How to Crash a Killer Bash (13 page)

 

Brad and my mother were still sitting at the table when I entered the room. Andrew had joined them, and looked like he was busy scrutinizing a bunch of papers. He tapped his pencil vigorously—nervously?—in between jotting down notes. When Brad stood up to greet me, Andrew hurriedly gathered his papers. In his haste, he dropped them on the floor. As he leaned over to retrieve them, he nearly fell off the bench.

I turned to Brad with a raised eyebrow.

“Andrew is a brilliant lawyer, Presley,” he whispered. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have hired him if I didn’t believe he could help your friend.”

I frowned skeptically but said nothing.

Andrew stood up, disheveled papers in hand, and placed them neatly in his open briefcase. He closed the case, snapped the locks at exactly the same time, and hugged the case as if it were filled with treasure.

“Do you have your own firm, Andrew?” I asked, trying to get acquainted.

“I work for Siegel and Associates, the largest law firm in the city,” he said flatly, although his enunciation was perfect. “We have to go now, Bradley. I’m due back at the office by four o’clock. I can’t be late.”

Brad shot him a look. Something passed between them. Andrew turned to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Parker. Have a nice day.”

Without offering his hand, he spun around and headed out the door.

I looked back at Brad, my eyes narrowed. “He seems very . . . precise,” I said, almost at a loss for words. “He goes to the office on Sundays? He must be quite dedicated. Or he has no social life.”

“Both,” Brad said. “He works seven days a week—never misses a day. That’s part of what makes him such a good attorney.”

“He called you Bradley. Are you friends from school? Or is he always so formal?”

Brad met my eyes. “Andrew has Asperger’s syndrome. And he’s my brother.”

In spite of the fact that Brad had confirmed my hunch about Andrew, I was still surprised—not only that he had Asperger’s, but that Brad had a brother! How little I knew about this intriguing man in the white Crime Scene Cleaners jumpsuit and Zips.

As for Andrew, he had many of the signs of the disorder. While Asperger’s is a form of autism, it differs in degree for most people. Those with the disorder often function well in society, especially when they find their niche. Apparently Andrew had turned his obsession for organization and detail, plus his interest in solving crime puzzles, into a productive and useful career. It was a challenging accomplishment for anyone, but especially impressive for someone with Asperger’s.

I wondered if all good lawyers fell somewhere along the spectrum of Asperger’s.

Like others with the disorder, Andrew appeared to be intelligent (he’d passed the bar), articulate (his speech was clearly enunciated), and focused to a fault, as witness his intense concentration while compiling his notes. Plus, he hadn’t been comfortable when he was introduced to me. Being socially awkward was another characteristic of Asperger’s syndrome.

But would he really be a good attorney for Dee? I could only hope so.

“I gotta go,” Brad said, interrupting my thoughts.

“Wait a minute. I never knew you had a brother . . .” I was interrupted by my cell phone. I checked the caller ID. Blocked. I said hello. No answer. I hung up.

“Who was that?” Brad asked.

“I don’t know. Someone keeps calling and hanging up.”

“That’s not good,” he said, frowning. “Look, I’ve got to take Andrew back to the office. But how about we meet later? I have something I want to talk about with you.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Thanks again for getting Dee a lawyer. I just hope he’s . . .” I let my thought drop.

“Good? He is. Don’t worry.” Brad squeezed my arm gently before following his brother out the door.

I pulled my mother away from her new BFF and herded her out of the building and to my MINI. As usual, I was alert to my surroundings, looking for nearby transients, drug dealers, and gang members who might be visiting relatives at the jail. The Hall of Justice area wasn’t the best place to leave a car, but as I approached the MINI from a distance, I could see it still had all four tires. The windshield hadn’t been smashed. And the convertible top hadn’t been slashed. So far, so good.

My mother stopped abruptly as we reached the car. “What happened to your paint job?”

My heart leaped. “What do you mean?”

She pointed at the passenger side of my car.

I looked closely.

A long zigzagging line stretched from one end to the other.

My jaw dropped. “Oh no!”

I followed the mark around the trunk, and surveyed the driver’s side. My darling little MINI had been totally keyed.

“Oh my God!” I said, glancing around the neighborhood as if I’d find the perp with a telltale weapon in his hand. The car would need a whole new paint job. This was going to cost me a fortune to fix. I cursed as quietly as I could so as not to disturb my mother.

But she wasn’t listening to me. Her attention was focused down near her feet. “You know, honey, your tires look kind of flat too.” She kicked the front tire daintily with the sharp toe of her alligator pumps. “I think you need air.”

I looked down at the tires. Flat. I moved around the car. All four—flat as a bottle of day-old champagne.

I cursed loud enough for the inmates in the nearby jail to hear.

My mother blushed. “Presley, such language! In my day, ladies didn’t use language like that. Now, call a tow truck and a cab, so we can be on our way. I have a scrapbooking class at four o’clock.”

I muttered a few more F-bombs as I dialed Triple A and asked for a tow to the nearest MINI Cooper/BMW dealership. Next I called a cab, to first escort my mother home and then deliver me to my office.

While we waited, we reentered the Hall of Justice to file a useless complaint form.

“Any chance you’ll catch whoever did this?” I asked the watch commander.

“Not likely,” the uniformed African-American woman said. “We get a lot of auto vandalism around here. The perps are usually visitors upset that their ‘innocent’ loved ones are in jail, and they take their anger out on the nearest vehicle. It’s a quiet crime, easy to pull off—even right in front of the building. Probably trying to send a message. Your insurance will cover it.”

Insurance? Without the salary I’d once pulled down teaching at the university, I had taken the bare minimum in auto insurance—collision. And only because it was the law. If I didn’t collect my fee from the de Young event, I’d be screwed in more ways than one.

I handed her the complaint form and waited outside with my mother, sulking, until my car was towed and the cab arrived. She chatted about her scrapbooking class on the drive back to her place, but I heard little she said, still pouting about my car. I made sure she got safely into her building.

When I returned to the cab, I gave the driver my office address on Treasure Island. He knew the island, but had no clue where the barracks were, so I directed him once we passed the main gate. After he dropped me off, I started up the barracks steps, then stopped, struck by an idea. I spun around on my heels and marched over to Dee’s Smart Car, which had been idly collecting a thin layer of dust in the lot while Dee had been in jail.

I tried the driver’s-side door. Locked up tight.

With my MINI in the shop, I needed a car. With Delicia in jail, she didn’t.

All I had to do was find her key and hope she didn’t put out an APB for a stolen vehicle—if you could call a Smart Car a vehicle.

I rushed into the barracks, passed Brad, who had returned from delivering his brother, and entered Dee’s unlocked office. Nothing had been touched since Detective Melvin removed Dee’s computer.

I pulled open each of the drawers in her desk and filing cabinet searching for her car keys. No sign of them.

Duh, I thought. Women don’t keep their keys in desk drawers. They keep them in their purses.

So where was Dee’s purse? Detective Melvin hadn’t found it when he searched her office. I would have seen him with it. Had the cops taken it when she was arrested?

I visualized her arrest and was certain she hadn’t had her purse when they handcuffed her.

The last place she would have put it was in the makeshift changing room adjacent to the crime scene room. It had to be there.

Brad appeared in Dee’s office doorway.

“What are you doing?”

I smiled at him as seductively as I could. “I need a favor.”

“You mean
another
favor.”

“Whatever.” I told him what had happened to my car at the Hall of Justice and my urgent need for wheels.

He made a face.

“No, not your truck,” I said quickly. “I’m going to borrow Dee’s Smart Car for a couple of days. Just until mine’s fixed.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“A ride.”

“Where to?”

“The museum.”

Brad’s eyes narrowed. His frown deepened. “Presley, you realize you could be in serious danger if someone thinks you’re sticking your nose into their business.”

“You could join me,” I suggested. “After I’m done, I’ll buy you something at the museum café.”

He sighed. “You’re offering me a bribe?”

I knew I had him and gave him a warm smile. “Thanks, Brad.”

“Okay, but don’t complain to me when you get helmet hair.”

Helmet hair?

I walked down the hall to the reception area and peered out the window. There was no sign of his Crime Scene Cleaners SUV. How had I missed that?

In its parking spot was a big black BMW bike.

Great. There’s only one thing I fear more than seeing clowns, getting leprosy, drowning in quicksand, going to the dentist, dying of rabies, or being hypnotized.

Motorcycles.

 

I retreated into my office to wait for Brad to finish up whatever he was doing and sat down at my desk. Time for a shot of chocolate to fortify me for the windy ride over to the museum. I opened my chocolate drawer to retrieve some Ghirardelli squares and pulled out a couple of dark chocolate with raspberries. Ripping one open, I popped it into my mouth. As the smooth rich flavor melted over my tongue, I woke up my sleeping computer to check my e-mail. The screen flickered on, I pushed a key, and my screen saver—a picture of the San Francisco skyline—melted into what looked like an Internet search for “Presley Parker.”

I leaned into the screen. Yep, that was me, all right, Googled, with links to all kinds of personal information—how long I’d taught at SFSU, what subject I taught, where I’d gotten my degree and credentials, who my mother was, what parties I’d given recently, and other details about my business, Killer Parties.

One of the sites even included my address and phone number.

A tingle of fear ran up my spine. I stood up and backed away from the machine as if it were possessed. Someone had been in my office and used my computer to find out information about me. Recently. I scanned the room for other signs that an intruder had been in my office. Nothing seemed stolen, disturbed, or broken. Nothing was out of place.

I glanced back at my desk more carefully this time, to see if my papers were still there.

Another rush of heat warmed my body.

The guest list from the museum party was missing, including my suspect list.

“Brad!” I called across the hall.

“Okay, okay. I’m ready,” he answered, feigning exasperation. He appeared in my doorway and saw my face. “What’s wrong?”

I pointed to my desk. “Did you take my guest list?”

“What guest list?”

“I left it here on my desk, and it’s gone!”

“So?”

“So. Don’t you get it? Someone was in my office.”

 

“You’re going too fast,” I screamed at the back of Brad’s helmet. We were practically flying across the Bay Bridge toward 101 South. Either he didn’t hear me or he chose to ignore me, and may have, in fact, sped up just to taunt me. I grabbed him tightly around the waist and shut my eyes, missing the views along the way. No matter. I’d seen it all many times before. It wasn’t until we’d passed Golden Gate Park’s panhandle that I opened one eye.

Most of the things I’m afraid of, like quicksand, rabies, and clowns, came from watching movies. But I don’t like motorcycles because I had a boyfriend in high school who skidded off the road and hit a tree. He died instantly. Another close friend in college was paralyzed when his bike was cut off by a truck. I swore I’d never ride on one—or date anyone who did. And here I was, on the back of a death machine. I prayed as we roared along that this would be my last motorcycle ride—by choice.