Hot Rocks (3 page)

five

Detective Bannon’s smile was
even broader than before. “There you go with those TV cop show scenarios again. I know my boundaries and promise not to step over them. Just some basic facts, okay?”

“Let ’er rip.”

Sargent rolled his eyes as Bannon pulled out a notebook. “Can I start with your full name?”

I sighed. “You checked both my driver’s license and PI license yesterday. But if it makes you feel more competent, I’ll play the game. My parents named me Elizabeth Angeline Bowman after my grandmothers. They were very strong women, and someday, under different circumstances, I’ll tell you some great stories about them.” I frowned at him. “But not today. You don’t seem receptive. But back to names. Some call me Beth and some call me Angie. I prefer Beth.”

“Beth?” Sargent said.

“Yeah, Beth. Short for Elizabeth. Want me to write it down for you?”

“Date of birth?” Bannon said, jumping in before I could slash Sargent again.

I made a production of stirring my coffee, accepting Sargent’s glare, then took a casual sip. “Next question.” I hoped my expression said my age was none of his business—even though I knew he already had it.

He grinned and said, “Place of birth?”

Made me wonder if he’d forgotten to take notes yesterday. “Dallas.”

“Texas? How’d you end up here?”

“Marriage, followed by divorce. Texas wasn’t big enough for both of us. I left.”

Detective Bannon gave me a sympathetic look. “Sorry to hear that. Divorces are always sad. Hope you didn’t get hurt too bad.” He made a note in his pad. “Were you a PI in Dallas?”

I stared at him, guessing that he was trying to soften me up before going to the hard questions. After sipping coffee, I took another bite of the cookie. Time to let him know I was on to his game. “I’d really like to get some rest today. We can do the soap opera side of my life at another time. Get on with what you came here to ask.”

“Why were you in that room?” came Sargent’s gruff voice.

I thought a moment before replying, realizing my nervousness had dissipated. Sargent’s attitude seemed to fortify, rather than intimidate, as he apparently wished. Or maybe it was a chocolate lift. I took another bite, chewed, then swallowed. “Like I told you before, I heard angry voices from inside. Someone yelled, ‘You sonofabitch, I ought to kill you for that,’ or something similar. Being a good citizen, I pushed open the door and ran inside to intervene. That’s all I remember until I woke up and saw the dead man as you found him.”

“Was the door closed?” Bannon asked.

“Obviously not. If it had been closed, it would have been locked and, ergo, I couldn’t have pushed it open. It wasn’t standing open, but was not secured.”

“You expect us to believe—”

“Be nice, Major,” Bannon said. “I believe her. She looks like the type who’d try to break up a fight. Someone told me that’s how Texans are.”

Sargent gave both of us an incredulous look, then sulked to the back of the sofa again.

“Why were you in the building, Ms. Bowman?” Bannon asked.

I smiled and gave him a knowing wink. “Since you’re the good cop ordained to protect me from the evil Detective Major Sargent, you can call me Beth. Sargent can call me Ms. Bowman. That’ll make the scenario seem more complete—you know, you soften me up, then he takes me apart.” I paused, pondering how much I had to tell. I decided to start with the minimum. “Seems mighty repetitious, but here we go again. I was there because I was hired to follow a straying husband. They do that, you know. Get tired of the wifey at home and look for something not so familiar.”

“So I’ve heard. Go ahead.”

I sat straighter, decision made. “Loyal, dedicated, and wronged wife paid me to get the goods on her hubby. She said she’d had enough of his philandering and wanted out of the marriage. Having lived in her footsteps, I could identify and sympathize. But she didn’t intend to leave empty-handed. She wanted to take him to the cleaners. She asked for full particulars, including pictures if I could get them. And the more
revealing
the pictures, the better—if you get my drift.”

“The beast with two backs,” Sargent snarled as if he didn’t think my assignment proper.

“That’s it,” I said. “If I could catch them in
the
act, she’d double my fee.”

Bannon jotted a few notes on his pad. “All right, you were following the deceased for his wife. Did that include listening in on his conversations?”

I wasn’t sure I liked the way he worded that question. “It included doing whatever was
legal
to develop a case for his wife.”

Bannon appeared ready to move on. “How long were you on his tail before the shooting?”

“I picked him up in Coral Springs, then stayed with him until someone put my lights out. Thirty, forty-five minutes, tops.”

“Where did he go?” Bannon asked.

“He drove straight to the hotel. It seemed to be his destination from the time he got into his car.”

“Did you hear a man’s voice or a woman’s making the threat?”

I struggling with it, trying to re-create the scene. “We’ve been here before, and I still don’t know. It could have been a man or a woman. The venom in the words disguised the gender.”

He looked a bit skeptical, but continued. “Tell me again: when you opened the door, what did you see?”

six

I hesitated, knowing I
should have seen something. What had I seen and what should I tell him? I closed my eyes and visualized the scene—or tried to. Nothing there—nothing except an empty hotel room. An empty room? Where was the person I’d heard? Where was Garcia? There had to be at least two of them. Maybe the blow to my head was blocking what I saw.

“Ms. Bowman?” Bannon said.

“Sorry. I saw an empty room. I was re-visualizing it, and all I get is an empty room.”

Sargent leaned forward, a smirk glowing. “Sure. You hear a fight going on, but when you open the door, there’s no one there. Easy to believe—just like I believe in extraterrestrials. What’s your client’s name?”

I hesitated. It was decision time—cooperate or stall. I decided on the former. “Garcia. His first name was Hector.”

“You’re sticking to that?” Sargent said. “Hector Garcia. And I suppose his wife’s name was Garcia, too?”

I thought about the question and the smirk on Sargent’s face. Why was he being such a hard-ass? I studied Sargent, then Bannon. Something was wrong. They should have positive identity by now, so they’d know the wife’s last name. What was the game? I had no choice but to play along until the rules became clear. “Yeah, her name was Garcia. She introduced herself as Garcia.”

“I see,” Sargent said. “And this Ms. Garcia asked you to follow her husband and catch him with his honey? Is that right?”

“Yes. We’ve been there already. She was fed up with his extra-marital affairs. According to her, this wasn’t his first. But it would be his last with her.”

“I see,” Sargent said, leaning back. “ ‘Would be his last with her’ could mean she hired you to make sure it never happened again. Maybe she just hired you to eliminate a nuisance. Dick, I told you she was full of crap and wouldn’t give us the truth. You’re the nice guy. Explain it to her.”

Bannon glared at Sargent, then, with a pained expression on his face, said, “Ms. Bowman, the facts don’t seem to agree with what you’ve told us. You see, the deceased’s name was Jacobs, and he was a bachelor—never been married. Maybe you need an attorney.”

I stared at Bannon, my mind playing and replaying what he’d said. “Jacobs? Bachelor? That’s nuts. I met his wife. She described him, right down to his shoes. Just what are you handing out?” I stood. “I think both of you should leave now.”

Bannon said, “Ms. Bowman—”

“I want you out of here—now. In case you forgot, I’m still under a physician’s care. If you value your jobs, you’ll leave before I get my lawyer over here to remind you of my rights as a citizen.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Bannon said. “Let’s go, Major. Ms. Bowman deserves her privacy.”

Sargent stood and gave me a nasty look. “We’ll be back. Bannon may be intimidated by your bullshit, but I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, we have enough to drag you screaming and kicking into the station right now. And I’d love to do just that.” He stopped and smiled—not a pretty thing. “But make sure you tell your lawyer we always honor a doctor’s orders. Get your rest. You’re going to need it.” He moved toward the door, waving for Bannon to follow.

As the door clicked closed, I settled into my chair, wondering what had happened. I took on a simple case, and now it appeared I was up that proverbial creek without a paddle. Another way to say I was hip-deep in shit creek.

_____

Detective Bannon’s words bounced around in my head.
Ms. Bowman, the deceased’s name was Jacobs, and he was a bachelor.
The following thought was the
cops screwed up again. How could they be so stupid? But reality intruded, telling me they must have done their homework. Otherwise, they’d never have thrown Jacobs’ name at me. If it were simply a doubt, they’d have kept it to themselves. It was definitely a bad moment. I had to accept that I’d walked through a door, not knowing I was in a house of cards. And that selfsame house crashed into my head, leaving me with a minor concussion and wading in a pool of excrement.

Time to think clearly. How had it happened? If someone set me up, and it appeared an expert had tweaked my actions, why? I wasn’t gullible. Okay, I didn’t want to believe I was gullible. I survived a stint as a cop, a marriage to Sonny-the-Bunny, a nasty divorce, and had rejected more guys in bars than many of my friends had ever met. Plus, damn it, I was a good investigator. I’d been in the business for years, solved many cases, and never failed a client. I could spot a phony two blocks away. Ms. Garcia was not a phony.

I stood and headed for the kitchen, my coffee cup empty. I needed more caffeine. My thinking was not as clear as I wanted it to be. I hoped it was from lack of sleep in the hospital, not the blow I absorbed.

After filling the cup, adding a packet of the pink stuff, and taking a sip, I leaned against the counter. Time to get back to figuring out what happened.

Phony. The word jumped back into my head, shoving aside the satisfaction from the coffee. A moment of discomfort followed, but I pushed it aside—no other choice. Ms. Garcia was a pro who ’d put me in her purse and given me a good shaking. I should have been glad she wasn’t selling Louis Vuitton shoes or my credit card would really be in trouble. Or, since I didn’t wear Louis Vuitton’s so-expensive articles, a more accurate parallel might be I should be glad I hadn’t met her to play strip poker. Hopefully, I’d have quit before my bra and panties came off. The image of standing naked in front of another woman in a Chinese restaurant left me discombobulated. How could I have been so stupid?

I shoved the image away and considered what to do. Bannon had also said, “Maybe you need an attorney.” Mulling that one over didn’t take long at all. He was right. I should call my lawyer. Attorneys may be the pond scum of society, but when needed, there is no substitute. And besides, I had the best.

I dialed the office and asked Donna to let me speak with Mr. Bergstrom. Donna was his private secretary, the pit bull at his door. From nine to six, she ran his life like his wife would never dare. Part of her technique was to keep things on a formal basis. Note, I didn’t ask to speak to Sly, I asked for Mr. Bergstrom. It would have been a major faux pas to use his first name, especially his nickname. She’d have given me a frozen shoulder that would have iced the line as she told me he was unavailable for the next three weeks—or longer.

I had learned early to follow Donna’s rules, as Sly allowed her to enforce them. When she said it was time to meet with a client, he met. When she said it was time to go to court, he went. When she said, “Beth is on the line, and you need to talk to her,” he picked up.

I said in a rush of words, “I need legal advice. Can you work me in today?”

“Good morning, Beth. I’m fine, thank you. So nice of you to ask. How are you?”

I took a deep breath, knowing Sly was jerking my leg to slow me down. “Sorry. I’m doing okay, if you consider I spent the night in the hospital with a possible concussion and the morning with two homicide detectives, who at best, think I’m a liar, and at worst, think I’m a killer.”

“Interesting. So what can I do for you? You mentioned something about a meeting. What’s on your mind?”

“Sly. Don’t you listen?” His leg pulling was getting old in a hurry. “I’m in danger of being arrested. I need a lawyer. You’re a lawyer. I need you.”

“Hmm, yes. I do seem to detect a note of urgency in your voice. I’ll put you on hold and see if Donna will clear some time. Five minutes enough?”

“Sly.” I wanted to scream at him. Whoever said attorneys don’t have a sense of humor, perverted or otherwise, hadn’t met Sylvester Bergstrom. There was a click on the line, and Frank Sinatra crooned
Chicago
in my ear
.
He made his way from Chicago to
New York, New York
, then whined about the fog in London Town. I feared he might leave his heart in San Francisco before Sly returned. Thankfully, I left Frank in the fog.

“Donna says we can do a late lunch,” Sly said with no introduction. “She’ll have it brought in. Be here at two.”

I let my smile fill my words. “Thanks, Sly.” The hum in my ear said he’d hung up. Guess he was in a hurry.

While returning my phone to its cradle, it dawned on me that the thing I wanted most was a cleansing. And I don’t mean in the biblical sense. Just a simple, stinging-hot shower. Enough hot water and gel to wash away everything that happened to me in the past twenty-four hours. One day. That’s all it had been. No, that wasn’t right. I checked my watch. Only twenty hours since I met Ms. Garcia at three o’clock the previous afternoon. Yet, in such a short period of time, my world had spun upside down, my confidence had been shattered, and my competence placed in serious question—even in my own mind.

I showered, lathering several times, reveling in the feel of the water and the suds. Then I washed my hair, working carefully around the back of my head where a cowlick protruded over the lump. It was tender and the shampoo stung a bit, but it felt good. I realized I was flushing away my feeling of hopelessness. It swirled down the drain, replaced by my natural stubbornness. No way would Bannon or his Bluto, Detective Major Sargent, cow me again. There was a stench in this case, but it wasn’t coming from me. I smelled like strawberries.