Born Innocent (20 page)

He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck. “That’s right. We ended up making love.”

Though she knew they should be on their way to San Francisco, she couldn’t resist. She turned her mouth to his. His mouth was warm—and so inviting.

She allowed her lips to part, and the kiss deepened as he lifted her and lay her on her back across the bed. He came down on top of her. His hard body felt so good pressing into hers. She began to think that perhaps a little later start wouldn’t hurt anything.

But just as her hands inched downward, to caress the hard curves of his back and buttocks, he relinquished her mouth and rose on his knees above her.

He grinned down at her. He looked very smug, she thought, in spite of the obvious bulge in his jeans.

“
You see?” he pointed out in a voice that was a little more husky than perhaps he intended. “You see what we
could
be doing, if you didn’t have to go out and chase down the bad guys?”

Claire sighed and smiled. “I’m willing to put the bad guys on hold for, say, twenty minutes or so.”

He faked a thoroughly offended look. “Twenty minutes?
Twenty minutes!
Twenty minutes isn’t half—hell, it isn’t a
quarter—
of the time I need to do all the things I’m going to do to you.”

She couldn’t help but ask, “What things?”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh
.
You’ll just have to wait.”

She blushed. She was
not
going to ask him “Till when?”

And he wouldn’t tell her. He stretched out over her once more, and taunted her with a last, bone-melting kiss. And then he stood and announced they had to be on their way.

Luckily, there was a pillow within easy reach. She hit him in the back of the head with it as he strode toward the door.

They checked into the Sir Walter Raleigh Hotel at a little after five and, since both of them were hungry, went out into chilly late-afternoon San Francisco looking for a quick bite to eat.

Two blocks down and around the corner, they found a sports bar and deli, where they got thick turkey sandwiches and tall bottles of beer. While they ate, they scanned the newspapers they’d bought at a stand on the way. The brief stories about Henson—and Claire—told them nothing they didn’t already know.

They talked about Henson’s wife, Mariah, for a while. Ted Hanks had learned that she was a very wealthy woman, and that her money was her own. She was the CEO of a large cosmetics firm based in San Francisco, and she’d married Henson five years before.

“
A very smart lady,” Joe said. “It’s a mystery why she married a shyster like Henson, but she’s been no fool about him when it comes to her fortune. She’s kept him far, far away from her money and her work.”

Claire took the list of names from Joe and found Mariah Henson’s address. “She lives right here in the city limits. We could start with her.”

Joe was shaking his head. “She’s still in Grass Valley, with Henson at the hospital, or at least she was this morning. I’ve got Ted keeping an eye on her place. He’ll contact us if she comes back to town.”

Claire swallowed her disappointment. She was a little anxious about trying to talk to Henson’s wife. After all, the way the woman had looked at her had turned her blood cold. But the woman was more likely than anyone to have some kind of clue to this whole mess. And, as far as Claire could see, a betrayed wife would have the best motive of all to steal Claire’s gun and shoot the man she thought was fooling around on her. No matter how airtight Mariah Henson’s alibi, Claire longed to try to talk to her.

But it looked as if the talk would have to wait.

“
Okay,” Claire conceded. “Then what?”

“
There are three other names with addresses right here in town. We’ll see how far we can get with them tonight.”

“
Sounds good.”

“
Okay. Now listen up...”

Joe explained how they would proceed with the list. They were going to try to catch the people face-to-face. He said that, in his experience, calling first rarely worked; it was so easy for people to just say no and hang up.

“
Sometimes, surprise is everything in getting people to open up,” he said. “It keeps you on your toes. Keeps you ahead of the other guy.”

“
I
don’t quite follow.”

“
You’ll see.” He tipped his beer at her. “Just try to... follow along, whatever I do. Take a hint.”

“
You mean, if you act strangely, I should play along.”

“
You got it.” He finished the beer.

Twenty-five minutes later, they were on their way.

They took a cable car partway to the first address they’d chosen, then walked. Claire, who’d always loved the crammed-together buildings and steep streets of San Francisco, found the walking exhilarating, though after half an hour of it, she was glad she had worn appropriate shoes.

Finally, on a rundown street where the buildings looked dingy rather than charming and the characters lurking near the comer bar were the kind a person wouldn’t want to meet
after dark, they found the residence hotel they sought. Inside, there were dirty, off-white walls and lonely-looking men sitting in threadbare chairs.

The front desk was a hole in the wall with bars over it. Inside the hole, a surprisingly pretty young woman sat chewing gum. Claire couldn’t help smiling—she was reminded of Amelia.

“
Yeah? Whaddaya want?” the young woman asked.

“
Professor Whitling, 3B,” Joe said.

“
Whaddabout ’im?”

“
We’d like to talk to him,” Claire explained.

“
Justaminute.” The young woman called the room. Apparently the professor was in, because she lowered her voice and shared a short exchange with someone on the other end. She looked up. “Yabillcollectors?”

Claire blinked. The woman was looking right at her, and Claire hadn’t understood a word she said.

Behind her, Joe said, ‘‘No, we’re not bill collectors.’’

“ ’
Kay. Gwanup.”

Minutes later, they stood in a dim hall and knocked on the door to 3B. It was pulled back almost immediately, leaving Claire to suspect that the tenant had been waiting behind it for their knock.

“
Yes?” A man of late middle age stood in the doorway and looked up at them. He was short, thin, and balding like a monk—the crown of his head was bare, but there remained a fuzzy fringe above his large ears.

Joe asked, “Professor Lionel Whitling?”

“
Yes. What is it you want?”

“
A few minutes of your time. We’d like to ask you some questions about Alan Henson.”

Professor Whitling’s soft gray eyes went flat. “I’ve already told the police all I know.” He started to close the door.

Joe stuck his boot in it.

Professor Whitling made a small, shocked sound, and looked down. “Kindly remove your foot from my door.”

“
You know he was shot?”

“
I told you—”

“
Shot by some sneaky bastard who won’t admit to the crime?”

“
Please-”

“
See this woman here?” Claire gasped as Joe took her by the shoulders and pushed her right up against the door. “She’s the one they’re blaming. Look at that face.”

Whitling blinked and sputtered. “I assure you, I—”

“
Look
at that face. This is a good woman, and she’s probably going to prison—unless somebody helps her. Unless everyone who knows anything about that two-bit chiseler, Henson, tells us everything they know.”

“
I don’t know anything,” Whitling insisted. “I—I was here, the whole time. Ask Ladonna down at the desk....”

“
But you
have
filed a lawsuit against him, haven’t you?”

Joe gave Claire a little shake. She remembered he’d warned her she was supposed to pick up any hint he dropped. Was this a hint? She imagined so.

She tried to sound just as pitiful as she probably looked, caught between Joe’s leg and the door, held by the scruff of the neck. “Please, sir. Please. If we could just ask you a few questions. I would really appreciate it so much... Ouch, you big bully,” she whined at Joe.

Whitling, who seemed totally confused by then, decided to become protective of a lady in distress. “See here, young man. I think you’re hurting her....”

“
He’s very... passionate, about this,” Claire explained in a voice made thin by the slight constriction of her windpipe. Joe held her by her collar and she was dangling above the ground. “He gets...carried away. If you would just agree to talk to us... Oh, easy, ouch...”

“
All right, all right. Release her, and I will speak with you.”

Joe let go of Claire, but didn’t remove his foot from the door. “Thanks, Professor. We really appreciate this.”

“
Oh, yes!” Claire gushed. “I can’t tell you how much this means...”

“
Well, ahem.” The little professor now seemed quite proud of himself. And why shouldn’t he be? He’d saved an innocent woman from her overbearing companion. And perhaps, in the end, he could save her from much worse. “I suppose you might as well come in,” he allowed. He stepped back and gestured at the small room beyond, a room that seemed, at first glance, to be literally made of books.

Professor Whitling told them about himself. It was not a happy tale. He’d lost his job teaching English at a local state university after cutbacks—right after he put his life savings in Alan Henson’s slippery hands. He’d lost his house; he had no family. His lawyer was costing him the last of the money he had.

“
All I’ve got left is my books,” he told them, gesturing at the hundreds of volumes stacked nearly to the ceiling along every wall.

He moved a few of the numberless heaps of books out of the way so they could sit down, made them tea on a hot plate, and answered all their questions. Unfortunately, beyond his own sad story, nothing he could tell them gave the slightest clue to the mystery they sought to solve.

When they got up to go, he seemed reluctant to see them leave. “More tea?”

Out the one dirty window on the side wall, Claire could see that dark was coming. “Thanks, Professor. But we really do have to go.”

When they were out on the street once more, Joe complimented her on her “performance” in getting them into Whitling’s room. Then he asked if she was game to try another name.

She forced herself not to look up at the lonely professor’s window—and not to think how many other sad stories she might have to hear before they’d seen this thing through.

“
You bet,” she told Joe. “Who’s next?”

But no one was home at the neat little brick row house halfway across town that they tried next. Joe said they’d come back if they had time. Otherwise, they’d have to try calling.

Next, they found themselves at a big apartment complex near Golden Gate Park. They used the intercom buzzer over the mailbox to ring the woman in 219.

“
Who is it?” The voice sounded young and breathily feminine.

Joe nudged Claire. She read the name off the list. “Ms. Tetley? Andrea Tetley?”

“
Yes. Who is it?”

Claire shrugged and simply answered the question. “It’s Claire.”

“
Who?”

“
Claire Snow. May I talk with you?”

“
What about?”

“
Alan Henson.”

There was a pause. The intercom crackled a little. Then, “I’ll come down.”

Two minutes later, the type of young woman who causes traffic accidents appeared at the top of the stairs beyond the iron gate that protected the building proper from the open lobby. She wore short-shorts and a tank top, in spite of the cold night air. Her beautifully manicured feet were bare. If she was chilly, she wasn’t letting it show. She had full lips, even fuller breasts, and more hair than a sheepdog. The woman posed there on the landing, as if expecting someone
to snap her picture. When no one did, she placed one hand on the railing and proceeded down the wide stairs that ended at the iron gate.

Claire and Joe watched her progress. Halfway down, she paused and made eye contact with Claire. “Are you Claire?”

Claire nodded. One sweep of thick, black lashes, and Claire was dismissed; the woman had laid eyes on Joe.

She kept on coming, until she stood just on the other side of the protective gate. She crooked a finger at Joe.

Joe eyed the woman doubtfully, but Claire, who wasn’t forgetting the way he’d held
her
by the scruff of the neck to prey on the poor professor’s latent chivalrous streak, decided Joe would have to do his bit for their cause, as well.