Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (21 page)

Steve revealed his detective’s badge then, pulling it out from his back pocket—his shield, he liked to call it. He’d also changed his clothes after we let Jerry inside, putting on what he’d usually wear at the station. With its thick and heavy leather backing, his gold shield looked like a fallen star that he had managed to catch in the palm of his hand; as if he held some kind of mystical power. And maybe he did—after all, just the sight of his gold shield gave most people reason for pause. Steve placed his badge on the table, sliding it to the middle so that Jerry could see it, so that Jerry knew that he was officially talking to a cop. If Jerry had come to our house because of my friendship with Katie alone, he had come to the wrong house. But I suspected that he had come here because Steve
was
a cop, because he felt Steve
could
protect him and the twins.

“So that there is no mistake, and for your protection and mine, I’m going to record this conversation,” Steve explained as he placed his slender phone on the table. He touched the screen, opening the voice recorder application. The digital needle began jumping with each spoken word. “Is that okay with you, Jerry?”

“Yes,” he answered gravely. He moved closer to the table, uncertainty in his posture. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“This is Detective Steve Sholes interviewing Jerry Dawson with regards to the death of Katie Dawson. Relationship: spouse.” Steve announced to the voice recorder. “Who showed up, Jerry?” Steve asked.

“Can’t be sure of exactly who, but they were bikers. Bikers that work out of the White Bear. It’s the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know about the White Bear. It’s been under investigation for a while now,” Steve finished for him. “They’ve got biker gangs up and down the coast doing business out of there. But maybe you already know all of that?”

“I did a favor for the owner, Sam Wilts. Big supporter of the mayor. Lots of donations.”

“And the favor?”

“About a year ago, during the reelection, Sam—the owner—donated to the campaign. Big enough amount to get noticed, big enough for a meet-and-greet with the mayor. Afterward, Sam took me aside and asked if I could help him out with a distillery license.”

“Distillery license?” Steve asked.

Sam’s face popped into my mind, proud and smiling as he’d placed the White Bear Whiskey card in front of me. “Tell a friend about us,” he’d said, or something like that.

“They already had a liquor license, but he said they had an old moonshine recipe they wanted to bottle and sell legit. Only problem is that a distillery license is issued at the state level.”

“What did you do?” I asked. Steve spun around in his seat, raising his hand. I hushed, embarrassed, realizing that I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I raised my shoulders defensively, playing ignorant. Steve stopped the recording, rewound over my interruption, and then resumed.

“What did you do then?” he asked.

Jerry straightened his shoulders so that he could see me past Steve. “I knew someone who worked out of the governor’s office. I made a call. One call led to two to three and, for some cash in hand, we made it happen.”

“You extorted them,” Steve said flatly.

Jerry squirmed and gulped his coffee. “We called it a campaign donation,” he countered. “That’s politics. Everything is bought. The
extortion
? That came later.”

Steve sat up in his chair, pushing a case file over the table. He slowly slipped one photograph out from the folder, and then another. I recognized the faces from the other night. I tried to shake out the tingling in my hands. My palms were clammy, knowing what he would show Jerry next.

“Do you know this man?” Steve asked, pointing to a picture of the man who killed John.

“Seen him at the Bear,” Jerry answered, nodding. “Luis something?”

“And him?” Steve continued, but this time he pointed to a picture of Todd Wilts. My stomach cramped.

“That is Sam’s son. They found him dead last night,” Jerry answered as more spittle found his chin. “What do you think started all of this? It’s why I came to you.” Jerry slapped his hand against Steve’s badge.

“What do you mean, dead?” Steve asked. “Todd Wilts has been under investigation. We have reason to believe that he was an accomplice of Luis’s in the murder of a police detective.”

“You mean your friend John? I don’t know anything about that,” Jerry answered, shaking his head. “Sam’s boy died at the Bear. Looked like he stroked out—all twisted up—maybe too many drugs, too many steroids or something. But Sam freaked out, blamed me, said I was in cahoots with a rival or some crazy shit. He declared war. The guy is fucking nuts.”

“Why, though? Help me understand this. You’re a nobody. Why would he blame you?”

Jerry began to weep. A pitiful cry, sloppy and wet. For a brief moment, he had the face of a twelve-year-old boy who’d just skinned his knee. I wanted to hate him, but he wasn’t all to blame.

“The extortion. There were others. I played them all like I was some kind of big deal. I kept demanding more money.” He swiped at his nose, where more snot hung. I grabbed a box of tissues and handed it to him. “I got greedy. I knew what was going on at the Bear, what was coming in and going out. I tried to muscle them, telling them they had to keep paying for the license, or they’d lose it. Worse, I threatened to have his son’s rape case reopened. Guy was an animal. Did you see what he did to that girl? But it was an empty threat—double jeopardy and all that. Just greed.”

“Wait,” Steve said, confused. “What do you mean that you knew what was coming in and going out?”

“Pennies, man,” Jerry said. “My monthly taste was nothing. White Bear Whiskey was just a front. And I legalized it, can you believe that?”

“You mean the . . . the cash in hand?”

“Uh-huh,” Jerry answered. “I got a taste once a month from Sam. I paid that up to my contact, but we went for more. The bikers have the real money, spread up and down the coast, on two-wheel hogs going sixty on the interstate. I was taking money from anyone I was in contact with.”

Steve brought his chair around the table, scraping it over the floor tiles with a screech. He sat across from Jerry so that their faces were awkwardly close. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a normal interrogation tactic.

“Listen,” Steve began and snapped his fingers until Jerry’s eyes went round, focusing. “Pay attention to me. I want you to clear your head and concentrate. What was it you found
exactly
?”

Jerry sat back, his shoulders slumped. He hesitated as if he didn’t seem to know what to tell Steve. “I’m rethinking how much I should say,” Jerry answered, scratching the thick patch of whiskers on his chin. I hated that sound. “I gotta think of the boys now.”

“Whatever you have on them is what I think John may have stumbled onto, and it got him killed. It got Katie killed too. Let’s get ahead of them, before they get to anyone else. So what
is it
?”

Jerry teared up and reached down to his side. With an instinctive reaction, Steve also reached to his side—for a gun that wasn’t there. Jerry stopped and then slowly raised his hands. He held a photograph in one of them.

“You can’t be serious? I just want to look at my family before I say anything else,” he said. His words sounded thin and sheepish. “It’s the count. What I’ve got on them, what I tried to muscle them with. The count. What’s coming in isn’t what’s going out.”

“Count?” Steve said, repeating the words. “What does that mean?”

“There’s too much raw stock—corn, sugar, you know, for the distillery—for the amount of whiskey they are selling. The White Bear tavern is a front to serve the college locals, a small operation that even has a boutique whiskey label. But the Bear is really a hub, a manufacturing hub, serving whiskey from Florida to Maine. Might even go as far west as the Mississippi.”

“But I thought they had a license?” Steve interrupted. Jerry glanced up, surprised. “I mean, you helped get the license issued. They’re legal, right?”

“That’s just for our state. Distillery licenses are like gold. Issuing them is like printing money, but only for the state they’re issued in,” Jerry countered. “The Bear has bikers picking up to distribute, to sell, and to bring the cash back from as far away as their tanks will carry them. The Bear is a moonshining machine and the bikers are the bootleggers.”

“That’s all you have?” Steve asked. I heard the disappointment in his voice. “You’re talking about a few bottles of whiskey hidden in bikers’ saddlebags that may or may not have crossed the state line?”

Jerry shook his head. “No, no, no!” he exclaimed, raising his voice. “Not just a couple of bottles. What would you think if I said a million dollars? And that’s tax-free too.”

“A million a year . . .” Steve repeated, sitting up and browsing his notes.

Jerry shook his head again, a bemused smile on his face.

“A
week
. That’s a million a
week
. Who do you think would be interested in protecting an operation like that?”

I
STAYED IN
bed nearly all of the next day, suffering in a way that made me feel like I’d never feel right again. I held onto Katie’s friendship ring, twisting it with a wistful touch. Sadness. For the first time in my life, I felt a pain that numbed my mind to all reason. It left behind a hurtful sense of abandon and desolation that could only come from having lost someone. And for all of my stupid Killing Katie designs, the only thing I wanted now was to hear her voice, to hold her, to tell her how much I needed her.

I found comfort in hiding beneath layers of flannel sheets and a down blanket, my face warm and drowning in plush throw pillows. Katie and I used to do the same when we were kids. Sleepovers were our thing—weekends and days off from school. We’d bring our favorite stuffed animals, mine a purple striped zebra with yellow ears and hers a pillowy pink elephant that was missing one eye. We’d eat ourselves silly, filling our souls with sleepover foods like salty chips and ice cream and chocolate syrup. We’d tempt our bellies afterward, running back and forth in the hallway, sliding across the wood floor, our feet padded with our footie pajamas. Later, we’d huddle up close together beneath the bedcovers, shining pocket flashlights beneath our chins and telling spooky stories until we thought we’d bust open in screams. Our last sleepover was special. It had snowed that night, and we woke together, kneeling at my bedroom window, our noses touching the frosty glass while staring at a world that looked like it had been covered in white icing. That had been our last sleepover. We’d never have another now.

“I’m so sorry, Katie,” I whispered, visiting the memories while stifling a cry as I curled up into a tight ball. “This is my fault.” My body shuddered. I was broken inside.

I sank deeper beneath blankets, closing out the world over my head. I disappeared into the darkness. I imagined Katie telling me a story the way she used to. I could hear her recounting one of her favorite anecdotes, and I moved my lips along with hers—I was her best friend, so I knew the story by heart. And in my grief, I’d come to understand what it meant to have lost someone who would be missed.

“The world will miss you, Katie,” I whispered softly into my pillow. At times I’d fall asleep. I called it sleep, but with my eyes half-closed, lying still, listening to the world go on around me, I was really only taking a break from grieving.

The kids came in a few times, checking on me. Steve stood in the doorway, peering in, mouthing words to ask if he could get me anything. I’d shake my head, showing just enough of my face to be able to see the light creeping through the open door.

Michael—so sweet with worry—told me how sad it was that his Aunt Katie had died. He didn’t pry as I’d expected him to. He was surely curious to know the details, but he didn’t ask how or why. I wouldn’t have known how to answer him. And Snacks, well . . . with mommy in bed in the middle of the afternoon, that was just another excuse to play. She had no idea what was going on. She jumped up and down, thinking the tall stack of blankets was a sign that I was having fun without her.

“You want to come inside with Mommy?” I asked. She nodded eagerly, crawling under to join me beneath the blankets. “Comfy?”

“Comfy,” she answered as she lay next to me. “Smells kinda funny.” I let myself laugh, but the overwhelming guilt doused the joy. Snacks cuddled up, and I wrapped myself around her body. I could feel her tiny heartbeat pattering against my chest. The intimate moment with her lasted only a minute, but was powerful enough to stay with me forever.

“Love you, Snacks,” I whispered to her.

“Uh-huh too. But Mommy, it’s too hot,” she answered, popping open my comforter sanctuary and tumbling out to the floor. She flipped her hand behind her, waving as she ran to the door, leaving the room empty. I listened to her feet race down the hall and then to the top of the stairs, which she stuttered down in a set of shuffled steps, her legs short but careful. “One foot. Two feet. Step,” I’d taught her, and that is what I heard.

Maybe, when I felt better, I’d invite Snacks to have a sleepover in our bed and show her how to use a flashlight when telling stories from beneath the covers. I’d bring a stuffed animal and tell her to bring her favorite stuffed animal. It’d be fun and something she could show her best friend.

I lost track of the day after that. I didn’t know what part of the morning or afternoon it was in or if the evening was already upon us. Grieving steals time. It crowded out everything else and forced me to think about what I’d done. The hardest part of lying there was the constant mind-fuck. I puzzled over what had happened. There had been no way for me to know that Sam Wilts was the father of my first mark. If Jerry was playing hard-ass and Sam believed others were involved, then I’d probably sparked a war when I killed Todd Wilts. And Katie was the first casualty.

“I killed her,” I said into my pillow. “I killed you, Katie.”

“What was that?” I heard Steve ask. I tugged the comforter up over my head to hide in my bubble. My face warmed again in the total darkness. His hand pressed against my back. The mattress leaned under his weight. “Babe, you can’t think like that. Katie had just told you what was going on. Even if I had more time, there might have been no stopping it. We’re talking about a bad bunch. Killing to them is like ordering breakfast.”