Knock 'em Dead (11 page)

“Which I will be happy to do when and if I’m ordered to by a court of competent jurisdiction. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

My spine stiffened as I rose and collected my things. “Yes, could you give me directions to the Detective Bureau for the Charleston Police Department?”

“Three blocks west, one block north. Gray three-story building.”

My enthusiasm waned. Franks had been a total waste of time, and time was one commodity I couldn’t afford to diddle away. I stopped by the rental car and tossed my jacket in the backseat. I was perspiring from the stagnant heat even though the sun was starting to dip toward the horizon.

Two blocks later, I decided discarding my jacket had been a stupid move. Large black mosquitoes were feasting on my bare arms and buzzing around my ears. Uselessly, I attempted to defend myself by swatting, but it was pointless. They were out for blood and I was completely outnumbered, leaving me no option but to cross to the sunny side of the street. Better to bake in the sun than be eaten in the shade.

Judging by the worn gray linoleum floor, the police station hadn’t been remodeled in the last four or five decades. Phones rang seemingly unnoticed. The walls were painted a depressing shade of pale blue, dotted by several patches of stark-white plaster. Fans aided the air-conditioning, circulating odors ranging from antibacterial cleaner and bacon to the law enforcement staple of old, bitter coffee.

Still, it was better than my last visit to a police station. At least this time I wasn’t in my jammies handcuffed to a prostitute.

When I finally got the attention of the uniformed woman behind the reception desk, I asked for Detective Colton Langston.

Barely glancing in my direction, she said, “Captain Langston is third watch.”

“Which means?”

“He’s on from eleven to seven. You’ll have to speak to one of the other detectives.”

Just great.
“No, I need to see him personally.”

“Give me your name, contact information, and a case reference. I’ll leave him a message.”

“I’ll come back.”

O for two.
I called Becky on my way back to the car and gave her my nonupdate. Her voice sounded as dejected as I felt. Fatigue was starting to set in, so I decided to check in to my hotel for the nearly five-hour wait until the detective would report for duty.

I pulled into the first fast food place I spotted. I stopped at the drive-through of the Burger King, planning on ordering a salad. Instead I drove off with a Whopper Junior, large fries, and a gallon-sized Coke.

Backtracking on Route 17 while I ate my high-fat, high-carb, really, really good burger and fries, I found the Beachside Inn. Inn was a generous way to describe a two-story converted motel. My subcompact was the only car in the lot, swallowed by large pickups and conversion vans.

The owner checked me in, a creepy little guy with cigar breath and a potbelly. My room was a dank place with a snagged polyester bedspread and a matching green lamp shade with a small slit in the fabric.

The bathroom was small, with some disgusting blackish brown gunk growing on the caulking around the tub. One of those strong, chemical-smelling bricks of whatever hung inside the toilet bowl. Brackish water stained the toilet and the sink. I wanted to go running and screaming to the closest five-star hotel, but that wasn’t in the budget.

Lining the bedspread that I was sure contained all sorts of body fluids with towels, I pulled out my laptop and rolled my eyes when I discovered the only Internet access was dial-up. With tax and a surcharge, it would add another twenty bucks to my night’s stay at Hotel Hell. Slipping off my shoes, I then connected the provided phone cord to my laptop and waited. And waited. And waited.

The machine estimated it would take eleven minutes to download the e-mail attachment from Becky. Going to my suitcase, I retrieved the single-serving-sized box of Lucky Charms, munching on the marshmallow moons, stars, clovers, and hearts and washing them down with my Coke. The sugar rush chased away my fatigue, but the download was still in progress.

My mind wandered to Patrick. I suspected he was at some remote campsite near the Grand Canyon, laughing with his buddies as they sat around a campfire. I never thought I’d envy a tent and a sleeping bag, but that was before I checked into the Beachside Inn. Patrick was having fun. That was good.

Then I thought about Liam. My brain conjured a vivid image of him boffing Ashley. That was bad.

Shaking my head, I raked my fingers through my hair. Luckily my laptop dinged, the file was downloaded, and Liam was forgotten. Or at least pushed back into the deep recesses of my mind.

The first page was a photograph of Paolo. No wonder Jane had jumped his bones on the first date. He looked a little like Enrique Iglesias or a younger version of Antonio Banderas. Like Jane’s dossier, Fantasy Dates had taken great care in compiling information on him. I whistled when I hit the page listing his personal assets. The guy was only thirty and had already amassed a seven-figure mini-fortune as a day trader.

It was easy to see why Zack and Shaylyn had paired him with Jane. They shared a lot of interests: sailing, jogging, working out, and other—in my opinion—pointless physical activities. Paolo was a huge Peter Sellers fan, as was Jane.

Unlike Jane’s file, Fantasy Dates had run a criminal background check on Paolo. He had a couple of traffic tickets but that was it. He was a regular on the Palm Beach charity event circuit and according to his “wish list” he eventually wanted to get married and have a family. If the right woman came along.

The right woman.
“That is so guy code for commitment-phobic,” I scoffed.

I read the file a second time, then a third, but nothing jumped out at me. I tried to Google Paolo, but the dial-up connection kept tossing me off-line. Eventually I surrendered and shut down.

By ten, I was back on the road heading into Charleston. I stopped in a Quickie-Mart for a cup of coffee. It wasn’t until I was back in the rental that I realized the coffee was laced with chicory. It was a coffee abomination but it was all I had, so I sucked it up.

Detective Langston arrived five minutes after I’d given my name to the desk sergeant and sat down in the visitors’ section. His appearance saved me from the torture of thumbing through another ancient copy of
American Hunter,
and Lord knew, I’d learned as much about taxidermy as I could stand.

Langston looked like a cop. He had chiseled, weathered features and a perpetual frown curving his slightly chapped lips. I think he was wearing Old Spice, but I couldn’t be sure if it was the cologne or the deodorant form.

He showed me into his office. It was a messy, cluttered place with files stacked haphazardly on every available space. I almost wept with pure joy when he offered me some coffee. I needed something to rid my mouth of the lingering, bitter aftertaste of chicory.

He returned with two steaming mugs, both handles gripped in one beefy hand. “So, Ms. Tanner, you’re here about the Spencer girl?”

I blinked.

He shrugged. “Franks called and said you might drop by.” Langston leaned against the edge of his desk, sipping coffee as he sized me up. “What is it you want to know?”

“Everything. Unless the D.A. said—”

“I don’t like Franks. Never did.”

I felt the tension drain from my body. “So what happened? I know it was a long time ago, but anything you remember would be helpful.”

His expression softened. “Hard case to forget. It isn’t every day you respond to a scene where a shoe was the weapon of choice.”

“A shoe?”

“Yep.”

“I was under the impression someone was stabbed. Are you saying Jane kicked—”

“No. She stabbed him with a three-inch spike heel. Caught him right in the jugular.”

I was stunned. “Why?”

“You aren’t from around here, so let me back up.”

“Thanks.”

“The Spencer girl shared an apartment with Molly Bishop. They were both students at the College of Charleston. Molly had a younger boyfriend, I think he was seventeen, something like that.”

I was taking notes furiously.

“Molly and this boyfriend went to a rave and, depending on who you believe, were slipped or bought some Ecstasy. Well, turned out the crap was laced with LSD.

“So she takes him back to her place. They’re high and decide to have sex. At some point, Molly starts hallucinating from the drugs and starts screaming and clawing at the boyfriend. The Spencer girl came home from her part-time job hostessing at a restaurant, hears the screaming, and thought Molly was being attacked.”

“So she stabbed him with her shoe?”

“It was dark. Molly was out of control. I thought then and I still think that the Spencer girl was reacting to what she thought was an attempted rape.”

“Then why all the secrecy?”

“Even though the boy nearly died, Molly’s family wanted it to go away quietly.”

“Why?”

“Because it was Molly Bishop.”

“Sorry, that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Daughter of Senator Ray Bishop. He campaigned and won the election by promising to do everything possible to rid the city of drugs. How would it look if it got out that his kid was scoring X at raves? She had already been arrested twice for drug possession and gone to rehab instead of jail.”

“Why wouldn’t Franks tell me any of this?”

“He’s still pissed that Senator Bishop went over his head and arranged for the charges to be dismissed. Again. He’d tried to prosecute her twice before, but the senator always stepped in and quietly managed to get his kid into a program. Franks knew Molly Bishop and Spencer were friends and I think what he really wanted was to use Spencer’s arrest to get to Molly. Probably figured Molly would admit to violating the terms of her plea agreement if he got her on the stand and she had to admit to being high that night. Instead, the charges were dropped against Spencer and Molly went back to rehab. Must have worked—she was never in trouble in again. At least not in Charleston.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“Moved out of state right after the stabbing. Last I heard, the senator retired so he and his wife could move closer to Molly.”

I thanked the detective profusely and practically danced out of the police station. Now it made sense. Jane didn’t tell anyone about her prior arrest because that would mean slinging mud at Molly Bishop. That was Jane—loyal to a fault.

Though it was well after midnight, I was just about to call Becky when my phone rang.

“Finley Tanner, brilliant investigator.”

“Liam McGarrity. Have you lost your goddamned mind?”

I
wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or thrilled when Liam wasn’t at the airport to greet me/spank me when I arrived in West Palm. It was eight fifteen. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person. Or maybe he’d gotten all the hostility out of his system by berating me until well after midnight.

One thing was for certain—contrary to my proclamation the previous evening, he did not consider me a brilliant investigator. He thought my actions were careless, reckless, blah, blah, blah and carried the very real potential of costing me my job. Whatever.

I’d spent a good part of the flight figuring out a way to get him to reimburse me for the cell minutes his lecture had drained from my plan.

Dragging, I got my suitcase and wheeled it to the long-term lot. I could have gone straight to the office, but I needed a shower. A real shower. I wanted to wash off any residual cooties from the nasty motel.

I’d spoken with Becky during my predawn drive to the Charleston airport, filling her in on the details of Jane’s prior charge on the aggravated-assault-by-stiletto incident. She seemed buoyed by the information and promised to arrange a lunch meeting with Taggert to discuss the next move. Hopefully it was something that would get Jane out of jail as soon as possible.

I rushed into my apartment, stripping off my clothing as I headed for the shower. My phone rang but I ignored it. Standing under the hot spray of water, I started thinking about the whole Patrick Situation. Okay. I didn’t
start
thinking about it. The Patrick Situation was an ongoing mental debate that I’d been having with myself for the past few months. I’m not normally so man-obsessed, but this decision would be a major life-turning point. I don’t want to screw up. Again.

I also didn’t want to hurt Patrick. He’d been nothing but good to me. My ongoing mental rehearsal of dumping him still wasn’t quite gelling. And the alternative—not breaking up with him—made me uncomfortably aware that
not
taking action would mean that I was prepared to settle.

Then again, believing that there was some theoretical Prince Charming out there that I’d miss if I stayed with Patrick was also kinda stupid. There are no Prince Charmings. Just frogs. The key is finding the one that won’t give you too many warts. And avoiding the poisonous ones that can potentially kill you. The major flaw in my thinking is that the really dangerous frogs also happen to be the most visually appealing ones. Nature can be so cruel.

Screw it—all of this self-examination was giving me a headache, when I needed to focus on the Jane issue.

Besides, Patrick, I assumed, would be out of cell range for most of the next two weeks. Plenty of time to confront my demons later.

Except that when I emerged from the shower, the Queen of all Demons had left me a curt message.

“I’m calling to thank you for mailing back the documents promptly. I’m assuming there wasn’t a problem with the check I sent. Of course, I can only assume since you didn’t see fit to contact me regarding my generosity. Perhaps at Sunday brunch, if you have the time and inclination, you might consider properly acknowledging the loan.” The message ended with a loud bang as my mother slammed her receiver back on its cradle.

Guilt dart! Direct hit.

“Flowers,” I decided as I hurriedly dressed in a lime-green blouse and the lime and fuchsia Lilly Pulitzer print skirt I’d snagged really cheap because some careless shopper had broken the zipper. An easy and invisible fix. Not even the most discerning eye would know I was wearing damaged goods.

Yes, flowers would do it.
Public
flowers were even better. I made a mental note to pick up two dozen Monticello roses on Saturday. I’d take them to brunch and present them to her in full view of the Willoughby crowd. Yep, excellent plan. My mother craved the attention of an audience, so she’d love it. I’d be redeemed. The world could return to revolving on an axis that didn’t center on my mother’s mortification by my most recent fall from her good graces.

I really, really did appreciate her coming through for me and I wanted her to know it. An e-card would have been cheaper and easier. Except that she doesn’t own a computer and hates all things computer-generated. She won’t open a Christmas card unless her name and address are handwritten, preferably professionally calligraphed, on the envelope.

Freshly dressed, coiffed, and reinvigorated by a pot of coffee, I slipped on my favorite pair of pink wedges and transferred the necessities from my tote to my purse. The Paolo information was still stored in my in-box, so I could pull it up once I got to my desk.

It was 9:47 when my car screeched to a halt in the Dane-Lieberman parking lot. Me being tardy wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but as always, it earned me a disapproving, narrow-eyed glare from the surly receptionist. Maudlin Margaret scribbled something on a piece of paper as I walked past her. She took great pride in keeping a running list of my infractions—a list that magically found its way into Dane’s manicured hands just in time for my annual review.

Becky was waiting in my office. Her brow knitted together in a frown as she made a production out of clicking her fingernail on the face of her watch. “You’re late.”

“Who are you? Mini Margaret?” I asked as I tucked my purse into my desk drawer, flipped on my coffeepot, and powered up my computer.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“But you did good work,” Becky said. “Hopefully it’s enough to convince Judge Faulkner to reconsider bail.”

I sighed deeply as I fell into my vented leather chair. “It better be. I’m just sorry I didn’t have the time to find Molly Bishop. Since Jane covered Bishop’s butt in college, maybe she’ll repay the favor.” As soon as my computer booted, I Googled Molly Bishop. There were one million seven hundred thirty-something possible hits. Either I had to narrow the search parameters, or this was going to take a while.

Becky helped herself to coffee, then started out the door. “I got you reassigned to my department, so you have to meet with Ellen at ten fifteen.”

Checking my watch, a quick wave of panic washed over me. “Why?”

Becky’s head tilted to one side and she tucked a tendril of auburn hair behind her ear. “Officially?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s now your direct supervisor. Think of it as…” She paused as her finger tapped against her chin, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Contracts boot camp.”

I closed my eyes briefly and grimaced. “Be still my beating heart. Can I take a pass on the meeting and just go straight to sticking a pencil in my eye right here and now?”

Becky smiled. “No.”

“Is there an unofficial reason for the meeting?”

“Yes. She’s going to threaten to fire you if you so much as put your toe over the line for Jane.”

I was confused. “So why is she helping us by hiring Liam and getting me reassigned?”

“She’s helping us. That’s all that matters,” Becky said. “It did take some serious begging on my part, though. If it makes you feel any better, it isn’t just about you. I got a strong lecture as well. But, with some exceptional negotiating on my part, she got with the program.”

I didn’t want to think about the specifics of any negotiations with Lieberman. The woman didn’t negotiate so much as wear you down until you surrendered, then thanked her for the privilege of experiencing total defeat.

As soon as Becky left, I had just enough time to scarf down a small bag of peanut M&M’s for breakfast before heading up to the executive suite on the top floor.

Stepping off the elevator, I offered a uneasy smile to the executive assistant seated behind the polished wood, semicircle desk. The top floor was laid out like a wagon wheel. She was at the center of the spokes. Normally, I snake around her to get to Dane’s office. This time I turned to the right and began a slow walk toward Ellen Lieberman’s lair.

The faint scent of a citrusy air freshener surrounded me. I could only hope my antiperspirant lived up to the claims on the side of the container. Vain Dane irritates me. Lieberman flat-out intimidates me.

I’ve never quite understood why some women work really hard to reach the top, opening the door to success, then take such pleasure in slamming it behind them so no other woman can best their achievement. Almost like life is a competition and only one person with ovaries is allowed into the finals.

Lieberman is a finalist. She’s driven and demanding and generally harsh on support staff and particularly hard on me. She doesn’t get why I’m not more motivated; why I don’t live up to my potential. When she starts in on me, it’s as if she’s channeling my mother. Save that my mother dresses better while doing it.

I knocked and waited until she called for me to enter. Shifting the pad I’d brought along—mostly as a prop—from my left hand to my right, I turned the knob.

Ellen looked up, her expression blank, her wild, curly mop of gray-streaked red hair gathered in a messy up-do. She didn’t stand, just flicked one finger in the direction of a chair. “Morning, Finley.”

“Good morning. How are you?”

“Fine,” she said as she scrawled her distinctive signature across the bottom of a letter and then set it off to the side, tending to another. “You?”

“Great.” This was starting to feel like an employer-employee version of a bad blind date. Awkward, forced, and probably useless.

Nervously, my eyes darted around the room. It was very gender-neutral, very Ellen. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with neatly organized law volumes and their supplements. Behind the desk, she had a window, though any outside light was muted by a pleated fabric shade. Ellen was a partner but she wasn’t the managing partner, nor was she the senior partner. Which is why her view wasn’t spectacular waterfront à la Vain Dane. But her office wasn’t egocentric like his either. In fact, very few items of a personal nature were visible beyond the requisite diplomas. Other than a small, black stone, primitive-looking statue—
please, Lord, don’t let it be some sort of fertility god
—and a thing that looked like petrified wood with abstract carvings and faded paint, the room was pretty sterile.

No color. Beige on beige. By the way, not the least bit complimentary to pale, beige Ellen. As I sat waiting for her full attention, I marveled at her flawless, if pasty, skin tone. Unlike most natural redheads, she didn’t have a single freckle. I knew for a fact she didn’t wear makeup. She’d said as much, declaring it unnecessary and claiming it wasn’t natural. Necessary was in the eye of the beholder. As for natural, I’d been tempted to tell her “natural” didn’t always connote good. After all, arsenic is natural. She also shunned perfume and shaving her legs. Meaning the Ellen definition of natural boiled down to musky and hairy.

After what felt like the better part of a year had passed, Ellen’s faded green eyes lifted in my direction. The sound of her snapping the cover on her fountain pen reverberated in the silence like a gunshot.

I’d given the fountain pen thing a try. Bad idea. Ink leeched out of the sucker, coating the inside of my, at the time, favorite Juicy Couture purse with a thick layer of black goo.

Lacing her fingers, she rested them against the brown leather blotter on her desktop. “We need to review a few things.”

“Okay.” Reluctantly taking my seat, I suddenly realized I’d brought a pad, but no pen.

As if reading my mind, Ellen pulled open a drawer and handed me a Bic. “So there’s no misunderstanding, this reassignment doesn’t in any way relieve you of your other duties to this firm. What’s the status on your open cases?”

“The inventory on the Lockwood estate is finished. I just need to walk it over to the clerk of court. I’m waiting on an appraisal for the jewelry in the Benoit estate. The initial accounting is due on Zander. The Evans estate should clear probate this week. Just waiting on the final order from the court.”

“While I’m your supervising attorney, you’ll abide by my rules.”

“Of course.” Like I had a choice.

“You will be at your desk by eight each morning.”

I swallowed the groan bubbling in my throat and nodded. Then I made a note on my pad to buy more coffee. To be here at eight I’d have to seriously consider mainlining the stuff. Or maybe an IV?

“I have several mergers in varying stages of negotiation. Your job, basically, will include things like annotating and amending contracts and any addendums, researching and writing memorandums on relevant case law and statutes, and basically doing whatever or going wherever I tell you.”

My brain was already going numb. “I can do that.”

One of Ellen’s untended brows arched. “Can you?”

“Sure.” Whether or not I wanted to was a whole different thing.

“Tell me the legal difference between ‘shall’ and ‘may’ as it relates to contracts.”

Was she actually giving me a freaking pop quiz? “Excuse me?”

“Shall and may,” she repeated, her gaze level and penetrating.

My heart thudded in my ears as I reached back, trying to recall everything I’d learned in the one and only contracts class I’d taken a decade ago. “
Shall
compels one or both parties to perform pursuant to the terms of the contract. Failure to perform constitutes a breach, voiding part or all of the agreement and/or creating grounds for legal action against the defaulting party.”

Ellen’s face remained expressionless. Not a good sign. Crap. She should have been impressed as hell. I was. My definition was dead-on and I knew it.

“May?”

“
May
defines an option or suggestion relevant to the consideration rendered by one or both of the parties to an agreement.” I was on a serious roll. We spent the better part of the next thirty minutes with Ellen tossing terms at me and running various scenarios. By the time she was done grilling me on the party of the first part versus the party of the second part, well, I was partied out.

Then she surprised me by smiling as her bony shoulders relaxed against the seat back. Not that it was easy to see the outline of her body; she had a penchant for wearing vegan-ish, commune-style tent dresses. Guess she thought they worked with her functional, gladiator-style sandals. If you ask me, it borders on criminal to wrap a size 2 body in a sports bra and a muumuu.