Chapter 3
1514 Words
Hands on my hips, I circled a white 2006 Toyota Carolla with what I hoped was a pensive look on Keisha’s face. David Mead stood with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed firmly on my plump ass.
For now, the plan was to use his “Car for Sale” ad as a ruse to get close to his pick up and keep Mr. Was Let Go after a s****l Harassment Suit’s hands away from me. Unfortunately, when I arrived five minutes ago the pick up was nowhere in sight and Mead’s fingers had lingered in our hand shake.
I brushed Keisha’s curly mane out of her face and bent at the waist to inspect the tires. “These new tires?” I asked, looking back to see Mead’s eyes on me.
“Bought them last year. Didn’t drive on them much.”
“It didn’t sit did it?” I asked, standing to open the passenger door and scan the mirrors.
“No. I got my new truck a few months ago and use that most of the time. It wouldn't have been more than 3 months.”
“A twenty year old car that sat for three months for 7k?” I asked, c*****g my hip and raising a brow at him.
Whatever trance my plus sized figure put him in disappeared and Mead scowled at me. “Take it or leave it. I don’t barter.”
“David, I'm just teasing." I flashed him a smile. "Before you let me ride, I wanna take a look at any paperwork you have on car maintenance."
"You really want it all huh?" He asked, grinning ear to ear from my innuendo.
"Call me high maintenance." I trailed my finger along the hood. "Maybe you can find out more later."
Mead's brow rose. "Yeah?"
"Gotta get this car mess figured out first." Then hoping to God it would move things in the right direction. "Those papers?"
Keisha had oversized brown eyes framed in long lashes. I tilted my head a fraction to unleash their full doe-like power on Mead. For good measure, I puffed out my chest a fraction. The shirt was low enough.
“Let me check,” Mead said, going to the garage door.
Fucking finally. I was one bad double entendre away from knocking him out and rummaging through his stuff.
The metal door rattled and rumbled on its way up. Behind sat the big, black murder machine.
Despite the age, there wasn’t a speck of dirt, a misplaced dirty hand print, or any obvious signs he flattened a cat. Frowning, I edged closer to the garage. When Mead looked at me, I smiled and leaned against the entrance.
He ruffled through a few drawers, glanced at me, then sighed. “It’s probably inside. Just stay here.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I smiled until he disappeared into his house, then dropped it to examine the truck.
It was spotless. Grill. Tires. Windows. Bumper. Inside. Outside. All freshly wiped down and vacuumed. Stifling a curse, I moved to the side away from the door and dropped to the oil covered concrete.
There had to be something.
I shrank my frame, sending most of my mass into bones and dense muscle. When I was small enough, I pushed myself under the truck and took a deep inhale. My olfactory receptors multiplied.
There. A whiff of decay and death.
I sniffed again then grinned when I saw the grime on the splash guard. I edged out and dug into my pocket for the chapstick I hollowed out and my phone. After taking pictures of the grime, I taped myself scraping it into the chapstick vial.
I stood then examining the contents in the harsh fluorescent light.
Dark brown crud. A pink-ish hair in the mix.
Good.
But that only proves he hit the cat, even if I can prove it was Keke. I need something else.
“Alright,” Mead said, sauntering into the garage with papers in hand. He paused to watch me pretend to apply chapstick then shove the vial in my pocket. “I got your papers. I’ll be honest, I didn’t keep up with the oil changes like I need to, but I got that recall fixed by the dealer.”
He handed them to me and I pretended to scan them. I nodded, as if all things were in order, then smiled at him.
“I want to take it for a drive, but before I do, can I use your lady’s room?”
Mead eyed me, then turned for the door and held it open. I sauntered through, letting my chest brush against him as he intended, and ducked into the house. It was small and messy. Dirty dishes stacked on the counter, trash overflowed, shoes littered the ground.
“Door to the left in the hall,” David called behind me.
I smiled and headed straight down the hallway. On the way into the bathroom, I watched him duck out of view into the kitchen. Rather than moving all the way in, I flipped on the light and the fan, then backed out.
David opened the fridge and I ducked into his bedroom. The door clicked closed behind me. There was a desk to the right littered with papers. Bills mostly. Tossed on his bed was an iPad.
The screen illuminated my face. Face ID. Easy Peasy. I took a breath to commit David’s face to mine. Wide bulbous nose. Balding head and whisps of black hairs. Jouls. Dark bags under the eyes. Round Face. Thin red lips. Sunken eyes.
The device unlocked.
I slipped the ipad under my shirt, relaxed my features back into Keisha, and cracked the door open. David hovered in the hallway. He listened into the bathroom, grumbled something, then moved into another room.
Carefully, I crept to the bathroom door and slipped inside. I locked the door and plopped on the toilet to play with my new toy.
Maybe there was a tweet, status update, or picture celebrating David’s murderous side. Luckily, every password was connected to his face ID.
But there was nothing. He hadn’t been active on his social media accounts for months and what he did post were reactions to the MMA fights.
“What do we have here?” I whispered.
His emails were a tinge more interesting. Spam for singles, viagra, the usual. Past due bill reminders. Nestled among them were emails advertising fights at a place called Andy’s Cannon. The email was vague, careful to leave out any details about what creatures were fighting, but it was clear they weren’t human.
I rolled my eyes, prepared to turn the damn thing off, but stopped when I saw a message from someone named “DoNotReply.” In it, it stated money would be wired into David’s account with nothing else in the email thread.
I searched the name in his sent folder with no results.
The last thing David sent was an email to himself at a hotmail account. What the hell was a hotmail account?
“Crossed off five more from the list.” Below were addresses with times. One of them was Mrs. Gimly’s. Tuesday, June 13th, 9:15 AM.
“Jackpot.”
I snagged pictures of the emails, and the corresponding deposit into his bank account on the same day as the email. This guy really needed to diversify his security. On a whim, I went to his Google Maps.
Recent history showed he’d searched several other addresses, which I later found in completed addresses.
“Hey,” David called, knocking on the door. “You dead in there?”
“Sorry! Those brussel sprouts really got me today.”
Brussel sprouts were the devil’s vegetable and I would never…
“Well, hurry up kid. I have places to be.”
“One sec!”
In the trash folder, I found the first email from “DoNotReply”
“Send confirmation once the job is completed and you will be paid. Delete this email once read.” In the body were twenty or so addresses. Nestled in the middle was Mrs. Gimly’s.
I stood from the toilet, flushed, then turned on the water. Rather than fake washing my hands, I took a picture of the email with my phone, then sat the ipad between the toilet and tub. Hopefully, when he goes looking for it, he’ll think he left it there.
Either way, it wasn’t like I cared. I’d be long gone before he even suspected Kara Ann, stole his stuff. Kara Ann is what I told him my name was right?
Hell if I remembered.
I opened the door and closed it behind me with embarrassment tugging my lips. “I’m so sorry.” I bowed my head and shuffled out the garage door and onto the driveway.
David followed hot on my heels. “Do you want that test drive?”
“No. Sorry!” I called over my shoulder.
Plan complete with no casualties.
I am really good at this.
- Writer
