Never Sorry: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (4 page)

She took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Her experiences in waking up her ex-college roommate, Officer Maura Polanski, were never pleasant. But desperate situations called for desperate measures.

The phone rang only once.

"Yeah?" an alert voice demanded.

"Hi. It's me," Leigh began sheepishly. "Sorry to wake you, but I kind of need your help." She paused. "Don't worry—I mean, I'm fine and everything, but I'm stuck at the Central Detective's Bureau in East Liberty, and they're holding my car—"

"I'll be there in about twenty-five minutes."

Leigh's brow furrowed as she removed the phone from her ear and stared at it for a moment. "Maura, are you awake? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

"I'm at a police station in the middle of the night. Doesn't that surprise you? Shock you? Just a little bit?"

"No."

Leigh sighed. She was in no position to quibble about the slight to her character. "You're coming then? Thanks. And if it isn't too much trouble—could you bring me a change of clothes?"

"No problem."

Leigh began to explain, but didn't get a chance. Maura had already hung up.

***

Twenty-three minutes later, Maura Polanski's six-feet-two, 210-pound frame filled the doorway of the waiting area. "Here," she said gruffly, holding out a pair of sweats. "Are they done with you?"

Maura had on her best countenance of disapproval, which could scare the pants off anyone under six feet tall and unarmed. Leigh knew better, however. When the policewoman wasn't trying to intimidate, she had a baby face that was absolutely cherubic—and the heart to go with it.

Leigh ducked into the restroom and quickly traded her prison togs for the sweat suit. Reemerging, she wondered if she should have bothered. Maura's pants were so baggy she had had to tie the waistband in a knot just to keep them up, and constant vigilance was needed to keep the gaping collar from exposing her bra straps. Leigh couldn't help but wonder if Maura had picked out this outfit on purpose, given how easily she could have borrowed clothes from one of her more normal-sized aunts. But protesting now seemed unwise.

Maura didn't speak until they were in the car headed home. "All right, Koslow," she began, sounding resigned. "Start talking. You've got half an hour. I go on duty at six."

Leigh's eyes narrowed. Maura clearly assumed that she was somehow responsible for her own predicament, which was insulting. On the other hand, given Leigh's record as a magnet for calamity, Maura could hardly be blamed. Leigh tried not to bite the hand that was feeding her. She swallowed, then told her story once again. A specialized version—conveniently vague on matters relating to Mike Tanner, yet heavy on the disconcerting actions of Detective Frank. Maura listened without any visible reaction.

"Well?" Leigh asked when her story was finished. "Don't you think I've been treated rather shabbily in all this?"

Maura cleared her throat, then twisted her mouth into a grim line. "What I think," she said firmly, "is that you need a lawyer."

Chapter 4

As Leigh trudged up the four floors to her Ross Township apartment, her mind spun with worrying thoughts of circumstantial evidence, bloody legs, and something disturbing that Tanner had said that she couldn't quite remember. Maura had insisted on asking around about a good lawyer, which wouldn't have been so alarming if the policewoman were the fretting type. But Leigh knew her friend too well to delude herself. Overreacting was Leigh's forte—Maura was into stoicism.

She fumbled with her key in the lock, stumbled into the bedroom, and collapsed on the made up bed. She couldn't think—or worry, anymore. Her brain cooperated by slipping into self-preservation mode, convincing her as she drifted off that the last few hours had been a bad dream.

Her slumber was deep, but not long. The phone at her bedside rang at the tender hour of 6:30 AM—and rang, and rang. Leigh had trained herself to ignore phone calls, letting the answering machine pick up on the second ring whether she was home or not. For the last week, however, her machine had been on the fritz, and after the eighth ring she gave up on it.

"Hello?" Her head was still fuzzy, but for having less than an hour's sleep, she felt surprisingly rejuvenated.

"Leigh, it's me. Sorry to wake you, but I need a favor. A big one."

The pleasant tone of her old friend's voice was soothing, despite the hour. It seemed a nice distraction from whatever bad thing it was that her brain didn't want to remember, but that was making a pit in her stomach anyway. "What is it, Warren?" she yawned. "Nothing that can't wait a few hours, I hope."

"Sorry—I need you now.
Right now
. Can you come down? I'll explain later."

She sighed. She would have had to get out of bed in another half hour anyway. She hung up, tromped down the two flights of stairs that separated her apartment from Warren's, and knocked on the door.

It flew open almost instantly, and a long arm pulled her inside. "Did you see anyone in the hall?"

Warren Harmon III had made Leigh's acquaintance when they were freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, vying for the least valuable player award in Volleyball 101. Warren had been an unattractive teenager—tall, scrawny, a poster child for acne medication. But in the decade since, the nonthreatening geek that Leigh had so enjoyed debating with had metamorphosed into a successful local politician. And, as she had recently forced herself to admit, not a bad looking one. Particularly in the blue silk robe he was wearing now.

"Of course there was no one in the hall," she answered sleepily. "What sane person would be at this hour?"

The arm continued to drag her back toward the bedroom. If it had been anyone but Warren, she might have been worried. He stopped in front of a closet, took out a man's fuzzy velour bathrobe, and held it out for her.

"Put this on, okay?"

Leigh smirked. "I don't know. Maroon isn't really my color. I like the one you're wearing better."

Sighing with exasperation, Warren turned her around and slipped the robe over her arms. He stepped back and studied her. "There. You look stunning, as usual."

She rolled her eyes. "Enough butter. I'm here already. Now how about you tell me why?"

Warren started to answer, but was interrupted by the doorbell. He snatched Leigh's arm again hastily. "Sit down at the table," he ordered. "Hide those god-awful sweatpants. And here," he said quickly, pulling an empty mug from the cabinet, "pretend you're drinking coffee."

Leigh sat down and took the cup. "But who—"

"Just play along!" Warren whispered, advancing on the door.

He opened it to reveal a stout, sixtyish woman wearing the sort of stiff-looking outfit Queen Elizabeth II might appreciate. Warren greeted her with a full dose of the Harmon charm—which could be considerable.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you at this hour," the woman pleaded apologetically. "Myran just can't function without his reading glasses, and he's such an early bird. I've told him he needs to take better care where he leaves them—but he doesn't always listen to me, you know."

Warren responded with both insistence that she was not imposing and chastisement of Myran for not taking heed of her wisdom—all the while moving gracefully backwards towards Leigh.

Eventually, the woman looked into the kitchen. She had been in the middle of an indulgent giggle (having taken Warren's blatant flattery at face value) when her hand flew to her mouth, her face suffused with red. Leigh took a sip of imaginary coffee and waved.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Harmon!" the woman bubbled, "I had no idea—"

"Of course not, Mrs. Wiggin!" Warren soothed, "It's no problem at all. This is Leigh Koslow. Leigh—Mrs. Barbara Wiggin."

"Nice to meet you," Leigh grinned broadly.

Mrs. Wiggin smiled back hesitantly. Warren picked up a black glass case from the table and pressed it into her hand, then whispered something in her ear. She seemed to relax. "Oh," she said solemnly. "I see."

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Leigh offered. "It's vanilla almond."

Warren's eyes widened.

"Oh, no, dear!" Mrs. Wiggin said quickly. "I really must be going. Myran will have my head. It was nice meeting you." She threw a conspiratorial glance at Warren, then looked back at Leigh. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon."

As soon as he had gallantly ushered his guest out the door, Warren turned to Leigh. "Vanilla almond? Please!  What if she had said yes?"

"She wouldn't. Not in a million years." Leigh pulled off the heavy robe. "This thing is hot. The least you can do after compromising a woman is give her your best robe."

Warren took the robe defensively. "There's nothing wrong with this. And you're one to talk about taste in nightwear, anyway."

Leigh looked down at the elephantine sweats bagged up from her ankles to her knees. She realized one shoulder was completely uncovered. "These aren't mine," she said hotly, jerking up the neckline.

"That's what concerns me," he said, sounding serious. "Did
I
interrupt something?"

Leigh scoffed.
Not likely
. "These are Maura's," she answered. "Enough about me. I want real coffee. And a nice, long explanation for this little performance."

"Fine," Warren agreed, "but I'm fresh out of vanilla almond."

Ten minutes and a change of clothes later, Leigh was again sitting at Warren's kitchen table, this time drinking a full-strength brew.

"Myran Wiggin is the chair of the Allegheny County Democratic Party, as every good Pittsburgher should know," Warren explained. "He's extremely influential. To make a long story short, he can make or break my chances for the new county council."

Leigh tried not to let her gaze wander. She loathed politics, as Warren well knew. But changing the world through channels was his life goal. That—and being President, of course. She used to laugh at his aspirations, but now she wasn't so sure. He had won his first election—to become the county's Register of Wills—by a landslide, then gone on to collect considerable accolades for his cost-cutting innovations. Now, with the revamping of the county government underway and the extinction of his current post looming, he was vying for a charter membership on the new Allegheny County Council. Warren was brilliant at all matters financial, but she could never quite figure out how he succeeded in politics, given the fact that he was basically honest.

"It appeared that I was standing in pretty good favor with Myran," Warren continued, "until last weekend."

Despite her efforts, Leigh's gaze wandered to a water stain on Warren's ceiling.

He waved a hand in front of her face. "Yoo hoo, Leigh? Stay with me—the good stuff's coming."

She redoubled her efforts.

"We were having drinks at a hotel bar after a committee meeting—standard stuff, and Myran was feeling unusually festive. So festive, in fact, that he offered to serve up a couple of female companions for the evening—his treat."

Leigh was back with the program. "And you said—?"

"I declined, of course. Gracefully—or so I thought. He sulked through a few more drinks, then I put him in a cab and sent him home to Barbara."

"Where he belonged."

"Granted."

"So what was the problem?"

"The problem was that when he came over last night to talk shop again, he seemed uneasy. He kept looking around my apartment like he was trying to find something."

"Thought you'd squeal on him, eh?"

"Hardly. I don't think he loses much sleep over his reputation. Barbara is well aware of his weaknesses."

"Oh," Leigh said, disappointed in the little woman. Any man who tried that on her would regret her knowledge of the neutering procedure.

"I got the distinct impression," Warren continued, "that he thought I didn't share his taste for women.
Any
woman."

"Aha…" Leigh cooed, catching the drift. "The single, slender, and neat thing, eh?" She smiled. "You are awfully neat for a man, you know."

Warren glared. "Don't start with me. The point is, he had his suspicions. And as conservative a Democrat as Myran is, those suspicions could be the death knell of my campaign."

Leigh laughed as she poured herself a second cup of coffee. "Hence the sleepover façade."

"Right, although that was sheer luck. He called before dawn this morning to tell me he'd left his glasses, and that he was sending Barb to pick them up."

"The little woman again," Leigh scowled, sitting back down. "Fetch, dear! What a jerk." She took a long drag of coffee.

"Myran is no saint, but he has political talent," Warren defended. "Besides, you'll be happy to know that he doesn't know as much about his wife's whereabouts as he thinks he does."

Her eyes widened. "Really? Mrs. Prim and Servile herself? Do tell!"

But Leigh's prurient interests were not to be satisfied. Warren's telephone rang, and he was quick to take advantage of the distraction.