Claws for Alarm (14 page)

“So you don't deny it?”

“Why should I? Apparently it's out on Facebook for the whole world to see.” She choked out a tight laugh. “Yes, Taft and I were—are—lovers, but it's not as if my husband was as pure as the driven snow. He's had his share over the years. Oh yes, I've had him watched, as I'm sure he's had me watched as well. I wanted to get a bit of ammunition of my own, you know—just in case. I've even seen a blonde leaving his office, late at night. The suspect in custody is a blonde, correct?” Her arm swept out, a gesture that encompassed the large, airy room. “I mean, do you think I'd want to give up all this? He made me sign a pre-nup. If either of us filed for divorce, I walked away with just what I came into the marriage with, and that amounted to virtually nothing.” She flicked a stray hair out of her eyes in a casual motion. “I didn't kill him.”

“And Taft, your lover, can swear you were at this party, and vice versa.”

Her eyes glittered like stones. “If you're insinuating we'd lie to protect each other, you're wrong. There's no need to
lie. Whatever differences my husband and I had,” she said, her finger tapping the edge of the album after enunciating each word, “I was very fond of Teddy. I still am. Just because we had lovers doesn't mean we stopped loving each other.” She rose, plucking the photo album from my lap as she did so. “I think we're through here, don't you?”

I walked with her to the door, spun around as I reached the threshold. “One last question, Mrs. Pitt. Did your husband ever mention anything about any of his artworks possibly being forgeries?”

Her eyebrow shot up. “Teddy had an obsession with art and went to great lengths to ensure the pieces he collected were authentic. I guess it's logical, when you consider the amount of money he spent on his little hobby.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, all his pieces are authentic?”

“I sincerely hope so, since once all this is settled I'll probably be selling the bulk of his collection.” She let out a short laugh. “I wouldn't know a genuine Renoir from a fake, to tell you the truth. Teddy did, though. If something was amiss with any of his treasures, he'd have caught it, sooner or later. Unless, of course, the forgery was near perfect. Then maybe not—who knows.” She paused, eyes heavy lidded. “Come to think of it, he was upset over something the morning he died. I'm not quite sure what.” Her brow creased and she closed her eyes, only to open them a second later. “Oh yes. He called the gallery. I'm sure of it because the number was written on the pad by the phone. I seem to recall he did speak with someone—rather heatedly, too.”

I leaned forward eagerly. “Julia Canton?”

“Maybe. I couldn't say for sure. I never paid much attention
to Teddy when he was talking about artwork. I think he did say something about a flaw he'd found, but . . .” She shrugged. “I'm afraid that's all I can remember.”

I took an oblong piece of paper out of my purse and scribbled my name and cell number on it. “If you do remember, please get in touch with me.”

She glanced at it, then tapped it thoughtfully against her chin. “Charles, Charles. Now why does this name sound so familiar—wait a second.” Her eyes narrowed. “The suspect in custody—isn't her name Charles as well?”

I didn't answer, just moved swiftly across the threshold. “Good night.”

I hurried down the steps and over to my SUV and climbed in, feeling the stabbing heat of Giselle's stare boring into my back. I strapped on my seat belt and peeled out of the driveway at a speed Mario Andretti would have approved of. Once I was a few blocks away, I slowed down and reviewed what had transpired.

For my money, Giselle Pitt was still an excellent suspect. I was willing to bet Hot Bread's receipts for the weekend that the trip from that house to Pitt's school and back could be accomplished in less than an hour, which could leave her enough time to commit the deed. I was willing to bet another weekend's worth of receipts that her “airtight alibi” was none other than her boyfriend, Taft Michaels. As for the blonde she claimed to have seen leaving her husband's studio, well, I was darn sure that wasn't Lacey, and it probably wasn't Julia, either.

Who, then?

I had the feeling if I could find that out, I'd be one step closer to proving who really killed Thaddeus Pitt.

“
Meow.
”

I jumped at the sound, and the next moment a ball of black-and-white fur had leapt from underneath the backseat into the passenger side. Nick blinked twice, made a quick circle, then plopped himself down and began washing his front paws.

“Good God,” I grumbled. “ How did I not see you? Have you been in the car all this time?”

Nick's nose twitched, then he rested his head on his forepaws.

“I guess I may as well give up trying to figure out just how you do what you do. Are you certain you were Nick Atkins's cat? You didn't belong to a magician, like maybe David Copperfield, perhaps? Or did you borrow the cloak of invisibility from Harry Potter?”

Nick rolled over on his side, stretched out his forepaws.

“Fine, be that way. You have your secrets, and I have mine. But right now, we're going to see if we can learn one of Detective Samms's secrets. What do you say to that?”

His mouth snapped open in a wide, unlovely cat yawn.

So much for small talk.

*   *   *

I
pulled up in front of the Billings Warehouse at five to ten. I got out, went over to the passenger side, and opened the door. Nick hopped out, did his kitty stretch while I locked the car. We stood for a moment, surveying the dark, oblong-shaped building. The warehouse was sandwiched in between a meatpacking warehouse and what looked to be an abandoned bar. Not exactly the glitzy neighborhood I'd been
used to hanging around in the last few hours. We entered through the cargo door, and I stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Even though there was lighting from half-dead fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, it could only be considered minimal at best. Fortunately, my key chain boasted a tiny flashlight I could use just in case the bulbs gave out. The area appeared as deserted as a cemetery on Halloween, and twice as eerie. Nick trotted along beside me as we made our way deeper into the warehouse. Suddenly, he froze, tail upright, the hairs puffed and fluffed out like a giant fan.

“What's wrong?” I whispered, even though I knew he couldn't answer. We stood in silence for a moment, and suddenly, I did hear something. A very faint sound, from far away . . . like a door closing.

“Come on,” I hissed. I lifted my head, sniffed at the air. It smelled pretty stale, but there was another scent, cigarette smoke. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I'd seen either Julia or Samms smoking.

Nick's tail swished, and he pawed at arrows painted on the ground. He trotted ahead of me at a brisk pace, and I fell into step. We followed the painted arrows along a white-tiled hallway down to a door with a shade pulled all the way down. A sign placed haphazardly in the window proclaimed it
CLOSED
.

I tried the door, which seemed to be stuck. I looked at the doorframe, which appeared to be less than sturdy, and checked it for alarm wires. Seeing none, I raised my leg and gave the door a swift, hard kick. It clicked open an inch, and I pushed it all the way open. We walked into a tiny office not much bigger than a postage stamp. A large metal desk
and battered file cabinet took up the majority of the space. Another door at the far end stood partway open. Nick suddenly tensed, and I saw the hairs on his back rise. His tail fluffed out, and he started to growl, deep in his throat.

I frowned. “What's wrong? What do you sense?”

Nick reared up on his hind legs and then shot through the partially open door. I had no choice but to follow. The room I now found myself in appeared to be a slightly larger version of the previous office. Nick crouched in front of a large metal desk, and as I entered, he shifted his body slightly. I caught a glimpse of two feet, very still, shod in the pair of eggplant Louboutins I'd admired earlier in the evening.

“Oh crap,” I cried. “Please tell me that's not what I think it is.” I walked around Nick and peeped around the edge of the desk. I saw a twisted figure in a white raincoat bunched up around shapely legs, a tumble of dark hair covering its face, the neck bent at an unnatural angle.

“Shit,” I said.

“
MA-ROW!
” Nick yowled.

I heard a sound behind me as Nick dived under a nearby chair. My heart started to beat wildly in my chest. The last time he'd pulled something like that I'd been caught next to a dead body and hauled off to the police station. His fat rear had barely wiggled out of sight before the door slammed back and I found myself looking first down the barrel of a .45 and then, as I raised my gaze, at the grim, unsmiling face of Detective Leroy Samms. He looked at me, then at the feet, then back to me again. He lowered his arm, slipped his gun back into his shoulder holster. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

I responded almost automatically. “He didn't drag me. I walked in on my own.”

One eyebrow quirked. “Pardon? It's an expression, Nora.”

“Oh, sure. I knew that.” The queasy sensation in my stomach was getting stronger, and I really felt like gagging. I started to push past Samms, but his strong fingers reached out and encircled my elbow in a grip of steel.

“No need to run off.”

I pressed my palm against my cheek. “I—I'm not. I just felt a little . . . squeamish.”

“Of course you do,” he said, still not cracking a smile. “I've got some Pepto back at the station. Fix you right up. Then we're going to have a chat, you and I.” His grip on my elbow tightened. “Ms. Charles, you've got some explaining to do.”

A
n hour later I found myself once again in Samms's office. He'd called in the coroner and the CSI team, and then ushered me out of there faster than the speed of light. Back at the police station and true to his word, he'd produced some Pepto-Bismol tablets and a tall glass of water; I downed it all in one huge gulp. He left me alone for some twenty minutes while he conferred with another officer, and when he came back into the room he pulled out his chair and eased himself into it, staring at me with hooded eyes, his face expressionless.

“Okay, Nora. Care to tell me just what you were doing down at that warehouse?”

“Isn't it obvious? I was looking for a dead body and, lo and behold, I found one.”

“Ha-ha. I don't find that funny at all, Nora,” he said, his tone humorless. “As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to think finding dead bodies runs in your family.”

I rubbed at my forehead with the tips of my fingers. “Leave Lacey out of this,” I growled.

“Okay, then,
Nora
. Or is it still
Abigail St. Clair
? Care to tell me what you were doing at the warehouse?”

I folded my arms across my chest and hugged myself, a typical defensive stance. “If you must know, I was waiting for you to show up.”

His face remained expressionless, a perfect blank. The only visible sign my words had gotten to him was the muscle twitching at double time under his left eye. “Did I hear you right? You were there waiting for
me
?”

“Yes, I was. You aren't going to deny you had an appointment at that warehouse at ten o'clock with the deceased, are you, Detective?”

If looks could kill I would indeed have been at least six feet under. Both his eyes and face were darker than the proverbial thundercloud. “How did you know that?”

The temple above my right eye began to throb, but I fought the impulse to rub at it and to ask if he also had any Excedrin lying around. Instead I forced myself to lean back in the chair and stare straight at him, unblinking. “I have my ways.”

“I don't doubt it.”

He bent down, looked underneath the desk. Then he ran his arm beneath it, tapping at the wood every so often. He got up, felt underneath his chair, then he walked around to where I sat, knelt down, felt underneath my chair. He stood up, gave me another black look, and returned to his seat. When he picked up his phone and started to unscrew the receiver, I couldn't take it another minute. I jumped to my feet. “Good God, there's no listening device in here. What do you think I am, the CIA or something?” The words came
out in a torrent. “If you want to have a private conversation, I'd advise speaking in a lower tone.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I know you're not CIA.” His stare didn't waver. “And I don't talk that loud. You've either got incredible hearing or your ear was pressed to my door.”

“How I heard what I did is irrelevant,” I snapped as I sat back down. “What is relevant is the fact you've been lying to me—covering something up. I came to you in good faith with my suspicions regarding the Wilson Galleries and Julia Canton, and you brushed me off like I was some sort of deranged lunatic.”

His smile was indulgent, the type I felt sure he reserved for his more psychotic suspects. “Not a lunatic. That's a bit strong. A little nuts, overzealous, maybe.”

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him. “Maybe you could tell me now why you were having this secret rendezvous with Julia Canton?”

“It wasn't a rendezvous.”

I raised my eyebrow. “A late-night meeting in a deserted warehouse? Sounds like one to me. So, come on. What was it all about?”

“You were the one I found standing in the room with the dead body, remember? Therefore I get to ask the questions, not you.”

I leaned back, laced my hands behind my neck, and tried to sound bored. “Go ahead. Ask away. I've nothing to hide.”

“Great,” he muttered. “So, you went inside the warehouse looking for me. Is that how you came across the body?”

“Yes.” A sudden thought occurred to me, and I asked, “It was Julia Canton's body, right?” At his look I added, “I never saw the victim's face, but I thought I recognized the shoes.”

The frown deepened, cut a sharp V in the middle of his forehead. “Shoes?”

“Yeah. Eggplant Louboutins, really nice. I noticed them when I was at the gallery. I mean, what are the chances another woman had that same exact pair? I'm pretty sure they're limited editions. Must have cost a small fortune.”

“Shoes,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Figures that's what a woman would notice.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to call him out on his sexist remark, but instead I counted to ten and then asked, “How was she killed? A gunshot wound to the head, a knife through the heart? I didn't see blood but then again . . . I didn't look that close.”

“Sorry to disappoint; it was nothing that exciting. She was strangled. We found a scarf near the body. We'll test it for prints, but I don't expect we'll find any.” He leaned across the desk. “Just what did you think going to this warehouse would accomplish, Nora?”

“I was hoping to get some of the answers you seem reluctant to give me,” I burst out. “I'm willing to resort to any means I have to in order to prove my sister's innocence. I firmly believe Julia Canton might have known something. Maybe she wasn't the one who offed Pitt, but she knew . . . something. And now we'll never find out just what that something was.”

He plucked a pencil out of a tin cup on his desk and scissored it between his long fingers. “I agree completely. Julia Canton is dead because of something she knew.”

“Something about Pitt's forged painting, I'll bet.”

“You forget we haven't yet established whether or not the painting was forged. That's just a vague assumption. So far the evidence indicates your sister killed him over a bad grade.”

I flopped back in the chair. “You are impossible. I thought you told me you didn't think my sister was a murderer.”

“I don't.”

“Then why, dammit? Tell me why.” I pushed my hand through my hair, pulled at a stray curl. “Why do you refuse to investigate any other leads?”

He stood up, walked around the desk, placed both his hands on my shoulders, and gently pushed me down into the chair. Then he edged one hip onto the desk and stared down at me, arms folded across his broad chest. “I believe I did tell you I was investigating other avenues. Right around the same time I told you to ease up and leave the detective work to the professionals.”

“Why should I?” I shot back. “The professionals don't seem to be doing too good a job. One of the prime suspects just bit the big one.”

“No, one of
your
prime suspects just bit the big one. Julia Canton was never a suspect in my book.”

“And why is that, exactly?” I sneered. “Because you
just know
she had nothing to do with selling Pitt the painting? Or because the two of you shared a much closer relationship?” The corners of his lips twitched, a gesture that only served to inflame me more. “And just why do you find that so amusing?”

His voice shook with repressed laughter as he answered me. “Thanks for the compliment, but Julia wasn't my type, and you should know that.”

I ignored both his remark and the rush of heat I'd felt at hearing it. Instead I snorted. “Are you kidding? She was every man's type. She was—well, from what I could see, she looked pretty perfect.”

“Now, see, that's it right there. I find perfection . . . boring.” His stare raked me up and down. “Now you . . . Trust me, Nora, you're far from boring.”

“And what is that remark supposed to mean?”

He eased himself off the desk and walked back to sit in his chair. He spread his arms wide. “It means some people aren't too fond of my bedside manner.”

I tossed him a rueful smile. “You could use a bit of work in that area. I'm willing to overlook your deficiency, though, if you'll tell me why Julia Canton
really
called you.”

He hesitated slightly then said, “I told you—she wanted to check up on you. Make sure you were legit—
Ms. St. Clair
.”

“Uh-huh. And you had to arrange a meeting to reassure her of that? Or did your rendezvous have another purpose?”

He gave me a stare so blank I wondered if he'd spent time practicing it in front of a mirror. “Our rendezvous, as you put it, was police business. Speaking of which, I understand you were involved in a little police business yourself after you left the station.”

The hairs on the back of my neck pricked to attention, and I could feel little beads of sweat start to pop on my forehead. “I'm sorry?”

He quirked one eyebrow, giving him a sort of devilish look. A sexy devil. “Don't play coy. I'm sure you wouldn't dream of lying to a police officer, now would you? Or are you going to deny
you
paid Giselle Pitt a little visit? Very cooperative of you to use your real name, this time.”

Uh-oh. So she'd checked up on me. She was smarter than I'd given her credit for. “Someone had to do something. Both Althea Pitt and her son think her alibi is crap, and—”

“Stop right there.”

Samms's hand came down hard on the desk, effectively cutting me off. He leaned over, stopping when his nose was only about an inch away from mine, and pinned me with his hawkish gaze. “Do you know what the penalty for impersonating an officer of the law is, Nora?” he asked, softly.

I swallowed. “Not offhand.”

“Then let me spell it out for you.” He reared up, and the rough, tough officer tone was back in his voice as he said, “California Penal Code 146a—Impersonating an Officer and Punishment. In a nutshell, that code states that anyone who falsely represents himself or herself to be a public officer and tries to intimidate an individual is subject to imprisonment in a county jail, a two thousand five hundred dollar fine, or both.” He splayed both palms across the top of the desk and said more gently, “Now, you don't really want to be next to your sister in the slammer, do you?”

My finger shot up. “Giselle Pitt got it all wrong. I never said I was a police officer. I said I
was associated
with the police. And I am, in a sense.”

“Yeah. Associated as in messing things up.” He shook his head and made a clicking sound. “Mrs. Pitt was quite upset, you know. She figured out you were related to the defendant, and she was almost ready to call her lawyer. I had to do some fancy talking to convince her that you were just an overzealous nutcase and wouldn't bother her again.” He picked up a pencil, tapped it against the desk. “If I were you, I'd stick to sandwich making. It's safer and less complicated.”

I slumped lower in my chair. “Gee, thanks,” I mumbled.

“You should thank me. However, now, thanks to you, she's under the impression we're suspicious of her alibi.”

My head jerked up. “Are you?”

He shrugged. “We questioned everyone. No one can say with absolute conviction that they saw her between the hours of nine and eleven—except, surprise, surprise, Taft Michaels.”

“Yes, apparently they were there together. She showed me the photo album. And assured me there was no need for them to lie for each other.” I cleared my throat. “What about the person who took the photos?”

“Ah. He's conveniently away somewhere in Greece on a photo shoot and unavailable for comment at the moment. We're checking into whether or not he and Giselle have a closer relationship than appears.”

I looked at him. “Geez! If you suspected she had something to do with her husband's death, why didn't you just tell me when I asked?”

“Oh, for the love of—” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “There's a lot going on with this investigation, Nora. Things you're best off not knowing. Trust me. It's better for you—and safer—if you just restrain yourself, sit tight, and let the pros handle it.”

“Okay.” I half rose from the chair. “You've had your say, and now I'll have mine, Detective. The DA is pushing for a quick trial, and there's a good chance my sister is going to get convicted on this circumstantial evidence unless the real killer is found. I realize you don't know me, and you have no reason to believe it, but I'm actually pretty good at investigating. I recently assisted the FBI on a very sensitive case. The agent in charge of that doubted me in the beginning, too, but I proved him wrong.”

One eyebrow quirked. “Did you now?”

“Yes, I did. Whatever's going on here, I can handle it. I can help you.”

He sat down heavily in his chair, fingers drumming on the desk. “You're like a pit bull with a bone,” he said at last. “I suppose in order to get you to lay off I'm going to have to reveal certain things to you. I want you to promise me that when I do, you'll be satisfied and stop poking into this.”