Knock Off (7 page)
Maybe it was just my general disinterest in the changing Atlantic air currents and/or the long monologue on wind sheer. Still, I kept going back to the three dead jurors. I was literally shocked out of my thoughts when Patrick snapped his fingers. “You’re like a million miles away.”
Surprised, I reached across the table and patted his hand. “Sorry. I’ve got this thing”—I can’t even think the word without hearing Liam’s voice in my head—“at work.
It’s making me a little nuts.”
“Math or greedy heirs?”
I smiled. “I’ve got a math problem, but Jane’s going to help me with that in the morning. I got a new client this week.” I paused to admire the attentive expression on his handsome face.
“And that’s bad?”
I shrugged my shoulders and ran my fingernail up and down on the stem of the wineglass. “It’s different. She doesn’t believe her husband’s death was an accident.”
Patrick gave a little laugh. “What does she expect you to do about it?”
“Investigate,” I said, feeling suddenly defensive.
“Isn’t that what cops are for?”
“She tried that. They didn’t find anything worth investigating.”
“So I’m back to my original question. What are you supposed to do?”
“I’m kinda learning as I go along.”
“You’re taking her seriously?”
“She’s Dane’s friend. He passed her off to me.”
Patrick nodded. “Now I get it. She’s some sort of nutty widow, so the great Victor Dane handed her off to you.”
“Maybe.” I squirmed.
“There’s a possibility she’s right? Really?” He raked his fingers through his neatly cut blond hair. “How did it happen?”
“Car accident.”
“Isn’t that by definition an accident?”
“Unless someone tampered with the brakes.”
“Did this dead guy have enemies?”
I shook my head.
“A mistress?”
“No.”
“Gambler?”
Okay. Patrick’s unbiased perspective was making me
feel less enthusiastic.
“No.”
“Sounds like a hell of a case. Ought to keep you really busy. Speaking of that . . .” He hesitated. “I took a quick turnaround.”
I met his level gaze. “How quick?”
“I leave tomorrow midday.”
“Why?”
“It’s a chance for me to bank some extra downtime. If I want to go on that hiking trip this summer, I need the extra days.” He pressed my hand to his mouth and gave me a whisper of a kiss. “I know I should have run this by you first, but it was a last-minute opportunity and I just couldn’t say no. Not when they offered me five comp days.”
Was I angry? No . . . just a little disappointed. “It’s fine, really. Besides, my mother comes back this weekend. Now you’ll be saved from the post-vacation Sunday brunch.”
“I hate to bail on you, especially when you have mother duty.”
Not wanting to think about “duty” or “plans,” I opted to grab the opportunity in front of me while it was available. Casually checking the slim Liz watch with the black alligator strap I’d picked up on my last trip to Vero, I saw that I had ten, maybe twelve hours, to stock up on hormonal bliss. I offered Patrick my most sultry smile, rubbed my finger up the stem of my wineglass, and exuded phero-mones. “You can make it up to me.”
Patrick’s head whipped around searching for our server.
“Check, please.”
After a quick exit from the restaurant, we hurried back to his apartment. Patrick made the ride more interesting by stroking my thigh and making wonderful little circles against my skin with the pad of his thumb.
He was the picture of control in the elevator, while I was practically thrumming. Patrick’s not a big fan of public displays of affection. But I knew the second his front door closed behind us he’d have me out of my designer dress in no time flat. My upper thighs ached, and my lower belly tensed. Sex with Patrick was always physically satisfying, and my expectant body was ready for the ride.
My fingers fumbled through the buttons on his shirt. I flattened my hands against his chest, enjoying the strong beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. Reluctantly, Patrick loos-ened his grip on my hips, and I stepped back ever so slightly.
My eyes roamed boldly over the vast expanse of his broad shoulders, drinking in the sight of his impressive upper body.
I openly admired his powerful thighs and washboard-perfect abs. My mouth watered. “My self-control is about to go right out the window,” I said, liking the way his eyes darkened, really loving the anticipation building between us. My stomach fluttered.
Protected in the circle of his arms, I closed my eyes and allowed my cheek to rest against his chest. I could forget everything. Marcus Evans, Vain Dane, José Vasquez, Graham Keeler, and even Liam McGarrity for a few more hours.
Forget everything but the comfort of being with him.
His fingers danced over the outline of my spine, leaving a trail of electrifying sensations in their wake. Passion flourished and blossomed from deep within me, filling me quickly with frenzied desire.
But I knew the rules. Patrick had a thing about specific, deliberate pacing. What I really wanted to do was bypass all the foreplay and get right to the good stuff.
Then he moved the tip of his finger across my taut nipple and for a split second I couldn’t think any more. Except maybe to consider begging when he stopped.
Patrick moved his hand in a series of slow, sensual circles until it rested against my ribcage, just under the swell of my breast. Tilting my head back, I wanted to see carnal passion in his eyes. They were certainly a darker shade of blue, but was that enough?
I’d bet my best La Perla panties that Liam McGarrity’s eyes smoldered when he was in the throes of passion. God, I had to stop this. Comparing Patrick and Liam was like comparing a Jaguar to a Volvo. Both excellent cars, but only one had a proven reputation for dependability.
Patrick was trailing warm kisses along the side of my jaw. That brought me back to the present. His lips moved to cover mine. His mouth was warm and pressed urgently against me. My arms slid around his waist, pulling him closer.
He whispered my name as he reached out to trace the outline of my lips, then led me into his bedroom. The pink satin nightgown was still in the box. I’m sure he wanted me to slip into it, but I was feeling too impatient for a fashion show.
“Next time,” I promised him as I pulled off my sandals.
Then came the clothes, mine in a heap on the floor, Patrick’s neatly folded over the edge of his desk chair.
Patrick yanked down the comforter and began showering my face and neck with kisses as soon as we hit the mat-tress. His mouth searched for that sensitive spot at the base of my throat. A pleasurable moan spilled from his mouth when I began running my palms over the tight muscles of his stomach.
Capturing both of my hands in one of his, Patrick gently held them above my head. The position makes my back arch and is a particular favorite of his.
“This isn’t playing fair,” I told him. “You should let me do it to you. Maybe we could buy some of those padded handcuffs or something?”
His answer was warm but dismissive.
“Believe me, it’s better for both of us if I don’t let you keep touching me,” he said with a smile and a kiss.
I responded by lifting my body to him. The rounded swell of one exposed breast brushed his arm. His fingers closed over the peaked fullness.
“My turn,” I insisted.
“Not yet,” he whispered as he ignored my futile struggle to release my hands as he dipped his head to kiss the raging pulse point at my throat.
I felt my skin growing hotter and hotter as he released my wrists and worked his mouth lower and lower. My fingers twined in his hair as my insides started to boil. I choked out a small gasp when his mouth found that magic little spot. It was only a matter of seconds before my body exploded in a million little shards of orgasmic bliss.
Patrick slid up my body and kissed my cheek as he reached into the nightstand and took out a condom. With that accomplished, he thrust inside me. I lifted my hips and bracketed my hands at his waist. He kept the rhythm of our lovemaking at a slow, deliberate pace. I nibbled the side of his neck until I felt his body convulse.
I’ve never been great at the postcoital chitchat thing.
“Ohhh, baby, that was fabulous” just isn’t me. Likewise,
“Thanks, that was great” feels hookerish, like there should be a hundred waiting for me on the dresser.
I was toying with the soft hairs on Patrick’s chest and listening to the even rhythm of his heartbeat. I should have been content, but I was feeling a little guilty. Was it cheating if you thought of another man before sex? During? It had been all Patrick, all me, just like always, but before . . .
My heart skipped, and I sat halfway up, propped on one elbow. “Hey, do you mind, uh, being an impartial party?”
I immediately saw concern in his eyes. “What’s up?”
Guilt. I strangled it in favor of work, which I never realized was such a handy emotional scapegoat. “Just the juror thing, do you mind?” He shook his head no and got more comfortable while I ran through the sketchy details of the juror’s deaths.
He was quiet for a minute, then asked, “You told the widow you’d run blood tests without knowing if there even is a blood test beyond what the medical examiner’s office does?”
“Sure. Trena said they only check for alcohol levels and run-of-the-mill drugs. What if Marcus Evans was given some sort of ‘exotic’ potion that caused him to wreck his car?”
Patrick bit his lower lip and joked, “When did you turn into McGruff the Crime Dog?”
“I’m
just
doing my job,” I said, rolling away from him before I gave in to the strong temptation to smother him with an embroidered airplane pillow.
“Hey, sweetie, this is obviously stressing you out.
‘Your
job’
is filing papers and distributing money to beneficiaries. Isn’t solving crimes a little beyond your skill set?”
So much for the magical glow of spent passion, or sneaking in another session before he left again. I began snatching my clothes up off the floor. “I’ve got to go.”
“Fin, honey, I’m sorry.” He got out of bed and gently closed his hand over my wrist. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Stay. Spend the night. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
My satiated body wasn’t willing to give in. “I’ve got an early meeting,” I said, placing a half-hearted kiss on his cheek.
His lips twitched, and amusement danced in his eyes.
“In an old abandoned building where you knock three times, then say Leo sent you?”
I pulled my wrist free and got dressed, ignoring Patrick’s volley of jokes and apologies. I couldn’t exactly blame him. It wasn’t like I’d ever taken my job particularly seriously before now.
Patrick and I parted on okay terms. Basically, I was okay with the fact that he’d been an asshole. He’d be gone for a week or so, and I knew from experience that I’d be over it by then. Besides, I had a month’s worth of truffles to help me through it.
In fact, by the time I got home, I already had rescheduled the week ahead, minus my boyfriend. Normally, I would have tried on my new nightgown immediately, but instead, I changed into some comfy Victoria PJs and opened the envelope Liam had given me.
There were about twenty pages of Marcus Evans’s financial statements. Bottom line, the family had several million dollars in assets. At least on paper. “Okay, Liam, if there’s a clue here, it’s lost on me. Don’t you own a highlighter?”
Slipping the video out of the envelope, I took it over to the machine, inserted it, and hit PLAY.
It was black-and-white and really poor quality. Certainly not anything like the old
Friends
tapes I can’t throw away. There was no sound, just a time-and-date stamp on the bottom corner. It took me several minutes before I realized what I was watching. It was some sort of surveil-lance video. My guess was that it was from an ATM. When it ended, I moved closer to the set, rewound the tape, and played it again.
Then it hit me. This footage was from the day Marcus Evans had died. Assuming the time stamp was right, it covered from 7:16 to 8:16 the morning of the accident.
“What am I supposed to see?” I asked, growing frustrated.
None of the faces of the people using the machine were even remotely familiar.
I watched the tape a third and fourth time, and still nothing. My eyes hurt, and I was really tired. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would help.
I pulled a bag of Starbucks coffee from the freezer and had my second ah-ha! moment. Jogging back into the living room, I rewound the tape and started it from the be-80
Rhonda Pollero
ginning. The ATM was in a parking lot, and its lens coned out for a wider view of the parking area.
Directly across from the bank was a Starbucks. Using the remote, I went frame by tedious frame through the tape until exactly 7:46. I froze the picture on the screen. Though it was small, I could easily see that the man seated alone at the front table sipping a coffee was Marcus Evans.
I quelled the urge to call Patrick to tell him to kiss my McGruff McAss. Instead, I continued my slow-motion film fest. Every now and then the view was obstructed by someone using the automated teller machine. Then I saw it. Kind of. Someone—tall, lean, baseball hat, T-shirt, and jeans—bumped Marcus’s table. Coffee spilled. They appeared to be talking to one another, but I couldn’t see what happened for a few minutes because some techno-challenged guy spent the better part of two minutes trying to withdraw cash. His image practically filled the screen, and by the time he walked away, Marcus was alone again, sipping coffee and unfolding a newspaper.
“Something is different,” I mumbled as I rewound the tape to the point just before the person bumped the table.
I smiled and felt a surge of excitement. I’d found my first clue.
Multitasking is the ability
to screw several things up at once.
Six
Dragging ass didn’t even begin to describe the way I felt as I leaned against the brick wall outside the gym waiting on Jane. The strap of my rarely used briefcase dug into my shoulder. Between the D’Auria estate stuff, the Evans financials, and the videotape, I felt—and probably looked—like a sherpa.
I sipped coffee from my travel mug, tapping my very cold foot. The temperature hovered in the low sixties— arctic, to my way of thinking. Shifting the briefcase to my other shoulder, I watched the sky beginning to lighten.
Only fishermen and fitness junkies were up this early in the morning. Surely there was some sort of fish that slept in and the whole reason the gym stays open until midnight is so people don’t have to start their workouts at o-dark-thirty.
My eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep, and even though I’d showered, dressed, and applied full makeup, I desperately wanted to be back in my nice warm bed. This whole “taking my job seriously” thing wasn’t working too well.
I checked my watch. “Damn,” I grumbled. With all the Evans stuff, I’d forgotten to check on my eBay bid. The thought that I might be the high bidder on the Rolex box improved my mood considerably.
Glancing down, I admired the light reflecting off my Enzo peep-toe pumps. The bronze leather-and-suede wedgies were really comfortable, and I’d picked them up off the clearance table at Dillard’s a few weekends earlier. My Carolina blue dupioni jacket and complementary print skirt with handkerchief hem—also outlet bargains—didn’t offer much in the way of warmth.
Several cars pulled into the lot. Mostly men in them, mostly with necks the size of tree trunks. Almost to a one, they wore shorts and wife-beater T-shirts and carried huge nylon bags, big enough to stuff a dead body in. Shivering, I ignored them all, despite the appreciative glances sent my way. I wasn’t there to make friends. In fact, if Jane didn’t get her toned fanny out here soon, I’d have to consider crossing her off my friend list. Right after she fixed my accounting error.
“Hey,” Jane greeted me energetically as she came
around the corner. “Sorry. Lost track of time on the ellip-tical machine.”
So why couldn’t I just hate her and be done with it?
Probably because I, being a fabulous friend, knew how much time she put into her gorgeous self. By the time she was done, the effort appeared effortless. Jane was beautifully dressed in a very short black skirt and very tight black blouse. A jeweled silver and turquoise drop belt cinched her slender hips, swaying with each deliberate step she took. Her steps had to be deliberate. The heels on her leather ankle boots were at least four inches high. A few strands of her chocolate brown hair was tousled like always, and like always, it suited her sex-kittenish look.
I rattled my empty travel mug at her. “Coffee. I need coffee.”
Jane smiled. “When do you not need coffee? Let me get my purse out of my trunk, then we’ll walk over to Bailey’s and get your fix. You’re a coffee junkie.”
Her rev-up-and-go thing is exercise, while mine is Mocha Java. After all these years of friendship, we still make the same teasing jabs. I glanced at her hair. “For someone who worked out for the last hour, you don’t look all skanky and sweaty. What do you really do in there?
Get a facial?”
“Ha, ha.” She smacked her thin thigh, which, of course, didn’t dare jiggle. “This takes work.”
Jane’s naturally wavy hair was twisted into a loose ponytail. On anyone else, it would have looked like I’m-going-to-the-grocery-store-and-can’t-be-bothered. But on her, it looks hot in a casual kind of way.
“You win. If I were to do that I could start an earth-quake.”
Laughing, Jane said, “Join me. I can get you a fifty-percent-off membership.” She’s not much taller than I am, maybe an inch or two, but her FM heels allowed her to tower over me.
“Never! God, last night didn’t go well,” I told her abruptly, going on to recap my less-than-perfect reunion with Patrick.
“At least you got some good sex out of it, right?”
I shrugged. We were getting close enough to the coffee shop for the scent to quicken my pace. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was like a tractor beam, especially if I’m vertical before the sun has fully breached the horizon.
Jane got a fat-free, sugar-free, fun-free coffee while I opted for the deluxe, highest-possible-calorie-count latte with whipped cream. We took a table near the back, knowing the place would start to fill up as the morning progressed.
A good friend helps you with an estate accounting. A
great
friend simply does it for you. Jane was a great friend.
What had taken me literally days and worn a small callus on my thumb without any success to show for my efforts took Jane just under fifteen minutes.
Tapping the tip of her red pen against the spreadsheet, she said, “You transposed the last two numbers for this account.”
“I figured it was something simple and stupid.”
Jane’s brow furrowed. It could furrow now since it had been four months since her last Botox injection. “Don’t beat yourself up. It was an easy thing to miss.”
I stuffed the D’Auria papers back into my briefcase and debated whether or not to show Jane the Evans financials.
Hell, why not. “What are these?”
Jane sipped her why-bother coffee as her dark eyes perused the documents Liam had stuffed in with the videotape. I went up for a refill and a couple of cranberry muffins, returning to the table to find Jane relaxing against her seatback.
Finally some answers, and a person who could explain them to me in a language I’d understand. “So, what does all that stuff mean?”
“Marcus and Stacy Evans are modestly loaded. Most of the big-ticket assets—primary residence in Jersey, vacation home in Cape Cod, and the condo in Palm Beach—are joint. Marcus retained an interest in the jewelry store in New York and a trust for his grandchildren’s educations.
Checking, savings, and a few CDs at the Bank of South Florida.”
A small bell went off in my head. My meager checking account was at BSF; maybe that’s why it struck a chord.
Jane continued on, flipping through the pages. “In the last few years the generous bastard donated more than twenty percent of his retirement income to various charities. How come I never meet guys like him?”
I was a little disheartened. I guess part of me half hoped she’d find something sinister. Anything. “Basically you’re telling me this stuff is useless?”
“Depends on what you’re looking for. He wasn’t cheating on his taxes, at least not based on these records. I’d need more information than these summary sheets to be sure. Why?”
“Three jurors who sat in on a malpractice trial have died in the last few months. Marcus Evans was one of them.”
Jane’s face registered interest. “You’re working on a murder? Wow, how cool is that?”
“It would be cool, except that other than the Widow Evans, I’m the only one who thinks something is weird here. Even Patrick mocked me.”
“Patrick the Great?” she asked, dramatically pressing the back of her hand to her head. “I’m stunned. Finley, he’s a fantasy boyfriend. He’s kind, never forgets a birthday or other special occasion, and the big plus—he’s gone a lot. It’s like you’re single with a safety net. Too bad he doesn’t have a clone.”
Was it like being single? No, single was single. I was in a committed relationship. Well, semi-committed, at least.
She picked at the crusty top of the muffin. Everyone knows the top of the muffin is the only part worth eating, and Jane was no exception. “When did you switch gears?”
“From?”
“Estates to investigations?”
I shrugged. “Three dead jurors is a little coincidental, don’t you think?”
“Statistically speaking, it’s improbable.” Jane stood and began clearing the table. “Of course, any statistical analy-sis would change based on variables such as how and when the individuals died.”
“You are such a math geek,” I said with a groan.
Jane smiled. “Which didn’t bother you in the least a few minutes ago when you needed help with accounting.”
86
Rhonda Pollero
“That’s true. Thanks, Jane. I’ll even forgive you for having better thighs than me.”
I walked Jane back to the parking lot of her gym. I didn’t have enough time to go home, so for the second time in a week, I was early for work. Earlier even than Margaret, a fact that should have given me great pleasure, but didn’t. It felt strange, like maybe I was beginning a new bad habit.
Like the time I’d tried soy lattes so I could be healthier.
That only lasted a week.
My mind, usually free to be distracted, was totally pre-occupied with the Evans matter. Jane was right, I needed something more concrete than jury duty, medically certified accidents, a grainy videotape, and a grieving widow.
And a suspicious tingle in the pit of my stomach.
That meant I had to read the trial transcripts. Where was Cami when I needed her? Since I was the first one in, I flipped on the light switches as I made my way to my office. I didn’t feel particularly excited when I looked at the massive tower of white cardboard boxes. Still, I dove in bravely, knowing it was a necessary evil.
By ten o’clock, I’d consumed two pots of coffee and read the plaintiff’s portion of the transcripts. Well,
“read”
was a bit of an overstatement. There was some definite skimming involved. And a few breaks just to rest my eyes and keep my brain from going completely numb.
Work
was definitely a four-letter word.
I’d flagged a few pages, things I needed to research or clarify, starting with the Internet. And, since I’d busted butt for hours already, I figured a small detour wouldn’t hurt. Too much work and not enough time on eBay lost me the bid I’d had going on the Rolex box. Since I was already there, I searched for new listings and found another one, and while it was in good condition, it wasn’t excellent, so I bid accordingly. I also found two more band links and bid on those as well.
Hell, while I was at it, I checked for any new Betsey Johnson designs and found an adorable, flirty blue chiffon vintage dress in my size. It was a little pricey, especially when I converted the Euros to dollars, and the shipping charges were a bitch, but it was a Betsey and it could be mine—assuming I didn’t get outbid—in four days for about seventy bucks.
Shopping needs met, I decided to get some background on the medical witnesses who’d testified on Hall’s behalf. I knew they had to be top-notch and expensive. Money always favors the defendant. Lots of money—the kind Hall had at his disposal—almost guarantees a favorable verdict.
But that didn’t mean he committed malpractice during or after the transplant. If he had done something wrong, he probably would have settled out of court. That was the smart move. The safe one.
The first witness was Dr. Carlton Peterman. His curricu-lum vitae was a zillion pages long, with enough commendations, awards, and certifications to qualify for sainthood.
As Brad Whitley’s primary cardiologist, his testimony was pretty persuasive. Especially the part about the infection being a known and foreseeable complication of the transplant that he had personally explained to Brad and his wife, Sara.
The other expert was from Johns Hopkins, the mecca of western medicine. While Dr. Zorner wasn’t even present for the surgery, he was emphatic that Hall had done a stel-lar job. His credentials made the first guy look like a slacker.
Rubbing my forehead, I closed my eyes and reviewed what I knew to be true.
(A) Brad Whitley needed a heart transplant or he was going to die.
(B) The donor, Ivy Novak, had suffered massive head injuries as a result of a motorcycle accident, and once she’d been pronounced brain-dead by the neu-rologist on call, and Dr. Hall, her organs were harvested.
(C) Every expert, as well as the entire transplant team, testified that Hall performed the operation to perfection.
(D) The postop infection and not some surgical blunder caused Brad Whitley’s death.
(E) Three of twelve jurors had died within weeks of one another. All of the deaths were ruled accidental by the M.E.
“The trial was three years ago,” I mused aloud. “Who would wait that long to seek revenge?” Assuming they really were murdered, and assuming the motive really was revenge.
“The only person with motive is Sara Whitley.”
I smelled Liam’s cologne, and my eyes flew open. He was standing in my doorway. God, he was gorgeous.
“Morning.” He walked in and sat across from me. “I guess the tape I gave you pretty much puts Stacy Evans’s murder theory to bed.”
Speaking of that, did Beer Barbie put you to bed last
night?
How lame was I? “If that’s what you think, you’re a pretty crappy investigator.”
One corner of his mouth curved into a crooked and incredibly sexy half-smile. “Seems to me that tape proves Mr. Evans was just fine less than an hour before the accident.
Accident
being the operative word.”
“Fine
and
drinking coffee,” I pointed out, wanting to win something—anything—to gain the upper hand. “Who nods off at the wheel twenty minutes after a caffeine hit?”
He looked bored instead of impressed. “Maybe he had decaf.”
I scoffed. “Drinking decaf in the morning is as stupid as ordering a Virgin Mary at happy hour. Besides, didn’t you notice the coffee switch?”
“I noticed someone accidentally spilling his coffee. Then the view was obscured so, no, I don’t know that there was a switch.”
“Then come with me,” I said as I grabbed up the tape and headed for the elevator. “I take it you don’t frequent Starbucks?”
“I’m more of a Seven-Eleven kind of guy,” he answered.
The elevator compartment seemed to shrink with him at my side. The scent of his cologne, the way he held his hands lightly fisted at his sides, all of it came together in a pretty impressive package. One that was guaranteed to blow up in my face. Gulping, I kept my eyes fixed on the number pad, truly afraid I might suffer a sexual psychotic break, yank the emergency STOP button, and jump him right there, before we ever reached the fourth-floor conference room. What
was
my problem?