The Ninth Life Read online

  “About the only thing that I can think of that makes sense as well. There has to be some kind of relationship there. I can’t imagine how the conversation of him putting her up to it went.”

  “Something along the lines of, ‘Hey, do you want to throw your entire life away, go to Tampa, and kill a bunch of people?’ Something like that, maybe?” Hank asked.

  “Who the hell knows?” I said. “When the assistant director calls me back, I’m going to see if he can get Koskinen on the phone with me.”

  The doors opened and let us out of the elevator. We walked the hall to my condo. I needed something to lighten my mood. An idea came to mind a few feet from my front door.

  “You should see this new trick that I taught Butch,” I said.

  “Oh yeah, cat tricks?” Hank asked.

  “Yeah. I taught him how to greet me at the door. It’s pretty cute.” I stopped in front of my door, stuck my key in the dead bolt, and unlocked it. “Here, check it out. You have to be the first one in to see it, though,” I said.

  “All right,” Hank said. He pushed the door open and stepped into my condo.

  Butch was on his leg in an instant.

  “What the hell!” Hank shouted.

  I stood in the hallway, chuckling, as Butch clawed and bit and thrashed at Hank’s leg. Butch dropped to his side and kicked his clawed hind legs at Hank’s ankle.

  “Get this damn thing off of me!” Hank yelled. He lifted his leg, trying to shoo Butch from it.

  I walked in and closed the door at my back. “He’s almost done. The ankle is the last thing he goes for.”

  Hank pried my big wild cat off his leg, and Butch ran back to the sofa.

  Hank snapped his head in my direction and gave me daggers. “Nice trick, ass,” he said. Hank pulled up his pant leg and inspected his scratch wounds. “That little shit drew blood.”

  “Probably,” I said. “I’ve built up scar tissue.”

  I walked to the breakfast bar, tossed my keys down, and then went about feeding the cat. After a quick change, I met Hank in the kitchen. I pulled a baseball hat down on my head. The rest of my attire was jeans and an old black T-shirt from some tavern up north in Wisconsin. I snugged up the straps for my shoulder holster that held my off-duty weapon and zipped a hooded sweatshirt on.

  “You’re wearing off-duty?” Hank asked. “What, do you think this woman is coming for you personally?”

  I shrugged. “She traveled here. My name on the plate frame. She obviously wants me involved in this. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Hank nodded. “Damn, I should have brought a change of clothes or something. I’m going to stick out in that little dive bar, wearing a suit.”

  “There won’t be anyone there who’ll notice,” I said. “Or care. But hey, at least you have on sneakers with that suit.”

  Hank glanced down at his feet and mumbled something under his breath.

  “I’ll ride with you,” I said. “The Mustang doesn’t go to bars.”

  “Sure,” Hank said.

  We took the elevator back downstairs and left my place. The drive over to Lefty’s would take us just a couple of minutes.

  I looked left and right across the interior of Hank’s car from my seat on the passenger side. I spotted a couple of broken vents and a big crack running directly down the center of the windshield. I couldn’t help noticing that my feet were warming up from hot air blowing on them.

  I looked down at the heat and air knobs. The fan was clicked to Off, and the temperature knob was turned all the way to Cold.

  “Why do my feet feel like they’re in a damn oven?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve just kind of become immune to that. Here, let me get that turned off for you.” Hank balled his fist and hammered on the side of the dash near the control knobs. The fan stopped blowing. “Fixed,” he said.

  “You need a new car, Hank. This thing sucks.”

  “It’s paid for,” he said.

  “It’s a two-hundred-dollar car, I’d damn well hope so. It’s not like you can’t afford to not drive a shitbox.”

  “Yeah, I know. Karen wants me to get a new hybrid,” Hank said. “We’ll probably do that within the next couple months. Old Betsy here probably isn’t too much longer for the world.” Hank reached out and slapped on the top of the dash with an open hand. He brought his hand back, looked at it briefly, and wiped it on his seat.

  “Dust?” I asked.

  “It was something. Not sure. So, how much do you think they’ll give me for a trade-in on this thing?” he asked.

  “Somewhere between nothing and you paying them to dispose of it,” I said. “What do you need a hybrid for?”

  “I don’t know. Fuel mileage and better for the environment.”

  “Yet Karen drives a big-ass diesel truck that spews black smoke from every stop sign,” I said.

  “The two would cancel each other out,” Hank said.

  “Sure. Park this piece of crap over there on the street.” I pointed out of the cracked windshield at an empty roadside slot. Hank pulled in and turned the ignition off. The car ran for a couple of seconds before the motor finally died.

  We walked the sidewalk to the front door of Lefty’s, and I pulled it open. The sound of 1970s rock filled my ears. The bar was small and dimly lit—most of the light coming from the neon beer signs covering the walls, and the jukebox, lit up near the short hall that led to the restrooms at the back. The entire right side of the room was one long bar with a walk-through at the end that led to the kitchen. Hank and I walked to two empty stools near our end of the bar and took a seat. I looked the place over in search of a bartender as I pulled my wallet from my pocket. The pool table to my left was vacant—a large light with a big beer logo on it hung from the black ceiling and lit the pair of sticks sitting on the ripped-up green felt. A few tables for sitting and eating sat empty, and a couple of higher ones lined the far walls. A guy and girl played darts in the back corner at one of the two dartboards—cricket seemed to be their game of choice. Aside from Hank and me, and the man and woman playing darts, the only other person I saw was an older white-haired man at the far end of the bar, staring at his beer in front of him.

  A couple of seconds later, a woman bartender, looking in her early twenties and with dark hair hanging down over her tattooed shoulders, came from the swinging door that led into the kitchen area. I took her in as she stepped before us and stood in front of the various bottles of booze stacked on three tiers in front of the mirrored bar back. I hadn’t seen her working in the place before. Her face was thin, her frame small, her eyes almost a gray color. She gave Hank and me a smile. “Gentlemen, what can I get you?”

  “Gin and tonic,” Hank said.

  “Just a beer,” I said. “Domestic, or whatever is on special.”

  “No problem.”

  The bartender got our drinks and tossed down a pair of coasters before us. She sat down Hank’s gin and tonic and my beer. “Eating tonight?” she asked.

  I glanced at her name tag pinned to her black tank top—Callie. I looked at Hank, who shrugged.

  “We have a steak sandwich special going on. Eight bucks,” she said. “And it’s actually good.”

  “Actually good?” I asked.

  “Actually good,” she repeated.

  “I’m sold,” I said. “Let me get mine with fries.”

  She looked at Hank.

  “Double that,” he said.

  “I’ll go put that in. It shouldn’t be too long.” She walked off to the kitchen with our order.

  “Chick is hot,” Hank said.

  I took a sip from my beer. “Agreed.” I stared up at the basketball game playing on the tiny television up above the bottles of booze on the bar’s back wall.

  My phone buzzed against my leg. I pulled it out and saw I had an email. I opened it up—attached was the employee jacket for Eve Kleeman. The body of the message said that the assistant director had a couple of people to talk to and would call me in
the morning.

  “Looks like the assistant director sent over what he had on her,” I said. I clicked on the icon on my phone to download the attachment. I read it over and gave Hank the highlights. It seemed that she’d been employed at the DOC for the better part of ten years. She’d never had any disciplinary measures or write-ups. Perfect attendance. A handful of awards, pay raises, and promotions. The woman seemed to have worked her job to perfection.

  “Do you have a next of kin on there?” Hank asked.

  “It lists a mother and father. A Colin and Susan Kleeman. I got a number here.” I looked at my watch. Almost ten o’clock. Wisconsin was central time and an hour behind us. I dialed the number. It rang in my ear until a voice mail played for Colin, her father. I left a message and clicked off.

  Chapter 16

  The ringing of the doorbell and banging on the door of the condo startled Eve awake. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the television, which played the local news. Eve looked at the clock on the cable box below the television—almost ten o’clock.

  “Who the hell is here?” Eve grumbled. She didn’t have a clue about who could be at her condo. She kicked her feet off the side of the couch, stood, and walked to the stairs that led down to the front door. She took the steps two at a time to the landing. Eve put her eye to the peephole and looked out as she reached for the lock.

  “Ugh,” she said. A dark-haired fifty-some-year-old woman stood outside her doorway. She wore an orange-and-white-striped sundress over the top of what looked like a blue bikini top. Eve could see that she was holding a big container of something. The woman’s name was Phyllis—she lived just a door down, was single, and apparently spent most of her time at the community pool, drinking and annoying people, Eve concluded from the couple of times she’d been over there.

  “I know you’re in there,” Eve heard from the other side of the door. “I heard you come down the steps and saw you look through the hole.”

  Eve’s face twitched. She pulled the door open. In addition to the pitcher that she held, the woman also had a small cooler at her feet. “Hi,” Eve said. “Phyllis, right?”

  “Sure is. I wanted to see if you felt like going over to the pool. A little swim. Listen to some music and lounge. Have a couple of drinks. There should be some of the other girls there.”

  “Nah, I’m not really up for it tonight. I was actually just taking a nap.”

  “Aw, come on. Come hang out with some of your new neighbors.” Phyllis held up the container in her hand—a closed-top jar from a blender. The inside was filled with a slushy red liquid. “I made margaritas.” Phyllis shook the jar back and forth by its handle. The beverage inside sloshed from one side to the other and back again.

  “Rain check,” Eve said.

  Phyllis’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Fine, then, party pooper. But hey, a quick question. You don’t happen to have any ice, do you? I used all of mine to make the margaritas, and I have a couple of beers that I want to keep cold.”

  Eve let out a breath, thinking that giving her some ice might be the quickest way to get her to leave. “Yeah, I have some.”

  “Awesome,” Phyllis said. She knelt and picked up the cooler by its handle.

  Eve reached out for the cooler, took it from her, and left the doorway. She started up the flight of stairs to the kitchen.

  Eve could hear the flip-flops Phyllis wore clacking against the bottoms of her feet as she followed Eve inside without being invited. Eve glanced over her shoulder to see Phyllis swing the door closed and follow her up the stairs.

  Eve went to the freezer and opened the door.

  “What is that odd smell?” Phyllis asked.

  “I have this weird orchid upstairs.” A lie. “I bought it from a nursery right when I got into town. Gorgeous thing, but it’s a stinker. I wish I would have known that when I picked it out. The place was outdoors, and the smell wasn’t as bad, not being all closed in.” Eve popped the top on the cooler and started scooping in ice from the tray inside of the freezer. The small cooler was filled after just a few scoops of ice. “Here you go,” Eve said. She turned around to hear her name—the name didn’t come from Phyllis. She snapped her head toward the television. The news played on the screen. In the top right corner, over the news anchor’s shoulder and in a little box, was Eve’s face. The male news anchor said that an arrest warrant had been issued for Eve in regards to a homicide investigation. They listed the type of vehicles that she could be in—one hers, which was still in Wisconsin, and one Billie Webber’s. The news went on to include details about Billie Webber. Eve slowly turned her head toward Phyllis, who stood as still as a statue in the center of the living room, ten feet away. Phyllis’s eyes were locked on the television.

  Phyllis turned around and made eye contact with Eve. “Okay, well, I should probably run. There’s a couple of people waiting on me at the pool.” Phyllis took a step toward the flight of stairs that led down to the front door.

  “Don’t you want your cooler?” Eve asked.

  Phyllis didn’t respond. She continued to the stairs, still holding the pitcher of margaritas.

  “You’re the one that would be presented to me,” Eve said. She took a couple of steps, advancing on Phyllis.

  Phyllis broke into a run for the stairwell.

  Eve dropped the cooler to the floor. Ice spilled and slid, and beer cans rolled, cracked open, and sprayed. Eve ran after her, catching up to her just as Phyllis had one foot down the steps.

  Eve shoved her from behind, sending Phyllis and her pitcher of margaritas flying. She watched as Phyllis tumbled down the stairwell and red slush covered the walls and steps. The white flip-flops that Phyllis wore flew from her feet and came to rest a couple of steps apart. Phyllis hit the landing face-first and slid into the front door. The empty pitcher bounced and came to rest at Phyllis’s feet. Eve walked down the slush-covered steps after her. She shook her head.

  “Dammit,” Eve mumbled.

  Phyllis might not be the only one to recognize her. If any of the other community members had seen the telecast, they could recognize her and alert the authorities. Eve crouched at Phyllis’s shoulder. She looked at the two-inch-long gash on her forehead that was just starting to spill blood to the floor. Eve’s eyes dropped to Phyllis’s left arm, which was clearly broken between the wrist and elbow.

  “You alive?” she asked and smacked Phyllis on top of the head.

  Phyllis didn’t move or respond.

  Eve checked her for a pulse. “Yeah, you are,” she said. “But not for long.”

  Eve took Phyllis in her arms and carried her back upstairs. She laid her down on the kitchen floor, letting the back of her head smack off the travertine tile, and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. Eve grabbed her knife from the pants that she’d worn earlier and walked back down to the second floor. Phyllis hadn’t moved.

  Eve went to her and pulled the knife from the sheath. She tossed the sheath up onto the counter and knelt at Phyllis’s side.

  “This just doesn’t seem right with you being unconscious,” Eve said. “Wake up!”

  Phyllis didn’t.

  Eve took the blade of her knife and stuck it into Phyllis’s ear. She applied pressure and watched as blood began to trickle from the side of Phyllis’s head. She still didn’t wake up. Eve moved the blade of the knife to Phyllis’s eye. She used the tip of the blade to open her eyelid. The woman still didn’t respond. Eve squeezed Phyllis’s broken arm. Phyllis came to a split second later—screaming.

  Eve jammed her hand over Phyllis’s mouth.

  “Shh,” she said. “This will be quick.” She kept her hand over Phyllis’s mouth and began to recite the prayer. Eve lifted the blade and slammed it down into Phyllis’s chest. The white stripe where the blade entered the dress began to turn red. Phyllis gasped into Eve’s hand. Eve ripped the knife from her, lifted it above her head again, and brought it down again. She could see the blood beginning to wet the dress and pool at Phyllis’s sides. E
ve continued, nine times total, until Phyllis and she were covered in blood and the prayer was complete.

  Eve slipped her left index finger through a blade-ripped hole in Phyllis’s dress and plunged it knuckle deep into the knife wound in her abdomen. She drew the numbers on Phyllis’s face. Eve brought her bloody finger to her mouth.

  Chapter 17

  Hank and I had stayed out for maybe an hour and two beers—during that time, I took a couple of games of darts off of him. Donner checked in to say that they’d met with Billie Webber’s brother, Brandon Clemmons. The guy didn’t know anything that could help us. Donner had said that he and Reynolds were on their way out to the Irish bar to have a look at some video. Hank dropped me off around eleven, and I spent an hour looking over the original case file—nothing in the file sparked any kind of lead. I sent a few text messages to Jim to bring him up to speed on what we had going on. He said he’d call me first thing in the morning. I caught a little bit of the television coverage from the information that Sam James put out to the local news outlets. The local broadcast showed Kleeman’s face, gave her name, and reported that an arrest warrant had been issued for her in relation to a homicide. The coverage then listed the possible vehicles that she could have been in. They went on to speak of Billie Webber and her disappearance and connection to the case. After the news, I sauntered off to bed.

  A noise woke me a couple of minutes after three in the morning. At that time, I couldn’t tell if I’d actually heard something or if it was all part of a dream. I flopped my head in the other direction on the pillow and heard the sound again—the noise was the intercom call that someone was pressing downstairs.

  “What the hell,” I mumbled. My only thought of who could be outside at that time of night was my night shift detectives, and that would only be if there was something that absolutely needed my immediate attention, and they couldn’t get me on the phone. I reached out for my phone on the nightstand, thinking that maybe I’d missed a call or two. My phone showed no calls, but I did have a text message from Donner. I looked at the message briefly. It said that they had Erica Osweiler with two other women on video inside of the bar but never spotted anyone matching Kleeman’s description.