Knock Off (12 page)
Taking the magnifying glass from me, Liam did his own review of the photographs. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
I felt . . . redeemed. “Even if he was asleep at the wheel, there’s no way he would have stayed asleep after falling off the road. He’d have been jolted awake and reacted.”
“But he didn’t,” Liam confirmed. “See the tire marks?”
I leaned in closer and nodded.
“They’re even. If the guy was even marginally conscious, he’d have done something. Turn the wheel. Hit the brakes.”
“So, he was drugged,” I concluded. “Anything he might have done to prevent the accident would have made the tread marks . . . squiggly, right?”
He tossed me that amused half-smile that I still couldn’t quite decipher. “ ‘Squiggly’ works.” He pulled his cell phone from the clip at his belt. “I did a little investigating into your coffee-switching theory.”
I wanted to grab him and kiss him for taking my idea seriously. Who was I kidding? I just wanted to kiss him, period. “Did you find the switched cup Marcus drank from the morning he was killed?”
“No.” He smacked his forehead. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that? I should have gone combing through all the area landfills for a paper cup.”
“No need for sarcasm.” Maybe the cup was in the car. I made a mental note to check on that. I could have asked Liam to do it, but right now, I felt I’d rather gnaw off my own tongue than make the suggestion.
I was still glaring at him as he held his phone in my direction, switching it to camera mode. “I spent the morning conducting an unscientific experiment.”
An image flashed on the small screen. It was obviously taken through the cracks of mini-blinds. The picture was of a bare-breasted brunette, riding crop in hand, whipping an old bald guy wearing nothing but a dog collar.
“Sorry, that’s from an old case,” he said, pressing a button.
“Quite the memento.”
Liam ignored my barb, treating me to a slide show of people drinking coffee at the same Starbucks Marcus had visited the morning of his death. “You’re right about the size thing.”
“Imagine that.”
“Twenty-six people hung around long enough to order a second drink. By the way, a fat-free, half-soy, sugar-free, no-whip, frappa-whatever would have to be made of gold for me to slap down that kind of money for a cup of coffee. Speaking of that—got any made?”
“Always.” I went into the kitchen and filled a mug for him and topped mine off while I was at it.
“Not a single one of them,” he continued, “went for the bigger size.”
“Told you.”
“They don’t have security cameras, but there is a video feed from the drive-through. The manager said he’d have to get permission from corporate first, but he agreed to send you the tape if he gets the okay.”
He downed the coffee in a few gulps. “Ready to roll?”
I’d emptied my briefcase save for a legal pad and a few pens. It weighed less than my purse, but, then again, so did most suitcases. You can never be too prepared.
I locked the door on my way out. “My car or yours?”
“You pick,” he suggested, pointing to one of the visitor’s spots.
“Car” was a generous description of the thing. “What is it?”
“A work in progress,” he said unapologetically. “She’s a sixty-four Mustang. I’m in the process of having her re-built.”
“Out of Play-Doh?”
“That’s putty,” he corrected. “Don’t rag on my car. It’s only because I’m such a great customer that the mechanic at Charlie’s Garage agreed to go over the Evans car.”
“If you’re such a great customer, how come he doesn’t paint it?”
He shook his head slowly. “A car is restored from the inside out.”
“Whatever,” I said, tossing him the keys to my BMW.
He caught them easily, giving a little condescending grin when he saw the blue, white, and black logo. “I’m shocked to discover you drive a status-mobile?”
My car chirped and the headlights blinked when the alarm disengaged. “You’re just jealous because mine has matching tires.”
“I’m green with envy.”
“No, you’re not.”
He slipped behind the wheel and flashed me a grin.
“No, I’m not.”
In my most professional voice, I said, “Sara Whitley lives—”
“At Whitehall House,” he finished. “A pricey little gem—ten thousand square feet of house on its very own private acre on Palm Beach proper. Bet the taxes on that place are a bitch.”
“I doubt she’s hard up for money. Her husband built or brokered half the residential properties in City Place.”
“She’s come a long way from that trailer in Tupelo.”
“What?”
“Sara Whitley comes from pretty humble beginnings.”
“Wow.”
Though I’d only seen her the one time at The Breakers the day before her wedding, she’d seemed poised, polished, and to the manor born. Damn, talk about marrying up.
“It probably helped that she’s a former Miss Missis-sippi.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” I agreed. “Forgive the broad general-ization, but if Sara grew up in a trailer park, she might know people capable of murder. She doesn’t have to be the actual killer to get the job done. Being an ex–beauty queen, she could probably charm a man into eating off his own foot. Convincing someone to kill for you wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”
He sent me that
look.
“Maybe you should meet the woman before you convict her?”
“I’m just running theories here.” Damned good ones, if you asked me, which he didn’t, so I sat quietly for the remainder of the drive, feeling invisible, even in Lilly.
Whitehall House lived up to its pretentious name. Well, pretty much any house with its own name is pretentious.
The two-story home—correction, estate—was an oyster-shell gray with coral accents. A circular drive curved past impressive landscaping, widening near the arched front of the home. Sprinklers ticked as they spewed water on the shimmering green lawn. I could hear the faint hum of a speedboat passing by, drowned out momentarily by the shrill squawk of a gull.
A uniformed maid greeted us, her black eyes wary as she reluctantly ushered us inside the palatial space. The foyer soared up two stories, dominated by an abstract water sculpture flowing into a koi pond.
I glanced at the impressive collection adorning the walls. “Someone’s a fan of cubist art,” I whispered.
“Is that what you call the ugly shi—”
“Mrs. Whitley will see you now,” the maid said.
We were led to a large, rectangular room at the back of the house. The far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass with a stunning view of pristine beach. Everything about the room was perfect. Everything except the woman standing off to one side, clutching a photograph in one hand and a highball glass in the other.
Even without the telltale glass, one look at Sara Whitley and I knew she was on the fast road to drunk. It didn’t seem to matter that it was barely ten in the morning, nor did she seem particularly bothered by the fact that two complete strangers had caught her in the act.
“Mrs. Whitley, I’m Finley Tanner from the law firm of Dane-Lieberman.” Okay, I expected that to get a reaction out of her. Hell, Victor Dane had successfully defended Dr.
Hall.
Nothing. Nada, zero. Not even so much as a flicker of recognition in those bloodshot blue eyes.
She looked past me to the maid. “Maria, get Finley Tanner from the law firm of whatever and whatever something to drink.” Her head moved jerkily toward Liam.
“Who are you?”
Liam introduced himself. “Some coffee would be nice,”
he told the maid as he sat down on the edge of one of three ottomans.
“Sit,” Sara told me, using her drinking hand to point in the general direction of a chair. Colorless liquid sloshed out of her glass, splashing on to the terra-cotta tile. It bled into the grout before she said, “Oops,” with an inappropriate giggle.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Liam said, rising to take the glass from her hand and steering her by the elbow to the closest chair.
They shared a little exchange before Liam handed her back the glass and she said, “Thank you.”
Well, I knew how she’d spent a good portion of the last three years—inside a bottle of vodka. Tough to plan an in-tricate series of murders when you were killing off your brain cells one shot at a time.
Maria returned with an ornate silver coffee service, poured, then discreetly exited the room. “I appreciate you agreeing to see me,” I said as I brought the porcelain cup to my lips.
“Did I?”
Great, this was like interviewing dryer lint. “Mrs. Whitley, are you aware that there have been some incidents with the jurors from the civil trial?”
She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. “That wasn’t a trial. It was a farce. The Almighty Dr. Hall wasn’t responsible for Brad’s death.”
She hugged the photograph more tightly. “Twelve people said so.”
“You don’t believe that, though, right?”
She shook her head and drained her glass. Looking at Liam, Sara rattled the cubes against the empty crystal. He responded by getting her a refill from a decanter on the bar.
“The transplant was supposed to save him. Hall swore to me that nothing would go wrong.”
“I don’t think there are absolute certainties in medicine,” I said gently.
“No, no, no,” she said emphatically. “Hall said the donor was a perfect match. Told me nothing could go wrong.”
Well, this was going nowhere fast.
“Ever think about getting even with the doctor?”
She stared at me, looking as confused as her pickled brain cells could manage. “How? I sued him. I lost.”
“So you decided to crawl into a bottle?” Liam asked.
She looked shocked at his bald statement, but then shrugged. “Pretty much. I thought about suicide, tried a couple of times, but I can’t seem to get the job done.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I miss him.” She looked down at the photograph as tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks.
A few minutes later, as we left Sara mired in her grief, even I was on the verge of tears. “She isn’t a killer.”
“Because she drinks and cries?” Liam countered.
“Because whoever orchestrated these murders put a lot of time and thought into them.”
“Or they aren’t murders.”
I stopped suddenly and grabbed his arm, practically spinning him in a semicircle. “Do you honestly believe that?”
“No.”
Never put anything in your mouth you can’t
cut with a knife and fork—namely, your foot.
Eleven
There was another note waiting for me when I returned from the Sara Whitley field trip. In some ways, it was scarier than the first. It was from my mother. Technically, it wasn’t a note, but rather a card tucked inside a FedEx envelope.
I could gauge my mother’s level of displeasure with me partly by her means of communication. The fact that a formal invitation to brunch came via FedEx did not bode well.
Here it was Sunday morning and I still had the echo of Liam’s derisive chuckle in my head. Displaying a predictable amount of testosterone, he’d snatched the envelope from me and ripped into it over my fevered protests.
To say that discovering the calligraphied command from my own mother had amused him was something of an understatement. Not to mention that yet again, I’d ended up looking like an ass. He was probably still wondering—and laughing at—the fact that my mother sent me a written invitation for an already planned, agreed upon time-and-place, brunch.
I wished now I’d taken my yoga classes a little more seriously. Maybe then I’d actually know how to find my chakra. Any of the seven would do, so long as it relieved the knot of trepidation lodged in my stomach. But, no, I’d been more into the flattering way the Lycra outfit lifted my butt than actually learning ways to calm my inner being.
I’d read somewhere that a pet lowers your blood pressure, so I filled a travel mug with hot coffee and ventured upstairs for a morning visit with Butch and Sundance.
They were less than enthused to see me. After taking care of the feeding, watering, and litter-boxing, I went to what Sam dubbed the “toy chest” and pulled out a couple of burlap mice.
The cats were on opposite ends of the sofa, as still as sentries. Only their shifty, almond-shaped eyes followed me as I sat on the floor and called, “Kitty, kitty?” Then I rolled the mice a few feet in front of me.
The one on the left glanced at the bright red mouse but didn’t move. The other cat stood, arched his back, and started grooming his private parts. I tried again, still without success. I tried different toys, toys with bells, toys with springs, toys with fuzz, toys with feathers. Nothing seemed to interest the lazy balls of fur, so I grabbed my coffee and gave up. Maybe they just weren’t morning kitties.
Before locking the door, I stuck my head back inside the apartment, smirked, and said, “You guys suck as compan-ions. Have a nice day.”
For reasons I didn’t understand, I’d been up since six.
Unlike yesterday, selecting today’s outfit was a no-brainer.
I could go one of two ways—classic Ann Taylorish, which would no doubt please my mother. Or trendy chic, which would annoy her on sight. It was tempting, but I went with the conservative: a navy cotton skirt, pale pink blouse, and seed-pearl choker. Uninventive, but definitely conflict-avoidance wear.
Since I was ready way, way early—this was turning into a nasty habit—is it possible that I might need to cut back on the caffeine? No! I went back to the Evans files, hoping another pass with fresh eyes might provide some answers.
I was fortified knowing that Liam shared my suspicions, not that I needed his approval or anything. Why would I?
“Forget him,” I grumbled, grabbing up the medical reports I could almost recite from memory.
Going with the theory that some sort of drug or poison had caused Marcus to crash his car, I figured Keller had suffered a similar fate. What, how, and why were still mysteries.
The notes from the paramedics who’d responded to the Kravis Center call only confirmed that Keller was in full cardiac arrest when they’d arrived. It had taken them seven minutes of CPR, oxygen, and IV meds to get him back. His heart rate was unstable during transport, but he’d arrived at the ER alive. Barely.
For the next thirty-six minutes every possible attempt had been made to revive him, but in the end, nothing worked. He was pronounced dead less than an hour after his public collapse at the Kravis Center.
Keller’s brief, unsuccessful treatment had generated about thirty pages of notes and forms. Some only had single notations, but everything done to or for Keller was documented and initialed. Right down to the nurse’s aide whose only job was cutting off Keller’s tuxedo once he was on the exam table.
There were several pages labeled postmortem findings.
Though the language was different on all of them, the conclusions were the same: Keller was dead. But, on the plus side, someone with the initials HC had ordered blood tests on the deceased, though no results were included in the records I had.
Weird.
Keller’s death was months ago. Surely the lab results would have made it into his file by now.
I went back through the treatment records and found several other entries by Helen Callahan, R.N., and even more places where she’d initialed various things. One sentence just before the notation of the time of death was scratched out and initialed by her. Holding it up to the stream of sunlight coming through my patio doors, I tried to read through the cross-out.
“IV, maybe?” I squinted and concentrated. More words I couldn’t read, then
Cal
-something and the word
push.
Firing up my laptop, I did a search for Helen Callahan.
Unfortunately, there were eleven in Palm Beach County alone. But I knew it wouldn’t be a problem, I could track her down at the hospital. I added her name and the hospital’s address to my running list of people to interview. Just in case.
My e-mail dinged, and the inbox icon popped up on my screen. My mood improved when I read the notification from eBay that I had won the box for my not yet completed Rolex. Quickly, I clicked my way over to PayPal and completed the transaction. I shimmied my shoulders, thrilled to pieces. It wasn’t like me to blow off the end of an auction, but it really had slipped my mind.
There were a few dozen other e-mails, mostly offers to enlarge my nonexistent penis. One of these days I was going to learn how to block those ads, but today wasn’t that day. I was about to shut down when an incoming IM
arrived. Figuring it was a thank-you from the eBay seller, I clicked it open and read the comment: Hi Finley.
The instant message was from someone named AfterAll.
I smiled, thinking it was a pretty creative name for someone dealing in aftermarket items. Me? I’d gone with FAT-girl, figuring it would keep the pervs from offering a cyber hookup. Wrong. Apparently there were a lot of guys—and a few women—into loving large.
“Thanks for the box,” I spoke as I typed. “Looking forward to receiving it.”
Don’t be.
“No, no, no!” I typed furiously:
Why? I just paid you.
You won’t live long enough to enjoy it.
The chilling comment was followed by an alert that AfterAll had logged off.
With my pulse pounding, delivering a healthy dose of fear to my entire body, I stared at my laptop. I didn’t have to be a Mensa member to know that AfterAll was the same person who’d left the threatening note on my door.
Great. He knew where I lived and my private screen name.
My hands were shaking. Hell, all of me was shaking, and it wasn’t with the adrenaline from getting a Rolex part. I wished Sam was home—at least then I’d have someplace to run and hide. Under my bed wasn’t feeling very safe. Under Patrick’s bed might be better, but I knew from experience that tracking him down was virtually impossible. Apparently a cell phone from Radio Shack was capable of disrupting the navigational system of a DC-10.
So, by default, I dialed Becky’s number. I cursed colorfully when I got her voice mail. The same was true when I tried Liv and Jane. What good are friends when you can’t even share a cryptic death threat with them?
I was tempted to call Liam, but that just seemed too damsel-in-distressish. Besides, he was probably doing a . . .
thing
.
My mother was out. She wasn’t exactly known for her compassion and empathy where I was concerned, so I decided to go to the only safe haven available—Dunkin’
Donuts.
Normally, I would have hit Starbucks—personal preference only—but there wasn’t one on the way to Ironhorse Country Club.
Again I considered calling the police. Prudent, but what if I was wrong? What if this was just a sick joke? Okay, too much of a coincidence, but still, I didn’t want to look like a moron. Not to the police, not to my boss, and definitely not to myself.
I’m no computer genius, so I figured the best thing to do was to put the machine in HIBERNATE, then maybe—and that was a big maybe—I could take it to the computer geeks at Dane-Lieberman and they could identify the sender.
Then what? Simple. I’d have a name, and I could go to the police and have AfterAll arrested. Then I’d file a civil suit for harassment, collect a huge settlement. Maybe even enough to buy a Rolex right out.
A little later, feeling foolish but justified, I taped the 10X
magnifying mirror normally reserved for plucking the stray eyebrow hair between waxes to the end of a meat fork.
After checking outside for anyone or anything suspicious, I used the makeshift device to search the undercarriage of my car. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, TNT and a timer? Okay, maybe I was overreacting, but caution seemed appropriate considering I was scared shitless.
Holding my breath, I got into the car and started the engine, half expecting it to explode into a ball of fire. When it didn’t, I admitted that perhaps I’d watched a few too many Mafia movies and needed to get a grip.
On the plus side, the most recent threat made my im-pending brunch date with my mother seem like a walk in the park. Of course, I didn’t usually walk in parks, unless I was on my way to the beach.
Once at the busy Dunkin’ Donuts, I downed three iced vanilla lattes while sitting with my back to the wall at one of the outdoor tables. The blend of caffeine and sugar calmed my nerves. Either that, or it was the fact that I was in a busy public place, insulated from AfterAll.
I’d brought along my legal pad, using the extra time before brunch to organize and formulate my thoughts on the Evans investigation. I had a pretty long list of people to interview, and at some point I was going to have to share my fears with the remaining jurors. Soon, too— since Stacy had already given them a premature heads-up. However, I’d feel better if I had a viable suspect to report.
The Evans thing had me in an awkward position. Dane-Lieberman was such a stodgy firm, they wouldn’t welcome publicity. Particularly if I didn’t have evidence to back up my assertions. I think someplace in the back of my mind that was one of the reasons I was so reluctant to go to the authorities about the note and the IM. Both could be easily explained away. Bored teenagers at the apartment complex took care of the note. Lord knew cyber-jerks were a dime a dozen, and even I knew how to track bidders on eBay. It would have been quite simple for a geek to learn about my recent purchase and send an IM just to be a shit.
I would have to
prove
these were not coincidences before I went begging for help.
Once I had proof, though, I’d use all my firm’s available resources. I felt residual panic knot in my stomach and knew that dwelling on questions I couldn’t yet answer wasn’t the way to go.
Back to work. I scratched Sara Whitley off the list. If yesterday was at all illustrative of her drinking problem, she was way too far in the bottle to plan one murder, let alone three.
“Means, motive, and opportunity,” I mumbled. I was leaning toward poison. It fit. However, I wouldn’t know the truth until I got the lab results, and those would take at least another twenty-plus hours. And that was only if Liam got the blood early enough for an independent lab to run the tests on the same day. It might help if I could find the coffee cup Marcus had been drinking from that morning. Maybe there was some residue that could be tested.
Given that the car had flipped onto its hood, I didn’t hold out much hope. Still, it was worth a run by Charlie’s Garage.
I had the address, er, addresses. There were two Charlie’s Garages in the phone book, one in Riviera Beach and another down in Boca Raton. It made more sense for Liam to do business with someone up here rather than making a sixty-mile round trip. Especially when his piss-poor excuse for a car probably broke down on a set schedule.
Motive was easy—something about serving on that jury was costing them their lives. Or maybe it was just those three jurors? Maybe there was something the three of them did or said that made them targets. Belated targets, I reminded myself. Therein lay the rub. Three years was a long time to bide your time while holding a fatal grudge.
Opportunity seemed the result of planning. I knew Marcus kept a strict schedule. I added a note to my pad to check on the regular activities of Keller and Vasquez. If they also lived routine-driven lives, it was pretty easy to see how someone could find a way to get to them.
Just as they had gotten to me, I thought with a little shiver. Hell, in under a week, AfterAll knew enough about me to have me shaking in my navy linen BCBGirls, peek-a-boo sandals.
“Shit!” I managed through gritted teeth when I noticed the time. I swallowed the rest of my latte while grabbing up the legal pad and my purse. Dropping the cup in a bat-tered green trash can, I hurried to my car. There was no way I’d make it to Ironhorse in time unless I completely ignored the speed limit.
I did, and was making great time until I heard the jolt-ing sound of a siren, forcing me to glance in my rearview mirror. My prayer that it was an emergency vehicle signal-ing me to move out of the left lane was dashed instantly.
The red and blue flashing lights atop the cruiser were all about me.
I pulled over, simultaneously pressing the button to open the window, unzipping my purse, and digging for my wallet. The officer, a pencil-necked, red-haired young guy, came up, pad clutched in his hand.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he greeted formally.
“Officer,” I returned, handing him my license, registration, and insurance card.
The radio clipped at his shoulder crackled. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
