Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) (12 page)

“I’ll take care of it,” Angel volunteered.

“Thank you.” Candace tipped her head down and plodded ahead of the guard.

“She’s the real victim in all of this,” Rachael said as the door shut and locked behind them. “She and the children.”

“Let’s hope you can get her out of jail and keep her out.”

FOURTEEN

W
hat was that work thing all about?” Angel buckled her seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.

“What?”

“You told Candace that we had a lot of work to do. What did you mean by that?”

Rachael tossed her a dimpled smile. “So you caught that, huh?”

“Hard to miss it.”

“I want to hire you.” Rachael twisted in her seat and fumbled with the seat belt connection until it clicked into place.

“Excuse me?” Angel checked her rearview mirror and backed out of her parking place.

“You’re already involved, and unless I miss my guess, you’re hesitant to do much investigating because of your leave status with the PD.”

“Yeah, well, it’s none of my business, and look at me. I guess it’s true what they say, once a cop, always a cop. I should leave it alone, but here I am questioning Candace and Gracie and telling Nick he’s rushing to judgment.” Angel shook her head. “Maybe it’s in my blood.”

“Of course it is. You’re also chomping at the bit to find out what really happened. So do it. I’d like you to investigate Jenkins’s death as my private investigator. The Sunset Cove PD is convinced they have their man—or woman, as it turns out.”

The offer surprised Angel, but she liked the idea. Liked it a lot. “But I’m not a detective.”

“With a little paperwork you could be, but you can be my assistant until then. We have a lot of people to contact, and it would take me forever to do it. I have several cases right now and court dates. I need you.”

Angel chewed on her lip. “Would I get paid?”

“Well, Candace has the life insurance policy, and she’ll have money from the business. I’ll prepare a preliminary statement of our charges in which I’ll include thirty dollars an hour for your services.”

“Okay,” Angel said with some reluctance.

“That’s great! You’ll need a PI license—which is a simple certification form with a nominal fee based on your police experience. You’ll have to submit an updated Private Investigator F-7 form to DPSST, Department of Public Safety Standards and Training, to get your license, at least before you can accept payment as an official PI.” Rachael paused. “Piece of cake.”

“If you say so.” Angel drove up to Joanie’s Place and parked. “Thanks. For that I’ll buy you two lattes.”

Rachael chuckled and slapped her thighs. “Unfortunately, I can’t afford to drink two of them.”

Once they’d ordered and taken seats at one of the round bistro tables, Rachael pulled out her legal pad again. “We need a plan of action.”

“My first plan is to go out to the farm and feed the animals. If Nick and the lab techs are there, I’ll talk to them. See if they’ve found any other incriminating evidence. Not that they’d tell me if they had, but you never know when something might slip.”

“Good. Maybe on the way you can stop at the store and make sure the times on their registers are accurate so we can get the real time Candace checked out at the store. Also, try to locate Darryl and get a list of relatives and people Jenkins worked with. We’ll want to interview all of them and find anyone with probable cause.”

“Do you really think she’s innocent?” Angel asked.

Rachael pressed her lips together and leaned back when Joanie’s daughter, Corisa, brought their drinks. “Ooh. I didn’t want the whipped cream.”

“I can make you another one.” Corisa reached for the drink.

“Don’t bother.” Rachael heaved an exaggerated sigh and smiled. “I’ll suffer through it. We don’t want to be wasteful, do we?” She waited until the girl left before picking up the latte. After stirring in the forbidden whipped cream, she said, “I bet you can eat anything you want and not gain weight.”

“Pretty much, but I run nearly every day. That burns a lot of calories.”

Rachael wrinkled her nose. “I am not a runner. These things,” she glanced down at her ample bosom, “just bounce around too much.”

Angel tried to swallow before the chuckle escaped but didn’t quite make it. Coffee erupted from her mouth, which she’d fortunately covered with a napkin.

“Seriously. I’m afraid all that bouncing would weaken the muscles.”

Angel recovered enough to tell her she could get a sports bra.

“No thanks. I’ll stick with walking. I like to hike too. Just need to start doing more of it.” Lifting her drink, she added, “Especially if I’m going to keep drinking these.”

She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “Now, what were you saying?”

“I asked if you thought Candace was innocent.”

“I don’t know. But my job isn’t to determine her guilt or innocence. My job is to defend her in a court of law. I’m going to do everything in my power to dispute any evidence the district attorney has. Right now it doesn’t look too bad.”

“Nick seems to think they have her cold.”

Rachael smiled. “Think about it. They know she cleaned up the murder scene. That’s not uncommon. Women hate having people see their homes messy. They’ll even clean before the maid comes in. I have an expert witness in Portland who will testify to that. Every woman on the jury will understand and empathize—especially with
a woman in Candace’s situation. She was abused, and from what you’ve told me, she was forced to keep her home spotless.”

Angel nodded. “Rosie mentioned gun residue on her hands. She could have gotten that just by handling the gun. The gun residue and her fingerprints don’t prove she killed him. It only proves she touched the gun—which she would have done when she cleaned things up.”

“Exactly. The stickler is the alibi, or lack of one. She doesn’t have a witness to prove she was not at the farm, but as far as we know, they don’t have witnesses putting her at the crime scene either.”

“So what they have is circumstantial.” Angel sipped at her iced mocha frappe. “Doesn’t seem like there’s enough to charge her with murder.”

“Mmm. Unless they know something we don’t. I’ll be able to look at that in the next day or two, and then I can figure out what type of defense to mount. I might just need to attack the possibility that Candace is the killer. Of course, there’s always the chance she actually did kill him. In that case, we need to prepare for the possibility that the state has evidence that places the gun in Candace’s hand when the victim was killed. If she did kill her husband, then she can claim self-defense as a battered wife.”

Angel blew out a long breath. “Whatever you say.”

“I’m going to work on getting her released on bail this afternoon.”

Angel glanced at her watch. “I can’t believe it’s noon already. I’ll have to hustle if I’m going out to the farm before I pick up Brian and Dorothy.”

The waitress brought their sandwiches, and for a while they ate in silence. Angel gazed out at the water, wondering what Callen would think of her new job. Angel Delaney, Private Eye. Had a nice ring to it. Of course, he’d hate it if he was anything like other police officers she knew, and somehow the knowledge didn’t set well.

After promising to keep in touch, Angel dropped Rachael off at the church and headed back to her apartment, where she changed into a pair of slacks and a tailored blouse, topping it with a black jacket. “Looking good, Delaney.” She assessed her outfit in the mirror.

“Now if I can just do something with my hair.” The wild array of curls made her look like a blend of Little Orphan Annie and Shirley Temple, certainly not a detective that people would take seriously. Angel brushed through the mass of curls and gathered her hair in a ponytail at the back of her head, then secured it with a decorative band. The change made her look older, though not by much. Tossing the brush down, she used a few shots of hair spray to tame the stray ends.

Before leaving, Angel checked the phone book to follow up on the information she’d gotten from Mary Johansson. She copied down the address for Johansson Electric. Greg would be a good person to start with, as he might know other people with whom Jenkins had worked.

She headed north and east along Timberline Road; about one hundred yards later she pulled into the nearly empty parking lot servicing several warehouses and offices. She parked near Johansson Electric and discovered that Phillips Jenkins’s business, Coast Contracting, shared the same building. The offices were situated at either end with warehouses in between. The only other car in the lot was a black BMW, parked in front of Coast Contracting.

Nice car. Wonder who it belongs to.
Climbing out of the Corvette, she smiled smugly in the car’s direction.
I’ll soon find out.

The door to Johansson Electric was locked, so she walked to the other end of the building. The door to Coast Contracting was unlocked, and Angel walked in. The reception area was empty, though from the scattered papers on the desk, she could tell that someone had been working there today. “Hello?” she called out. “Anyone here?”

A middle-aged man stepped out of an adjoining office. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe. Do you work here?” He looked familiar, and Angel tried to place him.

“Yes. Barry Fitzgibbon.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “And you are?”

“Angel Delaney.”

He stiffened, obviously recognizing her name. The shooting death of Billy Dean Hartwell had brought her into the public eye in a not-too-positive light.

Angel realized she had met him before at Brandon’s country club. The guy was chummy with Michael Lafferty, Brandon’s stuffed-shirt father.

He made no move to shake her hand. “And you’re here for what reason?”

“I’m working for Rachael Rastovski. Candace Jenkins’s lawyer.”

“Rastovski.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe I know the name.”

“She’s new in town.” Angel shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m investigating Phillip’s death. Actually, I came down here to talk to Greg Johansson, but no one was at his office.”

“I imagine Greg’s receptionist is having lunch, as is mine.”

Angel wanted to ask him what he was doing there but thought better of it. “Uh, did you work with Phillip Jenkins?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I did. I was his partner.”

Angel didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “I didn’t realize he had a partner.”

He leaned against the receptionist’s desk with his arms folded, not bothering to comment.

“Did you know that Candace was arrested this morning?” Angel asked.

“No. I didn’t. But I’m not surprised. I was afraid she’d do something like that.”

“Like what?”

“Kill him. I tried to warn him.” He picked a piece of lint from his jacket sleeve.

“Warn him?” Angel asked. “About what?”

“The abuse. He told me he was getting counseling and that he’d stopped drinking.” Mr. Fitzgibbon hesitated. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you.”

“I know all about the abusive situation Candace was in. We don’t believe Candace killed her husband. I was hoping to get a list of Jenkins’s employees and customers, anyone who might have had reason to kill him.”

“I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to give you that kind of information. I can tell you that people liked Phillip’s work.” He glanced at his watch and moved away from the desk. “I’ll do whatever I can to help his wife. Unfortunately, I have a luncheon appointment and don’t have time to talk with you right now.”

“Tomorrow?”

“All right. I can see you here at 10:00.”

“That’ll be fine,” Angel agreed before he could change his mind. “I can understand you not wanting to give me the names of your customers or employees, but maybe you could be thinking about them. I need to know if Phillip had a problem with anyone.”

He smiled then. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Angel thanked him and left. “That was interesting,” she mumbled to herself as she buckled her seat belt. She dialed a familiar number on her cell phone.

“Hey, Brandon,” she said when she finally got her old boyfriend on the line.

“Angel? How are you?”

“Good.” Angel watched as Fitzgibbon locked the office and got into his car.

“Are you still seeing that detective . . . Cal something?”

“Callen. And yes, I am.” Angel didn’t want to talk about Callen—not with Brandon. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Isn’t Barry Fitzgibbon a friend of your dad’s?”

“Yeah—he’s a client too. The guy plays golf with us nearly every week.”

“Did you know he and Phillip Jenkins were partners?”

“Right. We represent both of them.” He spoke as though it were old news.

“So you knew Phillip too?”

“Sure, but not as well. Why are you asking?”

“Curiosity.” She told him about her new position but didn’t give Brandon an opportunity to comment. “About Fitzgibbon and Jenkins. I just found out about the partnership. Which surprises me, with Jenkins having an alcohol problem. How did they get along?”