Fine-Feathered Death (18 page)

Her response was another sorrowful squawk. I wanted so badly to soothe her that I started singing what had become our anthem. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer—”

She interrupted me with a song of her own, of sorts. It was a tune she’d tried out on me before, one that sounded vaguely familiar without my being able to place it. She ceased after a few croaky notes.

“Hang in there,” I told her, glancing at her talons, which held tightly to her perch. “And if you happen to be able to tell me—”

“I thought you left, Kendra,” said Ned Noralles’s voice from the doorway.

Gigi started screaming once more.

“I’m going now,” I told him. “It’s your turn to calm this poor bird down.”

“She’s our only eyewitness to both murders,” Ned Noralles said. “And I understand that she’s a talking macaw.” He approached Gigi’s cage. “Hiya, bird,” he crooned. “How ’bout telling us who you saw shoot Mr. Cossner and Ms. Montez.”

Gigi’s demeanor didn’t change.

I wondered again whether Detective Noralles read the same mysteries or engrossed himself in the same TV fiction that Darryl Nestler favored.

And whether there was a semblance of truth in those stories—that a bird actually could assist in identifying a murderer.

If so, the noisy, nervous Gigi clearly wasn’t about to do so. Not now.

Ignoring Ned, I again neared the cage. “Good night, gorgeous girl,” I said softly. “See you tomorrow.”

Just as I reached the door to exit, it was yanked open and Borden Yurick rushed in.

I’d called him earlier to let him know what had happened. I didn’t exactly remember when. I’d called Elaine, too. Both had answered immediately and sounded as if I’d awakened them. Maybe. That didn’t necessarily eliminate them from my elongating suspect list.

“Kendra, are you all right?” Borden demanded, grabbing my shoulders in his skinny hands and examining me with eyes that were magnified and full of concern beneath his bifocals.

“More or less,” I said sadly.

“Hello, Mr. Yurick,” said a female voice from behind me. I left Borden with Detective Schwinglan.

And then, finally, I dragged my dog-tired body to my Beamer.

 

I DIDN’T CONSIDER Jeff a genuine murder suspect.

But on the short drive to his Sherman Oaks home, I couldn’t help contemplating that I’d missed his call earlier . . . and that he not only hadn’t answered when I’d attempted to return it, but also hadn’t rung me back.

He’d have realized I’d tried to reach him. Why hadn’t he phoned to at least find out where I was? It was now nearly 2 A.M. I could have had an accident somewhere and been lying injured and alone on the perilous shoulder of some far-off freeway.

I could have been shot and laid out in the County Coroner’s Office . . . like Corrie Montez.

As my stupid shaking started again, my cell phone finally sang “It’s My Life.”

Better than wailing, “It’s My Death . . .”

I’d taken surface streets so, stopped at a light, I retrieved my receiver from my purse and looked at the display while under a streetlight.

Jeff’s number.

Had I somehow reached him through extrasensory perception instead of our respective cellular networks?

“Hi, Jeff,” I answered, simulating cheerfulness.

“Where the hell are you, Kendra? Are you all right?”

“Just fine. And you?”

“I’ll be a lot better when I know you’re here safely. Where’ve you been?”

“I’ll be pulling into your driveway in about”—I glanced at the digital readout on my dashboard—“four minutes. Did you get my message before, when I tried to return your call?”

“No. I . . . fell asleep.”

Damn, but I’d always assumed a professional private investigator would have nailed seamless lying as a special skill of the profession.

Where had he been?

In the same neighborhood as I was, shooting a paralegal to death and scaring me shitless with the same gun?

I didn’t really believe that . . . did I?

No, more likely he’d had a torrid tryst with his ex, Amanda. She’d have called him, sobbing that her lurid stalker Leon was after her yet again, and couldn’t big, brave Jeff come and protect her?

He’d have responded heroically to that request, and while he reassured her that she was safe, she might have sniffled and sighed and changed into something sexy, and seduced him.

Now that I could absolutely believe.

I knew from experience that Jeff buried himself uninhibitedly into his infinitely sexy lovemaking. So much that he inevitably became exhausted.

And fell asleep.

“Damn!” I exclaimed inside the Beamer as I made the final turn onto Jeff’s block.

I parked in his driveway and trudged up the walk past his big black Escalade to his front door. At least there was no cherry red Camry asserting Amanda’s presence, too.

Might Amanda be the murderer? The thought had crossed my mind once in Ezra’s case, but her connection was far too tenuous to be taken seriously.

I didn’t have to use the key. Jeff was waiting right there for me, along with Odin and Lexie.

The two pups greeted me with such adoration and enthusiasm that I burst into tears.

“What’s wrong, Kendra?” Jeff demanded, dragging me into his arms.

Okay, I’m human. I needed a hug right about then, even from one basis for my blasted misery. I let him hold me, even as Lexie and Odin rubbed against my legs.

“What’s wrong?” Jeff asked again as he gently guided me in the direction of his bedroom.

“Corrie Montez was murdered tonight,” I rasped, then regaled him with the
Reader’s Digest
version of what happened, including the fact I’d been shot at, too.

His resulting anger, outrage, and fear couldn’t have been faked.

At least I didn’t think so.

But as I’d reached his Escalade on my way into the house, I’d let my hand caress its hood.

The car hadn’t been home long, for it clearly hadn’t had time to cool down.

Its engine remained revealingly hot.

Chapter Seventeen

NO, I DIDN’T confront Jeff with the confusing suspicions invading my brain. Maybe my exhaustion inserted them there.

Or maybe not.

I did ask again where he’d been. I said I’d stumbled against the Escalade on my way into his house and had noticed its engine was warm. Wasn’t that an indication it had been driven recently?

“Sure,” he replied breezily as we completed our procession to his bedroom. “I took the dogs for a ride when I got home. We stopped for a treat: ice cream for me, the cone for them.”

I glanced at the adorable beggars by our feet. If they knew that wasn’t the truth, they weren’t barking about it.

We all went to bed—together in the same room. In the same bed, even. And without Jeff and I indulging in hanky-panky that awfully early hour of the morning, we slept.

Sort of.

Even as tired as I was, I couldn’t quite turn off my brain. Maybe someday someone would invent a remote control for the mind, like the kind you can just point at your TV and, pop, off it goes, into suspended animation.

I needed one that night.

Too much mischief kept teasing my thoughts, and now it was all underscored by Jeff’s soft, rhythmic snores. The sleep of the innocent?

Ice cream, my eye! But I still preferred assuming he was sleeping with Amanda to considering him a killer.

 

HEY
, I THOUGHT as I awakened to the sound of a news reporter on the clock radio a few hours later,
I’d actually dozed off!

Jeff, pups, and I got moving immediately and did our regular breakfast-and-romp routine.

I needed to move my mind off the horrifying murders in the Yurick offices. And the lesser yet fearsome fact that I’d been shot at.

And the increasingly sorry situation between Jeff Hubbard and me.

When I left a short while later, I brought Lexie along as I performed pet-sitting rounds, then headed back to our Hollywood Hills home. Both Russ Preesinger and his daughter, Rachel, were in town, so pet-tending Beggar wasn’t necessary. I didn’t see people or pup anywhere, so Lexie and I headed to our apartment over the garage.

There, I sat at my small desk in the corner of my bedroom and aimed a quick call at my client Brian O’Barlen.
Where were you last night around eleven?
I demanded in my head. “Have you heard what happened at our offices last night?” was what I asked aloud.

Of course he’d heard of the most current Yurick firm murder. L.A.’s reporters were nothing if not omnipresent. They’d jumped on this new twist and started twirling it, so the whole world now knew that poor paralegal Corrie Montez was blown away in the very same office that her former boss, Ezra Cossner, had been.

Oh, yes, and an attorney who’d happened to be around was also shot at. Fortunately, none mentioned me by name.

“Should we cancel our meeting with the VORPO folks?” O’Barlen asked.

“Let’s reschedule for this afternoon instead of this morning,” I suggested. “We’ll change the location, too. I’ll call their attorney, Michael Kleer, and say we’ll be at his office around three this afternoon.”

Maybe, out of respect for Corrie, I should have canceled altogether, but I didn’t think she’d mind—especially since my intent was to surreptitiously interview the attendees as to their activities last night. I had an urge to see all the players in this situation as promptly as possible. I wanted to examine the looks on their faces. Maybe their expressions would expose which of them could be a double murderer.

Next, I booted up my own computer and tapped remotely into the Yurick firm’s access to the best research databases in the legal world. I needed to escape my reality for a while, and lose myself in research about deceased dog owners and what could happen if they tried to make their surviving pets their heirs.

I spent a couple of hours on this, wondering woefully if I was replicating research Corrie had already accomplished. I might never know, if her files were confiscated by the cops as Ezra’s were, although his were sealed at least for now, thanks to our assertion of attorney-client privilege. And I wanted to get started on this case since Darryl’s nice neighbor, Irma Etherton, had seemed extremely concerned when I’d conversed with her a couple of days ago.

When I’d spent all the time I had available for now, I hadn’t yet devised a strategy to set things right for the heir-triggered pup. I doubted Irma’s four-footed friend would have a legal leg to stand on. Somehow, though, I’d have to find a way for her to win.

Next, I spent some quality time on my dog-bite case. Poor Lester the basset hound. I just didn’t see him as a nasty neighbor-nibbler.

I’d done a good job so far in presenting my client’s case to the court via pleadings and arguments supporting them. I didn’t anticipate success in my summary judgment motion, so I wouldn’t feel dejected to lose. I’d warned my client Cal Orlando, Lester’s owner, to expect a possible loss, and let him know I’d keep my costs low but wanted to argue the motion as a legal maneuver. It would harass the plaintiff, Sheldon Siltridge, and cost him beaucoup bucks, since his attorney, Jerry Ralphson, had a reputation of taking his good old time in handling each case, and charging clients for every split second.

Okay, so I’m not the nicest person in the cosmos. I’m a litigator . . . again. And this type of tactic isn’t unfamiliar in the lawsuit world. If nothing else, seeing dollars sail out the window sometimes gets a plaintiff to consider acting reasonable across a settlement table.

Speaking of Cal Orlando, I decided to give him a call. Not to find out where he’d been late last night, as I’d wondered with everyone else I wanted to talk to that day, but just to give him a few client strokes over the phone. Let him know what I anticipated next.

“Hi, Cal,” I said when he answered on the first ring. “This is Kendra—”

“I was just going to call you. He’s at it again.”

“Who’s at what?” I responded, sounding stupidly like the old Abbott and Costello “Who’s on first” routine.

“Sheldon. Next door. He must have been mad about that motion you filed. I saw him throw some of his mail into my yard this morning. I’m sure he’s just waiting for me to let Lester out so he can sneak behind my fence and start beating my poor dog with a rolled newspaper again. If he did that to me,
I’d
bite him.”

“Too bad it’s not a federal offense to tamper with one’s own mail,” I mused. “At least I don’t think it is. Tell you what. Just pick the stuff up and toss it back into his yard . . . this time. I have an idea.”

After we hung up, I made another call—to one of those very people whose whereabouts last night I’d pondered. All night, in fact.

“Jeff, hi,” I said, noting that he answered his cell phone immediately this time. “I’d like you to do me a favor, for one of my clients.”

“Sure, darlin’,” he replied with a little of his old confidence coming through. I told him what I needed. “I’ll get on it right away,” he agreed immediately.

“Thanks.”

“See you tonight?”

In your dreams,
I thought. “Sure,” I said, not quickly coming up with a suitable excuse . . . like, I kick the
cojones
of guys who lie to me. I don’t sleep with ’em. “I’ll call you later and we’ll make plans.” By then, I’d have come up with something as false as what he’d been feeding me.

When I hung up, I didn’t have a hell of a lot of time to hang around home moping. “Come on, Lexie,” I said. “My meeting starts in an hour.”

When we reached the Beamer, though, it wasn’t alone. A small green sports jobby blocked it in the driveway—shades of when my tenant Charlotte was around, tossing parties right and left. Only then I was more often blocked out than in.

Pissed, I stomped up to the front door of the main house. It opened nearly as fast as I rang the bell. Rachel stood there, more dressed up than I’d ever seen her, in a very unteenage low and satiny black tank top, and a short, flowered skirt. Or at least it all appeared more adult than I would allow a teen of mine to toss on her body if I were that old and encumbered.