After the Fall by Patricia Gussin Page B

prevent fingerprints, but unlikely that cops would connect Mack’s garage to Karolee’s murder. The gun was another matter. He’d chosen it from the collection of firearms he’d amassed over the years. Jake’s fishing and card-playing buddies knew he had a gun collection, but none were familiar enough to know a piece was missing. When it came to police questions about his guns, he’d try to avoid disclosing that he kept them in a secure gun compartment. He didn’t have aconcealed-carry permit, but so what. The Smith & Wesson would not be missed, nor could it be traced to him.
    First order of business: empty the gun, wipe it down, get rid of it. He’d already chosen the location in Croydon Creek; fast and easy to drop the gun where the thick muck would hide it forever. This time of year, the locals had no interest in the creek, and Jake’s disposal attracted no attention. A dull career as a project planner had its satisfactions. Usually plans worked—as planned.
    Five minutes later, Jake pulled the Jeep into the clearing he’d chosen, off the Twinbrook Parkway, a busy thoroughfare leading north from the Parklawn Building where he worked. Five minutes into his usual drive, ten minutes away from his house, the site offered a secluded spot as well as proximity to a middle class neighborhood where he could ask for help and get it. He went to work immediately. Opening the Jeep’s hood, using asbestos gloves, he quickly severed the serpentine belt with industrial-sized scissors. He cut the snake-like, ribbed-metal belt into six pieces and stuffed them in a heavy plastic bag. The ground was frozen, so forget trying to bury the pieces. He cinched the bag and tied it around his waist, under his heavy jacket. Made him look like he had the start of a potbelly, something most men his age carried around. He’d ditch the bag in the first available dumpster on the way home.
    Jake rehearsed his story: his beloved Jeep overheating all of a sudden, his complete ignorance about cars and panic at the red light flashing on the dash. No antifreeze with him. He does know enough not to drive when that hot light is on, so he waits, but the engine was still just as hot after a good thirty minutes.
    The account sounded good to him, so he left the vehicle, hood up, and headed through a sparsely wooded area to the neighborhood about a hundred feet away. He stopped at the first house with a light on. He came out of the shadows, stood under the porch light, and knocked on the door.
    A sturdy white man about his own age answered. “He’p ya?”
    â€œCar broke down off Twinbrook. Sorry to bother you, man,but could I use your phone to call a garage or a tow? Think I’ll need a tow.”
    â€œYeah, come on in. What you got?”
    What I got?
Jake stood, perplexed.
    â€œWhat the fuck’s wrong with your car, man?”
    â€œDon’t know. Heated up. I waited fifteen minutes, you know, for it to cool down. Tried again. Red light still on. Tried again. Twice. But the engine’s still too hot to drive. Don’t have any antifreeze in the vehicle. It was getting dark—”
    â€œI’ll take a look, man. I got some antifreeze if that’s all it is. You get a tow, fuckers’ll rob ya blind.” He grabbed a heavy, black-and-white checkered coat and led the way out, stopping in his garage to grab a container of antifreeze, going back in again for an industrial-size flashlight.
    â€œCan’t thank you enough,” Jake mumbled. This was working out better than he’d expected. Two layers of alibi. This Good Samaritan and the eventual tow-truck driver.
    Jake led the way to his vehicle. “Here it is.”
    â€œFuck, man, not smart to leave the hood open. Neighborhood’s not bad, but—”
    â€œShould have known better,” Jake said. “Hope nobody walked off with any parts.”
    Good Samaritan reached into a jacket pocket and pulled