Read Meow is for Murder Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
Meow is for Murder (13 page)
When Mitch turned to that article, not only was Amanda mentioned as a possible suspect, but several paragraphs were devoted to my knowing her—plus my own recent forays into far too many murder investigations.
The byline? You guessed it. The reporter who’d attempted so assertively to interview me: multimedia maven Corina Carey.
I didn’t actually owe Mitch an explanation. Even so, I said, “She wrote this without my input or cooperation.” Time to turn the subject to something different—fast. Although I made a mental note to pick up a copy of the
Times
somewhere, later. And hope I didn’t get heartburn from sizzling over the contents of that article. “Anyway, I assume you’re here so we can discuss potential attorney referrals for Amanda during the police investigation of Leon’s death, in case they continue to regard her as a person of interest—or, worse, a suspect.”
Times
somewhere, later. And hope I didn’t get heartburn from sizzling over the contents of that article. “Anyway, I assume you’re here so we can discuss potential attorney referrals for Amanda during the police investigation of Leon’s death, in case they continue to regard her as a person of interest—or, worse, a suspect.”
“Well, sure, we can talk about it.” Mitch appeared a little affronted. Or maybe that pallor was created by the hazy light haloing from the window. In any event, he placed his reclasped briefcase on the floor and faced me with a frown. “But there’s been a little misunderstanding. I told her that while I’m mostly a civil litigator, I do criminal work, too—although I’ve never represented a defendant in a possible murder trial. I handled her temporary restraining order against Leon, you know.”
“So she said. But are you suggesting that you represent her now? If you’ve no experience in potential first-degree murder cases, maybe that’s not such a great idea.” I folded my arms, unsure whether I intended to do battle, but preparing at least for a protracted disagreement. The guy’s ego was definitely overflowing into our conversation.
“You’d be right, Kendra, if I didn’t take all the steps available to educate myself and do a great job for Amanda.”
“What steps are those, Mitch?” I inquired with an ingenuous smile, as if I expected him to spout a good answer.
To my amazement, he actually did. “I’ve found myself cocounsel of impeccable credentials.” The name he dropped was that and a whole lot more. Quentin Rush was the most recent lawyer to get celebrity murder suspects exonerated in high-profile criminal trials. “He’s promised to go over all evidence with me and sit second chair in the unlikely event this matter winds up in court.”
Well, hell. The wind was definitely out of my anticipatory sails. I admitted to myself how impressed I was with this guy’s gumption.
“That could work well,” I admitted, relieved despite myself. I mean, I’d committed to assist Amanda in exonerating herself. I’d certainly not volunteered to act as her criminal counsel, since all the litigation I’d ever done was on the civil side. And I hadn’t wanted to hand her a referral to my own excellent criminal attorney, Esther Ickes. I liked Esther way too much to wish Amanda on her. I’d come to today’s meeting prepared to provide an alternate referral, to Martin Skull. He’d represented one of my two original tenants when they both were murder suspects and their interests had started to diverge enough to require separate counsel.
“Kendra. Mitch. Hi.” The female voice reverberated through the reception area. I turned simultaneously with the other attorney to face Amanda.
Her pretty features seemed drawn and dismal—perhaps as a reaction to the LAPD staying steadfastly on her case. But did she apologize for taking that out on me? Hardly.
“Come with me,” she directed. “I’ve reserved a small room where the doctors usually counsel patients and their families. It’s got a table and chairs—maybe a little like an attorney’s conference room.”
“Sounds good,” Mitch said.
The chamber to which she ushered us was indeed very small, and smelled of something antiseptic. The examination table in the middle of the room was no larger than one that could be found in a compact kitchen, and around it were packed six plain wooden chairs. About the edges of the room were several sorts of medical equipment I couldn’t identify, all full of tubes and wires and gauges. Beyond them, on the walls, was another assortment of original watercolors.
Mitch and I sat while Amanda left us alone again for five minutes, returning with plastic cups and a bottle of mineral water. I didn’t even want to imagine what those cups might alternately be used for in a doctors’ office. I decided I wasn’t an iota thirsty after all.
“So,” Amanda said brightly. “I guess, first thing, since I’m surrounded by lawyers, is to talk about who I should hire to represent me. Fast. When I heard from that Detective Noralles last night, he told me to come to his police station later today just to talk.”
“Without counsel present?” Mitch asked angrily. “He should know better.”
So should Mitch, I imagined. As long as Amanda was simply being questioned as a possible witness, and wasn’t in custody, she wouldn’t be read her Miranda rights, which would inform her of her right to counsel.
No matter. If she wanted to bring a lawyer along from the get-go, the cops shouldn’t tell that attorney to get gone.
“In any event,” Mitch went on, “I was just explaining to Kendra that there might be a misunderstanding that I’ve easily corrected.” He went on to tell her what he’d just enlightened me about—including the name of the illustrious media-impressing attorney whom he’d enlisted as his assistant: Quentin Rush.
Amanda’s gray eyes glowed in apparent optimism. “That’s great. Now I won’t even have to think about hiring anyone else.” Nevertheless, she shot a gaze to me as if questioning my concurrence.
“Mitch’s solution sounds fine to me,” I said.
That settled, Amanda said, “If you can wait just a few minutes, I’ve told some people that you’d be here and that you needed their opinions on whether I could have done anything to Leon.” She leaned conspiratorially toward us over the table. “What I think, though, is that these people really disliked Leon. Not that I believe either one killed him,” she interjected hastily. “At least I don’t think so. But, Kendra, you asked for me to introduce you to at least a few potential suspects that you could start investigating, right?”
Her change of mood from last night annoyed me. In the interest of accomplishing something, I played it commensurately cool and nodded. “Even if they don’t seem murderous to me, their answers to questions could point to other suspects.” I turned to Mitch. “I hope Amanda informed you that she asked for my assistance this way. But if you feel I’m treading on your toes, I’ll stop.” Which would in effect breach our semiserious contract and give me a great excuse to walk away—which I could always do anyway. But, hey, I didn’t want to hand Amanda the satisfaction of seeing me quit.
“No,” Mitch said. “Go ahead and help Amanda, Kendra. She told me your agreement, and if I wasn’t already aware of your expertise in handling homicide investigations, that newspaper article gave a lot of interesting details.”
Oh, joy. Seldom had I wanted to throttle someone more than I did reporter Corina Carey. But maybe all she’d shoved into her story was nothing but the truth.
“I’m sure,” I said acerbically. Then, to Amanda, I said, “Okay. Bring on your first Leon-loather.”
That happened to be Amanda’s direct boss, Dr. Henry Grant, a cardiologist extraordinaire, if his description of his credentials was to be believed. And who was I to doubt such an illustrious physician—notwithstanding the fact that he resembled Jonesy, a Welsh terrier whose acquaintance I’d once made, with his short, neat brown hair and matching, close-cut wiry beard.
He entered the room with his white lab coat open and his eyes on the watch on his wrist. When he looked up, he smiled all around. “So this is Amanda’s defense team. I’m delighted to meet you. This is all such a travesty. First the poor woman is hounded by that terrible man, and then she’s accused of killing him.”
“By ‘that terrible man,’ I assume you’re referring to Leon Lucero?” I asked. At his nod I said, “Wasn’t he your patient?”
The doctor unexpectedly slumped into a seat. “Yes, more’s the pity. The man was a malingerer. I have too many genuinely ill people to see to spend time with someone like him, and yet with all his complaints I couldn’t simply throw him out. What if there was something wrong with him that I hadn’t yet found? Not that I truly believed there could be. And, well, I’m much too thorough for that really to occur.”
“So why didn’t you just tell him to get another doctor?” Mitch demanded, as if extracting the words right out of my mouth.
Dr. Grant’s hairy face turned furious. “The bastard threatened me,” he growled. “Said he’d make sure everyone knew what a lousy doctor I am—that I couldn’t diagnose the heart condition that made his chest hurt and the rest of his body weak. He’d publicize it to all my patients. Make sure the media investigated me. Sue me.” His voice had risen until the last words erupted in an enraged shout.
I couldn’t help sliding a slightly triumphant gaze toward Mitch, whose pleased nod was nearly imperceptible. Motive? Maybe. But it would absolutely merit further investigation.
“I understand how frustrating that could be,” I responded mildly.
“And I know what you’re thinking,” the doctor shot back. “That I was a wimp. The SOB was stalking one of my own employees, but I let his threats overshadow that fact and allowed him to keep coming back. And I knew about that stalking, and how he wouldn’t leave Amanda alone, so maybe that gave me a reason to kill him myself. Well, I didn’t.” He swiveled his glare from me to Mitch and back again, and then turned it to Amanda for good measure.
She’d been sitting still in her chair nearest the window, simply watching our exchange and letting the putative pros deal with her doctor. Now, she blanched and brayed, “Of course not, Dr. Grant. No one would ever accuse you of that.”
She looked toward me first for confirmation.
“We’re just after the truth,” I equivocated. “Investigating the facts. That’s all.”
“Well, I’ve told you all I know. And I’ve a room full of patients waiting.”
“Thanks for your time,” I called after him as the last vestige of his white lab coat vanished from the room.
“Interesting possibilities,” Mitch mused when the three of us were alone once more.
“If he can use medical instruments, he probably knows his way around a screwdriver,” I asserted in agreement.
“But he said he didn’t do it,” Amanda dissented. “And I believe him.”
“But disbelieving him gives us another avenue to explore to absolve you from any murder charge,” I pointed out.
“Well . . . he’s not your boss. Go ahead and disbelieve him. Wait here, though. There’s a patient who’s always here at this time every week, and I want you to meet him, too.” A pause that seemed saturated with unspoken meaning, and then she said, “I dated him for a while, after I stopped seeing Leon.” With that, Amanda followed her boss out of our presence.
She strolled back in only a few minutes later with a guy who appeared to be exactly Amanda’s type: tall and a Chippendale’s candidate—at least he appeared so with his clothes on. Nice clothes, too: a snug black T-shirt tucked into gray slacks, with a casual charcoal sport jacket overtop.
I sucked my own tongue back into my mouth and smiled a pleasant greeting as Amanda said, “Kennedy McCaffrey, this is Kendra Ballantyne and Mitch Severin.”
“Glad to meet you,” he said, and held out a hand that, inevitably, provided a firm-gripped shake. His hair was blond, his complexion tanned, notwithstanding the L.A. winter, and his features were film-star gorgeous.
Perfection!
And yet . . . “You’re a regular patient here?” I heard myself blurt out. Well, I hadn’t promised to stay tactful, though the health of this amazing specimen of mankind was likely to be irrelevant in my pursuit of who slew Leon.
“Unfortunately,” he said, shrugging one massive shoulder as he took a seat. “Long story, but I’m likely to wind up with a heart transplant someday.”
Wow, looks could be deceiving! If I’d had to guess, I’d never have imagined this man to be anything less than in impeccably perfect health.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Then, sizing him up as I spoke, I said, “Do you have enough strength to wield a screwdriver?”
I expected him to act as affronted as the previous potential suspect had. Instead, he laughed.
“Sure. In fact, I’m in the contracting business part time—when I’m not painting or writing screenplays. I take as good care of myself as I can in a body with a failing heart. And I hated that asshole Leon Lucero, if that’s your next question. But did I use a screwdriver on him? Nope. As much as I’d love to see the heat off Amanda, it doesn’t belong on me.”
“Okay,” I acknowledged, my head suddenly swimming with questions his mini-speech had generated.
But before I could issue any, Mitch Severin slung one out. “You hated Leon? Why?”
“For one thing, I like Amanda.” He inched his fingers along the table toward where her hand lay and gave it a squeeze. They shared a smile—one that illuminated the entire room. Two striking people beaming at one another. Electric!
But then Kennedy returned his attention to Mitch. “Plus, the guy was an outright thief. In my spare time, I like to do creative stuff. No one has ever bought any of my screenplays yet, but my watercolors are becoming kind of popular, at least around here.”
Other books
Bay of Sighs by Nora Roberts
The Confession by Sierra Kincade
Waking Evil 02 by Kylie Brant
Brilliant Hues by Naomi Kinsman
Deadrise by Gardner, Steven R.
The Stranger by Max Frei, Polly Gannon
TroubleinChaps by Ciana Stone
Just One Kiss by Carla Cassidy
Tempting the Cowboy by Elizabeth Otto
Something New by Janis Thomas
