A Dose of Murder (23 page)

He stopped at a light and looked at me as if to say, “Why should I care?”

Jagger pulled into my parking lot and turned into a space marked for visitors. “Miles home?”

I looked around. “I don't see his car.”

He cut the engine and looked at me.

“Oh, you want to come in?”

“Since your boyfriend had to hurry off, I thought we could talk.”

I had visions of talking and . . . never mind. “I'll make some coffee if you want.”

On the way to the door, Jagger asked, “What about the rest of the day at work?”

Grass didn't grow under this guy's feet. No wonder he was good at his job. He lived it.

“I . . . Let me see.” I dug my hand around in my purse and dug and dug and dug until Jagger got so frustrated he grabbed it and within seconds pulled out my keys. Then he opened the door, and we went in. Him first. “You know, there
was
something I thought was odd.”

Spanky ran up to Jagger and leaped at his calves. Jagger scooped him up and held him then rubbed behind his ears.

“Why don't you let me decide.”

He didn't trust my surveillance skills. And truthfully, I didn't blame him.

A beeping came from the kitchen.

“Come in here. You can let him out while I check the answering machine.”

I pressed the button, figuring one of the messages was mine, looking for a ride. I found that one and deleted it. Next came Miles's coworker reminding him that tomorrow was a birthday party for one of the surgeons, and it was Miles's turn to bring in the cake. But not chocolate because Dr. Harwinton was allergic to chocolate. I wrote that message down.

Jagger came up behind me with Spanky in his arms.

“Almost done.” I pressed play again. On came my mother. “Pauline, you're not home—”

I shook my head, wondered if I'd ever turn into my mother and hoped Jagger didn't think the same.

“—I really should know where you are at all times in case there is an emergency—”

My heart thudded. Did something happen to Daddy? Uncle Walt? I said a fast prayer as she continued.

“—or I need to get you for something like to remind you to tell Mister Jagger that we do grab bags on Christmas Eve.”

“We do grab bags on Christmas Eve,” I said.

“Don't forget to tell him that it is an item for seven dollars, and on Christmas Day the item has to be a food item. You tell him, Pauline. Don't forget, or Mister Jagger will feel badly that he is not prepared. Oh, the food item has to be seven dollars as well. Don't forget. Tell him.”

“Yes, Mom.” As if I didn't know the Sokols' yuletide grab-bag rules. I turned to Jagger and took Spanky from him. “We do a food—”

“I got it.”

“Fine.” Spanky, not one to cuddle for too long, promptly jumped out of my arms and scurried out of the kitchen.

The 3 still blinked on the answering machine. I pressed the button to hear the last message.

“Pauline,” Vance's voice said. “I've just gotten out of surger—”

Ack. I hope he wasn't calling me for
that
.

And with Jagger standing right here!

I started to push the button to delete it before he finished. But for some reason didn't.

But he continued, “The accident was only one car. A bad one though. Drove off the curve on River Road. The one down past Madeline's. Right into the pilings along the boat ramp and into the water. The airbag deployed with such force—”

I shook my head at Vance's disembodied voice as if he could see me and as if to ask how any of this made any difference to me. I wondered why on earth he was giving me so much detail about his case. He never had before.

Before I could wonder any longer, his voice said, “Eddy Roden didn't make it.”

My eyes widened and I gasped.

“God damn it,” Jagger said.

We stood there silent for several seconds.

Eddy Roden was dead.

Funny how one's mind acts when they hear bad news. All I could think of right then was, It could have been me. That Corolla could have killed me. A foolish thought because despite what Jagger had said about grabbing me, I didn't think the Corolla had come that close.

“I have to make a few calls,” Jagger said.

“Calls? Oh sure. You can use this phone. I'll get us something to drink. Coffee?”

He'd already dialed. “Beer.”

The shocking news did warrant a beer. I walked to the fridge, took out two Coors. When I opened the drawer to get the bottle opener, I heard Jagger talking.

“Lieutenant Shatley.” A few minutes of silence. “John, it's me.”

I popped the top off my beer, took a sip and thought that Jagger must know this cop pretty well if he didn't have to identify himself. Maybe Jagger was a regular cop? Or an undercover cop, was more like it. It really didn't matter, I thought, when the reminder that Eddy was dead hit me.

I opened Jagger's beer and set it on the counter next to him. He nodded a thanks and took a long sip. “I need an accident report. . . . God damn it. . . . Not that. . . . Sure. . . . No. Tonight.” He held his hand over the receiver. “You got a fax?”

“Fax?”

“Fax machine,” he said testily.

“Sorry. No.”

“I'll pick it up,” he said into the phone. “Anything you got for me about the Roden accident?” He shook his head and mumbled a few curse words, a “Thanks, buddy,” then hung up the phone. After that he polished off his entire beer, while I still had three fourths of mine to go.

“Another beer?” I asked, although I didn't think he needed one if he had a lot of work to do tonight.

He looked at me. “Go change your wet pants while I use the phone.”

The cool material had clung to my skin, making me forget the discomfort after hearing about Eddy. I set my empty beer bottle on the counter and went to change. Jagger was already talking to someone about the make and model of the car that Eddy had been driving. I surmised it was some sort of mechanic on the line by what Jagger was asking.

Upstairs I shimmied out of the wet jeans and looked into my closet. If I changed my top Jagger might get the wrong impression. He might think that I cared what I wore for him.

And I didn't want him thinking that!

I went with reliable blue jeans and left on my sweater. Once downstairs I found Jagger, sitting at the counter writing notes on a little pad he must have carried with him because I didn't recognize it. Of course, I wouldn't put it past him to go rummaging through our drawers for whatever he needed.

He looked up. “Tell me about work today. You talk to Eddy?”

I sat opposite him. Spanky had curled up in his tiger-striped bed near the door. Exhausted and mentally drained, I paused. Did I?

“Sherlock, we have a shitload of stuff to cover tonight.”

“I'm thinking. Oh, yes. I did talk to Eddy.” I related the conversation of Eddy's opinion of all the doctors and Tina, and her picking up the stupid penny. I included a description of Eddy's odd expression when he'd looked past me in the cafeteria and how he had suspiciously stopped talking so abruptly.

Jagger took an occasional note, but didn't, however, look too impressed. Then again, this was Jagger. I figured he was the type to remember everything without writing things down. When I looked at his paper, I was amazed.

Doodles covered the entire page. Not only didn't he take notes, but he did sketches of Spanky, cars, planes and some things I couldn't recognize all the while he listened to me. And they were good!

I knew from the questions he asked that he didn't miss a thing. Of course, he may already have done background checks on all the staff.

“Linda's a single mom too,” was all he said when I mentioned that Eddy never talked about her.

I even told him about Trudy being a grandmother. Jagger gave me a “how is that relevant” look. I couldn't help but defend myself with, “Well, she doesn't look that old.”

“Anything else about today?”

“No. Yes. Wait.”

He shook his head.

I curled my lip. “It hasn't been the best of nights, you know. I almost forgot. A group of boys came into the office. . . .”

I think I detected his eyebrows raise a fraction. “And?”

“And they weren't there but a few minutes.” I told him how they came out with bags that I later saw were new shoes and said, “I'm guessing the doctors maybe donated them—”

Jagger gave me one of his Jagger looks.

“What?”

“Don't guess. Tell me facts.”

After a short exasperated huff, I covered how they got into the YMCA van and the driver who brought them in drove them out of the parking lot.

“Capper.”

“What?”

He looked a little less pissed. “Capper or runner. Has to be.”

“I'm not following.” I finished my beer, thinking that might either help me understand him better or make my tired brains so clouded I wouldn't care what Jagger said or thought about me.

He leaned back, his hands behind his head. He looked as beat as I felt. “He's a third-party middleman. Recruits perpetrators to commit insurance fraud. Tomorrow check to see if there are charts on those kids and billings to the insurance company.”

“Oh, but they were only in the office a few minutes and didn't even see any doctor—”

“Maybe you should stick to nursing.”

I didn't have a hot temper, but I did have one that got set off by insulting me. The nerve!

Before I could tell Jagger off, he continued, “I'll bet there are charts on each one of those kids, claiming soft tissue injures sustained at the Y. Most likely playing basketball, if they were all tall as you said.”

“They
were
tall.”

He gave me an odd look. “I got that. Sometimes these runners befriend legitimate accident victims for the medical mills.”

I had a hard time believing I was working in a medical mill. All I could think of was a show I'd seen a few years ago on
60 Minutes
about puppy mills. I shuddered when I looked at my darling Spanky. But that's not what Jagger was talking about. “How can people do those things?”

“Look, Sherlock, the world is full of dishonest shits that commit crimes like fraud. Sometimes enough—”

He looked out across the room. I followed his stare, thinking something had moved or he heard a noise. Nothing seemed changed to me.

“—enough so that insurance companies go bust and criminals get rich.”

“Like Tina and Donnie.”

“Not many can afford two houses like that. Tomorrow check to see what kinds of cars all the staff drive.”

“Cars? How am I supposed to—”

“Skip coffee with Goldie and stake out the parking lot.”

I could only stare at him and wonder just how much he knew about me. Finally my mind, the spunky part, kicked in and I said, “You've been following me. Stop that. Stop following me around!”

“Look, Sherlock, if I find out that Eddy's death wasn't an accident, you can consider me your fucking shadow.”

Before I could say anything else, the sound of a door slamming made me jump out of my seat and scream.

Jagger looked at me. I think he shook his head again, although he was doing that so frequently, I hardly noticed any more. “That's your front door, Sherlock. Not some .357 Magnum.”

Then I think he grinned.

Embarrassed, I turned away too fast to notice if he really did. Thank goodness Miles came in, followed by Goldie.

I jumped up and gave them each a hug as if I hadn't seen them in years. They gave me a collective look of confusion. “Hey, you two. How's it going?”

Goldie raised an eyebrow and looked at me, then Jagger. “Fine, suga. What about you?”

I knew he meant What the hell is wrong with you? But he didn't ask that. Despite his flamboyance, Goldie had tact and grace.

“We're fine. I'm . . . fine. How about some coffee?”

Goldie held his abdomen. “If I drink any more, I'll burst. We ate at that new Indian Restaurant. I drank a couple gallons of water. Spicy. Yummy. What'd you two eat?”

“I had a pizza with Vance.” There went my honest mouth. I never even thought to lie. It must look strange to have Jagger sitting here and me saying I'd gone out with another man, but I really couldn't explain why. Even Jagger gave me a dirty look. “We had some business to discuss,” I added, very pleased with myself.

Miles busied himself playing with Spanky. Goldie gave Jagger the once-over, then looked at me. He mouthed, “Cocaine.”

I shook my head. “Indian, huh? I really don't like ethnic food that much.”

Miles looked up. “Hah! You're as Polish as a fucking pierogi, Sokol.”

“Well, yeah. I like my mother's cooking, but not spicy food like Indian.” I looked at Jagger. He stood. I'm quite certain this conversation wasn't stimulating enough for him—and I didn't blame him. I rambled on without any purpose, for no reason other than nervousness. I wanted to tell them about Jagger and I—the truth. But couldn't. Then I thought of Eddy.

Goldie sat on the stool by the counter.

“Eddy Roden was killed in a car accident tonight,” I said. Jagger bent his head down but kept his gaze on me.

Miles took Spanky and held him close. “Eddy? That dude that used to work at Saint Greg's?”

I'd forgotten that they didn't know that I work with Eddy right now. Make that
worked
with him. Suddenly all my lies were colliding with each other like tiny bumper cars in my head. I didn't know who knew what or what I could say to whom about what. Or what the hell I was talking about.

“I have a headache,” came out. They all glared at me.

Goldie reached into his spangled black purse and pulled out a pillbox with Mardi Gras masks on it. “Here. Tylenol.”

I took one and swallowed it without water.