Fat Chance (7 page)

“Guess there’s hope for all of us,” I said on a long breath. “I think it’s easier to break out of jail than to break into Palm Beach society.”

Liv leaned in closer and whispered, “Rumor also has it that if Papa Gilmore was still alive, he’d nix the nuptials in a heartbeat.”

“Lucky for her he died last year,” Jane said.

Becky added, “You mean lucky for Liv’s business.”

I could sense Liv’s feelings getting hurt by Becky’s lack of enthusiasm, so I figured it would be best for everyone if I interceded. “Dane, Lieberman hired a new partner, and they tagged me to work for him.”

All eyes turned on Becky. Quickly I said, “His name is Tony Caprelli, and he’ll be heading the new criminal division.”

“That sucks,” Liv said, patting Becky’s hand. “You’ve worked your fanny off for that firm.”

Becky shrugged. “I’m not a criminal specialist.”

“Tell me they at least gave you a raise,” Jane said.

Becky’s eyes met mine. “Nope, that would be Finley who got the raise. Congrats, by the way.” Her sentiment was sincere, but it lacked enthusiasm. Totally understandable.

Holding up one hand, I waved it furiously. “Don’t congratulate me. The raise came at a very high price. I have to take classes at the community college two nights a week.”

“You?” Liv asked, barely able to keep her laughter in check. “You hate school, you always have. Besides, don’t you have to rehab your house? Or at least get rid of the skeleton?”

“No one seems too interested in the girl in the closet.”

“So they know it was a girl?” Becky asked.

I nodded. “A teenager, according to Liam.”

The minute I said his name, three sets of eyes widened, and they stilled in silent anticipation. “He came by my office.”

“And?” Liv prompted.

I shrugged. “And nothing. Can we get back to the house?”

Reluctantly they nodded.

“Good. So this new job opportunity will earn me some much-needed overtime, and the raise will come in handy, since my new house is a money pit.”

“Speaking of handy,” Jane said as she reached into her large Coach tote. “I made a list of contractors.”

I took the piece of paper, then turned. I stared at my friend for less than thirty seconds before she broke and spilled her guts. “Okay, so I didn’t
personally
put the list together. Liam has some contacts, and it’s always wise to get references before you start any home improvement project.”

“That man has it bad for you,” Liv opined.

“No, he doesn’t,” I replied. “He just derives some sort of sick pleasure from toying with me. I’m completely immune to him.”

“Liar,” Becky muttered. “If he walked in here this minute and crooked his finger, you’d go running.”

“Trust me, his finger won’t be crooking anytime soon.”

“What would you do if he did?” Jane asked.

Run through fire.
“Turn him down. The guy has too much baggage. There’s the whole thing with the ex-wife. I’d understand why they spend so much time together if they had kids, but they don’t. Which can only mean one thing—he isn’t over her, and after wasting the last two years of my life in a dead-end relationship, I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

“Who said anything about a relationship?” Becky asked. “Just
hook up with the guy. Do the friends-with-benefits thing. Great sex does not require happily ever after.”

“Says the woman who hasn’t had a date since the Clinton administration,” Liv inserted.

Becky scoffed. “Please, Liv, give me dating advice. I haven’t had the nerve to tell you until now, but my whole life I’ve dreamed of being with a man who is over thirty and still lives with his parents. How is Garage Boy?” she asked, humor dancing in her eyes.

“Ladies,” Jane warned. “Can we all just agree that right now none of us is doing very well in the relationship department?”

We spent the rest of our lunch chatting, mostly about the best way for me to go about attacking the remodeling of my new house. Jane came totally prepared with applications to get me all sorts of grants and tax breaks. Before leaving, I ordered a slice of cookies and cream cheesecake to go.

Becky lingered with Jane and Liv. I hurried back to the office, knowing full well that Margaret would be lying in wait. If she could, I think she’d attach one of those GPS ankle things they put on prisoners to me. Instead, she had to settle for snarling at me when I came through the front door.

“Any messages?” I asked, though I kept walking. Margaret made a point of letting my calls go to voice mail.

So her “Yes” caught me off guard.

Turning on the balls of my feet, I walked to her desk and held out my hand, expecting one of those pink message slips. Instead, she just smiled…well, her version of a smile, which is much more like a sneer. “Mr. Caprelli had to reschedule your three thirty.”

“Until?”

“Seven,” Margret practically sang with unabashed joy. She reached down and handed me a small slip of paper. “If that’s a
problem, he said for you to call him on his cell phone. I told him to expect a call.”

I’ll bet that wasn’t the only thing she said.

Reluctantly, I had to give my nemesis props as I went to the elevator and took some of my frustration out by slapping the button for the second floor. If I blew him off, I’d be playing right into Margaret’s trap. But seven o’clock? What part of 9:00 to 4:59 didn’t Caprelli understand? Thank God he was smoking hot, or I would have blown him off.

I added his cell number to my iPhone, then tossed the slip of paper in the trash. For the third time, I called Feldman’s office, and this time I got lucky. Apparently, one of his meetings had been rescheduled as well, and, according to his secretary, he could see me in thirty minutes. Normally I would have agonized over what case could get me past Margaret without her dialing Vain Dane to report me AWOL, but this time I didn’t bother. I breezed past her with nothing but a wave of my hand. I’d more than make up for any time I missed by staying late.

Feldman’s office was a small, brick building squashed in the middle of Clematis Street. A fresh coat of white paint brightened the brick, as did the tropical coral shutters flanking the windows and doors. His name was stenciled on the door in simple block print.

As I opened the door, a tiny bell chimed. My nose was assaulted by the strong smell of sauerkraut and corned beef with a hint of kosher pickle. For a minute, I wondered if I’d walked into a deli or a property management office.

Standing next to a vacant desk with my documents tucked into my tote, I heard a noise down the hallway and looked in that direction. A short, dumpy man hustled toward me, wiping mustard from his tie in the process.

“You must be Finley,” he said as he switched the soiled napkin to his left hand and extended his right.

I didn’t want to be rude, but I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of shaking hands, although I did it anyway. Thankfully, I had some Purell in my purse. “Mr. Feldman.”

“Call me Marc,” he said, squeezing my hand.

He had a bad comb-over, and his mustard-stained tie fell about three inches shy of his waistband. Okay, it wasn’t the tie’s fault: he had one of those protruding bellies that had me dying to ask when the baby was due. Instead, I followed him back to his office.

Sty was more like it. Papers were stacked high, some in folders, some loose, and all of it teetering precariously to the left. Half of his desk and all of his waste paper can were filled with fast food and/or candy wrappers.

In an attempt at gallantry, he removed an untidy pile of file folders sandwiched between newspapers and God only knew what else, and dumped them on the floor. Then he brushed a Tootsie Roll wrapper off the chair before offering it to me. I had a hard time imagining my mother in this hovel, but it did explain why she had little to no interaction with Feldman.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, then shook his head. “I’m assuming this has something to do with the body they found in the house?”

I nodded.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told the cops. Last time I was inside the house was a good seven months ago, when I served eviction papers on Ms. Redmond. Did a walk-through when she left six months ago, and there definitely wasn’t no skeleton in the closet.”

That meant someone had put a ten-to fifteen-year-old skel
eton in the house after Melinda Redmond moved out. Taking a pad out of my tote, I asked, “What do you know about the former tenant?

“Melinda Redmond? She worked for the ad agency in New York that handled Mr. Tanner’s business account. Found Jesus or something and started some one-woman crusade. She impressed your father so much he agreed to rent the house to her and her kids for a fraction of the going rate. I thought she was a nut job.” Blinking once, he met my eyes. “No disrespect to your father’s memory, of course.”

“None taken.” My mother had a penchant for being overly dramatic. I had to verify what she’d told me. “So why was Melinda evicted?”

Feldman reached behind him and jerked open a dented metal file drawer, pulling out a folder that was about three inches thick. “Why wasn’t she evicted sooner is a better question.” He opened the file. “Citations from the city for failure to maintain the property. Citations for noise complaints. Citations for open burning. Failure to pay rent on time. Late fees accruing interest. Your mother had to pay to lay down sod and paint the exterior to avoid the city’s fines. Spit and chewing gum repairs, but we had to do something to stop the fines. It really got bad about twelve months ago.”

My heart sank as I imagined my daily lattes being drained by the money-sucking house. “How so?”

“The house was severely damaged by the hurricanes last year. We’d schedule a repairman, and Redmond would cancel the repair. Stopped returning calls. I don’t know what happened, just that she let the house go to hell in a handcart. Excuse my French. It wasn’t until I worked the deal with the developer that your mother finally signed off on the eviction.”

“Deal?”

He nodded. “Until last week, when your mother had a sentimental change of heart, I was all set to sell the property to one of the neighbors. The house was scheduled to be bulldozed next week. The guy already had plans drawn for a pool and guesthouse to be built on the site.”

“Did the tenant know that?”

“Sure. I told her we were tearing the house down. I might even have told her we’d do it with her still inside.”

“Bulldozing the house might have obliterated all traces of the skeleton,” I said, thinking aloud. “So the tenant, Melinda Redmond, could have put the skeleton in the closet.”

“Not necessarily. The permit was applied for several months ago. Public record. Anyone could have read about the demolition, gotten the address, and stuffed the bones in the closet.”

“How easily?”

“It’s all online and published in the
Palm Beach Post.
”

“Do you happen to know where I can find Ms. Redmond?”

He shrugged. “Call the county.”

“Why?”

“She was a foster mother. They should have an address on her, but hey, this is Florida. She wouldn’t be the first foster parent to go MIA.”

A
S
I
WALKED BACK
to my office, I tried to drum up a memory of Melinda Redmond. I had some vague recollection of meeting the tall, pretty brunette at Jonathan’s office when I was about twelve and our family going out to dinner with her once or twice. I hated to think she’d been having an affair with him.

Who was I kidding? My mother would have smelled an affair from across the Atlantic Ocean, and Jonathan would have paid dearly for a transgression like that. Hell, as memory served, husband number four had strayed, and my mother had gone the extra mile and filed a civil suit against his mistress for alienation of affection. Of course the suit had been dropped within a day of being filed; it had merely been the club she’d used to beat every penny out of the poor guy.

No, there was no way Jonathan had cheated with Melinda
Redmond. But not having all the pieces yet inspired all sorts of suspicions in me. I couldn’t wait to get to my computer to do a little cyber-digging.

Unfortunately, I had to wait. My first priority was hiring a contractor for the remodel. Even with my raise and the overtime, it was going to be hard to pay a mortgage and my rent simultaneously unless I blew off a few VISA payments in exchange for collection agency phone calls. I’d been down that road and was in no hurry to incur the wrath of the debt gods again. No. I was going to have to cut
something
out of my monthly expenses. What could I live without? New shoes? Needed those. My Rolex parts? Nope. Had to have those. That cute Betsey Johnson dress? Had to have that. The only thing I absolutely, positively could do without was—
food.

I’d have to think about this a bit longer. On to more important and immediate issues.

Using the list Jane/Liam had provided, I called the first name. Happy Handyman Harold answered on the first ring. “Hi, um, Harold.” I assumed neither Happy nor Handyman was his given name. “This is Finley Tanner.”

“Already spoke to Liam. I’m just finishing a job now and ready to head over to your place. I can pull up and remove your carpet before it gets dark. Anything else will have to wait till tomorrow.”

“That would be great,” I said, not wanting to question my good luck. Inexpensive contractors in Florida don’t have a stellar reputation, but I didn’t think Liam would send me to a serial killer. “Is there any chance you could swing by my office for the key? I’ve got a late meeting.”

“Anything for a friend of Liam’s.”

“Anything?”

“Hell, yeah. Er, sorry, ma’am. Liam, he’s a good guy. Talked the state’s attorney into knocking my last felony down to a misdemeanor. I’d be doing a full dime at Martin Correctional if he hadn’t helped me out.”

“Great,” I said with far less enthusiasm.

“Don’t you worry, though. I haven’t touched a crack pipe in going on seven years.”

“Good for you,” I said, at a complete loss for anything more profound.
My contractor is a felon.
So…what? The truth of the matter was that there was nothing in the run-down house that could be ruined, and the floor had to be taken care of before I could move in. The rarely used practical side of my nature reared its head.

“What time will you be coming by? I’ll meet you in the parking lot so you don’t have to trek all the way up to my office.”
Where people will see you and wonder why my new best friend is a recovering crack addict.

“Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“See you then.”

I called one of the interns on the first floor and had him race to the hardware store down the block to have an extra key made. Call me cautious, but I didn’t relish the idea of giving my only key to Happy Harold the Dope Fiend.

I was half tempted to call Liam and ream him a new one, but then I remembered I was completely tempted in other areas. So the safest course of action was to have as little interaction with the guy as possible.

I ended up tipping the intern twenty bucks, not because I was feeling generous, but because I was buying his silence. I don’t actually have any authority over the interns without prior approval from one of the attorneys, and none of them would have
approved of my sending the eager twenty-three-year-old on a personal errand.

Happy Harold wasn’t what I expected. He was worse. He pulled into the parking lot in a possibly green pickup that spewed and coughed blue smoke. He stepped out wearing filthy denim overalls and a sweat-stained wifebeater T-shirt. He smelled like a sneaker. To heighten the stench, he had an unlit cigar stub wedged in the corner of his mouth. Judging by the presence of acne on his forehead, he was probably close to my age, but tanned, leathery skin and a jagged scar down the right side of his face made him look more like fifty.

He offered his dirty hand, complete with grime-encrusted nails. At the same time he smiled, revealing a single yellowed tooth. But that wasn’t the kicker. The guy had on a wedding ring. He had one tooth, a rap sheet, and a wife. Life really wasn’t fair.

In my second Purell moment of the day, I handed him the spare key and gave him directions to the house. “I don’t have a Dumpster yet,” I told him.

“No problem. If you’re just going to toss the stuff, I can probably find a use for it.”

“Consider it yours,” I said. “What do I owe you for removing the carpet?”

He grinned and rolled the cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth. “Fifty bucks ought to cover it. Once I’ve given the place a look-see, I’ll do up a real estimate.”

I opened my wallet and discreetly pulled out fifty dollars. Pretty silly, since I’d just given the guy a key to my house. Being overly cautious that he might see how much cash I had on hand was probably the least of my worries.

I returned to my office and sent Liam a very insincere thank
you email. He replied, but I deleted it and turned my attention to the internet.

In less than five minutes, I had three newspaper articles and a White Pages listing for Melinda Redmond with a zip code in North Palm Beach. The first thing I read was a ten-year-old human-interest piece on her that practically nominated her for sainthood.

After leaving New York and a lucrative job in advertising, she’d devoted her life to providing care and nurture to troubled teens trapped in the Florida foster-care system. There was a small, grainy black-and-white photograph of the woman I kinda remembered surrounded by a half-dozen teenagers. I filled in my credit card information and requested a copy of the picture.

News photos often have the names of the people listed on the back. That a woman who cared for teenagers had lived in
my house
and the skeleton of a teenager had been left in
my house
was just too coincidental. I tried to think of scenarios that would explain why a killer would have kept the body.
And
kept moving it.
And
not notice Jonathan’s medallion. I did a quick online surf and found an answer to my last question. Apparently,
death grip
wasn’t an expression; it was a fact. If a person dies with a closed fist, it stays closed. Kinda creepy in a factoid way. The keeping and the moving were things I couldn’t explain.

A shudder danced along my spine at the mere thought. The Everglades were within easy driving distance, so why not dump the body there? I hunted for an answer to that question on the net and found it rather easily. Apparently, alligators prefer live meat or, at a bare minimum, a fresh kill. Who knew those disgusting things were picky eaters? Over the years, many bodies dumped in the Everglades have been retrieved and identified, thanks to the discerning palates of the native reptiles.

So the killer had to have been smart enough to know the feeding habits of alligators, or was a student, I quickly surmised after navigating to the Florida school curriculum page. The local ecosystem is a big part of high-school science. So another possibility was that one teenager had killed another teenager in Melinda’s care. That possibility raised more questions than it answered. Melinda would have noticed if one of her kids had gone missing. Right? If so, why hadn’t she reported the missing teenager to the police? Or the state would have noticed, albeit eventually, that Melinda had been one teen short. And if the state had noticed or Melinda had made a report, why hadn’t anything shown up when the police had searched for possible matches to the skeleton?

None of that explained the frozen part or the climate-controlled part of the ME’s findings. I sat back in my chair and chewed on the tip of my pen as I tried to come up with a logical series of events that would explain everything, including my finding Jonathan’s medallion in the corpse’s hand. Nothing leaped to the forefront.

Well, unless you counted Tony Caprelli, who was standing in my doorway tapping his watch.

“Oh, gosh,” I said apologetically as I quickly clicked my computer into hibernate and grabbed my purse, a pad, and a pen. “I was in the middle of something and lost track of the time.” And my cheesecake dinner was still untouched in the employee refrigerator, so he could expect some serous stomach rumblings.

“Obviously,” he said.

I followed Tony to the elevator, and then into Mr. Zar—
his
office. Someone had already scraped the gold lettering off the door. To my utter delight, I smelled freshly brewed coffee and immediately decided to forgive Tony for violating my sacred out-by-five policy.

The furniture was the same, but in a single day, he’d turned the ambiance of the office from elegant masculinity to relaxed family playroom. Everywhere I looked, I found framed photographs of a little girl ranging in age from toddler to maybe nine or ten. There were macaroni works of art, crude drawings—mostly rainbows—and clay art projects that held paper clips and pushpins. She was obviously his daughter; the resemblance was unmistakable.

The other obvious thing was there didn’t seem to be a Mrs. Caprelli.

“Her name is Isabella. She’s ten going on thirty,” he said as he motioned me into a chair.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. Sorry about the last-minute change in plans, but I had to interview a housekeeper.”

“Single father?” I asked, unashamedly fishing.

“Yeah,” he answered as he sat down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a minute. “I’ve had her in a camp for a week. Not her favorite thing. But enough about my domestic disturbances. I wanted to talk about the kinds of cases we’ll be handling.”

“Criminal cases.”

“Yep. The state’s attorneys win about ninety percent of their cases. So get used to losing.”

“If you’ll excuse me for saying, you’re pretty cavalier about innocent people going to jail.”

He shook his head and smiled. That whole dimple thing was really distracting.

“What makes you think our clients will be innocent?”

“I just assumed—”

“Mistake number one. This leads me to rule number one. Never ask a client if he or she is innocent.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’m stuck with a single fact pattern to argue in court. It’s always better to leave your options open, since you never know what a prosecutor will throw at your client. Criminal law is all about leveling the playing field. The state has a police force and labs and all sorts of things at their disposal to assist in prosecuting an individual. The defendant only has us. My job is simple. Rule number two—make the state prove its case, not the defendant prove his innocence.”

“You make it sound like a game,” I said, remembering quite distinctly how it felt to be wrongly accused of a crime.

“In a lot of ways, it is. It’s like chess. It’s a combination of skill and strategy.”

“Not guilt or innocence?”

“That’s God’s job, not mine. Rule number three—no child-killer cases.”

“Isn’t that contrary to rule number two?”

“Yeah, but they’re my rules, so I get to make adjustments. Margaret showed me the morning paper. So what’s the deal with the skeleton in your house?”

Leave it to Margaret to throw me under the bus. “It violates rule number three. The ME’s report says the deceased was a teenager.”

“Know anything about it?”

“No, how could I? I’d owned the house for a matter of hours before we found the thing in the closet.”

“But it was your mother’s house, right?”

I leaned forward and placed my palms flat on his desk. “A house she never set foot in. If you’re concerned, call Detective Steadman or Graves. They interviewed her last night. Why do you care?”

“Because Victor indicated that you’d probably do or say
something that might require the firm to become involved. I just want to be prepared.”

I was starting to get annoyed. “How can the firm get dragged into anything? It’s my understanding that the police don’t work up a sweat on a case this cold.”

“But you will,” he said. “Victor wanted to make sure I reminded you that what you do reflects on the firm.”

Screw his cute dimple. I went past annoyed to completely pissed. “Consider me reminded.”

He shrugged. “Of course I told Victor I thought that was a ridiculous position to take.”

“W-what?”

“Jesus Christ, Finley. If I’d bought a house with a skeleton hidden in the closet, you can bet your a—fanny I’d want to know the who, the how, and the why.”

I was stunned. Until this second, Becky had been my only true ally at the firm. Now it appeared as if handsome Tony Caprelli was on my side too. Color me impressed. And surprised.

“Really?” I relaxed and sat back in my chair.

He nodded. “I can’t imagine how disgusting that was for you and your friends to stumble upon. That said, I need you to focus on taking classes—not on solving puzzles, or, worse, interfering with a police investigation.”

My cheeks grew warm.

“But not scary enough,” Tony continued, “to keep you from disturbing the corpse, though, right?”

I opened my mouth, then snapped it closed. Was he reading my mind?

Again, I got a dimple smile. “Liam McGarrity mentioned it during his interview.”

“Interview?” I repeated, as if English had been a new language.

“Part-time at first. A good defense attorney has to have a good investigator. Is there a problem?”