Pretty Little Killer Read online

  “Can I help?” I motioned to the living room, which was empty and silent. Einstein and Twinkie had wandered off to find a cozy spot for a nap. “If I sit in this house for another minute, I’m going to go crazy.”

  “Well...”

  “Please? I promise I’ll stay out of the way. I won’t cry anymore.”

  “Promise?”

  “I swear.” I held up a hand, as if I were swearing in court.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” He motioned toward the door.

  I wasted no time refilling the dog bowl before collecting my purse, house keys, and phone. Seconds later I was riding shotgun in his car, trying to shove aside all the memories--both good and bad--the 1965 Corvette stirred up. “Where are we headed?” I asked, staring out the window.

  “The victim’s address.”

  “You have an address?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can we go there?”

  “Sure, there’s no law against it. I’m assuming the murder didn’t happen yesterday. The area shouldn’t be cordoned off.”

  “Good point.” Recalling the date the detective had kept mentioning, I said, “I think the murder took place on March tenth.”

  “That was a couple of months ago. Hopefully some of the neighbors are nosy and have good memories.”

  “Yeah.”

  We didn’t talk the rest of the drive. That was probably for the best. There were a lot of things I thought about saying.

  There were a lot of things I wanted to say.

  But I kept my mouth shut.

  Outside the vehicle, the landscape changed, upper middle class suburbia morphed into blue collar working class city. The houses got smaller. The space between them narrower. The lawns weedier. Eventually, Rob pulled up in front of a tiny vinyl-sided ranch house the size of Mr. Nolan’s two-car garage.

  “This is it. Look familiar?” Rob asked as he cut off the engine.

  “No. Never been here in my life.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.” He got out.

  I followed him, stopping in the middle of the front yard to read the For Sale sign staked in the neglected lawn. “Should I write down the realtor’s name and phone number?” I asked his back as he headed up the front walk.

  “Sure.” He stomped up the porch steps. Peered in a window. “Looks empty.”

  I went back to the car for a pen and a piece of paper. Making do with an old grocery list, I quickly copied down the realtor’s information then stuffed the paper in my pocket. Rob was already on his way back down the front walk. “Let’s go see if the neighbors want to talk.” I fell into step beside him as he loped down the walk toward the house next door. Once we were up on the front porch, he warned me, “Do not mention the fact that you know the suspect.”

  “Of course.” Did he think I was stupid? I bit back a snarky come-back and knocked. And knocked again. Rob knocked a third time. We exchanged looks. He shrugged. Just as we turned toward the street, the front door opened.

  The white-haired woman peering cautiously through the crack between the door and the frame eyed us. “Yes?”

  “Hello, Ma’am. My name’s Rob Greyson.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. “I work in private security. I’m investigating the death of your neighbor.”

  The woman snatched the card, scrutinized it then shot me a quizzical look. “What do you want to know? I already talked to the police.”

  “If you don’t mind telling us what you told them, that would be a good start,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

  “It was that girl who was staying with her. I never did like her,” the woman said. “I tried to warn Barb there was something off about her. But Barb wouldn’t listen.”

  “Did you know the girl who was arrested?” I asked.

  “I talked to her a little. She wasn’t very friendly. Had shifty eyes.”

  That sounded nothing like the Liz I knew. Liz was friendly. She was kind. And she was not a killer. “Shifty?” I echoed.

  “Yeah. She never looked me in the eye. Her eyes were shifting this way and that way, as through she was looking for someone. Like I said, she wasn’t right. But Barb felt sorry for her, said she’d lost her job and didn’t have nowhere to go. Offered her a place to stay until she got herself back on her feet.”

  “Are you sure this shifty-eyed woman was living next door? Could she have been visiting?”

  “I’m certain. She hardly ever left. I don’t think she had a car. Whenever she drove somewhere, she used Barb’s car.”

  I knew this lady couldn’t be describing my best friend. First, Liz held down a job. A good job. She had an apartment of her own. She had a car. I’d never seen her driving someone else’s car. And she had no problems whatsoever looking anyone in the eye.

  “Are you certain the woman who was arrested was the woman who was living with your friend?” I asked again.

  “Sure. Look, I saw the picture in the newspaper. It’s her all right. Same name. Same face. I have an extra copy if you want to see.” The woman slammed the door. Opened it a minute later. Thrust a folded newspaper at Rob.

  He flattened it and handed it back to me.

  There it was, front page. A picture of my best friend, looking terrified, hair mussed, face pale. Beneath the photo was the headline, “Woman Arrested For Murder.”

  “Do you know how long Elizabeth Shook was living with your neighbor?” Rob asked.

  “Oh, I’d say maybe three or four weeks. No more than that.”

  Unable to stomach reading the article, I folded the paper and tried to return it to its owner, but she waved it away. I shoved it under my arm. “What makes you think it was Elizabeth who killed your neighbor, outside of your sensing something about her was ‘off’?” I asked.

  The woman shrugged. “Who else could it be? Barb kept her house locked. We all do. This neighborhood’s gone to hell in the past few years. Those little bastards just love to pick on us retired folks. But they break in, rob you when you’re at Sav-A-Lot, and make their getaway long before you return. That’s not what happened to Barb. There weren’t no broken windows or doors on Barb’s house. Just her lying dead. In her kitchen. And that...woman...was gone. Along with Barb’s car. I was the one who found her, ya know. I went checking on her when I noticed her car had been gone for longer than normal. Missing car. Missing boarder. Dead owner. Had to be her. You tell me if that isn’t a reasonable conclusion to draw?”

  “That is a reasonable conclusion,” I admitted.

  Even if it was wrong.

  The woman inched the door open a little wider. “Anyway, that’s it. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “If you think of anything else, please feel free to call me,” Rob added.

  “Sure.” The woman slammed the door again. The deadbolt slid into place with an audible click.

  Rob and I didn’t say a word until we were back in his car.

  “It couldn’t be Liz. There’s no way she could have been living over here for three or four weeks without my knowing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Without a second thought, I said, “Positive.” But the moment the word slipped out, I began second-guessing myself. Was I really so sure? How often had I seen my friend during the month of February? Was it physically possible for her to be staying an hour away without my realizing it? “On second thought, I guess she could have stayed over here,” I admitted. “But why would she do that? It makes no sense.”

  Rob cranked the key, starting his car. “I think it’s time to have a heart-to-heart with your best friend. I’ll see if we can get something set up.”

  I realized I’d been holding my breath. I exhaled, gave him what was probably the world’s most pathetic smile, and said, “Thank you. For everything.”

  His smile was--no doubt--much more genuine than mine. “Anything for you, Sweetheart. Always.”

  Three

  At exactly five o’clock I was escorted to a dingy, institutional room housing
a long counter butting up to a cinderblock wall. Little glass windows were inset in that wall every few feet. An old style telephone was mounted below each window.

  It was my first visit to a jail visiting room. Pretty, it was not. It was creepy, and the minute I stepped into the room I wanted to leave.

  I could hardly believe I was here. In a jail. Waiting for my best friend to come talk to me. The minute I saw her, a sob tore up my throat.

  She looked awful, worse than when she’d had that horrible case of food poisoning. She was pale. Visibly shaking. I felt sick as I picked up the phone.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “How are you doing?” Stupid question, I know.

  “I’m alive.”

  “Have you talked to an attorney yet?” I asked.

  “Yeah. For about five minutes. I don’t have much hope that he’ll be able to help me.”

  “Did he tell you what evidence the police have?”

  She blinked a few times. I couldn’t help noticing how red and watery her eyes were. How frail and scared she looked. “Not exactly. He said the case is pretty much a slam dunk for the prosecution. He suggested I take a plea deal.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s it? That’s all he had to say? Take a plea deal. Done?”

  She nodded again.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Doesn’t he care that you’re innocent?”

  She shrugged. Her bottom lip quivered. “I guess not.”

  “Ohmygod. I can’t believe this. I thought your attorney was supposed to represent you.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing. He said it’ll cost a lot less if I take the plea.”

  “Of course it will,” I grumbled. “But his job is to prove you’re innocent. Why don’t you hire someone else?”

  “Because the cost would be insane. I’m talking hundreds of thousands of dollars by the time it’s over. My job pays well, but I don’t have that kind of money sitting around.”

  Now, I was seeing red. I’ve lived hand-to-mouth practically all my life. And I knew our society had two sets of rules--one for the people who had money and one for the people who didn’t. But I’d never thought about how those rules played out in the legal system. I’d never had any reason to. Until now, of course.

  “Your case has gotten some media,” I said, thinking aloud. “Maybe I could find someone who’s looking for a pro bono case that likes that sort of thing.”

  “Knock yourself out. My guy’s name is Cogdill. Leonard Cogdill.”

  “I’ll make some calls tomorrow,” I promised.

  “My arraignment’s at eight.”

  “Does that mean it’s too late to find another lawyer?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure I can change attorneys at any point. The earlier, the better.”

  “I’ll get on it.” I took a second to gather my thoughts. “I’m doing everything I can to prove you’re innocent. I even went to the victim’s house. Rob went with me.”

  She leaned closer to the window. “Did you find out anything?”

  “The neighbor said the killer, presumably you, was living with the victim for a few weeks. In February.”

  “Of course, you know it couldn’t be me,” she said.

  “Do you have any proof? Because I’m sure that would come in handy.”

  “I don’t know. Proof? Of what? That I slept in my own bed at night? Who thinks of these things? Seriously?”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, would you have proof?” she asked.

  That was a damn good question. “I don’t know.”

  “The best I can say is I’d just adopted Twinkie then. You know you can’t leave a puppy alone for weeks.” Looking deflated, she asked, “Did you get anything else?”

  “The neighbor said the killer was driving the victim’s car.”

  “Again, wasn’t me. Anything else?”

  “The neighbor had a copy of a newspaper article. She pointed at your picture and said she was sure it was you.”

  “Was she, by any chance, blind?”

  Another excellent question. “Come to think of it, I didn’t question her vision. She was pretty old.”

  “Great.” Liz dropped her head, shoving her fingers through her hair. “The prosecution’s key witness may be a half-blind old lady. And my attorney thinks I should take a plea?”

  “You need a new lawyer.”

  “Yes, I do,” she agreed. Lifting bloodshot eyes to mine, she blinked. “I hope you can find someone to help me. This place is hell. And I heard county is worse.”

  “I’m doing everything I can. Do you have any suggestions? I’m sort of at a loss here, outside of calling some high-powered attorneys and begging them to take your case.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll talk to Rob. See if he can come up with any ideas.”

  Liz pressed her flattened hand against the glass and gave me a sad smile. “Thank you. For helping me.”

  “You’d do the same for me, I’m sure.”

  “How’s Twinkie?”

  “She’s fine.”

  The guard stepped up. “Miss, time’s up.”

  I exchanged one final look with my friend before waving goodbye. She’d given me absolutely nothing to work with. No insight into the case against her. But at least I had a task to complete.

  I didn’t care what it would take, I was going to find her a lawyer who wanted to take her case.

  * * * * *

  Outside in the parking lot, I slumped into my car and closed my eyes. It was Sunday. It was a little after seven. There was no use calling any attorneys now. There was nothing I could do.

  And yet I couldn’t go home. I had to do something. Or at least try to do something.

  I started my car, shifted it into gear, and drove. I ended up at Liz’s apartment. I used the key she’d given me in January when she’d had me guinea pig sit while she went to a romance novel convention. Her guinea pig, Olga, had died. Thankfully, she’d waited until a couple of weeks after Liz had come home to go to the great big Habitrail in the sky. Shortly thereafter she’d adopted Twinkie.

  I let myself into a dark and quiet apartment. Feeling a little uncomfortable, I snapped on some lights. Set my purse on the table next to the door and kicked off my shoes. Her phone was blinking. She had messages. But I didn’t know her voicemail password. I checked the caller ID, finding a handful of toll free calls. Sales, I assumed.

  Wishing to drown out the silence, I remoted on her TV. An infomercial blared. I clicked through the lineup and settled on a Do-It-Yourself show. The alternatives weren’t doing anything for me.

  While the show’s host droned on about the benefits of blown-in insulation, I went in search of clues. Feeling a little squicky about digging through my best friend’s personal possessions--though I had no doubt she wouldn’t mind--I poked around her living room. Nothing stood out, so I headed to the kitchen. In her fridge I found the barest basics, including a half gallon of milk. The milk’s date was expired, and the lettuce was wilted, but that was nothing new. Like me, my best friend preferred take-out to home-cooked.

  Speaking of which...my stomach growled.

  Knowing my best friend as well as I did, I had no doubt she’d have plenty of snacks on hand. Sure enough, the freezer was stocked with ice cream. And in the cupboard I found several varieties of chips. I ate a makeshift dinner of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream (low fat) and nacho chips with cheese before going back to searching for clues.

  A quick perusal of her bathroom scored nothing. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Make up. Hair spray. No big surprises. I headed back to her bedroom.

  Her room, as always, was tidy. Her bed was made. Her closet organized, unlike mine. Her shirts, skirts, pants and jackets were grouped by color. Shoe boxes were neatly stacked on the floor. Sweaters folded on the top shelf. On her nightstand teetered a stack of paperback romance novels, as usual. I hesitantly peeked inside the nightstand drawer and was
relieved to find only books and a tube of scented hand lotion. In her dresser I found the usual--T-shirts, underwear, jeans.

  I found nothing that would suggest my friend was a killer. Nor did I find anything that would tie her to the dead woman. I was wasting my time.

  By now, I was on the verge of a post-sugar-high crash. I dragged back to the living room. As I snatched my purse off the table, her laptop case caught my eye. I grabbed it and headed out.

  During the short drive home, I tried to organize the few facts I had. I knew a woman had died. And I knew her neighbor suspected a boarder she’d taken in. I also knew that boarder looked a lot like my best friend. She also happened to have the same name.

  The same name...

  How many Liz Shooks could there be in such a small town?

  Thirty minutes later, after I’d powered up Liz’s computer and connected it to my neighbor’s wireless internet, I had the answer to that question.

  One. And only one.

  Of course, it was possible there was another Liz Shook out there, but she didn’t have a phone number registered in her name.

  Nor did the other Liz Shook have any family in the area.

  Nor did she attend any of the local schools.

  Who was I kidding? Every reference I found to that name was associated with the Liz Shook I knew.

  Okay. So that meant this person was not from around here...or...?

  Or...

  The police had the right girl?

  * * * * *

  “I’m sorry, but my caseload won’t allow me to take another pro bono case at the moment.”

  By eleven the next morning I’d heard those words more than I wanted to count. I’d exhausted my list of potential attorneys and it wasn’t even lunchtime. And I’d neglected my work, which was going to get me into a lot of trouble.

  I forced myself to turn my attention back to work. I skipped lunch, reasoning I owed my boss at least that much, nourishing myself from the vending machine down the hall. On my way back into the office, the headline on a newspaper lying in front of a neighboring suite caught my eye.

  Local Woman Suspected of Multiple Murders.