Chapter 14
I decide to put the whole murder thing on hold for just a minute.
Maybe twenty minutes.
Tops.
We pull into the parking lot of a former abandoned elementary school that’s now an abandoned cop academy and park behind the
dumpster. It feels sexy and dangerous—maybe not as dangerous as murder, but I’m not thinking about that now.
I’m thinking about Chris and the hand he’s sliding up my leg.
With surprisingly little effort, he swings me up and over so I’m straddling him in the driver’s seat. The car is clearly not
made for this, but as long as my ankle doesn’t get stuck between the door and the seat, I can work with it.
I can also work with what Chris has currently going on in his pants.
While I grind on his lap, Chris goes back to sucking my finger, and it occurs to me that maybe I should mention that the finger in his mouth was recently digging around in the coffin of a dead man.
Which reminds me that I should give Claudia another quick update about the whole situation, so that she can start thinking of a plan to protect me, and I can really relax into all of this instead of worrying.
And honestly, I think I’ll just skip telling Chris—he’s having a great time, no reason to distract him.
I push his head into my boobs with one hand while I use the other one to slip my phone out of my bag and hold it behind the
headrest where Chris can’t see. I keep grinding as Chris motorboats me—or am I motorboating him? Philosophically speaking,
which of us is the motorboated and which is motorboating?
Putting that aside for later, I compose a quick text. The dogs are definitely confused, but thankfully they’re just sitting
on the back seat, watching as I multitask.
Me: You were right, it was nursery
Nursery? Dammit, autocorrect.
Me: I mean, murder, it was murder
Me: I’m in danger
Just then, in one swift motion, Chris decides to go for the gold and yanks my dress over my head, sending the phone flying
into the back seat. Before I can protest, I feel his lips on my stomach.
Ah fuck it.
I spin and trust fall backward so my head’s on the passenger seat, pressing against the door, and I’m arching my back over
the center console, which gives Chris the perfect angle.
His tongue is now sliding along my hip bones. Then he’s tugging at my black silk underwear with his teeth. Holy hell.
Why did it take us breaking up for sex to be exciting and fun?
This is a very important question that I should probably answer for myself at some point, but now is not the time.
Now is the time to prop a foot up on the steering wheel so that he can get the underwear all the way off me and then hoist my
legs over his shoulders so I’m in a kind of tits-up wheelbarrow situation, giving him an all-access pass as he starts slowly
kissing up my thighs.
That’s when my phone starts buzzing.
I’m going to ignore it, I really am, because this is like life-changing sex, but the phone just keeps buzzing, so I twist my head, and spot it through the gap between the two front seats.
I think I can get it.
Or at least see who’s calling.
I arch my back a little more, and then inch my arm through the gap, doing everything I can not to have any impact on Chris’s
really excellent work. Unfortunately, the dogs are starting to get restless, and they seem to think we’re playing a game now,
so as I grope around for the phone, they keep nudging my hand out of the way.
UGH, why is it so hard to just live?
By now, the windows are steamed up, and the slow, careful teasing Chris started out with builds in speed and pressure, so
that my whole body is shaking, and not just from the strain of holding this impressively acrobatic position. It’s like the
dogs sense it all the way from the back seat because they start howling in unison, and I’m thinking yeah, actually, good idea,
so I howl too.
This is exactly what I needed!
And who cares about murder anyway!
I’m here, in the car, safe with Chris!
Chris, who makes me feel so good!
Chris, who is about to make me explode!
Chris, who I love!
“I love you!” I gasp.
And that’s when he stops.
He gophers his head up from between my legs.
“Why are you stopping?!” I cry.
Chris frowns. “Did you just say you love me?”
“For god’s sake, don’t stop now!”
He slides my legs off his shoulders and looks away as he hands me my dress. I don’t even know what to do with it for a moment—it’s
like my rational mind has been completely scrambled.
“You should probably get dressed,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
“But . . . I thought you wanted . . .” I awkwardly reposition my legs so they’re facing forward again and hold the dress up
in front of me like a bath towel.
I thought you wanted me.
He shrugs his shirt back on and sighs. “I don’t get it, Mo. Aren’t we past all that?” he says. “I thought your text was just
about some fun breakup sex.”
“Past all what?” I say indignantly, pulling my head through the neck of my dress. Then I freeze. “Wait, what text?”
He shoves his phone at me.
Mo: What do you say we get outta here and go to pound town?
Oh.
Balls.
I hand the phone back and muster up as much dignity as I possibly can for this next bit. “Right,” I say. “I can explain that.
I must have accidentally sent it when I dropped my phone in the coffin.”
He goes a pale green color again. Really, for a doctor, he’s awfully squeamish.
“But, Chris, listen,” I continue. “Wasn’t that fun? Funeral hijinks and steamy, albeit unfinished car sex? You can’t deny that we make a great team.”
Chris sighs, puts the car in gear, and without looking at me, says, “I’ve actually just started seeing somebody. Casual. But
still.”
It feels like I just got punched in the stomach.
And then I’m shrugging my dress back on as he drives out of the parking lot, kicking off the most awkward forty-five-minute
car ride known to man.
He couldn’t have waited to say that as he was dropping me off?
Because now I have to ask who it is, and of course he won’t tell me, he’ll just say, “you don’t know her,” which is how I’ll
know I do know her, and it’s probably another doctor, and then I’ll have to ugly cry as I think of all the ways she’s cooler or smarter
or hotter than me, and just imagining it is all so humiliating I can’t even work up the nerve to actually ask the question
out loud.
I’ve almost psyched myself up to say something mature and selfless by the time we pull up in front of my building, but as
he puts the car in park, he clears his throat. “I think we should take a break.”
“What?” I blurt incredulously. “How could we be any more on a break, Chris?”
The absolute coward looks away. “I mean, I think we shouldn’t talk for a while.”
I bite my lip until I know my voice won’t crack, and then I give him a very inappropriate two thumbs-up. “If that’s what you
want,” I say. “Thanks for the ride.”
The dogs and I slink out of the car and walk-of-shame ourselves right into the building without even pretending to hide, because
frankly, I can’t bring myself to care about Roy seeing us. It would still be the fourth-worst thing that’s happened today.
But the god of breakups throws me a bone; there’s a note taped to Roy’s door. “On Vacation! Call Sheila (my mom) if you need something.”
Upstairs, I throw my bag on the table, let the dogs loose, and realize my dress is on backward, because of course it is. I
take the stupid dress off and put on my Cubs tank. It’s no-pants night, baby. Too early to go straight to bed, though. I grab
a beer and a pint of ice cream and throw myself pathetically into the ratty pink velour chair. That’s when I notice the matchbook
that’s slid out of my bag and onto the floor.
Right. The matchbook that was in Cran’s corpse’s suit pocket, from that time I shoved my hand in his coffin.
I flop out of the chair, crawl over, and study it half-heartedly. It’s from the bar down the street from me, Dickie’s Tavern.
Dickie’s is one of those bleak neighborhood bars that puts red wine in the refrigerator and has no lights except a lit-up
Old Style sign in the window.
Why would Cran go there if he doesn’t drink? Sure, they nominally have pizza, but he wouldn’t go there for that—believe me,
I’ve ordered that pizza and the Yelp reviews are right. Plus, didn’t Claudia say Cran was a health nut?
Claudia.
Shit.
I totally forgot that I need to talk to her! I check my phone, and it was her calling while we were in the car—she called
twice, but didn’t leave a message either time. And she didn’t reply to my texts.
I try calling back. She doesn’t pick up.
Then I text again.
Me: I’m sorry we keep missing each other, but I really need to talk. Murder plot real. Johnston brother in on it, but there’s
a mastermind, identity unknown. Any leads??
Then, because I need her to know how serious this is, I text again.
Me: Please, this is urgent. Need to know who other guy is
By now I’ve finished my beer and yes, I’m a little tipsy, but I can feel myself getting worked up about this, and I have to
find a way to not completely freak myself out.
Why won’t Claudia respond? Is she ignoring me because I tried to offload the dogs to Tond and quit the investigation?
Petty, yes. But on-brand? Also yes.
After about three minutes of stewing about being ignored, I decide to just go over to her house and beg for forgiveness. I
mean, I know where she lives. And it’s so close. That’s not weird, right?
Well, it’s definitely not weirder than anything Claudia does.
Maybe I’ll take her a beer.
As a house gift.
It’s closing in on 9 p.m. when I get there, gift beer in hand. We probably only have a few more weeks of summery weather,
and even though the sun has set, the sky is still a light, glowy pink.
Claudia’s bungalow, on the other hand, is totally dark.
I knock lightly on the door, loud enough that she’d hear if she was still up, but not loud enough to wake her.
No answer.
Is this situation urgent enough to wake Claudia up by ringing the doorbell?
Claudia’s voice rings in my head. I dunno, Mo, is murder urgent?
Then Chris’s voice: You took what you heard out of context and blew it way out of proportion. This was so obviously an accident.
Ugh. Dick.
My finger hovers over the bell, which is one of those video doorbell camera thingies. Of course Claudia’s got cutting-edge security. This is peak crime-prevention stuff. She’s probably got a friggin’ panic room in there.
I lean into the doorbell, because I might as well cover all my bases.
“Claudia,” I whisper. “It’s me, Mo.”
Yes, obviously it’s me, this thing is a camera.
I keep going.
“I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t give me the silent treatment right now. I heard Tond say he wants to ‘take care of’ me . . . Which really does sound
kinda murdery? I’m not scared scared, but Chris thinks I’m overreacting, which I have—okay, fine—occasionally been known to do. Right, you don’t know Chris—he’s my boyfriend. Ex. Long story, not my fault. He is great in the sack, though,
which still makes me kind of want to trust him and honestly, I’m just really confused right now, lots going on, you know?
Could use an assist.”
Phew, this went off the rails fast. Bro, you really need therapy pops into my head, and I make a mental note to eventually deal with that.
“Anyway,” I continue whispering into the doorbell, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first. Call me when you watch this?”
I pause for a second. “Okay, um, bye.”
I hustle home, drinking the gift beer as I go, which unfortunately just makes me feel more paranoid. After pacing around my
apartment and polishing off my third beer of the night, I break down and pick up my phone.
“Yellooooo, this is—”
“Hi, Detective Mierzwiak, it’s Mo. Ellery. We talked before? I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Ahhh yes, Chicago’s most notorious dog thief.”
“I am not—look, I tried to give the dogs to their uncle and he’s making me keep them and anyway, that’s not what I’m calling about. I think someone is trying to murder me. I overheard them talking about it at a funeral.”
“No kidding. A funeral? I’ll get my best guy on the case.”
A thousand-pound weight is lifted from my shoulders. “Really? Thank you so—”
“No, not really! And stop calling me or you’re gonna be in some real trouble.”
He hangs up.
So that went well.