Criminal Intent (MIRA) (12 page)

Lottie leaned over the bed, pressed a gentle kiss to Bill’s temple. Then she picked up the phone, pressed 9 for an outside line, and dialed information. “Detroit, Michigan,” she said resolutely. “Robert Sarnacki.”

It had been years since Annie had driven a standard shift, and Jack Crowley’s ancient Chevy pickup had the stiffest clutch she’d ever encountered. The truck coughed and rattled and shook all the way into town. When she’d come knocking on the Crowleys’ kitchen door, Jo had tossed her the keys and told her to keep the truck for as long as she needed it. “It may be a while before you get your car back,” she’d said. “You’ll need transportation in the meantime. Jack never uses the damn thing anyway. Besides, if we need it for something, we know where you live.”

She’d tried to talk Sophie into going with her, but Soph had already checked out Serenity’s shopping district this morning, and she wasn’t impressed. There was no record store, which in Sophie’s mind was akin to treason. Nor were there any trendy clothing stores. No Hot Topic, no PacSun. According to Estelle, the nearest mall of any significance was in South Portland, which to a fifteen-year-old might as well have been the face of the moon. The world was undoubtedly about to come to an end. In a deep blue funk, Sophie had opted to go downstairs and hang out with Estelle. She was quite
taken with the young woman, for reasons Annie hadn’t quite figured out. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the shop was furnished with a color television and VCR. During slow periods, Estelle usually caught up on her movie watching.

Annie’s first stop was the bank, where she opened a new checking account and arranged for money to be transferred from her old account in Las Vegas. Afterward, she swung by the local hardware store to pick up the basic tools she’d need for the job. A hammer and crowbar. Nails. Heavy-duty staple gun and staples. Work gloves. Her last stop was Serenity Building Supply, where she purchased lumber, tar paper and roofing shingles, which a burly teenager hefted into the bed of the pickup for her. Somehow, she would have to get them out of the truck on her own. Somehow, she would have to carry all those heavy materials up onto the motel roof. Maybe she could bribe Sophie into helping. As a mother, Annie’d never been afraid of using any tool that was in her psychological arsenal, and bribery had proven effective on more than one occasion.

It was early afternoon when she returned to find Estelle and Sophie perched on the front steps, sharing a pepperoni pizza and a two-liter bottle of Coke. No matter what kind of food kick Sophie was on, she never turned down pizza. “I paid for it from the cash drawer,” Estelle explained. “We were both starving, and every Wednesday, Clyde’s has a special. A large one-topping and a bottle of Coke for $5.99. Plus free delivery. You can’t beat a deal like that. And it’s the best pizza in town.”

Sophie was too busy cramming food into her face to add her two cents’ worth, but if body language was any indication, she was in total agreement that it was, indeed, the best pizza in town. Annie leaned over and snagged a slice. She bit into it and closed her eyes in appreciation.

“Yum,” she mumbled through a mouthful of culinary heaven.

Brushing
crumbs from her hands, Estelle said, “Did you get everything you needed for the roof?”

Annie swallowed. “I think so. The weather forecast is looking good for the next couple of days, so I’m going to start ripping off shingles this afternoon.”

“Heights don’t bother you?”

“No. I’m more concerned about falling through the roof than off it.”

“Well, if you do fall through, just make sure you land on the bed instead of the floor.”

Annie finished her pizza on the way upstairs. She changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then dug in the bottom of the bedroom closet until she found the Atlanta Braves baseball cap that Sophie no longer wore. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and tucked it through the hole in the back of the hat. Then she went back downstairs and gathered up the tools she’d bought. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d need, but if she took them all with her, she wouldn’t have to keep climbing up and down the ladder.

It was backbreaking work. Jack Crowley had forgotten to mention that fact. The hat gave her little protection from the blistering afternoon sun. The gloves were hot and unwieldy, and after a short time, she yanked them off and tossed them to the ground. The shingles were mule-stubborn. They’d been here for close to thirty years, and they evidently had no desire to leave. And they were aged just enough so that they had a tendency to disintegrate when she tugged on them. She must have been nuts when she decided to do this job herself.

Still, she persevered. Annie Kendall might be many things, but she was no quitter. While she tugged and prodded and peeled shingles, she observed video rental customers coming and going. Business wasn’t bad for a weekday afternoon, and as she performed the mindless task, her mind churned with ideas for increasing that business.

Around
three o’clock, she took a break to run cold water over her sweaty, dirt-smudged face and drink half a bottle of Poland Spring water. She found sunscreen in the bathroom. Smearing it generously on her arms, her face, the back of her neck, she wished she’d thought of it sooner; she could already feel herself burning. But it was too late for should-haves. The damage was already done. At this point, all she could do was prevent it from getting any worse.

It was nearly suppertime when she pulled the last shingle from the four-by-eight sheet of punky plywood and decided she’d done enough for today. Annie slid to the roof’s edge and found solid footing on the ladder. She tossed the hammer and crowbar to the ground, littered with crumbling shingles and old roofing nails. Tomorrow morning, she’d replace the plywood and start putting it all back together. Right now, all she wanted was a long, hot shower and something to eat. After supper, if Sophie was game, they’d find a good movie downstairs and spend a quiet mother-daughter evening watching it.

It could’ve been worse, Louis decided. He could have sent the old man to the morgue instead of Jackson Memorial Hospital.

He hadn’t intended to resort to violence. That wasn’t his style. But he’d panicked. If he got caught breaking and entering, he’d lose his P.I. license, and where would that leave him? He’d managed to escape without being caught, but the whole mess still had him rattled. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He was always coolheaded, always tidy. Always went in clean, came out clean. Never, in all his years as a P.I., had he deliberately hurt another human being. This time, he’d screwed up in a major way.

He had a really bad feeling about this case. It had trouble written all over it. He didn’t know what Robin Spinney had done
to incur Luke Brogan’s wrath, but somehow he doubted the good sheriff was tracking her down with the intent of handing her some inheritance from a long-lost aunt. More likely, she had something on Brogan. There was a certain desperation to the man’s grim determination that told him Brogan found locating her to be of paramount importance.

Nevertheless, Louis had always believed in giving the customer top-notch service for the money he was paid, service that was discreet, confidential, and efficient. He took pride in his work. In this life, you got what you paid for, and Louis Farley didn’t come cheap. But he was worth every penny he charged. It wasn’t his job to question why Brogan wanted to find Spinney. It was his job to locate her. Nothing more, nothing less. What Brogan chose to do with her—and her daughter—after he found them was somebody else’s problem.

So why the sour taste in his mouth?Why was he popping ant-acids every time he looked at that grainy black-and-white photo Brogan had given him of fifteen-year-old Sophie Spinney? He never became emotionally involved in any of his cases. Becoming emotionally involved was suicide, and Louis Farley didn’t have a suicidal bone in his body. But something about this case spooked him, and the deeper he dug, the spookier it got.

He wanted out of Florida. Wanted out in a big way. The heat, the humidity, the bugs were more than a man could take. But it was too soon to leave town. With Wyatt lying in a hospital bed, sooner or later his daughter was likely to show up to check on Daddy’s welfare. Even if she didn’t, Lottie Trent was sure to be hovering. Which meant that Louis needed to stick around, just in case.

In the hospital gift shop, he bought a half-dozen oranges, a small get-well-soon bouquet of pink tulips in a mug shaped like a smiling bunny rabbit, and the new Nora Roberts paperback. People could scoff at romances all they wanted to, but with a romance, you were always guaranteed a happy ending, and
in his line of work, Louis could use all the happy endings he could get. And that Nora was one heck of a storyteller. Besides, the book would make an outstanding icebreaker. Any man who sat alone in a hospital waiting room, reading Nora Roberts, was bound to be approached by nearly every woman who happened by. There was one particular woman whose approach he was very interested in. If he sat there long enough, eventually she was bound to happen by.

It was a long afternoon. He fended off the attentions of three middle-aged women and one male nurse, and was on chapter five and his third orange when Lottie Trent walked in, rubbing her wrist as though she were in pain. Louis glanced up casually from his book. Lottie had dark circles under her eyes, her complexion was pasty, and her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. While he watched, Lottie walked to the vending machine across the room, dropped in a couple of coins, and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Lottie pushed the button again, jiggled the machine a little, and uttered a soft sound of frustration.

Louis set down Nora, being careful not to lose his place, and said, “Can I help you with that?”

Lottie glanced up, looking a little dazed. Her focus sharpened, and she offered a weak smile. “Thank you,” she said. “It doesn’t seem to want to let go of my Reese’s.”

He got up and crossed the room. “These foolish machines,” he said, “they’re not good for much, are they?” He grabbed the machine in both hands and rocked it back and forth until Lottie’s peanut butter cup fell. “There,” he said, wiping his hands on his khakis. “All better.”

While Lottie peeled open the crinkly paper wrapping, Louis returned to his seat and picked the book back up. He read another page, glanced again at Lottie, who was standing by the window, chewing on chocolate and staring into space. “My wife’s having surgery,” he said.

She
turned her head, regarded him blankly, before comprehension struck. “Oh,” she said. “What for?”

“She’s having a hysterectomy. Poor Ruthie was having these terrible female complaints for months and months. The doctors just kept ignoring her. You know how they are. If a woman has chronic complaints, the doctors act like she’s just some hysterical housewife. A hypochondriac. You know what I mean?”

“Absolutely. I’ve had that very thing happen to me.”

“I have half a mind to sue the bas—I mean, the jerks, for malpractice. But she finally found Dr. Miller. Dr. Jennifer Miller. Poor Ruthie should have gone to a woman in the first place. She’s the best gynecologist in southern Florida. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”

Lottie wrinkled her brow and gave it some thought. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Dr. Miller did a thorough exam and found out Ruthie was just loaded with fibroids. So of course she recommended a full hysterectomy. Ruth was a little worried about losing her femininity. I mean, she’s young for something so radical—only forty-three—but I told her it didn’t matter. It’s not like we’re going to have any more kids anyway, and she’s just as beautiful to me now as she was the day I married her, twenty-five years ago.”

“That’s so sweet. Not many husbands these days dote on their wives like that.”

“Are you kidding? She’s the best part of me. Without Ruthie, I’d be nothing.” He studied her with avid curiosity. “Are you married?”

“I’m a widow. My husband died three years ago of coronary artery disease. It was very sudden. We’d been married for almost forty years.”

“Geez, I’m sorry to hear that. It must’ve been hard. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Ruthie. To tell you the
truth—” he paused, shrugged sheepishly “—I’m a little embarrassed to admit this. Guys are supposed to be tough. But I’m pretty nervous about this surgery. The doctor keeps saying it’s a routine operation, that thousands of women have hysterectomies every year. And I know it’s true, but none of those women is my Ruthie. If something went wrong—” He broke off abruptly and shook his head. “I just don’t know what I’d do.”

“She’ll be fine,” Lottie said. “Your doctor’s right. My daughter had a hysterectomy just last year. She was back at work six weeks later, healthy as a horse.”

“That makes me feel a little better. Knowing somebody who’s been through it. I mean, I don’t know your daughter, but I’m here talking to you, and that makes her more real to me than those thousands of anonymous women the doctor referred to. You know what I mean?”

“Of course. Trust me, Ruthie will be fine. She’ll be playing tennis in a few weeks.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, “considering she’s never played tennis before.” They both chuckled at his stupid joke, and he allowed the silence to build between them before he said, “So why are you here?”

Lottie’s face grew somber, as if she’d been momentarily distracted from her problems but had now remembered why she was sitting in a hospital waiting room. “My boyfriend, Bill,” she said. “He has a severe head injury. I’m so worried.”

Louis tsk-tsked in sympathy. “I can imagine you would be. Car accident?”

“No.” Lottie crossed the room and sat down in the ugly green vinyl chair next to his. “Somebody broke into his condo and attacked him with a marble rolling pin from his own kitchen. They left him for dead. If his neighbor hadn’t stopped by—” A tear fell from the corner of her eye, and she rubbed at it with her fist.

“My
God,” he said, “that’s terrible. Why on earth would anybody do something like that?”

“I don’t know.” Lottie raised her shoulders in a shrug, then let them fall in resignation. “The police think it was a robber, but as far as I could tell, nothing was taken.”