Never Sorry: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (21 page)

Leigh fumed. She was no longer officially defending Tanner, but she'd defend Jack the Ripper against this Neanderthal. "Tanner didn't kill anyone and neither did I. Somebody at the zoo did, though, and when it comes out who, your butt's going to fry."

She regretted the words as soon as they were out, and hoped with every fiber of her being that Tish wasn't eavesdropping. The distant hum of a water hose instantly reassured her. Women like Tish gave her nightmares. Self-obsessed bullies like Leo, however, were merely irritating.

He stared at her as if with enough hostility he could melt her down to a puddle on the asphalt. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about. We didn't have any problems until you showed up, Missy. Now I've got a dead keeper and a vet behind bars." He raised a finger and shook it firmly in Leigh's face. "You get your butt out of here now and I don't ever want to see it here again. You understand?"

Leigh considered her options. To save face, she had to get the man off balance somehow. Inspired, she simply sat down on the road, Indian style. It took the fun out of getting in someone's face when you had to crouch to do it. "My butt rather likes it here," she lied. "And after the charges against me are dropped, I think I'll do a little investigating into Carmen Koslow's way with animals. I think the public might be interested to know how the big cats around here get their exercise. By the way, did I tell you I write for the
Pittsburgh Post
?"

It was partially true. She had once written a freelance piece for the
Post,
and there was at least a one-in-a-thousand chance they'd buy another. She leaned back casually, her palms on the pavement.

Leigh was now eye at level with Leo Martin's knees, which shook with rage. She waited for his next move, which she was reasonably sure would not be a kick, since even a bully like Leo knew what constituted assault. Besides, a few happy zoo patrons had just appeared around the bend. Leigh smirked.

"Get out," Leo hissed. "I'm sending security."

Lame parting line concluded, Leo blustered away from the approaching sightseers. Leigh rose and smiled at them warmly. "Nice day, isn't it?"

She passed them at a normal pace, then headed for the main gates at a faster clip. Let security come. She wasn't going to be here.

***

Maura Polanski's shift ended at 3:00 PM, and she quickly slogged home to relieve her Aunt Charlotte from the Mary Polanski day watch. She was exhausted. She couldn't remember the last night she had slept more than a few hours in a row, and as much as she hated to admit it, the strain was wearing on her. She would have a rough night tonight as well—it was also her turn on the Mary Polanski night watch. Not that she wasn't roused multiple times when it wasn't her turn. Her aunts were both frail; her mom was strong as an ox.

But she had work to do. She had promised to do some incognito investigating for Leigh's lawyer, and she always kept her promises. With her mother dozing peacefully upstairs and Charlotte returning to the other side of the duplex to do the same, Maura sat down at the Polanski's cluttered dining room table/desk and collected the rolled paper that her dusty fax machine had disgorged. The fax didn't get much business—it and the already outdated desktop computer had been her father's toys—and his last major purchases. Though hardly state of the art, next to the harvest gold carpet and rabbit-eared television, they seemed ultra-modern.

She unrolled the paper, which as expected contained Carmen Koslow's credit history. Tanner had told Leigh that the keeper was deeply in debt, but apparently Tanner told lots of women lots of things. Maura had wanted to see for herself.

In this case, the good doctor wasn't lying. Carmen had moved around a lot, but at least some of her debts were keeping up with her. She owed an impressive sum for a woman of her means, and Maura strongly suspected—given the illegal gambling on Carmen's rap sheet—that this report wasn't telling the whole story. Oddly enough, the report contained no mention of payments for Carmen's relatively new car—which brought up some interesting questions. Like where it had come from.

Maura tapped her fingers on the wooden table. Carmen's criminal record, though far from pristine, wasn't bad for an alleged sociopath. Possession and shoplifting early on, the gambling, myriad traffic violations. No grand theft, no fraud, no violent crimes. Either Carmen hadn't been particularly aggressive in following her egocentric impulses, or she had been damned clever about covering her tracks.

Maura shook her head and rubbed her temples. A smart sociopath was a police officer's nightmare. They lied fluently and liberally, and—like Carmen—often met premature, violent ends. What had she done this time that was worth killing over? People who drove nice cars while destitute could be expected to have friends in low places, but if Carmen was killed for her monetary sins, why hadn't the perp taken her keys and car?

Deciding that a root beer would hit the spot, Maura rose and headed for the refrigerator. When Katharine Bower had asked her opinion on whether Carmen's death might have been a professional hit, she'd said "possible, but unlikely." Nothing she'd seen since had changed her mind. Dismemberment was both labor intensive and time consuming, and professionals preferred to do things the easy way. This murderer was willing to take some risks.

She chugged the pop, crushed the can in her hand, and launched it toward the recyclable bag hanging off the pantry door. The can hit the bag's sagging rim and bounced off. Maura ignored it and headed back to the dining room.

Leigh was lucky she had announced her presence at the tiger shed that night, giving the killer time to make a getaway. It was about the only thing Leigh had been lucky about, except for Warren's help in getting a decent lawyer. Katharine had been very professional, with the exception, of course, of letting a cop help out on the case. But that lapse was excusable.

Maura settled back down at the table and pored over her copies of the witness reports. No—this was no professional hit. It could have been an act of cold, calculated vengeance, or the sudden impulse of a perp with poor emotional control. Either way, it was a crime that Leigh Koslow, neurotic as she was, couldn't possibly commit. So who could?

Maura's money was on the zoo crowd. The murderer knew about the "secret" entrance, and apparently all one needed to roam around the zoo after hours was a uniform. Then there was the bone saw. Two people had left prints on it—Leigh and Doris Sanders, the full-time vet tech. Both had legitimate, job-related reasons to have done so. The kicker was that the saw somehow got to the tiger shed and was used for its grim purpose without acquiring any more prints. Unless a third party independently (and for unfathomable reasons) moved it from the hospital while wearing gloves, it had to have been collected by the murderer. And only a zoo employee would have known where to look for it.

She picked up the phone, ready for her second assignment. Finding out anything, and everything, about Kristin Yates.

***

By the time Leigh made her way back to Ross Township, she had worked herself up into a grand funk. Though besting Leo Martin had been momentarily amusing,  Lisa Moran's words were festering in her ears like tinnitus after a rock concert.

He openly flirted with just about everybody here, right under Carmen's nose
.
I'd only been here a week before she started stalking me.

Why on earth had she ever thought Mike Tanner was anything more than a two-bit, boot-wearing, live-for-the-moment, good ol' boy? She had been trying to turn her first crush into destiny—laying her heart on the line for poetic justice.

Idiot!

She had just gotten out and slammed her car door shut—with no small amount of force—when she spied Katharine's package lying in the back seat. For Warren.

Leigh scowled. Why couldn't Katharine deliver it herself? It wasn't like she wouldn't be back. Still, seeing an excuse to slam the car door again, Leigh retrieved the package. Warren should be home by now, provided he didn't have a dinner date.

She trudged toward the apartment's rear entrance, since true to the pattern of her day, there were no parking spots in front. The door was locked, which she was pleased to see. Half the time she came this way the door was propped open, inviting anyone and everyone to come on in and browse around. She shouldn't complain—at least none of the reporters had stumbled on to the option. Not yet, anyway.

She made her way through the lower hallway and climbed the steps to the second floor near Warren's place.
Did
he have a dinner date? The idea vexed her.

She, Warren, and Maura had been inseparable in their college days, and even for several years after. Eventually real life had intervened and they had all gotten busier, especially Warren. But in the last few months, since Leigh had moved into his apartment building,  she'd gotten spoiled. It was nice to have a friend readily available to make microwave popcorn or loan you a can of tamales. Not that Warren was always home. Like most people with a political bent, he had an active social life. But his dates never stayed over, and he never stayed out all night. At least, she didn't think he did. Had he come home last night? She wasn't sure.

She lifted the package to her ear and shook it. Would he hate her if she opened it?

Probably
.

She sighed and approached his door. It was none of her business. Even if Katharine was too old for him. And even if lawyers made lousy wives. She had read that somewhere, hadn't she? Warren didn't need a lawyer. Certainly not her lawyer. Furthermore, Warren didn't need a wife. A wife could throw a serious wrench in Leigh's ability to obtain quesadillas.

She knocked on the door, and it opened promptly. "So," she began, her funk in full force. "You're home."

"Is there somewhere else I'm supposed to be?" he asked indifferently.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I thought you might be having dinner with Katharine."

He looked mildly amused. "Evidently I'm not. What's your problem?"

"My problem?" Leigh asked innocently.

Warren sighed and returned to his couch, which was littered with stacks of legal-looking papers. He moved most of them to the coffee table, sat down, and invited Leigh to do the same.

"So, what has some man done now?"

Leigh's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't give me that nonsense," he said firmly. "I know that look. You're not worked up in this state because I failed to go to dinner with your lawyer. Some male did something annoying and now I'm scum of the earth like all the rest. So, let's have it. What did we men do this time?"

Leigh exhaled loudly and plopped down on the couch, package still in hand. "You were right," she said glumly.

"Of course I was," he agreed. "What was I right about?"

"Tanner."

A pause followed. "Oh—that. I'm sorry, Leigh."

"I should have known," she continued. "I can usually pick out his type a mile off. What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you. You're a good judge of character, in general. If you'd met Tanner for the first time last week, you'd have had his number in a minute. You're just sentimentally disabled, that's all."

Leigh smirked. Her cousin Cara had once told her that sentimentality was her Achilles' heel. Cara knew how to take advantage of it, too.

"Besides," Warren continued. "We all make character misjudgments from time to time. You should see this new staffer I hired for the Register of Wills office last month. I thought she was professional and efficient. Now she takes four smoke breaks an hour and dots her i's with smiley faces."

Leigh laughed, then turned thoughtful again. "You said I'm a good judge of character. So that means I have good taste in men, right?"

Warren laughed out loud. "Hell, no."

"I beg your pardon?" she snapped.

"You have lousy taste in men. You always have."

She sat up, causing the package to slide onto the coffee table—and a few papers to slide off it. "And how the hell should you know?"

Warren smiled and leaned back on the couch. "Well, let's see. First there was your tutoring charge. 'Turf' something, I believe his name was. He would have been the love of your life, as I recall, except that he couldn't read his name off his jersey."

"He was sweet."

"Uh-huh. He looked like a drawing on the cover of a romance novel. Had about as much depth, too."

Leigh said nothing.

"And then there was 'Hillel-on-the-Harley.'  How realistic was that?"

"He was a philosopher."

"He peddled pot at the middle school."

"He did not!"

"And of course there was that exchange student who was some sort of royalty in the Middle East—"

"I never even went out with him!"

"No, but you tried. Wonder what you were looking for there?"

Leigh humphed. "And your point is?"

Warren took a breath and looked at her. "Haven't you ever asked yourself why you're attracted exclusively to men who aren't right for you?"

She looked at him and scowled. They had had this discussion before. "I have my criteria."