Derailed (36 page)

My heart soars. How long has it been since he complimented me? Anyone can compliment you, but when your significant other does, it means the world, doesn’t it?

I once promised to be absolutely candid with you. So, I will confess; I am feeling extremely fragile tonight, even vulnerable. I’m losing my husband – even cocaine, beautiful cocaine, fails to numb the dull pain of loss. 

“Ready?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, but blows out his cheeks, then takes several breaths. With my eyes on his, I open my bag and bring out the white packet again. This time he doesn’t protest. I walk over to the dining table, cut two plump lines and, using a rolled up bank note, snort one. He watches in silence.

After running the back of my finger across my nose, I look at him and jerk my head toward the coke. “It’ll help you cope,” I say, waving the rolled bank note at him.

He shakes his head from side to side.

“C’mon. If ever you’ve
needed
it, now’s the time.”

He blinks rapidly at me.

“The last time. C’mon!”

Slowly, with his hands deep in his pockets, he strolls over to the table. For a few moments he just stares at the white powder. Then to my delight, he takes the bank note and snorts off the table.

When he looks at me, his eyes travel slowly up and down me. Like he used to do when we first met. “You look fantastic tonight, Scarlett.”

He’s used my name again. In spite of my chemically induced euphoria, tears threaten again. I shake my head hard to clear away the shards of hurt that pierce my sad heart. I love Bradley so much that it kills me to cut him free. There is no time to mourn the loss of Bradley now, so I blink away my tears. Later I will mourn not only the loss of the man I love with all my heart, but also my dreams and aspirations.

“So do you,” I say and graciously accept the arm he offers, something he hasn’t done in months.

“Ready for our Broadway show?” I ask.

“Absolutely! Is the limo outside?” 

Before I can answer, we hear a whirring sound outside. Bradley rushes to the window and peers into the dark. “You’re kidding me!”

My smile is devious.

“Talk about style!” He shakes his head at me, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Scarlett, you really are something!”

Did you hear that? He’s said my name again. When he slips his arm around my waist and propels me to the waiting helicopter, I pretend we’re a young couple deeply in love with a dazzling future ahead of us. It’s all I can do right now. 

RITCHIE

I am awakened by the buzzing of my phone. I peer at the screen. Scarlett? I look at the time. 3:02 a.m. “Hello?”

“Ritchie…Ritchie…help us!” The terror in her voice clears away the haze of sleep. I jump out of bed, ready for action. “What’s wrong, Scarlett?” I ask as I throw on my jeans and t-shirt discarded on my bedroom floor.

“Bradley’s hurt and I…Ritchie –” The line goes dead.

Bradley’s probably gone ballistic and assaulted her and maybe she retaliated, I’m thinking. She being the kind of person she is, would rather seek my help than call the cops and have Bradley arrested for domestic violence. Even though there’s really bad blood between Bradley and me, I don’t hesitate to help. Within minutes, I’m in my Jeep and racing over to their place so fast, I almost run into a jogger.

“What the hell?” I yell as I swerve to avoid hitting her. “It’s 3 a.m. – who the fuck jogs at this time of the night? Or morning?”

The jogger and I lock eyes for a moment, before she runs off.

When I get to Bradley’s house, Mabel, her nosey neighbor from across the street, is outside on her patio, talking loudly on the phone. Next to her are her two daughters, craning their necks to look at Bradley’s house.

I blink rapidly as I take in the activity. Why aren’t they asleep? What the hell is wrong with everyone? Am I dreaming? I screech into Bradley’s driveway, turn off my engine and stride up to the front door, which is ajar.

“Scarlett? Brad?” I call from the entrance.

“Ritchie! Over here.” Scarlett’s voice.

I run up the stairs toward the sound of Scarlett’s voice.

“In here!”

I enter the spare room and hit the light switch on the wall. “You alri—oh, Jayzus!”

Scarlett is in bed, blood all over her face, her hair, her clothes. Next to her lies Bradley, face up, a bullet hole in his head and blood all over his chest. 

“Jayzus!” I run up to him and check his carotid pulse. Nothing. I look at Scarlett. “What –”

“I’ve been shot,” she says, her body shaking. She points to her hand. It is then that I notice how swollen and bloody her left hand is.

“God, Scarlett!”

“I’m okay. S…save B…Brad…ley.”

“The kids, Scarlett? Where are the kids?” 

“My m…mother’s house.”

Thank God. I look back at Bradley, my friend. He’s dead. “Jayzus!” I mutter as I reach for my phone to call the cops.

“Police…on their wa…y,” Scarlett says through chattering teeth. “Do s…something to help Bradley,” she pleads.

Bradley’s dead, there’s nothing I can do to help him. But I can’t say that to her. “Scarlett…”

Her face is ashen, and I know she’s going into shock. I look around for a blanket that hasn’t any blood on it, but I can’t find any. I know better than to touch anything and contaminate a crime scene, but I need to help Scarlett somehow. I take off my jacket and I’m just about to place it around her, when I hear the sound of about hundred horses – a familiar sound – the cavalry has arrived in full force. Cops storm the place, guns drawn and pointed at me. I know the drill. I drop to my knees, link my hands behind my head and remain calm. 

“I’m a friend of the family,” I explain in a controlled voice. “I just got here. After Scarlett called me.”

“Th…that’s right,” Scarlett says. “I c…called him.”

With disappointed looks on their faces, the cops hoist me to my feet, slam me against the wall, and roughly pat me down. After checking out my ID from my wallet, they seize my phone, slap cuffs on my wrists and lead me outside. “For your safety and ours, until we confirm certain things.”

I don’t reply; I’m in shock.
Bradley is dead. My friend is dead.

Who could have done this to them? Images of Bradley lying in a pool of blood, his brains all over the wall and on Scarlett, float through my head. Even though I’m a former SWAT, I gag. Bradley was my
friend
. In spite of our recent fallout, I still care about him.
Cared
. I need to get my tense right from now on.
God
! He’s helped me in my time of need without asking for anything in return. I will always be indebted to him. In spite of everything, I know he loved Rival and wanted her back. I understood that he had been led astray, thought with his dick instead of his head, and it cost him his wife in the end.

Could Scarlett have killed him? Then shot herself?

Then I hear excited voices emanating from Mabel’s home. Her hands flail in the air as she talks to two cops. “‘Bradley, open the fucking door!’” Mabel smiles. “Excuse my French,” she says in a sheepish voice.

“That’s alright,” the police officer says, rolling his wrist in the air. “Continue please.”

Intrigued, I shuffle toward her voice, eager to hear more.

“Then I heard gunshots, like putt! putt! I heard another voice screaming. A woman’s voice. Then another gunshot. Then this woman, she ran out of the house. That way.” She points toward the direction of my house.

“Can you tell what she was wearing?” the officer asks.

“Yes, like a pink top. Striped. Pink with white stripes running this way.” Mabel draws her hand across her chest. “And a hoodie.” Their voices become muted, so I can’t hear what they are saying. When I hear the word “Rival,” I strain my ears to listen.

“Sounded just like her,” Mabel says. “Yesterday they were arguing loudly. Then she was sitting in her car crying. I sent my daughter over to help her.”

Suddenly, I remember the jogger I almost ran into! Was that Rival? Couldn’t be. I would have known it was her. But then who else would yell for Bradley to open the door? Who else would be mad enough to want to kill Bradley?

My shocked mind races to our last encounter with Rival. She was furious. Had I pushed her over the edge by breaking up with her? I turn to an officer. “I need to make a phone call, please. Can you uncuff me?”

“Soon,” the officer snaps, then ignores me.

My questions continue. Could Scarlett have shot Bradley? When I think about the blood spatter, I doubt it. First of all, Bradley’s blood spatter was all over her and on the wall behind her. When she moved, I saw the outline of blood on the wall behind her. That told me she was in bed next to Bradley at the time of the shooting. There’s no way she could have shot Bradley in that position. But forensics and a trajectory analysis would tell pretty soon.

Damn! I wish I had my phone to call Rival. I have to warn her.  

Minutes later, they bring out Scarlett and prepare to load her into the ambulance. 

“I want Ritchie to stay with me,” she pleads. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” I say, then gesture towards my cuffed hands. 

Scarlett turns to a cop and has a word with him. Almost immediately, I am uncuffed. Mrs. Murdoch has spoken. Forensics guys swab my hands for gunpowder, take my shoe print, my finger prints, and finally, they make me surrender my clothes, my shoes, and even my underwear. I oblige and am handed a pair of grey sweat pants and sweat shirt to wear.

“Can I have my phone?” I ask.

They refuse. Nothing I can do about that.

“We need to take your vehicle too,” the detective says.

“What? Not my Jeep, no! Never. There’s no need for you to take it. You can search it now, but you’re not taking it.”

They take it.

“Ritchie, come with me to the hospital,” Scarlett begs. “I’m scared, Ritchie, please!”

I look at the detective.

He nods, then in a warning voice says, “Don’t leave Sydney anytime soon.” 

“I don’t plan to, mate,” I say as I climb into the ambulance with Scarlett, a medic, and another detective. In the ambulance, I hold Scarlett’s uninjured hand.

“I’m scared, Ritchie! She’s coming back. I know she’s coming back to finish me.”

She. I don’t dare ask who she is.

“What time is it?” I ask the attending medic.

“4:03,” he says. 

I need to call Rival. In fact, I need to call Arena or Bear. But how can I with so many people around? Especially with the way Scarlett hangs on to me, messing my police-issue sweatshirt with tears.

The detective’s curious eyes shift between me and Scarlett, and I sense some internal judgement is being made. 

“Bradley’s blood, Ritchie, it’s all over me. His…his…brains…” Scarlett’s body starts to shake again and she throws up. As I watch her falling to pieces and struggling to keep it together, I can’t help but think she isn’t behind Bradley’s death. No one can fake that kind of anguish and shock.

RITCHIE

The moment we arrive in the hospital, Scarlett is whisked away for treatment, and I am left in the waiting room. That’s when I call Arena’s phone. Bear answers.

“Bear, listen, Bradley’s been shot. He’s dead, Bear.”

“Big, it’s too early to play games,” Bear grumbles in a sleepy voice.

“Bear, I’m not.”

A short silence follows. “Big, you cunting me around?”

“Bear, Bradley’s a gonner, man. For sure. Look, I don’t have much time but please, get Vlad to represent Rival.” I keep my voice low. “The cops will be there any moment now, if they haven’t already been.”

“Rival? Vlad? Wha…?”

“A
woman
shot Bradley and Scarlett.”

“Oh fuck! Oh fuuuuuck!” The sleepiness is gone from his voice.

“And…the old bat from across; she had plenty to say.” I fill him in.

“But…but that woman’s voice, it could have been Scarlett’s voice, Big.”

“Yeah, but according to the neighbor, she heard
two
women’s voices. One sounded like Scarlett, and the other was just yelling for Bradley to open the door. Says she saw a figure wearing a pink and white hoodie run away from the house.”

“But still –”

“It gets worse. In the direction of
Rival’s
home, Bear.”

“Fuck! Okay, Arena’s going over to Rival while I get Vlad.”

“Thanks.”

“Big, you sure Bradley’s –”

“Yeah. His brains are all over the place.”

“Fuck! And Scarlett?”

“Shot in the hand. She’s okay. Just hysterical.”

I know I should have broken the news to Rival, but I can’t leave Scarlett, and I don’t want to tell Rival over the telephone. As I wait for the detectives to question me further, I sit in the hospital foyer on the edge of a chair, eyes to the floor, elbows on my knees.
Bradley’s dea
d. But through my shock, I think to myself, Bradley won’t be going to Bali. Olga, the real Olga, will remain in Bali. My kids and I are safe for now. On one hand I am absolutely relieved, on the other, I am terrified for Rival.

RITCHIE

The moment the detective leaves me, I call Arena.

“How is Rival?” I ask.

“Ritchie, she was hysterical. Screamed her head off and kept saying he wouldn’t let her apologize. I’m not sure what she meant by that, but she was broken. I doubt she did it, Ritchie.”

Hope ignites in me. “Yeah?”

“I was there when the cops showed up. They questioned her, but didn’t arrest her.
Tried
to question her, but she was too hysterical to make sense. They asked to swab her hands for gunpowder residue. She allowed them to. Even allowed them to poke around her room and her cupboard. I didn’t know if that was such a good idea, but luckily Vlad arrived. He told them that if they were not arresting her for Bradley’s murder, he was taking her to Dunhill.”

“Dunhill?”

“Yeah, I think it’s a good thing, Ritchie, because she was overwrought and she didn’t look too well upstairs, if you know what I mean. She needed the sedation.”