The Zen Man (21 page)

“This is so silly. I should just go, let you get all those…” She gestured at his wet, naked body. “…drops off you.”

He waggled his fingers in a give-it-to-me motion.

No way out. She fished in her pocket, pulled out the phone with trembling fingers, pretended to be amazed at what she found in her hand. “Well, I’ll be. It’s a cell phone!”

“Don’t you know the difference between a recorder and a cell phone?”

She tossed off an awkward laugh, set the phone back on the nightstand. Straightening, she offered an isn’t-this-just-the-silliest-thing kinda smile, wondering how the hell to get out of this mess.

Then she had an idea.

She dropped her gaze down his body until it rested on his family jewels.

“When I saw your …,” she said a little breathlessly, infusing her voice with womanly awe, “I instinctively grabbed. Couldn’t stop myself. It could’ve been a recorder, a cell phone, any hard object…” With a needy sigh, she dragged her gaze back to his, gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders.

As his jaw dropped, she limped out of the room, a clumsy creature who couldn’t quite take flight, but was making tracks as fast as she could.

• • •

“What do you mean, you
accidentally
saw Larry naked?”

Laura, sitting on the bed, adjusted the ice-filled plastic sandwich baggie around her aching big toe.

“As I said, he’d been taking a shower, and had been drying himself …” She stuffed a pillow underneath her foot, laid back against the headboard, and thought back to how he’d looked. “I take that back. He hadn’t been drying himself off. Water was dripping down his body.”

“His naked body.”

“Well, considering most people shower naked, yes.”

Rick tugged down the zipper on his Nuggets jacket, yanked it open.

“You’re mad at me.”

“I’d only be mad if you did more than look.” He shrugged out of the jacket, tossed it onto the bed. He wore his black Led Zeppelin Electric Magic at Wembley Stadium T-shirt, one of the few bands he admired besides the Grateful Dead.

“Like if maybe I
hugged
him?”

He frowned. “Why would you hug a naked wet man?”

“Why would you hug a clothed, dry woman?”

“What?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Stay on topic. Why were you in their room?”

She blew out a puff of air. “I wanted to look at Brianna’s cell phone.”

He blinked a few times, as though filtering the story through his eyes. “Have you been drinking?”

“Why, am I slurring?”

“No. Saw the bottle and shot glass downstairs, was wondering who’d been imbibing at the crack of dawn.”

“I was thirsty. And the sun was already up.”

“Laura.”

“Okay, I was upset, sought the bottle for comfort and fortification.”

“Why?” He opened his hands as though she might toss the answer into them.

“Because I saw you and Brianna hugging out there…” She gestured in the general direction of
out there.
“…next to the pool where Wicked died. Maybe I just don’t understand crime-scene tours. Maybe you’re supposed to hug people next to the spot where someone was brutally murdered.”

“You saw us hugging, so you wanted to know if we’re secretly calling each other.”

“Something like that.”

“I can’t believe you’d think—okay, here’s what happened. She got sad about her husband—he was murdered, too, you know—and I hugged her. I wasn’t making a pass, I just
hugged
her.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“Mmmm.”

“It’s that my trust gets less than solid when it comes to cougar widows on the prowl who carry torches as big as bonfires.” She shifted, hating her defensiveness, his accusatory tone. “We’re—okay, I’m—better than this. I know you’re not doing anything, but trust me, she is.”

“Who’s she and what’s she doing?” asked a male voice.

Sam, wearing the same clothes he’d worn last night, slouched against the open doorway. His usually neatly combed hair was tousled. Dark rings smudged his eyes.

“Just roll out of bed?” asked Rick.

“After rolling around in it for a while.” A smutty smile played on his lips.

“What happened to your pant leg?” Rick asked.

Sam looked down at the rip at his knee. “Afraid I drank a bit too much last night, had some trouble making it to the cabin.” He looked at Laura’s foot. “You have trouble making it to your room, too?”

“No, tripped over a bedpost.”

Sam looked down at their bed.

“Not in this room,” she muttered.

He turned his attention to Rick. “Sorry I missed this morning’s walk-through.”

“There’s nothing outside. Crime scene techs left it clean and tidy.”

“Brianna described some suppressed autopsy photos last night,” Sam continued, “still don’t get if she actually saw them, or she’s passing on some unknown third-party’s assessment. Maybe they’re not even suppressed, although she sure makes it sound that way. Would like to know how she got her hands on the crime scene photos before I did. That Brianna is a mover and an underground shaker.”

“Got that right,” mumbled Laura.

He flashed her an inquiring look. “Does this attitude have anything to do with the discussion I interrupted?”

She emitted a weighty sigh. “Whatever is said in this room is protected by attorney privilege, right?” When both men nodded, she continued, “I looked at Brianna’s cell phone.”

“She sneaked into her room this morning to get the cell phone,” explained Rick, “and surprised a very naked Larry.”

“He’d been taking a shower,” she added, “it’s not as though I walked in while he was still sleeping…or something…”

“It’s your property,” said Sam, “so you weren’t trespassing.”

“Oh no, we’d
never
do anything like trespass.” Laura slid a look at Rick.

Sam stroked the pad of thumb along his lower lip. “Did you find anything interesting on her phone?”

“She called TeleForce last night. After working there for a number of years, I recognized the prefix, but not the number itself. It’s a large company, at least fifteen thousand employees at that Denver prefix, probably doesn’t mean anything.”

“Where was her cell?” Sam asked.

“On the nightstand. Why?”

“Just wondering how your theft may have looked to Larry. At least you weren’t caught riffling through her purse or other personal belongings.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t see anything like that,” Laura murmured, preoccupied with adjusting the ice pack on her toe.

He looked at Rick. “Considering I’m counsel—we’re counsel for the class action retrial against TeleForce, Brianna calling TeleForce is potentially significant.”

“Why would she be…” Rick let his thought trail off. “Do you recall the number?”

“Wrote it down as soon as I limped back to the room.” She pointed to a piece of scrap paper on her nightstand.

“Limped?” Sam smiled knowingly. “So
that’s
where you tripped over a bedpost.”

“We’ll spoof a different caller ID.” Seeing the look on Sam’s face, Rick explained, “Which means a caller ID other than ours will show up on the other person’s phone, so they won’t see the call came from this lodge.” He headed toward the nightstand.

“As it’s Sunday morning…” Laura leaned over, scooped up the paper and held it up for Rick. “…I seriously doubt anyone but the most diehard workaholics will be there.”

He lifted the phone, punched in a few numbers, paused. Then, squinting at the piece of paper, punched in those numbers. “If we get a live person, I’ll make up something.” He held up the phone, turned on its speaker.

A recording with a man’s voice answered.

“Hello, you’ve reached Walt Dixon, Managing Director of TeleForce Investment Fund Management. I’m not available, so please leave a detailed message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

Rick terminated the call, met Sam’s gaze. “Walt Dixon. What the fuck was Brianna doing calling our bad witness?”

Sam’s face darkened. “Are she and that Larry fellow still here?”

“Brianna said she was heading up to her room to grab her things, that they’d be leaving soon.” Rick placed the phone back in its holder.

“You worked at TeleForce, right?” Sam asked Laura.

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe you can ask around, see if Brianna’s calling other people, asking questions about the class action suit?”

“Maybe I can just take out an ad in the
Denver Post
instead.”

Rick crossed to the window, looked out at the property. “Nah, we got our hands full investigating my case, much less the class action suit as well.” He paused, turned. “Unless they’re linked.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I don’t know…” Sam let his voice trail off.

“Makes more sense than a lot of the other crap I’m unearthing.” He snapped his fingers. “Got it. This may be a case of discrediting us, Sam, because the individual murdered was not only my ex-wife, but also
your
date. It’s worth seeing what we—Laura—can find out at TeleForce.” He looked at her, holding up his hand as he thought for a moment. “Okay, here’s your in. You were known for building IT strategies within TeleForce departments. So you offer your consulting services to Walt Dixon, get close to his office, see if there’s a connection with Brianna—”

“Time out!” Laura made a T-motion with her hands. “You want me to apply for
consulting work
with some former, bad witness from TeleForce? What makes you think he’s even looking for a consultant?”

“He’s a financial bean counter,” said Rick, “probably thinks a network is something you do at business meeting, but he’d sure as hell understand if somebody can save his department money. Make a promise to do one of those IT-techie things you were famous for at TeleForce—”

“I wasn’t famous, just competent—”

“Get a few of those senior execs who loved your work to offer references, and I’ll bet you can nail a temporary gig.” He looked at Sam. “What’s the problem?”

Sam grumbled under his breath. “What’re we setting her up for?”

“Finding out the truth, RoofTop, what else? Look, that place has security guards crawling all over it, so she’s safe. If she finds herself in an uncomfortable situation, she’s sharp, can talk her way out of it. Look what she did this morning. Got caught red-handed, yet talked her way right out of it.” He looked at Laura. “You never told me how you did that.”

“I, uh, complimented him.”

Rick and Sam stared at her for a moment, befuddled expressions on their faces.

“Back to our plan,” Rick continued, “we’ll get your resume together tonight, then have you call Walt’s office first thing in the morning—where’re you going?”

Sam, on his way to the door, paused. “While you two investigators are planning your undercover op, I need to do a drive-by on a certain broken-down Pontiac, check some goods.” He left.

“Hey,” Rick called out, “don’t forget to call the telephone company and ask when they’re responding to your subpoena and coughing up Deborah’s phone records.”

“Daphne’s already got a call into their legal department,” yelled Sam from down the hall, “Cheers.”

Laura leaned back onto her pillow, strategizing how to make this job application gig sound plausible. “I’ll act like a job-hungry applicant. Pitch my track record saving TeleForce thousands of dollars in various IT departments, how I can apply this expertise to smaller departments as well. Offer a free, on-site consultation where I do a high-level analysis…if I get that far, it means he’s at least listening.”

“
That’s
when you say you’d like to drop off a resume,” said Rick. “Worse thing that can happen, he says no.”

“Or the worse than can happen,” she said in a low, serious tone, “is also the best that can happen. Brianna’s name, after all, starts with a B.”

“And as far as I’m concerned, it’s like I say, drugs are not the problem. Other stuff is the problem.”
—Jerry Garcia

A
t eleven the next morning, I was driving my Pontiac, its windshield new and shiny thanks to speedy work by my insurance company. I’d covered a plate-sized shotgun pattern on the passenger seat with a pillow, then covered the seat with a blanket. Looked strange, but was sittable.

Laura sat there now as we cruised west along 18
^th
Street in downtown Denver on our way to TeleForce’s corporate offices for the interview she’d nailed earlier this morning. She’d been slick on the phone with Dixon, pitching her services and how they’d save his department money—hell, I would’ve hired her on the spot. Dixon had dug her spiel, said he was leaving for Christmas vacation next week, so could she drop by later this morning, look at his network layout, give an estimate?

While she was interviewing, I’d be meeting with Sam to discuss my case, see if Brianna had returned his call about those autopsy photos. I wasn’t so sure Brianna was a suspect. When we’d talked during our crime-scene tour, she’d seemed sincerely concerned about my case. And when we’d looked down at the pool, and I’d described how Wicked had been found, she’d cried. About her husband, Wicked, senseless deaths, family’s losses. She’d never been a great actress, rarely cried during the time I knew her, so her vulnerability rang real.

I was buying that she wanted to help me. Of course, the side benefit was the Jeffco coroner’s job. If it turned out Brianna was right and Wicked had already been dead before being stabbed, the coroner would look like an idiot, and she could make a play for his job.

“These panty hose are too tight.” Laura shifted in her seat. “I can’t breathe.”

“Take them off.” I wriggled my brows.

She ignored my subtext, instead fussing with a loopy bow on her blouse. Her hair, tied back in a prim ponytail, was strikingly black against her two-piece cream-colored suit. She’d gone easy on the make-up, which didn’t make her seem more plain, but rather more pure. Except if you looked at her fingernails, which she’d painted a reddish-purple.

“I’ve heard about Walt Dixon before,” she said.