She'd had to give up the black pick-up. Too obvious for this kind of work. Instead, she sat in a plain Chevrolet six-cylinder she'd rented for the week. The body shop said it'd take them a month to get her car fixed, what with ordering the parts and all, but that they could recommend a real good rental agency, leading suspicious Marcy to believe that body shop and rental agency were owned by the same people.
It was 7:35 a.m. and still snowing hard and there was virtually no music to be found on the radio. Everything was school closings and traffic reports and warnings to drive safely; everything was stay-tuned-for-further-traffic-and-weather-updates… all delivered in a tone that let you know that these radio station folks were virtual saints. We love your collective asses off, folks. We really do. That's why we're giving you all these groovy facts about the blizzard.
All Marcy wanted was a little music.
Well, and one more thing: she wanted the guy who came out of the ranch house to match the James Coburn lookalike on the photo that Jill had taken.
In the past week, Jose had been able to come up with forty-seven blue Volvos in the Illinois vehicle registration computer. By now, Marcy had visited thirty-nine of the owners. They had been fat, bald, black, crippled, red-haired, brown-haired and shaven-headed… but not one of them had been white-haired and not one of them had borne even a passing resemblance to James Coburn.
She only had eight to go.
Please God, make this the right one.
And please God, while You're at it, could You give us a little respite from traffic reports and all that stuff? You know I don't wake up in the morning unless I have three cups of steaming black coffee and a lot of really loud rock and roll.
The coffee she had. She'd filled a thermos at 7-Eleven.
It was the rock and roll she missed. Unlike her own car, this renter didn't have a tape deck.
She really needed some rock and roll.
Really really.
'Oh, God.'
'What?' Mitch said.
'The alarm. It didn't go off,' Jill said.
'It didn't? I thought you were going to pick up a new one yesterday.'
'I forgot.'
This time, Mitch said it: 'Oh, God.'
And then Mitch, in his subdued mint-green boxer shorts, and Jill in her pink silk pajamas, leapt from bed and got their respective mornings off to a heart-pounding start.
'You take the bathroom first,' Jill said. 'I'll start the coffee.'
'I'll be happy to start the coffee.'
She shook her head. 'I'm so groggy I need the caffeine even before I take a shower.'
Mitch padded into the bathroom and proceeded to perform a couple of really impressive (at least to him) stunts he'd picked up over the years. To wit: Mitch knew how to pee while brushing his teeth with his right hand and using his electric razor with his left.
He was performing this circus act when Jill knocked on the door and said, 'We should've looked out the window.'
Mitch took the toothbrush from his mouth. 'How come?'
'There's three feet of snow on the ground. We're having a blizzard.'
'Oh, God.'
'Everything and everybody's going to be late this morning. We can probably take our time a little more.'
'I'll call the Lieutenant and see how things are stacking up this morning. I still want to check out a few more bars.'
Five days ago, Jill had introduced Mitch to Marcy. They'd agreed that Mitch, with any time he could spare away from his socialite murder case, would check all the bars Eric Brooks had been known to hang out in. Mitch would look for the young woman who'd been in Eric's office. Jill had given him a detailed description of her. In the meantime, Marcy would go through the names and addresses of blue Volvo owners registered in and around Chicago.
During this same time, Jill had virtually shut down her business. The press made it impossible for her to work. Either they were calling her (and getting her answering machine) or they were banging on her door (and getting no reply). Some of the more industrious ones followed her to the supermarket and mall and post office, ambushing her when she emerged from these places.
They played just the angle she'd predicted they would: EX-WIFE OF SERIAL KILLER A KILLER HERSELF?
Hints 'Mystery Woman' Can Prove Her Innocence
It didn't hurt (from their point of view) that she was attractive, single, worked in what was considered a 'fashionable' occupation, and had once been associated with one of the state's wealthiest and most prominent families. All this made it easier to portray her as the femme fatale. They hinted darkly that Jill and Eric had been lovers as well as co-owners of the ad agency; and then there'd been a falling out, leading Jill to murder him. One TV station, in a news segment they called You Be The Judge, asked twenty-five people on the street if they thought that Jill had killed Eric. Twenty-three said yes; one said no; one wasn't sure. Jill had been convicted.
Jill had spent a good portion of each day at her lawyer's, going over and over her story of the night Eric had been murdered. She'd talked about the man in the blue Volvo who'd been watching her house, and she'd talked about the young woman in Eric's office. And she'd talked, over and over again, about how unreal all this seemed. She was plain old Jill Coffey. Anybody who knew her, was aware that she could never kill anybody. Not plain old Jill Coffey.
She eased the bathroom door open and waggled the front page of a morning newspaper at him. 'Guess who's on the front page again?'
He turned, still shaving, toothbrush still in his mouth but finally done tinkling and looked at the story in the upper right-hand section, complete with a close-up shot of Jill that had been taken one
night when she was all dressed up for an AIDS fund-raising ball. She looked beautiful. The headline read: BEAUTIFUL WOMEN WHO KILL
'They've got me in with some good company, anyway. A few actresses remembering Andy Williams' wife who killed that skier she was having an affair with and several prominent society matrons.'
'Those bastards.' He clicked off the shaver, set it down, took the toothbrush from his mouth, rinsed, spat and then walked over to her.
He pulled her to him.
She pushed him away. 'Oh God, no, Mitch. Morning mouth. Not fair. You've already brushed your teeth.'
'Then give me a hug.'
A hug she was willing to give him.
He knew she was trying to be tough about it all but he could gauge by the slight frantic air of her derisive laughter as she'd shown him the newspaper how the assault by the press was taking its toll on her.
They were convicting her long before she would ever come to trial, long before the police had a decent chance to find the real killer.
He hugged her. Tight. 'Have I told you how much I love you?'
She laughed. 'Not for five minutes.'
'Well then, I'm overdue.'
'Oh God, Mitch, I'd never make it through this without you. I really wouldn't.'
She put her face deep into his neck and after a moment he could feel her soft warm little-girl tears.
He held her more gently than he ever had before, trying to convey through the physical act of embracing all the tenderness and respect and abiding love he felt for her.
God granted one of Marcy's wishes, anyway.
She was able to find a rock and roll station that played, in order, 'My Sharona, Love Shack' and 'Give Me That Old-Time Rock And Roll'.
She was pounding the dash and having a great time.
The other wish He could have done a little better with, trying to match the James Coburn guy in the photo to the guy who lived in this house.