Murder book, p.22
Murder Book, page 22
“I know,” said Stackhouse. “You’re right, but I know how to get it. Let me at Captain Lott.”
Several hours and a flurry of planning later, Stackhouse and Val waited at the corner of Huntridge and Stayman Drive, in Bonsack, simmering in the June heat inside Val’s unmarked car. Despite the air vents humming, they felt much of the ninety degrees. The neighborhood before them was new construction. Cheaply built houses designed to look flashy, and crammed together with no yards to speak of, and Stackhouse thought it an appropriate metaphor for America, self-conscious flash without sustaining substance, falling apart at the first tremor of trouble. The cheap houses were attached to a nicer community, with well-to-do residents who couldn’t be happy about the crappy cars driving their streets.
A radio sputtered, “He’s rolling. Car fourteen in pursuit.”
“Roger that,” responded Stackhouse, checking her watch. “Car six moving.”
Val dropped into drive. “Here we go.”
She motored halfway around the neighborhood loop and stopped at a house that looked like all the others. A red Kia Spectra sat in the drive, personalized VA plate reading BOSSBCH.
Stackhouse’s heart was hammering. This was more meaningful than a patrol officer knocking on a door, something she’d done hundreds of times. First responders were summoned to places. They were called, they were needed.
Detectives, however, inserted themselves. They arrived unannounced.
Sure, a killer needed to be caught. But also in limbo was her reputation. Her self-confidence, ready to be smashed or bolstered. A lot of eyeballs were watching.
Allyson Knowles answered the door.
Like a cheap Barbie, sneering inside a cheap house. Number fifty-three in the company. Her monthly income wasn’t enough to make her wealthy, but enough to make her arrogant. Enough that she could look down on teachers and nurses, and force her husband to take her name, and retire him from CVS so he could be her bitch.
“Ms. Knowles, good afternoon,” said Stackhouse.
“Oh my gaaaaawd, you again. Didn’t I tell you?” She spoke to Val and jabbed at Stackhouse with a forefinger. “Did you look her up, did I tell you? She worked with Rose.”
“You did.” Val bounced on her toes. “You were right. This ol’ girl is a WIG girl.”
“I know. I know, I was right.”
“Rose signed me up without my knowledge,” admitted Stackhouse. “She stole my name and my photographs, and she double-dipped her income through me.”
“I knew it,” said Allyson. “I fucking knew it, I knew that skank was cheating. If you ask me, I bet she did it with others, too. I bet there are other illegal accounts, why stop with just you, you know?”
“I spoke with the CEO. He said Rose was exceptionally good at the con.”
“I’m sure she was. She used to be a porn star, after all. And a hooker. She never made money legitimately,” said Allyson, and she didn’t pronounce the final word correctly. She peered at Stackhouse with more interest. “You spoke with Don Hambrick?”
“On the phone, several times.”
“I’ve met him. When I was on stage in Tampa, the last two years. Backstage he even hit on me.” Allyson smirked, like she’d won something. “Next year I expect to be invited to the top earners retreat. Who knows what’ll happen there.”
“Do you do the same thing with your husband? The double-dip?”
“Of course I do. All the married girls do it. Why do you think I married Lonnie?” Allyson snorted. “Believe me, it wasn’t for the sex. Double-dipping isn’t cheating when you’re married. It’s legal. All the married girls funnel money first through our husband’s account, and then to ours. It’s within the rules. Some of the single women sign up their moms or sisters or something, and funnel it that way, promising them a cut. Don’t ask me how those bitches do their taxes. So, what, you’ll quit being a cop and sell makeup now, I guess?”
“No chance. I told Don to keep the money. He offered me the account, if I wanted it,” said Stackhouse. She was sweating. “It’s mine, after all.”
“Kiddo, maybe you should,” offered Val. “Cops don’t get paid enough. I saw Rose’s bank statements.”
Allyson’s face tightened. “Remember. She was a cheating whore.”
“It’s a land grab, though, right?” said Stackhouse. “Don’t you and Rose already have all the customers?”
“Are you kidding? Only like one percent of Roanoke uses WIG makeup. There’s ninety-nine percent still to go. I’m going to clean up. I will own this town. On second thought, cancel that account. I can’t compete with those cheekbones. Cancel that account and sign under me instead, sweetie. That way we don’t compete.”
Stackhouse glanced at her watch. “Maybe I could be up on stage one day, like you?”
“I don’t know. Just cancel that account and buy your makeup through me. Anyway. It’s time for you two to go bother other people.” Allyson set her hand on the door, ready to close it. “I was on the phone.”
“It’s funny, thinking about Lonnie selling makeup.” Stackhouse grinned. “He doesn’t fit the mold.”
“I already told you, all married women do the same thing. It’s not just me.”
“You two must have closets full of makeup, with the monthly shipments. Rose sure did.”
“Of course. I mean, I sell most of it, but I have some laying around. Jealous?”
“I love the stuff,” said Stackhouse.
“Okay, look, I’ll bring you some samples and then you can get the hell off my porch.”
“I noticed something, at Rose’s house,” said Stackhouse, aware of the clock ticking. “Her makeup wasn’t stolen. It’s good stuff, as you said. But, stacks of it were sitting around.”
“It’s great stuff. It’s luxury makeup. The killer must’ve been an idiot. You two want concealer? Eyeshadow? Bronzer? Hurry up.”
“Maybe the killer was an idiot. Or maybe the killer already had a lot of WIG product. Closets full of it,” said Stackhouse. “The killer didn’t need anymore.”
“Maybe, who knows.” Allyson closed her eyes and sighed. “Never mind. Just go. Please. Thank you for coming by, or whatever, now go.”
“The killer didn’t steal any perfume, either,” noted Val. “Like, really nice bottles. Can you believe that? Dior and Chanel, ritzy stuff.”
“Sure, whatever.”
“During the investigation, that part bothered me. Why not take the perfume? If you’re a killer, surely you wouldn’t object to stealing? Heck, even my partner Val here, she asked me to steal her a few bottles. I bet you would’ve, right, Allyson?”
Allyson’s face twitched, like she didn’t know whether to nod. “Maybe. I don’t know. Yes, probably. If I was the killer, I would’ve taken the perfume. See? It’s not me.”
Stackhouse snapped her fingers, like remembering something. “Also. Did I tell you? We found shoe impressions outside the house. Too big to match Rose. We think they belonged to the killer.”
“How great for you. Good bye.”
“A woman’s Nike sneaker.”
“I was in Tampa,” snapped Allyson.
“Here’s my thought process, Allyson, as I thought it through. Why wouldn’t a killer, a woman wearing size nine Nikes, take some WIG makeup? After all, it’s a luxury product. Because she already had a lot, probably.” Stackhouse had so much adrenaline running through her, her hands were shaking. “That answers that, but, why wouldn’t she take the perfume? Every woman understands the value of Dior and Chanel.”
“I told you, I’m busy and I don’t caaaare, gaaaawd this is annoying.”
“Because, Allyson, maybe she is a he. A man. A smaller man with smaller feet. Maybe he borrowed his wife’s shoes,” said Stackhouse.
“I…” Allyson said.
“Wouldn’t that be a shock to the wife? Oh boy oh boy, it would, though.” Val chuckled, bouncing on her toes. “To find out her husband wore her shoes to kill someone, and now she’s implicated. Yikes!”
“Yeah, yikes,” said Stackhouse.
“I was in Tampa, how many—”
“Lonnie wasn’t,” said Stackhouse.
“He… I showed you the airline tickets.” Allyson’s protest lost steam.
“I saw. Very convincing. You had me. But I looked over the photographs. I saw the pictures of you two, but I noticed an oddity. There are no photographs of Lonnie on stage. None of him at the conference. It’s you two smiling at a restaurant, or under a palm tree, but not at the conference. It’s like you two staged those photographs, beforehand, to look like he was there, and then you grouped them with the photographs actually taken while you were in Tampa alone.”
“This is insulting and I refuse to discuss it anymore.”
“If I ask the other conference attendees, they’ll tell me they saw you but never Lonnie, assuming he was up in the room or in the bathroom or out golfing, or whatever lie you told,” said Stackhouse, feeling it now, closing in. She knew she’d guessed right. But she didn’t have enough for an arrest yet. They needed more.
Allyson’s eyes had reddened and her lips pressed together, thin and pale.
“I saw you two, at the airport, him helping you with your luggage,” said Stackhouse. “I thought you looked tan. But Lonnie? He looked orange. Like he’d used bronzer, to appear like he’d been in the Florida sun for a week”
“You two are such…” Allyson’s voice shook. “You two bitches don’t know anything.”
“Can we come in?” asked Val. “Maybe look through your shoe closet? Dig up a pair of Nikes?”
Stackhouse’s radio whispered. She didn’t hear the words, but she guessed the meaning. It was showtime.
A car was approaching, the small sounds of an engine reaching them.
“If we arrest Lonnie for staying in Roanoke to kill Rose,” said Stackhouse, “I wonder if he’ll tell us it was your idea?”
“Boy oh boy, then you’ll really wish you talked first, huh, lady?”
Allyson looked like she might fall backward.
“Wanna bet?” said Stackhouse. “Let’s bet twenty-five to life.”
Allyson squirmed like she was being stabbed, an invisible dagger to the ribs, fear and outrage.
Lonnie’s little Toyota Yaris puttered into view. He eased next to the curb, but his eyes latched onto Stackhouse and Val. He mouthed shocked profanity, easy to lipread. Val turned, giving him a view of the badge on her belt, and she made a show of pointing.
“Here he is now,” said Val. “Thanks for your time, Allyson, we’ll ask him if it was your idea.”
Lonnie didn’t stop the car. The wheels inched forward, his eyes widening.
“Where’s he going?” asked Stackhouse.
“Uh oh, is that old boy running?”
“I didn’t do nothing,” Allyson shouted, an eruption of panic. “I was in Tampa! You can’t blame me for something he did! He did it!”
Stackhouse read Lonnie’s face like a seasoned professional would. Lonnie Knowles was a man tired of working at CVS as a pharmacy tech while his wife stayed at home and complained. He was a man frustrated with his car and career and life choices and his height, and she bet he ran into girls all the time who commented on his muscular build, while he dreaded coming home most days to a woman who called him her bitch, and now the police were in his yard, and they were pointing at him, and his wife was screaming, He did it!
Lonnie had done it. Because his wife paid the bills and she told him to do it, and now she was selling him out.
Lonnie stomped on the accelerator without thinking, not knowing where he would go or what he would do on arrival. Stackhouse was running, fitted performance jacket flapping like a cape, Val behind. Lonnie made it one house before two unmarked squad cars waiting in ambush hit their sirens, and they pulled into the road, an instant impassable clot. Sudden noise and lights. Lonnie’s escape was cut off by the car tailing him, driven by Sergeant Fry.
The Toyota Yaris desperately cut around Officer Palma but she drove into him, a crunch, and the impact nosed the little car’s bumper up on top of hers, so the steering wheel lost maneuverability, and a vehicular escape became immediately impossible for Lonnie. His door banged open and he stepped out.
Stackhouse reached him first, shouting, hands up, hands up, turn around, let me see those hands, but Lonnie was scared and indignant and he reached for something behind his back.
An awful moment, one that society asks law enforcement to endure on its behalf, one that keeps sworn officers awake. A suspect refusing to obey, reaching for something unseen, demanding officers make hard decisions.
Stackhouse was nearest. She heard her own voice, and the voices of others behind her, mingled into madness with the wailing sirens. How could anyone be logical in the storm.
Her first instinct was to fire. Squeeze the trigger again, again, again, and eliminate the threat.
Her second instinct was to close the distance. Close and engage, keep his hand away from a gun. She wanted to scream, to fight, to tackle.
Sergeant Fry’s voice was calling, calling, Stackhouse’s training taking over, and her feet stopped, muscle memory and wisdom assuming control of her actions.
She lowered to a knee to steady her aim, and to get out of the other officers’ line of fire.
“Lonnie, let me see those hands or I fire,” she said.
Her voice was hard as a rock and he flinched being struck by it. No empty threat. She was giving him a two-second warning. Her Glock was steady, her finger pointed alongside the barrel but ready to curl.
Then Val arrived next to her. Then Sergeant Fry. A unified wall. Officer Palma was flanking him. Then Officer Thacker was too. Overwhelming force bore down on Lonnie.
Both Lonnie’s hands rose, slow, empty, and he turned to face the Yaris, and he set his palms on the hot roof, and they saw a pistol in a holster on his hip. Somewhere outside of the scrum of cars, Allyson Knowles grabbed a bag and ran. Out the back door, into the adjacent neighborhood she fled, where the residents spotted her and called it in, and she was picked up five minutes later, crying and claiming Lonnie had done it all.
29
WIG makeup was good. A step up from the market standard. It was spreading like wildfire, using social media and friend-networks to grow, and WIG rewarded individual distributors to make it happen. A fortune waited for the brave and enterprising.
Allyson Knowles had realized this, over two years ago, that whoever gathered the most customers in a hurry would make millions. The trouble was, other women were better at it. Better at communication, better at the sell, better at the ask, better at marketing, better at friendship.
Cori Black from Williamsburg, for example. She excelled at networking, gobbling up women, and Allyson Knowles despised her, and so she convinced Lonnie of the wisdom of eliminating the competition. Kill the prospector, the land is ours.
Lonnie had beaten a couple assault charges ten years ago, and his chemicals were off balance due to steroids, and he hadn’t needed much persuasion. He stayed behind during last year’s WIG conference, slipping a prescription laxative into Cori’s latte at a coffee shop, and then slipping into her house to spike water bottles while she slept the night before her flight. She couldn’t reach the airport, too sick, so she stayed home, and Lonne pulled the trigger.
Allyson Knowles spent a week in Williamsburg afterward, hosting WIG parties, ‘land grabbing’, but she wasn’t likable enough. Not everyone could sell.
A year later, Rose Felton was building a damn empire, right in Allyson’s hometown. Rose Felton the porn star, of all people, and Allyson once again told Lonnie he had work to do. She helped establish the alibi, and Lonnie crafted another homemade silencer.
Unbeknownst to Allyson, Lonnie had gone back to Rose’s house, twice, trying to break into her computer and find her safe, because he’d seen the emails Rose had sent to Allyson, bragging about her money.
If he could find some of that, he’d be long gone, leaving Allyson behind.
The story spilled out as Stackhouse and Val and Captain Lott visited one interrogation room and then the other, attorneys begging their clients to be quiet but the couple’s anger had risen too high. Allyson screamed that Lonnie was guilty, and an idiot who should spend his life in jail, not her. Lonnie thought Allyson should burn along with him; she was the mastermind, after all.
“Go search Allyson’s bedroom,” he confessed to Stackhouse. “She told me, she said Loma Stubblefield was next. She already had the thing planned out, you’ll see. It was her idea, the whole damn thing.”
Tired and grinning outside the interrogation room, Stackhouse told Captain Lott, “Kip Broome, my ass. I don’t need his help.”
Lott laughed, and he knocked on Chief Almond’s door, catching him up. Stackhouse’s first week, she bagged the killer cold.
Almond forced a smile.
“My hat’s off to Roanoke’s finest.”
Stackhouse stayed an hour late, writing the incident and arrest reports at her desk in the detective bureau. Nightshift was searching the Knowles’ house, and they’d called her to confirm finding size nine women’s Nikes under the basement bed, and the shoes would soon be compared to the impressions from Rose’s house. That would have to wait though, because while they spoke on the phone, the nightshift was summoned to a shooting in Northwest. The world continued turning.
Alone now, Stackhouse’s glow had faded, the adrenaline worn off, and she was crashing from the high. Her stomach soured and she was sipping on a Pepsi and eating bagged trail mix from the machine to ward off the blues. On the corner of her desk was the Murder Book printout. Although unnecessary, she would add some final papers to the stack. A symbolic victory.
How thick would it be, by the time her career ended?
With the excitement over, engaged in busy work, her mind was free to wander and it latched onto her estranged father and his brain tumor. Her aunt had provided few details. Was the tumor malignant? When was the surgery? What were the chances of survival? Should she visit?
