When I Kill You Read Free Page B

purple Chevy Aveo, license BCEW 882. Are you getting all this down?”
    Reluctantly I started making notes.
    â€œHe’s home again by five thirty, except when he works late. He’s usually alone in the building at such times, but the store’s always locked up after hours. The doors work on a code, so if that’s when you want to do it, you’ll have to find a way of getting in. I can’t help you. On Fridays he always stops off at Benny’s Tavern for a few beers before coming home.”
    I raised my eyebrows. Benny’s was a serious watering hole. Judging from Stanley’s photo, I wouldn’t have pegged him as the type who’d hang out there.
    â€œOn Saturdays and Sundays,” Marcia went on, “he cuts the grass and washes his car. In the evenings he takes a walk before bedtime because he suffers from insomnia. Have you got all that? We sleep in different bedrooms, by the way.”
    I interrupted the flow. “If I do this—IF— how do I know you’ll keep your end of the deal? What’s to prevent you from continuing to blackmail me?”
    She shrugged. “Once Stanley’s dead, why would I want to turn you over to the police? You’d drag me in to protect yourself. So you see, we have a common interest.”
    It made more sense than her asking me to trust her. Mutual survival I could believe in. All the same, it wasn’t much to go on. “You’ll have to give me something more,” I said.
    â€œLike what?” Her pale eyes grew narrow.
    â€œOh, like a signed confession. In case I’m caught.”
    â€œIt’s your job to make sure you’re not.” She glared at me.
    â€œSomething that shows this was your idea would be good.” I tore off a sheet of paper from the notepad and gave it to her with the pen.
    She thought about it for a minute. “All right.” She scribbled something. “That good enough for you?”
    She had written I asked Gina Lopez to kill my husband.
    I shook my head, gave her another sheet of paper and dictated, “Make it ‘I confess I had my husband, Stanley Beekland, murdered.’ Leave my name out and date and sign it.”
    She wrote I confess I had my husband murdered . She dated it August 11, 2010 , and signed it M. Beekland .
    â€œYou forgot his name,” I pointed out.
    â€œIt’s good enough as it is,” she snapped. “How many husbands do I have?”
    I shrugged. It wasn’t much of a guarantee, but at least it gave me something to hit her back with. I took the paper, folded it and put it carefully away. Then I focused on the photograph, working myself up to disliking the face enough to kill the man.
    I asked, “So how do you want this done?”
    She looked shocked, like I’d told her a dirty joke. “That’s up to you. You’re the hit woman. But there are four conditions. First, I want to know in advance when and where you plan to do it because I’ll need to make sure I have an alibi. I don’t need to know how it’s done. In fact, I don’t want to know. I don’t have to tell you it’s very important that you cooperate with me on this. Remember, if anything backfires on me, you’ll go down too. Second, I want as little contact as possible between us. Don’t call me. I’ll call you. You have a mobile?”
    I nodded.
    â€œGive me your number and keep it on at all times.”
    I wrote it down for her.
    â€œThird,” she said, “I pay you nothing. As long as I keep quiet, you’ll collect on the insurance and you’ll stay out of prison. That should be enough.”
    She really was a mean bitch. But organized. I had to give her that. “What’s the fourth condition?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
    That was when she dropped the bomb. “You have seven days, including today, to do it.”
    I stared at her, thinking I couldn’t have heard