Knock 'em Dead (10 page)

The mere thought that I was her clone was more troubling than the prospect of breaking up with Patrick. How screwed up am I?

I took the long way to Concierge Plus, opting to drive all the way to South Ocean Boulevard so I could ogle the beachfront mansions. Well, more like ogle their manicured, gated driveways and rooflines. Privacy was a big deal on the island, so most of the homes were guarded by six-foot hedges. They didn’t want the little people like me to have a direct line of sight into their private oasis. Conversely, they often incorporated family crests in the center of the electric iron gates, so they might not want me to breach their privacy but they didn’t mind openly proclaiming their status as residents.

Concierge Plus was on Clarke Avenue, just south of the Breakers Ocean Golf Course. The seven-thousand-square-foot, two-story building was a private home until it was converted to a commercial property in the mid-1900s. The original business occupants were architects, so they’d done some killer renovations to the Mediterranean-style house. I pulled into the horseshoe-shaped drive. Parking in my favorite spot beneath a live oak that created a canopy of shade on the pavers, I noted a fresh coat of white paint on the stucco.

I noted it for two reasons. It was the last thing on Liv’s list of repairs from the past few hurricanes that had blown in from the Atlantic. And there was a big, dark sapphire-blue Bentley blocking the sign and walkway to Concierge Plus.

Okay, I was impressed. A Bentley Continental Flying Spur retailed for nearly two hundred thousand. I knew because I’d just had one appraised for the Lockwood estate I was handling. I’d made the personal sacrifice of driving the car to the appraiser myself. I’d taken the long way around then too. Twice.

Depending on your perspective, I was either practicing due diligence in preserving a sizable asset of the estate or I was just a twenty-nine-year-old out on a joyride. “Joy” being the operative word. See, my mother has a Bentley but the only way she’d let me drive it was if both her legs fell off. I did make one unauthorized stop on the way back to work. I dropped in on a photographer acquaintance and had a digital picture taken. I made it the screen saver on my personal laptop.

The car, sculpture really, had all sorts of cool stuff. Aside from the incredibly soft, magnolia-colored leather interior with walnut accents, it had a push-button starter. No key needed. A single poke and the engine purred.

The Lockwoods were loaded and so was their car. That Bentley, like this one, had a combo DVD-GPS-radio-CD built into the front console. Not to mention a Bluetooth phone connection.

Liv drove a Mercedes. Jean-Claude had a Lexus. So this had to belong to the owners of Fantasy Dates. Sidestepping the car, I decided if Shaylyn drove a Bentley, she probably had a Rolex too. Watch envy washed over me.

The first floor was a vast open space filled with the sweet fragrance from no fewer than a dozen large sprays of flowers. Classical music played softly from speakers deftly hidden in the ceiling. You felt more like you were walking into a spa than an event-planning business. That had been Liv’s vision from the get-go. Concierge Plus was posh, which was why it enjoyed a great reputation with the Palm Beach elite.

Jean-Claude was at the opposite end of the room, near the double doors that opened out on a veranda overlooking a small man-made lake in the backyard. He was tall, thin, impeccably dressed, and easy on the eyes. Liv had lured him away from the Breakers Hotel. Smart move. Jean-Claude, with his thick French accent and elegant European mannerisms, had spent years perfecting his charm. The fact that he had light hair, blue eyes, and a cosmetically perfected but genuine smile didn’t hurt.

“Welcome,” he said, taking my hands in his as he kissed my cheeks.

His sexuality was ambiguous. He wasn’t prissy but he wasn’t football-watching masculine either. And he was discreet. I’d never seen him with a date. His desk was set off to one side, near the organized case of sample books covering everything from area caterers to fabric swatches. The only personal item was a framed, stylized black-and-white photograph of his parents.

“They’re upstairs in Liv’s office. May I get you something to drink?”

“A latte, please.”

“Vanilla.” He checked the sleek rectangular watch on his tanned wrist. “Over ice?”

I smiled. The man never missed a detail. During the summer, around noon, I liked switching to iced coffee. Even the barista at my favorite coffee shop wasn’t that good.

My fingers slid along the polished wood banister as I climbed the marble steps to the second floor. About halfway up, I heard the muffled sound of conversation. As I reached the top, I could make out three distinct speakers—Liv, a man, and a woman.

I was intrigued by the whole situation and not completely sure how to handle it. I didn’t know Zack and Shaylyn, but I still couldn’t figure out why they’d been so quick to come to Jane’s aid. Something about that seemed hinky to me. Unless they were just the do-gooder types.

Clearing my throat as I neared the door, I heard the conversation come to an instant halt.

Liv introduced me to the couple before I had both feet inside the office she’d decorated with soft cream fabrics. Like Liv, the room was feminine but not overtly girlie.

Zack Davis rose first, extending his hand, then stepping back slightly so Shaylyn could reach around and give my fingers a small squeeze. I was wrong about Shaylyn’s watch—not a Rolex. A Cartier. A La Dona de Cartier, to be exact. Eighteen-karat pink gold, octagonal-set with round-cut diamonds.

She had hazel eyes, dark brown hair, and a killer black and white orchid dress I’d seen in the Neiman’s catalog. She looked rich. Obviously the introduction service business was lucrative. Her pretty face got even prettier when she smiled. Her “So nice to meet you” seemed genuine enough. Perhaps I’d been too quick to judge.

Zack, on the other hand, was dark and brooding, not nearly as gregarious or people-oriented as his partner. He smiled too, though the effort didn’t quite make it to his nearly-black eyes, making me wonder if helping Jane was Shaylyn’s idea and he wasn’t yet on board.

Ever the accommodating hostess, Liv had already placed a second high-back chair on her side of the desk. Jean-Claude delivered my latte along with refills of cucumber water for the others. I’m not a big fan of veggie water. Thirst-quenching? Yes. Contain any caffeine? No.

“Thank you for arranging to have Mr. Taggert represent Jane,” I said, intentionally watching Zack’s body language. He leaned back and away from me, which, according to Dr. Phil, indicates a passive-aggressive reaction to my compliment.

“We are happy to do it,” Shaylyn said.

My curiosity bested my manners. “Even though she’s a total stranger accused of killing one of your clients?”

“Finley!” Liv whispered through clenched teeth.

Shaylyn’s burnished-berry-shaded lips never slipped their smile. “She isn’t a stranger. No matter the circumstances, Jane was also one of our clients. I met with her so she could complete our questionnaire.” Lifting a slim black briefcase into her lap, she pulled a folder from inside and passed it to us.

Flipping through the pages, I was astounded by the thoroughness of the thing. In addition to a photograph and the information provided in Jane’s distinctive handwriting, Fantasy Dates had run a complete financial background check. “Did you do one of these for Paolo Martinez?”

“Of course,” Zack answered.

His accent was pronounced but unfamiliar. It was a little bit New Jersey, a little bit French. But I couldn’t pin it down. I added that to my list of suspicions about the couple.

“Do you have it with you?”

Shaylyn offered me an apologetic look. “Our business records are confidential.”

I explained the attorney-client confidentiality thing to them. “So I’m prohibited from sharing that information with anyone. Even the police. Any information you share that can help Jane will be kept totally confidential by us as well.”

“All right, then,” Shaylyn relented.

“But!”

Zack’s protest was silenced instantly when Shaylyn placed her perfectly manicured hand over his. “I’ll have Paolo’s profile messengered over to Mr. Taggert.”

“Could you also send it to Becky Jameson?”

Zack’s frown deepened. “If they’re cocouncil, then—”

“It won’t be a problem.” Again Shaylyn’s word was law. It was obvious who had the bigger gonads in their relationship.

That was another thing I noticed. Sensed, actually. I thought they were more than business partners. There’s a vibe you get from a couple. I’d bet my last dollar that the two of them shared more than business interests.

Speaking of my last dollar.
“It was nice meeting you. And again, thank you for your help.” I stood, dismissing them with a handshake and a gentle reminder that I wanted the dossier on Paolo sent to Becky within the hour.

“Want to tell me why you were so abrupt with them?” Liv asked as soon as the echo of the front door closing reverberated up to the second floor.

“There’s something not right about them.”

“There’s something not right about
you
. They’re paying Taggert.”

“Good for them. I need you to pay for a plane ticket. Kinda.”

Liv groaned. “Finley, what are you planning?”

“A trip to Charleston. My cards are maxed.”

“But you aren’t supposed to—”

“The minute she was denied bail, Jane was moved from a holding cell at the jail. Do you want her stuck in the detention center with real criminals?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I need to find out what happened.”

“Shouldn’t Liam do that?”

“He can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He has a thing,” I said, nudging her with my hip in order to access the computer on the credenza behind her desk. “I’m not asking you to
pay
pay for the ticket. I’ll use some of the money Patrick and Sam lent me. Oh, will you keep the cashier’s check in your safe? I don’t want to keep walking around with the thing in my purse.”

I went to a discount travel site and found a flight that would work. It wasn’t cheap. A last-minute booking apparently meant I’d be paying by the foot. “Seven-fifty-two for a freaking two-hour-and-ten-minute flight.”

“Go ahead,” Liv said, grabbing her purse and handing me her gold American Express card.

I filled in all the required information. I was cutting it close. The departing flight left in ninety minutes and I’d opted to stay overnight just in case. I added a moderate hotel to my itinerary. The early morning return would give me just enough time to swing by my place, change, and be at my desk by ten at the latest.

I gave Liv her card and my mother’s cashier’s check, and tried to pay her for the ticket.

“Hold on to the cash. You might need it.”

“Thanks.”

Liv’s fax machine chirped, then began to spew pages. It was from Becky. She’d done a Westlaw search and come up with general information on the earlier case against Jane. Most importantly, I now had the names of the prosecutor and defense attorney on the case. That, with the case number, gave me a place to start.

I printed out the confirmation. I was on my way to South Carolina and if Vain Dane found out, I’d be on my way to the unemployment line as well.

T
here are a lot of things to like about Palm Beach International Airport. Starbucks, Wi-Fi, and it’s relatively small, so no mad dashes to the gates at the far end of the concourse.

I get and respect the TSA folks, even when they made me toss my last tube of Chanel Tickled Pink lip gloss in the “prohibited items” bin. It didn’t stop there either; I also had to cough up a travel-sized tube of toothpaste; the .15-ounce sample of Lulu Guinness perfume I carried for emergencies; and my half-finished Frappuccino. Though reluctant, I was totally cooperative, better safe than sorry. Except that “safe” was going to cost me at least fifty bucks to replace. Fifty-five dollars and seventy-eight cents if I counted the coffee.

With another twenty minutes before my flight was scheduled to board, I pulled my laptop from my tote and waited as it powered up. Most of my fellow passengers were lined up—cattle style—near the uniformed ticket taker. Me? I don’t have a problem being the last one on the plane. Someone has to, might as well be me. Besides, I was flying coach, so the wide, comfy seats overlooking the tarmac were twice the size of those inside the cabin.

I logged in to my e-mail, skipping the nonessential ones since I was hoping Becky had received, scanned, and attached the Paolo dossier to an e-mail in the time it had taken me to run by my place to pack an overnight bag and gather my electronics.

Nothing from Becky but I did have several alerts from eBay letting me know some of my favorite sellers had new items listed. Though my ready cash was dangerously low, a balance-replenishing paycheck would be direct-deposited on Friday.

Three of the alerts announced newly listed parts for my build-it-from-scratch Rolex project. Screen name PilotWife had seven new dresses up for bid. PilotWife was one of my absolute fave sellers and finding her had been fate. Not for the obvious reason, though there was a certain irony to doing business with some faceless woman from the Northeast who’d chosen a screen identity that closely mirrored my status. Well, not exactly closely, but that didn’t matter. We were the same size and shared a passion for all things pink and pilots.

I’d been hunting for a gift for Patrick’s last birthday and since his apartment is aviation-themed, I’d used “pilot” in the search criteria. Up popped listings from PilotWife.

Though we’d never met outside the anonymity of cyberspace, I’d created a whole history for the woman based on her selling habits. She must have had an aversion to dry cleaning that bordered on a phobia. All the clothing she sold was deeply discounted and worn once, maybe twice. She sold a lot of clothes too. Everything from daytime casual to couture, hand-beaded evening gowns. Whoever she was, she had major bucks and obviously wasn’t doing the eBay thing for profit. So I envisioned her as some sort of lonely woman, married to an older man who entertained often and/or regularly attended ritzy functions and fancy luncheons. I put her age between thirty and thirty-five since she followed trends but never submitted to them. Totally trendy was an area of fashion reserved for the twenty-one-to-twenty-four crowd. Or as I wax nostalgic—TPBY. The Perfect Body Years.

The final boarding call put an end to my eBay surf-by, so I shut down my computer, tucked it away, and headed toward the gate agent, bar-coded pass in hand.

“Have a nice flight, Ms. Tanner,” she offered as she scanned the code and my name popped up on the screen just above her scanning device.

Shifting the tote higher on my shoulder, I thanked her and made my way down the incline of the gangway. The still air in the tunnellike corridor magnified the sounds of planes taking off and landing and the warning beeps as various service vehicles went from gate to gate.

A statuesque brunette flight attendant guided me to my seat. I don’t think she wanted to help me so much as get me buckled in for takeoff.

One of the few advantages to being short is not needing a lot of legroom. I had a middle seat, which seemed to piss off the heavy guy on the aisle. He decided to punish me for my last-minute arrival by leaning his legs to one side instead of unhooking the seat belt extender and allowing me to take my seat. Selfish prick.

It took some doing, but I managed to gracefully climb over him and, swear to God, my tote slipping and smashing into his jaw really was an accident. A satisfying accident. I apologized, took my phone out of my tote, then shoved the weaponlike bag under the seat in front of me.

The woman in the window seat was already sleeping, snoring softly with her blue-gray hair resting against the window.

One of the flight attendants ran down the list of safety features while the other two stood in the aisle making hand gestures and demonstrating the correct use of the oxygen mask. I like the absurd part about my seat cushion doubling as a flotation device. I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone whose life was spared because of the buoyant qualities of their seat cushion. Then there’s the whole lecture about the use of cell phones. One time I asked Patrick how something anyone can buy at their local Wal-Mart could screw up the navigational equipment of a commercial aircraft. Big mistake. He went into a long monologue about the electrical sensitivity of avionics.

The flight landed fifteen minutes early. The Charleston airport was a lot like PBI. It was small, so my bag was already on the luggage carousel by the time I reached baggage claim.

Looping the straps of my tote through the handle of the compact, rolling suitcase, I made my way to the rental car counter. As I waited in line, I thought about my last visit to Charleston. It was four years ago, to attend the wedding of someone I’d never met.

I couldn’t remember if my mother had just filed for divorce from husband number three, or filed for death benefits for husband number four. Not that it mattered. Whatever the reason, I’d been called into duty as her escort since taking a date to the wedding a week after instituting divorce proceedings or burying a husband was bad form. Some people, like me, considered attending a wedding so soon after death or divorce bad form, but my mother would crawl off her deathbed before she’d renege on an RSVP.

So I ended up tagging along to watch the nuptials of the daughter of one of my mother’s DAR friends. It started out okay; I mean the setting was lovely—a restored plantation on Kiawah Island built in 1739. The “I do’s” were quick. It went downhill from there.

On the plus side, I must not have looked my age because most of my mother’s acquaintances assumed I was Lisa. They would enthusiastically congratulate me on my budding medical career. Ever one to save face, my mother’s reply was, “Oh no, this is my older daughter, she works for one of the most prestigious firms in Palm Beach. Estates and trusts.”

Conveniently and intentionally, she’d leave off the part about me working as a paralegal, giving her friends the mistaken impression that I was a lawyer. Between introductions, she’d whisper something in my ear about hating the fact that my lack of a decent profession was an incredible burden to her and the sole reason she was forced to lie to her friends.

Me? I was on a first name basis with the bartender before the seven-tiered cake was cut.

The flight home was even worse. As a captive audience—though I did give some thought to asking the flight crew to move me into the cargo hold—I got to listen to same refrain about how I was wasting my life and my potential. Unlike my sister, who wasn’t afraid of a challenge, wanted to make something of herself, was faster than a speeding bullet, and could leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I’d toyed with the idea of going to law school, going so far as to take the LSATs. But once I found out that lawyers, on average, put in seventy hours a week, I lost interest. It isn’t that I wasn’t willing to work hard, I just want balance. I want a life.

Being a paralegal allows me that, and specializing in estates and trusts has the added bonus of autonomy. Under the guise of filing something in probate court, I was free to take two-hour lunches, shop, do errands, or anything else. So long as I met my deadlines, no one at Dane-Lieberman seemed to notice. Except Margaret.

On the way to the garage to pick up the rental Liv had arranged over the Internet, I turned on my cell. Becky had left three voice mails as well as a clipped text message that read Call me NOW!

Not wanting to go through Margaret, I hit the speed-dial number for Becky’s cell and said, “Hi.”

“About time,” Becky grumbled. “I’ve spoken with Taggert and he said you need to go to the courthouse first. It closes in forty minutes and you need transcripts or anything else you can get your hands on.”

“Okay.”

“Track down the prosecutor and then the arresting officer.”

“What about Jane’s attorney?”

“He or she can’t talk to you without Jane’s permission and she isn’t giving it to me. At least not yet.”

“I wonder why?”

“That’s what you need to find out. Knowing Jane, she’s protecting someone. Call me with updates, okay?”

“You got it.” I presented my contract to the rental car attendant. “Hang on a sec.”

He leered at me and said, “It’s the green subcompact in spot 44.”

“Thanks.” Not for the leer; the guy looked like he was maybe eighteen, tops. Returning my attention to Becky, I asked, “What about the Paolo stuff?”

“E-mailed it to you a few minutes ago. Move fast, you’ve got to be back here in the morning.”

“I know.” She hung up, leaving me with the to-do list and a sense of amazement. Becky was nothing if not efficient.

In record time, I headed east on 526, then south on 17, eventually working my way through the maze of one-way streets. The biggest obstacle was avoiding the horse-drawn carriages and tourist trolleys that enjoyed the right-of-way. In addition to being a college town, Charleston was a tourist mecca, even if the temperature hovered around a hundred with humidity levels to match.

The pleasant scent of night jasmine was sometimes overpowered by the stench of horse manure and sweat seeping in through the air-conditioning vents. I stayed focused on finding Court House Square, thanks to the map marked by the leerer at the rental counter. Another plus to Charleston was the fact that all things relating to the legal system were centrally located in a quarter-block area off Broad Street.

The feelings of uselessness I’d been getting since Jane had appeared at my door, bloody and babbling, were fading. In fact, I was experiencing a bit of a rush. My adrenaline was pumping. Being a woman on a mission beat the hell out of being an ineffective friend.

Touches of the city’s historic past were everywhere. Particularly the lack of parking spaces. Hitching posts still dotted the sidewalks, but it took me three trips around the block before a spot opened up.

Once I was inside the building and oriented, I went down to the records office and hurriedly filled out a request using the case number from the dismissal. The clerk was not at all happy as she glared at the triplicate form and then me. “This case is ten years old.” She spoke with a slow, cultured Southern accent.

“Yes, it is,” I said in my nicest voice. “I’ll be paying the expedited fee for the copies.”

She glanced at the clock, then reluctantly went in search of the file. She moved slower than she spoke.

Ten minutes after the posted close of business, she returned with a small stack of pages stapled in the upper left-hand corner. Licking her thumb, she counted the pages and said, “Sixteen pages at two dollars a page. Thirty-two dollars. Plus fifteen for an expedited request.” She went to an antiquated adding machine and ran the total.

When she turned around, I had the forty-seven dollars waiting on top of the counter. Gathering up the transcripts, I said, “Thank you so much.”

Taking the stone steps two at a time while reading the listing page of the transcripts was no easy feat. The prosecutor was a guy named Ned Franks and I’d remembered his name from the lobby directory.

Please let him be in his office.

Winded from the three-story climb, I weaved through the hallway, going door to door until I found his name stenciled on the frosted glass. I knocked once, then a second time, turning the worn brass knob in the process.

If he had a secretary or receptionist, she wasn’t at her desk, so I had no choice but to go for the second door, ignoring the
PRIVATE
sign clearly posted at eye level.

“Mr. Franks?” I asked as I boldly went inside without bothering to knock.

A man I put somewhere in his mid-fifties sat with his feet up on his desk, legs crossed at the ankles. The soles of his shoes were scuffed and worn. The top button at the collar of his white shirt was undone and the knot of his red-and-blue-speckled tie was loosened. His hair was a shock of white, prematurely so, I decided. Either that or he had great genes that kept his skin virtually wrinkle-free.

Though obviously startled by my sudden and unannounced presence, he handled the intrusion like a true Southern gentleman. Placing his feet on the floor, he straightened his tie and asked, “May I help you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, dumping my heavy tote into one chair and sitting in the other. I handed him the thin file fresh from the records office. “I’m Finley Tanner. I work for the firm of Dane, Lieberman and Zarnowski in Palm Beach. I’m doing some background on a client.”

He didn’t seem surprised by my request. Or that I’d barged into his office. It was almost as if he’d been expecting me. Which was silly. No one outside the Free Jane Team knew I was in South Carolina.

“You prosecuted Jane Spencer in 1997. I have a copy of the indictment but the victim’s name has been redacted.”

“The victim was a minor.”

Mild irritation gnawed at my insides. “It’s been ten years. He or she isn’t a minor anymore.”

He returned the copies to me. “Sorry, Ms. Tanner, but I can’t help you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.” He stood up and I sensed I was being dismissed.

“Both Florida and South Carolina have reciprocal discovery rules. Plus, the full faith and credit clause of the U.S. Constitution requires you to cooperate.”