The Stiff and the Dead (18 page)

“Why? I can get ready in—” I looked at my watch. “A half hour.”

He looked at me. “Obviously you've been sitting in your car longer than a few minutes. And—” He looked me up and down. “I'm sure you could get ready in a few minutes, but this is important.”

As if my date wasn't.

I dug around again in my purse and called Nick. He understood about work—but I hadn't mentioned that I was with Jagger. “Tomorrow?” I asked, trying to see Jagger's reaction through my peripheral vision.

Nothing.

So what was new? “That'd be great. And, sorry, Nick.” I made sure Jagger could hear and added, “I really was looking forward to tonight.” I tried to sound sexy, but came out sounding more like a middle-ager who'd just exercised. I pressed the red button and tried to shove the phone back in my purse.

“What the hell do you carry in that thing?”

I looked around the car. “At least it doesn't look as if I live out of my purse. I pulled out my calculator, tissues and . . . I shoved the Tampax tampon further inside.

My glasses case fell out.

Jagger bent to get it at the same time I did.

Whoa, boy.

My hand touched his. His fingers burned mine. My breath held. His breath burned my cheek. And together we picked up the glasses case.

“I didn't know you wore glasses, Sherlock.” He took back his hand.

“Oh. I . . . don't . . . They are . . .”
Pull yourself together, Pauline!
I blinked a few times, as if that would clear my mind. “They are . . . oh, my, Jagger!”

He pulled back.

“They're a camera. A camera! Nick helped me buy them, just like my beeper.”

I think Jagger growled.

Maybe I imagined it, but he did make some sound that said, “Not Nick again.” I waved the glasses at him. “I have pictures of Leo and a Billy Idol lookalike! Arguing. I think they were arguing.”

Jagger shook his head once, turned on the engine and drove out.

Before I could ask a clear, nonsensical question, we had pulled into the parking lot of his “friend's” place where my film was developed, and then we drove to my condo to view the photos.

When the engine turned off, Jagger looked at me. “I hope this isn't like the beeper film.”

As I walked across the parking lot, inside the condo, and through the kitchen door to let Spanky out and back in, I mumbled on and on about the beeper film not being my fault. Jagger had stopped listening around the first step up my porch. I could tell by that glassy look in his eyes, but I kept rambling on as if that would convince him of something I knew was my fault.

This time, on my coffee break, I'd studied the directions of the camera/glasses.

But that didn't make me any more confident as I clutched the envelope in my hands, sat next to Jagger on the couch—and held my breath.

“Let's see the video first,” he said.

Gulp.

I took the remote, turned on the TV and the VCR and held my breath even longer.

The screen turned royal blue. I figured my lips would soon be that same shade if I didn't take a deep breath. I did and then the screen flickered, fuzzed and then brightly colored packages of condoms filled the picture. I thought I'd been looking at Leo and Billy—but apparently not.

Jagger turned to me.

I refused to blush. “Hey, I was in a pharmacy, for crying out loud.”

Then Leo and Billy appeared, arguing. Every once in a while a package of Ortho Tri-Cyclen, Nordette or the Ortho Evra patch would show up in the picture.

That's when I'd swallow so loudly even Spanky looked up.

The camera kept panning in to them, then to the birth control stuff, then back until I thought I'd get seasick. I had to learn not to keep looking away when I had on those glasses.

The screen turned blue after several minutes.

“That's all you took?”

“I . . . I didn't want them to see me. Besides, that was good stuff. Maybe Billy killed Leo because he was gouging the price of Viagra. What the hell would a kid his age want with Viagra anyway?” I really didn't want an answer to that, I realized, when Jagger turned to me. “Something illegal?”

“Kids use it to enhance the effects of Ecstasy. Mostly at Rave parties. Sustains an erection . . .”

I know Jagger was talking. His lips were still moving. But my Catholic-induced conscience had shut down my hearing.

Erections!

I was sitting in my living room with a guy fantasies are made about (at least mine were), and he's talking erections.

Maybe I
should
go back to nursing.

Jagger had left last night soon after the viewing of my surveillance tape, but not before a snide comment about seasickness, and the photos weren't any better. Good thing he'd left, 'cause I couldn't have sat there staring at him much longer. There was something that tested my self-control each time I was alone with him. Something I wasn't getting any better at ignoring.

So, I got up early this morning to meet him at Dunkin Donuts. We'd have a few hours before I had to be at the clinic. I couldn't imagine what work would be like with Leo's possible murder hanging over everyone.

I had tossed and turned all night worrying about Hildy. I hoped to hell that she didn't have anything to do with it. After all, she'd never had a good thing to say about Leo. Then again, I'd heard him being short or snappy to several of the pharmacy staff. Leo didn't seem to have any friends there. It had dawned on me around midnight: my case with Sophie might come to an end—without my help.

If her stepson was killed, would she continue her illegal claim filing? And how would I “get her” on that?

But the real clinker that stole my beauty sleep was, now that Leo was dead, was Jagger's case over?

I'd called Goldie around one thirty in the morning not a bit worried that I'd wake him. Goldie was an owl. He required very little sleep and had said I could call him anytime. He'd agreed to meet me at lunchtime to go over some things. It was then I'd decided not to ask Nick for help with work.

After all, we were an “us” now, and pleasure came before business when you were still single at my age.

I did my morning routine, kissed Spanky on his little squirrel head and ran out the door. Today was a beautiful sunny winter day. The old snow from weeks ago had melted, leaving golden yellow grass and twigs of trees to hint at spring. I only wished it would come soon—except for the fact that it would then mean my birthday would have come and gone.

Nick was looking better and better.

On the drive to meet Jagger, I allowed myself to wonder if Nick liked kids.

Why? I had no idea, I told myself when I pulled up next to the black SUV and felt a bit Jagger-induced jittery before my first cup of caffeine.

Jagger already had our order in the car and motioned for me to come sit in the passenger's seat.

I opened the door, inhaled hazelnut mixed with his scent of male. “Smells good,” I said, taking the coffee into my cold hands. I held the cup a few minutes before taking a sip. I noticed my French cruller sat on the dashboard. “What if I wanted jelly today?”

He looked at me.

Damn. I hated him knowing me so well when he was such an enigma.

“I talked to Shatley. He wants your tape and photos.”

“My tape!” Suddenly I felt scared. “My photos!” It made sense that a homicide investigator would want my surveillance stuff, since I might have been witnessing a pre-murder argument.

And the killer was still at large.

If it got out that I had the stuff and had seen them . . .

“Do I have to give them to him?” I took a large bite of donut that I really didn't want anymore.

“Why wouldn't you?” He looked at me. With one finger, he wiped a dollop of sugar from my lip.

Suddenly I forgot what we were talking about.

“Look Sherlock, whoever killed Leo, if, in fact he was killed, more than likely murdered Wisnowski, too.”

That's right. Murder. We were talking murder. “Right. But if that's the case, the kid Billy might not be the one.”

“Let Shatley deal with the deaths. Your job is nailing Sophie—before someone bumps her off.”

“Whaaaaaaaat?” I started coughing on a piece of donut. “Do you really think someone will kill
her
too?” I nearly coughed up my coffee and the cruller bites I didn't want.

“Sherlock, in this business, anything is possible. You have to start thinking that way.”

“Be suspicious until proven not guilty.”

He took his coffee, looked at me over the rim, and swallowed. “We have to go talk to Shatley now.”

I couldn't eat another bite.

“Good to see you again, Pauline,” Lieutenant Shatley said, taking my hand in a firm grip.

I smiled, not being able to shake the nervous feeling from being in the police station.

And being questioned about a possible murder.

Why did I feel guilty?

Had to be that old conscience thing again. Someone who had little, if any, conscience wouldn't be nervous. I sucked it up and answered all of the lieutenant's questions and gave him my tape and pictures.

They really didn't help my case anyway.

Truthfully, they really didn't help Shatley's case either.

I had to get back to Sophie. Fabio would be calling me any day now, asking for an update. And what could I give him? Sophie is doing something illegal—but I can't prove it. Sure. That would go over big with my boss.

We said our goodbyes, and Jagger walked me to the parking lot. I'd taken my own car from Dunkin Donuts.

“You all right to drive?”

I looked at him, kneading my fingers inside my mittens. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?”

The look.

“Stop insinuating that I can't handle myself. I'm fine.” I looked down to see my watch, but had a hard time reading it since my hand shook so.

Jagger reached over and steadied my hand.

“Eight thirty. I have to leave.”

He didn't let go yet. “Be careful around the clinic today.”

Like I needed
that
warning! Before he'd said that, I really wasn't worried. It was a good thing I'd seen the time earlier, because now my watch might go flying off my shaking arm if I tried to look at it.

“I'll be fine.” I tried to sound convincing, but even I wasn't buying it. “Jagger, does this mean your case is over?”

“Nope.”

That was it? Nope? He wasn't going into any detail of why he still had a case. “Do I really need to stay working at the clinic?”

He just grinned.

“Shit. Then I'll see you around.”

He nodded.

Now I felt better, knowing he would be there in some disguise—to protect me.

The clinic's grapevine was swelling with gossip today. Talk of Leo's death had the place in an uproar. Thank goodness the word “murder” hadn't surfaced—yet. It took all of my control not to get into any “discussions” about it with any of the staff. I thought that was the professional thing to do. I did hurry over to the pharmacy on my coffee break to see Hildy though.

She was out sick today.

Damn it. That didn't look good, and I didn't even know her home phone number to call and see if she was all right.

I only hoped that she really was sick and not out—to cover up something.

Not much investigating would get done today.

Once the clock hit noon, I was outta there, to meet Goldie at the diner across from the clinic building. I went inside and looked around.

“Suga!” Goldie sat in the last red booth by the window. He'd worn a silver-blonde wig today with a ski jacket, a paisley pink-and-gold ski jacket and matching neon pink leggings. His size elevens were covered in furry pink boots that hit him mid calf. Despite the heat in the diner, he kept on a gold knitted headband over his ears. Beneath dangled lovely gold and diamond earrings matching the bracelet on his right wrist and the rings on every finger of that hand.

That's my Goldie.

I gave him a big hug. “You feeling better?”

“Heavenly. I'm going back to work next week.”

“That's great, Gold. I can't wait. I'll clean my stuff out of your office.”

“And go where?”

“Good question.” I laughed.

He leaned near. “You'll stay put.”

I had more on my mind than to argue with such logic.

The waitress came over with two glasses of water. “Coffee?”

Goldie said, “High octane for me.”

“Decaf,” I said.

She scurried away, a stream of cheap rose-scented perfume hanging in her wake.

“So, tell me everything,” he said.

I looked at my watch—and momentarily cringed. Then I filled Goldie in on the case, on Nick and on Jagger.

The waitress came and left with our order. Goldie, the club sandwich without mayo. Me, the tuna with extra mayo, although one might assume by the smell in there that fried food was all they served.