Free The Trouble With Murder by Catherine Nelson

unrecorded criminal history to
match his and their latest scheme had caused some sort of disagreement between
the two of them that turned physical.
    If I were wanted for murder, among
other things, where would I go? If I had the means, I’d get the hell out of
Dodge. But what if I had a significant other? Would that be reason enough for
me to stay? If it were, where would I go? Where did most boys go when they got
into trouble? If the boys I knew were any way to judge, the answer was home to
Mama.
    I spent ten more minutes digging
into Tyler Jakowski and filled several more pages of notes. I was fairly
confident I had some decent places to start looking.
    Looking for what? I asked
myself, getting up from the computer. Why would I go looking for Tyler Jay,
a dangerous criminal?
    He might have something to say
about what happened to Stacy , I answered as I threw some more linen into a
box. He was capable of stabbing a woman. Actually, he was capable of more — much more, according to his
wanted poster. And what if he was responsible? Did I want to be that close to
him?
    The rational side of my brain
kicked in with a reasoned argument. Tyler’s wanted poster listed him as five-ten.
It had been difficult to discern last night because the figure was completely
obscured by black clothing and everything happened so quickly, but, standing
barefooted, I am five-eight. When I’d come face-to-face with the dark-clad
figure in the lobby, I’d been wearing heels that added two inches to my height.
The attacker had been shorter than me; of that, I was certain. Still, it
wouldn’t hurt if I saw Tyler Jay myself.
    This argument persisted as I filled
the last of the boxes I had stashed. When they were full, I dragged out plastic
storage bins and began filling them. I had a stack of pants in my arms when I
heard the doorbell. I deposited the stack into a bin and stood as the bell ring
for a second time. I was halfway up the stairs when the visitor began pounding
on the door.
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered
under my breath as I walked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think my house was
on fire.”
    “Police!” a gruff voice barked.
“Open up!”
    Just what my day needs, I
thought. More police.
    I threw the lock and yanked the
door open. I stared out at the man on the porch, making no effort to conceal my
irritation.
    “What’s the emergency?” I snapped.
    He held open the jacket of the
inexpensive, tan-colored suit he wore, showing me the badge clipped to his
belt. I glimpsed a holstered gun to go with it. Now this guy looked like
a detective.
    “Detective Hensley,” he snapped
back. “Fort Collins Police Department. I need to speak with Mrs. Grey. That
you?”
    “Why all the racket?” I pressed.
“What if no one was home?”
    “The garage door is standing wide
open.” This was all he said, as if it was explanation enough. “Are you Mrs.
Grey?”
    He was relatively lean for a cop,
though his gut seemed to be slowly getting away from him. He was in his
forties, not quite six feet tall, and had dark hair that was starting to gray.
He seemed as annoyed as I was, and I wondered if he’d arrived that way or if
I’d brought it out of him. On the one hand, it seemed fitting; he’d brought it
out of me. On the other, it didn’t seem prudent to annoy detectives who came
beating down your door.
    He lifted his eyebrow expectantly
and waited.
    “Mrs. Grey is my mother, and she’s
not home at the moment. I’m Zoe Grey.” This wasn’t the first time my mother had
run up against the law. At least he wasn’t here for me. “What did she do now?”
    “You’re the one I need. Please open
the door. I have some questions to ask you.”
    Bummer.
    It wasn’t the first time I’d heard
a cop say those words, either, and unfortunately I didn’t think it would be the
last. Talking to cops who think I’ve done something wrong is one of my least
favorite things to do. This is followed closely by talking to cops who know
I’ve