Never Sorry: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (26 page)

Tanner said nothing, and Leigh walked herself out, giving the hanging plant a shove as she marched off the porch. Satellite dish, nice furniture. How could she have been so dense?

She got into her car with a sigh of disgust. This wasn't Tanner's rental—assuming he had one. This was Stacey's house. The house they'd lived in together. The home where his heart was.

***

It was dinnertime. Leigh's stomach was quite certain, despite her dispiriting run-in with Tanner. For the first time in days, things were looking up. The guilty party was going to be caught, and she was going to be free. She had already planned her vindication—it would involve another freelance article for the
Post
, and a certain amount of public humiliation for one Detective Gerald Frank.

She smiled as she pulled into the drive-in lane of a combination KFC/Taco Bell. The merger was a strange business decision, but one which she—as an avid lover of both tacos and buffalo wings—fully appreciated. She and Warren had practically kept the place in business by themselves. At the latter thought, she ordered two sampler combos to go. It occurred to her that Warren hadn't said anything yesterday about his political problems, and she had forgotten to ask. What kind of friend was she, anyway?

She arrived at the door to his apartment the same time he did. "Hi, honey!  I'm home!" she said playfully, waving the cardboard boxes under his nose.

Warren smiled tiredly. "What's the occasion?"

"An apology. For being obsessed with my own problems. Your table or mine?"

Warren's table was closer, and within three minutes they were eating at it. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do about Myran?" she offered. "I could say that we're really not involved seriously, that I'm secretly married to someone else, but I can't resist you because you're such a great lover. Wouldn't that push all the right buttons?"

He grinned. "I'll thank you to stay as far away from Myran Wiggin as possible. Everything will be fine."

"Well," Leigh continued, "if Wiggin thinks more of you because you're involved with a murderess, he's soon to be disappointed." She filled Warren in on the details of the knife-planting and her growing certainty that Kristin Yates had killed both women.

"You need a good sliding deadbolt," he said when he got a chance. "There are ways around them too, but it can't hurt. Are you okay with sleeping there tonight?"

The question at first seemed odd, then gave rise to a creeping fear. Leigh hadn't given much thought to the fact that her apartment had been breached so easily. When she had arrived this morning, she was much more annoyed at having a sea of policemen, in particular Detective Gerald Frank, rooting around in her stuff and disturbing her cat; the original intruder was more theoretical. It occurred to her now that this original intruder—almost certainly Kristin Yates—was still very much out and about. And had probably taken her keys for a reason.

A knock on Warren's door interrupted her thoughts, but only for a second. 
Kristin
. She had gone out of her way to frame Leigh for Stacey's murder. Why? Tanner had been arrested; Kristin wasn't even a suspect. Could it be that a prison term for Tanner didn't jibe with her plans? Or, surely much, much, less likely, that she enjoyed watching Leigh squirm?

"Good evening, Miss Koslow," said a familiar voice that did nothing to lessen her chill. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner, but it's important that we talk. I've been looking for you all afternoon."

"Oh," she said offhandedly, stuffing in her last bite of taco. "How inconvenient for you."

Frank's superficial smile seemed tightened with resolve. "I'm not here to spar, Ms. Koslow. I'm here to make sure that whoever killed Carmen Koslow gets what's coming to them."

Leigh swallowed the mouthful and looked straight into Frank's beady black eyes. Maybe she was being overly optimistic, but she could almost believe he meant that.

"Have a seat," she offered, slightly more pleasantly. "Sorry, but the takeout's gone."

He sat in the chair where Warren directed him, but refused all offers of food or drink. A wise habit, Leigh figured, when dining with one's arrestees.

"I don't believe Leigh should be speaking with you without her attorney present," Warren said firmly. "If you intend to ask her any questions, I'll give Ms. Bower a call."

Frank waved his hand dismissively. "Call whomever you want. I can wait." He smiled pleasantly at Leigh. At least, he probably thought his smile was pleasant. She would liken it to a crocodile's.

"What is it you want, Frank?" she asked impatiently. The idea of his smiling at her for the half hour it would take Katharine to arrive was not appealing.

"I told you already," he answered, still smiling. "I want justice."

She smirked, still unconvinced. "Isn't that a little too 'Joe Friday' for you, Detective?"

He didn't answer, but the smile faded, which made her a little more comfortable. "The knife we recovered from your apartment this morning came back clean," he said simply.

"Clean?" she repeated, eyebrows raised. "You mean, no prints at all?"

"That's right."

"Leigh!" Warren interrupted quickly, hanging up the phone. "Katharine will be here shortly. Until then, let me do the talking, okay?"

"The blade was stained with blood matching that of Stacey Tanner," Frank continued. "Yet the handle had been wiped clean. Odd, don't you think, to wipe down the handle and not the blade?"

"Not at all," Warren answered quickly, cutting Leigh off with a fierce warning glance. "Not if you're trying to frame someone. Keep the blood, lose the prints—especially if they're yours."

Frank looked at Warren. "My thoughts exactly, Mr. Harmon. Except that the person in possession of the knife needn't be the killer. The person in possession of the knife could, in fact, be someone close to the killer. Someone who wanted to prevent the killer from being convicted—quite possibly by taking the knife and removing his prints, then planting it elsewhere."

It took a second for Leigh to digest Frank's suggestion, but it took less than a second for her to make up her mind.

"Get out, Frank," she said coldly. Ignoring both Warren's verbal and nonverbal reprimands, she rose and pointed to the door. "I thought for a moment you were starting to see the light, but obviously I was wrong. You've got no right coming in here just to fish for more evidence against me. You want to question me again, you make me go to the bureau,
with
my lawyer. You were invited in here; now you're uninvited. Goodbye."

Frank's dark eyes looked her up and down, and for a brief moment, a ghost of the crocodile smile returned. He wasn't as angry as he should be, Leigh thought as she glared at him. In fact, he seemed almost amused. No matter, she decided, her own gaze hardening. He was leaving without whatever it was he came for.

The detective didn't resist, but got up from the table, nodded to them both, and walked out the door. Warren looked at Leigh with a mixture of frustration and annoyance. "I really wish you hadn't done that," he said tightly.

"I refuse to apologize for being to rude to the man who's currently ruining my life," Leigh defended. "He came here under false pretenses."

Warren studied her. "You think you know why he came here?"

"Of course. To hassle me about the knife. To trick me into thinking he believed it was planted, to get my guard down, then get me to trip up. I never even thought about being accused of taking the knife to protect Tanner." Now that she did think about it, the theory made a certain kind of sense. No—no, it didn't either.

"That's nuts," she thought out loud. "The police in Butler county searched me and my car. How could I have taken the knife away from the cabin? And who would have called in that anonymous tip? Not me, and not Tanner, who I was presumably trying to help. That scenario's far more cockeyed than the real killer planting the knife on me."

"I agree," said Warren thoughtfully. "Yet Frank suggested it to you. Why?"

"I told you, to get me to trip up," she said disgustedly.

"Or to gauge your reaction," Warren argued. "If you
had
taken the knife yourself, or known about it, you might have acted nervous or scared. You would hesitate to talk to him. But you didn't, because you were hoping that he was coming around. But when he starting accusing you again, you got angry. Not scared—angry."

"You're giving him far too much credit," Leigh sighed. "If he could read me that well, he never would have arrested me in the first place."

"Maura says you acted guilty after Carmen's murder, that you were—to use her words—'messed up in the head' because of how you felt about Tanner. Maybe he misread you before, but now he's getting a clearer picture."

Leigh sighed again. "Harmon, you're too much of a bloody optimist. Frank is a misogynist. And he's not that smart." She glanced at the phone. "Don't you want to call Katharine off? Maybe you can catch her before she leaves."

He shook his head, his eyes lost in thought. "I'd like to see her, actually," he said distantly.

Inexplicably annoyed, Leigh threw away the trash from her dinner and prepared to leave. "Fine. You and Katharine have a nice evening. But remember, it's a school night."

When she opened the door, Warren snapped out of his reverie. "Are you sure you want to stay in your apartment tonight? You can sleep here if you want, until you get a better deadbolt."

Leigh imagined herself tossing and turning on Warren's lumpy sofa bed, and declined. "Thanks, but I'll be fine. The locks have been changed, and the manager assured me there'll be no more door-propping. When Katharine gets here, you can tell her I've got news for her tomorrow, about a little talk I had with Tanner. Right now, I'm going to sleep, an activity I missed out on last night. Which reminds me, we've got to do something about Maura's mom."

Warren nodded. "I know. Mo can't go on like she has been."

"Have you talked to her about a personal care home or something?"

He nodded. "She's found one in McCandless that she could live with—they have a special wing just for Alzheimer's patients, and it has an excellent reputation."

"But?"

"But it's expensive, and aside from the Alzheimer's, Mary is healthy as a horse." Warren sighed. "Which is great, except that she could easily outlive Maura's ability to pay for her care. I've been over the Polanski's finances, and there's only so much to draw on."

"The house?" Leigh said hopefully.

"It's paid for," he answered, "but it's not worth much, and Maura's dad had been letting her aunts live there for free, so if the house were sold the two of them would be forced to pay rent somewhere else—as would Maura."

Leigh sighed. "There's got to be a way."

"I'm working on it," Warren said reassuringly. "Don't worry about Mary tonight. Get some sleep. And remember—the offer stands. You can even have the bed if you want. I'll take the couch."

His concern touched her, but she declined again. Katharine Bower was already on her way over, and Leigh wasn't up for any more legal wrangling tonight. Nor did she care to be a third wheel. She had just started out the door again when a thought occurred to her.

"Hey, Warren?"

"Yes?"

"Did Katharine happen to tell you what the problem is between her and Frank?"

He smiled wryly. "I think that's mainly Frank's doing. Apparently, Katharine cut her legal teeth on some divorce cases."

Leigh's shoulders slumped. "Please don't tell me she represented Frank's ex-wife."

"Okay," Warren obliged, "I won't tell you."

Chapter 19

Leigh traipsed up the stairs, stuck her new key in her new lock, and detached a yellow sticky note from her door.

Leigh, your mother sent me. You're welcome to come home for a while. Call tonight either way. Dad.

She smiled. Dear old Dad. He had a way with words—or lack thereof. She knew the real translation.

Leigh, your mother has been calling your apartment every five minutes since she heard about the break-in, and I can't get her any more valium without losing my DEA license. She sent me over to drag you back home using any force necessary. If you don't want to come that's fine with me, but you'd better call soon or I'll be sleeping at the clinic again. Dad

She opened the door on an apartment that looked fine, but didn't feel right. There was a certain aura of violation that came with a break-in, the feeling that your stuff was somehow not yours anymore. She walked through the whole apartment quickly, opening closets and peering under the bed. Satisfied that the only other mammalian occupant was a sleeping Mao Tse, she locked the new knob and bolt. Had the cat been fully alert, she would almost certainly be complaining about the irregular schedule Leigh had been keeping. But Mao had a thing about being awake for more than four consecutive hours, and the morning had been a rough one.

Leigh took a deep breath and tried to relax. They would be fine here. Why shouldn't they? Kristen had wanted to frame her, but that deed was accomplished. She wouldn't be dumb enough to come back now. Tomorrow Leigh would buy another deadbolt—or some other pick-proof contraption. In the meantime, perhaps a small barricade? One sofa, an end table, and a Niagara Falls souvenir bell later, she felt better.