Knock 'em Dead (3 page)

His image slowly morphed into Liam McGarrity. He was a P.I. who sometimes did work for my firm and had helped me out on the Hall investigation. And he was trouble. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Liam. A—I have Patrick. B—I hardly know the guy. C—He’s still got something going on with his ex-wife, Ashley. D—Did I mention he’s over six muscular feet of trouble? He’s the kind of guy who makes you crazy. He has the most incredible blue-gray eyes that make you think you can fix him by falling in love with him. Well, I’m not that stupid.

At least not since I met Patrick. Yeah, yeah, my pre-Patrick dating history kinda sucks—I’m usually the first to fall for a loser and the last one to find out that the said loser is a real jerk. But Liam, I saw him coming. That crooked smile, dark hair, and those piercing eyes weren’t going to reel me in. My date-a-lost-cause days are over. Probably.

The detective cleared her throat. “Tough question? I asked why your friend isn’t ‘in the habit of dating.’”

I felt my shoulders tighten in response to her sarcastic tone and the annoying air quotes, so it took extra effort to answer calmly, “The pool of decent guys out there is pretty shallow.”

“What can you tell me about…” She paused, flipping through her memo pad. “Fantasy Dates?”

“It’s an introduction service.”

“Is that a euphemism for escort service?”

“Do Jane and I look like hookers to you?”

Slowly, Detective Steadman glanced down at my attire. I felt my cheeks burn, partly from embarrassment but mainly from annoyance. “You’re the one who dragged me out of my home in my pj’s.”

“You were being…
uncooperative
.”

“Handcuffs bring out my temper.” I finished my coffee and held out the empty cup in a silent request for more. It was summarily ignored. Since she had me by the thong, I figured the sooner I answered Steadman’s questions, the sooner I could leave. “Fantasy Dates is an exclusive introduction service. Apparently clients fill out applications, go through rigorous background checks, including financials, pay a membership fee, and then they’re paired up with other eligible singles of means.”

“What’s the membership fee?”

“Five thousand.”

“Dollars?” she asked, one badly-in-need-of-waxing eyebrow arched.

No, rupees
. “Yes. I told you it was exclusive.”

“Miss Spencer is an accountant?”

“And an investment broker,” I added, sounding ridiculously defensive despite my best efforts to play nice.

“How did she swing the membership fee?”

“Olivia Garrett is a mutual friend of ours. She owns Concierge Plus. Liv plans parties and events. Fantasy Dates is one of her clients.”

“What does she do for them?”

“When you fill out the application to join Fantasy Dates, you list your interests, favorite vacation spot, favorite wines, favorite restaurants, plays, that sort of thing.”

“And Olivia Garrett does what, exactly?”

“She looks at the people’s lists and then makes all the arrangements. You should probably ask her, but last week she told me one of the couples had both listed French cooking classes as an interest. Money was no object, so Liv booked them into the Ritz Escoffier Cooking School in Paris for a week.”

“That sounds pricey.”

I shrugged. “I’m sure it was. But that’s the point. These people are accustomed to luxury and they can afford it.”

“And Miss Spencer can afford it?”

I shook my head. “Liv asked the owners to comp Jane and Rebecca Jameson memberships.”

“Miss Spencer’s attorney is also a member of this service?”

“No. Becky declined. And last night was Jane’s first date.”

“So she was looking for a rich man?”

“No, she’s holding out for a poor, smelly homeless guy with no ambition and a big heart.”

Steadman almost smiled. Almost. “Did Miss Spencer tell you anything about her evening with the victim?”

The woman was getting on my nerves. “Jane, my friend, was bloody and babbling and scared.”

“So what did she say?”

“That she and Paolo went to a charity thing, had some champagne, went back to her place, possibly had sex, then she fell asleep.” When I saw Steadman’s expression perk up, I realized I probably should have left the sex part out.

“Possibly had sex?” She gave an indelicate snort. “Did she tell you how someone can ‘possibly’ have sex?”

“Dom.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dom Perignon. Apparently they had a little too much to drink in the limo.”

“Does Miss Spencer often drink too much and have blackouts?”

Uneasiness settled in the pit of my stomach. “I didn’t say that she had a blackout. I just said that she and her date had a little more to drink than she’s accustomed to and they weren’t driving, so unless there’s a new law against dating while intoxicated—FYI, if there is, you’re going to need a much bigger police force—neither Jane nor her date did anything wrong.”

“If that were true, Mr. Martinez would still be breathing, now, wouldn’t he?”

L
iv was waiting for me outside the police station. “What are you doing here?” I squinted against the harsh sunlight as I looked beyond her. “Where are Becky and Jane?”

“Hold that question,” Liv said pointedly. The area was full of people to-ing and fro-ing. And staring. We made quite a pair. She started walking and I fell into step as she shifted several pieces of crisp paper from one hand to the other, then moved her fabulous tortoise Coach sunglasses from securing her pale brown hair down to shield her stunning violet eyes. Not tacky contact-lens violet—my original assumption—but genetically perfect, exotic violet. Liv is probably one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. The kind you want to hate on sight, but truth be told, she’s so nice you just can’t help but like her.

It was a struggle for me to keep up with her long strides. Liv is five-seven to my five-three; plus, she’s got on killer Anne Klein sandals, adding three and a half inches to her statuesque frame. Her casual couture sundress and spanking new Coach signature soft duffel made me feel even more self-conscious as my flip-flops slapped and echoed along the stone walkway.

I quelled the urge to smack the two lowlifes giving me the once-over as they shuffled past. As if I didn’t know I was out in public in my robe probably looking a lot like something a dog chewed on and spit out.

“Becky called.” With her thumb, Liv clicked the silver keypad to open the doors of her champagne-colored Mercedes. “She needs you to notarize this.”

She passed the pages to me as she rounded the back of the Mercedes.

I flipped through the papers as I slid into the passenger seat. The tan leather burned the back of my thighs and the air inside the car was hot and thick. I left my door open until Liv got in and turned on the engine. I suffered the blast of superheated air knowing cool was coming. “Why do you need a financial power of attorney?”

“They’re charging Jane with voluntary manslaughter,” Liv said in a frustrated rush, adjusting her air vent. “Can you believe it? Our Jane?” She glanced my way. “What’s the difference between manslaughter and murder?”

I blinked and opened the glove compartment, hunting around until I found the extra pair of sunglasses I knew Liv always kept on hand. She was more than just a fashionable business owner.

“Intent and/or premeditation,” I answered. “And no, I can’t believe it. Jane couldn’t have killed Paolo. Not even in the heat of passion, no pun intended. The charge doesn’t make sense, unless they’re planning on upping it to murder after they gather all the evidence.”

“Oh, speaking of evidence, they’re also charging her with littering.”

“Excuse me?” I said, turning to look at Liv’s profile as she started the car. Another blast of hot air whooshed out of the vents, then immediately began to cool the interior.

“Littering,” Liv repeated, jamming the car into gear. “Someone in the state attorney’s office decided they’d include that because they still haven’t found the penis.”

Placing the pages on my lap, I pressed my fingers into my temples. Insufficient caffeine and knowing my dear friend was under arrest were making my head throb. “So why the power of attorney for Jane’s assets?”

“She needs a good criminal lawyer and Becky said bail might be as high as a hundred thousand dollars.”

I felt my stomach plummet. “Jane has that kind of money?” The mental image of my friend in some dank, nasty holding cell gave me a shiver. She must be scared out of her mind. Anyone with half a brain would be under the circumstances. She was my friend, I loved her, and knew she wasn’t guilty of anything other than poor judgment in taking a strange man home with her. I fumbled with the seat belt. Jane wouldn’t hurt a fly. Especially one with a zipper.

“Not enough, but she’s got some savings and a credit line. When the bank opens in the morning, I’m going to get her cash and pull every penny possible out of Concierge Plus.” Liv leaned over and cranked up the air as she glanced over her shoulder, then pulled out in the inch or so of space left between the two beaten and mangled pickups parallel parked in front and in back of her. Damn, she was good.

“Can you do that?” I asked over the sound of the pickup honking behind us, as if Liv would care that she’d cut the guy off. In Palm Beach, she who has the best car wins. “I mean, not Jane’s money, the POA covers that. But Concierge Plus? You’ve got a partner and I’m sure Jean-Claude won’t let you bleed all the operating capital.”

Liv shot me a quick look. “Forget him. I’ll deal with Jean-Claude. Becky gave me a list of lawyers’ names and said either you or one of the bigwigs at Dane-Lieberman should contact them. It’s the last page.”

Like I had the clout to get any of the senior partners to do my bidding on a Sunday afternoon. I hurriedly checked the attorneys listed and whistled. “These are heavy hitters.” I flicked my fingernail at one name. “This guy gets fifty grand up front. Why can’t Becky represent Jane?”

“I asked the same thing. She said she’s a contacts attorney and unless Jane and Paolo agreed, in writing, that he’d be breathing and have all his body parts at the end of the date, she doesn’t feel qualified to do it.”

Valid argument. If you’re having a heart attack, you don’t go to a pediatrician.

Liv’s cell phone gave a muted chime from inside her purse. I started to reach into the back footwell to retrieve her bag when she yelled, “Don’t!”

“Why?”

“Go ahead and check the ID. Unless it’s Becky, let it go to voice mail. I’ve already blown off calls from nervous clients. Not to mention two from Shaylyn and Zack.” I glanced at the blue LED as the phone vibrated against my palm. I recognized the 561 local area code and read out the telephone number.

Liv muttered a curse. “Ignore them.”

“Them?”

“Shaylyn Kidwell and Zack Davis.”

“Who are?”

“The owners of Fantasy Dates. I’m guessing they need to fire me before they sue me.”

“They can’t sue you,” I said, trying—and failing—to sound positive. “Okay, anyone can sue anyone, but suing and winning are two different things. Besides,
you
should sue
them.
They’re the ones who hooked Jane up with a guy who had a serious enemy. Serious enough to slice off his genitals.”

Liv shook her head as she shivered. “And took the penis. What kind of nut job—sorry, poor word choice—would do that?”

“Someone either seriously disturbed in general, or someone who had a real issue with Paolo.”

Liv stopped at the traffic light a block from my apartment complex. “Great. Nothing like knowing there’s a deranged, penis-lobbing psycho roaming the streets with Paolo’s privates in his pocket.”

The light changed and we drove forward. A remnant of torn yellow crime scene tape dangled from one of the trees at the entrance to the parking lot. It was a grim reminder of the morning’s events, but at least it provided a momentary distraction from the scenario Liv had described.

She pulled into a spot two cars down from my leased BMW but left the engine idling. “So, you’ll notarize that stuff and find an attorney? Becky said the arraignment would be sometime tomorrow morning and that we all needed to be there.”

“Tomorrow?” I cried, slumping deeper against the seat. “Crap, I forgot. Judges don’t sit on Sundays. No judge, no bail hearing.”

“Poor Jane,” Liv sighed heavily.

“We can’t think about that now. We’ll keep busy getting everything squared away.” A very, very selfish thought ran through my mind. I was out of vacation days, so I’d have to find a creative way of getting out of work tomorrow. Screw it. I’d think of something. “My notary seal is at the office. I’ve got to shower first. And I’ll find a lawyer, but usually they want something that resembles a retainer before they set foot inside the courthouse.”

“I’m assuming you’re tapped out?”

The best I could muster was a guilt-ridden shrug. “Personally? Yes. Flat broke, sorry.”

“Can you ask Patrick to front you some cash?” Liv asked. “Unless you’ve already started easing into the breakup.”

I ripped the borrowed sunglasses off my face as my eyes narrowed in her direction. “Excuse me?”

“Becky
might
have made reference to the possibility that you were considering making a, er, change.”

I felt a flash of anger and betrayal. “Obviously Becky missed the part of that conversation where I specifically asked her not to say anything to the rest of you.”

“Minor slip,” Liv insisted, flicking her hand so the collection of chunky bracelets on her wrist jingled. “Last week at lunch I brought up the Gagliano Labor Day party I’m doing. It will be one of the hottest parties of the summer, so I mentioned I might be able to swing invitations for all of us, including Patrick. All Becky said was I should check with you before I had anything engraved with his name on it.”

“Nice,” I groaned.

“So?” Liv asked, shifting in her seat as she pushed her glasses on top of her head. “Are you?”

“Probably not.” I felt a rush of fear. What was I thinking? Patrick was perfect. So what if the sex was getting routine and boring? “No,” I said more forcefully, not sure which one of us I was trying to convince.

I could tell by Liv’s expression that she wasn’t buying any of it. Since the best defense is a strong offense, I smiled sweetly and asked, “Speaking of boyfriends, how is Garage Boy?”

My friend let out a haughty little scoff. “He serves his purpose, thank you very much. Unlike perpetually traveling Patrick, he’s always available.”

I reached for the door handle. “Of course he is, he doesn’t have a job and he still lives with his parents.”

“His apartment has a separate entrance.”

“Right. Put
that
in the win column.”

I started out of the car when Liv grabbed my forearm.

“This will all work out, right? Jane can’t be tried and convicted, can she?”

I turned back and we hugged. I didn’t have an answer, at least not one I could offer with any degree of certainty.

“I’m going over to Jane’s to get bank statements and Becky told me to put together some clothes for the arraignment. She’s going to stay with Jane for as long as possible.”

That was good. That meant Jane would be in the counsel room instead of dumped into the general population at the county jail. Of course, I also knew that they wouldn’t let Becky spend the night, so at some point Jane was going to be on her own.

I knew a thing or two about county lockup. During the Hall case, a part of my investigation resulted in a B&E charge. I’d spent four very creepy hours in a holding cell until Becky came to my rescue. Well, not just Becky. Liam had played a part as well. He’d not only gotten the garage owner and his friends on the police force to drop the charges, he’d also retrieved my impounded car. And ragged me. For some unknown reason, I still had the Monopoly Get out of Jail Free card he’d given me tucked into my wallet. I don’t know why I hang on to it, especially since he’d scrawled a mocking note on the back. I didn’t want to dwell too deeply on my motives. Liam was not an option. But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he was hot.

The sound of Liv’s voice yanked me back to reality. “I’ll call you in a couple of hours for a progress report, okay? Unless you find a lawyer before then. If so, we’ll talk sooner.”

I nodded. “I’m on it.”

The first thing I noticed when I stepped from the car was the querying eyes peering out from several of the neighboring condos. The second thing was the layer of grimy black fingerprint dust on my doorknob. Great. I’d probably be cited by the condo association for failure to maintain the exterior of my unit. Or worse, they could ask me to vacate. Stretching on tiptoes to reach up behind the light fixture above the door, I retrieved the emergency key I kept taped to the back. Turned out to be a wasted effort. The door wasn’t locked. I added that to my growing list of things to be pissed about.

My mood didn’t improve much when I opened the door only to be greeted by the smudged, bloody outlines of Jane’s footprints. Footprint, I mentally corrected. As if it mattered. In my mind’s eye, I could see the crime scene techs photographing the stains, their L-shaped rulers marking the size and context of the evidence.

I shivered as the reality continued to set in. My apartment was a crime scene. But I didn’t have the time to dwell on it. I needed to shower and dress so I could get to the office to notarize the POA and try to find a criminal attorney for Jane. I said a silent prayer that none of the Dane-Lieberman employees—specifically one of the partners—would be in the office. It was rare, but not unheard of, for one of them to drop in on a Sunday.

Apparently the blood evidence wasn’t the only focus of the crime scene people. The pashmina I’d draped around Jane was gone. And I could tell my things had been moved. The picture of Patrick and me on vacation in the Bahamas last year wasn’t in its usual place on top of my entertainment center.

As I put it back where it belonged, I fleetingly recalled the trip. Even though we’d gone on lots of weekend getaways, I’d kinda thought that particular Bahamas trip might lead to a proposal. That was thirteen months ago and I guess I might have said yes before he’d even finished asking the question. Now I wasn’t so sure. Which made no sense.

I decided my vacillation was a result of the unpleasant combination of insufficient caffeine and lack of sleep. I couldn’t do anything about the sleep deprivation or my possible Patrick issues, so I started a pot of Kenyan coffee. Instantly, my apartment filled with the tantalizing aroma as the dark, rich coffee dripped into the carafe of my brand-new DeLonghi coffeemaker. Okay, so “my” was a stretch. Technically, about ninety percent of it belonged to Visa, but I was making the minimum monthly payments. It, and the DVR, were anticipation-of-my-Christmas-bonus purchases. Now I felt more than a little guilty for maxing out my credit cards.

I’d feel like a better friend if I could contribute financially to freeing Jane. I wished I had more than eleven dollars and sixteen cents in my pitiful savings account. Hell, even selling everything I owned, I in all likelihood couldn’t help with the retainer a criminal attorney would demand. Mainly because I owned very little. I’m in debt up to my hairline. My car is leased, my condo is rented, and I basically live paycheck to paycheck.