Knock Off (22 page)
My mouth opened as I screamed silently. Then I said,
“Thanks for sharing.”
His laugh only irritated me more.
“When you’re finished with your personal time, please call me back.”
“I am finished. I’m just putting my pants back on now.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation,” I said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to know intimate things like that about you.”
“What’s intimate? Ashley is a professional masseuse,”
he said. I could hear him choking on his own amusement.
“She just gave me a wonderful massage. I believe she offered one to you as well. Not interested?” The mockery in his tone was loud and clear.
Not when I thought it was a lesbian come-on, no. Now I just feel like a jerk. “No, but do thank her for me.” My mom always stressed that good manners could smooth over any awkward situation. I hoped she was right about this one.
Quickly, I told him about the money and the AWOL
nurse. “Dave Rice is dodging me. Maybe he’ll talk to you.” I gave him the number. He promised to see if he could speak to Mr. Rice and track down Helen Callahan while I went to see Harold Greene.
Greene answered the door wearing a T-shirt and a pair of paint-stained shorts, with a giggling child clinging to each of his legs. He was a big, burly African-American man who looked like he could snap me like a twig.
“I’m Finley,” I introduced myself, then looked down at the kids with their matched set of dark eyes. “Hi, guys.”
The children looked at me for a second, then ran
screaming and crying for their mother.
“Sorry. They’re shy.”
“Not a problem,” I assured him. My smile faded. “We need to talk about the Hall trial.”
“Let’s go around back,” he suggested.
I followed him, feeling the heels of my fabric-covered pumps sink into the soft ground. Great, just great.
We went over the now familiar ground of the Hall trial, and I didn’t learn much of anything new about the testimony or the exhibits. Harold Greene did mention a lot of hang-up calls in the past few weeks. His wife just had their sixth child, so he’d been home on paid leave for the past three months. Six children was excessive, but three-months paid leave was impressive as hell. Especially to me.
“But nothing strange?”
I watched him search his memory. “We heard a car
drive by in the middle of the night a coupla times.”
“It’s a pretty busy neighborhood.”
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Well, this particular car drives along without headlights.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “What kind of car, do you know?”
“Boxy. A sedan. Dark. Blue or black.”
I made a note to check the makes and models for cars owned by all the jurors. “Taking time off after the baby might have saved your life,” I said. “The killer hasn’t been able to get to you.”
“I’ve got a week’s more leave coming. Should I take my family away from here?”
I looked into his dark brown eyes and said, “Yes.”
“What about Dave? Is he leaving?”
“Dave Rice?”
Harold nodded. “He and I kept in touch after the trial.
We do some side jobs together. He’s a great guy.”
“Really? He’s hung up on me. Twice.”
Harold hung his head. “Dave’s having a rough go of it.
He worked for one of the largest cabinet manufacturers in the Northeast for nearly twenty years. Then, one day, they just closed the plant. Not only did he lose his job, but Dave found out all his savings were gone, lost in some sort of swindle by upper management. He and Jenny had two kids about to start college and no money in the bank. He took a job with the home center down here. Didn’t pay nearly what he’d been making, but with that and the side jobs, they were getting by.”
“Were?” I asked.
“Until Jenny got sick.”
That explained why she’d sounded so bad on the phone.
“Is it serious?”
Harold nodded. “Breast cancer. She had it before and beat it, but this time, well, who knows. She’s taking some experimental treatments, and Dave, well, he needs to believe she’ll get better. Said he saw miracles happen all the time when he was a medic during Desert Storm. I hope he’s right. Jenny’s a fine woman, and Dave’s a real stand-up guy.
“It’s been hard on them, what with it spreading fast and the HMO claiming the cancer was a preexisting condition on account she had it before, when his insurance was through his other company.”
“How fast?” I asked.
“She was diagnosed just after Halloween last year. Started treatment right after the new year.”
I was pretty bummed when I arrived at Patrick’s place, a little earlier than expected. I kept thinking about the irony of Dave Rice being a juror on a medical case and now sitting by helplessly watching his wife die because some HMO bean counter wanted to save a few bucks.
Patrick kissed me softly and wrapped me in his arms, and it felt wonderful. After savoring the familiar comfort of his embrace, I took him by the hand and led him to the sofa. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
We spent the better part of two hours discussing the pros and cons of my theories. He voiced concerns for my safety but seemed to accept and respect my need to see this through. Of course he did. Patrick was all things wonderful and considerate. He’d never date his ex-wife or have her come over for intimate massages. And as long as I’d known him he’d never had a “thing, ” either.
“I’d say you more than earned your gift,” he said, gently brushing his lips against my forehead. He went into the bedroom, then returned with a pretty blue and gold box from the Antwerp Spa we’d visited during the early months of our relationship.
Even after all this time, he’d remembered how much I’d raved about the emollient lotion and decadent warming gloves that were part of the spa’s signature offerings.
“Thanks,” I said, running the tip of my finger along his jawline. “You are incredibly sweet.”
“And you’re wounded,” he said, his voice tinged with regret.
“We can work around the Boo-Boo wound.”
His eyes sparkled. “Really?”
“Really,” I insisted, tucking myself under his arm as we moved into the bedroom. Making love was just the diver-sion I needed.
He’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse and was feathering my neck with warm, moist kisses when my cell phone rang. Normally, I would have ignored it, but, then, I’d passed my number out to all of the jurors I’d met and felt a responsibility to answer.
Patrick nibbled on one earlobe while I held my phone to the other. “Hello?”
“You sound breathless.”
“It’s late.”
“I found Dave Rice.”
Unintentionally, I shoved Patrick away a little harder than intended, sending him stumbling back onto the bed. I mouthed an apology.
“Good work, Liam, where is he?”
“St. Mary’s Medical Center.”
I felt a chill dance along my spine. “Is he dead?”
“No, but his wife is.”
Is it still the end if it doesn’t feel finished?
Seventeen
My morning was a regular topographical map—peaks
and valleys and a bunch of crap I didn’t understand.
Patrick, my rock, my stabilizer, the pillar of compassion, announced over he-ran-out-and-got-my-favorite-kind of coffee that he was going ocean kayaking for the day. Of course, then he pulled a typical man-move. He brought out the pained, hangdog expression as he said, “If you really need me to, I can cancel.”
Well, there are only two possible responses to a statement like that. Option one is to say, “Hell, yes. Cancel the plans you made without knowing I’d be panties-deep in a murder investigation, and stay with me.” But that was selfish, needy, and pretty much conveyed the message that I was incapable of dealing with my own problems—ones I had, in fairness to him, at least partially brought on myself.
So I went with option two. “I’m fine, really. You’ve been working without any real breaks for almost a month. Go and enjoy yourself.” I meant maybe half of that—the part about him deserving some leisurely downtime. I found myself deeply offended that he’d enjoy himself while I was in danger.
I took a shower, dried my hair, and decided I had to go home to change. Facing a second day in the same outfit with only touchup cosmetics at my disposal was enough for me to overcome my lingering fears of a killer on the loose. Almost.
So I ventured the three miles back to my apartment, checking my rearview mirror every thirty seconds or so for signs of a boxy, dark sedan.
The evil, snarky part of my personality wanted to call Liam, even though it was barely past nine, just to interrupt any postcoital bliss he might be experiencing.
I had the perfect excuse. I needed information on suspect vehicles. I had pretty much convinced myself it was the thing to do, when I turned into my complex and found Liam leaning against his car. A car, I might add, he’d parked in my assigned spot.
He had a videotape and the newspaper I paid to have delivered in one hand, and a 7-11 paper cup in the other.
At least I outclassed him in the coffee department.
He gave me a pretty thorough once-over as I walked toward him, then his lips curled into an annoying smirk.
“Well, well, this is a first. Finley Tanner without the spit and polish.”
Bite me. Please. I pointed at his car. “Well, well, that is a violation of the complex’s posted parking regulations.
I’ll go spit and polish myself while Redmond’s tows it away.”
“Long night? Oh, wait, we’re not supposed to be interested in each other’s intimate details. I believe that was your stated policy.”
God, the man had the ability to make my blood boil! I was torn between a strong desire to smack him and, well, just plain old desire. Could I have had a psychotic break and not know it?
Peak, valley, peak, valley. I needed more coffee.
“What’s on the tape?”
“Starbucks’ drive-through from the morning Marcus died.”
“Great,” I said as I put my key in the lock. Much as I hated to admit it, I was glad he was there. Having a tall, dark, obscenely handsome man around did have its pluses.
“I think I know what kind of car we’re looking for.”
“Because you called the Psychic Hotline?”
No, because while you were over at Ashley’s, having hot oil rubbed all over your body, I was working. “Some of the people I interviewed mentioned seeing a suspicious car.” Okay, only one of them, but he didn’t need to know that.
When I saw the huge basket in the center of my table I was almost moved to tears. Liv probably put it together—
baskets were a specialty of hers. I knew Sam, Becky, and Jane had all kicked in to make it special.
Pulling the gift tag free, I opened it, and Liam read it over my shoulder. “Happy Suspension.” Tugging the pretty pink and lime-green ribbon loose, I discovered a wealth of treasures. Foremost among them, my laptop.
“When did losing a job become a gift-giving occasion?”
Liam taunted. “Hey, maybe Hallmark should consider starting up a line of appropriate cards.”
“You are way too cynical, and probably don’t have friends as considerate and devoted as mine.”
“Yeah, like the pilot? Ocean kayaking while you’re investigating several homicides, is he? There’s devotion for you.”
How did he do that? “How could you possibly know where Patrick is spending his day?”
“I know things.”
Infuriating man. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me. I continued looking through the gifts, pretending I was not at all flummoxed by his presence. My laptop seemed to be in perfect working order and had a note taped to the bottom stating that the e-mail from AfterAll had been sent by a single-use account from one of the Internet cafés. My friends had donated some other great stuff as well. There was a Starbucks card, probably loaded with enough credits to last a good portion of the pay-free month, and books by two of my favorite authors—a steamy action-adventure and book three in a series about an Italian shoe company.
Liv had also tucked in the express-mail package I’d had delivered to her office. Finally, there were a dozen single-serving boxes of Lucky Charms. My friends rock.
“I’m going to change my clothes. You can set up the film fest.”
I stripped and told myself I was putting on a bra and thong set from my special-occasion collection because I could, not because Liam was in the next room. Since I had my two o’clock with the Halls, I opted for Anne Klein all the way. I paired a flirty black skirt with a black and pink jersey camisole, then slipped on my only pair of full-price Max Azria pumps—a Christmas gift from my mother. A careful application of Mac cosmetics, and I was good to go.
Liam’s second once-over of the day was more thorough and practically made my knees buckle. The air between us seemed to crackle and sizzle, and for a second I actually thought he might cross the room and kiss me.
Patrickpatrickpatrick.
We watched the tape at least a dozen times. Several dark, boxy sedans passed through the pickup window and/or the small portion of the parking lot visible from the position of the camera.
“That wasn’t much help,” I remarked as I went to brew a fresh pot of coffee. “Sorry you wasted a trip over here.”
“I have other bits of information, too.”
I turned and gave him a dirty look. “Why do you drag everything out in bits and pieces?”
He was completely unmoved by my unguarded display of irritation. “I’m just helping you hone your patience skills.”
“Stop helping me, and tell me whatever it is you have to say.” I started moving items from my Liz bag to my Chanel purse.
“Okay,” he said, pulling the notepad from the back pocket of his jeans. “Marcus had a high concentration of alprazolam in his system when he died. The common brand name for that is—”
“Xanax. I know. My mother claims I’m the reason she needs them. An anti-anxiety med that can cause drowsiness.”
“Marcus had enough in his bloodstream to cause a
freaking coma.”
“So isn’t that enough to go to the police?”
“It will be after I go to his family doctor and get an affi-davit attesting to the fact that the man did not and never had taken that medication.”
I felt positively giddy. “Yes!”
“I’m meeting Stacy at his office at three.”
That put a hurting on my giddy. “So I still have to go to the Halls and suck up?”
“Your call. I wouldn’t. Then again, I’m not the one who wants her job back.”
“Well, you are getting proof that Marcus was murdered, but I already have proof that Hall was being blackmailed.”
“And, unfortunately, we don’t have any proof that one is related to the other.”