Black Cat Weekly #88

Chapter 5-2

She glanced at the autopsy report atop the printer, wishing now that he’d suffered a little bit.

While the correspondence printed, Carla hunted through the computer, looking for any contact information. She found addresses and phone numbers for the business clients but none for the girlfriends.

Carla deleted the email and cleared the print queue. Gathering the paperwork, she drove to Charlie’s condo. On the way, she stopped again at Fran’s Beauty. From the foot care and pedicure aisle, she chose a box of plastic booties. The clerk, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, took her money and bagged up her purchase.

Carla was not surprised that Charlie didn’t have security cameras. Video evidence pairing him with a flight attendant had busted their marriage. She pulled up the picture of the passwords and, with her gloved hand, keyed the electronic lock. The door clicked. Carla slipped the booties over her shoes and pushed inside. If Bass charged her with murder, any lawyer could account for DNA she might have accidentally left at Charlie’s office. He’d owned it before they divorced. Evidence putting her at his condominium, a place he didn’t buy until after she’d kicked him out, would be harder to explain.

Still, she needed to be here. She’d read the property report from Bass’s file. When one hoped to catch a cheating spouse, the ability to quickly read upside down proved essential. Carla had spied that the police recovered a single cell phone.

But she knew from hard experience that Charlie always discretely possessed a second phone. Either the killer had taken it, or he’d left it at home. She needed to know.

She didn’t find a phone. Carla did, however, locate a cocktail napkin from the Cockpit, a lounge over by the airport. Her cheating radar beeped. That sounded exactly like the kind of place Charlie would troll. She collected a few other scraps of girlfriend data as well.

A smattering of cars dotted the Cockpit’s parking lot. Inside, her eyes surveyed the thin crowd. Lonely men sat caressing beer steins. The bartender, a brassy blonde, stood folded over her phone. The scrolling motion of her finger highlighted her high-gloss red nail polish. Carla weaved through the tables, heading toward the bar. She ignored the wolfish looks.

The bartender looked up from her phone and smiled as Carla plopped onto a stool.

She was pretty, Carla thought and glanced at the woman’s nametag. “Winter, I’d like a glass of chardonnay, please.”

Winter nodded and quickly put a full glass in front of her.

“What brings you in?” Winter asked.

“Need a quick drink before my flight. Takeoffs make me nervous.”

Winter nodded. “You likely won’t have to pay for your wine here.” Her eyes flicked quickly over the crowd of men.

“You probably have to beat them back with your corkscrew,” Carla said.

Winter’s eyes glistened. “They know I’ve got a guy,”

Carla felt a sudden pang of sadness for the woman. She knew the sensation. Charlie’s charismatic pull made you feel like you were the only woman in his world. The same skill made him both a successful litigator and philanderer. She pushed the thought away and nodded her head toward the door. “I guess the real creeps know to stay outside.”

Winter c****d her head and gave her a questioning look.

“Coming in, I saw some weird-looking guy nosing around a blue Camry in the parking lot.”

Winter’s eyes got big. “Be right back.” She dashed from behind the bar.

In her rush, Winter left her unlocked phone on the bar. Carla scrolled quickly, noting the phone number for “C.” Using a cocktail napkin, she poured out the cheap wine and dropped the wineglass into one of the plastic booties. Placing the bag into her purse, she left cash on the bar.

During trials, Charlie said he often asked people about their bumper stickers. It helped him quickly profile potential jurors. It hadn’t required a psychologist to identify Winter’s car. The Camry’s unicorn decal and “98% princess, 2% b***h” bumper sticker only matched one person in the bar that night.

Before leaving, Carla paused at the Cockpit’s time clock. She snapped a quick picture. The records showed that Winter worked until closing the previous night.

It took most of the evening, but Carla ran down the other leads she found in Charlie’s apartment. Brittany’s roommate looked confused when the flower delivery girl arrived with the bouquet.

“Her boyfriend knows she’s in Canada on business,” the roommate said.

Carla shrugged. “I just deliver. Maybe he wants them here when she gets home.”

The roommate smelled the flowers. A dreamy exhale escaped from her. “Where does a girl find a guy like that?”

“A dumpster,” Carla offered as she returned to the car.

Sparkle answered the door on crutches. She, too, beamed at the flowers. “And I thought he’d ghosted me.”

“Can you sign my invoice?” Carla asked, changing the subject.

Sparkle rebalanced herself. She fingered her chartreuse bangs away from her eyes and then scratched out a signature. Carla noted where her fingers touched the paper. “How long have you been injured?”

“I had surgery last week,” Sparkle said, adjusting the crutches. “Two months ago, I got hit by a car. I signed up a lawyer to sue the guy.” Her eyes flitted to the flowers. She smiled again. “Our relationship has become more than professional.”

Carla wished Sparkle a speedy recovery. Then, Carla walked back to the car, locked the doors, and pounded the steering wheel until her hands hurt. She had successfully eliminated all her suspects. When Detective Bass followed along, he’d find Carla the only one without an airtight alibi. She replayed this tragic drama in her head, beginning with the traffic stop. She pounded the steering wheel again. Carla needed to learn to be quiet. Maybe that would be the license plate she’d make in prison, “TLK 2 MCH.”

After a few hysterical moments, Carla calmed down. Abusing the steering wheel wouldn’t keep her out of jail. Like an assignment for her sophomore English class, she needed to work through this story again. Begin at the beginning, re-analyze the characters, and review the action. She tried to consider the gunshot wound from a different perspective. Carla had an idea, something novel she might try. She drove back to Fran’s Beauty Supply and saw the same clerk working behind the checkout counter. He pointed her to the back of the store. There, they had a row of foam mannequin heads, helpful in styling wigs. Carla grabbed one. A pencil stabbed into the base of the skull would show the wound path. Viewing it might help her see something she missed.

She paused at hair colors, considering her choices. The police would be looking for a brown-haired female. She might become a redhead. She rejected the idea. Dyed hair would be a blinking red sign announcing her guilt to Bass. And Carla reminded herself she was actually innocent.

The man with tired eyes rang up her purchase. “Getting to be a regular.”

“On a deadline,” she said. “You’re working late.”

“The glamorous life of a small business owner.”

Carla’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re Fran?”

“Francisco.” The man nodded. “But people assume Fran knows more about women’s beauty.” He handed her a slip of paper; a website had been printed on it. “We’ve got an app. You can use your phone to keep track of what you need.” He glanced out the window at her car. “The app saves a lot of driving.”

Carla thanked him.

She was nearly home when the pieces came together. The license plate rang true. She had talked too much, both to others and to herself. Carla’s heart raced. She pulled her car into a Burger King parking lot, needing a moment to catch her breath. Carla knew which woman had murdered her ex. When her breathing settled, she put her car back in gear. Instead of home, however, she drove straight to Charlie’s office. Carla needed to gather a couple of things and send one last email from FatAss.

Holding a full glass of chardonnay, Carla watched the local news on her computer. Two uniformed patrol officers escorted Milan Piana into jail. The picture then changed. Detective Bass stood before a bank of microphones. He explained how diligent police work had quickly solved the murder of a prominent local attorney. The police had traced the attorney’s missing phone using the latest technology. They located it at the home of the arrested individual. Hours of painstaking research had uncovered a motive for the killing. A disgruntled sister of a jailed client had sought revenge against his attorney. She lured the late Mr. King to a downtown motel and executed him.

Bass neglected to mention that an anonymous email provided the phone number to Charlie’s missing cell phone. Carla had downloaded the phone bill from his office computer. She had also printed Milan’s home address from Charlie’s client’s next-of-kin contacts. Finally, she included a screenshot of a phone finder app showing the cellphone’s current location. Francisco had been right; apps can save a lot of driving.

Carla didn’t tell Detective Bass how she had mistakenly assumed Milan had been a man, just as she had believed Fran was a woman. She also didn’t confess that she had told herself a story about a Mafiosi, a narrative bolstered by a picture of an angry man in the file. But Milan wasn’t the client. Her photo wouldn’t be in Charlie’s case record, only her brother’s. Carla had been so busy talking that she missed the obvious. Charlie wouldn’t hesitate to seduce a client’s sister.

The news story flashed back to the defendant. Carla imagined that Milan appeared prettier in person than she did in a mug shot. The police had pulled back her dark hair to get a clear photograph of her features. Carla squinted and studied the photo in soft focus. She could imagine Milan persuading Charlie to meet her at the motel. He would be easy prey if she wanted revenge. Of course, now that the police had the phone number, they could subpoena text messages. They’d likely make clear what Carla assumed. Charlie’s standards had fallen over the last few years.

Her email included the address where Bass could find the wine glass and the invoice for Brittany’s flowers. Both had fingerprints of Charlie’s girlfriends. The police could use these for exclusion prints, eliminating possible alternative suspects to bolster the case against the killer. She helpfully included Brittany’s address and the date she’d return from Canada.

Carla collapsed into a chair, careful not to spill the wine. This glass, she intended to drink. Carla smiled, feeling a weight lifted from her shoulders. She rested her head against a throw pillow, much softer than a jail or prison cell. Feeling free, Carla could think of only one thing to do.

She’d change her license plate first thing in the morning. She was thinking SMRT CHK.

Mark Thielman (markthielman.com) is a criminal magistrate working in Fort Worth, Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine, and a number of anthologies.

Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery MagazineBlack Cat WeeklyMystery Magazine