more than that.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a mistake.”

“I don’t get you.”

“In the dark. He’s thin, you’re thin. He has short hair, and you have relatively short hair.”

“I wouldn’t believe it.”

“But we need a story. A theory.”

They sat silently for a few seconds.

“Bathroom?” he asked.

“Down the hall, to the right.”

They both stood.

“Orange juice? Coffee? Anything?”

“No,” he said. “No, thanks.”

Before he walked, she asked a question.

“Do I call you Tom or Thomas or…?”

“Anything but Tommy. Nobody calls me Tommy.”

“Okay, Thomas, then.”

There was a moment.

“I didn’t mind earlier. I understand why you did it.”

She understood his kiss just as well as she understood his gun.

He blushed. 

“Again, I apologize …I didn’t...”

“No, it’s okay. I understand. I really do.”

The moment passed.

“Okay,” he said, the blush fading. “Thanks.”

He went down the hall and she went to the kitchen.

She hadn’t opened the refrigerator before he returned. 

He picked up the phone on the counter next to the oven toaster.

“What is it?”

His tan face was pale.

“The rear door is kicked in. There’s blood all over the floor, walls, everywhere. He was murdered in your house and dragged to the driveway.” 

He dialed the police, not 911, and asked to be connected to Chief Henderson.

He pointed to the chairs by the kitchen table.

“Sit.”

“No, thanks.”

She washed down two tabs of caffeine with a bolt of OJ, straight from the container. She left the room with six more tabs in hand.

He called her name; she ignored him.

She rapidly showered, used the bathroom, and changed clothes. She needed thicker clothes and shoes.

When she heard cars pulling into the driveway she went to the closet and there found an ankle holster, attached it to her left ankle, and filled it. She gathered her keys and her wallet; from her duffle she counted out five-hundred dollars in cash, placing it in her right, front pocket.

She transferred her phone photos and numbers to her cloud storage. Then she placed her phone in the toilet tank, killing it, making it untraceable.

She looked in the mirror. She was presentable. The bulge of the gun wasn’t noticeable unless someone stared at her ankles. She doubted anyone would stare at her ankles.