Knock 'em Dead (14 page)

“May I ask why?” Ignoring Becky’s elbow jab to my ribs, I divided my attention between Taggert, Shaylyn, and Zack. “Other than preserving your business reputation, what’s in it for you?”

Shaylyn’s expression remained calm, cool, and collected. Too much so, if you ask me. People almost always have an agenda or some sort of self-interest. Altruism flies in the face of basic human nature. Unless you’re a nun or a peace corps volunteer. I couldn’t see Shaylyn in either role.

“We believe Jane is not guilty.” Shaylyn said. “Don’t you?”

“Yes. But I’ve known Jane a long time. You haven’t.”

“True. Paolo’s murder was a terrible thing. I, Zack and I both, want to see justice done. Liv convinced us Jane could not possibly be responsible. And yes, protecting my, our, business interests was a consideration. Do you have a problem with that?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

“If you do,” Shaylyn continued, her hazel eyes glinting, “then feel free to make your own arrangements for Jane’s defense and we’ll gladly step aside.”

Becky went from poking to pinching. “None of us wants that,” she said. “Finley and I are just very upset that Jane’s bail was denied.”

Shaylyn reached across and patted Becky’s hand. Her nails shone with a fresh coat of OPI True Red polish. “Understandably so.”

Like a Disney android, Zack did little more than order a bottle of trendy red wine.

Taggert ate an entire platter of pasta, which pretty much explained the genesis of the bulge at his waist. Shaylyn went with the fish. Zack ordered a steak while Becky and I contented ourselves with salad. Occasionally, the conversation drifted to Jane’s plight. Taggert got around the client confidentiality thing by only speaking in the hypothetical.

I was fuming. He didn’t once mention possibilities I’d suggested. Just limited himself to vague references about considering the options. My faith in him was almost nil by the time the check arrived. Shaylyn slid the check over to a less-than-enthusiastic Silent Zack.

It wasn’t until we’d started to leave the restaurant that Shaylyn offered, almost as an afterthought, that they’d received a subpoena duces tecum from Brent.

“What do we do?” she asked Taggert.

“You have to comply or appear before the judge to show good cause why you shouldn’t be compelled to turn over your business records. You don’t have good cause.”

“Send copies to my firm as well,” Becky said. She turned to Taggert and asked, “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

He looked like he wanted to say yes, but his thin lips said, “No.”

“Great. We’ll expect them first thing in the morning.”

That lingering, distracting creepy feeling followed me back to the office. I knew I should tell Becky about the whole Molly Bishop thing, but didn’t want to get her in trouble. She was an officer of the court. She could be disbarred for failing to disclose pertinent information. This was one of those times when being a paralegal really came in handy. If anyone found out about Jane’s perjurious statements in the Charleston incident, and that was a big if, I could plead ignorance and hopefully shield Becky from any repercussions.

Still, it felt horrible to lie to my dearest friend. Speaking of which…I grabbed her hand as we turned down North Olive Street. “Why’d you tell Ellen about my overnight trip to South Carolina?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then who?”

“Liam.”

“I hate him.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Becky said. “I can hear your toes curling at the mere sound of his name.”

Curling and flexing.
“You’re wrong.”

She tossed me a sidelong glance. “I know you, Finley. Admit it, you want him.”

“I do not want him.”

“No,” Becky said as she shrugged out of my hold. “Let’s clarify, you don’t want
Patrick
, you’re just too much of a chickenshit to admit it.”

“That’s really harsh.”

“That’s
really
true. Now’s the perfect time for you to take the easy way out. Just send Patrick a text message telling him to kiss off. Or be pithy, like…Absence makes the heart go wander.”

It was my turn to jab an elbow. “I can’t do that.”

“Why? Are your fingers broken? Mouth glued shut?”

“I can’t hurt him like that.” Luckily, we’d reached the front door to Dane-Lieberman. “It would be mean.”

Becky leaned in to whisper against my ear, “Meaner than boffing him while pretending he’s Liam?”

“I have never done that.”
Dreams don’t count, do they?
“Update. I don’t hate Liam. I hate you.”

I marched directly to the elevator, leaving Becky and her too-close-to-the-truth taunts to pick up messages from Margaret.

I had hoped to find comfort and solace in my office. Instead I found several files stacked in the center of my desk with Ellen-o-grams taped to each one. “So much for the whole ‘your afternoons are your own’ deal.”

Bleary-eyed, I managed to read through the first file. It had more addendums than the U.S. Constitution, plus blueprints and all sorts of zoning stuff that kept me reaching for my legal dictionary. At this rate, I’d be at it until the age of forty. Assuming I didn’t kill myself before then. Big assumption, I decided as I finished the memo and hit the key sending it to the printer.

Just like a kid in kindergarten, I needed a reward for my efforts. Something tangible to acknowledge that I’d completed one of the eleven files Ellen had unceremoniously dumped on my desk. All the really good tangibles were on eBay. At least the ones I could afford. Well, could afford after Friday.

Logging on, I was bummed to see that PilotWife’s dress auction had climbed out of my price range. I detoured over to Rolexville, scouring the new listings for a part I could add to my coveted build-it-yourself project. Sighing, I read the detailed description for a diamond bezel. Not in the cards, though. First I had to build my fantasy watch; then I could think about embellishments.

I placed a bid on a link for the band, then clicked a few other items to place them in my “watch list.” I’m an eBay professional; I know better than to bid too early. It just jacks the price up. Bid too late and you risk a last-minute grab by some lurker.

Not that I didn’t trust Jane. I did. Just not as much as I had before I’d found out about her secret past. Going over to the Google search page, I started to type in her name, then felt a swell of guilt. No, Googling a friend is bad form.

I sat for a minute, contemplating my next move. Liam wasn’t my friend, so that made him fair Google game. I’d typed
L-I-A-M-M-C-G
when my phone rang.

“Finley Tanner.”

“Hi. It’s Liam.”

Like the proverbial kid with her hand in the cookie jar, I hit the backspace key until I’d erased the portion of his name. Silly, since he couldn’t see me, but it just felt wrong to be cyber-snooping when the snoopee was on the line.

“Bad time?” he asked.

“No, just…No. What’s up?”

“I’ve got preliminary results back on the champagne bottle and the glasses from the limo.”

“And?”

“Traces of Rohypnol.”

“GHB?” I asked. “The date rape stuff?”

“Yep.”

“That’s great! So the killer spiked their drinks, then followed them inside Jane’s apartment.”

“Or,” Liam began in that deep, sultry, about-to-rain-on-my-parade voice of his, “Paolo did it to loosen Jane up. Or Jane did it to loosen Paolo up. Or they mutually agreed to give it a try. No way to know until the fingerprints come back. Assuming there are any prints.”

I wanted to scream. “Just once, it would be great if you could call with good news. You know, something nice that would boost my spirits?”

“You want your spirits boosted?”

“It would be nice.”

“Okay. You’ve got great legs.”

I did. And they damn near buckled.

B
eing mired in the minutiae of a merger between two software companies was enough to make me long for the days of the Pony Express. Technology was advancing faster than laws and statutes, so I really had to hunt to find any remotely relevant stuff for Ellen. This new assignment sucked.

Still, being in my office at 7:10
PM
sucked more.

Knowing Jane was about to spend her second night in captivity sucked the most. I’d read the latest motion Taggert filed with the court. The one where he didn’t bother asking that it be expedited. Plus, the decrepit son of a bitch had practically glossed over the fact that all the Charleston charges had been dropped. He’d opted instead to focus on Jane’s ties to the community. Big whoop when she was facing trial for freaking murder.

“Asshole,” I muttered as I climbed to the very top of the ladder—the part that had
DANGER
!
DO NOT STAND ON TOP STEP
! marked on a pristine neon yellow sticker. I was exercising caution—I’d kicked my wedges off and was balancing on tiptoe as I reached for some tome on congressional oversight as it related to the FCC’s role in reference to shareware in the technology marketplace. With any luck, said tome would fall off the shelf and hit me on the head, causing actual unconsciousness. Maybe then I could go home.

But only for eleven hours, give or take. The 8:00
AM
rule was in effect. Heaven forbid I renege on my deal with Ellen. I thought she might be testing me. Dumping all these files in my lap after she’d said my afternoons were my own was so Ellen-esque. She was trying to break me—and while I was nearing the precipice of insanity, I wasn’t quite there yet. I was going to get through all of the files if it took me all night. I could do it. I only had one case left. I had determination. Most importantly, I had coffee.

It took some doing, but I finally managed to wiggle the rarely used book from the shelf. Then allowed it to fall to the floor of the firm’s law library with a loud, reverberating thud. No one heard it. I was alone. No Maudlin Margaret. No Vain Dane. No Estrogenless Ellen. Just me until the custodial staff showed up. They arrived sight unseen in the middle of the night like some antibacterial version of the tooth fairy.

Struggling under the weight of the heavy volume and two others I’d already culled from the shelves, I slipped on my shoes and went to the elevator. I jabbed the
DOWN
arrow with my elbow, finally getting it to light on the third try.

The sound of grinding gears was magnified in the now silent building as the elevator arrived, then deposited me one floor below the library.

It took me more than an hour to review the information and draft a memo. A sense of satisfaction embraced me as I affixed the last memo to the last file and added it to Mount Mergers on the corner of my desk. I toyed with the idea of taking them to Ellen’s office and leaving them outside her door. Her office was surely locked and frankly, the payoff wasn’t worth the effort required to hand-deliver everything to the executive floor.

Pressing the heels of my palms into my tired, burning eyes, I took a deep breath, then lugged the reference books out to the reception area and placed them in the “Return to Library” bin.

I was tired but under the influence of a caffeine buzz, so I went back to my office. I have a decent aftermarket laptop I keep at home, but it’s a dinosaur compared to my Dane-Lieberman machine with enhanced DSL.

Logging on to eBay, I was irritated to see all of PilotWife’s auctions had ended. I dashed off a quick e-mail to her, telling her I’d been tied up—handcuffed, actually, but she didn’t need to know that—and asking her to let me know if any of the sales fell through. I amended the message, asking if she might have something else she was willing to sell. Lisa’s wedding was still a few months away and I needed a rehearsal dinner outfit. Hitting
SEND
, my message was routed through eBay. I would have preferred to grovel directly, but that isn’t how it works, so I had to hope the woman checked in regularly and would get back to me.

As I typed in the URL for Google, I noticed my voice mail light was blinking on the phone beside my monitor. I used the eraser end of my pencil to hit the speaker option, then keyed in my access code.

“Where are you?” Liv’s tone was a blend of annoyance and mild panic. “I went to see Jane. She’s putting up a good front. Did you talk to Harold at Drive Right? Call me. Bye.”

Damn. I’d left a message for the owner but hadn’t heard back. I scribbled a note to try him again as the voice mail began playing the next missed call.

“I saw your light on as I was leaving the office.” Ellen Lieberman’s voice was tinged with amusement.

“Glad you think this is funny,” I said, glaring at the telephone.

“Details, Finley. Details. Have a nice evening.”

Beep.

“What the hell does that mean?” I wondered. “I’ve been working my butt off for hours on details.”

Taking a deep breath, I raked my fingers through my hair, then twisted it into a knot and secured it with one of the black binder clips from the top drawer of my desk.

“Hi, Fin,” the next message began. Patrick’s voice was muffled. He sounded like he was whispering, probably because he was in some gully, hundreds of miles from the closest cell tower. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing and check in on Jane.”

I heard a high-pitched squeal in the background. Not being a nature freak, I didn’t know what kind of wild animal made that noise. Didn’t want to know either.

“I’ll call you when I can. Take care.”

Beep.

The next message was short and to the point. “Harold from Drive Right returning your call. Sorry I missed you.”

Beep.

The last message was from Becky’s secretary. The Fantasy Dates files had been delivered by Taggert the Inept. The efficient woman had already made copies and sent them through interoffice mail.

Beep.
“End of messages.”

Since the files weren’t in my in-box, or anywhere else obvious, I called Becky’s cell. My call went directly to voice mail.

Scooting my chair back, I got up and went out to the center cubicles. I didn’t rate an administrative assistant of my own. Instead, I shared the dozen or so support staff who occupied the cubicles across from the elevators. After a bit of searching, I found a white cardboard box on the floor next to the desk of one of the summer interns. On the top of the box, my name was clearly printed in bold, black Sharpie. The box next to the word
urgent
was checked.

Summer Intern C—they never stayed long enough for me to learn their names—obviously had her own definition of urgent. Lifting the box, I was a little surprised that it was so light. Fantasy Dates was successful, so I’d expected literally dozens of files. Hearing the rattling and shifting as I walked back to my office, I knew the box was less than half full.

When I opened it, I knew why. Bright red hanging file folders dangled from metal T-hooks clipped over the lip of the box. Small plastic tabs were affixed to the top of each folder, precisely spaced and staggered in groups of six so each name was clearly visible. Sorta creepy to think Perfect Paralegal Mary Beth had a doppelganger out there.

Many of the names I recognized instantly, starting with the very first file. Jace Andrews was a totally hot real estate broker. I’d seen him at a couple of DAR events over the years. And now that I thought about it, he attended those things as his mother’s escort. Tough to troll for dates with your mommy in tow.

Matthew Gibson was another familiar name, though I was a little surprised to find he had a Fantasy Dates membership. The
Palm Beach Post
has been running regular updates on his upcoming nuptials to Kresley Pierpont, infamous Palm Beach party girl. And the sole heir to the Pierpont all natural, all organic, no taste cereal fortune.

The impending Kresley-Matthew marriage was a blending of old and new. The Gibsons were old money, the Pierponts were, by Palm Beach standards, new. Their cereal fortune was born only after the health craze of the 1960s, whereas the Gibson fortune predated the signing of the Declaration of Independence. And, if I was remembering my trashy tabloid information correctly, Kresley was worth a fortune. Matthew was worth a few million.

Reaching into Matthew’s file, I found nothing but a CD. Doing a cursory check, I found all the files were paperless. Not a problem for me. I could only hope Taggert had a competent secretary. If not, he’d never be able to look at the information on the clients, making it unlikely he’d develop leads on an alternate suspect. He didn’t impress me as a computer guy. Okay, he didn’t impress me period.

I wished Quinn was representing Jane. I wished he hadn’t served me with a subpoena. Mostly I wished I wouldn’t have to tell Ellen or Vain Dane, but that wasn’t an option. It was, however, something I’d put off as long as possible.

Flipping through roughly fifty names, I smiled when I hit the letter P. Kresley Pierpont also had a membership. Funny, the newspapers hadn’t ever mentioned that she’d found her one true love through an expensive introduction service. If I remembered correctly, the engagement announcement implied the couple had met in St. Barts. I guess that’s more romantic and socially acceptable than admitting the two of them paid a combined total of ten grand for a suitable hookup.

I had a choice to make. Slip the CDs in my computer or pack it in for the night. If I thought staying in my office would get Jane out of jail, I’d gladly pull an all-nighter. Sadly, it wouldn’t, so I put the top back on the box and scooted it off to one corner. Like me, it would be there ready and waiting in—I checked my watch—ten hours and seventeen minutes.

I had my purse in my hand and my finger on the light switch when I decided to try Limo Service Harold again. Drive Right was on my way home.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Finley Tanner. May I speak to Harold, please?”

“This is.”

Finally, something that felt like success. “I’m trying to track down the man who drove Paolo Martinez and Jane Spencer last Saturday.”

“Billy?” he said, clearly annoyed. “You and me both. I talked to him this morning after I got your call. Then he’s a no-show tonight.”

“Is he sick?”

“Who the hell knows? He’s not answering his phone.”

“Maybe I could give him a call?” I suggested. “May I have his home number?”

“I don’t give out personal information on my drivers.”

My shoulders slumped. “How about his full name?”

I heard the guy sigh deeply. “What the hell? Serves him right for screwing me over. I’m paying his replacement time and a half, so sure.”

A few seconds later, I had William “Billy” Arthur’s name and home address in my hands. Going back to my computer, I did a quick MapQuest on the Acreage address, then hit
PRINT
.

Map in hand, I left the building. The last few slivers of pink and gold from the disappearing sun painted the evening sky. In spite of the hour, the temperature hadn’t dropped much. It was still in the eighties.

I got on 95 heading north, then took the Blue Heron exit. PGA Boulevard might have been more direct, but it didn’t have a drive-through Dunkin’ Doughnuts on the right-hand corner just off the exit ramp. Armed with a tall iced vanilla latte, I headed west.

The Acreage is one of the few remaining rural communities in the county. At least for now. The name is a relic from the days when Palm Beach County was the under-populated escape from the urban sprawl creeping up from the south. The Acreage was just that—unnamed acres of undeveloped land. But in South Florida, home to the newlyweds and nearly deads, land was at a premium and the Acreage was shrinking fast.

Billy Arthur’s house was at the end of a dirt lane. Okay, so “house” was a bit of a stretch. The hairs at the back of my neck tingled as my car bounced over the uneven, pitted roadway. His tiny, dilapidated, desperately-in-need-of-repair house was set about a hundred yards back from the main street.

And it was dark. Really dark. Maybe this wasn’t a great idea, I decided as I parked behind a silver sedan with a caved-in bumper and a sheet of plastic duct-taped into the back window. I smelled rotting vegetation and swamp milkweed as I stepped out of my car. Judging by the overgrown plants and the knee-high grass, Billy didn’t have a lawn service.

Intentionally, I left the headlights on. I didn’t want to skulk around in the dark. I could feel the pounding of my heart thudding in my ears, and it dawned on my that I was having a serious blond moment. What if Billy was the killer?

“Forget this,” I muttered, turning to head back to my car.

I didn’t get far. Slamming into a solid chest and rock-hard muscle, I did the only logical thing. I screamed like a girl.

Several dogs howled as strong fingers dug into my arms. Flattening my palms against his chest, I was about to push when I smelled the familiar scent of Liam’s soap.

Tilting my head back, I glared up to see his cocky, amused half smile illuminated by my headlights. “You scared the crap out of me.” I shrugged out of his hold, scraping the back of my sandal on a hunk of cement at the edge of the drive. Balancing on one foot, I yanked off my shoe and inspected the damage. My nearly new wedges had an ugly gouge that ran the entire height of the heel. “Damn it! These are ruined.”

Liam just shrugged. “I’m sure you have more than one pair of pink shoes. In fact, you probably have dozens.”

I did, but these were my favorites. “What are you doing here?” I glanced around him, not seeing his piss-poor excuse for a car. “How did you get here?”

Hooking his thumb toward the street, he said, “Parked up on the road and walked.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

“To scare me half to death
and
ruin my shoes?”

“Sorry I scared you, and get over the whole shoe thing. I followed you here.”