Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (21 page)

I gave up on the files and swiveled around to the computer, shivering as I touched a key. Had Evan Maxted’s been the last fingers on this keyboard?

To my surprise, the computer hummed and came to life.  A thrill of excitement rippled through me.

Then it died.

The screen that appeared required a password. 

I pushed away from the desk in frustration.  I had already used up at least half of my time, and I still had no idea what I was looking for.

I scanned the room, looking for something—anything—that would help me.  The police had probably been all over the room; I was just hoping they had left something for me to find.  I swung around to try the computer again when my shoe caught on something that had fallen between the desk and the filing cabinet.  I reached down and pulled out a small black leather book.  As I flipped it open, the door opened.

I whirled around and dropped the book into my purse. 

It was the woman in the plum-colored suit.

“What are you doing in here?” Her eyes hardened as my brain fumbled to come up with a response.

“Checking my e-mail!” I spouted.  “I noticed this office was empty, so I figured I’d just slip in and see if I could get into my account.”

“I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”

“I did.  Just checked my lipstick.  Then I decided to check my e-mail.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “On someone else’s computer?”

“Oh, I have one of those things where I can pick it up anywhere.  You know.  I think it’s Yahoo, or something.”  Brilliant, Margie.  “Anyway, I didn’t realize the computers had passwords.”  I grabbed my purse and stood up.  “Sorry about that.  I’ll just get it back at the office.”

The woman’s eyes were hot on my back as I hurried down the hall and slipped into the conference room.

Calvin looked up from Becky’s cleavage.  “What happened to you? We were about to send out a search party!”

“Oh, I just got turned around,” I said.  “Did I miss anything?”

“I’ll fill you in later,” Michael said.  “We were just about to wrap up, anyway.”  He turned to Calvin.  “Thank you for your time, Calvin.”

“My pleasure,” he said, watching Becky as she got up from her chair.  “Any time you want to stop by, just let me know.  Maybe we could meet for lunch, and I could fill you in on the business.”

Becky smiled.  “Thank you, Mr. Pitts.  That’s so kind of you to offer.”

I huddled behind Becky and Michael as we walked back to the lobby, scanning the hallway for the beaky woman in the plum-colored suit.  Fortunately, she was occupied elsewhere.

“What happened to you?” Becky asked when the elevator door slid shut behind us.  “I thought I was going to have to do a strip tease to keep Pitts distracted.”

“And I was afraid I was going to have to destroy a good client relationship to defend my sister’s honor,” Michael said.

“And he’s married,” Becky said.  “He’s even wearing the ring.  Can you believe it? If my husband did that…” She looked at me and colored.

I flushed in response, and muttered, “Thanks for covering me.  Sorry it took so long.”

Becky recovered.  “So? What did you find out?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.  There were tons of files, but I just glanced through them, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of them.  And his computer needed a password.”

Becky’s face dimmed.  “Did you get anything?”

“I did get his appointment book.  At least I think I did.”

She perked up again.  “Well, that’s good.  What’s in it?”

“I haven’t looked yet.  I don’t even know if that’s what it is.  Someone walked in on me, so I shoved it in my purse.”

“Oh my God.  How did you get out of that one?”

“I said I was checking my e-mail.”

“And she believed you?”

Michael laughed.  “Quick thinking.”

“Thank you so much for doing this, both of you,” I said.  “I just hope it was worth all the trouble.”

“Trouble? I had a great time,” Michael said.  “Calvin Pitts is such a sleazeball, I have no qualms about taking up his time.  Besides, it was fun feeling like a special operative.  Kind of like James Bond.”  He struck a pose as the elevator door opened.  “Do I look the part?”

Becky rolled her eyes.  “See what I had to put up with growing up?”

I laughed.  “It could be worse.  Anyway, thanks, guys.”  We walked into the lobby together.  “Becky, call me when you’re ready to go tomorrow, okay?”

“Will do.”  She gave me a hug, and Michael clasped my hand again.  More tingles.  I headed toward the parking garage, trying to slow my heart rate, as Michael and his sister crossed the lobby to the front door.

Once I was safely in the minivan, I pulled the little black book out of my purse and opened it.  I was right; it was his appointment calendar.  I leafed through the last month of Maxted’s life.  The days were riddled with notations and names, and my heart plummeted.  How would I track all of these people down?

I decided to focus on the last week of his life.  The day after he died, he had an appointment with the
Austin American-Statesman
; an appointment he had never shown up for, I thought with a sick feeling.  The rest of the meetings were all associated with companies; there was only one address.  At the bottom of Tuesday, September 15, an address was scrawled across the 7:00 to 8:30 blocks.  1516 East Seventh St.

Still, it didn’t say whom he was meeting, or even the company name.  In fact, I wasn’t even sure it was an appointment. Unlike the other entries, which were carefully hand printed, this one was a quick slanted scrawl.  Was he meeting someone there? And if so, who?

As I flipped back a few pages, I noticed a tab marked
Addresses
.  A lump formed in my throat as I turned until I found the page labeled
P
.

The first entry was my husband’s name.

I closed my eyes, feeling sick, and forced myself to look again.  No address was listed, but there was a phone number. His office phone number.  Which would be normal, I reasoned, if Maxted were a client.  I checked the other side of the page for other entries—cell phone, home phone.  Nothing.

Then how had Maxted known our home phone number?

I remembered my conversation with Miss Topaz earlier in the day, and flipped through to the section labeled
P
.  Marcus Patterson.  Three phone numbers and an address.

I glanced at my watch.  I still had an hour and a half before it was time to pick up the kids.

Just enough time to pay Maxted’s ex-boyfriend a visit.

SEVENTEEN

Marcus Patterson lived only a few miles south of downtown.  As I pointed the minivan south, my thoughts turned to Blake, and the missing money.  Sixteen thousand dollars.  Where had it gone?

As the minivan passed the Bartleby Bank building, my eyes counted up the glass windows to my husband’s office.  The building was open twenty-four hours a day. I was sure it was in an attempt to wring as many billable hours as possible from the overworked attorneys of Jones McEwan.

I remembered Peaches’ question:
How much access do you have?
Well, I had access to Blake’s keys.  Which also meant I had access to his office.  I was wondering whether to plan a nighttime foray into Jones McEwan when my cell phone burbled again.  I glanced at the display, but didn’t recognize the number.  I hit Talk.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Peterson?”

Adrenaline shot through me. It was Bunsen.

“Hello?” I said, louder.

“This is Mrs. Peterson? You never did return that phone call yesterday.”

“Hello?” I yelled.  “Is someone there?” I whacked the phone against the steering wheel a couple of times and put it to my ear again.  “I’m sorry.  You’re breaking up.”  I hit End and tossed the phone onto the front seat of the car.

A moment later, it rang again.

I ignored it and focused on the road, wondering what the penalty was for avoiding a police interview.  A slap on the wrist? A few days in a holding cell? Or serious jail time?

After what felt like ten minutes, the phone finally stopped ringing, and I pushed thoughts of Bunsen and state penitentiaries from my mind.  I was deep in SoCo, a hip part of town that specialized in lava lamps, saggy couches on peeling front porches, a few ‘new vintage’ homes, and a growing number of ultra-modern concrete monstrosities that the Style page of the
Austin American-Statesman
loved to feature.

I turned my eyes from a new block of upscale apartments that was under construction and peered at street signs, concentrating on finding Annie Street among the gaggle of streets that 1920s developers had named after their daughters.

The green rectangular sign was buried in an ancient magnolia tree.  I was halfway past it when I spotted it, and the station wagon behind me almost plowed into my back bumper as I slammed on the brakes and veered right.  Once on Annie, I consulted the address on the scrap of paper Trevor had handed me.  I drove a few blocks, scanning the mix of decrepit and recently expanded wooden houses for numbers, but it turned out the house wasn’t too hard to spot.  Three police cruisers were parked in front of it.

As the minivan crept by, two women in blue stepped out from the yellow front door, flanking a tall, muscular man.  Marcus Patterson, I guessed.  Despite his violent reputation, I could see why Maxted found him appealing; he looked like something out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad.  As the trio approached the street, I hunched down in the driver’s seat; I didn’t think either of the cops was Carmes, but I wasn’t sure.  Just before they got to the mailbox, the man turned back toward the house for a second, and something metallic flashed in the sun.

Handcuffs.

As I stared at Patterson, my foot left the gas pedal and the minivan slowed to a crawl.  The cop on the right fixed me with a hard stare.  I hunched down further and accelerated, hoping that the cop hadn’t seen enough of me to pick me out in a lineup.  On the plus side, now that they’d arrested Marcus Patterson, my odds of ever being in a lineup had just dropped dramatically.

I turned at the end of the street and steered the minivan back to South Congress.  Despite the relief of not having to ask a violent man whether he was involved in his ex-lover’s death—and, by the way, did he know my husband?—something akin to disappointment washed through me.  The cops had figured things out before I had.  In fact, that was probably why Bunsen had called.  To tell me they’d arrested someone.  I should be happy, right? I was no longer a suspect.

But Patterson’s arrest didn’t mean all of my problems were solved.

Someone had blown up my husband’s car last night.  My husband had lied about knowing a murdered transvestite.  And sixteen thousand dollars were still missing from our joint bank account.

I glanced at my watch.  I still had forty-five minutes before it was time to pick up the kids.  Enough time to swing by Peachtree Investigations and see if Peaches had any advice on tracking down car bombers.  I should probably also call Bunsen back; since the cops had already arrested someone, it would be a good time to get in touch.

I scrolled through to “Missed Calls” and hit Talk.

“Detective Bunsen here.”

“Hi.  This is Margie Peterson.  Did you try to call me a few minutes ago?”

“When we had the ‘bad connection’?”

“Um, yeah.  I need a new phone; it does that all the time, lately.  Anyway, sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back last night.”

“We need to schedule a time for you to come in and talk, Mrs. Peterson.”

I blinked.  “But I thought you arrested someone!”

“Excuse me?”

“I just drove by Marc…” I trailed off.

“You just drove by what?”

“McDonald’s,” I stammered.  “And I heard on the radio that someone had been arrested.  For a homicide.”

“Well, I don’t know what station you listen to, but we’ve made no homicide arrests today.”

I swallowed.

“But if you’re talking about Marcus Patterson, yes, he was arrested just a few minutes ago on drug charges.”

“Who?” I croaked.

“Mrs. Peterson, for someone who never met Evan Maxted before, you seem to know an awful lot about him.  And he seemed to know you, too. Unless he accidentally dialed the wrong number the night he died.”

My throat closed up.  I had erased my number from his phone! Then it hit me. 
Cell phone records
.  Duh.  The same way I had tracked Blake’s calls.  I forced myself to focus.  Bunsen was still talking.

“Mrs. Peterson, I expect you in my office at eight o’clock Monday morning.  If you don’t show up, I will issue a warrant for your arrest.”

“A warrant?”
Oh, God
.  My palms went slick.  He thought I had murdered Evan Maxted.  “A warrant for what?” I finally managed to croak.

“Obstructing justice.”  My body went limp. 
Still safe
.  For now, anyway.  “Now,” Bunsen continued, “can I count on you showing up?”

“Yes.  I mean, of course.”  I reviewed my schedule mentally.  Eight was too early.  I’d have to ask Blake to take the kids into school for me.  But what would I tell him I was doing? Going to talk to the cops about the dead transvestite he had denied knowing? “Actually,” I said, “could we make it eight forty-five? I have to drop my kids off first…”

He sighed.  “Fine.  But if your ass is not in my office by eight forty-six, I’m sending someone to get you.”

“Got it,” I said.  “By the way, someone blew up my husband’s car last night.”

He was silent for a moment.  “Blew it up?”

“Yeah.  They think it was a Molotov cocktail.”

“Well, thank goodness there was a private investigator in the house.  Got the case solved yet?”

“No.  I was hoping you guys could do that.”

He sighed.  “What’s your husband’s name?”

“Peterson.  Blake Peterson.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks.  See you Monday.” 

“Remember.  Eight-forty-five or else.”

“Got it.”

He hung up.

I hit End and turned onto South First, my hands trembling on the steering wheel.  Why had I opened my big mouth about Marcus Patterson? Maybe Peaches could help me figure out a way to talk myself out of it.  It might be time to come clean with her about my husband, anyway.