Knock Off (8 page)
The conference room was empty. It was also fully
equipped, and normally reserved for depositions and other events the firm wanted to memorialize. I’d videotaped a few grumpy, bitter old women who wanted the satisfaction of telling their descendants from the grave that they weren’t going to get a penny of their money. Bitter, I discovered as I observed the hearers’ faces, could be an inher-ited trait. Then again, I’m not sure I’d take it well if I found out my relative was leaving several million to a foundation dedicated to saving some obscure swamp bird instead of bailing me out of debt.
I arranged two of the custom leather seats in front of the monitor, almost a foot apart so there would be no accidental touching, then went into the anteroom and inserted Liam’s ATM tape into the machine.
He didn’t bother to hide his opinion that this was a complete waste of time. I fast-forwarded through to the part with Marcus at the table.
“See?” I said, my enthusiasm building as I shined the laser pointer toward the screen. “Marcus is there, minding his own business, drinking a grande.” I redirected the pointer to track the grainy figure as it came into frame. “Here’s mystery klutz. Then the table bump.”
Liam sighed. “You do know I’ve watched this, right?”
Ignoring his question, I waited for the ATM-challenged guy to get out of the way, then I aimed my trusty pointer at the screen. “There! See it?”
“Sure, Marcus got more coffee.”
“That,” I said triumphantly, “is a venti.”
“So?”
“In primo coffeeland, you don’t change sizes in mid-beverage. You might—and that’s a big might—go from a large to a medium or even a small. But I’ve never known anyone to do the opposite. What if the person intentionally knocked over his coffee, then replaced it with a cup that was spiked with—whatever you spike a drink with?
It’s possible, right?”
“On an episode of
CSI,
sure.”
I glared at him. “There are things—drugs—that don’t show up in a standard screen. I read a little bit about it on the Internet.”
“A little information can be a dangerous thing.”
Ignoring his cynicism, I clicked off my laser. “That,” I said, “is where you come in. I got permission from Stac—”
Cami popped her head in. “Hi, Finley. Sorry to interrupt.”
Though her comment was directed at me, Cami’s eyes and attention were glued to the man next to me. I was fairly sure she wasn’t the least bit sorry she’d interrupted us. She came in, extending her hand, using it like a Liam-directed divining rod. “I’m Cami Hunnicutt.”
“Liam McGarrity.”
“I, um, well,” she stammered as if English was no longer her native language.
“Need something?” I was tempted to laser her right in the middle of her forehead.
She blinked twice and relinquished Liam’s hand and reluctantly looked in my direction. “Yes. I need you to cc Mr. Dane on tomorrow’s billing sheet. Margaret mentioned that you’ve been putting in some extra hours and—”
Keeping my voice coolly professional, I answered, “Not a problem.”
“What’s with the tape?” she asked.
Her interest in the video was such crap. It didn’t take a genius IQ to know that Cami was doing a serious Liam scope-out. Or that I was jealous.
“Part of the Evans investigation,” I said.
“Really?”
“No,” Liam answered.
Thanks a lot, pal. I love feeling like a fool. “I meant the Evans estate,” I corrected. “Is there anything else you need?”
Before you fall to his feet and beg to bear his children?
“I’ll tell Mr. Dane to expect your billing and expense sheets.”
After she left, Liam asked, “Are they afraid you’ll pad the bill because Mrs. Evans is loaded?”
Men. He had no clue he’d just been checked out and tagged as prime dating material. Well, considering his attitude, maybe he was so used to it, it just didn’t faze him any more. “Who knows. I’ll need your charges to date. Can you fax them to me by tomorrow afternoon?”
“To date?” he asked. “Aren’t we finished here?”
92
Rhonda Pollero
I shook my head. “I need you to get Marcus’s blood sample from the M.E.’s office. Stacy will sign the release when she gets back from New Jersey. If I can swing it, I’ll need the same thing on José Vasquez’s blood sample.”
Assuming I can get the widows to agree,
I thought, tapping the laser against my palm. “Maybe Graham Keller’s blood-work, too, though I’m not sure they did an autopsy on him, so I’ll have to get back to you on that. I want everything tested by a reputable lab.”
“You know you’re wasting money and my time, right?”
“I’m only doing what the client instructed me to do.”
And what my boss pretty much told me not to.
Who did I really work for? God, there was that word again!
“Your call.” He checked his watch. “It’s time for lunch.”
Professionalism flew out the window, and my stomach tightened. I think I even forgot to breathe.
Ask me.
He stood. “I’ll talk to you after I get the test results.”
Maybe I should ask him to lunch. Yeah, a casual “we
both have to eat” kind of thing. An innocent business lunch.
Who am I kidding? I haven’t had an innocent thought about
this guy since I first laid eyes on him.
“What about the car?” I asked, not wanting him to leave. “Any word from your expert?”
He shook his head. “It’ll take him at least another week.
He’s got to take the car apart.”
“What about this tape? Can it be enhanced?”
“Maybe,” he hedged as we headed toward the door. “I think you’re making too much of this.”
He was probably right, but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Liam followed me back to my office. I wanted to make a copy of the stuff Trena had faxed over from the M.E.’s office.
To my surprise and delight, two dozen pink roses were waiting for me. They also reminded me that I needed to meet Ricardo at my mother’s place, for the orchid thing, after work.
Plucking the card from the tines nestled among the fragrant flowers, I read the simple message:
Thinking about
you.
Romantic, but not. That was Patrick.
Behind me, Liam whistled softly. “You must’ve rocked someone’s world last night.”
I felt my cheeks get warm. I was half pissed at him for reading over my shoulder. The other half of me wanted to childishly stick out my tongue and say, “I got some too, buddy. And it was good.”
“Well, if it isn’t Oliver Stonette,” Becky remarked when I ran into her at the vending machines around two-thirty.
“Screw you,” I replied cheerily. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“You met with the investigator again,” she said as she pulled her Moon Pie from the bottom tray of the machine.
“So?”
“So,” Becky said, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she pulled me into the vacant employee lounge. “The senior partners are freaking out.”
“Why?”
“This firm is still on retainer to Dr. Hall. Between his personal and professional interests, he brings in big bucks.”
“It’s not like I’m working pro bono for Stacy Evans.
She’s a paying client, too.”
“A probate client,” Becky corrected. “Christ, Finley, the way I hear it, you’re about to retry the malpractice case. A case Victor successfully defended, remember?”
“I’m not doing that.”
Much.
“I’ve read most of the transcripts. There’s no evidence that Hall committed malpractice. I’m starting to think that maybe Sara Whitley is exacting revenge on the jurors who exonerated the man she believes negligently caused her husband’s death.”
Becky sighed heavily. “After all this time? C’mon, no one has that kind of patience.”
“I’ll know Saturday.”
“You? Working on a Saturday? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Finley?”
“I have a ten-thirty appointment with her.”
“Who? Sara? To do what? Waltz into her house and ask her if she’s a killer? That’s your plan?”
“Actually, I do have a plan. A widow plan. I’ve arranged meetings tomorrow with Rosita Vasquez and Martha Keller.”
Becky raked her fingers through her hair. “I don’t have a good vibe about this.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I insisted. “I need Mrs. Vasquez to sign a release so I can get José’s blood sample from the M.E.’s office.” I frowned, still unsure what to do about Keller. Maybe there was some blood drawn at the ER the night he died.
“I think you’re getting in over your head,” Becky warned.
“Any ideas on what it takes to exhume a body?”
“Yeah. A backhoe and a couple of beefy guys with shov-els.”
If you don’t have anything nice to say . . . lie.
Seven
Iwas a little surprised that I didn’t hear from Patrick before his flight left. Technically I guess I did hear from him, I decided, breathing in the fragrant scent of the roses adorning my desk. Suffering an attack of relationship paranoia, I wondered if this was the beginnings of the dreaded Slow Withdrawal. Could this possibly be phase one of him dumping me? If so, I needed a plan. It’s always better to be the dumper than the dumpee. God, I hate this shit.
No, no, no. I was being silly. Patrick was too sweet, too kind to break up with me without telling me first. He was way too considerate to play mind games. If he thought there were problems between us, he’d offer suggestions to fix it. Not send me two dozen brace-yourself-bitch roses.
Luckily, Stacy Evans called, pulling me out of my whole
“dating sucks” downward spiral. To say she was thrilled with my progress was an understatement. She gushed enthusiasm—as much as an elderly tight-ass is capable of gushing—while I went over my discoveries to date.
“I’ll contact the authorities as soon as I get back tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t advise that quite yet,” I cautioned.
“Why not? The police should arrest Sara Whitley for my husband’s murder.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “And killing those other people.”
“Suspicions aren’t probable cause for an arrest,” I explained, impressed that I even remembered that tenet of criminal law. I’d only taken the one required course needed for my degree.
“Shouldn’t she at least be questioned?”
This wasn’t going well. “Yes. Of course. But first we need to establish that your husband’s death was a murder.”
“How much longer will that take?”
I tucked my hair behind my ear and leaned back in my chair, trying not to let the woman’s impatience get to me.
“First, I have to have the blood sample analyzed, and it will help if I can get the other two families on board.”
“Shall I call them?”
“Let’s just wait and see how my meetings go. Incidentally, did your husband go out for coffee often?”
“Every morning,” Stacy said, her voice holding a hint of sadness. “It was part of his ritual.”
Rut,
I thought, but kept that to myself. A lot of older folks fall into patterned behavior. It seems to magnify with people post retirement. Especially in Florida, the home of Ten-Percent-Tuesday. I envied the gray-heads who got an extra discount once a week from Dillards, even on sale merchandise. It wasn’t fair. Most of them had enough disposable income to pay full retail. Hell, maybe I should get a wig and some orthopedic shoes and give it a try. Ten percent is ten percent.
“Finley!” Stacy yelled in my ear.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Could you repeat that?”
“I
said,
I never understood why he went to Starbucks when we always had perfectly good coffee at home. A waste of time and money.”
Glancing down at my trash can, I counted no fewer than four paper travel cups with the familiar green Coffee Haven logo. Then I did the math. Cripe, I had a twenty-, maybe thirty-dollar-a-day habit. At this rate, I’d need an intervention. Or a second job. Soon.
“So he went every day, at the same time?” I asked.
“You could set your watch by it.”
Stacy spent the better part of the next thirty minutes grilling me about the questions I planned to ask the other widows before she gave me her return-flight information.
To her credit, she also added a “job well done, Finley” before hanging up.
So, she was over calling me “Miss Tanner?” Were we bonding? No, she was just placated. For now.
Confirming Marcus’s coffee habit was my second clue. I was almost giddy—which rarely happens—when I created a new document on my computer. Completely lacking imagination, I named the file
clues
and added the confirmed information.
Okay, time for another admission. I love
Court TV.
Not the trials; they’re usually a big yawn. The forensics shows are a whole other thing. I’m particularly fond of
Body of
Evidence.
Dayle Hinman. She’s smart, attractive, and trained to profile the worst of the worst. She’s also a local girl—kinda. She’s in northern Florida, which, in my opinion, doesn’t really count as Florida. They have winter.
With frost and everything.
Anyway, her voice was in my head, reminding me that people with predictable schedules were easy targets. Whoever—The Widow Whitley, in all likelihood—killed Marcus—okay, I didn’t have actual proof he was murdered, but I was going with it—must have followed him. Memorized his routine and came up with her plan.
A pretty good one, too. Follow him to Starbucks, accidentally knock over his drink, then replace it with another
one containing
. . . what? Hopefully, the blood panel
would answer that question. I’m not exactly a walking en-cyclopedia on poisons.
Waiting’s not my strong suit. Come to think of it, I’m not good with a lot of “w” verbs: walking, waiting, working. Though I was getting better at the working part. I was the one who’d noticed the error on the videotape. Not too shabby, considering this was my first real investigation.
Maybe I should celebrate with another latte.
Liv called me just as I was about to leave for the day.
She was pulling together a last-minute girls’-night-out in Delray. Becky and Jane were game, and I readily agreed.
My newfound commitment to my job had ebbed after
such a long day. An evening with my friends was just what I needed.
We agreed to meet around seven o’clock at our favorite bookstore, Murder on the Beach. It’s an amazing shop, complete with big, comfy chairs and a fabulous staff. The owner, Joanne, hosts all sorts of events, reading groups, and fun-themed parties. Liv’s working with her on a mystery weekend party, which means the girls and I get to hit Boston’s, one of my absolute favorite restaurants.
Before I could detox, I had to meet Ricardo at my mother’s place. I did, using the photos stored on my cell phone to make sure each obscenely overpriced replacement orchid was in its proper place. If it wasn’t, I’d hear about it at the Mandatory Mother Brunch on Sunday.
Mom insists we share brunch after she returns from every trip. It’s not sharing so much as a debriefing and de-grading session. I’d get a blow-by-blow of her travel exploits, followed by blows in general. “Finley, you’re not living up to your potential.” “Finley, why hasn’t Patrick asked you to marry him yet?” “Finley, why can’t you be more like your sister?” Just the thought of it made my stomach clench.
I went home and surveyed my closet, finally settling on a pair of soft pink capris and a Marc Jacobs wool polo in dark gray. Normally not one of my better colors, but thanks to a small—and easily repairable—snag in the open-lace stitching, I’d gotten it at a deep, deep discount.
Well, deep for a Marc Jacobs. I’m still lusting over a pair of shoes from his spring collection, but I’ll need to pay down some of my credit-card balances before that’s even a remote possibility. I completed my ensemble with a gem-stone belt and cork wedge sandals from Rack Room.
After switching back to my pink Chanel purse, I realized the message light on my phone was still flashing. A glance at the digital clock on the microwave told me I had a few minutes to check my voice mail. I grabbed the hand-set and punched in my passcode.
Two from my neighbor, Sam Carter. The first message asked me to call him because he had something important to ask me. Sam’s definition of “important” and my definition of “important” are worlds apart. I could only guess at the pressing matter, but I was afraid it had something to do with my apartment. More specifically, my decor or lack thereof. Every time he enters my apartment, he cringes. He firmly believes my faux leather sofa is an abomination and claims he gets hives just looking at it.
What is it about gay men that makes them such good friends? The answer came to me instantly—unlike straight men, they actually listen. I can, and have, told Sam many of my secrets, cried on his shoulder, and huddled in a god-awful shelter with him during three hurricanes.
In his next message, “important” had morphed into
“urgent.” I made a mental note to return his call. We are pretty close, and I really do adore him.
Then, three hang-ups. Scrolling through Caller ID, I discovered the numbers were blocked, and I silently consigned all telemarketers to hell.
It takes just over a half hour to get from my place to Delray Beach.
If
you take I-95, which I didn’t. The turnpike is a little out of the way but a much easier drive. I can bypass the never-ending construction delays and cruise at an average speed of seventy-five without worrying about a ticket. Plus, there’s a Starbucks in the West Palm Beach Service Plaza. That fact alone is worth the price of a Sun-pass.
Even though the sun had set, it was still warm enough for me to open the sunroof. I’d purposely done my hair half up and half down. Boston’s sits right on the beach, so the mussed look was way more practical than battling the hair-flattening effects of ocean breezes.
I took the Atlantic Avenue exit and headed east, downing the last of my vanilla Frappuccino as I saw flashing red lights up ahead. I have really bad train karma. The red-and-white striped arm guarding the railroad tracks lowered just as I reached the crossing. Like all true Floridians, I shifted my car into PARK while I was forced to wait for the train to chug by. And, like every other native, I counted the freight cars as they passed just to kill the time.
One hundred sixteen mostly graffitied boxcars later, the bells stopped flashing and ringing and the caution arm raised. “About freaking time,” I muttered as I put my car back into DRIVE.
I arrived at the shop a mere ten minutes late. Not bad.
Becky and Jane were sitting in the reading area of Murder on the Beach. Liv was at the back of the store talking with the owner. Since I was a semi-regular, Joanne waved to me.
I took the vacant chair next to Jane. We exchanged hellos, then Jane said, “Liv needs to finish up. I’m starving.”
“Me too.” I hadn’t had any real food all day. Unless you count peanut M&Ms. Which I frequently do.
Becky was flipping through an autographed copy of the latest Edna Buchanan novel. “I’ll take this one, too,” she decided, adding it to the small stack on the table next to her.
I chatted with Jane while Becky paid for her purchases and Liv finalized the details for the party. Ten minutes later we were walking down Pineapple Grove Way. The walking part was Jane’s idea. I would have gone with the valet-parking option, but I got outvoted. With the exception of Liv, we all had pretty sedentary jobs, so the exercise, though forced, was probably a good idea.
It was a warm night, so we accepted a table on the Upper Deck open-air patio. My mouth watered at the yeasty scent of freshly baked rolls. Following Liv’s lead, we weaved through the crowded first floor. I used the opportunity to peruse the selections of the other diners. The mahimahi presented on a bed of saffron orzo with steamed veggies was the hands-down winner. By the time we were seated, I had pretty much made up my mind.
For the sake of practicality, the chairs were teak. The tabletop was a mosaic of brightly painted tiles, decorated by a single flower and a trio of small votives. A gentle breeze swirled off the ocean, and I could hear the faint lapping of the waves and the sway of palm fronds. It was a relaxing setting, made more so when the waiter arrived with my Cosmo. Yes, I know, cliché, but in my defense, the cit-rusy tang cleanses my pallet before a meal. It’s the alcohol version of taste-bud CPR.
Liv sipped a red wine while reading the menu. Defying nature, her pale brown hair was immune to the saltwater air, keeping its shape and fullness, giving me a serious case of hair envy.
Annoyingly healthy Jane drank water with a twist of lime. She rarely ordered a cocktail, mainly because she had the willpower to resist the call of the empty calories, and she claimed drinking made her sluggish during her morning workouts. Me? I’d bail on the workout. Then again, I consider a hangnail reason enough to avoid the gym.
Like me, Becky had a martini, but hers was neon green apple. Her menu sat unopened as she used a toothpick to fish the bottom of the glass for the cherry. Apparently she’d stayed late at work, since she was still wearing the same taupe silk blouse and rust skirt I’d seen at the office.
I liked her as a redhead. It suited her coloring and her personality.
“Jean-Claude and I have a new client,” Liv said as she put her menu down, running one perfectly manicured nail along the rim of her wineglass.
“Share,” Jane said eagerly.
Liv turned her violet gaze on Becky. “Fantasy Dates.”
“Sounds like an escort service,” Becky remarked.
“An introduction service,” Liv corrected. “Primo, of course. I’m signing you up.”
Becky didn’t even bother to control the groan that rumbled from her mouth. “Do it and I’ll have you killed.
Slowly.”
“C’mon, Becky. It’s perfect for you. It’s like a dating service with income minimums. All the guys are prescreened professionals. The company runs rigorous background checks, financials—everything.”
“Dorks with dollars?” Becky scoffed. “Pass. Besides, if it’s such a great idea, why don’t you kick Garage Boy to the curb and— No, wait! He doesn’t have a curb. You’d have to kick him to his mommy’s curb.” She sighed dramatically. “Just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Jane and I shared an amused glance.
“You, too, Jane,” Liv said. “It’s going to be great. Once a woman picks a guy, I’ll handle the details. Only the best restaurants, theater tickets, whatever. Choose a guy, name your fantasy date, and I make it happen.”
“These guys would have to be real losers,” Becky insisted. “They probably have lisps, hairlips, webbed toes— something. If they were normal, they’d wouldn’t have to buy a date.”
“What does it cost?” Jane asked. The question earned her a small elbow dig from Becky. “What? I’m curious.”
“No, you’re desperate,” Becky said.
Ignoring Becky’s open disdain, Liv replied, “The guy pays an annual membership fee of five grand. Plus the cost of the dates.”