Murder has Secrets, chapter 1
Chapter 1
The woman in black walked down the street, casually trailing her target: a good-looking man in his early thirties. Her job was to get close enough that she could take him down, but stay far enough away that she couldn't be suspected. Who would suspect her anyway? A pretty girl just out of high school didn't look like a killer.
She checks her watch: 2 o'clock. Showtime. She's only four feet behind her victim when she pulls the small handgun out of her purse. Load. Aim. Fire. She doesn't stay to see if he went down, she makes a right and walks down a dark alleyway. The screams tell her she did her job.
The killer smiles and congratulates herself on a job well done, but it saddens her that her victim had to be a teenaged favorite of hers. She had always liked their music. She knew how much publicity this would get and could see the headline of tomorrow's paper in her head: BAND MEMBER OF GREEN DAY MURDERED. She turns back onto a main road and enters a restaurant. Seven whacks and she hasn't been caught, and seven is always a lucky one. Eight and Nine should be too.
* * *
It was 2:45 when my phone rang. I picked up on the second ring.
"Hello, San Francisco police department. This is Scarlett Tudor."
"Scarlett, thank god. You need to get down here." The voice on the other end sounds distressed, a sign something is very wrong, since he's almost always happy.
"Tré? What is it? You don't sound ok."
"That's because I'm not!" The other end is quiet for a minute; I wait patiently for the rest of what he wants to say. "There's been... They won't let me... Just get down here ok?"
"Tell me where you are and I'll be right there."
"Downtown San Fran. I'm on... Oh god, I'm on East 12th street. Outside of a Starbucks."
I hang up and grab my car keys. The best part about being a detective is you can just leave and your boss doesn't give a rats' ass.
Arriving on East 12th I find a crowd of onlookers and four cop cars outside the Starbucks. Locking my car behind me, I navigate my way through the crowd with expertise that only comes with being in hundreds of mosh pits. I find Tré in the front of the crowd trying to push past the barricade of cops. I I. D. Myself and get into the middle of the circle, Tré right behind me. The nearest cop comes over to me and explains the situation.
"It happened at about 2:00-2:15. One shot in the back. Victim died on impact." He hands me a pair of gloves.
"Witnesses?" I ask.
"We've asked around 25 people, none of them saw anything."
"Well ask more," I bend down to the victim, who is laying face down on the sidewalk, "So why is it you called me Tré? I'm sure the CSI are doing their job." I ask him as I examine the entry wound of the bullet. When he doesn't answer, I turn around and look at him. He is extremely pale and sick looking.
"Maybe you should find a place to sit down," I say to him. Then to myself I mutter, "Lets see who you are." I pull the vic's wallet out of his back pocket. When I find his ID I drop it in horror. Slowly I turn the body to face up, and sure enough I'm staring into the cold dead face of one of my best friends, Billie Joe Armstrong. My stepsisters' husband.
"Shit." I get out my phone with a shaking hand and call Adrienne.
The woman in black walked down the street, casually trailing her target: a good-looking man in his early thirties. Her job was to get close enough that she could take him down, but stay far enough away that she couldn't be suspected. Who would suspect her anyway? A pretty girl just out of high school didn't look like a killer.
She checks her watch: 2 o'clock. Showtime. She's only four feet behind her victim when she pulls the small handgun out of her purse. Load. Aim. Fire. She doesn't stay to see if he went down, she makes a right and walks down a dark alleyway. The screams tell her she did her job.
The killer smiles and congratulates herself on a job well done, but it saddens her that her victim had to be a teenaged favorite of hers. She had always liked their music. She knew how much publicity this would get and could see the headline of tomorrow's paper in her head: BAND MEMBER OF GREEN DAY MURDERED. She turns back onto a main road and enters a restaurant. Seven whacks and she hasn't been caught, and seven is always a lucky one. Eight and Nine should be too.
* * *
It was 2:45 when my phone rang. I picked up on the second ring.
"Hello, San Francisco police department. This is Scarlett Tudor."
"Scarlett, thank god. You need to get down here." The voice on the other end sounds distressed, a sign something is very wrong, since he's almost always happy.
"Tré? What is it? You don't sound ok."
"That's because I'm not!" The other end is quiet for a minute; I wait patiently for the rest of what he wants to say. "There's been... They won't let me... Just get down here ok?"
"Tell me where you are and I'll be right there."
"Downtown San Fran. I'm on... Oh god, I'm on East 12th street. Outside of a Starbucks."
I hang up and grab my car keys. The best part about being a detective is you can just leave and your boss doesn't give a rats' ass.
Arriving on East 12th I find a crowd of onlookers and four cop cars outside the Starbucks. Locking my car behind me, I navigate my way through the crowd with expertise that only comes with being in hundreds of mosh pits. I find Tré in the front of the crowd trying to push past the barricade of cops. I I. D. Myself and get into the middle of the circle, Tré right behind me. The nearest cop comes over to me and explains the situation.
"It happened at about 2:00-2:15. One shot in the back. Victim died on impact." He hands me a pair of gloves.
"Witnesses?" I ask.
"We've asked around 25 people, none of them saw anything."
"Well ask more," I bend down to the victim, who is laying face down on the sidewalk, "So why is it you called me Tré? I'm sure the CSI are doing their job." I ask him as I examine the entry wound of the bullet. When he doesn't answer, I turn around and look at him. He is extremely pale and sick looking.
"Maybe you should find a place to sit down," I say to him. Then to myself I mutter, "Lets see who you are." I pull the vic's wallet out of his back pocket. When I find his ID I drop it in horror. Slowly I turn the body to face up, and sure enough I'm staring into the cold dead face of one of my best friends, Billie Joe Armstrong. My stepsisters' husband.
"Shit." I get out my phone with a shaking hand and call Adrienne.
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