Knock 'em Dead (21 page)

“Sometimes.”

The man was as honest as he was irritating. “I need to go home where I have a real computer.”

“First we have to wipe down every surface. If not, when we call the cops, both our fingerprints will pop in a matter of hours. I’m going to take you to meet some friends of mine. Then you go home.”

Friends? What the hell did that mean?
It could be step one in integrating me into his life or…it could mean we were meeting Ashley at the Blue Martini. Not a pleasant thought. “Wait, no. I have to see Jace Andrews, Payton McComber, and maybe Harrison Hadley.”

He gave me a quizzical look but lifted his chin in a challenge. “We’re doing that why?”

“Fantasy Date clients. They all have offices here on the island and I want to interview them now. Your friends will have to wait until after that. I have to go to my place. I need a functioning computer so I can pry into the lives of Barbie Baker, Cameron Wells, and all the other clients. Zack and…”

Liam lifted the hem of his shirt and started wiping every surface. My throat constricted as I took in his deeply tanned, perfectly sculpted abs. Normally, I’m not fond of the whole boxer-shorts-visible-above-the-waistband thing, but on Liam it worked. Correction, it worked on my libido. Really well. Knee-bucklingly well.

Even though he was standing in profile, I could see his grin. “When you’re finished checking me out, you need to take a breath, finish your sentence, and start helping.”

My cheeks weren’t just flushed, they were roasting. “I was not checking you out.” Technically not a lie. I was no longer checking him out. I had moved on. To a full-color fantasy of the two of us tangled in my sheets.

“Whatever. You were saying Zack and…?”

It took three mental bitch slaps to pull me back to reality. “Um, I’ll do deeper checks on Zack, Shaylyn, and Taggert too. You may not think there’s a connection, but I do. Someone password-protected all the files. Whoever trashed this place was obviously looking for something. I’m guessing the ‘it’ is someplace in the files, which explains why he took the hard drive.”

“Or Zack and Shaylyn took it as a precaution to protect the privacy of their clientele,” he said as he ran his shirt along the length of the U-shaped counter.

“Why is it so hard for you accept that my instincts might have merit?”

I heard the crunch of glass and looked over to see Liam pulling his gun. “You checked this whole place when you got here?” he asked as he slowly rounded the counter, his gun parallel to his line of sight.

“Pretty much.” Okay, so I didn’t go into the kitchenette, but that was only because I’d been distracted by finding Jane’s background check on the floor. Besides, it was totally open; I would have noticed someone lurking in the shadows.

“You must have done this room with your eyes closed.”

“Wrong. I found a piece of a glass carafe. So if you’ve just discovered a broken coffeepot, don’t bother patting yourself on the back.”

The unmistakable sound of door hinges creaked and echoed off the high ceilings.

Leaning around the knee wall, I watched Liam lower his gun to his side before crouching down. The sickly sweet smell got stronger, as did the sense of panic tightening my muscles.

“You missed something.”

“Like?”

“The blood spatter on the floor.”

“W
e should have stayed,” I told Liam for the umpteenth time as we left Fantasy Dates.

“Only if you wanted to spend the night being grilled by Steadman and Graves. By the way, they don’t like you.”

I glared up at him as I struggled to keep pace with his long strides. “I figured that out all on my own.”

Activity on Worth Avenue was waning, as were my hopes of getting Jane released in time for the weekend. It was just a few minutes past four and I could see shop employees through their windows already dusting counters and straightening merchandise. Even though the posted business hours ran until six, cocktail hour started promptly at five. Time for the idle rich to man their battle stations. Hosts and hostesses were heading back to their stately homes to dress for the evening.

It’s a very Palm Beach thing. There’s some sort of gathering every evening. I
f
you can make the guest lists. I’d been to a few events, but only as a crasher. Well, technically Liv snagged me an invite so it wasn’t really crashing, but I’d never been included on my own merit. No matter how I came to be there, I enjoyed the up-close and personal view of their opulence.

“Here,” I said suddenly, grabbing Liam’s forearm. “Stop here.”

“Payton’s Place,” he read from the sign above the small combination gallery and retail. “Distinctive Accessories. You jonesing for jewelry?”

“Don’t be stupid. I want to talk to Payton McComber. She’s a Special Assessment client.”

Liam held the door open for me. As I passed, he whispered against my ear, “Make it quick. I’ve got a thing in West Palm in about an hour.”

Thing. Always with the
thing
. “Feel free to go on your merry way.” A vague chime sounded softly as I crossed the threshold.

The shop was painted stark white and smelled faintly of gardenia. The long, rectangular display cases running down either side of the room were filled with artistically displayed, one-of-a-kind jewelry. The center aisle was dotted with smaller, octagonal cases that rotated at a barely discernible speed and displayed smaller pieces. The ceiling was about fourteen feet high, leaving plenty of room to exhibit the artsy larger pieces. Along the back wall, various awards and accolades hung symmetrically, interspersed with photographs of the corresponding winning works. In addition to jewelry, Payton was a well-credentialed metal artist and quite adept at creating blown glass pieces as well.

I heard a door open and held my breath. I’d know Payton on sight. She was frequently in the news and quite popular with the island residents. Mostly because all her pieces were one of a kind. I’m told nothing irritates a rich woman like spending thousands on accessories only to arrive at a party to find some other—usually younger—woman sporting the same bauble.

It wasn’t Payton. It was a small woman with closely cropped hair dyed a bright shade of purple. The hair and her funky clothing practically screamed
artist.
I’ve never understood why people who are capable of creating beauty often have a personal style that mimics an unsupervised toddler.

She smiled at me and extended her small hand. It was hard to get a firm grip given the fact that she had this silver thing that connected her thumb and index finger, creating a webbed effect. Perhaps Payton’s winter collection would include a Peter Parker line.
Spider-man
–inspired jewelry, purple hair, and circa 1983 Cyndi Lauper–esque attire aside, she was a very pretty young woman.

“Hi, I’m Astrid. Welcome to Payton’s Place. Are you looking for something specific today?”

“Yes. Payton McComber. Is she available?”

“She’s in the studio out back and doesn’t like to be disturbed. I’m sure I can help you find what you need.”

“Okay,” I said as I reached into my purse for a pen and something to write on. This time the lucky winner was a Starbucks Chai Tea postcard I’d been meaning to use. Hurriedly, I scribbled on the back, then folded it in thirds. “Please take this to Ms. McComber. We’ll wait.”

As soon as she was gone, Liam said, “You do snotty bitch really well.”

Not sure whether it was a compliment or a criticism, I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “It’s a gift.”

Seemingly restless, he started prowling the cases. “If you ask me, a lot of this looks like the junk you can pick up in any dollar store.”

“Add a few more zeros,” I suggested, my eyes drawn to a really fabulous oval-cut, lime-green necklace and matching earrings. Being unemployed, I had to settle for admiring from a distance. Who was I kidding? Even employed I couldn’t afford a Payton original unless I saved and scraped. Two S adjectives I’ve managed to avoid for almost thirty years.

Astrid returned, her face all scrunched in a confused frown. “She’s waiting for you in the studio.” She pointed her webbed finger toward the back of the shop. “Right through there.”

When Liam’s palm flattened against the small of my back, I felt every centimeter of his large hand. I played it cool. Barely.

“What did you write on the note?”

“That we were here about her past due Special Assessment for Fantasy Dates. She didn’t pay the fee last month.”

“Smart.”

“I thought so.” Yes, I’ve been around long enough to know better than to let flattery melt my bones. Recognized the danger in it, knew better than to let it affect me, felt it happening anyway.

In order to get to the studio, we had to pass through a curtain of brightly colored glass beads. They jingled, then swayed back into place as we continued down a narrow but short corridor. Focusing on the orange glow from the
EXIT
sign above the door, I kept moving, though it was a struggle.

We passed a single room on our direct, lineal route to the studio. A room with a pot of coffee sending me telepathic “come hither” invitations. I knew I was back to normal when the desire for coffee overwhelmed the fleeting and fruitless desire for Liam to put his hand on me again. How sad is that? Would I really rather have coffee than a man?

My eyes stung as I stepped into a ray of harsh sunlight. Squinting, I lifted my hand to shield my vision. A few feet in front of me stood what looked like a detached garage. Well, if garages had chimneys billowing heat that created that watery mirage effect.

“Smell that?” Liam asked.

“Yeah. Smells like that stuff you use to refill a cigarette lighter. What is it?”

“It’s a gas that evaporates quickly and is highly combustible.”

I stopped like I’d hit a wall. “You think Payton is going to blow us up?”

Pushing me forward, Liam said in a low voice, “No, I was thinking about the limo driver’s boat. Something ignited the gas cans on board.”

“Should I be scared?” Like I wasn’t already.

“Nope.”

A single door with the word
PRIVATE
stenciled by a skilled hand stood ajar. I could hear the sound of metal banging against metal and a whistling noise as we approached.

“Miss McComber?” I called over the dissonance.

“Come in,” she replied, though her voice was oddly muffled.

As soon as I went inside the studio, the reason was apparent. Payton was straddling a padded sawhorse, her face obscured by a welding mask. One hand held a ball-peen hammer, the other a small blowtorch streaming a blue-hot flame about three inches from the nozzle.

She put the hammer on the bench in front of her, then turned a small valve on the torch, and the flame disappeared with a poof. Other than the sounds of an oscillating fan and the buzz of the air conditioner, the place was eerily quiet.

Payton broke the spell. “You can tell Zack to do what he needs to do. I’m not paying him another penny.”

I guess we’re skipping the introduction part.
“Excuse me?”

When she snatched off the mask and gloves, I found myself being glared at by a pair of hostile dark eyes. Her hair, though mussed, was an unnaturally brutal black, and worn in a severe ponytail that seemed to pull her eyes into an almond shape. Either that or she’d had a bad face-lift.

My gaze dropped to her neck. Yep, definitely had a face-lift. The sagging skin confirmed her neck was about ten years older than her face and her hands; well, add another five to that. After doing the math, I figured that regardless of the cosmetic surgery, she was somewhere in her early forties.

Like many face-liftees, she allowed her age-defying appearance to define her sense of style. Toss in the aforementioned weird artist elements, and the result was strange. Payton McComber looked a little like a biker chick. Worn chaps covered her thighs and she had on Harley-Davidson Dazzle leather fashion boots. Not the only fashion item and definitely not the only leather. Swinging one leg over the sawhorse, she stood up and, thanks to the three-inch heels, she was a good inch or more taller than Liam.

Payton was thin but very fit. Her arms were toned and her torso was trussed into some sort of leather vest with hand-blown beads dangling from the laces. Beneath the chaps, she had on denim shorts embellished with bugle beads. When she turned around and untied the chaps, I discovered the shorts had been cropped and cut into an ass-revealing thong.

I shot a quick glance over at Liam, who seemed completely impervious to being flashed. His attention was on inventorying the studio.

Payton planted her hands on her nonexistent hips, her eyes blazing in my direction. “You’re the best he can do? A prissy Junior Leaguer? Well, you tell that north-of-the-border jerk-off that I’m not intimidated and I’m definitely through paying. I wasn’t getting my money’s worth. Besides, my…
tastes
aren’t exactly a secret. Oh, and you can also tell him to take his DVD and his threats and stick them up his—”

I knew I didn’t like that creep. “Zack threatened you?”

She shrugged, revealing a small portion of a tattoo on her right shoulder. I didn’t get a very good look, but I’m pretty sure it was a snake.

“Tried to,” Payton answered. “I was okay with the extra fees so long as I was getting what I paid for.”

“Which was?” Liam asked.

She gave him a slow, deliberate smile. “I like games but I had a hard time finding playmates after I moved down here from New York.”

It didn’t take long for me to get that she wasn’t talking about Yahtzee. “So how’d you hook up with Zack and Shaylyn?”

“They found me. Came into the studio. We got to talking and at the time, it seemed like a win-win situation. I got to meet people with similar…
interests
and they got to make some extra cash. Then, a few months ago, the maple-leaf–licking bastard sent me a home-burned DVD and a typed note threatening to go public with the original of it if I didn’t pay an additional twenty grand.”

“Someone taped you playing games?” Liam asked.

“Yeah. But I’m an artist. An established one. Having my sexual proclivities shared with the whole world would probably let me double my prices. Look at Maplethorpe. Look at John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s
Self-Portrait
. Sex and art sell. That’s exactly what I told Paolo when he showed up here to collect.”

“When exactly was that?” Liam asked.

“Late May, early June, maybe?” Payton’s expression was guarded. “Wait. You’re not thinking I had anything to do with Paolo’s death, are you? I went out with him several times. He was an excellent playmate.”

Eeewwwww.

“Didn’t they already arrest some woman for it?”

As if it mattered, I said, “She’s innocent.”

“He was killed last weekend, right?”

I nodded.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I was at the opening of a new exhibit at the World Erotic Art Museum in Miami from Friday until early Monday.”

“Is there anyone who can verify that?” Liam asked.

“Several anyones,” she said, followed by a sly laugh. “I was very popular at the after parties, if you get my meaning.”

I got her meaning and a nasty visual as well.

“Do you still have the DVD?”

Payton was completely nonplussed by Liam’s question. She walked over to a small cabinet next to some blank stacked canvases and reached inside. Then held up a shiny disc in a clear plastic sleeve. “Right here.”

“Could we have it?”

“You can borrow it,” Payton said.

“We won’t make copies,” I assured her.

She scoffed. “Copy away. I just want it back because I like watching it. It gets me off.”

More eeewwwww.

“I need a shower,” I grumbled shortly after leaving Payton’s gallery. We both slipped on sunglasses as we walked east. “I want you to check her alibi.”

“Why?”

His dismissive tone chafed. “Well, for starters, how many people under the age of forty remember that John and Yoko made a movie starring John’s penis? Paolo died without his penis on. Some people might consider that suspicious. She had all sorts of knives in her studio. And motive.”

“What motive would that be?”

“Gee,” I said, tapping my finger to my chin. “Zack and Shaylyn were shaking her down?”

“I think Payton’s the kind of woman who enjoys a good shake. We’ll know more after we watch the DVD.”

“Oh, goody. I can’t wait to see Payton’s sexcapades.”

“Are you a prude or just pathetically loyal to the pilot?”

Given that I’d been, and still was, mentally cheating on my boyfriend, I was hardly in a position to take the moral high ground. No choice but to go with the tried and true nonanswer answer. “There’s nothing pathetic about being loyal.”

“There is if it’s only one-sided.”

His cryptic remark could only mean one of two things. Either Ashley had cheated on him or vice versa. The fact that they were still involved made it more likely that the latter was true.

“Stay out of my relationship with Patrick.”

“I have.”

The swiftness of his response stung. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Which made no sense. Did I actually want him to want me just so I could have the satisfaction of saying no? Or did I just want Liam, period? Both scenarios fell firmly in the stupid column. Arriving at Prestige Properties saved me from having to work my way out of the maze of my guilty conscience.