Knock 'em Dead (17 page)

“I’m not feeling the love,” I muttered as I glanced at the calendar hanging on my fridge. Not that it mattered. Even if I had plans, canceling wasn’t an option. Mainly, I did want to thank her for the loan, but also, bailing on my mother was never a good idea.

With the change in plans, I needed to make sure the florist had the roses ready for me to pick up by ten instead of three as I’d originally ordered. That would give me plenty of time to make it to Stuart, public apology bouquet in hand.

I gently pulled on the pretty pink ribbon securing the flower box. On top of the crisply pleated tissue paper was a knife. A big knife. Weird. Moving the knife to the counter, I unfolded the tissue and froze.

It took a full second for my mind to process what I was seeing. Once it did, I couldn’t turn away fast enough. Grabbing up the phone, my fingers trembled as I pressed the numbers while fighting waves of nausea.

“McGarrity.”

“Liam, I have a penis.”

“A
ny idea why someone would send Paolo’s di-part to you?”

I was standing by my patio door, arms folded, glaring at Liam. I couldn’t get the image of poor dead Paulo’s shriveled,
severed
penis out of my mind. “Of course not.” It hadn’t even
looked
like a penis. Not any penis I’d ever been acquainted with anyway. It looked like an old person’s…dead finger. I felt kind of sick to my stomach at the thought of someone—who?—chopping off the poor guy’s equipment.

I felt a lot sicker seeing it. That was an image I’d never get out of my head.

I had a right to be not only grossed out, but scared as hell that the killer had seen fit to mail me not only Paulo’s part, but the knife as well. The one the cops had been searching for high and low since Jane’s arrest.

Rubbing a hand across the nerves jumping in my stomach, I tried to hide any vulnerability in front of stoic, monosyllabic Liam—but the words just popped out. “What should I do?”

“Gotta turn it in to the cops. The knife, too.”

Dread settled in my stomach. “I touched the knife.”

“Not too swift.”

“I was expecting flowers, not…that.”

Liam raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “You gotta call them. I had to turn over the champagne bottle and the glasses to the cops.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

He shrugged, the action causing his broad shoulders to strain against his silk and rayon blend surfer shirt. The print had faded to a color very close to the gray-blue hue of his eyes. Giving myself a mental bitch slap, I focused back in on the situation. How inappropriate was it to notice details about Liam when I had Poor Dead Paulo’s penis lying in state in a box on my kitchen counter?

“The cops knew I took evidence from the limo and demanded I turn everything over. Didn’t have a choice. Neither do you.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I fought the sting of tears. I hadn’t exactly ingratiated myself to Detectives Graves and Steadman. There was no way of predicting exactly how they’d react to me being in possession of Paolo’s privates. I just knew it wouldn’t be good.

Even with my eyes closed, I sensed Liam had crossed the room. I felt the heat from his body and smelled the soothing scent of woodsy soap. Gently, he pulled me against him, my cheek resting against the solid hardness of his chest.

My folded arms were sandwiched between our bodies. The even, rhythmic beating of his heart calmed away the threat of tears. Crisis averted. It should have ended there. All I had to do was step sideways, step back; hell, step in any direction that would allow me to escape from the circle of his arms.

Indulging in a pity hug that could potentially lead to really great, really hot pity sex was a bad, bad idea. But the tip of his finger was making little circles in the center of my back. Liam’s touch acted like a huge eraser on my already compromised judgment.

Don’t do it!
the smart girl voice in my head warned. But that warning was obliterated by the bad girl voice screaming,
What the hell are you waiting for? Go for it! You want it. You know you do.

My breath hitched as I slowly lifted my chin, until I felt the warmth of his minty breath against my face. His mouth, mere inches above my own, was a thin, straight line. His eyes shone as they roamed over my features, finally settling on my slightly parted lips.

As I unfolded my arms and planted my hands at his trim waist, his palms ran over my bare arms until his fingers entwined in my hair. His pupils dilated as the pad of his thumb traced the line of my jaw, then slowly explored my lower lip.

Gently at first, then with more pressure. It was just a touch but felt more exciting than a heated, passionate kiss. My stomach wasn’t filled with dread anymore; it was burning. Every nerve in my body tingled as fire spread from the inside out.

If my conflicting voices of reason were still talking, I couldn’t hear them over the sound of my pulse throbbing in my ears. This was one of those moments. Those magical, thrilling moments that make you want to tear his clothes off. And your clothes. And fast. Really fast.

Sliding my hand between us, I began to unbutton my blouse. I was three buttons into it when Liam took a step back. A giant step. Hell, a freaking leap.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I pinched the seams of my top closed. “I thought we were going to…” I felt my cheeks flame.

“It doesn’t work that way,” he said in his normally steady voice. “You’re not ready for sex.”

Not ready? Was he nuts? I passed ready five seconds after he looked at me with those smoldering eyes. I was eager. I was needy. If that isn’t ready, then what is?

That was then. Moment over. Now I’m just humiliated and furious. “What are you? My eighth grade health teacher?” I snapped.

He held up his hands, palms facing me. “Don’t be pissy. I’m just a guy with rules. Unlike your usually absent pilot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry,” he said, though his tone negated the apology. “That one you have to figure out for yourself.”

Ellen Lieberman’s mantra suddenly played in my head.
Details, Finley. Details.
Tilting my head, I glowered at him. “For your information, I figured it out months ago. The first time I saw you and Ashley together.”

He seemed to be fighting a smile. He lost the battle. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Ash and I have an arrangement going, and history.”

I didn’t want to hear this. Stiffening my spine, I walked toward my bedroom wearing my wounded pride like a ball and chain. And with my back turned, I hastily did up my blouse.

“Running and hiding?”

Hell yes!
“Of course not.” I didn’t turn around. “I’m going to change my clothes, then call the police. You can leave.”

I didn’t hear him cross the room, but suddenly his fingers closed around my upper arm before I made it to the door. “Look, I’m sorry about what just happened. You looked like you were about to get all weepy so I thought a distraction might help.”

“That wasn’t distraction, McGarrity. It was a lame-ass attempt at seduction.”

He leaned close to my ear and said, “Wrong. If and when I seduce you, you’ll know it and it won’t be lame. You change, I’ll call the cops.”

Shrugging free of his gentle grasp, I went into my bedroom, then closed and locked the door. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” I grumbled as I hastily found suitable pair of khaki capris, a rust-colored cami, and a sheer, mocha floral overlay top.

I had a great pair of new ballet flats that would have complemented my outfit, but instead I opted for Cole Haan slides. The three-and-three-quarters-inch stacked heels gave me height and I doubted Steadman, Graves, or Liam would notice the imperfection in the braided leather that had slashed the price down into my affordable zone. If it wasn’t for factory damage, I’d be looking at a closetful of rubber flip-flops from Walgreens.

Deciding between a simple gold chain, no accessories at all, or a chunky beaded choker ate up another ten minutes. Okay, so I knew I wasn’t going to put on anything but thin hoop earrings about five seconds after opening my jewelry drawer. The rest of the nine minutes fifty-nine seconds was just me stalling. I couldn’t stay in my room forever, especially not once I heard someone knocking on my front door.

Less than an hour ago, I was on my way to Worth Avenue. Thanks to the soda spill, I’m now going to spend God knows how long explaining how and why I came into possession of the missing body part.

Emerging from my room, I really, really wanted to be mad at Liam but I couldn’t. Not when I smelled fresh coffee. Caffeine always trumps annoyance. While he got the door, I grabbed a mug. It would have been polite of me to offer the detectives coffee, but as far as I knew, there were no hard and fast social rules when it came to severed penis delivery.

Shivering as I walked past the now closed box, I mustered a smile as Liam let the two detectives in. “Detectives.”

Like a guided missile, Steadman went directly to the box, snapped some latex gloves over her hands, and removed the lid. Graves opened his small memo pad, retrieved the nubby little pencil, and fixed his chocolate-colored eyes on me.

“What time was the box allegedly delivered?”

Allegedly is not a good word. In fact, it’s a bad word. Particularly when said by an officer of the law who already thinks you’re complicit in a crime.

“I wasn’t home, so I don’t know.” I leaned against the arm of my sofa, sipping coffee as my attention darted between Graves, Steadman, and Liam.

“Where were you today?”

“Work, then I went to see Jane.”

Steadman bagged and tagged the knife and the penis, then tried to fit the flower box into a large brown bag. Liam watched her every move. I did my best to pretend it wasn’t happening.

I mean, I don’t even like to open a package of chicken, so the gory body part thing was grossing me out. I wondered how many scrubbings of bleach it would take before I’d be comfortable using my counter again. I didn’t think I could count that high. Probably be easier just to move.

Easier but impossible. My bank account couldn’t handle first and last months’ rent and a deposit. Nor were movers a realistic option and I didn’t really see myself as the do-it-yourself U-Haul type. I decided that I could use my kitchen only if I cordoned off the penis-tainted area in some way. A large plant strategically placed. Or a statue of some sort. Or—

“Miss Tanner?”

Graves’s stern voice reeled me back to reality. “Sorry. What?”

“Did the Spencer woman have the knife and the…”

“Penis.”

“Right,” Graves agreed with discomfort. “Did she bring them with her?”

He might be uncomfortable, but I was eyelashes deep in a rising pool of fury. “Of course not.”

“Ed?”

Liam called him Ed. Ed? As in they were friends? Traitor.

“Sorry,” Graves said, looking at Liam and shrugging his bulging shoulders. “You know the drill.”

“Hello?” I raised my hand. “I don’t. What drill?”

“Please put the coffee cup on the table, stand up, and put your hands behind your back.”

“What for?”

“Finley Tanner, you’re under arrest for aiding and abetting in the murder of Paolo Martinez. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be…”

I tuned out everything except the metallic click of the handcuffs.

For the second time in a week, I found myself in the police station. More specifically, in the holding cell. More of a cage, actually, with hard metal benches and hard-core roommates. Of the half dozen or so women, two were there on domestic charges. One had the beginnings of a black eye and she was sobbing softly. She looked more like a victim than a perpetrator if you asked me. But no one was asking me, so I kept my lips zipped.

There were three pacers too. They were human versions of NASCAR—perpetual motion, left turns only as they stalked the inside of the fourteen-by-fourteen-foot cell. Given their jerky movements, shaky hands, bad skin, and worse teeth, I suspected they were meth-heads.

Talk about a “circle the one that doesn’t belong” moment. Except that I was the worst offender of the lot. Charge-wise, that is. The brawling babes would be held for twenty-four hours, Florida’s definition of a cooling-off period. As for the meth-heads, some public defender would have them out in no time. Especially since they were afternoon tweakers. That meant hard-core addiction. Drugs might be a huge blight on society, but arresting the addicts was little more than a means to an end. Give up your dealer and get out of jail.

Me? My fate was a complete unknown. I’d used my allotted call to phone Becky. Her sage legal advice consisted of two words—Oh! and Shit!

A few minutes before seven, a parade of stumpy guards came in, each balancing trays of food. Okay, so food was a stretch. One by one we were given paper plates and plastic sleeves containing a cheap, thin napkin and a spork. That was the good part.

The meal was vile. Two slices of stale white bread topped a rancid-smelling, ice-cream-shaped blob of…tuna salad? Maybe chicken salad? Couldn’t tell. A few limp carrot sticks, a small carton of lukewarm two percent milk, and some green Jell-O rounded out the offering.

“Coffee?” I asked. Okay, so it bordered on a plea more than a question.

Stumpy Guard Number One shook her nearly shaven head. “Sorry, honey. Can’t serve anything that might be used as a weapon. Enjoy your dinner.”

I’ve had bad coffee. But coffee used as a weapon? Who knew? The mixture of cheap, stale perfume and strong, fishy mayonnaise killed my appetite. That, and the reality of my predicament.

Arraignment was starting to sound good. At least then I had a chance of being transferred to the same building housing Jane. A friend would be nice. Freedom would be better.

“You gonna eat that?” the unscathed brawler asked, pointing to the tray I’d set on the bench beside me.

“Help yourself.”

She scarffed the entire meal in just over a minute. She was quite adept with a spork, telling me this probably wasn’t her first incarceration. Napkin use was a different matter. Apparently she preferred wiping her chapped lips on the back of her hand, then smearing…
whatever
on the front of her stained, way-too-tight-for-her-body-type T-shirt. The crowning moment was the loud, foul-smelling belch she let loose.

Now I really wanted to cry. Or in the alternative, slit my wrists. Tough to do when you have only a flimsy spork at your disposal.

A while after the trays were collected, a bailiff came in holding a clipboard. He pulled a pen from where he’d tucked it behind his ear and called out, “Tanner, Finley A!”

I jumped to my feet—feet, I might add, which were covered by a pair of paper forensic booties. Some brain trust had decided that heels also represented a clear and present danger, so my shoes had been confiscated during the booking process.

“Step forward, turn around, and place your hands on the ledge.”