Ill Will (39 page)

“My guess? He’s picked up feistiness in the fictitious Debbie—you. And he wants to ride her.”

“Pretty sick,” I said. “He is certainly playing a game. It’s the same crap; why not just give it to me? Why make me produce a sick sister?”

“Because he can,” Joe answered. “He’s made his money, now he wants to play with people.”

“‘Flies to wanton boys,’” I quoted.

“Exactly,” Rafe said. “You have to jump through his hoops, bring your sick and dying sister to him if you want the stuff.”

“Except I don’t have any sisters, let alone any who are ill.”

We both glanced at Gem. Way too young and healthy.

“Let me think about it,” Rafe said. “Run it by some legal eagles. It might be enough that we have a good idea of what’s going on there. Might be able to get someone to raid it.”

“So what do I do?”

“Keep that cell phone with you. Let me know the minute they call. I’ll figure out something from there.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it in my direction.

I caught it and peeked inside. The rest of the money. “You don’t need to pay me—it wasn’t like we accomplished what we set out to do.”

“You took the big risk. You get the bucks. Walters wants to play with you—Debbie. That just might be his undoing.” He stood up. “We’ve had enough fun for tonight.”

Joe and Gem nodded. I caught her looking at me. Not in the way a straight woman would look.

They trooped out of my office and I followed them down the stairs.

Rafe and Joe got in the SUV. Gem hung back.

Once their engine started she said, “I like older women,” and looked me up and down.

I smiled. The ego boost was nice. “So do I. I have one at home waiting for me.”

“Had to try,” she said good-naturedly as she got in her junker car.

I watched just long enough for them to pull away from the curb, then went back upstairs. Yes, indeed workout by stair. I needed to get out of my pink attire. I took off the watch wire and placed it in my desk drawer, along with the envelope of money. I could deal with everything tomorrow. It was time to get home and not think about Debbie and her problems.

When I’d arrived home last night, Cordelia was already in bed asleep. She didn’t rouse when I got in next to her. I had stared at her in the dim bedroom light. A clump of hair was beside her on the pillow. I gently scooped it up and put it in the trash. She still didn’t rouse. Only her soft breathing let me know she was alive.

I again fixed her breakfast, but she only ate a little. She took some chicken soup with her for lunch, but that was all.

I left soon after she did. The cats stared at me, as if they couldn’t understand my shifted hours. I was supposed to stay for another hour or two in the morning before I left. To make up, I gave them some treats.

Then I was at my office staring at the walls and trying to make sense of the various balls I was figuratively juggling.

The NBG investigation seemed at a dead end. I, or should I say we, had to produce a sick sister in the next day or two—someone who could reasonably be my sister, who could reasonably fake ill, and who had enough of a law enforcement/private eye background to pull it off. I had used some of the bare outlines of Cordelia’s illness as the basis of the story, but there was no way I’d involve her. It couldn’t be anyone actually sick, the physical demands would be too much. The only option on my end was to consider asking Joanne if she’d like to moonlight. Maybe borrow some forms from Cordelia to give her the appropriate paperwork. But even that I had to consider and consider again before suggesting it to Rafe. This wasn’t Joanne’s investigation—plus she was a cop and that meant she had to play by the rules. We did, too, but we have different referees to answer to.

Dudley seemed to have disappeared. Maybe rich daddy gave him a one-way ticket to Bangkok and told him to stay there for a few years. Or maybe Prejean didn’t want to be involved in whatever Dudley might do, so he’d paid for the ticket. Probably Greyhound to L.A.

Then there was the mess with insurance paperwork at Cordelia’s office. That one, at least, should be easily solved. I’d meet with Lydia tonight. She’d show me what she’d found. Unless I was way wrong, I’d tell her to go to the authorities. After that, no more promises to not tell Cordelia. She needed to know what she might be involved in.

My phone rang.

Mr. Charles Williams. “Hey, just wanted to check on how things are going? You missed out on a good pot of gumbo.”

I didn’t show my relief. I might be able to make a mild chicken gumbo Cordelia could eat, but other than that, gumbo would not be darkening our door anytime soon. “That’s too bad. Guess I’ll have to make do with my own. There’s not much I can update you on about the McConkles’ case at the moment,” I said.

“That’s too bad. But I got good news. My nephew called me. Pissant needed a job, so he was beating the bushes. Including calling his uncle.”

“That is good news. He call you recently?”

“Just yesterday. Set him up working with Fletcher and his wife. They could use an extra hand now that they’re so busy.”

“That’s great. Really good to hear.” He had no idea how good. Clearly my suspicion about his nephew being Reginald Banks was wrong. I wondered what else I was wrong about.

“Yeah, so I’m hoping with him working for them and all, if you find more stuff that says that Nature’s whatever is crap, then you can tell them and maybe they’ll influence him. You oughta come by the work site some day. I’ll do my gumbo even.”

“You manage a pretty mean bribe, Mr. Williams. Once I have some more info, I’ll set up a time to join them.”

“Just gumbo, not a bribe. You really oughta check this place out. Six-car garage—his regular car is Porsche. My nephew couldn’t stop talking about it last night.”

“Too posh for my taste, but I’ll let you know when I have more to report. Sorry, my other line is ringing.” With that little white lie, I politely got him off the phone. I was happy about his nephew mainly because it spared me the mess of either avoiding his request or telling him his nephew was dead. Once Rafe came up with a resolution of how to handle Grant Walters, I’d have more to tell the McConkles. If they were willing to have Mr. Charles Williams there, fine by me.

Then, as if fate didn’t want me lying, my phone rang again.

“Is this Michele Knight?” I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Yes, this is.”

“I’m Sylvia Wayne, Jennifer Godwin’s nurse. She’s Cordelia’s doctor—”

“What’s wrong?” I cut her off.

“She asked me to call you—”

“What’s wrong?” I demanded.

“She fainted. She’d come in to see Dr. Godwin, to say how tired she was and then collapsed.” She hurriedly added, “She’s all right, alert and talking now. They admitted her just to check things out.”

“Where is she?”

She rattled off a room number, clearly assuming I’d know they’d taken Cordelia to the hospital just across the street from the doctors’ office.

I was out of the office so quickly, I was halfway there before wondering if I’d locked the downstairs door. Or the upstairs one. Everything was a blur and I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, I couldn’t turn back.

She’s okay, alert and talking
, I had to remind myself to not break every traffic law on the books. But every slow car, every red traffic light was a trial.

I didn’t even bother to look for parking on the street, just used the pay lot.

“Can I help you?” a blur in scrub greens asked me.

I had been almost running. “I’m here to see my—” then I wondered what word to use with this stranger. The truth, there was no time for anything else. “My partner, Cordelia James. She’s in room five-eleven.”

The stranger pointed me in the direction I had been heading. I barely remembered a thanks.

Then I was at the door and into her room.

She was sitting up, sipping orange juice. I thought there would be some sea change from this morning. But she looked as she had when she left, save for the setting, a bland, boring room, white sheets and blanket, muted green walls.

“Hey,” I called softly.

She looked over at me. “I’m okay,” she said as if apologizing. “You didn’t need to rush down here. Probably my electrolytes are unbalanced, so I got faint. They’re just checking me out.”

It’s just routine, no big deal, don’t worry
. Was she trying to convince me or herself?

I crossed to the side of her bed and took her free hand. “It’s one of those boring, read-through-financial-records cases. It doesn’t take much to distract me from those.”

A nurse entered to take her vital signs and I retreated to the chair on the far side of the bed. After he left, she again apologized for the fuss, seemingly caught between wanting me here and feeling guilty for causing this disruption. I considered leaving. Maybe it would be better for her if I wasn’t here, but I knew there was no way I could go back to my office and get anything done. As guilty as she felt, Cordelia seemed to like having me here, to have someone to take care of her, from helping her maneuver the IV pole to go to the bathroom to running out and getting ice chips.

They wanted to run tests, make sure she wasn’t anemic. To be sure that her fainting was just being weakened from the chemo and eating so much less and pushing to maintain a normal life. She would probably be here over the weekend.

I was so preoccupied with Cordelia I almost forgot about agreeing to meet Lydia.

I was saved having to lie to her—or blow off Lydia—by her insisting that I go home. “I’m falling asleep and it’s stupid for you to stay here and watch me snore. So, go home, please.”

I assured her I’d be back bright and early in the morning and left, only a little late for my meeting.

It was just across the street and a little down the block. It was a dark night, the moon and stars obscured by clouds. The bright fluorescence of the hospital and the surrounding buildings cast little light into the shadows.

I entered via the parking garage, using the stairs instead of the elevator. Three flights up to the walkway from the garage to the building and another two flights to their office. Lydia wanted to be cloak and dagger, so I would honor her wishes—and make up for my fried lunches. No one was around, at least not anyone willing to climb stairs.

“I’m sorry I’m…” I said as I came into the lobby, but no one was there. I looked at my watch. Okay, I was fifteen minutes late. Maybe she had assumed that I wouldn’t show because of Cordelia. I pulled out my phone to look at it. No call, no text message.

I waited five minutes, then texted her,
Hey, I’m here. Sorry, I was a little late. Are you still around?

As if on cue, the elevator rumbled to life, startling in this quiet space. I listened to its slow assent. At the last minute, I ducked back into the stairwell. Lydia had to have been standing right by the elevator with her phone in her hand, otherwise there wasn’t enough time for her to have read my text and be almost here.

Maybe the quiet was spooking me. Who else could it be except Lydia?

Someone too tall and too flat-chested to be her. I had only a brief glimpse through the crack in the door. Probably a man, but he was wearing a ball cap and the hood of a sweatshirt over it, and dark glasses. Whoever it was, he had keys. I heard him open the door and go into the office.

Perhaps Lydia was right to be cloak and dagger
, I thought as I quietly crept down the stairs. While it wasn’t yet hot here, a baseball cap and a hooded sweatshirt was overkill. Not to mention the dark glasses. That shrieked someone who didn’t want to be recognized and was going out of his way to make sure the security cameras didn’t get a good picture. Not the kind of thug I wanted to deal with.

I moved as quickly as I could, but I had to both be quiet and also move at a normal enough pace that if I ran into anyone I wouldn’t seem suspicious. I had to pause at the landing by the bridge as I heard voices. I remained in the stairwell as they waited for the elevator on the other side of the door. People remember the unusual, and someone using the stairs might be enough for me to be noticed. The elevator finally came, they moved on, and no one was around to see me cross back to the parking garage. As I headed for my car, I pondered what had happened. There were plenty of doctors and nurses who were drug addicts and might be stopping by the office for a late-night fix. If the drugs came up missing, they wouldn’t want their face on the cameras or to have been seen by the security guard. The stranger clearly had access—there had been no fumbling with the keys. That indicated someone who was a regular, not the boyfriend or girlfriend who had borrowed—willingly or not so—some staff member’s keys and access codes. Besides drugs, people had affairs. With a wife/spouse/partner at home, a deserted office could be a rendezvous place.

Or maybe another private eye who had been hired to check out some hinky insurance reports.

All those explanations were possible. It was just coincidence that this person showed up at around the same time I was supposed to meet Lydia. Except I don’t like coincidences that rile my intuition. My text message, the timing of the elevator, and that my instincts told me to hide, not wait for the person I was expecting to meet. Throw into that it seemed odd for Lydia not to be there and have made no effort to contact me.