Page 54 of Commit
Taking a few more mouthfuls, I slam the bottle on the desk and open the file. I study every inch of it, noting everything from the cause of death to the witness statements, or lack thereof.
She was strangled, according to the medical examiner. That type of death is done up close and personal and, more often than not, by an ex, spouse, or someone the victim knew. And since I killed her husband, I wondered if she’d been seeing anyone since then.
I close the file, unlock the bottom drawer of my desk, and toss it inside. I steeple my fingers and lean back. I don’t keep records of my kills. Once the job is done, I move on to the next. Keeping files is like collecting trophies and will get you a nice little jail sentence if the cops catch wind of it. People can point fingers in your direction all they want, but with no evidence, nothing can be proven. Why people keep records blows my mind because, essentially, they’re doing the cops’ job for them.
Sure, it means I have to rely on my memory of Jason Spears, but ninety-nine percent of the time, there’s no need to recall past cases.
Off the top of my head, nothing in particular stands out about the man. Yes, he was a cheating douche, but so are a lot of guys. I don’t know the ins and outs of his relationship with his wife beyond how tight he was with her finances. I don’t know if he was good to her or abusive. It wasn’t my business to know. I am curious if the person who hired me to take him out is the same person who killed or arranged for Jessica to be killed.
And if so, how does Emma play into it?
I type in my security code and play the surveillance footage from the night Emma was killed, ignoring everyone we’ve already eliminated. Nobody arrives carrying anything large enough to hide a body. With growing frustration, I take the footage back further.
The club is closed on Wednesdays for deep cleaning and for the dancers to practice new routines if they need to, but there’s no admission to the public. I pause before picking up my cell phone and calling Atlas.
“You found something?”
“I could be calling for a chat.”
“I find that as believable as you calling for a blow job.”
I laugh, but don’t disagree. “Fine. I was calling to see why the girls didn’t rehearse last week.”
“There was a plumbing issue. And yes, before you ask, I had them checked out too.”
I scroll slowly through the footage before stopping. “So none of the dancers should have been in on Wednesday?”
“Only the one that came in early and noticed the problem. From there, the others were informed of the issue. Why?”
“Was the person who came in Kelly?” A door slams downstairs.
“How’d you know that?”
“I can see her on screen. She walks in and heads straight to the training room before going to the restroom, where I lose her for a couple minutes. When she comes out, she makes a call—I’m guessing to you about the problem. Then she walks back to the training room, grabs the prop unit from just off-screen, and pushes it back to the changing room. That’s where I lose her again until she leaves fifteen minutes later. You really should have cameras in there.”
“Legally, I can’t.”
“And you always do things legally?” I chuckle.
“If it means getting my club shut down, then yeah, mostly. What are you telling me, anyway?”
“That I couldn’t find anyone entering the building with any means to hide the body, except the people we’ve ruled out.”
“Okay, tell me something I don’t know.”
“That Kelly has a chunk of time inside the building where she wasn’t seen on camera.”
“And?”
“And that prop unit is big enough to hide a body inside it.”
“Ah fuck.” He hangs up, making me grin as I get up and investigate the noise downstairs.
I walk into the kitchen and see Abbot bent over the sink. He must sense me, because he looks up. His nose is bloody, his cheek swollen, and his jaw bruised.
“What the fuck happened?”
“Football. Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles, swallowing a couple of painkillers with some water.