Deadly Gamble (24 page)

“You're really serious about this private dick thing?”

“Serious as a flat tire on a lonely road,” I replied. “And I think I can do it without a dick.”

He laughed again. “True enough,” he said. “But it takes money to start an agency. Even a shoestring operation like the one you're probably planning.”

“It just so happens that I
have
money.”

“What Greer gave you won't—”

“I have
more
than that.”

“Have you been playing slot machines again?”

I thought with regret of the credits I'd left behind on the last visit, and the shock of Geoff appearing beside me, at the Sizzling Sevens. Remembering made my nape tingle. Geoff was still out there someplace, and he might have been the one to send the poisoned chow mein. He was almost certainly the mystery caller, too.

I decided not to get so happy about the windfall from Margery DeLuca that I relaxed my guard.

Later that day, I would buy myself a gun.

A private detective needs a gun, right?

For a fraction of a second, my clothes felt heavy and wet. Blood-soaked. I saw a black pistol with a long barrel, lying on avocado-green shag carpeting.

I warped out of the memory without missing a beat in the conversation with Tucker, but it left me a little dizzy.

“No,” I said stiffly. “I have not been playing the slot machines. And even if I had, it's not illegal.”

Tucker sighed. “No, babe, it's not illegal. And I didn't call to talk about your gambling habit.”

“I don't
have
a gambling habit.”

“I'll concede that, too,” he said quietly. “Did you pick up Bert's dog?”

“Yes,” I said, with relief. “Better still, I didn't run into Allison.”

“She's got a parent-teacher meeting today,” Tucker said.

“And you weren't invited?”

“I could go, but Allison would make me out to be some kind of renegade, super-psycho robo-cop. I don't need that, and the kids don't, either. Besides, I'm on a case.”

“What kind of case?”

“An
undercover
case, Moje. That means it's a secret.”

“I just thought you might be able to fill me in a little,” I said. “You know, one professional to another.”

“Right. One professional to another. What's with you, anyway? Is there a coupon in the back of one of those books you read? Send this in and you get a free decoder badge?”

“I could do without your sarcasm. And if you didn't call me to talk about slot machines, what
was
your purpose?”

Tucker sighed again. “Sorry,” he said. “You get into enough trouble as it is without putting your name, address and phone number in the yellow pages for every nut in Maricopa County to see, but right now, that's beside the point. The tox report came back on the chow mein, Moje. Rat poison. You would have tasted it with the first bite, which means the perp is either an amateur, or somebody who wants to be perceived as one.”

“Well, that doesn't exactly narrow the field, does it? Heather Dillard might have done it. She'd definitely qualify as an amateur. Then there's Geoff.”

“Your whacko brother may not have been involved.”

“How do you know that?”

“Fingerprints, Sherlock. On the delivery box. They ruled him out first thing—he's been in the system, so he's on file. No matches on the others, except, of course, for mine.”

“Fast work,” I said. “I thought it took longer to run prints.”

“It's all in who you know,” Tucker replied. “Of course, psycho-sib could have done the original doctoring. He just didn't handle the box.”

I put Geoff on a mental shelf and glanced at Russell, who was snoozing as close to my feet as he could get. “What's the official word on Bert's condition? I've called the hospital a couple of times, and they claimed they didn't have a patient by that name.”

“They're telling the truth. He's been moved.”

“Where?”

“I can't tell you that, Moje. Your line could be tapped. You're a
detective
—look it up in
The Damn Fool's Guide to Witness Protection
.”

“Witness Protection?”

“Who's in Witness Protection?” Jolie demanded, from directly behind me.

I almost had a heart attack. I gave her a don't-sneak-upon-me-like-that kind of glare.

“See you in a few days, Moje,” Tucker said.

“Wait—”

He hung up.

“Shit,” I said, and shut off the phone.

“What? The check from Big Mama bounced? They cancelled your
Damn Fool's
book club membership?
What?
”

I took in my sister's sleek beige suit, high heels and tastefully contained braids. “You really look good,” I said.

“Thanks for sounding so surprised.” Jolie grinned, but then she did a little twirl. “Do I look like the perfect candidate for the job with Phoenix P.D.?”

“Do crime scene techs dress like that? I'd peg you for what you are—an almost Ph.D. with a fancy job in a well-funded lab.” I frowned. I still wasn't clear on why Jolie wanted to throw over a high-paying position in a prestigious field of science to pick hairs and fibers out of carpets and the trunks of cars.

Jolie checked her watch. It was old-fashioned, with fake diamonds around the face. Once, it had been her mother's, which was why she treasured it. “I'm out of here,” she said. “If you hear from Greer, tell her we're coming to her place tonight for supper and we'll bring the food.”

I nodded. “Good luck, Jolie.”

She snatched up her purse, which matched her shoes, and breezed out. I heard her Pathfinder start up, and went back to my detective work. I really wonder what P.I.'s did before Google. An hour at the computer, and I knew practically everything there was to know about every woman on Greer's suspect list.

Of course I'd have to do some legwork, but I had three solid candidates for Alex's extracurricular love-muffin activities. One of them was attending the same medical conference, but that only meant it would be easier to snoop through her residence and place of business.

At the time, I actually thought I was going to get to that.

I left the computer, put on some lipstick and switched my sweatpants for a good pair of jeans, my sneakers for boots and my T-shirt for a silk blouse that changed my eyes from green to blue.

I was ready to go detecting, but it bothered me to leave Russell alone. He was vulnerable and, after all, he'd just gotten out of Dog General Hospital.

“Nick?”

No answer.

No sudden appearance.

No Chester.

I addressed the empty room. “Listen, Nick, if you're here, thanks for whatever you did to make your mother pay up. Maybe you're low on ectoplasm or something, so you can't pop in, but if you can hear me, would you mind looking after Russell for me for a few hours?”

Nothing.

I patted Russell's head, told him to be a good boy and filled a second bowl with Greer's gourmet kibble before slipping out of the apartment. I might have had some qualms if the dog had whimpered, or even looked lonely, but he just thumped his tail on the floor once and went back to dreamland.

I left with a clear conscience and some low-grade anxiety.

The first candidate for Alex's squeeze-on-the-side ran a gallery in Old Town Scottsdale. Her name was Gina Marchand, she was thirty-five, three times divorced and struggling to keep the store open. All that, I'd learned by Googling. Now, it was time to get a firsthand look at her. Size her up.

I stopped off at Wal-Mart on the way and bought a digital camera and a pretzel the size of a Frisbee.

Proper nutrition is fundamental to the achievement of any goal—
The Damn Fool's Guide to Success,
page 72.

Gina was in the shop when I walked in, explaining the virtues of a twelve-foot bronze statue of a bear eating a fish to a middle-aged woman who'd apparently thrown in her lot with the I-shall-wear-purple movement. No red hat, though, so maybe she was on the fence.

Ms. Marchand resembled the publicity picture on her Web site. She looked up at me briefly, as I entered, and dismissed me in the next moment. I checked the front of my blouse for pretzel crumbs.

“We can certainly ship the piece to Cincinnati with no problem,” she told the woman in purple.

I wandered over to examine an oil painting on the eastern wall. It was gigantic, roughly the size of the area rug in Greer's dining room, and showed four dead outlaws, of the Old West persuasion, strapped to boards and leaning against the facade of a vintage saloon. The title was, “Wages of Sin,” and I could have bought an Escalade, fully loaded, for what it cost, according to the discreet little card tucked into the lower right hand corner of the frame.

“You probably can't afford it,” Gina Marchand said, stepping up beside me.

Maybe she smelled the Wal-Mart pretzel on my breath.

“You might be surprised,” I countered. I
could
have bought that painting, but it would have been a crazy thing to do. It wouldn't fit on any of the walls in my apartment and, besides, I had enough ghosts hanging around without adding a band of outlaws to the mix.

“Somehow,” Gina said, “I just don't think you're here to buy art.”

I smiled winningly. “You're right,” I said. “I'm really here to find out if you're sleeping with Dr. Alex Pennington. If you are, I'll get the goods on you.”

She paled. “Alex is a customer,” she said. “A
collector
.”

He was probably a collector, all right. Greer was expecting him to be involved with one woman, and still hoping she was wrong on the count. I figured there was a harem.

“You know, of course, that he's married.” I was deliberately goading her, just to see what she'd do. She'd either kick me out of the place, or admit something.

Gina glanced nervously at her customer, who was busy filling out forms at the counter. The bear and the fish were as good as on their way to Cincinnati. “As I said, Alex—Dr. Pennington—is a client of the gallery. And I resent your coming in here and accusing me—”

“I didn't accuse you of anything, Ms. Marchand.” Up close and personal, I could see that she probably wasn't in the running for any trophy wife upgrade Alex might be planning. Her makeup was impeccable, but there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and she was, after all, three years older than Greer. “If you're boinking Dr. Pennington, however, I would advise you to stop. You could be named as a correspondent in the divorce, if there is one, and the publicity would not be good for business.”

“This is outrageous! I have half a mind to complain to Alex—”

“You do that,” I said, though I was bluffing. If she described me to Alex, my cover would be blown. Entry #1 for my P.I. logbook: Don't give yourself away by running off at the mouth.

“What's your name?” she demanded.

“Greer Pennington,” I said. “Alex is my husband.”

Gina's mouth dropped open, and she took a step back. I figured she'd been in her share of catfights, with the scars to prove it, and she wasn't willing to tangle.

“Can you give me a break on the shipping?” the woman in purple called.

Gina was distracted, and I took that opportunity to duck out.

I had a few things to learn about being a P.I., but I was pretty sure Greer's worst suspicions were right on target. Hospital rounds weren't the only ones Alex was making.

I really wished it wasn't true.

“Y
OU ACTUALLY
investigated
someone?” Jolie asked, two hours later, when we were both back in the apartment. She'd gotten there first, let herself in with the spare key I'd given her earlier and exchanged her power suit and heels for jeans and a tank top that showed off her toned arms. She was clearly relieved when I came in; it probably freaked her out being alone in the place.

“Yes,” I said, disgusted, “and I did a lousy job. Greer will probably fire my ass and demand her retainer back.” I rifled the bookcase for my copy of
The Damn Fool's Guide to Private Investigation
. Time to bone up a little. “How was the interview?”

Jolie beamed. “I'm hired. I start on the first of June.”

“I guess that's good news,” I said warily.

Jolie put her hands on her hips. “You don't seem all that happy,” she said. A mischievous light danced in her eyes. “What's the matter, Moje? Ain't this town big enough for both of us?”