Paid in Full (4 page)

She rubbed her forehead, as if to dislodge a thought that wouldn’t come. Something was bothering her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. The phone interrupted her thoughts. “Hello?”

“Maybe you don’t understand my English,” a terse female voice announced.

Ari sat straight up. “Is that how you always start a conversation, Detective Nelson?”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries, Ms. Adams.” Molly seethed across the line.

“What’s the matter?”

“Bob Watson is missing, and according to his wife, you paid them a visit late this afternoon during which time he left the house and hasn’t been seen since.”

Ari’s mouth went dry. When Bob sped off, she assumed that he would return soon. It was his nature to take flight instead of fight. She could remember countless times he had stormed out of a room, but he was a volcano, erupting and going dormant. That was his pattern. Now it was eleven o’clock, and he should have been back, if he was coming back.

“Ms. Adams, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Detective, every word. I did go to see them this afternoon, and discuss the damage to the property. Bob and Lily Watson are acting as the trustees of the property.”

Ari hoped her business-like attitude might deflect some of Molly’s hostility.

Molly sighed. “And that’s the
only
reason you went over there? Do you really think I’m going to believe that?” she asked, her voice shrill.

Ari was glad miles separated them, because if the detective had been in close proximity, she sounded as though she would strangle Ari. “You just happened to stop by after learning Bob Watson was accused of murder for a friendly chat? How stupid do you think I am? And am I supposed to believe that you just kept the discussion confined to painting and flooring?”

“Well . . .”

“I’m sure a bloody floor would be plenty of reason for Bob Watson to flee,” Molly added sarcastically. “Maybe he’s drowning his sorrows at a bar somewhere, terribly upset that he lost a sale!” Ari closed her mouth and just let the detective rant. “I suppose you know all about Michael Thorndike’s affair with Mrs. Watson. And how it almost ruined their marriage?”

“Yes,” Ari answered honestly, “we discussed that. But that was resolved a long time ago. They went to therapy and Bob forgave Lily for cheating on him. I think it shows a lot of character to be able to forgive your wife, even when you catch her in bed with her lover.” Ari couldn’t help but defend Bob to this woman who seemed to want to throw him in jail. The other end was silent for a while, and Ari wondered if Molly had hung up. “Are you still there, Detective?”

When Molly answered, it was slow and deliberate. “That part I didn’t know. Bob Watson actually found his wife in bed with Michael Thorndike?”

Ari’s hand clenched the receiver. “I thought Lily told you that.”

“No.”

“Well, I was told that in confidence,” Ari sputtered, “as a friend.”

“Let me tell you something, Ms. Adams. I’m not your friend. I’m a cop and this is a homicide investigation. So if you have any other information that could be useful in solving this crime I need to know about it right now.” Molly paused and waited. Ari was certain the detective didn’t know about Bob’s threat. “Well?” Molly barked.

Ari pursed her lips. A lie was forming, and she was about to say something when Molly roared, “Because of your interference, our prime suspect has disappeared. If you do not stay out of this investigation, I will have you arrested!” The phone slammed down in Ari’s ear.

She closed her eyes, letting her emotions swirl inside. The police would hunt for Bob. He certainly had motive, both personal and professional, and he had the opportunity. It looked very simple, but Bob’s reaction that afternoon was sheer shock, and Ari had only seen him like that once before. She was certain Bob Watson was telling the truth, and even if it meant going to jail, she would help her friend—if she could find him.

Chapter Three

Sunday, June 17

10:05 p.m.

Ordering the fourth shot of whiskey was a mistake. Molly passed from happily buzzed to somewhat incoherent. She shifted on the stool, catching the eye of a hungry redhead who raised her eyebrows in question. All she had to do was nod and she wouldn’t be alone tonight in her small, empty apartment. She let her eyes drop to the polished bar. She was tired. Tired of her life. Too many one-night stands, too many women and way too much drinking. Her life was like a terminally ill patient whom Molly had given up on a long time ago. Her failed relationships lined up in her mind, each of her lovers leaving with a door slam louder than the one previous. Rachel, her last partner and a fellow cop, had cracked the jamb.

Rehashing it made her crave another drink. She held up her hand, but Vicki, Hideaway’s favorite bartender, scowled and waved her off. Molly had to give her credit. The woman kept her in line and knew her limit, but this was Hideaway, the premier lesbian bar in Phoenix. The bartenders knew their regulars and knew how to keep them as regulars. Even on Sunday night, the place had a pulse. All of the bar stools were occupied, and a handful of women were bopping to the dance music. Most of the outer booths were empty, the patrons choosing to cluster together like a flock. Molly knew most of them by name and what size panties each wore. She’d slept with every woman who frequented Hideaway, mostly as one-night stands.

She motioned to Vicki for a glass of water and worked to sober up—it would be par for the day if she got a DUI. Inheriting the Michael Thorndike murder was the captain’s way of breaking her. She’d been hired by his predecessor and that was the first strike against her. Being the only lesbian detective was another, and her abrasive personality was the last. During her last evaluation, she’d been encouraged to “foster better social skills and peer communication.” In her opinion, she communicated just fine, letting many of her male co-workers know that she wouldn’t tolerate the traditional sexual harassment. She hated the good old boy network. It had been tough on the Spokane police force but Phoenix was worse.

Molly returned to the case at hand, very grateful that Michael Thorndike was discovered on a Sunday. By the time the press dogs had picked up the scent, the crime scene was secured and the body removed. So far, the crime scene yielded few clues. The bar’s countertop had been wiped clean as well as the broken patio door, save Ari’s thumb print. Hopefully, the lab results would glean some evidence, but she doubted there would be a smoking gun. They could have used one since the weapon was missing.

In hindsight, Molly should have opted to visit Deborah Thorndike, the grieving widow, but instead she gave that assignment to her partner, a rookie she didn’t quite trust yet. So while Andre had been doling out empathy and drinking iced tea on the Thorndike’s sun porch, Molly had been dodging daggers from Lily Watson at her front door and learning her husband had fled, a fact that seemed to please Lily somewhat. Ari’s previous visit had primed Lily for a fight, and she acted hostile and defensive toward Molly, responding to questions with clipped, terse answers and allowing the detective only to cross the threshold.

She glanced at the redhead who was still staring at her. The woman licked her lips, and Molly got an excellent view of her tongue ring. Molly started to stand up, her decision made, when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She quickly exited to a hallway, escaping the pounding music.

“Nelson.”

“Gee, Detective, it’s nice to know you’re out on the town while our prime suspect is missing!”

Molly moved further down the hallway toward the emergency exit, but Captain Ruskin had already made his point. “There’s nothing more I can do tonight, Captain. We’ve got Watson’s house under watch and a File Stop out for him and that Porsche. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“Aren’t women always the optimists,” Ruskin cracked. “I hope for your sake he does, Nelson. This is your ass. You let a homicide suspect slip through your fingers. I don’t understand how the hell that happened but you better find him or else you’ll be pulling third shift in Maryvale.”

The loud click ended the conversation before Molly could say another word. She unclenched her teeth and took a deep breath. The case wasn’t a day old and already it was a disaster, a ticking bomb sitting in her lap, ready to explode and blow her career into pieces.

She wanted another drink, but there was no way Vicki would serve her again. Maybe she and the redhead could stop at a mini- mart on the way. She made her way back toward the music, imagining the redhead going down on her, tongue stud and all, but the woman was gone.

Molly climbed into her truck and headed home. Crossing Central Avenue, she glanced right at the series of parallel lights that climbed toward the sky. According to her witness statement, Ari Adams lived in one of those condos. The thought of the woman made Molly’s blood boil and her face flush at the same time. If Ari hadn’t beaten her to the Watson’s house, they would have Bob in custody. He’d had no intention of running, which, Molly admitted made his guilt questionable. But once Ari had spoken to him, he was gone, and now Captain Ruskin was breathing down her neck. If he found out that Ari had tampered with the crime scene and warned Bob Watson about the arrival of the police, he would surely have her arrested. She snorted. If she did have to arrest Ari for obstructing an investigation, she’d have to take her straight to her bedroom instead of a jail cell.

Now there was a woman who wouldn’t be a one-night stand. She was too refined and sophisticated, definitely above something meaningless and cheap. She replayed their meeting at the crime scene and the way Ari sat perched in the SUV, poised like a model, tucking that random strand of hair behind her ear. When Molly had reached for Ari’s arm and taken her elbow, the physical contact sent a surge through Molly that surprised and overwhelmed her. Only when Ari asked her to let go did she even realize they were still connected. More powerful than the touch was Ari’s breathy voice, totally seductive.

Molly knew she didn’t stand a chance with Ari. An Elle McPherson businesswoman would never be seen on the arm of a lowly civil servant the size of a Chicago Bears lineman. Not likely, and probably not gay either if she really thought about it. Still, when Ari had smiled at her, she felt her knees go weak. Ari hadn’t noticed Molly leaning against the side of the SUV for support, all the while smiling back at her like an idiot.

Pulling into her parking space this late always sent a pang of loneliness through her chest. She hated living alone, but she’d resolved that after her last breakup, she wouldn’t jump into a relationship with just anybody. For the last year she had confined herself to meaningless sexual encounters, rationalizing them as worthy substitutes for love.

The answering machine blinked incessantly and a brilliant red number 2 shone above the light. She poured herself a whiskey, slapped the playback button and sat down at her piano. Her fingers glided across the keys, playing softly while the tape clicked several times. Molly made her ninetieth mental note to invest in voice mail.

Her brother Brian filled the room with his deep baritone. “Hey sis, how’s it going? Saw you on the news tonight. You were pointing and barking orders at some poor cop. Naw, I’m just kidding, you looked very professional. I hope you’re not still at work, but I’ll bet you are. Let’s get together and chat. Sorry I missed you.” Molly was sorry too. She was closest to Brian, mainly because they were both the black sheep, and they shared the same fiery temperament.

The machine beeped once more and a woman cleared her throat. “Detective Nelson, I hope you don’t mind that I called you at home. I tried the precinct, but they said you had already left.” Molly instantly recognized Ari Adams’s seductive voice. She rushed to the machine and leaned close. “I won’t tell you how I got your home phone number. I doubt you’d approve . . . it wasn’t exactly illegal, just maybe a tad questionable . . . but I guess you already know that sometimes I push the bounds of what is ethical,” Ari said with a slight giggle. “Anyway, I know I’m rambling, but I just felt so bad about Bob Watson running off. I had no idea that he would react like that, but I still think he’s innocent. I’m really sorry that it came back on you—I’m sure David Ruskin was a total asshole. Oh, sorry about the swearing. It’s just a really appropriate description of him, don’t you think?” Molly laughed out loud, totally agreeing. How did Ari know Ruskin? Probably because of her father. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m just really sorry. Oh, and in case you don’t recognize my voice, this is Ari Adams. Bye.”

A shrill sound announced the end of Molly’s messages. She replayed Ari’s five times, twice just to make sure she caught everything and three more times to hear Ari’s voice.

Molly returned to the piano and propped Michael Thorndike’s murder file on the music stand. Her fingers drifted across the keys as she scanned the day’s notes. On the surface, the case seemed simple. Michael Thorndike was helpful enough to leave the most incriminating clue—the name of his killer. Bob Watson certainly had a motive, and a shaky alibi at best, one her partner would check out first thing in the morning.

Still, it seemed too staged. Why had Thorndike’s body been in the living room? And while it didn’t look good for Bob Watson, Ari was adamant that he couldn’t be a killer. Thinking of Ari again, she played more forcefully, creating a new melody, one that was rather good. She had no idea where she was going—it was like an unplanned night drive, but she’d done it for so long, that she just had to follow the notes. Once in a while, Molly would create something brilliant, but she never wrote anything down. How many best-selling hits had literally slipped through her fingers?

Next door, her neighbor Mrs. Lyons clicked off her TV. The eighty-three year old liked to stay up late and watch
The Tonight Show
. That Jay Leno wasn’t nearly as good as Johnny Carson, but he did his best. Music flowed through the walls. Mrs. Lyons didn’t mind Molly’s music and she liked the idea that a police woman lived next door. Yet she could always tell when the detective was upset, such as tonight. The music captivated her, but it had a sad, forlorn tone—all of Molly’s best compositions did.