Claws for Alarm (19 page)

His face blanched, and his eyes got round as saucers. He gripped the edge of the bar so hard his knuckles bled white. “What?” he whispered. “Julia's dead?”

I nodded. “She was strangled the night before last, sometime before ten. At the Billings Warehouse.”

“Oh God.” He leaned against the counter, passed a hand across his eyes. “Julia . . . dead. I—I heard the account of that murder on the radio earlier, but they didn't give out the
victim's name. I—I had no idea.” He swallowed. “This could change everything,” he murmured, so low I had to strain to catch the words.

“What does it change? Was Julia involved with this golden opportunity of yours? The reason you quit your job at the school?”

A flush climbed his neck. “My reasons for leaving are none of your business,” he barked. His hand raked through his hair, and he took a step backward. “I—I'm sorry. I've got to go.”

“Not so fast.” My hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Where were you Sunday night, Taft?”

“Sunday night?” He stared at me blankly, and then his gaze hardened. “Oh no, no way. I see what you want to do. You're not pinning Julia's murder on me. I was here that night, working till almost midnight.”

“Why should I believe you? You lied about what happened the night Pitt died.”

He tossed his rag over to one side of the counter and splayed both palms on the counter. “You can ask Dave—he's the owner; he'll be in soon. He'll vouch for me, plus there are about fifteen other people I waited on who can, too. I'd be glad to get you a list of names, if that'll satisfy you.”

“And what about Giselle Pitt? Could they vouch for her, too? Or are you planning to fabricate another lie to cover her?”

He let out another mirthless chuckle. “Giselle doesn't need me to provide her with an alibi for that night. It's her yoga night. Between nine and eleven, she was doing Rocking Boats and Dog Stretches in front of about twenty other people. Besides, she had no reason to kill Julia.”

“Maybe not—but she had about a million good ones to kill her husband.”

“She didn't leave the party. She couldn't have.”

I balled my hand into a fist. “You don't have to lie anymore, Taft. The ticket proves otherwise.”

“No, all the ticket proves is that the
car
was at the scene of the murder.”

“The car? Sure, but someone still had to drive it there.”

He let out a breath. “Giselle didn't drive to the school and park illegally. I did. Giselle was covering up for me.”

I stared at him, hardly daring to believe what I'd just heard. Why had he confessed so easily? “It was you? You went back to kill Pitt?”

“No, no.” He waved his hands back and forth. “I didn't kill Pitt. I argued with the old boy a few days ago but I honestly didn't understand what he was talking about. He just yelled at me one day, called me stupid, told me if I couldn't tell left from right I'd be hard-pressed to make it in this world.”

“That is odd. What do you suppose he meant?”

“With Pitt—heck, who knows? He was eccentric to the point of being anal. It wasn't the first time he screamed and shouted at me over something that made no sense at all. Anyway, Giselle let me borrow her car, and she thought it best if we agreed to say we were together. It never occurred to me anyone would check on the parking ticket.”

“Why did you go back to the school?”

He shifted his weight. “I—I had an appointment. I was meeting someone.”

“Who?”

His eyes darted nervously around the room. “I'd rather not say.”

“Well, you'd better say.” I leaned forward. “Samms knows about the parking ticket. He's going to reach the same
conclusion I did—that it was Giselle that went to the school. And if he puts pressure on her, do you think she'll keep your cover—or crack to save her own skin? The time for lies is past—the only way to stay out of trouble is to be honest. Now, shall we try this again?”

He bit down hard on his lower lip. “Fine. If you must know, I was meeting another girl.”

Before I could challenge him on whether the other woman was Jenna, the door to the pub opened, and a tall girl with hair the color of corn silk entered. She glanced our way, shot Taft a shy smile, and wiggled two fingers in greeting before she disappeared through a rear door. I slid Taft a glance, and there was no mistaking the light in his eyes as he looked at her.

I jerked my thumb in the blonde's direction. “Her? Seriously? You arranged a secret meeting with her at the school?”

He nodded. “We've been seeing each other for a few weeks. Tammie's a student at U of C. She's majoring in art. We got to talking and . . . she thought she'd like to enroll at Pitt Institute after she graduates, so I was—ah—showing her around.”

My eyebrows lifted. “At ten o'clock at night? Try again.”

“Okay, fine. Giselle's great, but sometimes I get a yen for companionship nearer my own age. There's a nice big storeroom adjacent to Foxworthy's classroom.”

I started. “Foxworthy?”

“Yeah. I did a few errands for him, and in return, he let me use the storeroom. And, if you're still not satisfied . . . we got, ah, a little vocal. Jake Rawlings, the night janitor, came to investigate. I paid him pretty good to keep his mouth shut, but if you get your friend Detective Samms to flash his badge, I'm sure he'd freely admit what he saw.” He
paused, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Then there are the nude photos on my iPhone—if one puts stock in photos, that is.”

I set my jaw. At this moment I had to agree with the secretary in Admissions—I didn't like Taft too much, either. “So you cheated on Giselle with this waitress. Did you also cheat on her with Jenna?”

“Jenna?” He had the nerve to look insulted. “Heck no. Is that what you thought? Jenna and I don't have a romantic relationship.”

“What sort of relationship do you have? The realtor said she saw her at your apartment a few times. Was she modeling for you?”

“Hell no. Jenna couldn't stay still long enough to model for a painting if her life depended on it.”

“Well, then, why was she visiting you?”

He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Fine. You want to know? Jenna's the one who got me into the gallery.”

That startled me. I stopped toying with the handle of my cup and jerked my eyes upward. “
Jenna
got you in?” I remembered something Marlene McKay had said and leaned forward. “Does it have something to do with the big boxes the real estate lady saw her with? Was she delivering something to you? Maybe paintings to copy?”

I saw a muscle twitch in his lower jaw, and his eyes took on a steely glint. “For the record, Ms. Charles, let's get something straight. I had nothing to do with Pitt's murder, or Julia's, either, and I have witnesses—real witnesses—who can back me up. So now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

He started to turn away, but I wasn't finished. “Wait. Why did you quit your job at the school? Ms. Bowman in Admissions said you told her you had a golden opportunity. Did it
have anything to do with Julia? Is that what you meant when you said it could change everything?”

He slanted me a glance over one shoulder. “Things might have been different, if Julia were still alive, but since she's dead, it's business as usual. I guess now I'm gonna have to grovel and do many mea culpas to get my modeling job back.”

He reclaimed the rag and started to wipe down the counter, but I was far from finished with him. “What can you tell me about the forged paintings, Taft? You have something to do with them, don't you?” I paused as another thought occurred to me. “What did you do for Foxworthy in return for his letting you in to that storeroom? I'm sure he didn't do it out of the goodness of his heart. So, was it anything to do with the gallery?”

His lip curled. “You know, what I do or did do for people is none of your concern.”

“There's been two murders. That's cause enough to be concerned about anything out of the ordinary, wouldn't you say?”

He let out an exasperated sigh, threw the cloth to the side, and whirled on me. “Let me give you some advice, Ms. Charles. You really want to avoid making accusations you can't prove.”

“Julia was working with the police, Taft. How long do you think it'll be before this all blows up? If I were you, I'd think long and hard about what you want to do—about your future.”

I'd gotten to him at least a little—I could tell from the way his face paled—but I had to hand it to him; he didn't flinch one bit, just picked the rag back up and continued wiping. “I think we're done here,” he muttered and then
moved down to the far end of the bar, putting the kibosh on our conversation. I pushed back the half-empty mug, slapped a bill down on the bar, and slid off the stool, giving Ollie a brief nod as I sailed past. I walked outside and over to the SUV, where I paced back and forth for a few minutes before I saw the tavern door open and Ollie emerge. He hurried across the street, and we both got into the SUV.

“Nice work,” he complimented me when we were both seated. “I think you really rattled him.”

“He's a cheater, and he's got an alibi for the time of Julia's murder, but he did seem pretty shaken up over her death—far more than if she were merely a casual acquaintance.”

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “You think maybe they were involved sexually?”

I frowned. “It's hard to say, but somehow I doubt it. One interesting thing I did learn, though—even though he denied having a close involvement with Jenna Whitt, it seems she's the one who got him the job at the gallery.”

“Really?” Ollie's eyes became slits in his mocha-colored face. “Now that is interesting. It would appear Jenna has closer ties to the gallery than anyone might suspect. What might they be, I wonder.”

“Beats the heck out of me.” I ran my hand through my hair and tugged on an errant curl. “She lied to me, Jenna did. The first time I met her, she said she'd never gone to the gallery, because they'd never displayed any of her work. She also said she'd never met Kurt Wilson, but if she got Taft that job . . .”

“Logically, it would follow that she'd know him—now what's wrong?” Ollie demanded, leaning in to peer at my face. “You've got one of those cat that ate the canary
expressions. What gives? What idea's popped into that brain of yours?”

“I'm just thinking logically. It would seem dear Jenna has a vested interest in the gallery, what with hiring people and making deliveries, so . . .” I twisted in my seat, grasped my purse, and hauled it onto my lap. I rummaged around, found my cell, and quickly dialed Peter's number. He answered on the first ring.

“You must be psychic,” he said. “I was just about to call you. They've moved up Lacey's trial date from Thursday to Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? That's tomorrow!” I wailed. “Why so fast?”

“As I've said, the DA really believes it's open and shut. I'm confident I can get a postponement until Thursday, but I'm afraid that'll be it. It's an election year,” he added, as if that should explain it all.

“Great. Listen, do you think you'll have time to look up something for me? It could help Lacey.”

“I'll do my best. What do you need?”

“Can you get me the names on the deed for the Wilson Galleries?”

Brief hesitation, and then, “I should be able to. I know a girl in the property records office. But how will knowing that help Lacey?”

“I've got a hunch.” I raked my hand through my hair. “It's complicated, but I promise to explain just as soon as I get confirmation.”

I rang off, started up the SUV, and guided it into the stream of traffic.

“Care to share your epiphany with me?” asked Ollie.

“No. It's a long shot, and I could be wrong.”

“You could be right, too.”

I chuckled. “We've got less than twenty-four hours before Lacey goes to trial. I think Julia found conclusive proof of the goings-on at the gallery. Her call to Samms confirms that. I think one of the people involved silenced her for good; maybe the same one who killed Pitt, maybe a different one. There's proof lying around somewhere. I just know it. And I need to find it.” I expelled a breath. “We've got one more stop to make, Ollie. I need to find Julia Canton's address.”

He whipped a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and dangled it in front of me. “I had a feeling you'd want it. While Agatha was busy with the oh-so-charming Professor Foxworthy, I sneaked it out of her Rolodex.”

I beamed at him as I made a quick left. “Ollie, you are a wonder. I do believe you are almost as perceptive as Nick—the feline one.”

He laughed. “That is a compliment indeed. Now, might I ask just how you intend to get into Julia Canton's apartment?”

I grinned back. “You sure can. How are you at breaking and entering?”

A
s it turned out, Julia's apartment building was only about a mile away from Taft's complex. I parked on the quiet street and surveyed the five-story brownstone building. I glanced up and down the street as I exited the car but saw no sign of any police cruisers, although there could just as well have been an unmarked car hanging around. After all, Samms's vehicle was an unmarked Ford Focus. And not even black. His was more of a silvery beige.

Ollie and I went up the stairs and into the vestibule. We looked at the names above the bells. Of course Julia's apartment would be on the top floor. We found the door marked
STAIRS
and about ten minutes later emerged on the top floor. Julia's apartment was catty-cornered, all the way at the end of the long hall.

I tried the door. Locked. I made a sweeping gesture with my arm at Ollie. “All yours.”

He knelt in front of the door. “Got a credit card?”

My eyebrows rocketed upward. “A credit card? Really?”

“What, you thought I carried burglar tools around in my pocket? It's either that or ring the super's bell, say she's got something in her apartment of yours you need pronto. It would be somewhat less of a misdemeanor but much more attention calling.”

“Which is what I want to avoid. Fine.”

I fumbled in my purse and drew out my credit card holder. “Any card in particular?”

Ollie shrugged. “They all work pretty much the same.”

I selected my American Express card and handed it to Ollie. He slid the card into the vertical crack between the door and the frame and wiggled it up and down. Nothing.

I expelled a breath. “Great. Did you happen to notice where the fire escapes are positioned? You know, just in case we need to make a quick getaway?”

He shot me an indulgent look over one shoulder. “Now, now, little bird. Patience. It's evident housebreaking was never on your resume.”

I watched as Ollie repeated the first steps and then bent the card the opposite way. I thought I heard a slight pop, but when I tried the knob, nothing. Zippo, zingo, zilcho.

“Well, at least we know we'll never make it as petty thieves. Our victims would all have to leave their doors unlocked.”

Ollie ignored me and slid the card in again, wiggled it some more, and then stopped as we both heard a very distinct click. Ollie straightened, handed me back my card, and gave an exaggerated bow.

“After you.”

“One second.” I reached into my tote and pulled out two
pair of plastic gloves. I handed one set to Ollie. “So we don't leave prints.”

He gave me an approving nod as he slipped the gloves on. “You're learning, Nora. Trust me, you'll make a great PI someday.”

I twisted the knob, and the door slowly swung inward. I stepped inside and took a quick glance around. The apartment was furnished in modern style—glass and thin chrome end tables and coffee table, a long black sofa flanked by two black chairs. There was a large black chrome and steel entertainment center with a forty-two-inch flat-screen TV along one wall, and near the window a recessed bar. There were no personal items visible, no bric-a-brac, no souvenirs, collectables, photos, nothing. The entire room seemed devoid of personality.

“It feels off,” I said, scratching my head. “Like no one really lives here. It has a hotel room feel to it, doesn't it?”

“Like maybe this isn't her permanent residence?” Ollie walked around the room, his eyes darting to and fro. “Perhaps she wasn't a local gal. Perhaps she just stayed here while she was undercover.”

“If she was a member of the local police force, why would she do that?” I mused.

“It also appears, from the antiseptic state, that the police might not have done their search yet. I wonder why?”

“Good question.”

I moved through the living room and into the small kitchenette. The modern appliances here gleamed, still reeking of newness. The stove looked as if it had never been touched. I opened the refrigerator. There were a few bottles of diet soda, a package wrapped in saran wrap that looked as if it
contained some sort of lunch meat, and a couple cans of beer. I walked over to the cupboards, opened them. There were a few dishes and cups in one, but the rest were empty. The Keurig coffeemaker had a mug sitting on it, but the water reservoir was empty.

Apparently cooking wasn't one of her skills. It seemed Julia had taken most, if not all, of her meals out.

We continued down the long hall into the bedroom. The bed was huge, a California king, and took up most of the space, slicked with what appeared to be genuine satin sheets the color of ripe cherries. A baby pink comforter was folded neatly at the edge of the bed. There was a dresser along the opposite wall. Its lacquered top was bare. I walked over, opened the top drawer. Several pairs of silk pants and thongs lay neatly folded, and a few bras. I opened the second drawer and found two nightshirts. The closet was next. It held several pairs of pants, blouses, and dresses, all on satin hangers. The floor was covered with shoe boxes, all bearing designer labels. I picked one up, opened it. Inside lay a pair of black Yves Saint Laurent Tribtoo suede pumps. I'd seen a similar pair in
Glamour
magazine not long ago. They cost over $400 easily. I set that box down, picked up another. These Dolce & Gabbana sequined slingbacks were close to $750 a pair.

“Not much on material possessions, but it appears she had a fondness for designer shoes,” I observed.

“And luxury bedding.” Ollie sat down on the edge of the bed and let his fingers skim the sheets. “These are satin. Pretty nice. Last time I slept on satin sheets was on my honeymoon, many, many years ago.” His grin was rueful. “When you're a lowly PI, you spend a lot of time in low-priced motels.
Satin sheets are hardly a staple. Of course, I'm sure Nick slept on his share of satin.”

“So we know she liked expensive sheets and shoes in particular.” I pulled out a dress, a simple black sheath, and looked at the label. Dior. “She didn't skimp on dresses, either.”

Ollie looked around the room. “Doesn't seem as if there's anything much to find. The police might have been here already. Maybe if there was something of interest, they've taken it.”

I reached for another shoe box. “I don't think so. I've been with police when they go through a victim's or a suspect's apartment. Trust me, there's always something out of order.” I shook the box, held it up to my forehead. “Okay, what's in this one? There's no designer label on this box. Atwood, Choo, Crew? Wait, I sense a pair of patent leather Louboutins. Only around nine hundred dollars.”

Ollie shook his head. “What's the big deal with women and shoes? You spend more money on 'em than I ever did on suits.”

“The right shoe can make your legs look lean and long and help reduce butt size. It's a confidence thing.” I sat down on the edge of the bed, box between my hands. “According to the box she was a size 7 wide. That's my size. Do you know how hard it is to find good shoes in a wide width?”

His jaw dropped. “You're not seriously thinking of—”

“No, of course not. But it's a tempting thought.” I lifted the lid off the box, looked inside, paused, looked again.

Ollie frowned. “What's wrong?”

I reached into the box and pulled out a .38 caliber revolver. “Smith & Wesson Model 10, blued steel,” I said. “I knew a cop on the Chicago force, and this was his favorite
gun. Odd place to keep it, though. I mean, if she was a cop, why would she have to hide it?”

“Unless,” Ollie answered, “this isn't her gun.”

“Ah, good point.” I sniffed the barrel. “It hasn't been fired, at least not lately.” I replaced the gun in the box and knelt back beside the closet. I leaned in as far as I could and burrowed down, selecting a box that had been pushed to the far end behind a tall pair of suede boots. I pulled it out and sat back down on the bed. “I'm almost afraid to look. What do you think? Another gun or Jimmy Choo mules?” I pointed to the description on the side of the box.

“It's a fifty-fifty shot. Go on, open it.”

I slid off the lid. On the very top was a manila envelope. Underneath it was a large leather book. I lifted both out of the box.

“Okay, which should we open first?”

Ollie picked up the envelope and slit the flap cleanly with the edge of his nail. He tipped it over, and one lone photograph slid out. I picked it up and frowned. It was a photograph of a sculpture, its two hands suspended in air, holding a face. I felt a niggling sense of familiarity as I looked at it, and another sense, too. Something felt off, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I set the photo down and turned my attention to the book. “No title on the cover.”

“Maybe it's a diary,” offered Ollie. “Maybe she wrote notes in here about what she found out at the gallery, and what's going down there.”

I shook my head dubiously. “You think she'd put that in writing?”

“One way to find out.”

Still, my hand hesitated over the cover. Ollie said, more
gently, “It's not an invasion of her privacy anymore, Nora. She's dead.”

I nodded. “You're right. Besides, if we don't read it, we won't find anything that might help Lacey.” I took a deep breath and flicked back the cover of the book.

For a minute neither of us spoke. Then I reached inside the hollowed-out interior and held up the leather case and badge that lay on top. The badge looked achingly familiar. I'd seen one like it not too long ago, on someone else. I opened the leather case and sucked in my breath.

“Julia's last name wasn't Canton,” I said. “It was Campbell. And according to this, she's—oh my God, she's—crap, I should have figured it out the minute we knew forgeries were involved. She's—”

“Special Agent Julia Campbell, FBI,” said an all-too-familiar voice behind me. “Hello, Nora.”

I turned and looked straight into the face I knew all too well. FBI special agent Daniel Corleone. He stood in the doorway of Julia's bedroom, arms folded across his broad, muscular chest.

And, double crap, he wasn't smiling.