Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (3 page)

Besides, Starbucks was open year-round.

Sure enough, I found one less than a mile from Suzanne’s house. After I’d obtained a double grande cappuccino, enough industrial-strength coffee to jump-start an entire football team, I settled back into the front seat of my car and made a bunch of phone calls, rescheduling the rest of the day’s appointments.

Then I dialed Nick’s cell phone number. I only hoped he wouldn’t be so involved in contracts and torts and whatever else he was learning about in his first year of law school that I wouldn’t be able to reach him.

Relief washed over me when he answered on the second ring.

“Jess?” he asked eagerly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Nick,” I assured him. “A little shaky, but that’s to be expected.” I paused before adding, “I wish I could say the same for Suzanne.”

“What’s going on with her?” He’d been standing right next to me when Suzanne had called me at the hospital. And when he’d driven me home earlier that morning before heading off to a full day of classes, her predicament was pretty much all we’d talked about. So I knew he was anxious for an update.

“It’s as bad as it sounded on the phone,” I told him, figuring there was no point in telling him the truth: that it was actually even worse. “Suzanne’s in serious trouble. She’s apparently a suspect in Cassandra Thorndike’s murder.”

“But that’s insane!” he exclaimed. “Suzanne Fox is the last person in the world who would ever be capable of something like that!”

“My sentiments exactly.” I paused for a few seconds before adding, “I have to help her, Nick, whether it means talking to the police or...or just holding her hand as she goes through this. . . .”

“I understand that, Jess. But if she’s innocent—”

“There’s something else.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself before dropping the real bomb in his lap. “She lied to the police. Several witnesses saw someone who fit her description in a car that matches hers near the victim’s house around the time of the murder. But when the police questioned her, she denied being there.”

He let out a long, loud sigh. “Whoa, boy,” he muttered.

“Nick, I can’t just sit by and watch her go through this without doing everything I can. I know I’m supposed to give myself a few days to recover—but that also gives me an excuse to take a little time off to do what I can for Suzanne. I want to check out her lawyer and make sure he’s the best guy she can possibly get and—and maybe talk to Lieutenant Falcone. I don’t even know what else to do yet, but whatever it is, I have to do it.” I hesitated before adding, “And even though you’re busy with law school and all, maybe you could help me...?”

I really did need Nick’s help in this. For one thing, the years of experience he’d racked up as a private investigator, back before he decided to change careers and go to law school, might come in handy. But even more important, helping to get Suzanne through this wasn’t going to be easy, and I knew I’d need his moral support. Desperately.

“Okay, Jess,” he said solemnly. “I hear what you’re saying. And I promise I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“Thanks, Nick,” I breathed. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

That last part was painfully true. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by Suzanne’s situation.

One thing was certain: I was glad she hadn’t wasted any time finding herself a lawyer, even though she’d had nothing more than Marcus Scruggs’s recommendation to go by. At this point, making sure she had crackerjack representation appeared to be our best hope.

I just hoped that whoever Jerry Keeler was, he’d turn out to be really, really good.

Chapter 2

“A kitten is more amusing than half the people one is obliged to live with.”

—Lady Sydney Morgan

The temporary lift that resulted from my caffeine orgy had all but faded by the time I maneuvered my Volkswagen through the congested streets surrounding the Norfolk County Courthouse. As if feeling both exhausted and overwhelmed weren’t enough, a steady rain had begun to fall. I was glad I’d grabbed my navy blue polyester fleece jacket that morning before jumping into my car to drive to Suzanne’s. It wasn’t exactly the height of fashion, since it was embroidered with “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.,” but it was perfect for weather like this.

The rain made it hard to read the numbers on the imposing glass and steel office buildings as I tried to find one that matched the address I’d found in the phone book. After half an hour of peering through the streaks the wipers made on the windshield, I decided it was time to stop and ask directions.

I pulled into the first parking space I saw and was nearly sideswiped by a Mercedes whose driver had decided it should belong to him—even though I got there first. I wasn’t surprised that his license plate read ILL SUE 4U.

“Lawyers,” I muttered, groping around the backseat for my umbrella. I only hoped somebody in one of the slightly seedy stores I’d parked in front of would be able to help me locate 1211 New Country Road. Between the bail bondsman, the pawnshop, and the delicatessen, someone was bound to know something.

Once I was out on the sidewalk, cowering under my umbrella and mournfully watching raindrops splatter over the one pair of good shoes I own, I realized I was only steps away from the very place I was seeking. While I’d just assumed that Marcus’s college pal would have an office in one of the ultramodern buildings closer to the courthouse, he apparently ran more of a budget operation.

I stood outside the nondescript red brick building for a good five minutes, hoping against hope that I’d gotten it wrong. Surely the man in whose hands Suzanne Fox’s entire future lay couldn’t be based in a third-floor walk-up above a deli whose claim to fame appeared to be the $4.99 Al Capone Meatball Sub Special.

The peeling gold letters stuck on the third-floor window told me otherwise. I could see for myself that they spelled out Jerry Keeler’s name. Right below were the words
Criminal, Divorce, Immigration, Bankruptcy.
In smaller letters, down at the bottom, were the phrases
Se
Habla Español
and
Payment Plans Available.

Not exactly in the same league as O.J.’s defense team, I thought, my spirits plummeting.

Give the guy a chance, I told myself. Maybe he’ll turn out to be one of those dedicated types who’ll do anything for his clients—the kind who doesn’t give a hoot about fancy offices and other unnecessary niceties. Like functioning hardware, I thought, wrestling with a tarnished doorknob that didn’t appear to have been updated since 1975.

When I finally managed to accomplish that feat, I stepped into a small foyer that was so dark that it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Once they did, I cringed. The dull green linoleum in the hallway was cracked. So were the yellow plaster walls. I surveyed the row of mailboxes, noticing that the metal doors on two of them had been bashed in.

I walked up two flights of stairs. The hallway smelled funny, from something I couldn’t quite identify. Frankly, I didn’t try very hard.

On the top floor, I found several wooden doors, each one inset with a window made of frosted glass. Written on the one at the end of the hall were the words
Jerry
Keeler, Attorney At Law.

At least, that’s what I thought it said at first glance. But something didn’t look right. I moved closer and studied the letters more carefully.

What it
actually
said was
Jerry Keeler, Attorny At Law.

The little bit of optimism I’d been clinging to was fading fast. I opened the door and found myself in a small waiting room. It was furnished with dark-red plastic chairs with chrome armrests and a coffee table made of Formica that was designed to look like wood. A few horrifying pieces of what I assumed was supposed to be artwork hung on the mint-green walls. The floor was covered in the same type of linoleum that was in the entryway. Same vintage, too. And condition.

The receptionist sitting behind a glass partition glanced up. She looked surprised, although whether that was because an unexpected customer had just walked in or because her eyebrows had been tweezed to form two unnaturally high arches, I couldn’t say. Her hair was a startling coppery color, styled into a bubble that reminded me of the last Doris Day movie I’d seen. She also wore a great deal of makeup, including an electric-blue eye shadow that I suspected lit up in the dark. If the blue stuff smeared on her lids didn’t, then the glitter in it had to.

“Can I help you?” she asked doubtfully.

“I’d like to see Mr. Keeler, please. And by the way, there’s an
e
in
attorney.”

She just stared at me and blinked, her heavily mascaraed eyelashes creating a breeze that was nearly strong enough to knock me over. In fact, she was so shocked that she even stopped chomping her gum.

“ ’Scuse me?”

“The word
attorney,”
I said again. “There’s an
e
in it. You might want to correct your sign.”

She squinted at me suspiciously. “Who’d you say you were?”

“My name is Jessica Popper. Dr. Jessica Popper. I’d like to speak with Mr. Keeler.”

“If ya don’t have an appointment, I can’t just let you walk in there,” she insisted. She snapped her gum, which seemed to be back in operation. “This happens to be a professional office, not a drive-through.”

I glanced around, wondering how long paintings on velvet had been considered appropriate décor for professional offices.

“I understand that,” I replied patiently. “But if I could just have five minutes of Mr. Keeler’s time—”

“Dottie, what the hell is going on out—oh, hello.” A man in his late thirties had opened the door that led off the waiting area and stuck his head out. His demeanor changed the moment he saw me. Maybe he was pleased that a potential customer had entered the premises. Or maybe, like his buddy Marcus, he was simply impressed by the fact that I possessed two X chromosomes. “Is there something I can help you with?”

I composed myself quickly. “One of your clients is a friend of mine. Suzanne Fox. I was wondering if I could talk to you about her case.”

“Well, there is such a thing as attorney–client privilege,” he said, chuckling.

“I understand,” I told him. “I’m not looking for information. I just thought we might be able to...chat.” Without me being billed, I was tempted to add.

“Okay, sure. We could do that.” Jerry Keeler turned to Dottie. “Hold all my calls, will you?”

Given the fact that his phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook, I thought he was being overly optimistic. But I followed him into his office and sat down.

The same decorator who had created the waiting room’s distinctive look had obviously worked his magic in here as well. He had gone with the same refreshing mint-green walls
—refreshing
referring to the fact that it reminded me of breath-freshening chewing gum. The yellow linoleum floor not only set off the green walls; it also complemented the gunmetal-gray furniture. The artwork in here differed, however. Instead of the classic kittens-on-velvet motif, the walls were dotted with framed diplomas that celebrated the educational and professional accomplishments of Jerry Keeler, Attorny At Law.

At least he went to a real law school, I thought, instead of taking classes on the Web.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee and studying me. Meanwhile, I studied him. I didn’t like what I saw very much. Whether it was the shine of his slicked-backed hair or the shine of his polyester suit, I couldn’t say.

“First of all, how do I know you’re who you say you are?” He picked up a ballpoint pen and began tapping it on the edge of his desk in a most annoying manner.

“I’ll show you my driver’s license.”

“That’s not what I mean. How do I know you’re a friend of Suzanne’s and that you’re not, you know, working for the prosecution?”

Does that kind of stuff really go on? I wondered. But I didn’t ask.

Instead, I reached into my wallet and pulled out a photograph of Suzanne and me, taken the day of our graduation from Bryn Mawr College. After she and I had reconnected four months earlier while I was filling in for Marcus at a charity dog show in the Bromptons, I’d come across this photo and stuck it into my wallet to show her. We’d had a great time reminiscing about our college days—and marveling over how quickly the years since then had passed. I’d been meaning to put the photo back in the album where it belonged but had never gotten around to it.

I dropped it in front of Jerry Keeler. “Recognize us? That’s Suzanne and that’s me. This photo was taken at our college graduation.”

He glanced at it, his face lighting up immediately. “Hey, you were both pretty hot back then! What were you, twenty, twenty-one?”

Whatever traces of optimism I’d still been clinging to vanished. In fact, I felt as if a wrecking ball had just landed on my stomach.

“You could call Marcus Scruggs,” I told him. “He’d vouch for me—and the fact that Suzanne and I really are friends.”

He leaned forward, stroking his ballpoint pen in a way I found most disconcerting.

“So you’re a friend of Marcus’s, huh?” he said, his expression definitely leering.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I sat up a little straighter and folded my hands primly in my lap. “I’m a veterinarian, too.”

“I see. You know, I’ve always wondered about female veterinarians and horses.”

“Excuse me?”

“Veterinarians have to perform some pretty—shall we say
personal
procedures? I remember reading once that—”

I could feel my blood heating up. “I’m here to talk about Suzanne,” I insisted. “I want to know if you think the Norfolk County cops have a case.”

He slumped back in his chair and tossed his pen on the desk.

“Between you and me?” he said, not quite looking me in the eye. “I wouldn’t bet any money on her getting off. I mean, the police got witnesses who saw Suzanne going to the victim’s house shortly before she was found dead.”