Kill the Competition (36 page)

Her thoughts were diverted by the slamming of a car door across the street. A well-dressed woman jogged in her direction. "Ms. Hennessey—Joann Cameron,
Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
I'd like to talk to you about the murder of Margo Campbell."

"Please leave," Belinda said, then turned to stride toward her front door. This she did not need.

The woman galloped up beside her. "Ms. Hennessey, is it true that local traffic reporter Julian Hardeman is your boyfriend?"

Belinda gritted her teeth. "No, it isn't true. Julian and I are mere acquaintances."

"A source tells me that you and he and your boss were involved in a love triangle."

She stared, agape. "Your source is spinning outrageous lies. Julian is not involved in this situation."

"My source tells me his car"—she pulled a notebook out of her purse and ran her finger down a page of notes—"a dark blue Audi was spotted at the home of the deceased the night before she was killed."

Belinda squinted. "Sunday night?"

"Yes."

Belinda scoffed. "That's impossible. Julian was stranded in Raleigh that night because of the storm. He didn't return to Atlanta until Monday afternoon."

"I checked the flight records myself," the woman said. "Mr. Hardeman left for Raleigh Saturday morning and returned later that same day."

Belinda shook her head. "The records are inaccurate. Mr. Hardeman called me from Raleigh Sunday afternoon."

"Do you know for a fact he was calling from Raleigh?"

Belinda's breath caught in her chest. "I asked you to leave." She fumbled in her purse for her door key.

"Ms. Hennessey, I'm trying to help. Don't you want to see the murderer caught?"

Belinda found the key and shoved it into the lock. "Need I remind you that the police are still looking for the prime suspect?"

"Prime suspect, or convenient scapegoat?"

"This interview is over. Good-bye." Belinda pushed open the door and closed it behind her as quickly as possible. With her back pressed against the door in the dimly lit foyer, she took great calming breaths, replaying the woman's words in her head.

Was it possible that Julian was involved with Margo? She scoured her mind for details. Margo's phone call Sunday morning... it
had
sounded as if someone was in the background. Margo Campbell was definitely the kind of woman who would have gotten a thrill out of putting her subordinate to work for the day while frolicking with the man she was pseudo-involved with.

And Julian? Well, she hadn't deluded herself that Julian had fallen head over heels in love with her—indeed, it was his cavalier attitude about sex that had drawn her to him. He certainly could have been calling her from his cell phone that Sunday. In fact, when he'd driven her home Monday night, he'd made a comment about that morning's traffic that had seemed like firsthand knowledge.

Cold fear washed over her. What if Margo's last-minute office call had been Julian? He could have gone to her boss's office while she'd been tripping down the back stairwell. What if he and Margo had argued and he'd killed her? He could have carried the body to his car trunk to dispose of later. A recollection made her gasp—the black gym bag he had been carrying and had left at the gym—had it contained incriminating evidence? Maybe whatever he'd used to smother Margo?

Her throat convulsed as more pieces tumbled into place. The errand he'd said he'd had in the general direction of her town house—had it been to dump Margo's body? Alpharetta was known for pockets of woods and sporadic open fields between dense subdivisions. He had insisted on waiting while she'd gone inside to talk to Libby. The driveway had been dark—had he transferred the body from his trunk to hers while she and Libby had chatted?

She covered her mouth with her hand—was it possible that she had been riding with a killer? That he had set her up?

Belinda dropped her briefcase and purse on the parquet flooring and gulped for air. That lady reporter seemed to know a lot about Julian. Had she already left? Belinda hurried to the living room to look out the bay window, and came face to face with... a man's face.

She opened her mouth and screamed loud enough to make the man scream back. When oxygen reached her brain, she realized the man was Perry, and her vital signs slowly returned to normal, only to skyrocket again with anger.

"Perry!" she shouted. "What are you doing?"

"Are you okay?" he yelled back. "Why did you scream?"

"I—" Why was she standing here yelling to the man through the glass? She stalked to the door and threw it open. The Cameron woman's car was nowhere in sight.

Perry turned toward her, his hands palm up. "What?"

She gritted her teeth. "
What
are you doing looking in my window?"

"I was just seeing if you were home."

"Have you ever heard of a doorbell?"

"I didn't think you'd answer."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Go home, Perry."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about that little boss lady of yours winding up in your trunk. Do you need anything? My cousin Leonard is a fancy-pants lawyer."

"No thanks, Perry."

"Are you sure I can't do anything for you?"

"There is one thing," she said with her hand on the doorknob.

He looked hopeful. "What?"

"Stop looking in my window!" She glared at him, then opened her door, walked inside, and locked the dead bolt behind her. She exhaled slowly until some of the tension drained from her shoulders and she was able to think more clearly. She had probably overreacted to the reporter's information about Julian. Jim Newberry would be in custody soon, and his arrest would no doubt close the investigation. For all she knew, the woman could be a rival reporter with ulterior motives for implicating Julian.

"Downey, I'm home," she called.

Nothing.

Deciding that her day and outlook would improve dramatically with the removal of her pantyhose, Belinda climbed the stairs to exchange her slacks and jacket for jeans and a button-up shirt. She told herself she had selected the yellow shirt because it was in the front of her closet, not because it was a flattering color for her skin and hair. She wasn't doing anything special in anticipation of Wade Alexander's arrival. After all, the man was coming to work, not to... play.

At the last minute, she traded the yellow shirt for a white T-shirt with a small coffee stain. There.

She walked down the stairs, retrieved her briefcase and purse from the floor, and carried them to the kitchen counter. There were six messages on her machine, five of them from reporters, and one from the auto body shop saying they could work her in tomorrow if she could bring in her car before noon.

A nostalgic sigh for her beloved clover green Civic escaped her, but the call reminded her of a chore she'd been putting off. She dragged out the phone book and called a car rental place that would bring the vehicle to her. She arranged to rent the cheapest thing available with four wheels and a standard transmission, and to have it delivered tomorrow evening after 6:30.

She had barely hung up the phone when her doorbell rang. Downey materialized and beat her there, ears piqued as if she were expecting a tuna to come calling. Belinda checked the peephole to find Wade standing expectantly. She attributed the increase of her pulse to the fact that she would have to relay the details surrounding Julian, no matter how unfounded they might be.

When she opened the door, he looked distressingly good in faded jeans and a gray Atlanta PD T-shirt. He smiled and held up a white plastic bag emitting superb odors. "Hope you like fish sandwiches."

She looked down to see Downey's whiskers convulsing.

"We do," Belinda said. "Come on in."

In the other hand he carried a six-pack of bottled beer, no doubt in deference to her empty refrigerator. The man thought of everything. He wiped his feet on the tiny rug in the entryway (her mom would love him), then walked to the kitchen to deposit everything on the table. She foraged for plates, utensils and a bottle opener, rebelling against the implication of sharing another meal and possibly enjoying it.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She walked back to the table and set down the plates. "A reporter was waiting for me when I got home."

He bent over to offer a wedge of deep-fried fish to Downey. The cat snagged it and carried it off to devour. "Were you able to get rid of them?" he asked.

She sat down and spread a paper napkin on her lap. "Yes. But not before the woman implied that Julian and Margo were... involved."

He pulled out the chair adjacent to hers and sat. "Sleeping together?"

She shrugged. "She said Julian spent Sunday night at Margo's."

He opened two bottles of beer, then lifted one to his mouth. "I can't say I'm surprised, but it appears that you are."

Belinda drank from the bottle and swallowed. She hadn't drunk beer in ages. Vince preferred mixed drinks, and she wasn't a connoisseur of any kind of alcohol. "I'm not surprised that he would be involved with someone else—I mean, with someone." She took another drink to cover the slip. "But if it's true, then he lied to me, and I'm not sure why he would think that was necessary."

"Maybe to cover his ass when the woman turned up dead."

She closed her eyes.

"Belinda, this is serious. Two women are dead, and both of them were involved with Hardeman. Tell me what you're not telling me."

She opened her eyes and told him everything she recalled about the night Julian had driven her home. "I wasn't holding back any details before, I just didn't have a reason to remember them, or to think they were relevant."

Wade's face grew more grave. "You don't know what was in the gym bag?"

"No, it could have been workout gear."

"Do you remember seeing any scratches on his face or hands?"

"No, but he was wearing driving gloves."

"When Hardeman called you at work this morning, did he say anything out of the ordinary?"

"He was concerned that the police were hassling me... because of him. He implied that, um, you might try to make something of his driving me home that night." She took another drink from the bottle and swallowed slowly.

"Anything else?"

"He said he was going to be in Chattanooga for a couple of days of flight training. But the trip must have been last-minute, because when we talked on Sunday he asked me if we could have lunch sometime this week."

A muscle worked in Wade's jaw as he stood. "I need to make a phone call."

"Are you going to sic the detectives on him?"

He frowned. "Yes."

"Don't you think you should wait to see if Jim Newberry is found?"

There was that muscle again. "Why don't you go ahead and eat. I'll just be a few minutes."

"I'll wait."

He nodded, then walked down the hall and, she presumed, into the living room. The sound of his lowered voice reached her, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. She sipped the beer, which had begun to taste rather good, then caught sight of Vince's envelope propped against the fruit bowl.

Open me. I could be a letter begging you to come back, where there are no dead bodies or missing contracts or endless commutes.

She picked up the envelope, but when she heard Wade's returning footsteps, she turned it facedown on the table.

Wade gave her a too-cheerful smile. "Okay, let's eat."

The fish sandwiches were good, and she was ravenous. In fact, she and Downey both made pigs out of themselves, although Wade still managed to outpace them. She told him about taking the polygraph exam and the general mood around the office.

"No offense, but it seems like a fairly crazy place to work. Do you like it?"

"I was looking forward to the challenge of growing the company to the point of taking it public."

"And now?"

She shrugged. "I've decided to take things one day at a time."

"Good plan."

"So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Truett and Salyers were riding you hard about taking some kind of exam."

He shifted in the seat. "The detective's exam."

"You're not interested?"

"Not right now." He drained his second beer, then stood. "Guess I'd better get that security alarm installed."

Belinda blinked at the sudden change in subject, then began to clear their meal. Downey followed Wade through the hallway like... like she used to trail Vince. Belinda smirked. Fickle feline. Feelings didn't evaporate just like that, not if they had been true to begin with. She glanced at the facedown envelope and bit into her lip.

"Belinda," Wade called from the door. "I believe your couch is here."

She hurriedly dumped the trash, then went outside to guide the delivery men. Despite everything else, she allowed herself to be a tiny bit excited about finally having a new piece of furniture. Two burly men removed the sofa from a truck and carried it inside. She signed for it, then pulled away the plastic, revealing the deep red leather.