He takes my hand and we creep up the carpeted stairs. We move silently from one room to another. At the end of the upstairs hall are two double doors. One of them is ajar. Wrecker sidles up to the door and pushes me to the side. He toes the door open and it swings in. Not a sound is made but our heavy breathing.
He darts around the corner and then calls for me in a soft tone. “All clear.”
Inside I see the four poster bed, pale linens and stains on the bed and the carpet.
“She gets shot on the bed and then collapses on the floor? Or maybe it’s the other way around. She’s shot on the carpet and stumbles backward and lands on the bed?” I try to make sense of the blood stains. I’m no forensic analyst but the trail is from the edge of the bed to about four feet beyond.
“Looks like it. Confirms what they said when I was spending the night in lockup. Shot twice. First in her heart and then in her head.”
“That’s very precise.” I frown. Too precise for a crime of passion. Two shots and both of them hit the body? Unless the shooter used handguns on a regular basis, it’s unlikely that both shots would have connected. When Judge first took me to the shooting range I had a hard time hitting the target from ten feet away. He told me not to feel bad because most folks are terrible shots even at close distance. New gun owners aren’t prepared for the recoil, or the trigger pressure surprises them. Unless a shooter is going to the range on a regular basis, hitting both bullets into a target is really, really good luck.
“No shit.” He circles around the room. “No other bullet holes that I can see. Whoever did shoot her knew his way around a gun. Let's go downstairs.”
As we walk down the stairs, I can’t shake the weird feeling that has set in. A big city executive whose favorite thing to do is play golf doesn’t seem the type to be able to shoot a person in the head and the chest. That takes some marksmanship even at close distance.
Wrecker finds the basement stairs by the kitchen. It doesn’t look like a basement. There’s a pool table, a bar, and a big screen set in front of a leather sectional that looks like it could fit the entire Death Lords club. Along the exterior walls are sliding glass doors that lead out to the patio we saw earlier.
“Does this area seem small to you?” Wrecker says. He starts counting off long strides as he walks from one end of the space to the other. I turn in a circle.
It is smaller down here. “Maybe there’s a missing storage area.”
Other than a bathroom, though, we don’t find any doors. Wrecker pulls a small penlight out of his pocket and starts shining it along the baseboards.
“What are you looking for?”
“False wall. This basement space is too small for the structure.”
The walls all have a fancy wood trim that makes it look like big picture frames decorating the sheetrock only it’s just paint and wood.
“You smell that?” Wrecker asks. He kneels down and runs his fingers up part of the wood trim.
“No, what is it?” I sniff but smell nothing.
“It smells like smoke and look here.” He points the light at the edge of a piece of painted trim. “This is smoke damage.”
Wrecker pushes on the wall but nothing happens. He rises slowly putting pressure along the trim piece and half way up, we hear a slight snick as if a latch has been released. Even though it’s dark, I can see his eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up.
“What’s in there?” I ask in a hushed whisper.
He shakes his head and presses an ear to the hidden door. “Oh shit!” he says abruptly tugging me toward the basement’s glass sliders.
“What is it?” I ask running behind him. He fumbles with the latch and then throws open the door. He doesn’t even take the time to latch it shut. “What about the garbage.”
“No time. Keep running,” he hisses and moves forward, nearly dragging me behind him. There’s a whooshing sound behind me. I don’t recognize it but I know it’s not good. I put my head down and run. We make it to the cart path before the whole world turns bright orange and a boom reverberates all around us. The ground shakes and debris starts flying. I stumble but Wrecker pulls me upright and keeps running. I can’t help but look back. The Trainor house is one big ball of smoke and fire.
“What was that?”
“Meth lab,” he pants out. We run past the security car, the maintenance building, and all the way to the back gate of the country club where the service vehicles enter. Sirens are blaring and lights are turning on everywhere. “Climb,” he orders. The fence is about ten feet high but there isn’t any barbed wire at the top. I hook my hands into the open links and start climbing. Wrecker is up and over the fence before I reach the top. He grabs my waist and helps me down the last few feet and then we’re off and running again.
When we’re about a quarter mile from the golf course, Wrecker stops and pulls out his phone. He texts something and then turns to me. “You up for another mile?”
“No,” I shake my head but start running anyway because while I’m exhausted from our scamper from the Trainor’s house, I don’t want to get caught by the police.
He pats me on the ass and we silently run down a gravel country road for what seems like two more miles before a dark truck appears out of nowhere. It’s Michigan. He throws the passenger door open and Wrecker shoves me inside. Michigan has the truck speeding away before the door is closed.
“When the hell happened?”
“Trainors had a meth lab in their basement. I must have triggered a booby trap when I tried to open a hidden door. The whole thing exploded.”
“You two okay?”
I nod, but I’m having a hard time catching my breath and I feel really cold despite having run all that distance and the heaters inside the truck being on full blast.
“She’s getting shocky,” Michigan says. His voice sounds like it’s at the end of a long tunnel.
“Shh, baby. You’re going to be fine. We’re both fine.” Wrecker pulls me onto his lap and hugs me close. “Drop us off at the apartment. I’ll swing by tomorrow and give Judge the rundown.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Michigan warns.
“We won’t.”
12
WRECKER
By the time we arrive home, Chelsea feels like a block of ice. I ignore the ringing of my cellphone and hustle her into the bathroom. While the water heats up, I help her shed her jeans, her sweater, socks and boots.
“Why am I so cold?” She clutches her arms and shivers. Her legs are trembling so much I wonder if I should have hit the stopper on the tub but the water’s hot and it should warm her up soon enough.
“Adrenal fatigue. Your body increased its hormonal levels during your flight from the Trainors’ and now it’s adjusting.” She frowns. I raise my hands. “I read while I was in prison.”
That generates a small smile from her. “What about you?”
“I’m still feeling the rush.” I shove my own jeans to the floor. “And I have a different reaction.”
A lone eyebrow arches up as she takes in my obvious hard on.
“You coming in?” She pushes the curtain aside and I whip the rest of my clothes off.
“Yup. Gotta make sure you’re warm from the inside out. Which one of these is soap?” I point to the multiple bottles in a small basket in the corner. I have one bottle—shampoo—and I use that to wash myself from top to bottom. Chelsea has seven. She hands me a pink bottle. I open it and it smells like Chelsea—fruity and delicious. Maybe I should start using her shit more often.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warns.
“What?” I ask innocently but she knows me too well.
“You cannot use my strawberry kiwi dessert body wash in your hair.”
“How about on my smelly arm pits?”