Kill the Competition (16 page)

She lifted her chin. And she had a good mind to let Lt. Alexander know that she could darn well take care of herself where Julian Hardeman was concerned. She put her hand on the phone and picked it up in defiance. She could at least call the man and let him know she'd found her address book. She looked up the phone number for the Atlanta PD, asked for him, and was transferred to the Midtown precinct.

"Alexander," he barked.

Her tongue was suddenly glued to the roof of her mouth from the frivolity of her phone call. The man was probably dealing with a triage of serious crimes, and she was taking up his time with this trifling matter. "Lieutenant Alexander, this is Belinda Hennessey."

"Hello." His voice eased a tad.

She wet her lips. "I just called to let you know that I found my address book." She wondered if she sounded as stupid as she felt.

"Oh. Good."

Apparently so. "But I appreciate you taking the time to look for it."

"Sure thing."

"And for taking the time to stop by my building to return my, um, pillow."

"No problem."

She smiled into the phone. "Just doing your job, right?"

"I guess so, ma'am."

So they were back to the ma'aming. "Okay, well, I'm sure you're busy, so I'll let you get back to work."

"Ms. Hennessey?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

"I wouldn't expect you to agree, Lieutenant, but I'm actually a good driver."

"I mean be careful at your office. There was a terrible incident in your building a few months back."

Apprehension settled on her shoulders, and she chose her words carefully. "You mean the woman who fell down the elevator shaft?"

"So you heard about it."

"Yes, but... how does something like that happen these days?"

"The Stratford Plaza building is over twenty-five years old—its infrastructure isn't the best, but regardless, the incident shouldn't have occurred."

"Sounds like a maintenance problem."

He didn't respond for a few seconds, then said, "Just watch your step."

She frowned—two similar warnings in the same day? This was starting to get creepy. "Don't worry about me, Lieutenant," she said lightly. "I always take the stairs."

"Well, in case anything unusual happens, I want you to have my cell phone number."

She entered the number into her electronic organizer as he rattled it off. Warning bells sounded in her ears—was he truly concerned about her safety, or was he trying to... no, of course the man wasn't
interested.
He was going through a divorce, for heaven's sake. "Lieutenant, what do you mean by 'unusual'?"

"Nothing specific," he replied, his voice casual. "Just keep your eyes open."

"I will."

"Okay."

"Okay." She wet her lips, overcome with the urge to say she'd heard about his divorce and just wanted to say that things would be fine. But she didn't know him well enough, and she didn't know that things would be fine—for her or him. "So... good-bye then."

"Good-bye."

She returned the receiver to its cradle and pursed her mouth. Cop-speak notwithstanding, she found it curious that he'd referred to Jeanie Lawford's fall as an "incident" rather than an "accident." She was probably reading too much into the conversation, she told herself, because of this affinity she was feeling toward the dead woman. It was eerie enough to know that she'd taken Jeanie's place in the carpool, but had she also taken the woman's place in Julian's...
lunch hour?

* * *

"Guess we all dodged a bullet today," Libby said as they piled into the Honda.

"A reprieve from evaluations," Carole said.

"At least we're employed through the weekend," Rosemary said.

Belinda fastened her seat belt. "Are you worried about your job, Rosemary?"

The woman shrugged. "My primary duty is to front for Juneau, keep him apprised of what's going on in the office. Margo sees me as an obstacle." She shook her head. "I've been with the company for thirty years, started when Tal was in preschool, but loyalty doesn't mean anything these days."

"Not to Margo," Carole said.

"Surely Mr. Archer will protect your job," Belinda said.

"He's all but turned the company over to her," Rosemary murmured.

Libby clicked her belt into place. "Margo won't be happy until she's CEO, president, and queen of the universe."

Belinda turned over the engine, backed out, and began winding her way down from the parking garage. Now she understood what had been causing the pucker in Rosemary's brow. At Rosemary's age, reemployment at such a high administrative level might be difficult to secure. Belinda tightened her grip on the steering wheel—they were going to be a somber bunch for the ride home.

And she dreaded the Friday rush hour traffic, which was triple the mess of any other day of the week. Then, after an interminable drive, she'd spend the evening watching a fuzzy television while Downey ignored her. Maybe she'd go through the remaining packing boxes and clear more space for the impending couch. Maybe she'd finish the book she'd been reading. Maybe Julian would call, and she'd have another chance to figure out how she felt about what they'd done.

She was forced to stop on the sixth floor of the parking garage behind a solid line of cars. "What's going on?" Libby asked.

Belinda heard the telltale chopper blades on the radio and turned up the volume. "Folks, this is a red alert—due to a gas main break, the Georgia D.O.T. just closed down I-85 at the Druid Hills exit. If you haven't left downtown, your options are limited."

The girls all moaned and flopped back in their seats. Belinda winced, glad that Downey didn't have to be walked.

"Peachtree northbound is already a parkin' lot," Julian continued, his speech stretched around exaggerated vowels. "Roswell Road is jammed, ditto Buford Highway. If you're just now leavin' your office in Midtown, my advice is to pull that little Honda over at the next waterin' hole and wait this one out!"

"Belinda, he was talking to you!" Carole said, bouncing in her seat.

Belinda's face suffused with heat. Their encounter must have meant something to him if he singled her out of five million people.

"I don't know about the rest of you," Libby said, "but I could go for a martini."

"The man had a point," Rosemary said. "We might as well go someplace cool and wait until the traffic thins."

"Gypsy Joe's is just a couple of blocks over," Carole said. "I haven't been there in ages. Not since—" She pressed her lips together.

"Jeanie liked it there," Libby said with a sad smile. "Let's go raise one for her."

Belinda hesitated—Jeanie again.

Rosemary pointed. "Pull into that parking space. We'll never get out on Peachtree in this mess, and it's faster to walk anyway."

Outnumbered, Belinda did as she was told. Anything was better than sitting in traffic. And the mood in the car had improved considerably.

"Can I lock my laptop in your trunk?" Libby asked.

Belinda sighed. "Sorry, the latch is still broken. Can you slide it under the seat?"

"Speaking of under the seat," Carole said, "did you ever get a weapon?"

"Not yet," Belinda said with a wry smile.

"I'm bringing my legal pad," Libby declared. "We can work on our book."

"Getting a book published would solve your money problems," Carole offered.

Rosemary scoffed. "We'll probably have to pay to have it published."

Feeling as if she were still standing on the periphery of the women's friendships, Belinda listened to their banter as they walked to the elevator bay.

"I think I'll take the stairs," she announced.

Libby frowned. "The elevator's here. Ride with us."

Fit in with us.
Belinda wavered, but the repulsion of the elevator was stronger, as if Jeanie's spirit lingered there. "No, thanks. I need the exercise."

Libby shrugged. "Suit yourself." Before the doors closed, the three women were engrossed in conversation.

Belinda turned toward the door to the stairs, wondering if she was wired to always choose the solitary way.

Chapter 12

Belinda met up with the women at the entrance to the parking garage, and Carole pointed down the sidewalk in front of the Stratford Building. "This way."

"Looks like we made the right choice," Rosemary murmured, surveying the gridlock of cars.

Belinda agreed. Peachtree Street and side streets were jammed with cars, SUVs, delivery trucks, and minivans. The only movement came from bicycles and scooters weaving through traffic, and pedestrians on the sidewalks.

Her ears buzzed from the lively noise of horns honking, music blasting out of lowered windows, and the hum of engines. Hazy heat rose from the sea of metal, blurring the mid-rises and high-rises on the horizon. Belinda's feet slowed as a change came over her—excitement buoyed in her chest, and she somehow knew that she wanted to be part of this dynamic city.

In front of her, Libby tossed over her shoulder, "All this ruckus is crazy, isn't it?"

Inspired, Belinda stopped and lifted her arms, as if she could embrace the atmosphere. "I love the energy." She lifted her face to the sun, but her smile faded at the sight of a large dark object hurtling toward the ground—and her. A body? She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice was paralyzed. Thank goodness her feet had a mind of their own, carrying her backward just as the object plowed into the sidewalk.
 

The crowd around her shrank with a collective gasp and stopped to stare at the splattered mess. Her heart stuttered back into rhythm when she realized the matter on her shoes wasn't blood but dirt. A pulverized plant lay at her feet in a heap of broken pottery.

Libby, Rosemary, and Carole ran back to her, eyes and mouths wide.

"Good gravy, Belinda, are you all right?"

"Barely," she whispered, realizing how close she'd come to buying the farm. She leaned her head back to scan the twenty stories of the Stratford building for the origin of the falling plant, but the sun blinded her.

"You could have been killed," Rosemary exclaimed.

"Where did it come from?" Carole asked.

Belinda shielded her eyes, but none of the windows provided a clue—no openings, no movement. "I don't know." She turned and addressed the crowd. "Did anyone see anything?" The spectators shook their heads, then began to disperse.

A uniformed city ambassador appeared, wearing a rueful expression. "A cleaning crew or one of those watering services probably knocked a plant off a windowsill, then got scared when they realized what they'd done," he said. "I'll inform the building security, and get this mess cleaned up. I'm sorry this happened, ma'am."

Belinda nodded, but her limbs remained leaden.

"Do you still feel like getting a drink?" Rosemary asked, her eyes clouded.

Belinda puffed out her cheeks in an exhale. "More than ever."

The women crowded around, cooing and fretting. She waved off their concern, manufactured a smile, and forced her feet to move, grateful to be alive.

At the corner, Carole said, "Let's cross the street here," then stepped out to pick a path between cars jammed in the intersection. "In case more plants start raining down."

Rosemary followed but said, "You picked a bad intersection—this is where Margaret Mitchell was run down by a car in 1949."

As she walked, Belinda surveyed the nondescript corner of Peachtree and 13th Street. "Really?"

"She was crossing with her husband, and a speeding taxi came around the curve."

"Maybe this area is cursed," Carole declared, looking heavenward.

"Kind of prophetic, huh?" Libby asked as they threaded their way through traffic. "That one of Atlanta's icons would be run down by a car, and now the city is famous for traffic."

Despite the blazing sun, a shiver passed over Belinda. It was as if the city had claimed the famous writer in every way, influencing the woman's life
and
her death.