Authors: Christy Evans
Lead-Pipe Cinch (23 page)
I looked at Richard. For the first time, some of what had happened made sense. No one tried to reach me because they thought I’d left them and deserted the company. The board got rid of me, and blamed me at the same time.
No wonder Stan offered me the chance to resign. If this is what happened when I left “voluntarily,” I didn’t want to see what a real fight would look like.
The sidewalk outside the diner was crowded with shoppers, and every table inside was full. We had lingered far longer than was expected, and the waiter was checking more frequently.
Richard looked around, surveying the crowd. It was time for us to leave.
I tugged my credit card from my pocket and reached for the check. Richard pulled it away before my hand closed around it.
“This one’s on me, Georgie. Consider it an apology for believing the things I heard.”
“You don’t have to do that. I invited you.” My protest sounded weak, and it was. I’d be paying for this trip for several months if the Samurai consulting fee didn’t materialize.
He shook his head. “My treat. You get the check when I come visit you.”
“Yeah. Like that’ll happen.”
“It could. Especially if we still do this McComb job.” He grinned. “You’re the one that wants me to come do the work so you don’t have to.”
He had a point. I did want him to come do the job, because there was no way I could.
We shook hands on the sidewalk, with promises to keep in touch. Maybe we even meant it.
I told Barbara how delighted I’d been to meet her. I did mean that. It was good to see that someone had come out of Samurai with a successful relationship. Blake and I certainly hadn’t, and it sounded as though Stan Fischer had lost another marital round.
At least somebody was happy.
chapter 25
I was early getting back to the airport, so of course my flight was delayed. I used the time to open up my laptop and do some research.
Once I knew what to look for, the signs were there. The Samurai press releases were relentlessly upbeat—like those of any other company—but now it felt like they were trying to hide bad news.
I checked up on Blake Weston, Stan Fischer, and the other directors whose names I could remember. Occasionally a society story would link a familiar name to Stan and I would have another lead to follow.
I had a long list of places to look by the time they called my flight. I waited until the rest of the flight was boarded, then shut my laptop, shoved it in the case, and claimed my seat.
I’d allowed for delays when I made my plans to meet Wade, but I was still running late. I called him as soon as I ransomed the Beetle from the parking garage and headed east.
The connection was poor, but Wade’s annoyance came through loud and clear. I hung up and prayed to the traffic gods.
I sped along I-205 and wheeled off at the Sunnyside exit. My hands gripped the wheel tightly, and I pushed the tiny four-banger to its limit. Wade and I had been a couple for a few months in high school. When I went away to college we lost touch. Now that I was back we were still trying to figure out if we were a thing or not, and lately I was hoping we were.
But I seemed to be a magnet for trouble, and Wade was a politician with prospects. The combination could prove difficult for both of us.
I zipped into the lot at Tiny’s with about two minutes to spare. I finger-combed my hair, thankful that the short cut—practical for work—required minimum care for a dinner date.
My cords and jacket were a bit overdressed for Tiny’s but I hoped Wade wouldn’t notice. At least the dark boots would be right at home in the tavern.
I didn’t see Wade’s hybrid in the parking lot, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If I got here first he couldn’t really complain about me being late.
I said a quick thank-you to the gods of traffic and went inside.
Someone was waiting for me, but it wasn’t Wade.
It was the sheriff. And he didn’t look at all happy to see me. In fact, he looked downright peeved.
“Evening, Miss Neverall,” he said stiffly. “Would you care to step outside with me?”
“I’m waiting for Councilman Montgomery,” I answered with a charming smile. “We’re having dinner.”
The sheriff put a hand under my elbow. He had a grip like a pair of locking pliers. It would do me no good to try and pull away.
“Miss Neverall, I will ask you one more time. Would you care to step outside with me?”
The alternative, clearly, was going to be something unpleasant in front of everyone in Tiny’s.
I turned and went back out the door, the sheriff clamped tightly on my arm.
Once we were outside, I protested his treatment. “What do you mean, grabbing me like that?” I kept my voice down so it didn’t carry back inside. “What do you want that’s so important you have to go around grabbing people?”
“Murder is what’s so important, Neverall.” I noticed he dropped the
Miss
now that we were out of earshot of the small crowd inside. “That, and people who run off when I tell them to stay around.”
Miss
now that we were out of earshot of the small crowd inside. “That, and people who run off when I tell them to stay around.”
I opened my mouth, but he stopped me with a firm shake of his head. “Please do not say anything more.”
Then, to my dismay, he began to recite my Miranda rights.
When he finished I stood there with my mouth open, unable to form a single coherent word.
“Do you understand these rights?” he repeated.
I nodded.
“Georgiana Neverall, I have a warrant to detain you as a material witness in the homicide of Blake Weston.” He signaled to a car in the back of Tiny’s lot, and an unmarked sedan cruised silently up to the driveway near where we stood.
“Come with me.” He pulled me along toward the car and opened the back door. He stood so he blocked my path, should I get the idea I could run away.
I knew when I had no chance. I sat down in the backseat and watched him close the door on me.
Once he was seated in the front, he spoke without turning around. “Put on your seat belt, Neverall. Or I can come back there and do it for you.”
I put on my seat belt.
The sheriff grunted his satisfaction with my cooperation and nodded to the deputy. We pulled out onto the deserted highway, leaving my Beetle with my laptop inside in the parking lot at Tiny’s.
“Sheriff,” I said softly, “my computer’s in the car. Can we please check that it’s locked before we go?”
“Turn around,” he said to the deputy. He sounded as though forming the words was painful.
We pulled back in the lot, the deputy checked the locks on the Beetle and climbed back in behind the wheel.
“Locked.” It was the only word he spoke the entire time.
The sheriff remained silent for the rest of the short drive and I decided it was probably my best option.
We arrived at the station to find a welcoming committee. Wade was there, his hair disheveled and his eyes dark with worry. My mother leaned on Gregory, as though she didn’t have the strength to hold herself up.
Gregory played the part of the strong, supportive alpha-male boyfriend. He kept one arm around my mother’s waist, a gesture of ownership more than protection.
Sue stood next to Wade. Her warring emotions played across her face, and I felt a pang of regret for the position I’d put her in. Her boyfriend had arrested her best friend, and no matter what she did she put one relationship or the other at risk.
It seemed to me that I was the one with the most at risk right this minute, though.
The sheriff walked me through the knot of people in the lobby too quickly for anyone to speak to me. He took me back to what I later learned was called the booking area. They took my fingerprints and a photograph, and I signed about a thousand different forms before the sheriff took me into the same interview room where we had talked before.
Hard to believe it had only been three days.
The sheriff set the recorder on the table without asking my permission. He stared at me, daring me to object. I didn’t.
“Miss Neverall, I am going to talk to you for a few minutes, then you will be released. Your mother has already arranged to post your bond, and Councilman Montgomery has spoken to me—quite eloquently, I might add—about your good character and reverence for the law.
“A reverence I have not seen expressed in your actions.”
He sat forward and rested his thick forearms on the desk. I struggled to sit completely still in the uncomfortable metal chair. I felt like I was sliding forward, slightly off-balance, and I realized they must have changed the chairs before I came in. It wasn’t the same chair as before.
I licked my lips, and caught the bottom one between my teeth. I would not chatter, no matter how nervous he made me.
“Now, you have been read your rights and you acknowledged that you understood them. Is that correct?”
He looked from me to the recorder.
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Do you remember what those rights were?”
Gulp. “Yes.”
The sheriff took a deep breath and let it out. He talked in a slow voice, enunciating each word carefully, like he was talking to someone who didn’t speak English well, or a very small child.
“Where did you go today?”
I chose my words carefully. “I went to see an old friend.”
“That friend’s name?”
“Richard Parks.” I would answer his questions, but I wasn’t going to say a single word that wasn’t absolutely necessary. I’d seen enough cop shows to know that was how you got into trouble.
“Exactly where did you see this so-called old friend?”
“In Lucy’s Diner.”
The sheriff tensed. He flexed one hand, making a fist, relaxing the fingers, then squeezing it into a fist again.
“Where is Lucy’s Diner located?”
“Near the corner of Sutter and Mason.”
A corner of the sheriff’s mouth twitched. He had gone past his initial annoyance to resignation. Although he fought the impulse to smile, I could see a flash of amusement.
“In what city, Miss Neverall?”
At least we were back to
Miss
. That was a good sign. It was my turn not to smile as I answered. “San Francisco, Sheriff.” The temptation to add
but you knew that
was strong and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying it.
Miss
. That was a good sign. It was my turn not to smile as I answered. “San Francisco, Sheriff.” The temptation to add
but you knew that
was strong and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying it.
“And that is in California, is it not?”
“Yes.”
The sheriff shook his head and leaned back. His leather chair with its ergonomically correct back support leaned with him, the leather creaking in the silence.
He shook his head. “Georgie, what part of ‘don’t leave town’ didn’t you understand?”
“You never said that.”
“I told you not to plan any long trips. I thought you were smart enough to know what that meant.”
I widened my eyes and tried to look innocent. I forced myself to look at him with a completely straight face. “I was only gone a few hours, Sheriff.”
He wasn’t amused by the answer or by my attempt to defend myself. “Which is exactly why you weren’t picked up at the airport as soon as you landed in San Francisco,” he answered. “You had booked a return flight and we had every reason to believe you would return.
“However, since you seem to need these things spelled out for you, here it is.
“You have been detained on a material witness warrant. You are not to leave the jurisdiction of this office without the permission of the court until this warrant is lifted. We believe you have information relating to the homicide of Blake Weston, and we want you available for questioning in regards to that matter.
“We feel this action is necessary because you chose to leave the state in the middle of this investigation without telling anyone where you were going.
“Is this clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all for now. We will expect you to be available for more questions at any time.”
He turned off the recorder, and shot me a disgusted look. “That was about the dumbest move I have seen in a long time, Georgie. It looks damned suspicious to me, and I
know
you.
know
you.
“Your mom is posting your bond. You should be free to go in a few minutes.”
He gave me a long look. “Do. Not. Leave. Town.”
He pushed his comfortable chair out the door, leaving me to sit in the sloped chair and wrap my arms around myself, trying to warm up, while I waited to be released.
Considering what was waiting for me outside, I probably should have been a little less anxious to leave.
In a few minutes a deputy came in with a stack of papers for me to sign. There was a copy of my original statement—the one I had never come back to sign—as well as several forms related to my detention. There was a bail form I signed, which said I would not leave the jurisdiction of the court without written permission. I had a hunch that was going to be really difficult to come by.
The bail receipt was the one that got me. My mother, the woman who didn’t understand me and who I constantly disappointed, had pledged her house as a guarantee for my release.
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