False Premises (13 page)

I got behind the wheel. Though I momentarily considered driving off and leaving Sullivan to think twice before he snapped at me again, I unlocked the passenger door, and he slid in beside me.

“How’d your
boyfriend
take the news about Laura?” he asked as he reached for his seat belt.

“John! Oh, my God. I completely forgot to tell him!” I grabbed my purse to fetch my cell phone.

“That’s okay. The police have probably contacted him by now.”

Puzzled, I stared at him. “Why would they contact
John
?”

As though he’d gotten a sizable static electric shock, Sullivan’s eyes widened and his lips parted. An instant later, a bland expression reclaimed his features. “I told them last night. Gave them the names of Laura’s former associates. Laura and John knew each other. Through me. The three of us used to hang out sometimes.”

“Damn it, Sullivan, what is it you’re not telling me?”

“Ah, jeez, Gilbert. This is none of my business.”

I gripped my cell phone in my fist and shook it in his face, fully prepared to bonk him on the head. “Out with it, Sullivan! Fess up!”

He mumbled, “I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.” He cursed under his breath, then said, “Better yet,
John
should’ve mentioned it during your lunch yesterday. When you found out from him who Laura was.”

“Mentioned
what
?” I yelled.

“Laura and John used to date each other.”

Chapter 9

I stared at Sullivan. “Laura dated John, too?” Was there anyone in Crestview that woman didn’t date ?

Sullivan repositioned his seat belt on his shoulder, no doubt wishing there were an eject button for my passenger seat. Damn it, the man was clearly embarrassed for me. “Just a few times. They were only together for a couple of months. Then Laura started seeing Dave Holland . . . and dumped Holland for me.” He didn’t need to add that she’d then gone back to Holland, after draining Sullivan’s bank accounts.

I dumped my cell phone back into my purse. More than a little annoyed at John, I was no longer in any hurry to call him. Why hadn’t he told me he’d dated Laura? I started the engine and pulled out of Sullivan’s driveway. Laura had plied me for intimate details about myself and John Norton. Never once had she given me any sign that the two of them had once been an item. She was, after all, a professional con artist, but I expected better from John.

Sullivan cleared his throat. “Hey, Gilbert, I’m sure John didn’t mention this to you simply because it was no big deal. He told me back then that he’d only gone out on a few dates with her and never really trusted her.
He
was smart enough to see through her.”

“Bully for him,” I growled.

We drove in silence. I was trying to get past my initial shock. When I thought back on yesterday’s lunch conversation, I could see why John hadn’t rushed into telling me that he, too, had dated Laura; after all, he hadn’t really had all that much of an opportunity. We’d gotten so focused on the reason she was here and what that meant to Sullivan. The big question now, though, was where
I
fit into all of this. Had Sullivan introduced me to John as some sort of payback for John’s having brought Laura into his life? If so, both men could go to hell. In any case, my life had certainly been a lot less complicated before I’d met either of them.

“Dave Holland divorced Hannah Garrison, who works at Paprika’s, when he met Laura,” I said. “So, does this mean that Laura was going out with
John
at the time? That she dumped John to go after a married man?”

Sullivan mumbled, “I’m not sure of the exact time frame.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “It’s just remarkable how you can discover that you’re connected to this whole slew of people you’ve never even met.”

Sullivan didn’t reply, and remained silent for so long that I looked over to make sure his eyes were open. They were. Eventually, he said, “The headlights don’t make sense.”

I glanced at the oncoming cars, but none of them had their lights on. “
What
headlights?”

“They were off last night. The headlights. In Holland’s car. Yet he’d had ’em
on
when he was driving
to
the warehouse, so it’s not like he was trying to go unnoticed. Also, he was speeding . . . weaving through dimly lit buildings. Like he was so scared and anxious to get the hell out of there, it was all he could do just to start the engine. Just can’t see him killing her, then starting the fire,
then
panicking and racing off, when he didn’t even know anyone was following him.”

“So you think he accidentally stumbled across her body while setting the fire, then panicked and took off?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

That was a good point, and the more I thought about it, the more it troubled me. If this tragedy turned out to be a case of “domestic violence,” the police would quickly realize Sullivan was innocent; Laura would have met with her sordid end by virtue of trying to cheat her lover one too many times. But if the killer wasn’t Dave, the murder investigation was bound to be intense for all of us who once thought we knew Laura Smith—only to have our hearts get stepped on like welcome mats.

We arrived in downtown Denver half an hour later, hav
ing multitasked and worked out a compatible schedule from here on out. In the parking lot, however, we argued about divvying up the proceeds from this assignment; Sullivan insisted that his time and services were “totally on the house,” which was inane. The man had been all but bankrupted by Laura; he didn’t have to work for me for free. I finally decided to let the matter slide until Laura’s murderer was behind bars. My hope was that Sullivan would then revert to the compassionate man that I knew was hiding beneath his current spate of bitterness— an ugly emotional slipcover, if ever there was one.

I allowed Sullivan to play his designated subservient role and carry my large, flat portfolio, plus walk a step behind me. I could easily get used to this treatment.

Henry Toben was pacing in the resplendent hotel lobby. Its black granite floor was polished to a dazzling sheen, the posh sectional sofa was so large that it would dwarf anyone who deigned to sit there, and glimmering brass bars blocked off an octagonal indoor garden lush with ferns and tropical flora. I half expected to see a toucan perched on the branch of the rubber tree.

“There you are,” he growled to me the moment we neared. He was wearing silver cowboy boots, jeans, a Western-style butter-yellow silk shirt with black piping, and a bolo tie, but was sans his typical black ten-gallon hat.

Henry was stocky, but at just five foot seven or so, he was an inch or two shorter than I am. My theory was that he’d originally gone with “Hammerin’ Hank” and his signature Western wear purely for the height-enhancing cowboy boots. His dark, even tan was so unnatural that the first time we’d met, I’d assumed it was stage makeup. Now I was sure it was some type of spray-on product. He had thick, snowy white hair, which I suspected was a toupee, perched atop his head like a dustcover. Despite his gruff greeting, his light-blue eyes twinkled, which I’d come to believe merely indicated that he was thinking about something raunchy.

Before I could introduce the two men, Henry stepped toward Steve with a proffered hand and bellowed, “Howdy, partner! Hank Toben.”

While they shook hands vigorously, I said, “This is my assistant, Steve Sullivan.”

Hank raised an eyebrow and visibly pulled away. Coldly, he said to me, “You never mentioned you had an assistant.”

“It’s a new role for me,” Sullivan interjected. “I’ve been running my own interior design business in Crestview for four years now.”

Henry rocked on his boot heels as he eyed Sullivan. “So you’re an interior designer? Huh.” He’d dropped the Texas accent. “I figured you were Erin’s significant other.” Chuckling, he clapped Sullivan on the shoulder. “Guess I was way off on that one, hey? Thing is, you don’t really
act
like a fag.” He turned and started to lead the way to the elevator, saying over his shoulder, “Well, you should get along real good with Robert Pembrook, then. He’s gay as a jaybird.”

Sullivan glowered, and I belatedly remembered that I’d neglected to mention to him that our client was a horse’s ass.

Though Henry arrived at the elevator doors first, he waited for one of us to press the button, which Sullivan did. When the doors opened and we stepped inside the polished-silver elevator, I reached past Sullivan to press the button for the top floor. As the doors closed behind us, I explained to Sullivan, “Henry is uncomfortable around Robert Pembrook because of his sexual preference.”

“Not just ’cuz of that. The man’s got friends in high places, and I ain’t just talking about the penthouse. He’s done time.”

“Time?”
I repeated, incredulous. “As in prison?”

“You betcha. For embezzling. The man may be a fruit, but he’s like one a them prickly pears.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Sullivan. “You don’t want to get too close to him, or you’d best watch your hide.”

We got out on the top floor. The hallway was hotel chic—maroon and gold color palette—more upscale than most hotels, but too self-conscious for my own taste. In fairness, however, I don’t design hotels and couldn’t think off the top of my head of anything that would work all that much better. I knocked on Robert’s door, and he swept it open with a typical flourish.

“Erin!” he cried. “What a marvelous surprise! I thought this was going to be just the boring ol’ twosome with Henry today.”

Henry paled, but I beamed at Robert as he said, “Hello, hello. Come in, come in.” I loved the way the man had such unbridled enthusiasm that he said some words twice.

Robert had the same six-foot height and athletic body type as Steve Sullivan. They even had some facial characteristics in common—the strong chin and full head of tousled hair, although Robert’s was mostly gray. Today he was impeccably dressed in a blue-gray turtleneck, tailored black slacks, and expensive black leather shoes. A white cable-knit sweater was draped over his shoulders, cape-like, to dashing effect. He also wore oversized black-framed glasses. My guess was that he wore bifocals, and the coaster-sized lenses probably spared him from having to crane his neck the way fashionably small glasses would have.

While Henry brushed past Robert and into the sitting room, I introduced Sullivan to Robert as my assistant. The two men shook hands. Then Robert fidgeted with his glasses as he continued to study Sullivan’s handsome features. “Your name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it, I’m afraid. And I
know
we haven’t met. I never forget a face.”

Instantly, I tensed. This was Steve’s chance to learn about Robert’s current ties with Laura’s partner-in-crime, Evan, and predictably, he leapt on it. He replied, “I was Evan Cambridge’s business partner. In Crestview. After he stopped working for you.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course, of course. Steve Sullivan.
That’s
where I know your name. That was a terrible ordeal he put you through.”

“One that hasn’t ended.”

“Yes, yes. Indeed. I heard about how he ripped you off and then bolted overseas. I felt terrible about that, Steven.”

“Steve.”

“I had no idea Evan had something like that in him. He couldn’t have been more trustworthy the entire time he worked for me.” He glanced at me, sighed, then returned his attention thoughtfully to Sullivan. “And now you’ve apparently lost your business and are working for someone else.”

“I treat Steve as a peer,” I interjected hastily. “And he still has his own business. We just job-share sometimes.”

“Have you heard from Evan lately?” Steve asked, his eyes locked on Robert.

“Nary a word, I’m afraid.”

I glanced at Steve, hoping he would ask Robert if he’d known Laura as well, but he ignored me. I took that to mean that, as of yet, he could draw no conclusions about Robert’s silk-thread-thin connection to Laura.

Robert ushered us farther into his hotel suite to join Henry. The suite was over-the-top opulent in its liberal use of shimmering gold satin textiles and marble surfaces and carvings. All told, it looked like a scaled-down version of Donald Trump’s New York penthouse.

Robert urged us to “make yourselves comfortable,” and he perched on the arm of the gold satin tuxedo-style sofa. “It is just amazing how morally bankrupt some people can be, isn’t it?” he asked. “And all the while, it’s people like me, in my role as ‘image consultant’ ”—he sketched quotation marks in the air with his fingers—“who train them how to put up this slick, glittering front for the world.”

“Face it, Pembrook: you have the perfect credentials for working with the ‘morally bankrupt.’ ” Henry had slouched down in the overstuffed armchair and had spread out his legs as if to allow his annoying little body to take up as much space as possible.

Although the remark instantly set my teeth on edge, Robert merely chuckled. He looked at Sullivan and me and explained, “I had loose lips during one of our previous sessions and told Henry about my sordid past. Though it
is
the distant past . . . many, many years ago. I was arrested for embezzlement, did my time, and have been on the straight and narrow ever since.” He paused. “Well, actually . . .” He winked and chuckled a second time. “Not so ‘straight.’ But ‘on the
narrow,
’ at any rate.”

“I’m sure the vast majority of your clients are good people who just recognize that they need a little polish on their rough edges,” I interjected.

“You are just too kind, Erin. But thank you.” He sighed. “And you know what? That actually
used
to be true, while I was still working mostly with clients in Denver. But now that I’m in Hollywood . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Well, let’s just say that you have no idea.”

Rubbing his hands together, he hopped to his feet and once again gestured at Sullivan and me. “So. Sit, sit!” He eyed my portfolio case. “Are these the finished room plans?”