I can’t prop this guy up, walk his body down to the elevator, then load him into my car. Even here, where screams in the night and the crash of glass is ignored, a corpse will raise eyebrows. Some do-gooder somewhere will call the cops. And FtypeBaby already gets looks whenever I take her out. Necks crane, her occupants are examined, a dead body would be noted. Plus, her trunk is puny. Big enough for designer luggage, too small for a dead body. I should have thought over these things during my car selection process. I do a slow sweep of the apartment and try to think.
The engine roars in a battle cry that mimics my heart. FtypeBaby opens up, screaming to ninety-four miles per hour before I bring her back, my foot easing off the gas, downshifting into third gear. The navigation screen showed a car rental place three blocks from Mulholland Oaks, but I wanted speed. Highway. The chance to let the wind blow through my hair and wash out any residual death. So I go farther, moving down two exits and pulling into a twenty-four-hour Hertz, parking on the far end of the lot, away from any other car. Get out, shut the door, caress her hood, and arm the locks. Then I step to the front, open the glass door, and wince when a bell dings. Loudly.
A square glass room. Empty, save a cheap counter and displayed brochures advertising GPS and additional insurance.
It takes three minutes for someone to appear, a gum-smacking girl who slides a clipboard across the counter without so much as a “kiss my ass” greeting.
I don’t touch the form. “Do you have any trucks?”
“Trucks?”
“Yes.”
She leans forward, an action that stretches her shirt tight across a huge chest, and I feel a bit of insecurity as I glance at my much smaller bust. Her weight on the counter, her boobs squashed together and beaming out of the neckline of her polo, she surveys the well-lit parking lot. Left, right, and left. I shift, certain there is a more technical process than this I-hump-the-counter-and-look method.
“Looks like we got a white Chevy. Fifteen hundred. Single-cab, that’ll work?”
“Yes.”
She nods to the form. “Sign the waiver, I’ll need a driver’s license.” She lifts a butt cheek and makes her way fully onto a stool, then types a few keystrokes.
“Name?”
I give her an alias I rarely use, one that Mike created while bored. The end result was Beverly Jane Norcross, who came complete with a driver’s license and prepaid credit card, the items overnighted to me along with an invoice, the words “defile this chick” scribbled in the margin. I paid the five grand, figured it’d come in handy at some point, but have rarely used the alias. Today, the day of moving bodies, seems like a good time to whip it out.
“How many days?”
I glance at my watch. 2:13 a.m. “I’ll have it back later today.”
“Morning, afternoon, or evening?”
“I don’t know. Put me down for evening, just to be safe.”
She goes through a halfhearted attempt to rent me a GPS system, a roadside assistance premium package, and three different levels of insurance. I’m at the stage of stabbing her to death with her cheap pen when she finally shuts up, returns my credit card, and looks up with a dry expression that I think is a smile. “Here are the keys. Bring it back full of gas or you’ll have to pay for us to fill it up.”
“Will my car be safe here?”
She blinks slowly, her eyes on mine, and I can’t tell if she is processing the question or has mentally checked out, her ability to process thought maxed out for the day. I start to repeat the question, but she jerks back to life with one slow gum snap. “The parking lot is fenced. I’m sure it will be fine.”
I nod, take the keys, and walk out, casting a wistful look at FtypeBaby as I walk toward the boring white truck that will be my accomplice in crime. I can practically hear her growl as I start up the Chevy and leave her behind.
Driving the truck reminds me of Jeremy’s. A similar size, the same XM options for my listening pleasure. I backtrack, at the apartment within ten minutes, the drive infinitely less enjoyable at a paltry sixty-two miles per hour. But the truck gets fewer looks. And when I back it up to the stairwell door, no one pays attention. I leave the truck and head upstairs to 6E.
I have never moved a man’s body. I used to drag Trent and Summer across the waxed floors of our home, a firm grip on the back of their jackets, or their pant legs, their squeals of pleasure setting a theme song to our play. But they were light, thirty or forty pounds. This man is heavy.
I move lights, stands, boxes, clearing a space in the middle of the room. Then I pull my mattress off, lean it against the wall, and drag my box spring to the middle of the room. Using a hammer, I pry off the staples that hold the fabric covering. Pull the nails that hold the cross beams. The work is not laborious, but is time consuming, my smooth hands not accustomed to manual labor, splinters piercing the delicate skin, calluses already forming on my palms by the time I stand, stretch my neck, and look at the finished product.