Knock 'em Dead (20 page)

The business was located in one of the newer buildings on Worth Avenue. It was typical Florida architecture—single story, tropical colors, and Spanish influences. Set back about ten feet from the road, the driveway had been expanded to accommodate two vehicles. I recognized the only one parked there. It was the same dark sapphire Bentley I’d seen at Liv’s office a few days earlier.

My initial apprehension was leaning more toward scared shitless the closer I got to the matching fountains flanking the manicured walkway. The bubbling water was drowned out by the sound of my heart thudding in my ears.

Maybe I should have called the police. Maybe I should have waited for Liam. Maybe I should just turn around and go home.

“No,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You can do this. You might not want to, but you can. You have to. Think of Jane.”

Jane. Jane. Jane…Jimmy?

I blinked, not trusting my eyes. However, there was no denying it. Deep pry marks gouged the wood near the brass door latch. Yep. Someone had jimmied the lock. Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure there was a steady stream of people strolling the sidewalk. There was.

Now, a smart woman would call for help and wait until said help arrived. Only
this
woman had a friend in jail, so “smart” went flying out the proverbial window. Stepping back so I was even with the trunk of the Bentley, I called Liv and told her what I’d found.

“Call the police.”

“Their car is here,” I said as I walked around and placed my palm on the hood. “The engine’s cold.”

“I don’t care if the engine is a block of ice,” Liv virtually screamed. “Get away from there. For all you know there could be a burglar inside.”

“Or Zack and Shaylyn are in there, maybe tied up and in need of assistance.”

“Another reason you need to call the cops and get the hell out of there.”

“Just stay on the line with me,” I said as I fished into my purse and pulled out a tissue.

“Finley?”

“Shush. I’m just going to take a quick peek.”

“This is not a good idea,” Liv warned.

I heard a scratching sound and guessed Liv had covered the mouthpiece. “I know what you’re doing. Please don’t tell Jean-Claude to call the police,” I asked. “What if Zack and Shaylyn really are in trouble? Plus, maybe there are clues or something else that could get Jane out of jail?”

“Or maybe you’ve lost your mind. Please, Finley—”

“Just hang on,” I said as I used my toe to push the front door open. “Hello?” I called, hearing my own voice echo through the house. Wanting both hands free, I propped my folder against a planter to the right of the door. “Zack? Shaylyn? It’s Finley. I’ve got the police on the line!”

“Liar.”

“Shush!” I repeated harshly. “I’m putting you on speaker so you can hear everything but you have to be quiet.” Pressing the sleek button on my phone, I tucked it into the side pocket of my purse and took an initial, tentative step over the threshold.

Because of the open floor plan, I could see almost every nook and cranny. The place had been trashed. All four chairs had been sliced open, the cushion fibers spilling out like white puffy clouds against the shredded fabric. The sofas had suffered the same fate, though they’d been tipped and cut and the buttery leather peeled back to expose the wooden frames.

To the right of me, I saw an elegant desk and surmised the papers strewn around had come from there. The drawers of twin lateral files were askew, left partially open.

Though my hands were trembling, I was careful to wrap the tissue around my fingertips as I cautiously ventured farther into the room. The smell of something sickly sweet hung thickly in the warming air.

I’d intentionally left the front door wide open. The heat from outside was taking the chill off the overly air-conditioned room.

“Holy crap,” I mumbled.

“Finley?” I heard Liv’s distant voice coming from my cell phone. “Finley, are you okay? Finley?”

Holding the phone near my mouth, I said, “Yeah. I’m here. I’m fine. No sign of Zack or Shaylyn, but someone did a real number on this place.”

Stepping over one of the sofa cushions, I found a few pages tossed over by a small counter. Four stools lay on their side and a few shards of glass glinted against the terra-cotta-tiled floor. Automatically, I glanced at the window above the small sink in the kitchenette. It was intact. Examining one of the larger pieces, I noted it was too thin for a drinking glass. A carafe, maybe?

“I’m calling the police.
Now!
”

“Hang on. Give me a minute,” I told Liv, placing the phone on the floor.

Ignoring her protests, I carefully picked up one of the pages. My heart stilled when I read the name typed on the top of the first page. Spencer, Jane.

It was her questionnaire. The same one I’d read from the electronic version supplied to Taggert by Zack and Shaylyn. Only now I paid specific attention to the section marked
references
. My name and telephone numbers were listed on the second line.

I gathered the dozen or so other pages as well as the folder with Jane’s name on the label. There was another difference between the actual file I now held in my hand and the one provided by Fantasy Dates. A copy of Jane’s criminal record, faxed from an 843 area code.

Excitedly, I picked up the phone and said, “I think I know who’s been spoon-feeding the prosecutor information on Jane while pretending to help.” Anger simmered in my veins as I shared my discovery with Liv. “I knew there was something weird about those two.”

“You think they killed Paolo and framed Jane?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Except…” I scanned the automatically generated date and time stamp on the fax. “Except they didn’t get this information until about an hour before Jane went in front of Judge Faulkner for the first time. Which means they couldn’t have known about her past troubles when they framed her for Paolo’s murder.”

“Is that important?”

“Maybe. Paolo and Jane’s date was arranged three weeks ago. If they were going to use her as a patsy, why wait until after the date to find out if she had any skeletons in her closet?”

“Finley, I think you should get out of there. What if Shaylyn and Zack come back?”

“You’re right. I’ll call the cops from outside.”

I was still crouched on the ground when I felt a hard metal object tap my shoulder. I turned just enough for my eyes to focus on the barrel of a gun.

I
n a feeble attempt to get away, and suffering from a sudden jolt of holy-shit-that’s-a-gun adrenaline, I stumbled, toppled over, and smacked my head on the rock-hard tile.

Palpable fear had my heart racing. Through the head-trauma stars strobing in my field of vision, I expected to see Zack or possibly Shaylyn sneering down at me. I braced myself, terrified, as I imagined how much it would hurt to get shot. I’ve never been shot, but I’m thinking it can’t be good.

Instead of bad guys aiming guns, it was Liam wielding the weapon. Amusement glinted in his eyes as he casually scratched the side of his five o’clock shadow with his trigger finger.

“You son of a bitch!” I hoisted myself off the floor, grabbing up my cell and the file pages and adjusting the strap on my purse in the process. My dignity was still on the floor, seeping into the grout. Couldn’t pick that up with a spoon.

“Finley? I hear Liam? Thank God he’s there with you. Finley, tell him how much we—” Hearing the not-so-muffled sound of Liv babbling over the speaker, I disconnected the open line.

I hated the fact that I had to tilt my head back in order to make eye contact. Almost as much as I hated the tingle in my stomach every time I looked into those incredible eyes of his. “You scared me.”

“Good to know something does,” he said, tucking the gun into the back waistband of his jeans. After a quick scan of the room, he let out a low whistle. “Your handiwork?”

My spine went rigid. “Of course not. It was trashed when I got here.”

“You should have waited outside.”

He shook his head slowly, causing a few strands of dark hair to fall against his forehead. My fingers twitched from the inappropriate desire to reach up and smooth them back into place. The last time I’d twitched in his presence, I’d made a total ass of myself. My cheeks warmed just thinking about the whole “boy, did I misread the signals, stripping off my clothes” incident.

“Well, I didn’t,” I replied, hearing almost childish defiance in my own voice. “I did, however, take a thorough and cautious look around. There’s no one here.”

“Put that in the sheer dumb luck pile.”

Ya think? Already did that.

“Liv’s assistant called me. Becky called me. Five times. When they told me you were on your way here to…
investigate
, I didn’t believe it.”

I glared at him. “
Someone
has to investigate.”
It’s not like you’re doing it.
“If not, Jane spends a second weekend in jail. I can’t sit idly by and do nothing.”

“Right. So what? You dropped a hundred points of IQ and waltzed blindly in here? That’s your plan to get your friend out of jail?”

Okay, when he said it like that, I sounded like a complete moron. “Someone was crank calling me from here and I wanted to know who.”

“Crank calls or threatening calls?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Huge one.”

“Not calls, plural. Okay, calls, plural, but the first ones were hang-ups, so they don’t count. Call. One threatening call,” I said, as if that made me sound less incompetent. “Something I’ve done has hit a nerve with Zack and/or Shaylyn. I was going to confront them about it.”

His expression darkened and what I guessed was anger flashed in his eyes for just a second. “Then what?”

“Then what
what
?”

He pointed at the items clutched in my hands. “Here’s a free lesson from Interview 101. Don’t confront people. What if they were here, Finley? Or if whoever trashed this place was still inside? Assuming you did react quickly—and I’m being generous here—you couldn’t run worth shit in those high heels, and most attackers don’t stand there while you calmly dial nine-one-one.”

“Whatever. So this wasn’t my finest hour,” I acknowledged defensively. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Taggert isn’t doing anything, so Jane is
languishing
in jail.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Not only is time an issue, but so is money. Jane’s stuff is mostly investments. It takes time to liquidate those kinds of assets. Liv’s partner is still contemplating allowing her to pull funds out of the business and I’ve already milked my friends and my mother.” I felt my muscles tense. Brunch was less than twenty-four hours away. Let the groveling begin. “Bottom line? I’m it. I have the time and—”

“That was pretty cold of Dane-Lieberman to can you.”

I shrugged. “In a manner of speaking, they canned you too. I’m sure Ellen called you on her way home from the courthouse to let you know your services were no longer needed.”

“She did.”

I felt frustrated tears sting the back of my eyes. “I’m also sure I don’t know what I’m doing. But at least I’m trying. I’m not a big whoop-de-do P.I., but I am finding clues.”

“This isn’t a board game, Finley. Clues are for amateurs. What you want is facts. Oh, and not getting yourself hurt in the process would probably be a good plan.”

“Well, I’m out of options.”

He cursed under his breath. “No, you aren’t. I’ll help you.”

“For a reduced fee? Pass, thanks.” I was still pissed at him for that one.

“If you promise to behave, I’ll make this one a freebie.”

I smiled, relief flooding every amateur sleuth cell in my body. I couldn’t help myself. Much as I wanted to think I could find the answers on my own, I did have certain limitations. “Great, so where do we start?”

“Not we. Me.”

Vehemently, I shook my head. “This may be a pro bono case, but technically I’m the client. I’m not going to sit in my apartment waiting on you. Not when you have ‘things’ every hour on the hour.”

Now he was the one smiling. Annoying bastard. I narrowed my eyes. “Did I say something amusing?”

“Yeah, but we can talk about that another time. Right now we bring each other up to speed.”

He listened patiently as I told him about the password and the fact that I hadn’t found anything to explain “Snowy Owl.” Then there was the whole Special Assessment angle. Excitedly, I handed him the Jane file and pointed out the odd timing on the criminal background check weeks after the Paolo date had been arranged.

“So,” I began once my self-esteem moved back in, “now all we have to do is figure out how Zack and/or Shaylyn killed Paolo and why they framed Jane before they knew about the Charleston case.”

“You skipped a step.”

“No. I’ve been making notes.” I dug them out of my purse and handed them to him. “I know the names of all the Special Assessment clients and—”

“Not that step,” he said. “The proof step. This is a good start, but it’s all conjecture. Until we have motive or, better yet, tangible evidence, we can’t assume Zack and Shaylyn are the killers.”

“They have to be. The only common thread is this dating service.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

He was starting to irritate me again.
Free. Free. He’s working for free.
“You have a better suspect in mind?”

“Maybe. Ma—”

“Got it. So what’s the next move?”

“You go home and I do my job?”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Didn’t think so.” He raked his fingers through his hair, then swung his arm in an arc. “What’s all this?”

“Papers.”

“About…?”

“I didn’t get the chance to look at anything but Jane’s file. Thanks to that thing you did with the gun on my shoulder. Was that really necessary?”

“No.”

I walked toward the desk, righting a side chair and depositing my purse on the sliced cushion. “So why’d you do it?”

“Because I could.”

Loved his deep, sexy voice. Hated his wiseass answer.

Liam and I spent the better part of an hour splitting our time between reconstructing the office and making frequent checks out the window to make sure we wouldn’t get caught. I was good at organization and not so good at recon. Every time I went to the window, my chest constricted. Eventually, I tossed my pride aside and asked him to be lookout.

“I’m not finding anything really out of the ordinary,” I admitted. “Hang on,” I said, excitement building as my eyes scanned the “referred by” sections of the Special Assessment clients. “Matthew Gibson joined two years ago. Just after Fantasy Dates opened. He referred Kresley Pierpont.”

“She’s got a hefty trust fund. Think he did that just to hook up with her?”

Touching the pad of my index finger to my tongue, I quickly flipped through the other applications. “If he did, it backfired. At least in the beginning. Kresley’s first few dates were with some guy named Cameron Wells.”

“Is he paying the bonus fees?”

I shook my head. “Nope. And he dropped his membership after only five dates with Kresley. Which just happens to coincide with Kresley’s first date with Paolo.”

“Now we’re getting someplace,” Liam said, moving to stand behind me. His hands rested on the back of my chair and I felt his warm breath against my ear as he leaned in to read over my shoulder.

My heart thumped against my ribcage and I started hating myself for pseudo-cheating on Patrick. My conscience was bothering me, but then again, so was the scent of Liam’s soap. I willed myself to stay focused on the pages in front of me.

“Doesn’t look like Paolo held her interest very long,” Liam said. “Only two dates. The last one was eighteen months ago.”

I told Liam all about Paola’s real identity. Born in Dayton, several years in prison on larceny charges, and the fact that his whole Palm Beach life was fiction. And despite all of that, he’d passed Fantasy Dates’ supposedly stellar scrutiny. “What if she found out he was a fraud?”

“Not likely.”

My gut was telling me this was important, so I didn’t let it go. “Why not? The Kresley Pierponts of the world don’t like slumming or being conned.”

“They’re also too spoiled to wait a year and a half to do something about it.”

“Good point.”

“If she somehow found out Paolo was a felon, she probably would have sued Fantasy Dates right out of business. She didn’t. She kept dating.”

“Until she met Matthew Gibson. They got exclusive fast. Maybe he found out Paolo was a felon and killed him to avenge the wrong done to his bride-to-be.”

“That would make perfect sense…
if
this was Regency England,” Liam joked. “Does this whole introduction service thing work on referral, or what?”

I missed the heat of his body as he moved to sit on the edge of the now tidy desk. He was flipping through the pages I’d deemed unimportant and set aside.

“From what I could cobble together, when the business first opened, Shaylyn and Zack held small, intimate parties on rented yachts or VIP rooms at various hot spots.”

“Feeling out the rich and dateless?”

“Yes. But now they operate almost exclusively on a referral basis. There are a lot of referrals from Kresley Pierpont, and I thought I was on to something, but it didn’t pan out. Paolo had just as many, as did some woman named Barbie Baker.”

One of his dark brows arched. “Quietly settled, profitable-divorce Barbie Baker?”

I never would have guessed him for the gossip column type. “How’d you know?”

“P.I.s have our own Yahoo group.”

“Really?”

He grinned. Lopsided and sexy as all hell. “No. Ashley mentioned it. She subscribes to a lot of fanzines and keeps up with that sort of junk.”

Why do I think that’s not the only thing Ashley keeps up?
“What do you remember about the ex–Mrs. Baker?”

“Not much. I don’t get very interested in things like that.”

“I should Google her,” I said, reaching for the sleek silver laptop on the floor next to the desk. It took some doing to reconnect the cables, but I finally got it up and running.

“We’re obliterating any usable prints, you know that, right?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” I mumbled as I read the error message on the machine. Prying the back of the machine open with a nail file I’d found in the top desk drawer, I instantly understood why the computer wasn’t cooperating. “Someone took the hard drive.”

Liam looked up from the stack of papers he’d been leisurely reading. “So we’re looking for a computer novice.”

I met his gaze. “How can you know that?”

“A computer geek would wipe the hard drive and leave it in place. Which also makes it less likely that Shaylyn and Zack are our killers.”

“Because?”

He fanned me with the pages. “This whole operation is computerized. One of them has technical knowledge. Plus, it’s their computer. If it had something damning inside, why not take it with them? Or just dump it?”

“Where do you think they are? No one’s heard from them in forever.”

“Taggert might know.”

I blinked, then felt some of my enthusiasm rekindle. “Good thinking. He’s a friend of theirs, so it only stands to reason he might have some information.”

Using his thumb and forefinger, Liam slipped a neatly stapled, two-page document from the unimportant pile. “He’s more than a friend,” he said, sliding the document across the desk. “Taggert was their attorney of record on the lease for this place.”

Flipping to the second page, I easily found his signature boldly scrolled and dated on the indicated lines. “I made a stack of vendor invoices,” I told Liam. “See them anywhere?”

“Got ’em.” He handed them to me.

Bypassing various and sundry items like electric bills, water bills, and office supply orders, I hit gold. Well, more like silver or bronze. “These are invoices from Clark Taggert for legal services rendered, marked
Paid in full
.”

“We’ve already established he’s their lawyer.”

“But”—I shuffled papers around until I found a bank statement—“no payments are listed as sent to Taggert. That has to be significant.”

“Or it could just mean they have more than one operating account and they paid Taggert from another account. Or they just cashed checks and paid him in cash for some other reason.”

A pattern was developing. My enthusiasm morphed into vexation. “Do you enjoy taking every one of my ideas and peeing on them?”