Deadly Gamble (17 page)

“How do you know he was stabbed?”

My cheeks burned, and I felt sick at the memory, and the smell of blood rising from my sodden T-shirt. “I guess it was the three-inch slit in his chest,” I said tautly.

The coffeemaker made a
chuppa-whuppa
sound, like a helicopter circling in for a landing.

Crowley poured java for both of us, and joined me at the table.

I considered adding a dollop of Christian Brothers to mine, but it didn't seem like a good idea, given that I was trying to present myself as a solid citizen.

“These questions are routine, Ms. Sheepshanks,” he said mildly, once he was settled. I kept the sugar and the powdered creamer in the middle of the table, along with a plastic spoon, so we doctored and stirred, in our turns. Crowley was a gentleman; he let me go first.

“What's next?” I was a little foggy on the details, but I didn't want to jump up and consult a
DF Guide
. It might be considered suspicious behavior and, anyway, I was too dizzy.

“A crime scene tech will collect your clothes. With your permission, she'll take a few photographs, too. Then we'll leave and you can take your shower.”

I felt my eyes go wide. “What kind of photographs?”

“Routine ones,” Crowley said.

A rap sounded at the outside door.

Russell lifted his head and gave a grunting woof, but he didn't get up to investigate.

“Come in,” Crowley called.

The same woman I'd seen downstairs appeared in the kitchen doorway, with the handle of a backpack in one hand and a folded paper bag in the other.

The promised crime scene tech had arrived.

I signed a release, agreeing to let her take pictures. Legally, they couldn't force me to pose, not without a lot of paperwork anyway, and it would take time, but I wanted to cooperate.

“I'm Jennifer,” the tech said, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves.

“That's nice,” I replied.

Jennifer and I trekked to the bathroom and, once inside, she watched clinically as I peeled off my clothes, dropping each garment into her evidence bag as I handed it to her. After that, she took pictures of my naked, blood-smudged body, from every possible angle. It was all very businesslike, but I still felt like a white rat on a lab table.

When the ordeal ended, Jennifer excused herself and stepped out, and I tucked the shower curtain inside the tub, turned on the taps, and dived under the spray. I scrubbed and scoured, and when I got out, I dried hastily and shrugged into my bathrobe, tying the belt tightly at my waist.

As expected, Crowley was still in the kitchen, drinking coffee.

Jennifer was long gone.

“Am I being watched?” I asked, emptying my mug in the sink and then refilling it from the carafe.

Crowley pushed back his chair and stood. “Not anymore,” he said.

He'd been keeping an eye on the suspect until the evidence could be collected, I realized.

“Don't leave the area without checking with me,” he told me, inclining his head toward the table, where his business card lay, face up. He'd had the good grace to replace the bloodstained one, at least. Or maybe he'd just wanted my fingerprints.

I nodded.

Crowley paused on the threshold between the kitchen and living room. “Is there somebody you can stay with? The guys will be downstairs for a while, but it might be safer to spend the night elsewhere.”

A chill shivered up my spine. With all that had happened, it hadn't crossed my mind that whoever knifed Bert might come back, when the coast was clear, and do the same thing to me, just in case I'd seen something and remembered it later.

I could call Greer, I supposed. She'd take me in, but she'd probably make Russell sleep in the garage. Tucker was either waiting in line in the celestial train depot or tunneling through the underworld of users and dealers.

I needed to get out more. Make friends with people who would let me crash on their couches in an emergency.

“I'll be fine here,” I said, hoping it was true.

I saw Crowley to the door, locked it behind him and turned around to find Russell standing at my heels. His expression was baleful, but then, he always looked that way.

I fired up the computer, figuring I might as well do some billing and coding, since I probably wouldn't sleep. While the program was loading, I went back to the kitchen and searched the shelves until I came up with a can of beef stew, stuck behind the roasting pan in the rear of my tiny pantry. Russell might have been traumatized, but there was nothing wrong with his appetite.

He snarfed up the stew, and I headed for the computer, only to think of Jolie and retrace my steps. My cell needed charging, so I reached for the wall phone, after wiping it off with a paper towel and some antiseptic spray cleaner. I tapped into the voice mail, intending to use the breather to work out what I could say to Jolie beyond “I'm sorry.”

Only there wasn't a breather.

The first message was from Greer, and she sounded as though she'd been crying. “Mojo, I really need to talk to you. Call me.”

I took a deep breath. Now I had
two
conversations to rehearse.

The second caller was Jolie. “You've got some fancy explaining to do, girl. Walking out on me like that. I'd better hear from you
pronto
. Like, I mean,
tonight
.”

I let out a long sigh. I was in for it with Jolie, and my account of finding Bert under a pool table, stabbed in the chest, probably wouldn't prompt any sympathy. At least, none for me. Bert would get all of it.

The droning voice was distorted, probably by one of those spy devices they sell on the Internet, and it jolted me out of my reflections about talking to Greer and Jolie. “Did you get my text message? I meant what I said. You
will
die.” Pause. “The question is, when? And how badly will it hurt?”

I dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at Andy Crowley's cop card. I was ninety percent certain the call came from Geoff, and I knew I needed to report it, since I had a strong desire to stay alive. That was reason one. Reason two: there might be a connection, however remote the chances seemed, between the phone threat and what had happened to Bert. The information could help the police identify and find his attackers.

I was so stunned that the fourth message ended without my hearing a word. I had to suffer through the whole sequence again, because I couldn't take the chance that someone at Sunset Villa had called with urgent news about Lillian.

It turned out to be from a food-delivery service; a perky unisex voice promised a free Chinese dinner if I called before Monday.

I was on the national no-call list, supposedly off-limits to telemarketers. Fat lot of good it did me.

Disgusted, I punched in Greer's number. Triage, Mojo style. Jolie was pissed, but something big had to be up with Greer. I'd heard tears in her voice, and since I'd seen her cry exactly once since I'd known her—when we met at the hospital after Lillian had her stroke—I switched her to priority one.

She answered on the second ring, with a breathless, “Hello?”

“It's Mojo,” I said.

Greer sniffled. “About time.”

I closed my eyes. Waited.

Russell had finished his stew. He snuggled against the side of my chair, laid his muzzle on my right thigh and passed gas.

“Are you there?” Greer demanded testily.

I didn't want to breathe. I jumped up, found some matches in a drawer, and struck one.

“I'm here,” I sputtered.

“I need your help.”

I leaned down to pat Russell's head, so he'd know I wasn't holding the toxic fumes against him. His expression was sadly adoring.

“No more stew for you,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” Greer put in.

“Talking to the dog,” I explained. “Why do you need my help, Greer?”

“I can't talk about it over the
telephone
!”

I looked at the clock. After eleven. It was dark outside, I'd just listened to a robotic death threat, and that was the
high point
of my evening. For all I knew, there was some maniac waiting right outside the door with an ax, cops or no cops.

“It can't be that bad, Greer.” She wasn't sobbing. She wasn't screaming.

“That's what
you
think!”

“In the morning,” I said patiently.

“Mojo, I'm desperate!”

“Then you'd better tell me what's going on, because I'm not driving out there unless you're bleeding.” I grimaced, remembering poor Bert.
Let him be alive,
I prayed.

Greer started to cry.

I almost gave in. As I said, my sister wasn't a weeper.

“Listen, Greer, I've had a really bad night, and the day wasn't so great, either. So maybe we could do this tomorrow—”

“I'll come over there, then,” Greer broke in, sounding peevish. “This is
serious,
Mojo.”

I really wished she'd stop italicizing every third word. “Okay,” I said cautiously, “but there's a crime scene downstairs, and the cops might not even let you into the parking lot.”

Now
we were talking
serious
.

For a moment, the old Greer was back. “No shit? What happened?”

I explained, taking care to include Bert's wound, my clothes being taken for evidence, the nude photo shoot and the fact that I had temporary custody of a flatulent basset hound.

“See you in twenty,” Greer said, when I'd finished.

All righty, then.

“Bring kibble,” I put in quickly, before she could hang up.

“Kibble?”

“I mean it, Greer. I gave this dog canned stew and, given his digestive system, we could be on the threshold of an environmental disaster.”

She said a hasty goodbye and rang off.

With luck, I could get through the long-distance confrontation with Jolie before Greer arrived. The threatened ETA was twenty minutes, but that was without the stop for dog food.

I steeled myself and dialed Jolie's number.

She must have been sitting on the phone, and she definitely had caller ID. She jumped straight onto my back. “Mojo Sheepshanks, you did a rotten, lousy thing, storming out of here like that!”

“You're right,” I said. I couldn't quite get to “meek,” but I did “regretful” credibly.

The admission stunned her to silence, but I knew it was temporary.

“I'm sorry,” I added. It was the equivalent of sitting on top of the refrigerator and throwing frozen pot roasts to Sweetie. And I really did feel terrible about bailing on her.

If I hadn't, though, Bert would probably be dead by now.

Assuming he wasn't.

“Me, too,” Jolie said.

I caught my breath. “What did you say?”

“I said I'm sorry, Mojo. I should have kept my opinions to myself. About your job, I mean.”

I was beyond relieved.

“You still there?” Jolie asked. “Or did you sky on me again?”

“I'm here.”

“I was thinking I could come up to Cave Creek, bunk at your place. I'd like to see Lillian anyway, and it would be like old times, you and me and Greer talkin' trash.”

“God, Jolie,” I said, almost whispering. “That would be great.” I glanced at Russell. He'd been through enough, without coming face-to-face with Sweetie. “Are you planning to bring the dog?” I put the question carefully, because I didn't want Jolie to get mad and change her mind about the visit.

“Sweetie can stay with some friends of mine, out in the country. They're always inviting him for play dates with their dogs.”

Play dates? Any breed smaller than a bull mastiff might end up as a snack.

“The sooner you can get here,” I said, “the better.”

“I should roll in sometime tomorrow afternoon. I'll stop at Sunset Villa and then drive up from there.”

Russell broke wind again.

I lit another match, half-expecting a methane explosion, and wished I'd asked Greer to pick up industrial-strength air freshener as well as kibble.

“Sounds good,” I said, waving my free hand.

“We're going to have company,” I told Russell, after Jolie and I hung up. I crouched to ruffle his ears gently. “All we gotta do is hold on, buddy. Things are bound to get better.”

Russell craned his almost nonexistent neck to lap at my cheek. I probably tasted of tears.