Shadows

So I am sitting in the living room of my best friend's apartment at some god forsaken hour in the middle of the night. His wife Elise called me in a panic to come over right away. Now she is chain smoking and occasionally drinking from a bottle of bourbon that the two of us are sharing. Her husband, Jake is lying dead in the bedroom. It seems that someone had nothing to do but unload about three bullets in to his body.

I've been here before, not the dead body thing, but involved in some stupid fiasco that could have been avoided if I had just kept my head on straight.

“Just call and confess. Later you can say that you were stricken with grief, tell the truth and pass one of those lie detector thingies. I will be waiting for you in Jamaica or some place. Just for you.”

She handed me the phone, “You have to sound sincere and all broken up about killing your best friend.”

“You mean I have to sell the cops that someone just committed a murder?”

“Yeah, sell the cops on committing a murder. You can do it, I know you can.” She squeezed my thigh as she handed me the phone.

I knew Jake since first grade, he was a louse, few people liked him, but he was always there for me even when he had to know I was sleeping with his wife. I sat back and easily envisioned Elise waiting for me naked on some tropical beach with rum drinks in hollowed out coconuts with those little paper umbrellas.

I dialed.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I need to report a shooting.”

“Someone you know?”

“Yes, ma'am. My best friend.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Yeah, his wife.”