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Then I’d look at the method and manner: What type of victim or victims did the murderer select? What was the method and manner of murder: shooting, stabbing, strangulation, or something else? Also, how was the body disposed of? Did the murder and body disposal take place all at one scene, or multiple scenes? And after the crime, was there any specific post-offense behavior? Had the murderer tried to inject him or herself into the investigation by reacting to media reports or contacting investigators?
In the Roberts/Bennett cases, I can easily answer questions two and three. The first, I’m still working out. But it’s the last question that gets me. If Ali is responsible for killing these men, what does she know of my involvement in the case?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ihate old people. They’re crusty and wrinkled and gross. And worse, they make a habit of sticking their noses where they don’t belong. I don’t know why they think they’re special, as though incontinence and losing their hearing are something to aspire to. They demand respect because they’ve been through world wars. They were here before the television or the internet existed, but who cares? We all die someday and all they’re doing is just sitting around waiting. I mean, what’s the point? They’re taking up resources that the young and the useful members of society need. They’re a drain on society with their social security and all the medicine they need, just so their bodies can function the way they once did, the way they’re supposed to.
Typically, I don’t let such things bother me too much. I’m only reminded when I have to be around them and get a whiff of mothballs and old cheese, which thankfully isn’t too often. Unfortunately, there was the Italian. He had that look about him, the kind that said I exist solely to cause you trouble. And that’s exactly what he did.
He wasn’t surprised to see me return to the building. He looked a little excited. Like it was the best thing that had happened to him all week, and it probably was. He couldn’t wait to tell me about the “murder next door.”
Not only did he dish out details I already knew, he did so over a Pyrex filled with lasagna. It was warm and covered in a dish towel. I meant to only have a bite, but I ended up eating half the dish. He invited me into his apartment because old people are gullible and lonely.
You should have seen his face as he went on and on about how the cops thought it was a suicide, but he knew better because he knew the kid, and he was the kind who might have an enemy or two. The way he said it, you’d have thought they were best friends. You would have thought we were two sleuths on a mission to solve a wicked crime together. The kind of thing, like an old war story, that would bind us together for life, even if the rest of his was significantly shorter. “It’s such a shame he was so young,” I said.
“He had his entire life ahead of him.”
For someone who thought the kid was a nuisance, he sure had a lot of nostalgia and sadness balled up inside. Good news is, now they can be together in heaven.
It was easy to lure him to the stairwell. He didn’t want me to leave. I asked him to show me out. He said he preferred taking the stairs. It kept him young. “Elevators are for old people,” he told me with a wink.
“They’re for lazy people,” I said with a smile, right before I gave him a good, hard shove. It’s a real shame, old people being as feeble and clumsy as they are. May he rest in peace.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ali
Boston
Time is a thief. When Ali flew from Seattle to Boston she was not expecting to spend three days on a tiny cot in the hospital, but that’s exactly what she ends up doing. It takes an immense amount of time to pretend you love someone, and if this doesn’t make it look real, she doesn’t know what does. Edward’s UTI came on quick, just like the others. This one, like the last, led to sepsis.
When Ali first arrived, the doctors didn’t expect Edward to pull through. Ali didn’t, either. But he did.
He always does.
It’s not that she wishes Edward would die. It’s just, well, how else is she supposed to get out of this?
Their relationship was never meant to be a long-term thing. Although, sitting at his bedside in the hospital, she can see that’s how it’s turned out and that’s how it’s looking for the foreseeable future.
She never would have married him. Not for real. It wasn’t her fault her new fiancé ended up in a wheelchair. It wasn’t his fault either. He had been participating in one of his triathlons for charity. The kind of activity she pretended to find endearing, but actually thought was quite annoying. Anyone who’s training for a triathlon, well, you can bet your bottom dollar, that’sallthey talk about. Ali heard about it for weeks on end. The runs and the swims, the saddle soreness from the bike. He never shut up. She was so ready for the event to be over, she literally counted down the days for him, marking them off on the calendar in his kitchen with red ink. On the days she was away on business, Edward kept it up. In hindsight, they were counting downnotto something celebratory, but to a date when neither of their lives would ever be the same.
An elderly man, blinded by the sun, had slammed his car through the race barriers, barreling into Edward as he was on his final turn. The car dragged him twenty-six feet. It was terrible luck, one of those wrong place, wrong time situations. For both Edward and Ali. She hadn’t planned on being his wife, and she certainly never planned on being his caretaker. But there was an awful lot of money at stake. And Ali isn’t one to turn down a buck. So, now, here she is doing both. Here she is sitting vigil at his bedside. Here she is waiting for him to die.
Being a widow sounds refreshing. She wrote that in her journal, just now. It’s something she thinks every day. To have her freedom back is her greatest wish. She can’t wait. Not only will she have a new title, widow instead ofwife, she’ll never have to work another day in her life. Not unless she wants to and she won’t have to run her petty scams anymore. Unless she wants to keep doing that too. And she probably will. How boring would life be without the hustle?
The doctors say it’s possible Edward will walk again one day. Only time and a lot of hard work will tell. He’s gaining strength every day, and he tries his hardest to make things easy for her. Unless, of course, work calls her away. Then it’s a different story.
* * *
Once Ali has gottenEdward settled at home, she plots her escape. Then the worst part, she tells him about it. He’s been sulking all day.
Now, it’s dinnertime and he’s refusing to eat. “Do you really have to go?”
“You’re doing so much better,” Ali says, brushing his bangs away from his eyes. “Look at you.”
“I know, but I miss you when you’re gone. It’s tough being here all alone, and every time you leave, I seem to end up in the hospital.”
“I think it’s a ploy to get me back here.”
