Then Hang All the Liars (19 page)

Three.
The morgue did not have her clips yet.

“Miss Cahill said that you were overextended in your requests for the month,” said the clerk in that office.

“I didn't know there was a quota on—” She bit her tongue. No point in munching on an innocent bystander. “Transfer me to Ms. Wildwood, please.”

“Hoke Toliver's office. Jane Wildwood speaking.”

“You do that very nicely, Wildwood.”

“Thanks. You wanna know what else I've learned to do?”

“I'm sure it's fascinating, but some other time. Right now I want you to track down Shirl the Squirrel and cut out her gizzard.”

“Roger. And after that?”

“Get me my goddamned clips from the morgue on Randolph Percy.”

“That's Percy with a final
e
or without? Going back how far?”

“Without. Forever.”

“By the way, Hoke's trying to pump me about what you might be working on. He said you teased him with something. Is he talking Squeeze?”

“Yeah. Now I'm going to have to come up with something else. I put the kibosh on
that
business.”

“The whole show?”

“I'm not sure. It's out of my hands.”

“See? I told you that you'd like Nicole Burkett.”

“Well, I did. She's a very impressive lady, as I'm sure you know. And how
do
you know her, anyway?”

“One of the things I've learned in my on-the-job training is to protect my sources.”

“Not from me, Wildwood. I'm your mentor, remember?”

“From everyone.”

“Then you'd better learn to protect your ass, too.”

“Only teasing, Sam. I'll fill you in later. Now what do you want me to tell Hoke when he asks for you?”

“Tell him—”

“Never mind. I'll make it up. Here comes the Squirrel. Got to get my gun loaded.”

*

The only nice thing a woman could say about the Claridge Club is that it serves a hell of a glass of iced tea. Beyond that, this holy of holies of male supremacy (unscathed by any and all legislation), which sits atop a bank building just across the street from the offices of the
Constitution,
is a thorn under the saddle—a reminder of how everything used to be.

Sam had been inside once before to a Wednesday Night Dinner to which ladies are admitted. She'd looked up and down the long table—being one of three women in a sea of male faces, all of them white—and thought,
So this is what it feels like.

Besides which, the food was awful.

Spearing something gray on her fork, she'd said to the man who'd been so foolish as to invite her, “Is this what you all call mystery meat? Or is it shit on a shingle?”

The collective gasp had been heard fifteen miles away in Alpharetta.

She hadn't been invited back to the Claridge. But because Randolph Percy met the criteria for membership, being a gentleman in addition to a con man, a gambler, and a possible murderer, and because he stayed there when he was in Atlanta, she now found herself once again ringing the club's doorbell.

Just inside, she was met by a functionary who had both the shape and demeanor of a boiled egg.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“I wonder if I might see Mr. Randolph Percy?”

“I'll inquire,” he said and nodded his perfectly bald head. Nothing else moved. “Please make yourself comfortable in the lounge.” Not even his lips. He'd have given Edgar Bergen a run for his money.

Then he ushered her through double doors into the area where ladies in waiting were allowed.

A green overstuffed chair gave off a faint cloud of dust as she plopped into it—probably the biggest event in this room in forty years. It was a place to count flies, leaf through old
National Geographies,
watch fat men sleep, research styles in snoring. The man on her right, who had his head thrown back so far it looked like it might unhinge, was practicing a variation that might appeal to a horny lady hippopotamus.

A side door opened and Mr. Egg returned. “Mr. Percy is not in his room, ma'am.”

“Oh, I'm sure he is.”

“Ma'am?”

His eyebrows lifted a quarter of an inch—the equivalent for him of a wild Watusi.

“I said I'm sure Mr. Percy is in.”

And she was positive. She knew he was upstairs. She could smell him. The sixth sense that she shared with George had just kicked in.

“Did you knock on his door?”

“I rang him.” He sniffed.

She was half out of her chair. “Why don't you let me go up and see?”

“Oh, no!” The man jerked back. “I couldn't let you do that. Above stairs is off limits to ladies.”

“Then would you please go up and find him? Maybe he's visiting in someone else's room.”

Mr. Egg rolled his eyes ever so slightly.

“I am not one of his women, if that's what you think.”

“Ma'am?”

“I'm much too young, don't you think?”

No response. Well, sarcasm didn't always work. “I'm here on business.” She dug in her bag and handed him her card. “Please.”

He stared at it, and then his eggy face slid like one, over easy. Publicity, of any sort, was anathema to the club.

“I'll be right back.” He turned, then paused. A light had gone on. “In the meantime, may I send you something from the bar?”

She smiled sweetly. “A glass of iced tea would be nice.”

She remembered the tea from her previous visit. It was brewed fresh and strong and came in a tall glass in a silver holder with lump sugar and lemon on the side and a sprig of real mint.

It hadn't changed. She stirred in the sugar and thought about her strategy.

Mr. Percy, you have forty-eight hours to get the hell out of Dodge.

A little crude but not bad.

“Samantha Adams! What a nice surprise.”

She turned and there stood short, fat Judge Deaver. When first they'd met, he'd been perched on the edge of a sofa at a cocktail party, staring down the bosom of a tall redhead built rather like Jane.

“How are you doing, my dear?”

“Fine, and you?”

Behind Deaver stood a tall, distinguished man who looked vaguely familiar.

“Frank O'Connor.” He smiled and extended his hand.

“
Judge
O'Connor. Of course.”

“Guilty, I'm afraid.”

Sam reflexively ran a hand through her curls, then she licked her lips. Well, he was
very
sexy for an old man, tall and broad shouldered with a mane of white hair. No wonder they called him God O'Connor behind his back.

“Whatever are you doing in this stodgy old den? Deaver drags me here once a year, though I keep telling him I disapprove of the place. Could we take you out of here for a breath of fresh air, buy you a proper drink?”

“I'd love to, but I'm here on business.”

“Of course. By the way, I want to tell you how much I appreciate the concern you've shown for my friend Emily Edwards and her sister Felicity.”

“Oh, well, it's—”

“It's a lovely gesture. And let's hope everything turns out fine with Felicity.” He leaned closer. “You
wouldn't be here to see that scoundrel Randolph Percy, would you?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“No need to answer. You know, I should have done something about having that sorry bastard, excuse my French, run out of town a long time ago. Well, it's never too late.”

Was God O'Connor Emily's
special
friend?

Good for her. From what she'd seen lately, life among the septuagenarians was hotter than she'd ever imagined. Certainly hotter than her own.

Now Mr. Egg was back, standing before them with a most peculiar expression on his face.

“Good day, Rumson,” Deaver said.

“Day, sir.
Ahem
.”
He cleared his throat and focused a yellow-green gaze on Sam.

“Well?”

“He is in his room, Ms. Adams, but—”

“Just as I thought. He's on his way down?”

“No, I'm afraid not. He's—”

“You gave him my card?”

“No, ma'am. You see—”

She'd run fresh out of patience. “Why the hell not?”

“What seems to be the problem?” O'Connor asked.

“The lady asked if I would ring up a member, sir, and I did, but there was no answer. Then she asked if I would go upstairs and find him. I've done so.”

“And? I can't believe a gentleman would be so rude. But then, you didn't give him the card. Does he understand that he's keeping a lady waiting?”

“No, sir, he doesn't.”

Rumson's mouth was working sideways in a very strange fashion.

“I don't get it. Why didn't you give him my card?”

“I couldn't, ma'am.”

“And may I ask why not? Is Mr. Percy indisposed?” Deaver chimed in.

“Well, yes, he is, sir, ma'am, in a manner of speaking.” Then he turned back to Sam. “It was impossible to disturb him. You see, ma'am, I'm terribly afraid Mr. Percy's dead.”

Thirteen

Sam waited in the foyer until the police arrived, two uniformed officers followed closely by another couple of homicide detectives. They argued among themselves for a few minutes about which team would take the call.

“Why don't you flip a coin?” she suggested.

She'd recognized one of the uniforms from her recent visit to Charlie at headquarters. Now he picked her out, too.

“That's not exactly SOP, Ms. Adams. You grab the squeal on the radio?”

“No, actually I was here to see Mr. Percy about a little business.”

He glanced down at the notebook he was holding.

“This same Percy?”

She nodded.

“Isn't that a neat coincidence? Hope it wasn't important.”

“Not anymore it isn't.”

“You coming up with us?”

“Why, thank you.”

What a nice surprise, to be invited to a crime scene. Usually she had to coax, cajole, and muscle her way in.

All five of them, six including Rumson, began to troop up the stairs.

“Your friend Charlie said we should be nice to you;
you'd write sweet things about us. Help with our image.”

“Why, I always do. I'm one of the department's biggest fans.” Actually that was true.

But it didn't play well to this audience, conditioned to mistrust the press. One of the other cops made a rude sound as they all followed Rumson up the stairs.

At the top, Rumson turned to the right. “This way.” He pointed. They followed single file along a worn Persian runner, then stood crowded at the doorway of room fourteen while Rumson unlocked it.

The room was much too small to accommodate all of them—not that they all rushed in at once to meet the sickly sweet smell that greeted them. Sam reached in her bag for a tissue to press over her nose as she peeked in at the simple furnishings: a single bed with an oak headboard, a matching dresser, a night table with a brass lamp, a chair upholstered in green tweed. It looked like a dorm room. And Randolph Percy looked like he'd stretched out for the night.

His last outfit was a pair of pale blue pajamas, monogrammed in navy on the breast pocket. His hands lay at his sides over the bedspread, the nails neatly manicured and lightly polished, a gold crested ring on one finger. His silver hair winged back from a high forehead. His nose was aquiline, his features strong and fine. Even dead, he was a good-looking man. Sam was sorry she hadn't had a chance to meet him.

“He didn't answer when I knocked,” Rumson said. “But the door was unlocked.”

“Is that unusual?” one of the homicide dicks asked.

“No, sir. This is a gentlemen's club. There's no need to be concerned about security.”

The detective's face registered his skepticism. “So you opened the door and walked in?”

“Yes, sir. And then I saw Mr. Percy sleeping. At least, I thought he was sleeping.”

“And?”

“Well, it seemed a little irregular. I mean, Mr. Percy was never one to lie about in the daytime, if you know what I mean, sir. Unless he was ill, perhaps.”

“So you tried to wake him.”