Hot Property (7 page)

The very idea that she would victimize the lovely people who brought her business, who trusted her with so many very important responsibilities, who made possible the life she wanted to lead—she was nauseated at the thought.

“Do you keep a calendar?” Michael asked. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d climbed into her van five minutes earlier.

“Yes. Why?”

“Do you have it with you?”

“It’s in my organizer.”

“Bring it in with you to the station. They’ll want to know what you were doing, specifically, on the days the burglaries occurred. If you were out of town, or spending the night with …” He paused. “Well, you know. If someone can vouch for you, and you can establish an alibi, it’ll help. A lot.”

Wendy’s face warmed at the mention of “spending the night.” It was not something she was particularly proud of, but if James could provide her with an alibi, she’d kiss him
and
his new girlfriend.

“I haven’t been out of town much, but I do know someone who can verify that I don’t go gallivanting out to break into houses in the middle of the night.”

“Who?” Michael barked.

If Wendy hadn’t known better, she’d believe there was a jealous note in his question.

“James. James Batliner.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“You sound really surprised.”

“It’s just that … you never mentioned a guy in your life.”

“That’s because he’s actually my ex-boyfriend,” Wendy said, matching Michael’s snappish tone. “He dumped me yesterday, and I’ve been trying to block him from my mind.”

“You don’t sound terribly broken up about it.”

“I saw it coming, so it wasn’t a big surprise. He was cheating on me. But I’m sure he’ll provide me an alibi if he can.”

“Did you spend a lot of nights with him?”

She cocked her head and gave Michael a sideways glance. “Is this an official question, or are you just being nosy?”

He didn’t even crack a smile. “I just figured if you were with him most nights, your chances of providing an alibi are higher.”

Wendy still wasn’t sure she should answer. She realized then that she was a little embarrassed about her relationship with James. They hadn’t exactly been in love, yet she’d spent a couple of nights at his house.

Deep down, Wendy knew she’d slept with James because he was a nice, likable guy she felt at ease around. Well, she used to think that, anyway.

But she was better than that. Loneliness was no excuse for holding on to a less-than-fulfilling relationship.

“There’s a good chance James can alibi me on at
least one of the nights the burglaries occurred,” she said carefully.

“How did you know the burglaries occurred at night?” Michael asked casually.

Damn, he thought she was guiltier than ever. She’d believed that maybe, now that they’d gotten to know each other a little better, he would have realized she wasn’t capable of a life of crime.

“Don’t most break-ins occur at night?” she shot back.

“A lot of burglaries take place during the day, when the residents are at work.”

“Well,
did
these occur at night?”

“Yeah. In all four cases, the homeowners were out of town. That’s information you would be privy to.”

Lord, no wonder they thought she’d done it. Someone had carried out a damn professional job framing her, and she had a pretty good idea who.

“What about the people in your office?” Michael asked hopefully. “Do any of them have access to the schedules and security access codes?”

“Jillian, my office manager. But there’s no way she would be involved in anything like that. I’ve known her for years.”

“Does anyone else have access to your organizer?” Michael asked.

Wendy gasped. “That’s it! Mr. Neff was curious about it one day, so I showed him how it worked. He didn’t seem to really understand it—you know how most old people are about computers. But he could have been faking it.”

“Did he ever have the opportunity to pull information from it? What about the password?”

Wendy deflated. “That’s right, the password. There’s no way he could have had access to that information.” The names of her clients he could have gotten from other sources, but the security codes were a different matter.

“Think, Wendy. How could a third party get hold of those security codes?”

“I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I keep a backup of my organizer files on my computers at home and at the office, but no one has access to that, either. I guess someone could follow me around and use binoculars to watch me punching in security codes.” She thought again of the car that had almost run her down.

She wanted to dismiss it as coincidence, a stroke of almost-bad luck. But maybe the guy in the brown Caprice
had
been following her.

“That’s not a bad theory,” Michael said. “I know long-distance access codes have been stolen that way. Bring it up during your questioning. Anything you can inject to stir up doubt will help.”

Was Michael Taggert coaching her on how to get through an interrogation? Interesting. He’d gone from browbeating, sneering bad cop to cheerleader good cop in less than twenty-four hours. The change was welcome, but she didn’t entirely trust it—or him.

Her car phone rang. What now? She punched the button for the no-hands speaker phone. “Wendy Thayer.”

“Wendy, I’m so glad I caught you!” It was Jillian, her office manager. “Maggie Courtland just called. She has an appointment with her doctor, and her car won’t start. Can you take her?”

“A lot of that going around,” Michael murmured.

“For heaven’s sake, why doesn’t she call a cab?” Wendy asked.

“I asked her the same thing, but she doesn’t like cabs. She had a bad experience once with a driver who took her out into the boonies and mugged her.”

“Oh.” Wendy could understand the woman’s reticence. She’d encountered a scary cab driver or two in her time.

“She’s on the other line,” Jillian said. “Please, can I tell her you’ll come get her? She sounds desperate, and you know she’s about ten months pregnant.”

“Can’t someone else do it?” Wendy asked, a little desperation creeping into her voice. She would have to level with Jillian eventually, but she didn’t want to do it now, with Michael listening in.

“Everyone else is frantic and running late, what with all the extra errands you stuck on everybody this morning. You don’t have to wait for Maggie at the doctor’s or anything.”

Wendy put Jillian on hold and looked over at Michael. “Would you mind? Mrs. Courtland lives right off Oak Lawn near Brighton. It’s only about ten minutes away.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “The day is shot anyway. Sure, why not?”

“Great.” Wendy confirmed with Jillian that she was on the way, then hung up.

Maggie Courtland lived in a huge house—a mansion, really—on wooded, hilly St. Johns Street. Michael gave a low whistle as Wendy pulled into the driveway. “I’m surprised this Mrs. Courtland doesn’t have a chauffeur-driven limo.”

“Actually she does,” Wendy said. “But the driver keeps pretty busy shuttling Maggie’s husband around.”

Wendy didn’t even have to honk or go to the door. Mrs. Courtland was waiting. Pretty, blond, and about Wendy’s age, she scurried out the door and duck-walked toward the waiting van amazingly fast for a woman who looked as if she’d swallowed a watermelon.

“Good Lord, she looks like she should have had the kid last month,” Michael said under his breath before hopping out of the van to help the woman into the back seat.

“Would you be more comfortable in front?” he asked when Maggie was halfway in.

“Oh, no, I like it back here. I can stretch out a bit.” She sounded out of breath, and her face was pale. “Wendy, hi. Who’s your friend?”

“New employee,” Wendy answered before Michael could tell her the truth. “I’m training him. You’re due in a couple of weeks, aren’t you?” she asked as Maggie got situated and Michael took his seat in front.

“Yes, mid-April. But I think the doc got the due
date wrong. This is my fourth baby, and I’ve learned to tell … well, there are signs, you know?”

“Mm,” Wendy said noncommittally. She knew next to nothing about having babies. “Where’s your doctor?”

“In Preston Center. On Luther and—oh!”

“Luther and what?” Wendy asked as she pulled out of the driveway.

“Luther and—omigod!

Omigod? She’d never heard of that street.

“Uh, Wendy, I think we have a problem,” Michael said. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a definite note of panic there.

Wendy stopped the van and turned to look at her back-seat passenger. Maggie’s face was contorted with pain, and she clutched her swollen belly. “Maggie, what’s wrong?”

“What do you think’s wrong?” Michael asked, unfastening his seat belt. “The woman’s in labor.”

Maggie took a few gasping breaths. “Your friend’s right. My water just broke. Better skip the doctor and head straight for the hospital.”

Wendy’s hands started shaking. She’d had some odd experiences as a personal shopper, but she’d never delivered a pregnant woman to the hospital before. “Which hospital?”

“Presbyterian,” Maggie answered. “Please, hurry. My babies come quick, and this one feels impatient—oh!”

“Take Central,” Michael ordered. “On second thought, I’ll drive. You take care of Mrs. Courtland.”

He had such authority in his voice that Wendy didn’t offer any argument. She threw the van into Park, unfastened her seat belt, and climbed into the back.

Michael scooted behind the wheel, shifted the seat back, and had the van in motion in seconds flat.

“Don’t take Central Expressway,” Wendy said as she helped Maggie lie down on the back seat, using a wadded-up denim jacket as a pillow. “The construction is murder. Take Oak Lawn to Walnut Hill.”

“Too many lights and school zones,” Michael argued. “This time of day there won’t be much traffic on the freeway. It’ll be faster.”

“There’s always traffic!”

Maggie, in the throes of another contraction, gave a strangled cry.

“Michael, she’s having another contraction!” Wendy said. “She just had one.”

Maggie gripped Wendy’s arm. “It’ll be all right, Wendy,” she said, though her eyes were a little wild. “My babies always pop out without any problem. I’ve got good hips, my doctor says.”

“You’re not reassuring me. I can’t deliver a baby, Maggie. So just hold it in till we get to the hospital.”

Maggie shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way, friend. I didn’t want to tell you, but I’ve been having contractions for over an hour.” Her face contorted in pain, and when the contraction released her, she actually screamed. “Wendy! The baby’s coming. He’s not fooling around. Help me get my clothes off.”

Fighting off hysteria, Wendy did as Maggie instructed.

“You’re having it right now?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Maggie replied, panting now. “We should find, you know, something to wrap him in when he gets here.”

“Newspaper!” Wendy said. “I saw that in a movie once. Newspapers are sanitary.” She leaned over the back seat and rooted around until she found the paper she’d picked up from her porch that morning and tossed in back, unread. There it was, still rolled into its pink plastic bag.

She was vaguely aware of the van turning onto the Central Expressway access road. “Don’t get on Central,” she said to Michael again, but he didn’t listen. Why did men always think they were smarter when it came to driving? She spent eight hours a day in her car running all over town. She
knew
what routes were faster.

“Look, see? Almost no traffic.”

Wendy raised up and looked out the windshield. The lanes ahead did look pretty clear, until they came over the first rise. “What’s that?”

“What?” Michael asked.

“That sign. It says the road’s narrowing down to one lane.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Maggie said, sounding a little calmer now. “I wouldn’t have made it anyway. I need to push.”

“No!” Wendy and Michael said together. Michael added, “Five minutes, tops, and we’ll be at the hospital.”
Even as those words were leaving his lips, he had to put on the brakes. After thirty seconds of creeping bumper to bumper, they came to a dead stop.

“We’re not moving,” Wendy pointed out.

“They’re moving a big crane in the road up ahead. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”

Twenty minutes later they were still stuck in traffic.

“I’m pushing,” Maggie said. “You can’t stop me.”

“Oooh, Michael, the baby’s coming,” Wendy said, near panic. She could see the crown of its head. “Help me! Please?”

Michael set the brake and unfastened his seat belt, then squeezed between the front seats to join the two women. “Tell me what to do.”

“I’m the one who needs help,” Maggie groused. “Who’s doing all the work here? Help me sit up. Birthing is easier—oh, Lord have mercy—sitting up.”

Michael immediately grasped Maggie’s shoulders and pulled her up, then slid onto the seat behind her so she could rest against him. “Like that?”

“That’s good.”

“Maggie, I don’t know what to do!” Wendy complained, willing herself not to fall apart. But it turned out she really didn’t need help. The baby practically flew into her waiting hands.

Maggie let out an exultant cry. “There! You did it!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Wendy objected, holding the tiny scrap of humanity in her hands as if it were a space alien. “You did it all. Michael! I’ve got a baby here!”

She looked up at her partner in crime. Beaming like an idiot, he was no help at all. “Looks like you’re doing just fine,” he said. “Is it a girl or a boy?”

Wendy’d been so panicked she forgot to look. She did now. “Oh, it’s another boy, Maggie.” Her voice trembled with emotion. She’d never seen a baby born except on a film in high school sex education class, and then she’d closed her eyes. “Now you have two of each. Aren’t I supposed to hold him upside down or whack him on the butt or something?”

In response, the baby spit something out of his mouth and started wailing.

“You’re not expecting me to cut the cord, are you?” she asked Maggie.

“Just put him on my stomach,” Maggie said, laughing and crying at the same time. She reached for her new son. “I think the cord can wait for the doctor.”