The Murder of Elliot Sunday

ulterior motives

I stormed home in more of a huff than usual. I shouldn't have been this worked up. It was just a case, just another case.

But it was also my first case in this godforsaken city, and if I messed it up, it was unlikely that I'd get another chance in the near future.

Cyrah called me just as I was leaving Sunday's building. "Did you find anything?"

I managed to unclench my seething jaw for long enough to respond. "Sunday definitely knows something. In fact, he was almost certainly there when the murder happened."

Cyrah made a noise. "If he was there, why isn't he dead?"

"Good question. But he was certainly shot."

Silence.

"What do you mean? Did he tell you that? Did he tell you that, but not the name of the murderer?"

"Well, he didn't exactly tell me. I... I saw it."

Silence.

"You didn't follow him home, did you?" Cyrah asked suspiciously.

I blinked. "How did you know that?"

"I would have done the same thing in your position, that's how," Cyrah said. I could practically hear her preening from here. "Nice of him to show off his battle scars. How'd you manage that?"

"I don't think he's doing too well," I said. "He had bandages, but he was bleeding through them quite a bit."

I could hear a faint staccato tapping through the phone. "Interesting. I take it you're going back tomorrow?"

I nodded, then remembered she couldn't see me. "Yes. Of course."

"Good." A long stretch of silence. Then, "Liana? Be careful with this one."

I smiled. "Thanks, Cyrah. See you tomorrow."

I took the stairs up to my apartment, somehow wanting to prolong the distance from here to my home. I was exhausted, and I didn't quite feel like facing anybody at the moment. Unfortunately, my girlfriend was not an easy person to avoid.

As soon as I opened the door to the apartment, Tate was upon me, her smile as bright as the sun. "Lee!"

"Hey," I said, suppressing a yawn. "I don't suppose we have any food in this dump?"

She nudged me, grinning. "Oh, hush. It might be a dump, but at least you're not stuck in Min-ee-so-dah anymore, huh?"

I gave her a weary smile. "I suppose. Seriously, though, do we have anything to eat, Rachel? I'm starving."

"I'll see what we have," Rachel said. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and hurried off to the kitchen while I flopped back onto our couch.

Rachel and I met in college a few years back, and after the Brayban fiasco we'd both been more than ready to move somewhere in the big city, somewhere less stifling than the tiny town where my entire career had nearly been destroyed.

Sometimes, though, I wondered if moving here had been a smart move. Fordham was a massive, always-busy city, the kind of place where it was easy to be swallowed up by the anonymity of a crowd. Rachel had never liked anonymity, though. Even if she never said it out loud, I got the feeling that she'd preferred the tiny town of Henway, where everybody knew everybody.

"Here, we have cheese," Rachel said, tossing me a cheese stick as she stepped back into the room. "Enjoy it. Savor it."

I took a big bite of cheese, grimacing at the rubbery texture. Our grimy apartment was expensive, and the pitiful amount of money we had left after paying rent wasn't nearly enough to buy anything I would consider food.

"So how was work? You still stuck in that cubicle?" Rachel asked. She sank into our sole armchair, tucking her legs up underneath her.

I shook my head, downing the last of my cheese. "Started my first investigation today, actually. A murder."

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Really? Anything interesting?"

"The guy isn't dead," I said.

"Hm. That's not a murder, that's a threat," Rachel said.

I curled up on the couch, tugging a worn blanket over my lap. "Except it was a murder. Somebody died, just... not the right somebody." I fiddled with a thread on the edge of the blanket. "I'm going back there tomorrow morning to question him some more."

"The dead guy?"

"No, the one who should be dead," I said. "Elliot Sunday."

I almost didn't catch the way Rachel stiffened. She relaxed again, though, so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. "Never heard of him."

"I hadn't, either," I said, doing my best to act normally. "He's just a businessman. He works in finances."

Rachel nodded and stood. "I just remembered, I have to do something before work tomorrow. You know how they are over at the daycare, they get so uptight about the kids..." She smiled at me, a smile so normal I wondered if I'd imagined everything. "Get some rest. You look worried."

It took me a long time, too long, to fall asleep. And when I dreamed, the only images that filled my head were Elliot Sunday's bullet-ridden chest and Rachel's perfectly normal, unsuspicious smile.

My alarm woke me at six. I groaned and rolled out of bed, taking a moment to sort through my muddled thoughts.

Rachel was already gone, I noticed as I poured myself a bowl of cereal. That wasn't exactly unusual, but it certainly wasn't normal, either. I shook my head hard. This was no time to worry about Rachel. I had a murderer to catch.

I left my cereal on the countertop and walked over to where I'd hung my coat yesterday, fishing through the pockets until I found the notepad Sunday had given me. I scooped big bites of cereal into my mouth as I perused my notes.

I hadn't written down much yesterday, so I took the time to fill in what I remembered:

     -- Sunday didn't know who had been murdered.

     -- A lot of people held grudges against him: his ex, his brother, and his boss, among others.

     -- He worked for Twelfth Star, a business of undetermined origins and purpose.

     -- He was lying about a lot of things.

     -- He knew who had tried to kill him.

     -- He had been shot twice.

I glared at the notepad. It wasn't much information, not if Sunday kept lying to me. I would have to be more aggressive in my questioning today. I rinsed out my bowl, tossed it in the dishwasher, and got ready for the day.

At 7:30, I left my apartment building. The air outside was fragrant with the scent of bodily odors and gasoline. By some miracle, I managed to hail a cab, though I almost instantly regretted it: the smell was even stronger in here, and the cabbie drove like he was being pursued by the devil himself.

I was dropped off in front of Twelfth Star's offices and took a moment to regain my focus and sense of self-worth. It was 7:48; I was a bit early, but that was okay. Better early than late.

The receptionist recognized me and waved me upstairs without question. Just like the first time I came here yesterday, it was eerily silent on Sunday's floor.

Silent, that is, except for the voices coming from Sunday's office.

I was instantly on high alert, any remaining nausea from the cab ride vanishing. The other voice sounded distinctly feminine. If Sunday's ex was back--

But no. This woman was sleek, professional, I observed as I stepped up to the doorway. Tightly coiffed black hair, sharply manicured nails, a suit so stiff it probably could have stood by itself.

Was she a business partner? A coworker?

Sunday suddenly looked up, and his lips twitched as though restraining a smile. "Ah, Ms. Maybell. Come in. I'd like to introduce you to Inspector Mikayla Bennis."