Twenty
The Chicago PD homicide detective was arrested in conjunction with the Canceled Killer murders, but people seem less shocked about his ties to law enforcement and more obsessed with the ripped shirtless photos taken at the gym on his social media account.
—Crime Hive podcast
Russo, as it turned out, was already under investigation for stalking and kidnapping in Chicago, where he did, indeed, harass a woman after she refused a third date.
He broke into her apartment and then kept her captive for five hours.
He’d also threatened to kill the man she’d just started seeing and tried to hack into her Spark account.
Russo kidnapped Mateo after he found him naked in my shower.
He’d knocked the poor kid out and ransacked my trailer looking for the trace tag he’d slipped on me.
He never found its hiding spot, though. He managed to carry Mateo out of the Airstream when Mom, Dad, and Olivia went to Pizza Pie.
Then, when he realized I’d spent the night at Jude’s, he plotted to take Jude as well.
Russo had followed me home, renting a house on the other side of the lake the same day I arrived.
I always knew there was an undercurrent of misogyny to the Canceled Killer’s murders, but I never would’ve guessed it was a man who obsessed about every woman he ever went on a date
with.
“I still can’t believe it was the hot cop,” Olivia said, shaking her head. She took a sip of her hot tea. Mom had made burnt cranberry scones, which sat on the table between us, a tray of blackened lumps. The air in the kitchen hovered somewhere between burnt butter and house fire.
“I always knew there was something wrong with him,” Mom said.
“You did not,” I countered, shifting my elevated bandaged leg on the stool.
Thankfully, Russo’s bullet missed all major arteries and bone, with a clean entry and exit wound, but the injury still stung.
A big white bandage covered my leg, and I had crutches to help me get around. “You flirted with him.”
“I’m married, not dead,” Mom pointed out.
“I don’t know. There’s still something bothering me.” There were loose ends. The lemons, for one. Something about it didn’t sit right.
“Maybe you just can’t relax and enjoy the fact you caught him,” Mom said. “You never could just enjoy a victory.”
“What victory?” Olivia asked. “Russo is like a folk hero now.”
I sighed. “Yeah, there’s already a ‘Free Russo’ campaign.” I held up my phone showing the many #FreeRusso posts. It was kind of gross.
Mom glanced at the clock on the stove. “Time for your meds,” Mom said. “Where are they?”
“Trailer, I think?”
“I’m going to get them,” Mom said and hurried out of the kitchen.
“So what’s bugging you?” Olivia asked.
“The mayor’s crime scene doesn’t fit the others.
It’s sloppy, and the lemon left isn’t quite right.
” I’d told Oscar this before, but now I’d dug up the pictures Russo shared with me months ago to prove it.
I studied the photo of Heather Johnston’s bathroom.
The lemon left by the tub had a stem and a single green leaf. A Sorrento.
Olivia peered at that. “Well, he wasn’t home in Chicago, so he had to make do.” Olivia shrugged.
“Right, except for Gordon’s murder. That lemon had a branch and leaves on it.”
Olivia looked at me blankly. “So?”
“So none of the other murder victims got a grocery-store lemon. They all got ones with leaves. Plus, he always uses this particular kind of lemon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but the Canceled Killer is methodical, and everything has meaning.” I bit my lip. “He likes making a story out of the crime scenes. That’s his thing. And he wouldn’t mess up this one detail. Plus, Russo said he wasn’t the killer.”
“Of course Russo would say that,” Olivia said. “He wouldn’t admit to it.”
“Yeah, but he did admit to killing the mayor. And he seemed genuinely surprised about Olga Duncan.”
“I’m back!” Mom cried, sweeping in through the back door. “I’ve got your antibiotics.” She rattled the bottle at me, and I took it, opened the cap, and popped one into my mouth.
“Do I smell… eh… something burning?” asked Mateo as he came down the stairs. He’d been staying in a spare room upstairs at Mom’s insistence.
“Cranberry scones! Want one?” Mom lifted the plate of charred hockey pucks.
“Ah…” Mateo looked uneasy. “I’m uh… how do you say? I don’t eat carbs.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” Mom said and put the plate back down on the counter. I realized that Mateo was fully dressed and carrying his bag.
“Going somewhere?”
“To my parents’ house in Milwaukee. They saw the news and they’re worried about me.” Mateo had been interviewed on the network news the night before, recalling how he’d only barely escaped the clutches of the killer.
“I bet they are,” Mom said.
“So then, this is goodbye, I guess?” he told my mom, and hugged her. Then he hugged Olivia. And he made his way around the granite island to me. He sent out a fake punch just for old times’ sake, but he pulled up at the last minute.
“I could’ve used a punch or two when we were in Jude’s kitchen with Russo,” I scolded him.
Mateo shrugged. “I only fake fight,” he told me, which was the truth. None of his punches ever did carry any weight. “But alas, you and me? I think we are not meant to be.”
“You’re breaking up with me?” I almost wanted to laugh.
“It had to be done, mami,” he said, all seriousness. “You have a lot of…” He waved his hand around in the air. “Scary friends.”
“And you’ll have a lot of play on Spark after this,” I said.
Mateo laughed. “Indeed. Indeed. HotSpidey has already got many messages.”
“That’s what happens when you give your handle out on national television.” He’d shouted it out right before he’d tugged on his Spider-Man cowl and flexed his biceps for the camera. He gave me a peck on the cheek and grabbed his bag.
“?Muchas gracias!” he called out to Mom and Olivia, and then he headed out the front door.
“He’s got a cute butt,” Mom said.
“Dad is upstairs and can probably hear you,” I pointed out.
“Well, he’s got a cute butt, too, so he’s got nothing to worry about,” Mom snapped back.
My phone rang. I glanced at it. Jeremy. From Crime Radio.
“Jeremy?” I answered, anticipating he’d just tell me it was an accidental butt dial. He’d made it clear the last time we spoke that I’d never work in podcasting again.
“Ella? Oh, thank God. Do you have a minute?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“First of all, are you okay?” Jeremy asked, sounding more concerned than I would’ve given him credit for. “We saw everything on the news.”
“I got shot, but I’ll live,” I said, examining the extra-thick white bandages around my thigh. I’d be wearing shorts until Thanksgiving.
“That’s good. Good. Good.” I had a hard time believing that Jeremy really cared if I lived or died.
When he’d made me turn in my building badge, he told me that I’d be better off changing my name if I wanted to work in broadcasting ever again.
He told me I should consider something that didn’t require me to identify myself. Like AM radio jingles.
“So, I’ve got Bette here,” he said.
“Oh?” This should be good.
“We want you to come back. To Crime Hive.”
I snorted. “What about the host you hired to replace me?”
“Never mind him. We’re serious, Ella. You fought the Canceled Killer! You got him arrested. Maybe you could even get an interview with him.”
“I don’t ever want to talk to him again,” I said. As far as I’m concerned, the man should rot in prison.
“We can pay you,” Bette said over the phone.
“You were barely paying me before.” I had to share an efficiency with two roommates, even after we hit it big.
“We’ll double your salary,” Bette said.
Well, now that was interesting.
“I don’t know,” I said. Did I want to give in to Crime Radio? The people who’d abandoned me when I needed them most?
A knock came on the front door, and I saw Tammy’s orange puffer vest through the window next to it.
“I’ve got to go. Let me think on it and call you.”
“Don’t take too long—” Jeremy said, but I’d already hung up. I slid off the stool and winced as my foot hit the ground and a burning pain shot through my thigh.
“Ella! You’re supposed to be resting,” Mom scolded. “Stay put!”
Mom was already bustling to the front door to let Tammy trot in.
“Hey, dere, Thin Ice! How’s de leg?” Tammy asked me as she flicked her frosted eighties feathered hairdo off one shoulder. “I brought a hot dish to make it better!”
Tammy lifted the casserole dish tucked away in a padded carry case with fabric handles.
“Hurts,” I said. “But it could’ve been worse.”
“Yeah, no, I can’t believe I saved the day!” Tammy gushed as she handed Mom the casserole.
“Thank you, Tammy,” Mom said. “We love your hot dishes.” Mom placed the dish on the kitchen island, even though she had no intention of eating it. Mom was lactose intolerant and Tammy always put extra handfuls of shredded cheese on top of every hot dish.
“Looks like someone needs a little TLC,” Tammy said, clucking her tongue as she examined my face. It was still swollen from Russo’s punches. He took love hurts to a whole other level. I had the bruises to show for it.
“Well, hope you both enjoy the cheesy potatoes, and just keep the casserole dish. Ted and I are hitting the road for Florida this afternoon. We’ve got to pack the RV,” Tammy declared.
“Already?” Mom asked, giving Tammy a hug. Tammy and Ted drove to Florida in the winter, and then came back to Lake Sanguis in the spring.
“It’s time.”
“You’re going to miss Allen Gordon’s funeral.”
Tammy shrugged. “Will anyone be going to that old codger’s funeral? You know he bought the no-kill animal shelter at the edge of town? He was going to raze it and put up another Gordon’s Frozen Custard. All those poor animals would have to be put to sleep!”
“I guess he treated animals no better than he treated people,” I said.
“I am sorry to miss the mayor’s funeral, though,” Tammy continued. “He was struck down in his prime. Such a tragedy.”
She eyed me. I eyed her back. I was sorry the mayor was dead, but that didn’t make him a good human.