Pretty Little Killer Read online

  Pretty Little Killer

  By Sydney Allan

  Published by Novel Mind Books

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2011 Sydney Allan

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  One

  It was a perfect sun-shiny spring morning.

  The robins were chirping. The squirrels were chattering.

  The air smelled like hyacinths and damp earth.

  And Mr. Nolan was cutting his grass...for the third time this week.

  But this was no normal sun-shiny, bird-chirping spring morning for me. Hell, no. At least fifteen policemen were surrounding me, the serious end of their guns pointed at my head.

  It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think, let alone react. One minute I was strolling down Baker street with my best friend, our dogs, Einstein and Twinkie, happily trotting beside us, and the next cars were zooming at us from all directions, tires screeching and skidding. While we stood there stunned, policemen bounded from vehicles, drawing guns.

  It was all very Hollywood. Or Twilight Zone. Take your pick.

  When my brain finally kicked in, I shot my hands into the air. The baggie of dog poo I’d forgotten I was holding slipped out of my grasp. It landed on the sidewalk with a sickening splat.

  “Elizabeth Shook!” One of the officers shouted.

  “T-that’s me,” my friend stuttered, giving me a terrified look.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  “I swear, I have no idea.”

  “On your knees. Both of you!” the officer demanded.

  He didn’t have to tell us twice. We dropped faster than Detroit home prices. A second later the mob rushed us, slapping handcuffs on our wrists, jerking dog leashes out of our hands. One policeman yanked me to my feet.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, my gaze hopping from one officer to another. I couldn’t comprehend the flurry of frenzied activity. Everything seemed to be happening at once.

  “This way.” He pulled me toward a parked car, angled against the curb.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Liz. She was pale-faced and wild-eyed, as confused and stunned as me, no doubt. We just weren’t the type of girls who were snatched off the street and thrown into police cars. We worked. We paid our bills. We followed traffic laws--at least, most of the time.

  Before I was shoved into the car, a few neighbors clicked pictures with their cell phones. Fabulous. The most humiliating moment of my life would soon be plastered all over Twitter and Facebook. What was next? Television news crews? We lived out here in suburban nirvana. Many miles from Detroit. Out here, a couple of kids getting sent home from school for wearing “inappropriate” t-shirts was newsworthy. This would probably make the five-o’clock news.

  In the car, I asked again, “What’s happening?”

  “We’re taking you in for questioning.”

  “Am I in trouble?” Uncomfortable--the metal cuff was digging into my wrist and back--I angled my body.

  “We’re just taking you in for questioning at this time.”

  I guess I should have been relieved to hear that. But I wasn’t.

  I was still in the back of a police car.

  I was still handcuffed.

  I was officially in police custody.

  During the short drive to the police station, I concentrated on not sliding around on the plastic seat. And during the walk inside, I stared straight ahead, trying to hide my mortification as we walked past a handful of people congregated outside the building. The officer escorted me to a small room with a table and a couple of chairs. He took off my handcuffs--relief!--and left, promising to return soon.

  He returned at least thirty years later. Sat down. Gave me a blank look. “Your name, please,” he said.

  “Danielle Whitlock.”

  He followed that question with a handful more. Date of birth, address, the basics. Nothing that would give me any clue why my morning walk had been so rudely interrupted.

  “How long have you known Elizabeth Shook?” he asked while jotting notes.

  “For about five years. What’s this about?”

  “When did you meet her?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  “We met in college. We lived in the same dormitory.” I shifted in my chair. The seat was hard plastic. My butt was going to sleep. I had a feeling I was in for a long day.

  “How would you describe your relationship with Miss Shook?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “That’s it? ‘Friends’?”

  “Close friends.”

  “Do you know where she was the night of March tenth?”

  “Um...I’m not sure. That was two months ago. I don’t keep track of her comings and goings.”

  For the next untold hours I answered the same questions over and over. He changed a word here and there. He switched the order sometimes. But still they were the same questions. And it all boiled down to him wanting me to say where Liz was on March tenth.

  Eventually I got irritable. Frustrated. And mentally worn out.

  He left.

  I sat there, staring at the walls for a lifetime. After a while my eyes got tired of the glaring white. I crossed my arms on the table and rested my forehead on them. And, in the darkness and silence, I tried to figure out why I was being interrogated about my friend.

  When he returned I still hadn’t figured it out.

  We went another round. This time he was more aggressive, more in my face. He kept suggesting I was covering for her. Covering what, I had no clue. I knew I wasn’t lying. Clearly he didn’t believe me.

  Finally, he stood. “We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.” I was so looking forward to that...not! He opened the door. I shot to my feet, scurrying toward freedom, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind and slam the door in my face.

  Out I went.

  Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom.

  Oh shit.

  I halted in the lobby.

  I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t have my car. I had no wallet. No money. Just keep going. Better to be outside than in there.

  I stepped outside. Oh yes, just my freaking luck. The bright sunshiny morning had turned into a gloomy, rainy evening. I was in for a long walk.

  By the time I made it home I was drenched, shivering, and exhausted. I stumbled inside after yanking down the note taped to my front door. Weary, I headed straight to the shower, cooked myself in scalding water until my teeth weren’t chattering anymore then put on a pair of comfy, cozy sweats and an oversized sweatshirt. I made myself put off calling Liz until I’d gone next door to get my dog. Mrs. Grady looked at me as if I’d sprouted three heads, shoved Einstein and Twinkie into my arms then slammed the door in my face.

  Great! Now my neighbor thought I was a criminal. I reminded myself it could be worse. I could still be sitting in that awful little room. Or in a jail cell.

  Once I had taken the dogs out to do their duty, we went back inside. I gave them some dog crunchies and fresh water then dug my cell phone out of my purse.

  There was one message. I listened.

  “Hey, it’s me, Liz.” Sniffle. “I’m at the police station. They’ve arrested me.” Sob. “They think I m-murdered someone. Me. Can you believe it? Murder?”

  Holy hell!

  She continued, “I-I don’t know what to do. I guess I’ll
be assigned an attorney. I go to court on Monday for something. Not sure what.” Another sob. And a sputter. “I’m scared. Gotta go.”

  Click.

  Murder?

  Liz?

  Oh, hell no.

  They had the wrong girl.

  There was absolutely no doubt in my mind there’d been a mistake. What could possibly make them think my best friend would kill someone?

  I sank to the floor and cried. This was so wrong. So unfair. So scary.

  What if she was found guilty? What if she went to prison for a crime she didn’t commit? She’d spend the rest of her life in prison.

  Oh God, this was too terrible for words.

  How could I help her?

  Surely, the police didn’t run around, dragging innocent, law abiding citizens off the street every day. They had to have some reason to believe Liz was guilty. What proof did they have?

  I sat on the floor, Einstein and Twinkie curled in my lap, licking one of my hands. I tried to think of a way to help. This was so out of my element. I had no idea how the criminal justice system worked. I didn’t know any attorneys I could call for advice. I didn’t know any police officers either.

  But I did know Rob. He was the closest I’d get to either.

  Unfortunately, there was at least one very good reason why I didn’t want to call him. And that reason was a whopper.

  I sorta...kinda...dumped him.

  It wasn’t that he was a bad guy. He wasn’t. In fact, Rob Greyson was a pretty decent guy. But I had my reasons for ending things when I did. Of course, since I’d dumped him, I was pretty sure I’d receive a chilly reception if I called him for help.

  Regardless, I did what any girl would do for her faithful best friend--I sucked up my pride and scrolled down to his name. Hoping he’d help me--there was absolutely no guarantee--I hit the call button.

  * * * * *

  I was at Rob’s office the next morning at the obscene hour of seven A.M. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been awake at seven on a Sunday. Just goes to show how much I love Liz. I would do anything to help her. Even throw myself at a certain obnoxious man’s feet and beg for his help.

  Rob owned a private security company. He worked for some powerful people and had lots of contacts with local police departments, judges, and even a few local politicians. If anyone could help me, he could...assuming he’d agree to it.

  Steeling myself for the misery coming, I jerked open the door to his business, housed in a plain brick industrial building, and stepped inside.

  The place was dark. Quiet. A good thing. At least there wouldn’t be a bunch of witnesses to my desperate groveling.

  There was one guy sitting at the front desk, his eyes focused on the bank of computer screens hidden by the half wall in front of him. His eyes flicked to me. He said, “Rob’s waiting for you in his office.”

  “Thanks.” I headed out the door at the rear of the lobby and down a white-walled hallway. Rob’s office was the last one. It was small, cluttered and cramped, nothing like the office of your typical uber-successful, multi-millionaire entrepreneur. The door was closed. I knocked.

  “Come in,” he said.

  After one final deep breath, I opened the door.

  Sitting at his desk, laptop open, Rob gave me an up and down look. His lips pulled into that lopsided grin that I both loved and hated (our history is very complicated). “Well, hello there, sweetheart. How thoughtful of you to remember my birthday.” Birthday? Shit. I opened my mouth to respond but he cut me off. “Just kidding. Why would you remember my birthday, right? So, what do you want?” Looking disinterested, he started poking the buttons on his keyboard.

  “I need your help.”

  “With what?” he asked the computer screen.

  See what I mean? Rude.

  “Liz is in trouble. Big trouble. I have to help her but I have no clue where to start. She was arrested this morning.”

  Now that got his attention.

  “For what?” he asked.

  “Murder.”

  He palmed the computer shut. “Did you say ‘murder’?”

  “Yes. I know. It’s crazy, isn’t it? She isn’t a killer. There’s no way. But how do I prove it?”

  “You don’t.” He leaned back, kicked a foot up onto the opposite knee.”

  “But if I—“

  “It’s her attorney’s job to gather the proof she needs for court.”

  “But what if she has a crappy attorney? What then? She could go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.”

  He seemed to mull things over for a minute. Two. An hour. I resisted the temptation to blather on and on about how unfair it was that she was in jail when she’d done nothing wrong. “Do you know who is representing her?”

  “No clue.” I held my breath. “I don’t know what evidence they have. I don’t know who she supposedly killed. I know nothing.”

  He thought about it some more. Sighed. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Finally, I inhaled. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.” He flipped open his laptop and went back to pecking the keys with an index finger. “If I get anything worthwhile, then I’m sure you can find a way to show your gratitude.” His smile was one hundred percent evil.

  That was the smile that had gotten me in trouble.

  I wouldn’t fall for it again. No way.

  A little buzz of electricity charged through my body.

  “Yeah, I’ll show my gratitude,” I said, standing. “I’ll buy you one of those custard-filled donuts you like so much.”

  His laughter followed me out into the hallway. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t all warm and molten inside.

  I failed.

  Two

  I spent the next three long, torturous, miserable hours alternately pacing my living room and Googling my best friend’s name, hoping by some dumb luck I’d stumble upon something useful. Not only did I fail to find anything that would give me a clue what was going on, but I also worked myself up into a real tizzy. So when someone pounded on my door at just before noon, I practically peed my pants.

  Twinkie did pee. On the living room floor.

  That knock was loud. A meaning-business kind of knock.

  Police?

  Again?

  I peered through the peephole, let out an audible exhalation, and threw open the door. “Ohmygod, it’s you.”

  “I haven’t had that kind of reception in a long time,” Rob said, strolling inside.

  I shut the door behind him. “Please tell me you have some good news.”

  “Sorry.” He actually looked a little regretful for once. “It isn’t good news, but it is information.”

  “What do you have?” In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator, grabbed a cold water bottle and offered it to Rob. Old habits die hard.

  He accepted, cracked open the top, and drained half of it. “I got the name of the victim.”

  “Yeah?” I unrolled a few pieces of paper towel and armed myself with the Pee-Be-Gone spray to clean up Twinkie’s little oopsy.

  “Do you know a woman named Barbara Schwartz?”

  I searched my memory as I dabbed. “No.”

  “Do you know if Liz knows a Barbara Schwartz?”

  “I don’t know that. I mean, I don’t recall her ever mentioning that name. Is that the one? The person she...the dead person?”

  “It is.” He downed the rest of the water and handed the empty bottle to me. “Thanks.” He headed toward the hallway.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped, swiveled, gave me a what-now look.

  “Is that it?” I asked. “Is that all you have?”

  “For now, yes.”

  That couldn’t be it. I needed to know what was going on. I needed details. I needed...a lot more than a name. “Will you try to find out more?”

  He leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest. “Babe, you know I have a business to
run.”

  That spot on the back of the neck--the one that prickles when I get annoyed--started stinging. “Yes, of course I know that. Didn’t you remind me of that every day--“ I cut myself off. How quickly had we fallen back into our old ways--me, demanding too much and him reminding me that he had other, more important, obligations. But this time I was desperate. It wasn’t about something silly, like me wanting him to go to the office Christmas party. It was about my best friend possibly spending the rest of her life in prison.

  Tears were collecting in my eyes. My vision was blurring. I blinked a few times, trying to clear it.

  Rob’s expression softened. I knew why. “Dammit, Dani.”

  “Dammit, myself.” I rubbed my thumbs under my eyes and tried to turn away.

  He grabbed my upper arms, stopping me. His eyes searched mine. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. You’ve done what you can.”

  “You’ve always been a shitty liar.”

  I sniffled and laughed at the same time. The result wasn’t pretty. “Some things never change.” I dragged the back of my hand under my nose.

  Rob reached for me, cupped my cheek. He wiped a tear that was dribbling down one side of my face. “You know I can’t handle seeing a woman cry.”

  “I’m not crying. My eyes are just leaking.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He placed his second hand on my other cheek, sandwiching my face between them. He stared into my eyes for a long time, too long. My heart did a few flip-flops. My lungs deflated.

  Confused and scared, I looked away.

  He jerked his hands back. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said softly as I struggled to catch my breath. I crossed my arms over myself, caging my body within them. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. But I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “I know.”

  Awkward silence.

  “Rob, I’m sorry about what happened between us.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  “A year. That’s not so long ago.”

  “It’s long enough.” He took another step backward. “I guess I’ll see what else I can find out.”