Knock Off (14 page)

Twelve

“I’m not a thief!” I yelled to the dumb dog, hearing the distinctive sound of fabric ripping over the wail of rapidly approaching sirens. Next I felt a warm trickle of blood at the back of my leg, which freaked me out. I consoled myself by acknowledging that at least I still
had
my leg. Amazing, given that I was being eaten alive by the Hound of the Baskervilles. I was completely convinced that the slobbering, growling guard dog was hell-bent on chomping me up like his new favorite chew-toy before spitting me out.

There was a quick, sharp whistle, then the dog gave me one last scowl before turning and jogging back to its master.

The dog’s handler wasn’t much of an improvement over the mangy—yet effective—animal. I recognized some German shepherd, some Doberman, and a few other breeds in the animal. Not exactly a former AKC champion. The man standing beside it I remained clinging for dear life to the chain-link fence as, one after another, three patrol cars skidded to a halt in a spray of gravel and shrieking sirens. They surrounded my car, then blinded me with white-hot spotlights.

“Thank God you’re here!” I called in desperation to the silhouette of an approaching officer. “This freaking dog is mauling me!”

“Hey, Charlie!” one of the officers called. “Hook up that dog so the lady can get down.”

Charlie? The garage owner is pals with the cops?
There was no way this was going to work in my favor.

“C’mon, Boo-Boo.”

I cringed. I’d been bitten in the butt by a dog named Boo-Boo? This was going from bad to worse to shit really fast.

After Charlie put the dog somewhere out of sight, he opened the padlock and let three sheriff’s deputies inside the lot. My fingers had gone numb. I was still dangling off the fence like a bloody cobweb.

“You can get down now,” the officer instructed. “Do you need help?” He pressed a button on the mike clipped at his shoulder. “We’ve got an injury incident at Charlie’s Garage. Four seventeen Perry Court.”

Injury incident?
What is it about cops that they can’t talk like the rest of us? A car is a
vehicle,
a woman is a
female,
going into a building is
entering a dwelling.
Geez, these guys could overcomplicate anything.

“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to hold on to my last shred of dignity. I was far from fine. My butt burned, and my worn-twice skirt had jagged rips even my miracle dry cleaner wouldn’t be able to fix. Oh, yeah, and I was probably in serious trouble.

A half-second before joining me and the cops, I got a whiff of Charlie. Stale beer and even staler cigar smoke.

He was every negative stereotype possible. His hair—and I’m using that term generously—was a dark, slick, greasy comb-over, that even the stiff gusts of wind whipping through the garage lot couldn’t budge. He was a big, beefy guy with no neck and arms the size of telephone poles.

Said arms were adorned with tattoos ranging from elaborate dragons to bare-breasted, winged women. Then there was the poignant one—a bright red heart with
Mom
printed in crooked script high up on his hairy shoulder.

His chin sported a few days’ worth of stubble. His fingernails had an even longer history of crud trapped in a black line. At some point in time, his torn and ratty T-shirt might have been white. Now it was a dingy shade of gray with as many stains as holes. Charlie was glaring at me, even as he checked out my boobs.

“You shouldn’t have put the dog on her,” the officer said.

Charlie shrugged and tucked the stub of an unlit cigar in the stained corner of his mouth. It fit perfectly, since Charlie was missing a few teeth on that side.

“She was trespassing.”

“Ma’am, want to explain what you’re doing here?”

Nerves sometimes make me say inappropriate things. I just can’t seem to find that filter between my brain and my mouth. I didn’t want to lie, but stretching the truth seemed a better alternative than admitting I was a nosy paralegal trying to prove something to myself. “Liam sent me.”

“McGarrity?” Charlie asked, suspicion dripping off each syllable.

“Yes. We’re working on a case together.”

“McGarrity sent you here?” Charlie challenged. “To climb my fence? Bullshit.”

“He didn’t actually send me, it’s kind of along the lines of me taking some initiative.” I could feel blood running down the back of my leg and considered fainting, but ve-toed the idea. I’d still have to explain myself when I “re-gained consciousness.” Might as well get this over with.

Of course, if I bled to death standing here, that would be a whole other problem.

Charlie addressed the officer. “Looked more like she was taking stuff out of that car.” He pointed to the smashed Caddy. “I’m responsible for the
ve
-hicles and the contents.”

He turned back to me, his foul breath filling the foot or so separating us. “I’m not getting sued again, so hand over whatever you stole, lady.”

Shit! The cup! I’d dropped it during my failed attempt to escape the jaws of death. Rubbing my hands over my face, I tried to think of a way to explain my actions that wouldn’t get me committed to the closest mental health fa-cility. “I’m Finley Tanner, and I work for Dane, Lieberman and Zarnowski.” I felt a touch of relief when the name seemed to register with the semicircle of men.

“You the broad who needs that car checked for tampering?” Charlie asked.

“Yes,” I practically wept. “I’m not a broad, though—” I stopped myself. This wasn’t a time for a lecture on appropriate word choices, and, besides, I didn’t think Charlie was the type to conform his vocabulary to political correctness. Hell, he probably couldn’t spell
correctness.
Or
political. Car
might even be a stretch. “Anyway, there was a paper cup in the car that I needed to retrieve. I didn’t think you were here, so I climbed the fence.”

“I live here,” Charlie grunted, as if it was normal to curl up next to barrels of used motor oil.

One of the officers received some sort of coded message over his radio, then pulled the other two aside in a huddle.

I looked around, desperate to find the cup. Letting out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, I spotted it next to a pile of rusty parts and old tires. Then I groaned. It was half-submerged in a puddle of God only knew what. I had a sinking feeling that wasn’t good for something I hoped to use as evidence.

The officers returned, crowding me while asking Charlie to check out my story with Liam. Grumbling all the way, Charlie went back inside the garage. Opening and closing the door quickly enough that Boo-Boo only had a chance to growl and attempt to lunge off the hopefully strong leash.

“We ran your plates.”

Glancing at the officer’s name tag—WILEY was printed in all capital letters—I asked, “Why?”

“Standard procedure when a suspect’s vehicle is found at the scene. You failed to mention that you received a citation and a summons today.”

“For exceeding the speed limit! I was late for brunch,” I explained. “Is that considered a major crime?”

“Sometimes. Can you account for your whereabouts

today?” he asked, pulling the same kind of pad and pencil from his shirt pocket that Liam had used the night before.

Where was the ambulance? And I wanted proof that Boo-Boo’s shots were current, too.

I struggled to coax the a question out of my mouth.

“Are you serious?”

“Miss Tanner, I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of the situation. Charlie would be completely in his rights to have you arrested right now. You’d better hope McGarrity backs up your story. Now, back to how you spent your day?”

Time to pull a few sympathy strings. “I got up early and did my usual workout.” So? He didn’t know my exercise was reaching for a coffee filter and standing on my toes to pour water in the reservoir of my coffee machine. “Then I went upstairs to feed my neighbor’s cats. Did some work from home. Got a death threat over the Internet that closely matched the death threat taped to my door the other night. Went to Dunkin’ Donuts for a latt—”

“Back up. You’ve been getting death threats?”

“Two. One was handwritten. The other was an instant message.”

“What was the name of the officer who took those reports?”

“I didn’t report them.” One look at his moderately handsome face and I knew what he was thinking. I explained my reasoning, but that only seemed to make it worse. “Officer Wiley, I’m between a rock and a hard place here. The client insists her husband was murdered. My boss wants me to pat her on the head and let it drop.”

“Your whereabouts?” I could see his black, polished shoe impatiently tapping the gravel.

“I got the ticket on my way to brunch,” I gave him the address of the country club as well as the names of at least three people who would verify my story. “I hit The Gardens Mall, shopped for a bit, then had some lettuce wraps at Chang’s.”

“So . . .” He thumbed back through his notes. “You claim you received a threatening communication; stopped for coffee; went to brunch; did some shopping; had a light meal and then, what? Pulling your first B & E seemed like a good way to round out the evening?”

My shoulders sank along with my spirits. “Sounds

pretty stupid when you say it like that, but yes.” I looked up into his brown eyes, hoping to find at least a hint of compassion. No such luck. “I’m in trouble?”

“There are usually repercussions to breaking the law.”

“I’m sure Liam will smooth things over with Charlie. I was referring to the threats. And my job. I can’t afford to get fired.”

“Because you were threatened?”

“No,” I didn’t think he wanted to hear my song and dance about Dane’s edict that I blow Stacy Evans’s concerns out the window. Or that I was already on the top of the employee shit list. Or that I was so far in debt that losing my job would be a complete disaster, not to mention a résumé killer, if it came to that. “Isn’t it obvious? Someone doesn’t want me looking into the murders of the jurors.”

“Perhaps it’s one of your coworkers?” he suggested.

“Maybe they’re just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

I immediately thought of Cami. But, while she was nosy, she didn’t seem like the type to send threatening notes.

Charlie came sauntering back, his expression as sour as my mood. “Got his voice mail. He must be doing a thing.”

“Can’t I just take the cup and leave?” I pleaded with Wiley. “I swear, this was a one-time thing. You’ll never see me again.”

“The last time I gave some punk a pass, he and his buddies were back the next day. Little bastards tagged half the cars on the lot. So, no.”

“Do I look like a closet graffiti artist?” I practically shouted at the unyielding jerk.

“You have great legs, but I’m still filing charges. If and when I hear from Liam, I might change my mind.”

I let my head fall forward as rage and a strong urge to cry jockeyed for position. The ambulance arrived, as did a few neighborhood gawkers alerted by the commotion. I heard their snickers, but I was well past the point of humiliation.

“Since this stupid charge is going to be dismissed,” I said to the officer, “would you at least do me the favor of bagging that cup and putting it back in the car so my investigator can collect it in the morning?”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Bag it? Big
CSI
fan, are you?”

Two EMS attendants flanked the gurney they were rolling my way. They transported me to the ambulance, then examined and cleaned my wound. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” the younger of the two pronounced before stepping outside.

The female tech began to apply sterile strips, then leaned close to my ear and whispered, “You may not need stitches, but you’ll definitely have to replace your thong.

Sorry, honey.”

It felt like a lifetime since I’d been in Tiffany’s trying on rings and silver bracelets.
Be careful what you wish for,
the little voice in my head mocked as one of the officers eased my hands behind my back and slapped handcuffs on my wrists.

Just like on TV, he placed his hand on my head, protecting it as he placed me in the backseat of the cruiser. As he clicked my lap belt into place, I asked, “What about my purse? And my car?”
And my life?

He stood and yelled, “Hey, Tidwell, grab her purse and lock up the Beamer.”

“You’re leaving it here?” I asked, horrified. If the locals didn’t strip it, I was pretty sure Charlie would take revenge by sugaring the gas tank or something equally macho.

“Of course not,” he assured me.

At least that was something.

“It’ll be towed to the impound yard. You can claim it if and when you make bail.”

Bail.
Bail?
We’d driven maybe three feet when I asked, “How long does that take?”

He shrugged on the other side of the protective wire mesh. “You have to go through Intake. Then if there’s a judge still sitting night court, you could be released tonight. More than likely, it will be sometime tomorrow.”

A night in jail? The thought of it made me shiver. “I want to call my lawyer immediately.”

“Now I
know
you watch too much television.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, feeling like I was star-ring in a revival of
The Twilight Zone.

“The Supreme Court says you get to call your attorney.

But they don’t say when. So long as no one interrogates you, Miranda doesn’t apply.”

Not the best time to find out all the things I’d learned on
NYPD Blue
were crap. “Please?” Now I was begging.

“You could make the call. Her name’s Rebecca Jameson. I really don’t want to spend the night in jail.”

“In my twelve years on the force, I’ve never met anyone who did.”

My fingertips were black, and my French manicure was completely ruined. Because my skirt was in such shreds, I’d been given a white jumpsuit with DOC stamped in big letters on the back. The nice desk sergeant did allow me to keep my pearls, but only because they weren’t visible beneath the ill-fitting ensemble.

I also had to relinquish my peek-a-boo sandals and was forced to wear rubber shower shoes that, even though they smelled heavily of disinfectant, creeped me out. They were the inmate version of rental bowling shoes—I had no idea where they’d been, and I cringed just thinking about it.