Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (3 page)

When I had, she slipped me a plastic visitor’s badge.

“Through the doors there.” She pointed a nail-bitten finger.

“Thanks,” I said, but she’d already gone back to her
People.

I clipped the badge to my sweatshirt, then pressed my purse against my belly, which was making awful noises. Whether from hunger or anxiety, I wasn’t sure.

I hesitated at the doors, peering through them at the three people in a room crammed with desks. A female with a gray pageboy and a barrel-chested male fixed their attention on the woman whose back was to me. I could discern more than dark hair now: slim shoulders slightly slumped, hands gesticulating and then falling unseen into her lap.

The door buzzed as I pushed it open. It dropped closed behind me with a click.

“Molly?” I said.

Voices quieted at my entrance.

The detectives looked up.

The dark-haired woman turned around.

The face was not quite as I remembered. Even pale and drained, there was less flesh to the cheeks. The baby fat was gone, replaced by well-defined cheeks and jawbone. She had grown into features that had always been pretty and now bordered on knockout.

I swallowed, feeling suddenly gawky and thirteen again in my ponytail and sweatshirt.

“Andy?”

Green eyes brightened as recognition dawned, and the tight line of lips fell open to release a squeal of pleasure. A flush colored bloodless features.

“You’re here!”

Her chair scratched the floor as she flew out of it and toward me. She flung her arms around me and held on so tightly I nearly lost my breath.

“Thank you,” she said, again and again.

But I hadn’t done anything yet. Merely shown up. Maybe, to her, that was enough.

“Are you okay?” I asked when I managed to pry her to an arm’s length away. I studied her closely; saw the telltale puffiness around her eyes.

“I’m holding up.” She bit her lip and fresh tears welled at her lashes.

“The lawyer’s on his way over. It’s all arranged.” I rubbed her arms, oddly protective of this woman whom I hadn’t seen in years. She sorely needed a friend now, just as she had back at Hockaday. As had I. “Don’t say another word till he arrives.”

She nodded.

“It’ll be all right,” I said instinctively and patted her hand, wondering how many times she’d heard the same fairy tale before only to have it proved a lie.

I heard the noise of a clearing throat, and I looked up and over Molly’s shoulder. The gray-haired cop and her broad-bellied sidekick stood and watched us. Both had their arms crossed. Neither appeared as overjoyed as Molly to see me. “You shouldn’t be here, ma’am.”

“But I’m family,” I announced to them, deciding that “her long-lost friend, the artist” was pretty lame. “And you are?”

The detective with the pageboy stepped closer. “Detective Lydia Taylor.” She flicked a hand toward the Pillsbury Doughboy. “My partner, John Lord.”

Lord and Taylor?

I nearly made a joke about frequenting their shoe department, but figured it wasn’t wise since they were armed.

“Nice to meet you,” popped out of my mouth instead. Habit.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Detective Taylor drawled, not appearing that in the least. “I hate to interrupt your little reunion, but Ms. O’Brien was about to give us a statement.”

“If you don’t mind”—I summoned the nerve to cut her off—“I think she’ll just hold off saying anything else until she has counsel present.”

The detectives exchanged glances, and I waited for one or the other to say something, but neither did. I was rather proud of myself. Heck, I didn’t read Erle Stanley Gardner for nothing.

“And if it’s all right with you, could I have a minute alone with my, uh, sister?” I asked, directing my plea at Taylor, who seemed to be in the driver’s seat. Her partner hadn’t yet uttered more than a grunt. “Please?”

With a sigh, she gestured toward an empty desk well within earshot. Once Molly and I had seated ourselves, I leaned close to her and whispered, “Tell me everything.” I wanted to know exactly what I’d gotten myself into.

First, she made me promise to take care of her boy, and I swore that I would. She gave me directions to her place and made sure I wrote them down. Then she snapped a tissue from a box on the desk and began to shred it. “I don’t know where to start.”

I thought of the Game of Life and how often she and I had played it on the rug in my room at the house on Beverly when Mother had let her spend the night. Then I quietly urged her, “Start at Go.”

She stopped fiddling with the tissue, drew in a deep breath, and met my eyes. “I stayed late to help him close.”

“Bud,” I said, and she nodded.

“Bud Hartman,” she clarified, her voice so low I strained to hear. “He owns Jugs.” A flush spread upward from her collar, and I realized why. The place was well known in North Dallas, what with all the controversy it stirred up. I’d always thought of it as a hangout for macho men who believed they were better than their counterparts who hit the strip clubs.

“He’s a pig,” she ground out, then hastily added, “I mean, he was a pig.”

“Did he harass you?”

“You could say that.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Bud hit on anything that moved. He was like an octopus, you know? All arms. You had to be quick on your feet, or look out.” Her mouth quivered and her chin dropped. She stared down at her shoes. “Guess I didn’t dance fast enough this time.”

I saw the tear that splattered on the linoleum near her sneaker, and I knew I’d better forge ahead before she completely choked up. “Tell me what happened after everyone else left the restaurant. Do you usually close up with Bud?”

“No, it wasn’t my turn, but Julie said she was feeling sick during the shift and took off early.”

“Julie?”

“Julie Costello. She used to be a cheerleader for the Cowboys, but got busted for fraternizing with the players. She and Bud had a thing going, though he wasn’t what I’d call faithful. I doubt she was either.”

Molly paused, chewed her lip, then continued slowly.

“I put the cash from the day’s take into the bank bag, just like we’re supposed to, and I left it on Bud’s desk. He liked to make out the deposit slip himself, so I didn’t total it up except in my head. There must’ve been four or five thousand, at least. All those protestors just seem to make the place more popular.” She toyed with the tissue. “Like I said, I took the bag to his office and set it on the desk, then I went to the lockers to change. He’d shut off most of the lights, so it was pretty dark. I didn’t know where he was until I’d finished dressing and turned to go. He was there, Andy. Watching me.”

Her pupils widened like a cat’s, and I noted the twitch of muscles at her jaw. “All I wanted was to get home to my kid, but apparently he had other plans.” The slim hands clenched the Kleenex so hard her knuckles blanched. “He came after me, Andy. I was scared shitless.” She swallowed, and her neck quivered. “He had me pinned against the kitchen counter, and he started kissing me.” She stared off somewhere past my shoulder, seeing things that I couldn’t. “I got hold of a knife.” Her voice got lower, softer, quicker. “I lashed out at him.”

“Did you cut him?” I asked, reaching for her hands and holding them. They were trembling.

“Maybe . . . yes.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I must have, I guess. I’m not sure about anything anymore. I ran out of there so fast. I heard him call after me, so I figured he was pissed as hell. But he was alive.”

“You didn’t kill him?”

She didn’t hesitate. “No.”

The door banged open, and I raised my head to catch a lanky young man shooting into the room.

He stopped and pushed his preppy glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose. “I’m Brian Malone,” he announced, slightly breathless and flushed. He smoothed a palm over tousled brown hair and shifted his briefcase to his left hand, approaching the detectives with his right hand extended.

When neither Lord nor Taylor met him halfway, he dropped his arm to his side and began to work at the buttons on a rumpled blue blazer. He didn’t look old enough to buy beer without getting carded. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but he was too fresh-faced to be more than twenty-nine, thirty tops.

“I’m from Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt,” he said and squared his shoulders with Napoleonic flair.

The detectives appeared bored rather than impressed.

So he stammered, “I’m here to represent, uh”—he pulled a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket and squinted—“Polly O’Brien.”

Molly stared at me with round eyes.

I tried to keep my mouth from falling open.

This was the shark that J.D. had sent to get Molly off the hook for murder?

I
stood helplessly as the detectives led Molly away.

They were taking her down to the basement to book her for murder. She peered tearfully over her shoulder before she disappeared from my sight. A tremor shot through me. Goose bumps rippled over my skin.

I turned on Brian Malone and hissed, “Don’t just stand there.
Do
something!”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

I wanted to challenge the statement, to curse his law firm for putting him on the case instead of an older man, someone who appeared to have actually spent some time in a courtroom, much less a police station, but I pressed my lips into a tight line and said nothing. No doubt his credentials were impeccable, or he wouldn’t be driving the carpool at ARGH, much less handling criminal trials.

“They’ve got cause to charge her with murder,” he told me, giving his glasses a little shove. “Unfortunately, from the sound of things, they’ve got enough on your friend to lock her up and throw away the key.”

“It’s all circumstantial.”

“No, it’s not.”

I tapped my foot on the floor, wishing I could cover my ears with my hands, not wanting to hear another word.

“They have a witness who saw her run out of the restaurant at close to one o’clock this morning. The shopping center security guard watched her exit the back door, hop into her truck, and take off like Mario Andretti.” Malone ticked off each point on his fingertips. “He got her license plate, which is what led them to her so quickly. Did you know she has a prior conviction for writing bad checks?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “They got a warrant to search her apartment, and turned up a white T-shirt and a pair of sneakers with traces of blood. And they have the knife from Bud’s back, which is covered with her prints.”

“Enough,” I stopped him and let out a held breath, feeling like a balloon with a slow leak. It didn’t look good for my old friend. That was abundantly clear. It didn’t hit me until then how deep in trouble Molly was. I’d imagined before that it was all a mistake, a fluke that could be cleared up with the right words, the right kind of persuasion.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

A man named Bud Hartman was dead, and all the evidence pointed to Molly.

I felt a light touch on my arm and found Malone’s eyes on me, the pity so plain in them I had to glance away.

“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you thought you did,” he suggested. “Your mother told J.D. that she was someone you’d befriended in high school. That you’d lost touch years ago. Maybe she isn’t the same person you used to know.”

I shook my head and shrugged off his hand, denying his words with a vehement “No.” More vehement because I had wondered the same thing myself and didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe it. Maybe I didn’t know everything about Molly, but I knew enough to be sure she was no killer.

“She didn’t do it,” I said and met Malone’s gaze, seeing my own bespectacled eyes reflected in his glasses. “Molly told me what happened, that Bud forced himself on her and she fended him off. She might have cut him with the knife, but he was alive when she left. She heard him shouting.”

“So she says.”

“She didn’t stab him to death.”

“It may have been self-defense.” He rubbed his chin. “She’s a very pretty lady. If the guy got rough with her, it makes sense. It’s a common enough scenario. Juries usually take pity on the woman and sentences aren’t so stiff.”

“She’s innocent, for Pete’s sake!”

“I’m only being realistic.”

“Pessimistic is more like it.” My hands curled to fists, and it was all I could do not to swing at him.

A half-smile took shape on his mouth. “You’re amazingly loyal, Ms. Kendricks. And different than I expected.”

“Oh?”

“I know your mother,” he explained, tugging on his earlobe. “She has quite a reputation at the firm. I thought you’d be more like her.”

“A demanding diva, you mean?” I filled in the blanks. “Dressed to the nines? As you can see, I rarely wear haute couture.” I swept a hand over my paint-smudged sweatshirt and blue jeans, an outfit that Cissy wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“Your words, not mine.” He smiled fully now, not embarrassed in the least, which made me believe he might have more backbone than I’d suspected.

“Fair enough.”

“Listen, Ms. Kendricks . . .”

“Andy,” I said instinctively, and I felt my anger draining away as quickly as it had surged.

“Andy,” he repeated, nodding. “It doesn’t look good, but I’ll see what I can do for Ms. O’Brien. I promise.”

He appeared so earnest and well meaning. Somehow I knew he was doing the best job he could.

I glanced toward the door through which they’d taken Molly, and I felt wiped out. My head was heavy, my mind unable to focus. Perhaps someone would shake me, and I’d wake up to find this was all a bad dream.

The fatigue must’ve shown in my face because Malone said gently, “You might as well go home. There’s nothing you can do here.”

I didn’t even look at my watch, but figured it wasn’t yet seven. I’d promised to go over to Molly’s apartment complex and get David from the landlady. It would give me something to do, something to keep me from feeling completely useless.

“I’ll stick around until they take her to Lew Sterrett, then I’ll head downtown myself and handle her bond hearing. Though I don’t think they’ll let her go. She has no family in town, no one except her son. There’s nothing to say she won’t flee.”