Jump the Gun (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Mickey told me over breakfast, at a we-serve-eggs-all-day retro diner a few blocks from the hotel, that he had been taking care of office emails that morning, too, besides investigating his old friend. He wrote to his boss that some “personal difficulties” had come up, that he wasn't sure when he'd be back in the office, but that he would stay in touch by email and phone, and would make sure that all of the follow-ups necessary for meetings at the book convention were taken care of. Mickey had a full-time assistant at the office, and, as he put it, “He's Mr. Reliable, and after all of this is sorted out, he'll be Mr. Reliable with a Big Raise.”

That struck me as odd. At my company, “Big Raise” was a phrase I'd never heard, especially for a publicity manager like me, let alone a sales assistant. But Mickey had mentioned something about them releasing a new blockbuster akin to J. K. Rowling's
Harry Potter,
so I guessed his company could be doing a lot better than mine.

I wasn't expected back until the next week. I was on vacation, to relax for a few days following the book convention. Hah.

We both had Sprint cell phone service, and there was a Sprint store on the way to my apartment, so we stopped to buy phones. We met the locksmith at three. He was already there when we arrived, and a uniformed policeman was with him. It took the locksmith only about thirty minutes to install a new deadbolt and a new handle with a lock, and new keys for both. The door was still a bit bashed in on its edge, but that would have to be dealt with later. We thanked the officer for his help, and I gave the locksmith a check.

After searching through my belongings, I didn't determine that anything was missing.

Bonkers was still under the bed. I changed his litter box and refilled his food and water dish, happy to see them both depleted.

We drove the Mustang, top down, to Georgia Browning's offices in the Marina district on Chestnut Street. After parking in a public garage, we walked a couple of blocks to an old, restored Victorian.

The receptionist greeted us. “Hello, can I help you?”

Mickey answered. “We're here to see Georgia Browning.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, actually…”

“Well, I'm sorry, but she doesn't see drop-ins. Would you like to schedule…”

“Look,” I jumped in. “We're here on an urgent personal matter. It's very urgent, in fact. Could be a matter of life and death.” I folded my arms.

Mickey cleared his throat. “It
is
important, if you'd be so kind as to let her know we're here.”

She frowned, but I didn't flinch. She picked up the phone and punched in three numbers, explained that we were there and added, “It might be important.” She hung up. “Georgia will see you. Please go upstairs and turn left at the top. Her office is right there.”

Mickey thanked her, and we took the stairs.

When we walked in, Georgia Browning stood up, walked out from behind her desk, held out her hand, and said, “Ms. Starkey, Mr. Paxton, how can I help you?”

She was slight in build and about my height, around five foot seven. Her blond hair was in an updo, and it looked like she had a lot of it. She was dressed in a chic dark green wool suit, jacket and pants, and wore fashionable black spike high heels. Her small diamond earrings and long, gold necklace were perfect accessories to the suit. She was very professional, but she seemed nervous. After she shook our hands, she fidgeted with her necklace. We all sat down. I noticed a framed photograph on her desk of a man and two children. If Georgia was Cassie's lover, I guessed she was in the closet.

I smiled at her. “I found your name on a notepad in my apartment. Did you call me?”

Her face twitched the slightest bit, and her complexion paled. I had never seen that happen to anyone before, such a sudden loss of color.

She glanced from me to Mickey then back to me again. “Why, no, I didn't call you. I don't know you, do I?”

I shook my head. “No. Do you know Cassie Hobbs?”

She couldn't turn any whiter, but now she was twisting her necklace around her fingers like she was playing a game of Cat's Cradle. “No, no, I can't say that I do.”

Mickey put his hand on my knee. “Ms. Browning, Cassie Hobbs was murdered in Annabelle's apartment Sunday night, and we found your name. That's why we're here. We thought you might have some information that could help us figure out what happened.”

Georgia stood up. “Well, for heaven's sake, I know nothing about this. I've never heard of this person.”

“Cassie,” I said.

“Cassie, yes. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm no help to you. Perhaps she was going to call me about a legal matter?”

I looked at Mickey. He nodded at Georgia. “Perhaps. But you haven't heard from her?”

Georgia shook her head.

“What kind of law do you practice?” I asked.

“Estates, wills, trusts, personal financial matters…” Her voice trailed off as she sat back down and pulled her appointment book in front of her. “Listen, I have a busy day and I'm afraid I'm out of time. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful.” She put on her best attorney face and managed a tight-lipped smile.

I could see her appointment book from where I was sitting. There was nothing written on the open pages.

Mickey smiled back and stood. “We understand. Sorry to bother you. Thank you for your time.” He tossed me a let's-get-out-of-here look.

Mickey and I split down the stairs, passing the receptionist on her way up, and continued to the front door. At least, I walked to the door, before I noticed Mickey wasn't with me. I turned around and saw him staring at the receptionist's desk.

“Mickey, what are you doing?” I joined him.

“Look at this.” He picked up an eight-by-ten glossy color photograph that was lying on top of a manila envelope. A group of old people, all sitting together in a kind of living room, held a banner that read, “Thank you, Georgia!” Georgia occupied the center seat in the middle of the group, wearing a wide-brim hat. The old woman to her left was Nana, my grandmother. Mary Rosen was sitting to her right.

Mickey put the photo back on the desk, aimed his new phone and snapped a picture of the picture. Then he grabbed my arm and rushed me out the door.

Chapter Thirteen

“We've got to go see Brad right away.” Mickey was embracing his inner racecar-driver self, channeling Mario Andretti or Jeff Gordon while he floored the Mustang. “Annabelle, I'm going to the police station.”

I couldn't argue with him. I was simply stunned by that photo.

Mickey was talking as fast as Joe Pesci's Leo Getz character in the
Lethal Weapon
movies, which wasn't the least bit comforting, since Leo was not only annoying, he screwed things up. “Okay okay okay. We're going to tell Brad that we found Georgia, and she's the link between Cassie getting killed and what happened in Las Vegas, or something. Or that Mary Rosen really did have something to do with Jake, or Chuck, or whatever his name is.”

I wanted to poke my head out of the side of the car like a dog, and have the wind blow my hair back, while I panted. Instead, I tried not to hyperventilate.

“I should call Luis. That's what I should do.” Mickey reached for his cell phone and tried to start dialing while heading up Gough Street, and I do mean up. It's one of those classic steep San Francisco streets. But he swerved, nearly hit a tree, then dropped the phone. “Damn it!”

I picked it up. “I'll call him. You drive. What's the number?”

“Never mind. I'll do it later.” He held out his hand for the phone.

But I scrolled down the “contacts” menu and saw Luis' number. “It's right here. I'll call him.”

“I entered a few numbers while we were waiting for the locksmith to finish, but I'll call him when we stop. I want to talk to him.” Mickey was wiggling his fingers at me, still wanting the phone.

“Don't drive with one hand. You're going to kill us.” I hit the talk button. I heard the phone ring, and then “Yes, this is Luis.” Mickey slapped his palm back on the steering wheel.

“Luis, hi, it's Annabelle.”

“Amiga. Good to hear your voice. How are you? Where are you?”

“Mickey is driving like a madman right now to a San Francisco police station, and I'm calling you because we have uncovered some information. Where are you right now? Mickey, turn left at the next corner.”

Luis was sitting in his captain's office at his precinct station, waiting to meet with him. “I'm staring at a photo, a black-and-white glossy of Captain Buddy Anderson receiving an award from the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce for ‘Excellence in Community Service.'”

“Ah. And did he deserve it?”

Mickey, who had turned onto Bush Street and was at that moment careening downhill with what looked like pure exhilaration, but what was probably all-out panic, yelled sharply, “Did who deserve what?” at the same time that Luis answered, “Actually, yes. He's a good man. Spends a lot of time with poor kids. Lost one of his own a few years back.”

“It sounds like you respect him. Are you going to tell him about Jake? I mean, Chuck?”

“Who? Who does he respect? Who is he going to tell about Jake?” Mickey, following my wildly gesticulating hand, was turning a corner now onto Hyde, having made it through all of the green lights on Bush Street without stopping, and started honking his horn at some hapless pedestrian who hadn't been expecting the Batmobile to come roaring toward him.

“Mickey, will you chill? Please? Jeez. Luis, sorry, I couldn't hear you, Mickey is kind of crazed right now and, well, it's hard to explain.”

“I said, yes, I am here to talk to him about Chuck, and in fact, I see him coming now, so I will have to call you back.”

“Wait, Luis, just one thing. One name. Georgia Browning. We think she's in on this, whatever it is. She's a lawyer. She's connected to Tall Oaks and Mary Rosen. She might have been connected to Cassie or to her killer, we don't know. Or she might have killed Cassie. Or…”

“WHICH WAY?” cried Mickey. He made a sudden right onto Market Street, slammed his foot on the brake, and steered the Mustang over to a curb painted red. We were both flung forward in our seats, and when the car came to a complete stop, we were flung back again.

I glared at Mickey. “Will you calm down? You should have gone straight across Market.” He reached for the phone but I kept it to my ear. “Sorry, Luis, didn't hear you again.”

“I have to go now, Annabelle. I wrote the name down. I will call you later. Hasta luego.” He hung up.

“Mickey, we can't park here, it's a red zone.”

“Give me my phone.”

“Fine. Here it is.” I tossed it to him. He grabbed it out of the air and stuck it back in his sport coat pocket. “What did Luis say?”

“He couldn't talk, he was waiting to meet with his captain, to speak with him about Jake. I mean, Chuck. But he wrote Georgia's name down.” Mickey was shaking his head and wagging his finger at me.

“What? Will you stop that?” I grabbed his finger.

He kept shaking his head. “I should have never gone along with this. We might have just met with Cassie's
murderer
…”

“Or her lover…”

“
Lover?
Did you not see the picture on her desk of her husband and kids?”

“Mickey, we can't park here.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. But we're still here.”

“Annabelle, Georgia was not Cassie's lover.”

“You don't know that. She might have been in the closet.”

“So, you think she
was
Cassie's lover, and she just happened to have done some sort of charity work or something for Tall Oaks, and that's some big coincidence?”

“I don't know, probably not. But Georgia was so nervous, she knew something, something big. So the first two things I think of are, one, she was Cassie's lover, or two, she killed her.”

“Okay, maybe she did know Cassie. Maybe she was getting close to Cassie to try to get close to you.” Mickey ran his hands through his hair. “But then why would she kill Cassie?”

“Maybe Cassie found out about something Georgia was up to.” I paused. “But Mickey, we really don't know that Georgia was up to anything. They may have been lovers, and it could be a coincidence that Georgia did some legal work for Tall Oaks.”

“I don't believe in coincidence.”

“It's not something to believe in, Mickey. It's not like a religion or something. Happenstance, circumstance, things happen. Like, you and me. We just happened to meet in Chicago.”

“What coincidence is there in that?”

“I don't know, okay? I don't know!” Right then I felt a little electric buzz against my butt. “What's wrong with this car?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm getting electrocuted, or laser beamed, or…” I reached to my back pocket and felt my new phone there. I had it on “vibrator” mode. I pulled it out and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Is this Annabelle?” A woman's voice.

“Yes,” I answered warily. “Who is this please?” Mickey fiddled with his phone.

“Annabelle, dear, this is Beth Hobbs. Cassie's mother.”

“Oh! Mrs. Hobbs!” Mickey relaxed back in his seat and dropped his head against the headrest. The hotel phone system allowed you to leave an answering message on your room phone. I had left one giving my new cell phone number. “I'm so glad you called me. Are you all right? Well, no, of course you're not. You must be…oh jeez, um, the police told me you are with friends, and I hope that's right. I am glad you called. I…”

“I
am
with friends, and I wanted to see if we could get together, perhaps tomorrow, and I also wanted to know if you have spoken to Kirsten.”

“Kirsten?”

“Yes, Cassie's friend, Kirsten.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know who that is.”

Beth Hobbs was silent for what felt like a full minute. “Annabelle, did you know that my daughter was gay?”

I started to feel queasy. I bent over my knees. I answered her in a quiet voice. “Yes, I did know. I didn't know that you knew.”

“She just told me…” Beth's voice cracked and she stopped. “She just told me a few days ago. She called to tell me that she had fallen in love, and that she didn't want to keep it a secret from me, and that she had fallen in love with a woman.”

I closed my eyes, my head was between my knees. “I see. And, Mrs. Hobbs, I guess she told you that this woman's name was Kirsten?”

I knew the answer before she spoke, and the inside of my head was swimming. “Yes, and I haven't reached her yet.”

I took a deep breath. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hobbs. Cassie told me she was falling for someone, but she didn't tell me much about her. She told me she didn't want to give me any details until she was sure about the relationship. I didn't even know her name was Kirsten.”

At that, I felt Mickey sit up to my left.

“That's all right.” Her voice cracked, and I heard her take a deep breath. “If you'd like to get together tomorrow sometime, I'd like to meet you.”

I sat up and focused on the fire hydrant to our right. “Sure. I have to drive up to Santa Rosa, but how about breakfast, or coffee in the morning?” We agreed to meet for coffee at ten at Café Eduardo on Bush Street at Powell, and said goodbye.

Mickey was watching me. He had calmed down, his eyes had gone soft. He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. Back to being kind and looking after me. I wondered if he was like that with everyone, or if I had truly managed to sweep him off his feet. I shook that thought out of my head. No sense in imagining he was my Mr. Darcy and I was his Elizabeth Bennet in some modern-day version of
Pride and Prejudice.
Mickey would find me too proud and headstrong for him. I would discover he was prejudiced against women with oversized ears and a big mouth. I had never bewitched a man, body and soul, like Keira Knightly did. That long neck of hers probably helped.

“Mickey, we can't park here.”

“I'm moving.” He squeezed my shoulder before he turned the key in the ignition and headed up Market Street, driving the speed limit and stopping courteously for pedestrians.