Never Sorry: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (9 page)

"How could I forget?" the policewoman grinned. "You diagnosed everyone you'd ever known."

"I did not," Leigh said defensively. "Just a few—and only one I was really sure about. We were studying personality disorders, and I told you that I knew a girl in high school who was a sociopath."

Maura thought for a moment. "You mean Carmen was the girl who would steal clothes from gym lockers, then wear them around school?"

"Yep—that was her. People would recognize their stolen clothes, but Carmen would act like nothing was wrong. All the time, she'd be perfectly nice to you. Once she volunteered to be treasurer of some club—future homewreckers of America or something—and a few days after dues were collected the money 'disappeared' from her locker. She had the nerve to report the theft to the police, even as she was wearing a whole new outfit she couldn't possibly afford. It was like she had no conscience at all. She assumed everyone liked her—she saw no reason why they shouldn't. She was charming and friendly, but the moment your back was turned, she'd do just about anything."

"Sounds like a couple of women I've dated," Warren mused.

Leigh glared. Warren hadn't been much of a ladies' man in his college days, but in the last few years he had dated no small number of politically eligible women. He never got serious about any of them, however, a fact which evidently had not escaped the notice of Myran Wiggin.

"Were you ever openly hostile to Carmen?" Maura asked seriously, trying to keep Leigh's thoughts on the subject.

"Of course not," Leigh said defensively. "I wanted to wring her stringy little neck, but I was a wuss. She acted like nothing had happened, so I played along. It was easier that way."

"And there were no real lasting consequences for you?" Maura probed.

"Besides my dignity? The horror of being arrested when you're such a straight arrow you're voted 'Most Likely to Lead a Boring Life?'" Leigh smirked, wondering if her old high school yearbook staff had been watching the news lately. Her life wasn't so boring now, was it?

"Koslow," Maura said heavily. "Pay attention. This is your butt in the sling, remember? I asked if there were any real, lasting negative consequences from that arrest."

Leigh sighed. "I suppose not. Although I did miss a calculus test that morning—which cost me a letter grade." She ground her teeth at the memory, then remembered the purpose of Maura's questions. "It was nothing worth killing anyone over, of course. That would be ridiculous."

Maura considered a moment, then agreed. "High-school trauma is pretty lame, for a motive. But it would have been better if you'd told the police about it yourself."

"But they won't find out," Leigh countered hopefully. "The lawyer said my record would be wiped clean, remember?"

Maura shook her head. "Yours might have been, but Carmen's wouldn't. Not if she was over eighteen."

Crap
. Leigh bit her lower lip. "So Frank will find out?"

Maura sighed. "He probably already knows, Koslow. Did he ask you any leading questions? Give you the opportunity to mention it?"

As a matter of fact, yes
. Leigh's stomach was back to its old tricks. She needed to pop some antacid—quick. "I suppose he might have," she mumbled.

"Ask your lawyer if you should get it out in the open," Maura suggested. "They'll have trouble getting a warrant if all the motive they have is a petty thirteen-year-old grudge. They'd need something else. Like blackmail. Or a love triangle."

A love triangle
. There it was—again. Leigh tried hard not to look at Maura. The policewoman was trained to read people, and she knew guilt when she saw it. Leigh asked Warren where he kept the antacid and made a hasty exit to the bathroom.

***

The buzzing of Leigh's alarm clock the next morning announced the end of eleven hours of sleep that seemed more like twenty minutes. She stumbled through the morning routine on autopilot, scalding her wrist with coffee and stubbing her toe on a basket of dirty clothes. To top it off, her cat, Mao Tse, was having serious attitude problems—undoubtedly miffed at the irregular hours Leigh had been keeping and the fact that there had been no canned food since Tuesday.

"Herring in prawn jelly this weekend," Leigh yawned as she left. "Promise." Unlike the day before, Hook, Inc. was buzzing with activity. The new business manager had somehow wrangled a desk and chair, and was setting about the professional task of lifting the phone off the floor. Jeff Hulsey was once again schmoozing potential clients over the phone, and Carl and Alice were arguing over whether her flashy layout would make the Techmar Industrial brochure go over budget. Leigh gave each of her coworkers a wave and, as Alice and Carl had the decency to be arguing in the other office, she shut her own door and sat down to work.

The print ads for X-M Mold Remover should have been a snap job. On a better day she could have rolled out a half dozen great slogans—with copy—by noon. Not this morning. Her mind was enveloped in a haze that three cups of coffee had yet to touch, and the pressure in her sinuses was building up like a powder keg. She was staring at the blank document on her monitor, debating whether Frank had given her a cold in addition to an ulcer, when the door to her office opened slowly. Two women of equal height and build shuffled quietly inside and stood looking at her.

The one wearing two strands of pearls and carrying an embroidered handbag cleared her throat. Leigh looked up at the women and smiled weakly. Like many identical twins, the two were a study in contrast. One in full Barbara-Bush regalia, the other in shiny pink sweats. "Leigh, dear," said the proper one, "We're sorry to interrupt, but you never answer your phone anymore, and we're worried about you."

"I'm fine, Mom," Leigh answered with as much cheer as she could muster. She offered the women seats, then realized there weren't any. She pulled out her chair, dragged over Alice's, and settled herself on the desktop. "How do you like the place?" she asked, waving an arm to show off the red-painted concrete-block walls and exposed pipes.

Frances Koslow pursed her lips together and looked at the floor.

"I think it's got character," Leigh's Aunt Lydie said approvingly. "Definite potential."

Leigh smiled.

"Let's not pussyfoot," Frances said heavily. "We're here because we know that you were the one who found that Koslow girl's body, and it's all over the morning papers that the police have several suspects. You're one, of course. Your father and I agree that you need your lawyer again. He's retired, which is unfortunate, since he knows your history. But his firm is still operating. I called them this morning—"

Leigh quietly clenched her heels together—a tried and true alternative to screaming her guts out. "I already have a lawyer, Mom. Warren found one for me yesterday."

"Did he?" Frances' face lit up. She had always thought Warren Harmon made prime son-in-law material, and made no secret of it. "What a nice thing to do. You should write him a thank-you card."

The muscles in Leigh's calves were starting to fatigue when Lydie jumped in. "Have you met with the lawyer yet? Did he reassure you?"

"The meeting went fine, thanks. And it's a 'she.'"

Frances gasped. "A woman lawyer? Do you think that's wise?"

Leigh leapt off the desk and shook out her arms. It was the next stage of self-control therapy. She hoped she wouldn't need the third, which required an exercise mat, or at least plush carpeting.

"For heaven's sake, Frannie!" Lydie said indignantly. "Why on earth shouldn't a woman make as good a lawyer as a man?"

Frances clutched her handbag defensively. "I'm not saying one couldn't, in some fields, but criminal defense is a male-dominated area. Men deal better with other men—" she stopped. "Leigh, will you please quit that ridiculous exercising? Can't you do your sit-ups at home? This tile will ruin your back."

"I think I hear my phone," Leigh said hastily, springing up. "Back in a jiff!"

Ten carefully counted seconds later, she returned. "Isn't this your phone?" Frances asked accusingly, pointing to the mute instrument on Leigh's desk.

"That's Alice's," Leigh answered truthfully. It was Alice's. Alice's and hers. "Listen, Mom, Lydie, I really appreciate your coming down, but everything is under control. Warren says my lawyer is the best. But I have a headache coming on and a ton of work to do, so…"

"I'm sure you have a lot more time now that you're not running back and forth to the zoo every day," Frances declared. "Although you do need the money. I'd be happy to talk to my friend Doreen down at Mellon Bank. They're always hiring for something…"

Leigh sighed. She knew that Frances Koslow wouldn't rest until her only daughter had a boring, stable desk job that came with a 401K and a dental plan. The threat of a call to Doreen had hung over her head ever since college graduation, and her uncertain employment of the last decade had done nothing to lessen it.

"I'm fine, Mom. Please don't stress poor Doreen. I already have another source of income."
The same one I've had
.

Frances eyed her daughter skeptically. She knew Leigh well enough to know that although she generally didn't lie, her verbal acrobatics were well seasoned. "Really. And what might that—"

"Leigh!" shouted Carl from the abruptly opened doorway,  "Sorry to interrupt, but we really do need you in here."

"Sorry, Mom, Lydie." Leigh apologized happily, pushing the women toward the front door with the subtleness of a backhoe. "Sounds important." With mutterings of discontent and commands for Leigh to keep in touch, the visitors departed.

Leigh turned and leaned heavily against the back of the door. Carl and Alice watched her and smiled.

"It was my turn, wasn't it?" Carl asked. "Sorry if I lost track of time. But I think I was still within the requested five-minute range."

"You did good, Carl," Leigh praised. "Next cappuccino's on me."

***

Deep in the Avalon Borough Police Headquarters, Maura Polanski tapped a pen against the stack of papers littering her narrow desk. She stared, as she had off and on all morning, at the black telephone balanced precariously over the desk's right edge. Should she, or shouldn't she?

She was used to bailing Leigh Koslow out of trouble—she'd been saving her friend from herself on a regular basis ever since college. But this time, things were especially complicated. Maura sighed heavily, picked up the phone, and dialed the city detective's desk.

"Vincent Fanelli, please."

The deep, booming voice on the other end of the line seemed pleased at the interruption. "Polanski!  How the hell you been and why the hell haven't you made detective yet? We were supposed to do this together, remember?"

"I'm with the Avalon force now," Maura answered cheerfully, trying to keep the regret out of her voice. "Things move slower here. But someday I'll come show you guys how it's done."

Vince Fanelli gave a deep chuckle. "So, what's up?"

Maura took a breath. "Bad news, Vince. A friend's in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Your kind."

Vince gave a low whistle. "Homicide?"

"Yeah. Name's Leigh Koslow."

There was a short pause. "As in the zoo murder?"

"Right." Maura paused a moment. "Leigh can irritate the fire out of you, but she's no killer. You got my word on that. She just has a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Vince said nothing.

"I'm not asking you to leak anything," Maura said firmly. "But I thought maybe you could tell me how worried I should be."

There was a rapping sound as the detective tapped his own pen on his desk. Then he sighed. "It's like this, Polanski. Circumstantials add up. Publicized case means pressure for an arrest. To sum up—your friend better have a damn good lawyer.
Today
."

Maura's spirits sank. It was worse than she thought. "Thanks, Vince. Appreciate it. Keep a seat warm for me over there, will you?"