Fat Chance (10 page)

“Who am I having over?”

“I can lead you to water, but I can’t make you drink,” he said dryly. “You like?”

I made him show me the house three more times before I managed to tear myself away. I averted my gaze from the messy reality of it all. I had to keep Sam’s vision in my head at all times. Especially as I wrote checks and basically signed my life away.

I rose off the plastic seat with a small sucking sound and kissed Sam my savior on top of his head. “You’re a genius.”

He grinned. “So true.”

“I’ll treat you to Chinese.”

Sam shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve still got some things to talk over with Harold.”

“How about I have something delivered? Or I could stay here and keep you company?”

“Eating is a distraction. Having you looking over my shoulder is a bigger distraction. Thanks, but I’ll get something. You just move along and let me create some magic.”

Sam stayed behind, because who could argue against magic? I didn’t understand most of what Sam and Harold discussed—well, except for the part where I was paying for everything. After a quick stop at China Moon for some take-out moo shu, I fantasized about the day I could take my food back to my polished black granite counter. Somehow I just knew it would taste better if I was sitting on a sleek bar stool with the sound of the ocean keeping me company. Pushing my premature fantasy aside, I went back to my condo.

A huge spray of pale pink roses studded with baby’s breath stood guard at my front door. Normally flowers thrilled me to no
end, but I knew before I got out of the car that these particular flowers would do nothing more than piss me off.

Again.

With my moo shu in one hand, I snatched up the envelope from the forked plastic holder and ripped the card out.

I miss you. Love, Patrick.

“Well,” I said, gathering up the vase and carting it across the parking lot before lobbing it into the trash bin. “I don’t miss you.”

I didn’t miss him. Well, maybe I did miss him a little. Well, maybe not
him
so much as being in a relationship. Intellectually, I knew I’d done the right thing dumping him, but truth be told, I was lonely. Okay, so maybe desperate was more accurate. I probably only had a few weeks left before I’d have to make a discreet trip to one of those places that sold battery-operated boyfriends in a box. Not a pleasant thought. Neither was a life of celibacy.

Walking into my apartment with lukewarm Chinese as my date made me feel pretty damned pathetic. It was Saturday night, and the high point of my evening was destined to be breaking open my fortune cookie. Which, I discovered as I placed the bag on the counter, was going to be a problem, since I heard the cookie crush under the weight of the container.

I thought about changing my clothes, but my rumbling stomach convinced me food was a higher priority. I pulled the carton out of the bag. Using my teeth, I tore the paper off the single-use chopsticks and went over to the couch. Kicking off my shoes, I tucked my legs up and jabbed the chopsticks in the box while I reached for the television remote control.

Feeling comfy, I debated a few seconds before going back to the kitchen for a drink. I poured a generous amount of wine into
a glass and told myself it wasn’t completely lame that I was alone on a Saturday night.

My mind conjured a picture of Tony Caprelli. Weird that I’d think about my boss on a weekend. Well, not so weird given those dimples. They were some fine dimples. I wasn’t sure if lusting after Tony was better than lusting after Liam. I decided not to lust at all.

Thinking about my conversation with my mother, I decided I could check into the robbery of her home. Palm Beach wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity—unless you counted tax fraud disguised as creative accounting. There was just something off about a robbery more than a decade ago with the medallion ending up in the hand of Dead Girl. Couldn’t hurt to watch reruns of
Law & Order
and do a little investigating.

Wine in hand, I retrieved my laptop from the bedroom. I could see a slice of light beneath the closed closet door and silently berated myself for leaving the light on. I flicked the switch off; I couldn’t afford to waste money by leaving lights on all day. I went back to the living room. The network news was ending, and my computer—which I’d scored at less than half its retail price on an eBay auction—powered up. Well, it started to power up, but then the screen went blank. Obviously I’d left a light burning but had forgotten to charge my computer—a minor annoyance that felt magnified given the sad-ass way my evening was unfolding.

I called Jane but got her machine. Then I remembered she had a date. I thanked her for all the budget stuff, trying to sound breezy when I was well on my way to a serious pity fest. I tried Becky next, but her line went directly to voice mail. I was fairly sure she didn’t have a date; she was probably at the office, trying to keep up with estrogen-less Ellen.

Calling Liv would have been a waste. Her company was handling the big Hospice fund-raiser. Nope, it was just me, moo shu, Chris Noth, and some mildly erotic thoughts.
That
man could zip me into a body bag any day.

I went into my bedroom to retrieve the power cord for my computer, when a sudden, strong breeze whipped up the curtain. Glancing to the right, my whole body froze when I noticed the open window. I knew I hadn’t left it open.

Standing very still, only my eyes darted around the room. Nothing was out of place. The bed was made…well, the comforter was pulled up and the throw pillows were just where I’d tossed them.

The more normal it seemed, the more my heart raced. Taking a calming breath, I searched again. Nothing was out of place. Maybe I had opened the window and just forgot.

Grabbing the phone off the nightstand, I crept slowly into the bathroom. I flooded the small room with light. With the shower curtain pulled back, I knew there wasn’t anyone hiding in my shower. I began to relax, letting out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“I’m not only lame, I’m scaring myself shitless,” I muttered as I went back into the bedroom.

Then I focused on the closed closet door. I don’t normally close that door. I swallowed a lump of fear and reached for the knob. The shape of the outline was unmistakable.

A noose hung from the light fixture. It swayed slightly under the weight of a skeleton dangling from the loop.

I needed to be calm, muster some bravado.

Screw bravado. I screamed and ran for the front door.

I
WAS OUTSIDE, SUCKING IN
deep, calming breaths of heavy, humid air. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it might crack a few ribs. I was bent over, hyperventilating and shaking as if I’d been in the final stages of some neuromuscular disease. I needed to get a grip.

I heard the shuffle of footsteps and smelled Bengay, witch hazel, and vanilla extract. I didn’t have to be psychic to know it was my upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Hemshaw. The Bengay and witch hazel were for her arthritis. The vanilla extract was her version of perfume. I turned to find the eighty-three-year-old coming toward me with a very big gun clutched in one crepey, arthritic hand. The other hand held the edges of her housecoat closed.

Bracing my hands on my knees, I said, “Don’t think we need the gun.”

“I heard you scream,” she said, waving the barrel around as she spoke.

“There was a break-in at my apartment,” I explained, standing, taking my hand, and guiding the gun so it pointed down and away from me.

Given the fact that Mrs. Hemshaw was eighty-three and her glasses were as thick as muffin tops, I didn’t think a weapon was a good idea. Besides, there was nothing to shoot. Besides me.

My neighbor made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Pretty young thing like you shouldn’t live in a garden unit. Crime just waiting to happen.”

We’d been over this before. “I need to call the police.”

“Already done,” she assured me. “And I’ll give them a good long piece of my mind, too. Called earlier when I heard noises and knew you weren’t home.”

“Earlier when?” I asked.

“Lunchtime. Saw a patrol car cruise through the parking lot, but no one bothered to get out and take a look around.”

There were two possible explanations for the police blowing her off. Possibility one was Mrs. Hemshaw had the local sheriff’s office on speed dial. She reported everything from cars running the corner Stop sign to stray dogs walking across the common areas. She often did this after downing a fifth of Jim Beam. Once a month, on the day she received her Social Security checks, she liked to sing show tunes on the balcony in her undies.

Possibility two was that they’d recognized the address. I wasn’t much more popular with the West Palm police than Mrs. Hemshaw was. Maybe I would be more popular if
I
stood outside in
my
undies.

Faint sirens grew closer, and in a matter of minutes, two patrol cars, lights strobing, careened into the parking lot. I was
relieved to see they were uniformed officers. The last thing I wanted or needed was another confrontation with Graves or Steadman.

The officers opened their doors, then crouched behind them, weapons drawn. “Put the gun down slowly,” one of the officers said over the speaker.

Mrs. Hemshaw planted a hand on her hip. “Do you believe this? They think I’m a criminal.”

I smiled at her and held one hand up to the officers while I gently tugged the gun free from Mrs. Hemshaw. Well, maybe not all that gently. The old girl didn’t want to give it up. “We’ll just put it here on the ground,” I told her.

As soon as I’d disarmed Mrs. Magoo, four officers ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties crowded around. I noticed they’d all holstered their weapons, but none of them had snapped the leather strap. There was still a slim chance I could get shot.

The youngest officer used his toe to kick Mrs. Hemshaw’s gun well out of her reach. In a this-will-be-funny-later moment, I had a vision of Mrs. Hemshaw making a dive for her gun.

“I’m Sergeant Jennings,” the oldest officer said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I had a break-in,” I explained.

He grabbed the radio clipped to his shoulder and called for crime scene techs and someone from robbery-homicide. “You ladies wait with Officer Stevens while we check the apartment.”

“He’s long gone,” I said, though the three officers ignored me. “And nothing was stolen.”

Officer Stevens grabbed up Mrs. Hemshaw’s gun, clicked a few things, and the cylinder opened. “It isn’t loaded.”

“It isn’t?” Mrs. Hemshaw asked, confused. “I wonder where
I put those bullets.” She started shuffling back toward the staircase.

Officer Stevens started to grab for her, but I caught his shirt-sleeve and did my best pleading-pouty face. “You’ve got her gun. If you need to talk to her, she’s right upstairs.”

He shrugged. “I guess she can’t get far.”

Since my neighbor was racing away at the speed of snail, I guessed not.

The three other officers came out of my apartment. “All clear,” the eldest said. His eyes met mine. “I’m assuming the skeleton in the closet started all this?”

I nodded.

“Hey,” he began, rubbing his chin, “are you the same Finley Tanner who reported a different skeleton in a different closet a few days ago?”

His question made me sound like a serial victim. Again I nodded. “Different closet. Is there any way to identify the body inside?”

The sergeant’s lips twitched, then surrendered to a smile. “Yes. It’s from Florida Party. The price tag is still connected to the wrist bone.”

I blinked a couple of times and then asked Jennings, “It isn’t real?”

“Resin,” he explained. “Popular at Halloween.”

I went from scared to pissed in record time. “Why would someone
do
that?”

The officer shrugged. “Just a prank.”

Crossing my arms, I felt my blood simmering. “Not funny. Can we go back inside?”

“I’ll have the forensics people dust the bedroom window, and we should do a walk-thru to see if anything is missing. But
don’t get your hopes up, Ms. Tanner. Even if we find prints, I’m betting they belong to some fraternity punk and we won’t have them on file.”

Ignoring the moo shu, I went into the small kitchen and made a pot of coffee. The scent of a Southern pecan roast filled the air and blanketed me with some measure of comfort. Before my DeLonghi pot finished brewing, a team of CSIs wearing little booties and carrying matching metal tackle boxes and computer gear arrived and went to work in my bedroom. A creepy sense of déjà vu danced along my spine as I pulled coffee mugs down from a cabinet.

Stevens declined, but the other three officers gladly accepted my offer of coffee. From the fridge, I grabbed a small container of cream and set it on the counter, then found the sugar and set it next to the cream. Pulling the last clean teaspoon from my flat-ware drawer, I figured they could share.

“Maybe now would be a good time to have a look around the apartment?” Jennings suggested. “See if anything is missing.”

One sip of coffee relaxed the tension between my shoulder blades. “Sure.” Since my kitchen is roughly the same size as a boat galley, it was easy enough to confirm that whoever had left the fake skeleton hadn’t carted off the collection of vintage Troll dolls I kept on the kitchen windowsill. It’s an accidental collection started back in my college days. I’d buy one every time I had a lousy date or a relationship implosion. In four years I’d managed to amass an army of more than fifty of the naked dolls with their straight, neon shock of hair. I’d just added a new one—The Patrick Troll.

I didn’t bother to explain the odd grouping; instead, I walked into the adjoining living room and checked the most likely targets. TV, DVD, iHome—all present and accounted for. Based on
the accumulated layer of dust, no one had so much as breathed on them.

Cupping my coffee mug in prayer hands, I walked into my bedroom, trailing my contingent of officers. I swallowed a groan as I saw the black fingerprint powder smeared all over the wall with the open window. I knew from experience it was a bugger to get that stuff off. Another potential deduction from my security deposit.

I went to my nightstand and found my blank checks neatly stacked in one corner. As discreetly as possible, I ran my fingertip beneath the stack. The medallion I’d taken from the real skeleton was still tucked beneath the papers.

Moving to my dresser, I opened the top drawer and found my Rolex parts in their respective baggies. Next, I checked my jewelry box and found everything undisturbed. Sadly, that did it for my valuables.

“What about the other drawers?” Jennings asked.

“Just clothes,” I answered, not thrilled with the idea of three police officers having a private viewing of my panty drawer. “Nothing of value.”

“Got a hit,” one of the CSIs called excitedly.

He was on his haunches, looking at a really cool split computer screen comparing fingerprints.

“How can you know already?” I asked.

The young man looked up at me, then pointed to a small rectangular piece of equipment connected to his laptop. “Lift them, then scan the lifts into the computer mainframe. Then the computer takes over, comparing the prints against those in our database.”

His gloved fingers hit a few keys. “And the winner is…”

We were all scrunched together to get a view of the name.

“Tanner, Finley Anderson.” He glanced back up at me. “Your prints are in the system?”

“Unfortunately.” I shivered at the memory of being incarcerated, albeit briefly. Knowing my fingerprints were in the system didn’t exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy. I took a long swallow of coffee to calm my nerves.

“Well,” the CSI said, “saves me the trouble of taking exclusionary prints from you.”

“Always glad to help,” I muttered.

His laptop beeped. “Got another one.”

Again, I watched and waited for the computer to spit out a name. “Lachey, Patrick Michael. Printed for a pilot’s license.”

My eyes grew wide. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“Amicable breakup?” Jennings asked.

“If you don’t count the cactus incident, I guess.”

“Cactus incident?” Jennings repeated as he scribbled furiously in his small notepad.

Sighing, I waved my hand. “A parting gift.” Well, it was
kinda
true.

“If he’s your ex, why would his fingerprints be inside your apartment?”

“Because I don’t do windows. Patrick was definitely a weenie of a boyfriend and a schmuck of a human being, but he wouldn’t hang a fake skeleton by a noose in my closet.”

“How can you be sure?” Jennings challenged. “The story in the
Post
provided enough detail that anyone could have hung that skeleton in your closet.”

The CSI came out of my closet with the resin skeleton and its noose in separate paper bags.

“Got another hit. Doe96-5, John.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I pulled a print from the sill, and it matches a partial print found at a crime scene in…1996. Print was never matched to a perpetrator.”

“But what does that
mean
?”

“We can only match prints already in the system. Unless the person has been arrested, served in the military, or had to have prints taken for work or something like that, they get filed as John Does.”

“When was the last time you washed the windows?” Jennings asked.

“More coffee?” I replied.

“Naw, we’re close to done here. Just a few more questions.”

“Let’s go back to the living room,” I suggested, then led the way.

I refilled my mug, then sat on the sofa. Jennings scooted the ottoman over, licked the pad of his thumb, and flipped to a new page in his notepad.

“Any enemies I should know about?”

“My mother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bad joke,” I corrected. “The office manager where I work hates me, but I can’t see Maudlin Margaret or her file room flunkies pulling something like this. She’s more the passive-aggressive kind of enemy.”

“No other, er, men who might have issues with you?”

“Sam thinks my taste in decorating is criminal.”

His smile reached all the way to his rather bland brown eyes. “You’re not taking this very seriously. It’ll help the investigation if you give us something to go on.”

“I would if I had anything, but I honestly don’t. I’ve been involved in a couple of murder investigations, but they both led
to arrests. And you have to admit, it is a little coincidental that fingerprints from a robbery thirteen years ago match prints on my window.”

“Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence. What do you do for a living?”

As little as possible to earn my paycheck.
“I’m an estates and trusts paralegal at Dane, Lieberman. All of my clients are dead.”

He laughed. “Very amusing. But I’m assuming the dead clients have families, other people not always happy with the division of property?”

“Sure,” I said on an exhale of breath. “But that’s really rare. Most of the beneficiaries are getting something for nothing. They normally leave my office with a check and a big hairy grin.”

“Any unhappy widows or children lately?”

“The real widows are always unhappy,” I explained. “They’re grieving. The Botoxed trophy wives, well, let’s just say their grief is proportional to the dollar amount of their inheritance. The last time I had a contested will was over a year ago. The baby widow—as memory serves, the deceased was four years younger than her grandfather—contested a bequest to the first wife. They fought for a while, and then agreed on a settlement. Baby Widow was forced to accept a piddly twenty-six million.”

Jennings whistled. “Do all your cases deal with that kind of money?”

I shook my head. “Maybe sixty percent. The other forty percent is normal people’s estates, setting up college funds, doing family trusts.”

Jennings flipped his notepad closed and stood.

I stood as well. “So what happens now?”

“I’ll run upstairs and have a chat with Mrs. Hemshaw. But I’ll be honest, Ms. Tanner.”

“Finley.”

“Finley,” he said as he shoved the pad into the breast pocket of his shirt. “This has all the earmarks of a cruel but harmless prank. Still, I’ll have the watch commander order a cruiser to keep a closer eye on this place. You should consider getting better locks on your windows.”

“Thanks,” I said, extending my hand.

He gave me his business card. “Give me a call if you have any more trouble. If anything breaks, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” I repeated as I stood by the door and the group filed outside.