Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) (19 page)

“He may have been; of course, if that were the case, the money would be deducted from his paycheck.” The flush in his cheeks had deepened. If Angel were to venture a guess, this was the first Fitzgibbon had heard of it.

“Has he done that before?”

“Good question.”

On the other hand, Angel thought, maybe Fitzgibbon knew about it and had confronted Phillip. Maybe they had argued and Barry had killed him. At the least, Phillip’s indiscretion would have caused some conflict between the two men. “How much do you stand to gain with Phillip dead?” Angel asked outright.

His eyebrows nearly came together when he frowned. “What are you implying?”

“Just that you took out a sizeable insurance policy on him.”

“Ms. Delaney . . .” Barry’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. Something akin to rage contorted his features.

Angel bit into her lower lip. He wouldn’t hurt her—not here in his office. Not with Becky right outside. But it made her wonder how often Lorraine had seen this side of her husband. How often had she been the brunt of his anger? No wonder the woman seemed cynical.

“This conversation is over.” He went to the door, yanked it open, and held it for her. “Do yourself a favor, Ms. Delaney. Let the police handle this. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

Angel frowned. “Was that a threat?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Just looking out for your welfare. If you go around asking other people questions like you did me, you might find them not quite so accommodating.”

Angel scooted past him.

Fitzgibbon stopped at Becky’s desk and in a surprisingly polite tone said, “Becky, something’s been brought to my attention. Do you have a few minutes?”

Angel had no doubt his request had to do with the note she’d found asking Becky to pay the bill. She’d have to catch up with the receptionist later.

It wasn’t until she got to her car that she realized she’d left the personnel file on Fitzgibbon’s desk. Well, no matter, she had what she needed.

NINETEEN

F
eeling hungry, Angel left the warehouse area and headed toward her favorite restaurant. The Burger Shed was a little place located near the wharf. It had been there forever and still served the biggest, juiciest hamburgers on the coast. Living up to its name, the restaurant looked like a shed with weathered gray siding. A sign, made of the same gray wood, had been sloppily painted in red letters and hung haphazardly near the entrance. A porthole, salvaged from a sunken ship, adorned the front door. On warmer days people could eat outside on the dock at one of the picnic tables. Angel eyed the feathery clouds against the pale blue sky and opted for outdoor seating, but first she went inside to place her order. The place smelled like hot oil and charred meat, stirring her hunger pangs.

“Hey, Angel.” The owner, Jack Cole, greeted her with his you’re-welcome-anytime smile. Jack, a middle-aged man with a midsize chassis, did most of the cooking, while his wife, Minnie, waited tables and took orders.

“What’ll it be, sweetie?” Minnie rested her thin freckled arms on the counter.

Angel ordered her usual fare, a Monster Burger with bacon, cheese, onions, lettuce, tomato, mayo, relish, and catsup, fries, and a Marionberry milkshake.

“You go ahead and set yourself down, hon,” Minnie drawled. “I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”

Angel walked out to the dock, noting the half dozen or so diners seated at tables along the way, and sat down at one of the ten picnic tables that overlooked the water. A seagull swooped down, landing on the deck near a sign that asked patrons to please not feed the gulls or seals. The seagull didn’t seem the least bit inhibited.

A fishing boat passed by, coming back with whatever they had caught that morning. Angel waved, and the passengers waved back. Her gaze drifted over the water as she looked for the resident seals. She wasn’t disappointed. Here one came, barking and begging for a handout.

Minutes later, Minnie plunked down her food and utensils wrapped in a paper napkin.

While Angel ate, she added to her notes, deciding she’d better input all the information she’d been gathering into her laptop. She’d print it out each day or so and give Rachael a copy for her files. That way there would be tangible evidence that Angel was doing her job. She’d keep track of her hours that way as well. Going over the notes from the women at the shelter, she realized it looked as though they all had an alibi for the time Phillip was killed. Which meant they were all innocent or they were lying. Lorraine said she’d gone to Road’s End to visit her daughter and grandchildren—that would be easy enough to check out.

Debra had the only tangible proof so far—the receipt from the store at the outlet mall. Claire had already filed her receipts but promised to get them to Angel later.

Not that Angel really suspected any of the women. At the moment, she was leaning more toward Fitzgibbon or Darryl. Still, she couldn’t help but consider the possible connection between Kelsey and Jenkins.

When she’d finished eating, Angel drove to Callen’s house to take Mutt out and let him play in the surf for a while. Mutt loved it as usual, and at 1:45, promising the dog she’d be back later, Angel closed the door and headed for Joanie’s, where she planned to relax for a few minutes.

Rosie was there and seated in one of the overstuffed chairs, a
tall iced latte sitting on the coffee table in front of her. She was reading a tattered
People
magazine and set it aside and waved when she noticed Angel at the counter. “Hi. Want to join me?”

“Sure.” Angel placed her order, then dropped her bag beside a matching chair that sat just to the right of Rosie’s.

“How’s your day going?” Rosie asked.

“Great. I can’t believe how much I’ve gotten done.”

Angel paid for her drink and had Corisa punch her coffee card. One free drink with ten. She was at number six. “Go ahead and sit down, Angel,” Corisa told her. “I’ll bring it to you.”

Angel dropped into the chair. “So, how are you doing?”

“Great.” She grinned.

“You and Nick still going out?”

“Absolutely.”

After they’d discussed Nick’s virtues, silence loomed around them, and Angel felt at odds. Rosie looked like she wanted to say something but was taking her sweet time about it.

“You’ve lost weight.” Angel blurted out the statement without thinking.

“I was wondering when you’d notice. Ten pounds.”

“Congratulations.”

Rosie offered a broad grin and tipped her head. “Angel, Nick tells me you’ve taken a job with Rachael—as a private investigator.”

Angel nodded.

“Does that mean you’re not coming back to us?”

Angel’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m sort of trying the job on—see how it fits.”

“The guys aren’t too happy about it. They don’t like PIs getting in the way of their investigation.”

“I don’t plan on doing that.”

“Nick says you already are.”

“Well, Nick can go soak his head.”

Rosie laughed. “Just for the record, Angel, I think it’s a good thing. I want you to know that while I can’t give you classified information, I’ll help when I can.”

“What brought this on?” Angel leaned back when Corisa brought her drink.

Rosie stirred her coffee and took a sip. “Nick and Mike Rawlings for starters.”

Angel frowned. “What about them?”

“You know how men say women gossip? Ahem, women don’t gossip nearly as bad as these guys. I overheard them in the report room this morning, and they were going on and on about how you not only gave the PD a bad name, you went to work as a PI for a lawyer—like it was the most disgusting job on the planet. I didn’t say anything. Figured it wouldn’t do any good.”

Angel could have lived without hearing that little bit of gossip. It hurt to think her fellow officers would turn their backs on her.

“I don’t know what you did to Nick,” Rosie went on, “but he was really upset.” She ducked her head. “You and Nick don’t have a thing for each other, do you?”

Angel nearly choked on her drink. “No. Nick is an old friend. He practically grew up at our place. But he has been acting strange toward me lately, and I don’t know what to make of it. It’s like he dislikes me. He says he’s just tired, but . . .”

Rosie rolled her dark eyes. “That’s garbage. He’s been perfectly nice to me. Except when I try to defend you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Well, regardless of what you hear, you have at least one friend in the department.”

Angel smiled. “Thanks.”

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, watching customers and admiring the decor and gifts scattered about the place.

Rosie set her empty cup down. “Oh, have you heard the latest on the Jenkins case?”

“What? Did Nick finally realize Candace is innocent?”

“No.” Rosie frowned. “You haven’t talked to your attorney friend today, have you?”

“No, why?”

“Candace confessed.”

TWENTY

A
ngel used her cell phone to put in a call to Rachael. When the attorney didn’t answer, she left a message on the answering machine. She then drove back to Darryl’s and, finding his Harley gone, headed north to Lincoln City and to the Chinook Winds Casino in hopes of finding the elusive nephew.

She located Darryl’s bike in the parking lot on her first pass through. After parking her Corvette, she went inside and wandered through the smoke-filled casino looking for Darryl Jenkins. She finally found him in the food service area behind the escalators. The clerk called number 762, and he got up, picked up his tray, napkins, and plastic utensils, and sat back down. He had ordered soup, a hamburger, and fries.

Darryl Jenkins reminded Angel of the kind of character one might find on skid row in downtown Portland. Sort of scruffy with a transient look about him. Darryl didn’t appear to give much attention to clothes and looked as if he wasn’t much into personal hygiene either. He had at least a week’s worth of beard and wore baggy pants. The grunge look was popular these days, but not so much among the over-twenty set.

Angel ordered a fry bread and soup, took a deep breath, and sidled over to his table. She pulled out an empty chair at the table next to his. Gazing intently at him, she waited until he caught her eye, then said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

She thought she might have seen a glint of recognition in his eyes, but he said, “No.” Darryl wiped his mouth on a napkin and grinned at her. “I’d remember you for sure, but we could change that.”

She forced a smile, not certain what to think. Had he not seen her clearly at the farm before he locked her in the basement? “Do you mind if I sit with you while I eat? I’m not much for eating alone.”

“Suit yourself.”

Angel pulled out the chair opposite him and slid into it, feeling a bit like she was going in for a tooth extraction rather than a conversation. He wasn’t that bad up close, she noted. His clothes looked and smelled clean. At some time in her life—at fourteen, maybe—she might have thought Darryl cute and dangerous enough to be fun. He had dark hair a bit too long for her taste, but he reminded her a little of Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise all rolled into one. His gray sweatshirt bore a Tommy label.

Darryl was younger than she’d thought. At first glance she’d put his age at twenty-four or so, but looking more closely, she figured him to be eighteen, maybe nineteen, possibly underage and certainly not old enough to be gambling—not legally at least. Her assessment ended when the clerk called her number. She picked up her order and sat back down.

Buttering her fry bread, she said, “I think I know where I’ve seen you before. Your picture is in a photo out at the Jenkins’s place.”

“You know them?” He glanced warily at her.

Angel nodded and wiped a dribble of butter from the corner of her mouth. “Not real well, but yeah. So you must be related.”

“Phillip Jenkins is my uncle.” He bit his bottom lip and frowned. “Was my uncle.”