Celia wanted to change the subject. “I already planned to change my number. I’ll give the report definite thought. But I’ve already wasted part of the hour we have. If you’re ready, I’d like to talk about the next murder.”
“Fine. I’ve given my opinion. Just don’t be late next time.” Natasha smiled. “We can talk about Roland.”
“Were you concerned about killing a police officer?”
“He was retired. He took early retirement, in fact, and based on the way he had treated me, I suspected he’d been caught more than once being unethical. Men with his temper and God complex usually break the rules.”
“What did he do to make you so angry?”
“Not long after I began driving, I was stupid and young and liked to speed. One night I was driving home from a party, and since the road was deserted, I thought I’d open up my little sports car and see what she could do, as they say. Roland was lying in wait behind some trees and pulled me over.”
“A pain in the ass, but understandable I guess.”
“Getting pulled over was irritating, but it was his manner that truly infuriated me.” Natasha reached for another cigarette. “He made me get out of the car, asked about my citizenship, asked where I was going so late at night. I admit I was a bit of a smart aleck. He didn’t want to give me back my license right away, and when I grabbed his hand to reach for it, he told me I was assaulting an officer.”
“Good grief!”
“Yes, my father had to come to the station, and my car was impounded. Our attorney took care of it, but my father checked into Roland. Let’s just say he wasn’t squeaky clean. He had complaints against him for being overly rough and other infractions.”
“Was he reprimanded?”
“A slap on the wrist at most. But it was enough to make him vengeful. I can’t count the number of times I saw him follow me, the number of questions he asked every time there was an issue on a set or at a bar or restraint where I happened to be dining. I was glad when he retired.”
“How did you get into his house?”
“That was quite easy. He was too arrogant to have a fancy alarm system. All he needed was a gun, you see. I visited his house more than once while he was out partying or with a lady friend. That was how I found the gun.”
“Wait, so the gun was his? Why wasn’t it traced back to him?”
“I could tell by the way it was hidden and its appearance that he’d lifted it from some crime scene. It wasn’t stored the way his other weapons were, and it was dirty. A man like him would keep his legal weapons clean. I left it where it was and waited for the right time.”
“So what happened?”
Natasha smiled. “I have to say, the first murder I committed was out of necessity. This one? This one I enjoyed.”
Celia could tell by the way Natasha sat back and looked to be reliving it that she was telling the truth. “Do I need popcorn for this scene?”
“You might,” Natasha laughed. “Too bad there’s no spotlight...” She closed her eyes, and Celia smiled at the theatrics.
Roland sat up in bed, not sure what woke him. Had it been noise or just a sense that something was wrong? He tried chiding himself, but his heart continued to pound, and his dog whimpered in her sleep. It was quiet enough in his bedroom to hear the whirring of his laptop on the desk across from his bed. But the quiet didn’t reassure him; it made him more skittish. Swearing to himself, Roland left the bed and went to his closet to retrieve the 9mm.
His mouth went dry when he discovered the empty box; it was missing. The gun was missing—not his issued weapon. That one was locked in its case beside his bed. This was the unregistered gun he had confiscated from a crime scene years before. He thought he might need it someday. And now it was gone. He was going to have to find the gun. Swearing, he headed to the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes as he stood at the toilet.
“Tsk, tsk officer. Doesn’t this gun belong in an evidence locker somewhere?”
He turned, Natasha stood there. He watched her hands around the gun for some hint of shaking; shaking would indicate uncertainty. Her hands were as steady as his had been trained to be.
“I thought it might come in handy one day,” he replied, not moving.
“And so it has. Did you bend the rules and beat the drug dealer or rapist you confiscated this from?”
Roland nodded quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “He did do something wrong. That means it was okay for you to do something wrong, correct?”
“Natasha...”
“Shut up. Nobody wants to hear you moralize. Turn around.”
He didn’t move except to move his gaze from her hands to her face.
“Turn around, former detective, and put your hands in front of you.” She cocked the gun. “Or don’t.”
Roland shakily turned and did as she asked, bile burning his tongue.
“Good boy. Don’t worry. I know you were blinded by your ego, so I’ll be quicker. And you don’t claim to believe in God, so I can’t hold you accountable for breaking the very morals you claim to believe. Besides, you aren’t very smart. You probably didn’t have a choice.”
Roland flinched at that last part. He heard her footsteps, and then the end of the barrel pressed coldly against the base of his neck, where his brain stem felt as if it was pulsing. “Please...” He heard himself whisper.
“I’m not sorry,” she whispered back.
A loud, smoky explosion filled the room. Then it was silent.
Celia wrote in silence, absorbing
