Page 16 of Go Alone

Kate lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

“My wife, Melanie.” He sipped more of his beer. “She’s dead.”

With that pronouncement, the anger left Boyd Sutter's tone, and with it, his strength. His shoulders slumped, his jaw slackened, and the imposing figure he cut a few minutes ago was now only the beaten-down visage of an old man who'd fought a giant and been crushed underfoot. David rarely felled their Goliaths in the real world.

“We filed a grievance and were told the City Planner’s office approved the rezoning and admonished us that the action was taken due to numerous property violations. We told them we never received a notice and were told that they were sent, and it wasn’t the city’s responsibility if we never received them. We tried to hire a lawyer, but we couldn’t afford a good one, and the bad ones wouldn’t take the case. Said there was no case.”

He chuckled bitterly, finished the last of that beer, and tossed it toward the trash can standing against the kitchen wall. He found his target, but that target was overflowing with weeks’ worth of beer cans already. Actually, considering how quickly he’d drained that can, it could only be a few days’ worth.

“We reached out to an advocacy group for help. They said they’d fight for us, said the city had no claim, and we shouldn’t leave the house under any circumstances.”

“I take it their efforts were for nothing.”

Boyd scoffed but there was no weight to it. “There was no effort. They never contacted us. We called back twice and were told they were looking into the best legal option for us. Never heard from them after that.”

He grabbed another beer but didn’t open it. He shuffled to a couch, also covered in debris save for a faded gray depression in the exact center. He plopped into that depression and stared at his blank television. “You want my alibi?”

Kate was already ninety percent sure that this shell of a man wasn’t their killer, but she would take the alibi anyway, and she told him so.

“When for?”

“This past Tuesday afternoon.”

“Tuesday?” He scratched a large bald spot on the top of his head. “I was at a doctor’s appointment from eleven-thirty to five. They found something in my heartbeat they didn’t like, so they kept me there for bloodwork. They liked that even less, so they made me talk to a cardiologist. Cholesterol’s shit, and my protein levels are elevated. Probably liver disease. Figure I’ll go in a few years, maybe four or five.” As an afterthought, he added, “They’ll confirm it. Wheatland Emergency Medical Center.”

Kate nodded. “I’ll follow up on that.” She stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sutter.”

“Can you tell me how he died? Can you at least do that?”

Kate shook her head slowly.

Boyd chuckled. “Figures. Well, may he rest in crap.”

Kate looked at the irritable, vulgar man slumped on his couch and wondered what he might have been like before Howard Greer saw dollar signs and traded his family home for kickbacks from a clothing company that was now also out of business and out of luck.

And the wheel of capitalism grinds onward, she thought as she left Boyd behind.

***

The bus stopped on the corner of the Westgate subdivision where the Bureau of Motor Vehicles said Carla Finch lived. Marcus made the half-mile walk to the house in seven minutes, walking with the long, purposeful strides he’d inherited from his New York City upbringing.

Westgate sported small, brick-faced cottages of one and two stories with steeply sloped roofs, tall chimneys and grass lawns that each sported one to two large trees. Elms were popular, but oaks and ashes were close runners-up and the occasional maple made its appearance.

Marcus had never seen the appeal of neighborhoods like this. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with them. He just couldn't understand why the ideal in the minds of so many Americans had remained the same since the 1950s: a small single-family home, a minivan, a nine-to-five, and absolutely no change from day to day. The only thing that had updated over the past seventy years was the car preference. Minivans were out, and crossover SUVs were in.

He wondered where he and Kate would live if they ever formalized the act of living together and didn’t just shack up for her protection. He doubted he could convince her to seek the bright lights and busy subways of New York, but maybe they could compromise and land in Syracuse or Albany.

You might be skipping a few steps there, bud.

He sighed. It wasn’t that he was skipping steps. It was that he’d taken those steps and fallen flat on his face. He and Kate had dated for all of three months and gotten as far as making out in his car. Then it came to light that he was dragging his feet with his divorce, that his now ex-wife didn’t even realize they were getting divorced despite his assumption that was what she wanted, and that Cox had sent one of his serial killer disciples to spy on them and on Cheryl, who was now living her best life somewhere far away from here and not thinking about him at all.

In short, he’d screwed up his chance. Kate had made that clear when she told him she wanted to be his friend and partner but wasn’t interested in trying again romantically.

He approached Carla’s home and allowed himself to stop thinking about a future that would probably never happen.

He knocked twice, a firm double-rap that communicated to the inhabitants of the home that law enforcement was here, and they weren’t angry, but they were very serious.

The door opened to reveal a woman of around fifty who had to be among the most beautiful women Marcus had ever seen. She was tall, nearly as tall as Kate, with long blond hair that appeared entirely natural, no hint of gray despite her age. Her eyes were a striking gemstone blue, and her lips pursed outward in a natural pout that was just unfair to any man she felt like getting attention from.