All Sales Fatal (30 page)

“Well, the man who runs the company that was supposed to destroy the guns was Woskowicz’s brother-in-law.”

“Really?” Jay stopped and looked at me. “Have the cops talked to him?”

“I did,” I said with smug satisfaction. “Grandpa Atherton and I drove up there yesterday. He seems to think the police department is to blame for the ‘misplaced’ guns.”

“Of course he does,” Jay said, resuming his task. When he had four cookie sheets filled, he slid them one after another into the oven and set the timer.

“Do you think it’s possible he was really selling the guns to Arriaga for the Niños Malos? Or that he and Woskowicz were?”

Stripping off his latex gloves, Jay crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter. I’d never thought about it before, but there was something sexy about a man who was comfortable in a kitchen. “It’s possible,” he answered. “Although I’d think Woskowicz would be leery of having any contact with gang members, given his position. He couldn’t afford to be seen with them, I wouldn’t think.”

“Maybe that’s why he went to the battlefield—to meet them where no one would see them together? But something went wrong and one of them killed him? That still doesn’t explain why Woskowicz killed Arriaga—if he did—or why he kept the gun. Wouldn’t you think he’d be smart enough to fling it into the nearest river or a Dumpster several miles from here?”

“You knew him better than I did,” Jay responded.

The scent of warm peanut butter filled the small room, and I knew I had to leave before they came out of the oven or I’d eat fifteen of them. “I’m beginning to think I didn’t know him at all.”

“I saw the ad for his job on the mall website,” Jay said. “Are you interviewing for it?”

“Today.”

“Good luck. I’ll take you out to dinner to celebrate your promotion.”

“There may be nothing to celebrate.” I was deliberately trying not to get my hopes up; I’d suffered too many rejections lately.

“I’ll take you out to dinner anyway.” He took a step forward, which brought him to within six inches of me. I was absurdly conscious of his broad shoulders and his subtle
soap-and-warm-cookie scent. My lips parted slightly and I looked up at him.

“Hey, can we get some cookies out here?” A woman’s voice drilled into the kitchen, and Jay slipped past me with a quick, rueful smile, saying, “Certainly, ladies. What kind did you want? Buy four and the fifth one’s free.”

My face warm with embarrassment—had I really been prepared to kiss a man in a food court kitchen while I was supposed to be working?—I ducked out the door, retrieved my Segway, and scuttled back to the security office.

Twenty-four

I was on
the verge of calling Detective Helland to tell him what Grandpa and I had learned yesterday—not much—when he called me.

“Cruz Guerra’s story fell apart,” he said without preamble. His voice was cool and impersonal, and I could tell he regretted recruiting me to help him. “A middle school girl came forward to say he was with her, indulging in illegal substances, when he said he was shooting Arriaga. We let his mother have a go at him, too, and he has recanted his story. His mother says she thinks he was only trying to impress his brother, Enrique. She’s trying hard to keep him away from Enrique—doesn’t want her baby sucked into the gang—but I think she’s fighting a losing battle. No father in the picture, of course.”

“So you’re looking at other suspects again. You need to hear what I found out yesterday.” I summarized Grandpa’s and my encounter with William “Billy” Silver, brother of Aggie and brother-in-law of Dennis Woskowicz.

“That’s worth following up on,” Helland said. His voice was detached, not effusive, but I felt like he’d handed me a gold medal.

Get over it already, I told myself. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to Eloísa?” I asked.

“No.” Helland’s tone said he wasn’t happy about it. “She’s staying with an aunt out of state. We got the parents to agree that a local cop could interview her, but he got nothing useful from the girl.”

“She’s scared of Enrique. She—” My gaze fell on my watch and I leaped up. “I’ve got to go. Interview. Bye.” I hung up as Helland started to say something—probably something about staying away from the investigation now that he was back on the case—and dashed out of the office with Joel shouting “Good luck” after me. I allowed myself two minutes in the ladies’ room to comb my hair and apply lipstick, and then I headed for the parking lot.

The interviews were taking place at the Figley and Boon Investments headquarters in Dale City, Virginia, a good half hour north of here. The traffic gods weren’t feeling surly today, and I arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, time to take a deep breath and run through probable questions and responses mentally before an admin assistant ushered me into the conference room exactly on time.

I found myself facing Curtis Quigley and three people I didn’t know, all arrayed on the far side of the conference table, legal pads and water glasses in front of them. A single chair sat on my side of the table and I moved toward it, assessing the interviewers as I did. An ash-blond woman in her fifties peered at me over the rim of glasses sagging halfway down her nose. A human resources exec, I’d bet. Beside her sat a corpulent man, a bit younger, skimming messages on his Blackberry. He looked up impatiently when I entered and went back to his email. Quigley came next.
The woman in the last seat sat with hands folded primly in front of her and wore a pale pink suit I thought might be Chanel. She gave me a friendly smile and I smiled back.

Quigley made introductions and started the ball rolling with, “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Ms. Ferris. Please tell us about your qualifications for the director of security job.”

Most of the questions I’d anticipated, preparing answers about my management style, my experience, and my ideas for making the mall safer. As we neared the end of my allotted hour on the hot seat, the Blackberry man asked, “Isn’t it true that there’s been a rash of bodies at the mall in the last couple months?” Quigley had introduced him as the FBI vice president for retail operations. “How would you stop that disturbing trend if you were the director of security?”

“There’s no way to guarantee there’ll never be another body at Fernglen,” I said bluntly. “But we can reduce the chances by upgrading our camera system and by authorizing our officers to carry weapons. Tasers, perhaps.”

“Armed guards might intimidate our shoppers,” the man said. “We don’t want to look like we’re running a police state,” he added, his gaze flicking to his Blackberry again.

“Studies show—”

“A new camera system would cost money.” The blonde with the glasses drew back, disapproval etched on her face. She was from the FBI budget office, not human resources as I’d assumed.

“Yes,” I agreed, “but the potential gain—”

“Lots of money.”

The pink-suited woman on the other end, the real HR executive, interrupted to ask, “What would you do about the uniforms if you were made director of security?”

The uniforms? I tried to keep the bafflement off my face.
“We could save money by continuing to use the same uniforms,” I said, trying to placate both interviewers at once.

“They’re so drab,” the Chanel wearer said, pursing her lips. She gestured toward my uniform with an up-and-down motion of her hand. “Boring. Our malls are upscale, fashion-forward… Shouldn’t all our employees be walking advertisements for our merchandise?”

To my relief, the administrative assistant reappeared just then and the panel thanked me for my time and said they’d be in touch after all the interviews had been conducted. I thanked them and left, slightly cheered by the approving nod Quigley gave me. I’d been doing pretty well, I thought, up until the last five minutes. Boring uniforms? I shook my head, chuckling to myself as I returned to my Miata. She must have been kidding, trying to see if I’d bite and recommend spending money on “fashionable” new uniforms.

That evening, after
a roasted beet and goat cheese salad from a recipe I’d cut from a magazine months earlier and been meaning to try, I sat in the living room, strumming my guitar and watching Fubar playing with his feather toy. I was trying to teach myself Isaac Albeniz’s “Asturias” and struggling with one of the chord progressions. I should look into taking lessons again, I thought, surprised by the way my spirits lifted at the thought. I hadn’t played seriously since before Afghanistan. I’d ask around about teachers Monday, I decided, by calling music stores in the area to see who they recommended.

The doorbell pealed and Fubar twisted at the apex of a pounce on his feather toy, landing hard. He trotted to the tiny foyer to investigate; I followed once I’d laid the guitar carefully on the sofa. Peering through the peep hole, I was surprised to see Detective Helland. I opened the door,
forgetting I had on nothing but a pair of old gym shorts and a faded green tee shirt from a 10K race I’d run once. The cool air on my bare legs reminded me, and I stopped in mid-hello. My leg, with the expanses of scar tissue, the twisted knee, the indentations where muscle and fat had been stripped away, was on display.

I wanted to slam the door in his face, but it was too late. His gaze had swept over me, and although he was too polite to stare, I noticed the almost undetectable widening of his eyes when he saw my leg. “May I come in?”

“I suppose.” Hardly my most gracious moment. “Have a seat in the living room. I’ll be right back.”

As I scurried to my bedroom, Helland bent to pat Fubar, who was sitting a foot away, looking annoyed that Helland wasn’t wearing lace-up shoes. Loafers had no appeal as far as Fubar was concerned. In my room, I scrambled out of the shorts and into a pair of gray sweats in less than thirty seconds, reappearing with a smile that dared him to say anything. He was still standing in the foyer, so I led him into the living room.

“Was that you playing the guitar?” he asked, looking around the small room. “You’re very good.”

“I’m out of practice.” I surveyed the room, trying to see it through his eyes. A thirty-two-inch flat-screen TV, mostly for watching
Dancing with the Stars
with Kyra. Sofa and love seat in a nubby olive fabric with threads of rust running through it. A lamp with a stained-glass shade my brother Clint made for me when he was in college and going through an arty phase. Gas fireplace with a dancing flame, and a mantel crowded with photos of family and friends, including several taken in Afghanistan. Helland strolled over to look at a photo I’d taken of poppy fields stretching as far as the eye could see outside a tiny village not far from Qandahar. Of course he was attracted to the photos; he was a photographer.

“Nice. The contrast between the old world and modern civilization”—he pointed to the figure of an Afghani farmer with a camel surrounded by poppies, looking up at a Cobra helicopter flying overhead—“is powerful.”

His praise made me uncomfortable; I had just wanted to hold on to the colorful poppies, the bright swathe of orangey red against the otherwise dun landscape of Afghanistan. “Did you want something?” I asked abruptly.

His blond brows rose a fraction of an inch. “I should have called first,” he said.

“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry. Would you like a beer?” I didn’t know why I felt so discombobulated. I traipsed into the kitchen and called back, “Sam Adams or Laughing Lab?”

He chose the latter, and I popped the lids off two bottles and carried them back to the living room. He was seated on the love seat, so I chose the sofa, lifting the guitar back into its case.

“Since William Silver was your lead, I thought you deserved to hear what’s happened,” Helland said after an appreciative swallow of the beer.

“You’ve already talked to him? That was fast.”

He shook his head. “No. He’s gone.”

His announcement startled me so much I nearly spit beer at him. “What? Where?”

“When you told me about him this afternoon, the connection between him, Woskowicz, and the amnestied gun was too strong to ignore, so I put my team on him and made a few calls. The police chief in Mantua, New Jersey, let me know that their internal investigation pointed to Allied Forge Metals as the culprit in the missing guns situation.”

“He’s got a vested interest in thinking that,” I pointed out. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to believe his cops are dirty.”

“The sergeant in charge of the program voluntarily underwent a poly,” Helland said, “and passed. The chief’s
convinced his folks aren’t responsible for those guns being back on the street.”

“Okay.” I pulled one leg up under me.

“After I heard that, I got in touch with several other police departments who had used Silver’s company to destroy guns. None of them had any problems; it was just luck—bad luck for Silver—that one of the Mantua guns was used in a homicide and then recovered.”

“I’d say the bad luck was Celio Arriaga’s.”

His nod conceded my point. “Indeed. When we pulled Silver’s EZ Pass records, they showed that he drove this way every other Wednesday, including the Wednesday Woskowicz was murdered. Unfortunately, we don’t have any toll plazas on the stretch of 95 between D.C. and here, so we can’t prove—yet—that this was his destination. Still, the circumstantial evidence is damning.”