Inspired by Murder Read online

  He took his time taking a leak and washed his hands for a full two minutes. He checked his over-bleached teeth for seaweed and splashed his face with water. He partially towel dried his face but made sure his hairline stayed wet when he left the bathroom. It was time to tell whats-her-face goodnight.

  He was glad to see her sake glass was empty when he got back to their table. The drunker she was, the easier this should be.

  “You don't look so good.”

  “I don't feel so good.”

  He caught the attention of the waitress as she walked by. “Can we get the check please?”

  “Got it right here.” She handed him a black leather booklet.

  “Thank you.”

  Nothing like a waitress who already knows what you need. He slipped his Visa into the plastic cardholder and handed the booklet back to her.

  “I'll be right back,” she said.

  His secretary looked either worried for him or depressed their evening was ending early. Maybe both.

  “I'm probably going to be sick again and won't be able to drive you back to the office. Can I get you an Uber?”

  “No. I—” She swallowed hard. She looked terrified, and he couldn't understand why.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

  “Um...it's just that I can't go home tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told my boyfriend I was spending the night at my sister's. And I can't go to my sister's because she's out of town and I don't have a key.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  She reached across the table and put her hand on top of his, knocking over her empty sake glass in the process. “I know you're thinking I'm a horrible person, but it's not what it seems. I do have a boyfriend, but he's really controlling and I'm going to leave him. I've been planning to do it for a while, I just haven't found a way to tell him yet. Anyway, I didn't want to pass up the opportunity when you asked me out, so I told him I was spending the night at my sister's place.”

  “Maybe you should just tell him the truth.” It seemed simple enough.

  “You don't understand. He's—” she trailed off, looking frightened.

  “Has he ever hurt you?”

  “No, no, it's not like that.” She shook her head in an overly eager effort to convince him. She squeezed his hand. “But please, let me stay with you. I can't go home tonight.”

  She pulled her hand away when their waitress came back but kept staring intently into his eyes.

  “Have a great night you guys,” the waitress said after handing him back his card.

  He ignored her and stared back at his busty blonde secretary. He wasn't sure he believed her boyfriend had never hurt her. She looked genuinely scared. He’d seen enough cases of domestic abuse over his career to know, due to fear or denial, victims were often not forthcoming about their abusers. And, with how much she'd had to drink, he doubted this was an act. It wasn't like him to feel compassion, but there was something about the way she looked at him with those big green eyes that he just couldn't tell her no.

  “All right, you can sleep on my hide-a-bed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He could swear he saw her choke back tears as she leaned back against the booth and pulled her hand away from his. He stood from the table and held out his hand to help her up.

  “Let's go.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Your apartment's amazing.”

  Eric’s secretary clutched her sweater to her chest as she turned to admire his living room.

  As soon as he’d let her in, he quickly snatched his leather gloves and lock-picking kit off the table. He held them tightly in his hand just barely behind his back as to not look like he was hiding something.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” He supposed even though his guest was a pain in his ass, keeping him from planning the murder that would shape his destiny by releasing his creative genius, he could still be a proper host. He also found her endearing despite her flaws.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She stepped forward to admire his expansive bookshelves.

  “I've got water, wine, or vodka.” He also had coffee, but he wanted her to go to sleep so he could get on with things.

  She smiled at the options. “Wine would be great, but I can get it myself since you're not feeling well.”

  Oh, right. He was sick. “Yes, help yourself. The wine fridge is to the right of the sink.”

  “Thanks.”

  He went to the linen closet, pulled out a blanket and pillow for the hide-a-bed, and set them on the coffee table. “The couch folds out into a bed. You okay to do it yourself?”

  “Sure, I'll be fine.” She had already made her way into the kitchen.

  This went easier than he had thought. He was free at last to plan Patricia's demise. He just needed his laptop.

  “Well, I'm going to try and get some rest. You probably won't see me for the rest of the night.”

  “Thank you for letting me stay.”

  “It's no problem.”

  He grabbed his laptop off his desk and unplugged it from the wall. He noticed his secretary giving him a wondering look as he carried it into his room, but she didn't say anything. Probably because of his overreaching hospitality.

  He waited until after two to sneak out of his room for a glass of water. His secretary was out cold on the couch. She hadn’t even bothered unfolding it into the hide-a-bed. Her empty wine glass sat on the floor next to her. He picked up the glass and admired her for a moment, watching her sleep. Her chest moved up and down beneath the throw blanket with each of her even breaths. Her blonde hair lay sprawled out across the pillow.

  He found himself wishing she were more of an intellectual. Maybe then, there could be something between them. Although, his true reason for not falling head over heels wasn’t because of her IQ, but because no one would ever compare to his wife. Or rather, his ex-wife.

  He pictured her as if their last day together was only yesterday. Her hair was neither brown nor blonde. It was a unique shade of honey somewhere in between. She was a natural beauty and Australian through and through. She shared many of the same magnificent qualities of her beloved country. He could never love another the way he loved her.

  He sighed and continued to the kitchen to get his glass of water before returning to his room to iron out the final details of Patricia's death.

  He awoke to the smell of coffee and nearly jumped out of bed at the sight of his secretary standing over him, holding a steaming mug in her hands.

  “Crikey!”

  She giggled. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I made coffee. Are you feeling better?”

  He let out a breath and brought his hand to his forehead. There was no way it could be morning already. He had stayed up until after three going over every detail of his perfect plan for Patricia's murder, making sure he had thought of everything. There could be no room for error. He had fallen asleep after he’d finally assured himself his plan was foolproof.

  His bedside clock read seven fifteen. He sat up and accepted the coffee. “A little.”

  She was wearing a gray Seattle Mariners t-shirt that he recognized as his own. His shirt came down to the top of her bare thighs. It was obvious from the shape of her nipples protruding through the thin cotton that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her normally smooth blonde hair had a kink on each side from where she had slept on it. She looked adorable. Beautiful, even.

  She pulled at the bottom of the shirt. “I hope you don't mind; I got this from a pile of clean clothes in your laundry.”

  “How did you know they were clean?”

  She smirked. “Because no one would fold their dirty clothes like that.”

  Except for him.

  “You up for going to work today?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I'm feeling much better.”

  “Good. Mind if I use your shower?”

  “Not at all. Help yourself.”

  “Great.” She tur
ned and he took a sip from his mug.

  “This is good. You know how to make a cup of coffee.”

  She flashed him a cheeky, American smile. “I know.”

  It was a normal day apart from the few times he caught his secretary eying him as if they'd had some top-secret love affair last night. But, instead of being annoyed, he found it endearing.

  They walked out of the office together after his last patient of the day. A light, wet snow was falling when she turned to him before getting into her car.

  The sun had just disappeared below the horizon, and he admired the way the street lamp highlighted the contour of her round cheekbones.

  “I had fun last night. Thanks for letting me crash at your place.”

  “Me too,” he said as she got in.

  He'd wondered about her boyfriend a few times throughout the day. What had he done to her that she was so afraid to go home last night? He opened his mouth to ask her if she was sure it safe for her to go home, but he was too late.

  She gave him a wave before pulling out of the office parking lot, and he assured himself she would be fine. He climbed into the heated seat of his BMW and suppressed a smile. There was no denying how he felt. Contrary to his best intentions, he liked her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He counted his blessings for going to the wrong house on Wednesday night. He realized there was something he’d forgotten to consider. An alibi.

  He knew there were security cameras in the building's parking garage, but whether they covered every parking space he wasn't sure. He had located two cameras in the parking area, but it seemed there were a few parking spots near the entrance that were not covered by the cameras.

  Before work that morning, he called down to his building's apartment manager. A woman answered on the second ring.

  “Yes, good morning,” he said. “My car was parked in the underground parking last night and appears to have gotten scratched by another vehicle. I was wondering if there might be security footage that could show what happened?”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Yes, we do have security cameras that cover almost all the parking garage. Do you know what parking spot you were in?”

  “42A.”

  “Okay, let me just double check if we would have footage of that area.”

  “Thank you.” Eric waited on the line for a couple minutes before she came back on.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unfortunately, our cameras don't reach to that parking spot. I'm so sorry. There are only about four spots outside of our cameras’ view, and 42A happens to be one of them.”

  Just as he had thought. “What about at the entrance? Can you see what cars came and left overnight?”

  “No, I'm sorry. Our only cameras are inside the parking garage; we don't have anything at the entrance.”

  “Well, that's disappointing.”

  “Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said before hanging up.

  Perfect. That was all he needed to know before he carried out his plan. Luckily, 42A was open when he got home from work. Now all he had to do was create an alibi and he would be off to kill Patricia.

  Dressed in his brightest-colored flannel pajamas, Eric knocked hard on his neighbor's door. He needed him to remember this.

  When he didn't answer after about five seconds, Eric knocked even louder. He heard footsteps heading toward the door from inside the apartment. He knocked three more times before the door flew open.

  “What's your problem, man? You didn't even give me a chance to come to the door.”

  His neighbor looked his usual self, liked he'd just rolled out of bed. Eric wasn't sure, but it looked like his neighbor was wearing the same clothes as the last time he’d seen him.

  “My problem is you.”

  To this, his eyes narrowed and a look of confusion washed over his face.

  “I've got a busy day tomorrow, and I'll be turning in early. So, I just wanted to make sure you weren't planning on doing any obnoxious drumming this evening. I need a good night's sleep.”

  “I’m not gonna do any drumming. I realize it’s getting a little late for that.”

  Eric couldn't leave until he made sure this conversation would stick in his neighbor’s mind.

  “Well, I’m not so sure. I remember a few times you seemed to go on a drumming rampage late at night without any regard for the rest of us in the building. I'm surprised no one's complained.”

  Eric knew no one else on their floor would complain. There were only four units on their level. One was currently unoccupied and the other was inhabited by ninety-year-old Betty Jensen. She couldn't hear a thing.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but Eric cut him off. Eric raised the palm of his hand just below his neighbor’s face.

  “But I'm not here to argue with you. I just ask that you do me the courtesy of staying off the drums tonight so I can get a good night's sleep.”

  “No problem,” he said. He frowned at him before slamming his door closed.

  Brilliant. He had irritated him just enough to jog his memory if the cops ever questioned him about his alibi. Now he could go to Patricia's.

  He went back to his apartment to change his clothes. When he walked by his neighbor's door on his way out, he heard him start to beat on the drums. He smiled at how easily he'd unnerved him. Bastard.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Eric donned his baseball cap and gloves before getting out of his car at the end of Patricia's street. This time, he made sure to leave his phone behind.

  With his lock-picking kit safely stowed in his pant pocket, he jogged down the neighborhood street with his head down. He expected his heart to be racing, but it was calm. Steady.

  He paused when he reached the end of Patricia's driveway, feeling a sense of déjà vu from two nights earlier. Her front porch light was on, but, aside from that, the house was dark. He could tell her hedges needed trimming, and the plain front lawn could've used some landscaping. This was definitely Patricia's house.

  He moved along a tall hedge on the edge of her property and stopped at a wooden fence. Just as he had done two nights previous, he reached his hand over the fence and undid the latch to open the door. He stepped into Patricia's backyard and softly closed the latch behind him.

  Not surprisingly, there was no dog waiting to attack him on the other side. Her backyard was even darker than the front of the house. He moved slowly along the house's exterior, careful not to trip on any crap she might've left laying out on the lawn. He made it to the French doors off the back patio and felt into his pocket for his lock-picking kit. His hand slipped in the darkness just as he was about to insert his tool into the lock. He felt the metal instrument scrape against the door handle before he inadvertently jabbed it into the wood door.

  He took a deep breath and tried again. This time the tool slid easily into the lock, only the lock didn't budge as easily as it had when he broke into the wrong house. He pulled it out and tried another time, wiggling the tool back and forth. The lock still didn't give, and he worried he might have to devise another way to get inside. He hadn't seen any other doors on the home's main level other than the front, which he hoped to avoid using if possible.

  The lock pick finally glided farther into the lock and he heard a click. He tried the handle and felt relief when it turned inside his hand. He pulled on the lock pick to remove it, but it was stuck. He tugged harder to no avail before he wrenched it back and forth with enough force that it came loose.

  He tucked the pick back into his pocket. When he twisted the handle again, he realized he had all but dislodged the lock in his effort to remove the pick. Loose bits from the lock rattled inside the doorknob as he slowly opened the door and stepped inside the house.

  Eric had intended to break in without a trace, but now he wondered if the cops would be able to deduce that the back-door’s lock had been picked. It wasn't as bad as breaking into the wrong house, but it w
asn't according to plan.

  His eyes had adjusted well to the dark, and he could see that he stood in a breakfast nook off the kitchen. He heard a TV going in the other room. That was good, it would cover the noise of his footsteps. He crept toward the sound of the TV while he kept an eye out for Patricia. As he moved closer to the open doorway, he could see a blue, flashing light shining out into the hall. He paused before leaning his head just enough to see into the room.

  He realized he risked exposing his presence much too early by poking his head inside the doorway, but it was too late. He was already exposed. His heartrate increased. He took an inward sigh of relief when he recognized the back of Patricia's gray bob on the sofa.

  He judged her for being such a slug that she wasted her life away sitting on the couch, staring at a screen until her mind went numb. Although, he should have been grateful. This was exactly how he had hoped to find her.

  He turned to look for her bedroom, where he would wait for her to come to bed. He saw a staircase at the end of the hall and figured it would be a good place to start. He caught himself stopping to look at her wall of family photos when he was halfway up and quickly reproached himself. What do I care? he thought.

  He entered the room closest to the top of the stairs and could tell, even in the dark, it was the master bedroom. He felt repulsed but not surprised by the unmade bed and pile of dirty clothes on the floor. What an animal.

  He found her walk-in closet and stepped inside in search of one of her husband's ties. He felt around in the dark, but with his gloves on it was impossible to find what he needed. Oh, screw it, he thought. He flicked on the light to the closet. Patricia was immersed in her TV anyway; she wouldn't notice the light. He just needed to be quick. Her husband's clothes occupied the right side of the closet, and, fortunately, he was much more organized than Patricia.

  Unlike her chaotic hodgepodge of clothes on the left, her husband's shirts were hung according to color and shirt type. His shirts went from white to black, t-shirts on one side and dress shirts on the other. Pants were folded neatly on the shelves below. His neckties hung on hangers next to his dress shirts, and he grabbed one before flicking off the light.