Motion for Murder (29 page)

"That Dougie was the target." He nodded. "He was. That time. What about next time? What if this is some kind of vendetta against Parker, Dennis, and Heath?"

"If that was the case, I'd have started with Wally." He wasn't smiling. "Come on." I nudged his knee. "You don't really believe someone's out to get the entire office. We've made some people a lot of money over the years."

"And cost some people a lot of money."

"That could be said of any law firm." It was my turn to smirk. "Or brokerage house, for that matter."

"But it's not any law firm we're talking about." He tossed his empty bottle into the recyclables can on the edge of the deck. "It's yours."

I'd thought I was too frustrated to be scared, but that wasn't the case. Thanks to Curt, I had a hefty case of the creeps. It was hard to believe everyone in the office might be targeted, but it was harder to discount the idea when it came from someone like him.

Suddenly I thought of something. "Yesterday, Wally showed everyone a tie tack he had found in the kitchen, and no one knew who it belonged to. But now I have an idea." I shifted to the edge of the chair. "Before he died, Dougie met with a new client named Victoria Plackett. She had a lousy case, but he took it anyway and managed to hit on her at the same time. Her husband found out and threatened to sue the firm."

"I'm listening."

"Howard handled it," I said. "At least he said he did. But diplomacy isn't Howard's strong point, and maybe he didn't handle it as well as he thinks he did." The more I talked, the better it sounded. "I'll bet the tie tack was the husband's. I'll bet he sneaked into the office through the back door, put the poison in Dougie's powder, and was gone without anyone knowing he'd been there. Except he lost his tie tack in the process." I snapped my fingers. "Ronald is his name. Ronald Plackett."

"I'll pass it on to Cam," he said. "But don't get your hopes up. People lose jewelry all the time. Hell, I lost my brother's wedding rings on the way to the church."

"You hate marriage that much, huh?" He stared at me. I put my hands up in surrender. "Kidding. What's going on with you tonight, anyway?"

"Nothing." He straightened then arched his back slightly, stretching. "I've got to work some things out."

I wondered if one of those things was me. He didn't seem as comfortable as usual, and the female in me wanted to take credit for that. The chicken in me said I had nothing to do with his mood. Even if I did, there were still plenty of obstacles. He was a confirmed bachelor. We might not be as compatible in other rooms as we were in the kitchen. Then the relationship would be ruined and I'd have to move, and I didn't want to lose my apartment. It was small, but it was in a safe neighborhood, and it was cheap. I also didn't want to lose our deck time. It was the best relationship I'd had with a man for two years.

Speaking of which. "Sherri broke it off with Frankie Ritter," I told him. Maybe that would cheer him up. I knew it cheered me up.

"Ritter's not so bad," he said, proving that his world was definitely off its axis. He put his beer bottle down and stood up. I had to move fast. I smiled up at him. "How about a tradeoff? Dinner tomorrow night for Ronald Plackett."

He lifted one eyebrow. "What if Plackett's in the clear?"

I grinned. "Then I'll pay."

He scratched his arm, considering. "This kind of offer doesn't come around too often."

"That's how sure I am."

"That's how cheap you are," he said, and grinned.

I grinned back. Suddenly life was good. "There's just one caveat. You'll have to pick me up at the office. Wally's got me working late tomorrow."

"Tomorrow might not be good," he said. "I've got a run to
"

"We'll only be a half hour," I cut in. His eyebrows shot up. "An hour, tops. You've got to eat. Plus you get bragging rights if it turns out that I'm right." And I was pretty sure I was. Either way, at this point, if he'd agree to pick me up at Parker, Dennis, I'd have agreed to tap dance naked on the planks of the deck. In the dead of night, of course. Under a thick cloud cover. "Which I am," I added. "Right, that is."

He shook his head but I saw the glimmer of a smile. "Pretty sure of yourself, Winters."

Regarding Ronald Plackett, I was. When it came to Curt, I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I just didn't want him to look that way anymore. Already he seemed more like the Curt I knew. And the Curt I wanted to know better.

"Okay," he said, somehow unaware that I'd just forced my heart out of my throat. "I guess I could handle a taco or two."

"Tacos, hell," I said. "We're going to do it up right. Lincoln Diner or bust." I looked down at my feet. "I'm sure I can borrow the money from someone."

"Christ." He slid his arm around my neck, came in low and fast, and planted a kiss on my mouth that left me tingling all over. "It's a good thing you're cute," he whispered into my hair.

It was also a good thing I was sitting down. Ten minutes after he'd gone inside, I was still staring at the house in weak-kneed shock.

I was a bundle of nerves on Monday, and it showed. I broke a coffee mug in the kitchen, dropped an expandable file, put outgoing mail in the wrong envelopes, and punched the wrong telephone buttons cutting off several clients and interrupting others in mid-conversation with the lawyers. By quarter to five, I was disgusted with myself for acting like I'd never had a date before. Not that my dinner with Curt was a real date, more like the payoff on a bet. I'd only worn a new pair of pantyhose in case I had an accident. And my shoes had needed polishing, anyway. My hair needed cutting, too, but I didn't have time for miracles.

I hadn't heard from Curt whether Ronald Plackett had been investigated, but the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was I'd fingered the right man. Thanks to Wally and his tie tack, of course, since my so-called investigation hadn't resolved a thing. But I wasn't letting that ruin my mood. Not when my nerves could do it much more effectively.

"Jamie." Missy punched the
hold
button on her phone and slid the receiver down to rest at her collarbone. "Can you run upstairs and pry Wally and Howard apart? I've got Ronald Plackett on line two, and he's not in a good mood."

"Plackett?" That couldn't be coincidence. Maybe Cam had gotten to him. Maybe he was looking for a criminal defense attorney.

"The ethics complaint," Paige said, evidently thinking I'd forgotten the name.

I started to get up then hesitated. "How can Plackett file an ethics complaint when Dougie's dead?"

"Against the firm," Missy said. "And Ken doesn't need that."

He didn't deserve it, either. "On my way," I said. As I headed upstairs, I thought it very odd that every client of the firm seemed to be dissatisfied with one thing or another. They wanted their lawsuits filed or withdrawn or expedited. They wanted their cases settled or tried or arbitrated immediately. They had no time to appear for deposition or arbitration or independent medical exams, or they demanded that those things be scheduled at once. Plus, Wally was making noise about upgrading his baby Beamer now that he was a tort away from making partner, and he naturally wanted Howard's blessing at the contract signing.

And now Ronald Plackett was on line two.

I knocked on Howard's doorframe and poked my head inside. "Ronald Plackett, line two."

He glared over the top of his half glasses. "You couldn't buzz me?"

Wally popped out from behind the door. "You couldn't buzz him?"

I resisted the urge to flash an obscene sign and thought some obscene thoughts instead. Wasn't quite the same.

"Don't make plans for tonight," Wally added. "Remember I need you to type up some things for me."

"I can stay until seven," I told him. "I have a date tonight."

"That's funny," he said. "That sense of humor will come in handy in life."

Especially working for him. I retreated to my desk and got to work churning out pages for his use at trial. As time wore on, people started leaving for the day, and as the office grew quieter, my nerves grew louder. I'd have to call off dinner. There was no way I was keeping food down when even my hands on the keyboard were shaking.

Finally just Wally and I were the sole survivors, and he'd burrowed into his office with his file while I finished up the typing. I still had a half hour to go before Curt was due to pick me up, and I was right on schedule. Plenty of time to get in my car and flee the scene.

The front door opened, and my fingers froze on the keys. Curt couldn't be early. He was never early for anything. I ran a hand over my hair, huffed into my palm a few times, and sat up straighter, but it wasn't Curt who came into the office. It was Mack Ramsey, immaculate as usual in a gray three-piece suit that was a little too heavy for the season. His hair was slicked neatly against his skull and his wingtips were scuff-free. He looked better than I did, and I was the one dressed for a date.

Not a real date, of course.

"Mr. Ramsey!" I stood and offered him my hand. His skin felt thin and dry and cool. "How are you feeling?"

"Feeling?" His bushy eyebrows drew together in puzzlement, but his eyes remained huge behind his glasses.

"Last time I saw you, you were a little under the weather," I said. "You had to sit down in the kitchen for awhile, remember?"

"Ah, of course, I remember." He gave me a strange smile, as if his upper plate didn't fit quite right. "I'm feeling much better now, thank you."

I nodded. "Good."

He pressed his palms together in prayer fashion. "I wonder if I might speak to Mr. Randall."

"Just a second, I'll buzz him." I thought Howard had taken over Dougie's clients, but it was entirely possible Mr. Ramsey had been pawned off on Wally. Secretaries tended to be either the very first or the very last in the loop. I buzzed Wally's office. While I waited for him to pick up, I said, "Is there something I can help you with?"

"In due time," he said, reaching for the corner of Paige's desk to steady himself.

Wally wasn't picking up. Maybe he was in the bathroom. Or maybe he was busy worshipping at the altar of Howard. I punched a few buttons just for the sake of appearances then gave up. "I'll have to go get him. He isn't in his office." I stood up and came around my desk. "Can I get you something, Mr. Ramsey?"

That strange little smile again. "A protein milkshake would be lovely."

I froze in midstep. "I'm sorry?"

"I believe you heard me."

I believed I had, too, but I wanted desperately to be wrong.

"Mayhaps you should stay right here with me," he said, his giant eyes fixed and steady on my face. "I'm an old man, after all. I might find the need to rest a bit. Mayhaps in the kitchen. I do believe the kitchen's my favorite room in the house. Don't you think so?"

What I thought was almost unthinkable. The kitchen. Mack Ramsey had been in the kitchen just before Dougie had died. Alone. With access to everything in the refrigerator and the cabinets. I tried to remember how long he'd been there, but suddenly I couldn't think straight. It didn't matter, anyway. It would only take a few seconds to poison the powder and beat a fast exit out the back door. I'd been wrong in thinking the killer had sneaked in and out unnoticed. The killer had been a sad old man who'd gone unnoticed right in front of us. Mack Ramsey, the model of sartorial splendor, who always wore and evidently sometimes lost tie tacks, was on some sort of vendetta against the lawyers who had failed him.

"But I thought you wanted to talk to Wally," I said, taking another step toward the doorway. Buying time always seemed so easy on television; in real life, it was the hardest thing I'd ever tried to do. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to say it.

"Why don't you go back behind your desk," he said, his tone almost pleasant. "I'd like you to type a letter for me."

I wasn't sure I could find the keyboard at the moment, let alone use it. And I certainly wasn't taking dictation.
It's a suicide note,
a nasty little voice whispered in my ear as I fell into my chair with nerveless legs.

"What would you like to say?" I hoped my voice wasn't shaking along with the rest of me. It couldn't be Mack Ramsey when it was Ronald Plackett. Plackett had been furious with Dougie. He'd sneaked into the kitchen and done his dirty work, losing his tie tack in the process, then added insult to murder by filing his ethics complaint anyway.

Except, unless Ronald Plackett was psychotic, the punishment seemed somewhat of an overreaction to the offense. Mack Ramsey, on the other hand, had lost his wife to medical negligence and had come to Dougie to help put it right. And Dougie had failed him.

Ramsey was watching me, his eyes steady and unblinking, like a snake's. Maybe he was the psychotic one. "I'd like you to say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry."

"Not to me." He pointed. "In the letter. Say you're sorry, and you couldn't live with your mistake."

My mistake? How had I gotten pushed to the head of the line?

"Look, I know what we'll do." I spun the chair to find a notepad. "You can leave a note for Wally, and I'll be sure he gets it in—"