Death at the Wheel (18 page)

Her grin was sloppy and her eyes were getting glassy. She laid a manicured hand on my arm. "I've always wanted to sleep with a cop. Is it any different?"

It must have been the atmosphere. Or I was just too tired to be sensible. I was halfway through a second drink and I had miles to go before I slept. If I didn't slow down, I'd be into a third and then into the ditch. "I've only slept with the one," I said, "but I've got no complaints."

If I didn't derail this topic I'd be swept into a long conversation about cops and sex. There are a lot of people out there who assume all cops are real studs. Comes from reading too many novels. Cops are like everyone else—some are studs and some are duds and most fall somewhere in the middle. "I slept with a banker once. A real bummer." She nodded vigorously. I tried to get back to an earlier subject. "This Nan Devereaux? That's the wife?"

Rachel's laugh was a short, derisive bark. "Wife? That's Julie. Pallid little thing wouldn't say boo to a goose. I'm talking about Nan Devereaux, his latest conquest. Unless he was hers. I bet she's got as many scalps on her belt as he does... uh, did. Maybe more. Lives in Dover. Money of her own. Pots of it. I hear she cleaned out her husband when they divorced. Cal used to salivate just thinking about all that money. I gather he's at the anemic end of old Yankee money that's still yielding a meager five percent. At least, he always seemed abnormally interested in money, even for a banker. All he had to do was hear someone talking about a hot investment and he was all ears."

She picked up her drink and lowered the level significantly, setting it down a little unsteadily on the bar. "God, it's dull tonight." I was afraid she was going to switch back to dating and cops, but she was interested in her subject. "A little convenient eavesdropping yielded the information that Nan was pretty mad at Cal on Friday. When she called, she just about scorched Rita's ear off with her language. Rita is... was... Cal's secretary. So maybe she killed him for revenge. Killed him or had him killed. Swatted the old boy like a fly. Nan, I mean." She shrugged her shoulders and fortified herself with alcohol again. "In any case, it means there's a job open at the bank. And they'd better give it to me. God, this place is like a tomb." She craned her neck around hopefully. "Usually there's something."

"It's usually livelier? I haven't been here before. I was visiting my folks and decided to stop in. After dinner with them, I needed a drink."

"The pickings are usually a little better. Bob the broker try to hit on you?"

"You might say that. Did you see the article in the
Globe
about the missing papers?"

"Don't bother with Bob. He's impotent."

"And it's common knowledge? How sad."

She shrugged indifferently. "You seem awfully interested in the bank."

I forced a laugh. "I grew up here in Grantham. Had my first savings account there. I guess I think of it as my bank."

"That's kind of sweet," she said. "I find it hard to have fond feelings about any bank."

"Do you think he stole the papers?"

She answered my question, but I could see she wasn't interested in talking about the bank any more. "It's not like him... if he did, he had a good reason. However much of a sleaze Bass was in his private life, he was a straight arrow about banking. Rigid. Inflexible. He couldn't see a creative or practical solution if it bit him on the ass. It was another reason I hated working for him. And it drove Ramsay crazy. Eliot Ramsay, Bass's boss. Eliot would sell his mother to make a buck."

The door opened and a noisy group came in. Her eager, bleary eyes checked it out. "Oh, there's Jon Piper, waving. Wish me luck." She slipped off the stool and teetered away.

I hate to waste good alcohol, but I'd had enough. Enough of everything. Banks. Bars. Family. Julie Bass. Men like her brother, who push me around. Murders without clues. I paid the check and left.

I always think I ought to be able to stand at the door and whistle and have my car come galloping up, like the horses in those old westerns, but it never works. I had to walk all the way across the parking lot. Halfway to the car, Bob the broker appeared and grabbed my arm.

"You weren't very nice to me in there," he said.

"Let go of my arm."

"Come on," he said, thrusting his meaty face at me. "Be nice. You're alone. I'm alone. Let's do something about that."

"I want to be alone," I said icily. "Take your hands off me and get out of my way." I stuck my hand into my purse and found the alarm that Andre had given me. Hit the button and a tremendous sound burst out.

"What the hell is that?" he yelled, reeling back.

I jerked my arm out of his grasp and ran to my car. I always have my keys ready when I cross parking lots at night. That's just good sense. It shouldn't be that way. I shouldn't have to worry about my safety because other people lack self-control. But I'm not about to risk myself as a political statement. I'm careful. Most of the time. I jumped in and slammed the door, ignoring Bob's fists beating against the glass and his angry words. I could have called the police on the car phone, but it would have been a major hassle and taken up more time. I only wanted to get home and crawl into bed. I jammed the car into reverse and backed up. If I ran over the guy, the world would not be a poorer place.

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

My answering machine was blinking like a startled albino rabbit when I dragged my leaden body through the door. I dumped my stuff on the counter, shaped my hand into a gun, pointed, and shot. It wouldn't die. I gave up and pressed the button, ready with a pencil and paper to make a list of people who needed to be called back.

It was the usual grab-bag of messages, including one from Andre, the essence of which was that he thought I shouldn't let Duncan Donahue off the hook. I'd turned my attention to whom I would call first before the machine came to an end. No one. I wasn't in the mood for any more conversation. I was brooding about Andre's message. "Oh, honey," I told the stolid piece of plastic on my counter, "I know you're doing this because you care, but can't you see I have to make these decisions for myself?"

In seconds, my mind took off like a runaway horse, dragging me into both sides of an imaginary conversation with Andre. And then, abruptly, I reined in my thoughts. He'd be here tomorrow and we could have this discussion then. I was tired and sore. I needed R & R.

I went into the bathroom and prepared to give myself some hydrotherapy, carrying the phone with me in case I changed my mind about returning calls, Andre's at least. It was too late to call anyone else. Aaron's current infatuation with weights had left me aching every place that Duncan Donahue had not. I turned on the water, threw in a handful of bath salts, and the doorbell rang. I pulled on my robe and went to answer it.

I know better than to just open my door. My life's been too adventurous for that. I peered through the spy hole. There were two men on the doorstep. Sports jacketed and tough-looking. They hadn't come to borrow a cup of sugar. "What do you want?" I called.

"Police, ma'am," one of them replied, holding up a folder with a badge. "From Connecticut. Investigating the death of Calvin Bass." It was an odd time of night for a visit. I knew that when the police were working a fresh murder, time was of the essence. But the murder wasn't that fresh, and why did they want to talk to me anyway?

I settled them in the living room and offered them coffee, which they refused. Curious. I might not be Starbucks, but I make good coffee. Most cops never refuse coffee. I tried to excuse myself, saying I would go get dressed, but the larger, older one stopped me. "No need to bother," he said, "we only need a few minutes of your time." He immediately launched into a series of questions, most of which I didn't know the answers to.

"You have to understand... Officer—"

"Detective," he said.

"Detective. I've only known Julie for a week and I never even met her husband."

He persisted despite my disclaimers, acting like he didn't believe me. I've spent a lot of time around cops because of Andre and my own misadventures, and there was something about the situation that didn't ring true. My sixth sense said these guys weren't cops, especially when one of them asked me about the bank papers.

"The only thing I know about them is what I read in the paper," I said. "What do they have to do with Bass's murder? You think someone killed him over mortgage applications?" At least that would be a break for Julie.

They ignored my question. "Young lady, do you know what it means to be an accessory to a crime?" the older one asked. I shook my head, wondering where he was headed. "Well, miss, it means that if someone commits a crime and you help them—either beforehand or afterward—to commit it or cover it up, you can be guilty of a crime yourself. You wouldn't want us to have to arrest you and take you to jail, would you?"

Oh, spare me, I groaned inwardly. What did this guy think? That I was born yesterday? Under other circumstances I might have argued with him about how stupid his threat was and how he didn't have the authority to arrest me in Massachusetts anyway, but I was alone with these guys in my apartment late at night and it wouldn't have been prudent. We've got plenty of laws to protect us, but there are still cops who do what they want.

Anyway, by now I was almost certain that they weren't cops of any sort, so they might be particularly inclined to do what they wanted. "May I see that badge again, Officer?" I said.

Instead of answering, the smaller, uglier one weighed in and clinched it. "Come on, sweetheart, stop holding out on us. We know you've got 'em. Just give us the papers and we'll be on our way."

But the papers were a federal matter, not one for the State of Connecticut. "Oh my God!" I said, jumping up. "The bathtub... I left the water running." I sprinted into the bathroom and locked the door behind me, shutting off the water just as it was about to go over the side. And as I stood there, trembling and wondering what to do, I spotted the phone on the edge of the sink. Trusting my instincts, I dialed 911 and asked for help, explaining, as I struggled back into my clothes, that I had let two men into my condo because they said they were cops, that I didn't think they really were, they wouldn't let me examine the badge they'd flashed more closely, and I was scared.

For better or for worse, I am not unknown to my local police department, and they promised to send someone over right away. I hoped they really meant right away and not in half an hour. My visitors seemed to be getting less friendly by the minute.

One of them was banging on the door. "Hey, lady. You all right in there?"

"I'll be right out." I hid the phone in a stack of towels and reluctantly opened the door. The ugly one was right outside the door, close enough to have peered through a keyhole, had there been a keyhole to peer through. I hoped he hadn't heard me on the phone.

"You did say you wanted coffee, didn't you?" I said cheerfully, bustling past him and into the kitchen. "It always amazes me the way you policemen drink coffee. My boyfriend Andre—he's a Maine state trooper—and all his friends are the same way. It's one thing I make a point to never run out of."

I tried to stay cheerful despite the menace of their presence—kind of like cooking with a cobra on the counter. I made coffee the elaborate way—grinding whole beans from the freezer, opening a fresh gallon of spring water, using an unbleached filter, refilling the sugar bowl—anything to take up time, increasingly nervous and hoping the police hadn't put me on the bottom of their priority list or been diverted to something more important than a terrified woman alone with two thugs. My hands were shaking; I hoped they hadn't noticed. Bad guys are like bad dogs—they sense fear and it goads them to attack.

One of them—the one who looked like everyone's genial uncle—joined me in my pretense, asking about my boyfriend and answering my questions about his work, but the other—the blunt, ugly one—lounged against the counter grinding his fist rhythmically into his palm. He was watching me like a hungry cat watches a bird, eyes narrowed and glittering. I could almost see his tail twitching as he got ready to pounce, almost hear the rattling growl in his throat. He'd shed his jacket, displaying weightlifter's arms. A tattoo danced on his bicep. Where the heck were my rescuers? I was beginning to understand the expression "sweating bullets."

Finally, he ran out of patience and pounced, grabbing my arm roughly. "Let's stop playing nice-nice and cooperate with Uncle Mikey, all right? We know you took those papers out of Bass's house. Now where the hell are they?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I didn't. The papers I'd taken turned out to be dull old industry reports, the kind of stuff you save to read someday and then never do. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting them, but I would have gladly given them away to get these guys out of my house, if it weren't for Julie's letters. For all I knew, these might be cops pretending to be bad guys pretending to be cops.

"Hey, Mikey, take it easy," the other "cop" said. "You don't want to hurt the lady." He didn't interfere, though. Just leaned back and folded his arms. "Good coffee, ma'am."