Deadly Games. Steve Frech

Chapter 4

      So, it’s no surprise that I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.

      I don’t know how long I stared at my phone, but eventually, I started to fall asleep and dropped it on my face, hitting my nose and bringing tears to my eyes.

      Don’t laugh. You’ve done it, too, and I’m not in the mood.

      I didn’t reply to the pyscho’s text and I’m not going to. It would only give him the chance to further mess with my head.

      I slept in fits and starts. Every time I woke up, I was certain I had been asleep for hours, only to check my phone and discover that it had been a few minutes. Then, I would check the news. Around four in the morning, the dam broke.

      There it was.

      Murder in Avalon! read one headline. Wife of Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead read another, which kind of pissed me off; that their best description of Emily was the “wife of hedge fund manager”. That’s really the best they could do? And on it went. Each article was accompanied by photos of Emily’s smiling face and the exterior of the Seaside Motel. Thankfully, the details of her murder were sparse. She had been discovered by a cleaning lady in the early hours of yesterday morning. There were some mentions of her throat being cut, but nothing about her being found naked on the bed.

      Needless to say, I was up and out of bed in minutes. I chugged coffee and watched the local morning news, which didn’t have anything on the murder, yet. The next few hours were spent scrolling through the news but there were no updates. By noon, I realized that I was driving myself crazy. I had to get away from it, just for a bit, and did everything I could to get my mind on something, anything else. I cleaned my apartment. I tried to go for a jog but was nearly run over by a car because I wasn’t paying attention. Then, I went to the gym, only to half-ass a few machines, and walk out.

      I’m just going through the motions.

      It’s all I can do.

      Four o’clock. Time to open The Gryphon.

      I’ve done this so many times, it’s become mundane. I could do it in my sleep, but now it’s surreal. Everything looks the same as those hundreds of other times, but feels different, like everyone is watching me. Every window, every alley, every parked car that I can’t see the inside of holds a pair of spying eyes.

      The blinking white figure of a stickman tells me it’s safe to cross the street, but I hesitate.

      The Blonde is on the other side of the crosswalk, but she doesn’t start crossing. She’s waiting. What is she doing? Is she waiting for The Gryphon to open? She’s never done that before.

      No. It looks like she’s waiting for me.

      I cross the street and try to avoid eye contact as I step onto the curb to walk past her.

      “Clay?” she asks.

      I pretend I don’t hear her as I reach the door, extracting my key ring.

      “Clay Davis?”

      “We open in an hour,” I reply, fumbling with the key.

      “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

      “Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t get your Stella the other night. I was busy and—”

      “No. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

      She’s obviously not going away, so let’s get whatever this is over with.

      “Okay … What did you want to talk to me about?”

      “Emily Parker.”

      On second thought, let’s not even start this.

      “Absolutely not.” I hasten my efforts to open the door.

      “Please. Just a few questions.”

      “‘Just a few questions’? I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.

      “No, I’m sorry. I totally messed this up,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding out her card. “My name is Genevieve Winters. I’m with the San Francisco Herald.”

      Of course, she’s a reporter. Of course she is. I don’t even reach for the card.

      “Not interested.”

      “I saw how you two acted towards one another at the bar,” she says.

      Get away! Get away from her! my mind screams, which only adds to the trouble with the key. Talking to a reporter isn’t going to help me figure out who killed Emily. It can only get me into more trouble.

      “I have nothing to say.”

      I’m trying desperately to open the door, but my hands are shaking so bad, that when I attempt one last time to get the key in the lock, it slides off to the side and I stab the glass, thankfully not hard enough to break it. That’s it. She’s got me.

      I finally look up.

      She’s staring at me like a ravenous cat eyeing a one-legged mouse.

      “How well did you know her?” she asks.

      “I said I’m not talking to—”

      “Were you sleeping with her?”

      There’s no use trying to hide the fact that she’s rattled me. I give up with the keys and give her my full attention.

      “What makes you ask that?”

      “Like I said, I saw you two together. You seemed pretty … friendly.”

      “I’m a bartender. ‘Friendly’ is kind of my job.”

      “I’ve also heard some things.”

      “Have you?”

      She nods.

      That question pops into my head; the question that changed the dynamic with Detective Mendez: What can I get you? What is it that I can get you that will get me what I want, and what I want to know is where she heard anything?

      I take her card and stuff it into my hip pocket.

      “Tell me where you heard that.”

      “If I tell you, will you answer some questions for me?”

      I make a small show like I’m thinking it over. “Sure.”

      She smiles triumphantly, confident that she has a story.

      “I’ve been asking around. People said you two were friendly. Some people were suspicious that she was having an affair. Even the police know about it.”

      I scoff. “The fact that she was found naked in a dive motel wasn’t enough to tip them off that she was having an affair? You are some reporter.”

      “How did you know she was found naked?” Genevieve asks.

      This is exactly why I didn’t want to start talking to her.

      She waits.

      “Are you gonna answer my question or—?”

      “Nope,” I reply, finally sliding the key into the lock.

      “‘Nope’? What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

      “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

      Her initial shock quickly gives way to anger. “We had a deal.”

      “Yeah. I know.”

      I’ve gotten what I needed and it’s clear that I know more than she does.

      “Are—are you serious?”

      “Yep,” I say, opening the door.

      She’s royally pissed and not without justification, but I don’t feel sorry for her.