Nanowrimo, day 1
As part of Chuck Wendig's blog "terrible minds", I'm posting today's 1568 words. This is part of a novel in progress and kind of took me by surprise. This is chapter introduces a new character I hadn't planned on inventing...
Liz cursed herself for not seeing it coming. When they stepped outside, she in the lead, Andrea, Sophia and the baby in a tight knot behind her and Mark behind them, the news trucks had already pulled up.
They had allowed Andrea a few minutes to make sure Sophia had gotten all her stuff; Mark had led the ME through the back of the house. In the time they’d been inside, the police tape had finished going up and more neighbors had gathered in the street, edging closer to the tape and the police cars. Some were already getting miked to talk to reporters who were still primping-adjusting ties or checking lipstick or finding just the right place to stand in the street.
She stopped, heard a small sigh from Andrea.
“Liz?” Mark said.
“Never mind.” Too late. Evan Bloom stepped out from the channel 9 truck, a smile on his face as he approached the curbside of the Ruiz house. Old friend to old friend, a kid she’d grown up with, a guy she’d dated-oh, hell, who was she kidding? A guy who’d proposed marriage, the son of her father’s best friend, now a successful news anchor, much to his father’s chagrin. She supposed in the end they’d both ended up as disappointments to their remaining parents; their failed engagement had been just one other piece of the puzzle.
“Liz!” He tried to get around the tape but Grijalva slid in front of him and put out her hand with a quick glance toward Liz.
“Sorry, Mr. Bloom. This area is cordoned off. Crime scene.” Grijalva sounded like she was talking to someone who didn’t understand what a crime scene looked like. Surely, Grijalva had recognized him. His face adorned billboards all over town, airbrushed to work out the crow’s feet around his eyes, his hair carefully greying to give him that look of distinction.
“Detective Riley!” Evan looked past Grijalva. “Detective?”
Liz turned to Andrea. “I don’t want you talking to any of these guys. Is that clear?”
Andrea scowled. “That sounds like an order. And you said we’re not under arrest.”
“It’s for your own benefit, Ms. Shepard,” Mark said. “You want me to head him off, Liz?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got it. Officer Grijalva,” she called. “Detective Miller could use some help.”
Grijalva’s partner had joined her at the police tape as additional reporters lined up near the house while others fanned out, talking to neighbors. Liz scanned the street, saw the group grow, people emerging from their homes to join the knot in the street. Most of them were women younger than herself, carrying babies, holding little kids by the hand. She glanced at Sophia, saw her wave at one of the girls who waved back. The group was closing in, reminding Liz of a zombie film-one, then one more, until they were a crush on the house, the trucks and the police line. None of them looked like they’d rush a line; there was fear, concern, uncertainty etched into their expressions. She understood. Nice neighborhood…
“This just doesn’t happen here.” Victoria had uttered those words over and over, like she could convince herself that they couldn’t possibly be living through a murder in THIS neighborhood.
Liz and Jenny and their mother had gone back to the house, Sidney and Eleanor Bloom with them as they’d gone through each room, picking through their clothes and photos, dishware, cassette tapes…at the time, Liz hadn’t considered NOT being next to her mother but now she wondered why Victoria had allowed them back to the house with her. Had she been afraid to let them out of her sight? Liz couldn’t remember now.
They’d put most of her father’s things in storage-his books, his clothes…she remembered glomming onto a mug she’d made him, something pink with hearts and flowers, all the things little girls loved. She remembered wishing she could have drawn a horse on it for him. After the police had gone through the house, the only thing missing was his typewriter--
Stupid! No fucking way-it was thirty years ago!
“Detective.” Grijalva stepped up, touched her arm.
“There, Grijalva.” She nodded toward Mark. “Mark, see if you can get them to Andrea’s house without a lot of people sticking microphones in their faces. I’ll deal with him.”
“Detective Riley!” Evan’s voice had taken on reporter mode. She looked up, saw a red light blinking on the camera behind him. It was aimed at her, not him, leaving her with little choice but to take the attention off the grieving parties behind her.
She took a deep breath, walked down the stone walkway and met Evan Bloom at the police line.
“What can you tell us, Detective?”
“This matter is under investigation.”
“Murder, right? From what I understand, the victim is a University professor who was being honored this weekend at the Creative Writing Center, soon to be christened the Jonathan Patrick Riley Center for Creative Writing.”
“Once the investigation is complete, we can make a statement.” She felt her face trying to fight its way out of professional to get the fuck out of my way. Bloom knew better..and maybe that was the problem. He did know, knew almost everything there was to know about the details of her past-at least, the objective ones. Murdered dad? Check. Living witness? Check. Unsolved case? Check. Recent run in with a potential rapist and department scrutiny? Check and check.
Evan turned away from her to the camera. “Evan Bloom reporting from the home of University of Arizona professor Joseph Ruiz. We don’t have details but it appears a police investigation is ongoing.” He held his finger to the earpiece he wore, nodded. “Yes, Olga, we did see his family being led from the home. We didn’t want to chase them down. We’re told that…well, we’re not really being told anything right now.” He turned to his camera man and drew his hand across his throat. The red light blinked off. Evan handed him the mike then the camera man took the equipment and walked back to his truck.
“Why are you here?” Liz said. “Evan. Don’t you belong behind a desk reading the news?”
“Don’t you belong behind a desk watching the news? I’m surprised they let you out, Liz.”
“You’re not really going to use that footage, are you? Ruiz’ little girl? Speculation?”
“You haven’t returned my calls.” He loosened his tie, glanced up at the sunlit sky. “Jesus, it’s hot out here.” He slipped out of his jacket. “I don’t like to do live shots but I saw that you were the detective on the case and…curiosity just got to me.” He flashed a very white smile her way.
The fact that they’d actually been engaged, months from walking down the aisle, seemed like someone else’s life. He was married now, had kids as far as she knew. One, two, four-she couldn’t remember. She knew him from two places now-news billboards and the Christmas card he dutifully sent her mother every year that was always a picture of himself, his wife, some number of kids and maybe a pet.
“Is that you who’s been calling me?” She pulled her phone out of her pocket, scrolled through the unknowns that populated her recent call list. Hang ups, every one of them, all hours of the night. Once she thought she’d heard a laugh but the call had come in at three a.m.
Crank calls didn’t seem like his thing but…
“Me? No, no. Not me.”
It seemed like a question she should answer-if not him then who-but the question landed at the bottom of the list of things to remember. For now. It had had no effect on the case at hand, certainly.
“Evan, really. What do you want?”
His expression changed a little; it seemed unguarded, genuine but maybe that was something he’d cultivated as a way to loosen people up, get them to talk where they might not otherwise.
“Why are you here?” he said. “Isn’t this too close to home? Didn’t they put you on desk duty because you punched that guy out?”
“Departmental reviews are confidential. So, again, you’re just speculating on something you know nothing about.”
He nodded, sucked on his bottom lip in thought. “I know a little more about you than the average Joe. You’re not going to tell me this isn’t opening up old wounds, old questions.”
She gazed past him. Reporters still stood in the street, talking, interviewing. Andrea’s house had two officers posted and they were doing a good job of keeping everyone off the property. Most of the neighbors had turned away from news reporter and had turned to each other, some wiping their eyes as they made their way back to their houses. It was a just a matter of time before their grief, their shock, would wash away and everyone would return to their regular lives, one story to tell of the guy who lived in that corner house…no one ever caught the killer, they’d say, like was the punchline of a Halloween ghost story.
Typewriter, laptop, both missing. Smoke and Mirrors…
“There are always questions,” she said. “And when they’re answered, you can finish your story. In the meantime, Evan, get out of my way.”