Knock Off (11 page)

Te n

Ispent the night having the kind of sensual-bordering-on-dirty dreams you don’t normally admit to, even to your closest friend. The dreams all had a common thread, and that thread’s name was Liam McGarrity. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: I was a subconscious cheater.

Which made absolutely no sense since Liam had, by word and deed, made it infinitely clear that he barely noticed I was a woman.

I’d heard Sam roll his suitcase out the door well before dawn. Easily done since he lived right above me. I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes as I swung my feet to the floor and glanced over at the digital clock on my nightstand. I’d managed a solid, if x-rated, seven hours, so I needed to get going.

A pot of coffee and a hot shower later, I was standing in my closet feeling unusually indecisive. In spite of losing the multimillion-dollar judgment against Dr. Hall, Sara Whitley still had major bucks. I couldn’t show up at her place looking too off-the-rack. On the other hand, I didn’t want Liam to think I’d gone to any trouble on his account.

Putting off the decision, I pulled on a yoga outfit and went into the kitchen, simultaneously gulping mug four of coffeepot number two while feeling around in the junk drawer for my key to Sam’s place. Though he’d only been gone a few hours, I had this neurotic compulsion to check on the cats. I knew if I didn’t, I’d spend the day convinced that they’d knocked over their water dish and were lying on the floor, too weak from an electrolyte imbalance to save themselves by drinking from the toilet bowl.

Instead, when I went upstairs, I found the two of them curled together on one of a scrumptious, matched pair of Italian leather recliners. They were blue-point Siamese, whatever the hell that meant, and if I had to guess, I’d say they were gay, too. They were always touching each other like, well, like Brokeback Kitties. Butch or Sundance— they’re interchangeable to me—lifted his head and tossed me a “keep it down, bitch,” look.

A nice person would have scratched behind his ears.

Me? I went into the kitchen and made sure there was fresh water and some food, then into the bathroom to check the status of the litter box. Under the sink, I found a box of disposable gloves, slipped on a pair, and went to work. I handled the situation like someone removing toxic waste.

Quickly. This so isn’t my thing.

Before I went back to my place, I dropped the odor-masking pet pickup bag into the trash shoot. As far as I was concerned, for the next twelve or so hours, Butch and Sundance were on their own.

Normally, I have pretty decent attire instincts, but Liam seemed to have penetrated that aspect of my personality as well. So I called Liv for fashion advice.

“We’ve got to be quick, I’m supposed to meet Becky and Jane in twenty minutes. Sure you won’t change your mind and join us? It’s a beautiful day, perfect for the beach.”

“I know,” I practically whined as I glanced out the window and noted the turquoise sky, complete with the occasional wispy cloud floating by and big, beautiful sun. Had it really been over a week since my last lounge by the ocean? “Maybe next weekend.” Then I explained my quandary.

“Easily fixed,” Liv said cheerfully. “Wear that white garden eyelet dress with the bright fuchsia trim. It’s Lilly, right? Can’t make a mistake with Lilly.”

Sure you can,
I thought.
You can wait for someone to
smear blush on it and then the shop has to sell it to me for
one-third of retail.

“Take along a shrug, and you’re good to go. Casual yet sophisticated.”

“Shoes?” I asked, balancing the phone between my

cheek and shoulder as I plucked the assigned items from their hangers.

“So you want to go for style or comfort? Flat or—”

“Not flat.” I knew that. Liam was really tall, and I didn’t want to have to crane my neck all morning just to maintain eye contact.

“Go with the grosgrain wedges. The ones with the colorful ribbons.”

I smiled, grabbing up those as well. “You’re a genius.

Thanks.”

“This Liam guy sure has your number.”

“Does not,” I insisted. “I’m trying to impress Mrs.

Whitley, not Liam.”

My supposed-to-be-friend laughed and said, “Sure you are.”

I could have denied it, but what was the point? “Okay,”

I relented. “I really don’t like being made to feel like a jerk.

Liam is a master at making me feel . . . invisible.”

“Some guys just have that ability.”

“I guess. Have fun at the beach.”

“Sorry you won’t be there.”

Me too.

Liv’s wardrobe guidance was spot-on. By the time I’d put it all together, I looked polished without looking like I’d dressed for a date. Miracle of miracles, I was also ready early.
Way
early. Since I had some extra time, I powered up my computer and clicked my way to eBay. I was still winning the Betsey Johnson dress, but bids on the Rolex band links had climbed well beyond my per-part budget.

The auction on the signature red box didn’t end for another seven hours. I muttered a curse, then searched for any new listings.

“Isn’t anyone out there hard up for cash?” I asked the screen after finding nothing. What I needed was a down-on-her-luck divorcée in need of ready cash. Preferably one who’d been left to fend for herself with nothing but the Rolex DateJust on her wrist. No such luck.

I should have shut off the computer, but I didn’t. Even though I knew I was about to do a pathetic female thing, I couldn’t help myself. I switched to the Google search engine and typed in Liam’s name. Knowledge is power, and I was definitely in need of some when it came to him. If I could learn just one little secret about the guy, maybe I wouldn’t feel so lacking when I was with him.

“Officer placed on administrative duty following fatal shooting,” I read, gently rolling the pad of my finger along the touchpad as I scanned the five-year-old article. Not much in the way of details. Liam and his partner responded to a burglary in progress, and the partner, James Roberts, ended up dead.

I found a couple of follow-ups, but they were brief and referenced closed hearings. The last one said that no charges would be filed in the death of Officer Roberts but Lt. Liam McGarrity would be resigning from the police force—effective immediately.

My curiosity spiked. “Why would he give up his pension if he was cleared of any wrongdoing?”

There’s cleared, and then there’s
cleared.
It wouldn’t be the first time a police officer was given the option of early retirement to save the department some embarrassment.

I tapped the ESCAPE key, no longer interested in the life and times of Liam McGarrity. Well, still interested, but I didn’t want to cross that line between interest and stalking. I know it’s standard and safe practice to check someone out online, but I think that only applies to blind dates and potential employers.

With my computer shut down, I turned my attention back to Graham Keller’s medical records. I’d read them last night until my vision blurred, and if there was anything suspicious about his death, I wasn’t seeing it.

One major hole in my theory was an explanation as to how Sara Whitley could have caused a tree to fall on José.

Now I had a second gaping ravine—the doctors, nurses, paramedics, and even the EKG machine all confirmed that Graham Keller died following a massive coronary.

I could practically recite Marcus Evans’s medical history from memory at this point. And while it appeared as if he’d nodded off at the wheel, end of story, in
that
case I had the videotape.

The prickly feeling at the back of my neck insisted I was missing the obvious. I trusted that feeling. It told me Mike Mattioli was cheating on me weeks before I’d caught him screwing the busty bartender in our bed. I dumped him
and
bought a new bed. I never should have let that jerk move in with me. Words of warning I’d heard from every one of my friends, but stupidly ignored. That, I decided, was the problem. Men bring out the stupid in me.

Except for Patrick.

I felt a renewed surge of self-disgust for my Liam dreams. Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I decided it wasn’t necessary to take a soul-searching look into my subconscious. At least not this freaking early on a Saturday morning.

Back to an area I was comfortable with—dead people. I knew I should probably report the threatening note to the police. But I really wasn’t ready to go through the whole explanation. There were practically no “who”s, definitely not enough “why”s, and they’d probably think I was overreacting.

Despite the guy thing, I’m not stupid. I’d be damn careful—I’d treat every excursion out of my apartment like a stealth mission through Macy’s after Thanksgiving: elbows out, chin tucked, eyes wide open. I decided to keep the note in my kitchen drawer until I knew more.

I really, really wanted something tangible by Monday. A full confession by Sara Whitley would be great, but that was wishful thinking. I needed at least one concrete fact. It didn’t have to be huge, just enough to protect myself. Especially if Margaret and her not-so-merry maids were right and I was on the precipice of getting canned. I wrapped the shrug tighter around my shoulders and focused on saving my ass.

Luckily, my coffee table is square rather than the tradi-tional rectangle—much to Sam’s chagrin. He claims the shape throws off the balance in the room. May be true, but it gives me space to spread out and organize, in my own special way, the various aspects of this case.

Stacy Evans had provided me with glossy reproductions of the police photographs from the scene of her husband’s murder. “When did I definitely decide it was a murder?” I muttered, tapping the toe of my sandal and staring at the piles.
About five seconds after I found a threatening note
pinned to my door
. If there was nothing to this, then there was no reason to try and scare me off.

I shivered but refused to be deterred.

I-95 is always under construction, so I looked past the orange-striped barrels scattered along the side of the road to find the car in the photograph. It was on its roof, front end partially submerged in a shallow canal. I looked at three more photographs showing basically the same thing, only from different angles and distance. My stomach lurched when I flipped to the next picture. It showed Marcus Evans, suspended in place by a seat belt. There was some blood but not a lot.

It felt, I don’t know . . . intrusive, disrespectful, somehow wrong. Normal people aren’t meant to look at dead people. Especially freshly dead ones. That’s for doctors, nurses, morticians, and other people who’ve chosen ghoul-ish professions.

I’ve only seen one dead person up close. Stepfather Number Two had an open casket. Now, there’s one disgusting practice. He was a decent guy, but seeing him like that, arms crossed, face covered with pancake makeup, ruined it for me. After that, whenever I thought of John Rossi, my mind instantly recreated that macabre memory from the funeral home. John, gray, pasty, and dead. It was really sad. And then there was the fly. All during the service a fly buzzed around the room, landing with frequency on the tip of John’s nose. When I go, I want them hanging those toxic fly strips from the ceiling every six or so inches over my head.

Carefully, I laid the photographs on the table and stared at them, cataloging each element. I knew the southbound construction through the Jupiter interchange well. They were resurfacing and adding a wider exit ramp for easier access to the turnpike. At least that was the plan. Like most construction projects, this one was behind schedule. At the time of Marcus’s accident, only the two left lanes were open. Barrels blocked off a long stretch of the right lane, which had been ground down for grading and resurfacing.

There wasn’t enough detail, so I went back to my trusty junk drawer and found the plastic magnifying glass I’d been given as a free gift for applying for a home improvement store’s credit card. It was denied, but I didn’t take it personally—it isn’t like I do a lot of shopping at stores with cement floors.

Like a well-dressed, female version of Sherlock Holmes, I sat hunched over the photographs, examining every inch and detail. I smiled slowly. Not because I’d found something, but because I hadn’t.

I was still feeling euphoric when Liam arrived.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a morning person,” he remarked as he moved past me.

He smelled of soap, shampoo, and coffee, and even though I shouldn’t have, I took a deep breath and savored the clean, fresh scent of him. As usual, he had on well-worn jeans, this time paired with a Tommy Bahama cotton shirt I guessed was at least three seasons old. Not that it mattered. There was something decidedly sexy about the way it hung from his broad shoulders, then tapered flatteringly until it tucked into his waistband.

His black hair was still slightly damp and looked as if he’d opted to use his fingers rather than a comb as a styling tool. Even though his pinky toe was a hair’s breadth away from peeking out of his weathered Docksiders, he looked good.

I looked bad. Very, very bad, at least in the privacy of my own conscious. I followed him into the living room, repeating a mantra in my head:
Patrickpatrickpatrick.

“What’s all this?” he asked, tapping my photo array before turning his gaze in my direction.

Those dammed eyes of his. They were like blue lasers capable of cutting me off at the knees.

Ignore him!
“I think I found something,” I said, unable to mask the excitement in my voice.

“What’s this?” he asked, hooking his finger through the bright orange nylon strap attached to my pitiful magnifying glass.

I snatched it away from him. “I had to improvise.” I stood next to him—minor mistake—and held the magnifier over the first photograph. “That’s, like, what? A four-inch drop between the roadway and the lane under construction?”

“Roughly.”

“Now this.” I moved to the second, larger image. “See the ruts in the gravel? They line up in a perfect diagonal to where Marcus’s car launched over the Jersey wall and into the canal.”