Bite the Moon (27 page)

“
Listen, Molly, I admire your idealistic desire for perfect justice. But that is not my job. And it is not yours. Your job is done. I have what I need to get an acquittal for Bobby. If I were actually concerned about the outcome, I’d clutch at any straw you offered. But I am not. If I were paying you, I would have ordered you to stop pursuing this line of inquiry weeks ago. As it is, I cannot tell you what to do on your own time.

“
I do know what I would like you to do over the next couple of weeks. I want you to be in the courtroom. I could use your perspective and knowledge of the prosecution witnesses. Your insight into them would be a valuable tool for me as I conduct my cross-examinations. So valuable, in fact, that I would like to pay you out of my pocket to serve as my consultant throughout the trial.”

“
Really?”

“
Yes, of course. Just be there in the courtroom, listen intently and give me the feedback I need to ensure a win. Will you do it?”

“
Yes, Dale. I’d be glad to do anything I can.”

“
But do not distract me during the trial with any more raggedy-ass theories about who may or may not have killed Rodney Faver. Understood?”

I nodded. I wasn’t happy with that raggedy-ass reference, but I let it slide.

“
I need to stay focused on one thing and one thing only: my client. Is that clear?”

“
Yes sir, it certainly is.”

“
Good. I’ll see you in the courtroom tomorrow morning.”

Conflicting emotions tore at me like two birds over one scrap of bread. On the one hand, I was elated that Dale regarded my skills highly enough that he was willing to pay for them. I might have a future as an investigator after all.

On the other hand, I despaired that he was indifferent to my quest to put the real killer behind bars. I wouldn’t have any help or support from him to make that happen. He wouldn’t even buy me a little time to do it all on my own.

Maybe I was an idealistic fool, but I knew I would not rest easy until the deaths of Faver, Happy and Jesse were resolved—until Stan Crockett or whoever did it was arrested, convicted and serving time.

There was one way to connect it all to Stan, or perhaps even clear him despite my suspicions. I needed a sample of Stan’s DNA.

At home, I picked up the phone and dialed before I could change my mind. “Hey, Stan, Bobby Wiggins’ trial starts tomorrow. I’m all antsy and need some diversion.”

“
Just what did you have in mind?” he asked, seduction etched on every word.

The sound of his voice had a different effect on me now. Instead of eliciting chills up and down my arms, every syllable formed a hard, cold lump in the center of my chest.

“
I thought you could come on over to my place tonight and I would fix dinner.”

“
Sounds delightful, Miss Molly. Can I bring a bottle of wine?”

“
Why not? I’m partial to white merlot.”

“
White merlot it is then. See you this evening.”

One step down. A minefield ahead. Now I had to plan dinner, run to the grocery store and get busy. I was scratching down my list for the store when the phone rang.
Please don’t let it be Stan calling to cancel.

“
Hi, Molly. It’s Lisa.”

“
I’m so glad it’s you,” I said without thinking.

“
Thank you, Molly. That’s so sweet.”

Not really. But why ruin her day with honesty. “Well, you know me. What’s up?”

“
Monica and I were thinking that we needed to save you from yourself tonight. We both know you’re a nervous wreck with everything kicking off in the courtroom tomorrow. So, we are going to come over, pick you up, take you to dinner then find someplace fun for a few mind-numbing drinks. And we won’t take no for an answer.”

“
Gee, Lisa.
That’s
really sweet. But you all are going to have to take ‘no’ for an answer, because I already have a dinner date.”

Dead silence on the other end of the line for five, then ten, seconds. “Date, Molly? Did you say date? You are not just saying this so we’ll leave you at home to fidget in peace?”

“
No, Lisa, really. I have a date. Honest.”

“
This is the first one since Charlie . . . uh . . . since Charlie’s been gone, isn’t it?”

“
Well, sort of. But to be honest, it’s kind of work, too.”

“
Mija,
what are you up to now?”

“
I need a DNA sample. The easiest way to get one is to invite the subject of my curiosity to dinner.”

“
A DNA sample? Molly, is Wolfe coming to your house for dinner? Oh my! I know he might be a killer, but he’s a star. He’s hot. And a star. And he’ll be in your house?”

“
Lisa. Pull yourself together. I didn’t say it was Wolfe. I didn’t say who it was, and I want to leave it that way.”

“
Oh. Did you find Waller?”

“
Lisa, I’m not naming names.”

“
Okay. Fine. Don’t tell me. But obviously you think that whoever you are inviting to dinner is a murderer. Right?”

“
Well, yeah, possibly.”

“
Mija,
that could be very dangerous. Let me connect you to Lieutenant Padgett. You need back-up.”

“
No, Lisa. Absolutely not. I do not want the police involved. I shouldn’t have even told you. Please don’t screw this up for me.”

“
But,
Mija
. . .”

“
No, Lisa, no.”

“
Okay. Okay. No SWAT team. But how about some quiet, unassuming, undercover back-up?”

“
Lisa, if one police officer shows up at my door, or even in my neighborhood, in uniform, in plain clothes or in no clothes at all, I swear I will never—never—speak to you again.”

“
But,
Mija
. . .”

“
I’m serious, Lisa. I’m a big girl. I have a big gun. And—I know this sounds corny—but I know how to use it.”

“
Okay. Okay.”

“
Promise?”

“
I promise. I shouldn’t. But I promise.”

*

I ran to the grocery, returned with food and supplies and got busy in the kitchen. I marinated the steaks, scrubbed the potatoes and rubbed them with olive oil, fixed a big Caesar salad. In the cabinet underneath the sink, I stood up open paper bags, ready to receive glasses, utensils or any other harborer of DNA I could pick up before, after or during dinner. Then I waited like a spider for the tug on my web.

Stan could not keep his eyes off the clock. He checked the time far too often. He was doubling his anxiety level with this neurotic vigilance, but he could not help himself. The minutes oozed by slower than a slug. The anticipation was so intense, it was painful.

He took a long shower. With the showerhead turned to pulse, he stood under it as the water beat his tension way. By the time he dried off, though, it had returned. He felt its tightness in his shoulders and neck. He struggled to ignore the throbbing in his groin.

He willed his hand not to reach down and rub. He won that battle, but found himself, without thought, pressing against the arm of the sofa, the back of a chair, anything to ease the insistent hammering beat from below.

He dressed with slow deliberation, attempting to chew up as much time as he could with that mindless activity. He stood before the bathroom mirror and combed his hair. He stopped and leaned forward to check his teeth and make sure no foreign objects were stuck between them.

He knew he was a peculiar-looking man, but he also knew that when he spoke, women would forget about his appearance. He cultivated the timber and tone of his voice with the same devotion he used to cultivate his career. Both were worth the effort. He could charm the pants off the shyest virgin and he was now a star. He wasn’t a pretty boy like Trenton Wolfe, but he did okay. He longed to get back on the road again. But first, he had to clean up his mess and replenish the band.

He was amazed that Mullet was making this so easy for him. He did not have to plot and plan their encounter. He did not have to sneak into her house. She invited him there. She’d open the door and welcome him with open arms.

Life is good, Stan Crockett
,
he said to himself,
but death can be even better
. He laughed out loud at his play on words.

In the bedroom, he slid a coil of guitar string into each of the back pockets of his jeans. He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a small revolver. He checked to make sure it was loaded and pushed it down into the specially crafted holster on the inside of his boot. He wondered if he needed to bring a knife, but then decided if he wanted one tonight, Mullet’s kitchen would be open for business. And he smiled.

Timing was the all-important factor here. When should he make his move? If she was a lousy cook, he’d jump after the first bite, he thought. Again, he laughed out loud at his cleverness.

He hoped she was an incredible cook. It would be exquisite to savor the taste of well-prepared food and the intense anticipation at the same time. To look across the table and watch her chew and sip, knowing all the while that she was enjoying the final pleasure of her life.

He shuddered, rubbed himself and headed for the door. It was time.

The baked potatoes were five minutes from done and the coals burned red hot in the grill on the back porch, when the doorbell rang. I slid the gun into the back waistband of my jeans and made sure my oversized T-shirt concealed it from view. I considered wearing more feminine attire, but none of my dresses had a good place to conceal a weapon.

Satisfied that I was as ready as I’d ever be, I opened the front door and invited Stan into my home. I felt kind of creepy doing that. I hoped I could erase his presence from my memory when all this was behind us.

I poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Stan and said, “Have a seat. I’ll go put the steaks on the grill.” As I dropped the meat on the hot metal grate, I thought I saw something moving a few yards away. I blinked away the smoke and rising steam and looked again. Nothing. Probably my jumpy nerves imagining things, or a just a neighbor’s cat streaking through the yard.

I joined Stan in the living room, where he entertained me with stories of his life on the road. He slipped in a lot of tales brimming with sly sexual innuendo. It was embarrassing but I had to admit, a couple of weeks ago, I would have been flattered by his obvious attempt at seduction.

Now I was immune to his voice. I listened to his big-star bull crap and saw right through it. But I smiled just the same, acted amazed and begged for more. Each minute was more irritating than the last.

As we ate, he complimented the food often, which was nice even coming from a possible cold-blooded killer. I felt some discomfort, though, at the way he stared at me when I chewed and concentrated on my lips when I took a sip of wine. It was as if he was hungry, his plate was empty and the only pleasure he could get from food came from watching me consume it.

After dinner, I stashed his wine glass and fork into bags under the sink. Once again, I caught something outside the window from the corner of my eye. I looked but saw nothing. Relax, Molly old girl. The danger is not in the backyard, it’s seated on your sofa. I walked back into the living room with two big mugs of coffee.

“
All we’ve been doing tonight, Molly, is talk about me,” Stan said. “I don’t know a thing about you.”

Thank God for that
,
I thought with genuine gratitude. “Oh, I’ve had a boring little life, Stan. Just a small-town girl. Never done much. Never seen much. Never been much of anywhere. I’ll probably die in the same state at some ripe old age—unlike poor Jesse Kriewaldt.”

His eyes turned to dark slits. “Who?”

Jeez, what was I doing? I needed to put on the brakes or change direction. I knew I shouldn’t continue with this, but I couldn’t help myself. I was careening downhill and out of control. It was as if, since I no longer had any interest in flirting with Stan, I felt compelled to flirt with danger. I rubbed my back against the chair to feel the comforting lump of my handgun in the small of my back. “Oh, you know Jesse. He’s the guy that wrote ‘
Bite the Moon
.’ ”

“
That punk. Sorry wannabe songwriting loser. You can’t believe everything you hear, Molly.”

“
Really, Stan. Have you heard this?”

I crossed the room and turned on the CD player. The thready voice of Jesse Kriewaldt filled the room. Before I could turn back around, I felt Stan’s hot breath on the back of my neck and a line of sharp pain across my throat
. Damn you, Molly Mullet. How stupid. Why did you ever turn your back on that man?

I reached back for my gun. His hand was there first. He batted my hand away, pulled out the gun and tossed it. It bounced on the sofa, hit the floor and skittered across the floor.

I gasped, but could not breathe. I clawed at my throat.
Oh, dear God, don’t let me die.
I felt pain cut deeper into my skin. I struggled to maintain consciousness. My head was light. My knees wobbled. I threw my hands up and back. I tried to dig into his eyes, but I couldn’t find them. I’d lost all sense of where my body ended and his began.
Oh, Charlie, this is it. Open the door. I’m coming home.