Knock Off (16 page)

Hopefully, I wouldn’t get fired, but I couldn’t be sure.

Becky would fall on her sword for me, but it was the partners who’d make the ultimate decision. I needed this job, and there was a very real possibility that solving the murders was the only way I’d get to keep it. Or, in the event they fired me, get it back. Uncovering a triple murderer was the only card I had in my deck.

The partner pow-wow couldn’t last forever, so I had to act fast. Retrieving my copies, I sealed them in an overnight envelope addressed to Liv. Then, just in case anyone was watching the outgoing mail from my floor, I went up one level, waited until the coast was clear, and added my package to the middle of the outgoing stack of mail.

Back in my office, I put the hospital-supplied originals safely back with the other Evans materials. Speaking of hospitals, I called JFK, pretended to be a florist, and asked for the best time to bring a delivery to Nurse Callahan. She was working the three-to-eleven shift, but the supervisor suggested I bring them right over, offering to hold them in the employee lounge until the nurse arrived. I thanked her and claimed I’d have to check with the owner.

I’d wait until her shift ended, then confront her. “With what?” I mumbled, frustrated beyond belief.

Staying with blackmail as the motive for the jury murders, I tried to think of possible scenarios that could include the nurse and explain why Dr. Hall had mentioned her to Vain Dane outside the presence of his family.

Attorney-client privilege pretty much gave the doctor carte blanche to tell Dane anything without worrying about the consequences. Perhaps he’d used the opportunity to admit he’d injected Keller with something that brought on the heart attack at the Kravis Center. The nurse possibly figured that out, altered the medical records, and was holding the postmortem test results over his head in order to collect blackmail.

Except Keller was the one with a safe full of cash. I sighed loudly. No part of that scenario explained why Marcus or the gardener were killed. I was missing something.

I spent the next thirty minutes returning calls and making appointments with most of the remaining jurors. They were all pretty annoyed when I wouldn’t discuss the matter with them over the phone, but too bad. This was still my case, and I was making the rules. In the end, I managed to set up appointments with them, but it would take the next few days for me to meet them all.

Juror Number Twelve was one of the two who hadn’t contacted me. Her name was Paula Yardley, and she answered her phone on the second ring.

I introduced myself, then said, “I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

“I’m very busy, Miss Tanner. Besides, as I told Mrs.

Evans, I haven’t spoken to any of the other jurors since the trial ended. It isn’t like we hold reunions or anything.”

My cell phone rang. It was Stacy calling. I didn’t dare risk offending Mrs. Yardley, so I pressed one button and muted the ring. “I understand, and I promise I’ll be as brief as possible.”

“Oh, okay. Can you meet me at Dance-A-Lot at three-thirty?”

Was she suggesting some sort of clandestine location?

“Excuse me?”

“My daughters have ballet this afternoon. We can talk during their class.”

Not very clandestine. Mrs. Yardley gave me the address, and I wrote it down. I was about to call Dave Rice, Juror Number Five, when the intercom on my desk phone buzzed. My heart stopped. It was probably the executive assistant summoning me upstairs so I could hear my fate.

No, I decided as the intercom buzzed again, I still hadn’t heard from Becky, and she wouldn’t leave me dangling if a decision had been made.

“Yes?”

“Patrick Lachey on line seven,” Margaret announced curtly.

“Thank you,” I said, disconnecting her and switching to the incoming call. “Hi.”

“Hi back,” his voice was a little off.

“Is everything okay? Where are you?”

“PBI terminal. Landed a little while ago.”

That was a fast trip
. “Welcome home.” I thought about how good it would feel to be held in his arms. “I missed you.”

“Really?” The “off” in his tone now sounded a lot more like annoyance. I had a ridiculous thought that Patrick had somehow telepathically learned of my dirty dreams featur-ing a gloriously naked Liam. Intellectually I knew that was impossible, but I still felt a slap of guilt. “Of course I missed you! Why would you ask me that?”

“I’m holding the morning paper, Fin. Tell me this is some sort of misprint and you didn’t get arrested.”

“The charges are being dropped. It was just a simple misunderstanding.”

“People don’t get arrested over a misunderstanding.”

Guilt disappeared. Now it was my turn to be miffed. “I was working my case.”

“What case?”

Miffed? Make that full-blown pissed. “The one I told you about the other night? Remember?”

“Not really,” he said. Patrick was nothing if not honest.

“Tell me again.”

“Jurors being murdered? Ring any bells?”

“Oh, right. How did that get you arrested?”

I didn’t feel much like explaining myself to him. I was filtering his comments through my trepidation and tenuous job status. Not fair, and Patrick deserved better than being on the short end of my bad mood. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you for the roses, by the way. They were lovely.”

“So are you,” he said in a soft, low voice. He was back to Sweet, Understanding Patrick. “Are you free tonight?”

“I’ve got some appointments, but we can have drinks.”

“I was thinking of something a little more, um, up close and personal than a drink. I have a present for you.”

I found myself smiling. “Just one?”

“It was a quick trip, remember?” he teased back.

“Care to give me a hint?”

“Your hands will never be the same.”

I vacillated between excitement and abject terror. When a guy you’ve been in a relationship says the word “hand,”

a ring is definitely one of the options. A good one. Right? I could build a nice, stable life with Patrick. I should want that.

“Fin?”

I snapped out of my fog. “Well, um, I can meet you late.

Around midnight?” That worked on two levels. It gave me time to ambush the nurse after her shift, and staying at Patrick’s was way better than asking Sam to spend another night on my couch.

“Fine, but why so late?”

“I told you, I’ve got some meetings.” I’d tell him about the threats when we were together. I didn’t want him to freak out. Not that he’d ever done that before, but this was a new situation, and I had no idea how he’d take it.

“I’ll see you then. Take care.”

Take care?
That whole ring option suddenly wasn’t looking real good.

I tried Dave Rice’s number. A frail female voice answered.

I did my introduction thing, then said, “Is there any possibility I could meet with your husband?”

“He works until seven,” she explained, each syllable sounding like it was being pulled from her throat with pli-ers. “You can try him back then.”

“Thank you.” I made a note for myself and programmed his number into my cell phone. He was at work? I grabbed the juror questionnaires and pulled his from the stack. At the time of the Hall trial, Dave Rice had listed himself as unemployed. But that was three years ago, so it made perfect sense that he’d found a job by now.

It was after ten and I still hadn’t gotten any official word from on high. I had hope. I also had to meet Juror Number Four, Wanda Babbish, before the lunch shift started at the café where she waitressed. Luckily, Café Normandy was only a few blocks from the office.

I reapplied lip gloss and checked my makeup. I’d pulled my hair back in a ponytail this morning—it just seemed to work with the BCBG theme I’d chosen for the day. Also, the black slim-flare pants hid the ugly scratch marks where Boo-Boo’s teeth had missed their mark. My butt was in a sling, and it hurt, literally adding insult to injury. My BCBG embroidered tulle top was lacy and feminine, so the ponytail gave me a little bit of workplace-appropriate balance.

The ensemble truly represented one of my greatest bargain days ever. Since one trouser leg was shorter than the other—not a problem for me as I had to have them hemmed anyway—they’d been marked down to a mere forty bucks.

The vellum-colored shirt was only thirty-eight dollars because one of the button-and-loop closures had been ripped by some careless shopper and the button was missing.

However, I was able to discreetly rip a matching button off another top in a different size, so problem solved. No, I’m not a clothing criminal—the second top was missing two buttons already and had a big snag in the embroidery, so I considered it a salvage operation more than out-and-out theft.

My purse was black canvas from the Liz Claiborne outlet. Fourteen bucks. Matching watch—another thirty. I was getting really good at this whole bargain-hunting thing. Well, except for the shoes. They were Betsey Johnson Rosy peep-toe pumps, and the small flowers added just the perfect splash of color to complement my ensemble. I’d gotten them at auction on eBay, so after shipping and handling charges, I think I only knocked about forty dollars off the regular retail of nearly two hundred.

Speaking of eBay and Betsey Johnson, I quickly wiggled the mouse on my computer so I could check the status of my auction bids. It wouldn’t let me log on. I tried again, thinking maybe I had keyed a typo into my password, but, no. Still nothing but that annoying yellow triangle with the big exclamation point.

I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tried logging on to one of my other favorite sites, perfumebay.com, and it rejected me, too. Someone had changed the firewall settings on my computer, restricting my Internet access.

Okay, tracking my comings and goings was one thing—

screwing with my online shopping was just . . . mean!

I doubted complaining would do me much good. Nor, I was fairly sure, would the EEOC consider limited Internet access part and parcel of an actionable claim of a hostile work environment.

As if being banished back to catalog shopping wasn’t bad enough, Margaret called to let me know Mr. Dane wanted me in his office immediately. I hadn’t heard her sound that cheerful in all my years at the firm. Forget a Snoopy dance, she was probably up on her desk shaking her fifty-five-year-old groove thing.

I put my purse back in the drawer and wondered if I should take a notepad or something. I wasn’t sure if there was some sort of protocol for this situation. The last time I’d been fired I was sixteen. Eight days of smelling like a French fry had left me more than happy to turn in my burger-joint uniform and matching visor.

Stomach clenched and empty-handed, I took the elevator to the top floor with a funeral dirge playing in my head. Unlike my last visit, the sentry took one look at me and said, “Go right in.”

Straightening my spine and mustering all my dignity, I went to Dane’s closed door, knocked twice, then entered.

He was leaning back in his chair, scowling, his eyes narrow and irate as he wordlessly watched me take the long walk to his desk.

He angrily tossed his pen on the blotter. “Jesus Christ, Finley. Do you know who called me this morning?”

Since you just used the Lord’s name in vain, I’m guessing it wasn’t the pope.
“No sir.”

“Jason Quinn.
The
Jason Quinn.”

“I’ve seen him on TV.”

“Sit down,” he growled. “You’ve put this firm, and me personally, in an untenable position. All you were supposed to do was handle a simple estate matter.”

“I’m doing that.”

“By getting arrested at the behest of one client, then accusing another client of threatening you? Dr. Hall could file a defamation suit against you—and, since you’re an employee, the firm.”

“For what?”

“You claimed Dr. Hall was threatening you, without so much as a shred of proof.”

“That isn’t what I said. I told them I was looking into the deaths of three jurors who’d served on his civil trial and that I had been threatened as a result of my investigation.”

“We’ll get to the alleged threats in a minute.”

“Due respect, sir. There was nothing alleged about the note pinned to my door. I have it downstairs. I can show it to you.”

“I’m not all that interested in seeing it. Not only does Dr. Hall have a legitimate cause of action because of your baseless accusations, Jason Quinn represents the Keller family. He threatened to file a complaint against me with the bar association because you grilled his wife about the money.”

I felt my own temper flare. Tightly, I said, “She brought up the money, Mr. Dane. Not me. Until then, I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Her son doesn’t believe that. And, frankly, I’m not sure I do, either. That issue is being handled for the Kellers by Mr. Quinn and a representative of the Bank of South Florida.

Approaching Mrs. Keller could be construed as an attempt by this firm to interfere in the attorney-client relationship.”

“It’s money Mr. Keller extorted from Dr. Hall, though, right?”

Dane looked like he wanted to jump across his desk and wrap his spray-tanned hands around my throat. “Where would you get an idiotic idea like that?”

“Mr. Keller was murdered. His safe was full of cash. It’s the most logical explanation.”

“For the love of—” his voice trailed off as he glanced at the ceiling. “The money was inappropriately in the posses-sion of Mr. Keller, but it did not come from Dr. Hall.”

“You’re sure of that because?”

“Because Jason Quinn is a top-notch attorney, and while I won’t divulge details to you, I’m satisfied that the matter is unrelated and being handled accordingly. It’s not our concern. Keller was not murdered, Finley. He had a heart attack in front of a couple of hundred witnesses. All you’ve done is impugn Dr. Hall’s reputation, interfere with pending negotiations between one of this state’s premiere attorneys, and get Stacy Evans all worked up over nothing.”

“I don’t think it’s nothing. There’s a third juror who also died under mysterious circumstances.”

“Wrong. I spoke to Sharon Ellis. She runs the Environmental Studies Center. There isn’t a scintilla of evidence to support your theory that his death was anything other than a tragic accident.”