Knock 'em Dead (6 page)

“Because?”

“She’s a lawyer,” Dane answered, as if that explained all the great unknowns in the universe.

I got to my feet. “Are you telling me I can’t visit my friend? Support her through this?”

Ellen just sat there. Dane shook his head. “Becky said it was important for you to attend the arraignment tomorrow, so I’m giving you the day off.”

“Thank you.”
I think
.

“After that, I want your word that you will cooperate fully with the police and the attorneys. Other than that, I don’t want to see your name in the paper or your face on the news. Clear?”

“Crystal.” With my spine stiff, I pivoted on the ball of my Cindy Says sandals and started to leave.

“Finley?” Dane said.

“Yes?” I half turned to glance back in his direction.

“One misstep and I will fire you. No suspensions this time.”

And no compassion either. I took some of my frustration out on the elevator button, punching the Down arrow with my knuckle. It didn’t help and now my finger hurt.

I glanced down at my watch and frowned. It was a little after two and all I really wanted to do was hit the closest bar and get drunk. Not an option, since I had to call Liv, check on Jane, drive to Boca to meet
the
Jason Quinn, and then meet Patrick for dinner. Since getting drunk wasn’t feasible, I did the girlie thing and started to cry while I was still in the elevator. Not
cry
cry, more like sniff as my eyes welled with tears. Tears of anger, frustration, sleep deprivation, and an overwhelming sense of impotence.

I brushed the tears off my cheeks on my way back to my office. Margaret was gone and I knew from hearing the tail end of the conversation between Ellen and Dane as I was leaving that they were on their way out, but still, I didn’t want to walk the halls weeping like an unprofessional loser.

I had one foot in the door when I spotted Patrick placing a vase of white roses in the center of my desk. With my emotions still raw, I was definitely glad to see him. He turned and flashed me that perfect smile, and I rushed forward into the haven of his embrace. It felt good to be held.

Patrick brushed the hair off my forehead, then tenderly cupped my face in his hands. Our eyes met before he lowered his mouth to mine.

The kiss was soft and gentle. But I didn’t want soft and gentle. My day had seriously sucked and I’d earned a few minutes of wild lust.

After practically jerking Patrick around, I hopped up on my desk and pulled him into the cradle of my thighs. I expected him to get hard immediately; after all, it had been weeks since we’d last been together. When it didn’t happen immediately, I locked my arms around his neck and thrust my tongue hungrily into his mouth.

My skin warmed. Patrick didn’t. His fingers gripped my forearms but he neither pushed me away nor pulled me closer. “Fin,” he said against my mouth. “This isn’t the best place for this.”

I swallowed a groan. Once, just this once I wanted him to get off script and have some quick, spontaneous sex with me. “No one’s here,” I assured him as I made teasing circles with my fingernails up and down his back. Then I slipped my hand between us and stroked him through the fabric of his cargo shorts. The parachute-thin material and my determination made it impossible for him to do anything but respond.

Okay, so it wasn’t rip-your-clothes-off passion, but Patrick got with the program and began nuzzling my neck, nibbling and kissing his way down the side of my throat to my collarbone.

I sucked in an excited breath when his teeth tugged the straps of my tops off my shoulder. At the same time, his hand slipped up and tested the weight of my breast.

My fingers weaved into his hair, pressing him to me as heat poured into my belly, feeding my sense of urgency. A small moan gurgled in my throat when his thumb flicked across my erect nipple. With incredible one-handed dexterity, I managed to free the button at his waistband and had the pull of his zipper between my thumb and forefinger when I heard a sound.

Patrick leapt away from me before my I-need-sex-saturated brain could even process the sound. He stumbled into one of my office chairs, leaving me to face the man framed in my doorway.

Liam McGarrity was wearing jeans, a faded cotton island-print shirt, and an unapologetic grin. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your, er, thing.”

Before I got off the desk with what little dignity I had left, I straightened my clothes and waged a fruitless battle against the heated blush beginning to sear my cheeks and throat. It wasn’t until I put my feet on the floor that I realized one of my three-inch wedges had come off, leaving me no option but to hobble over to my chair like Quasimodo on his way to ring the bell.

The urge to dive under my desk was tempting but impractical. The amusement in Liam’s eyes didn’t do much to improve my mood. I fluffed my hair with my fingers in a futile effort to look less like I’d just been caught in the act. Well, the lead-up to the act.

Liam sauntered over to Patrick and extended his hand. “We met at the hospital.”

The two of them shook hands as Patrick stood. His button was still undone but his erection was history.

“Yeah, right. You’re the investigator?”

“That’s me,” Liam replied, still gripping Patrick’s hand. “How was New York?”

I was starting to feel invisible, since the two of them hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction. “Patrick flies international, not domestic.”

Liam shrugged. “Sorry. My mistake.”

“Not a problem,” Patrick said, his cheeks slightly flushed. He fished his car keys out of his pocket as he turned in my direction. “I’ve got to hit American Eagle Outfitters before they close.”

My mind went blank and it must have shown on my face.

“The hiking trip?”

“Right.” I nodded. Then my body tensed. “You can’t leave in the morning. Jane’s arraignme—”

Patrick held up his hand and offered a warm smile. “I’ve already switched my flight to six
PM
. I’ll be there for you and the girls.”

The fact that he called us “girls” rankled for about thirty seconds. The realization that he still planned to go on his vacation was just damned irritating. Especially since Liam was just standing there, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, obviously enjoying his role as a fly on my wall.

Patrick came to my desk and leaned over the roses to kiss my cheek. “Oh yeah. I almost forgot.” He reached into his back pocket and handed me a stack of bills.

“Thank you.”

“I could only get three,” he said.

“That’ll help,” I assured him. “We’ll pay you back.”

He tapped the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry about that now. We still on for dinner?”

“I’ve got a meeting in Boca at five.”

“Not a problem. Just call if you’re running late.”

It was really hard to stay mad at Patrick when he’d just handed me three thousand dollars, delivered roses, changed his flight, and happily took off any time pressure I might feel about our dinner.

Conversely, it was a piece of cake to transfer my pissed-off mood to Liam. “What are you doing here?” I demanded as he folded his large frame into one of my chairs.

“You told me to meet you here, remember?”

Oh, crap.
“It slipped my mind.”

“I guessed as much when I walked in and your boyfriend had you bent over your desk. Those must be some magic roses.”

I pulled one from the vase and breathed in the fresh, clean scent. It was better than focusing on the fact that Liam smelled of soap and masculinity. Obviously my endorphins were still pumping. Either that or a few hours sharing a bench with prostitutes had turned me into a slut.

“How’s the wife?” I asked, slapping a sarcastic smile on my face.

“Ex-wife, and she’s great. Her salon opens next week.”

“How nice for her.”

He shot me that famous, lopsided, toe-curling grin. “Don’t you like Ashley? She’s a decent person and she likes you.”

If she’s such a freaking saint, why’d you divorce her? Why are you still sleeping with her? Why do I give a flying fig?
“I hardly know her. Can we talk about Jane’s case now?”

“Your meeting.”

I got coffee for both of us, then did a thorough recap of the case. “So, I got to thinking, maybe Jane and Paolo were drugged. What if the killer slipped something in their drinks? That would explain why she doesn’t remember if they had sex or not. And why she fell asleep.
And
how the killer could slip in, kill Paolo without a struggle, then slip out unnoticed.”

“Interesting theory.”

My mood brightened. “So, will you help me?”

“No.”

My jubilee faded. “No?”

Liam shook his head, causing a lock of his jet-black hair to fall haphazardly across his tanned forehead.

“Why not?”

“I took a job from a new client an hour ago.”

“But you called me this morning. You said you’d help.”

“At a reduced fee. Sorry, sweetheart, but I got a better offer.”

“From who?”

“Ellen Lieberman.”

“Doing what? Following some insurance-defrauding plaintiff all over town?”

“Nope.”

“Doing background checks on corporate clients?”

“Nope.”

My blood pressure was soaring. “Walking her dog?”

Liam chuckled softly. It was a deep, resonant sound that seeped straight into my cells. “Nope.”

I grabbed my purse. I was tired of playing games with him and said as much. “Go be Ellen’s flunky. I don’t care what you’ve got to do. I’ve got to get to Boca.”

“So do I.”

“Because?”

“That’s my job.”

I froze. “What?”

“Lieberman hired me to keep you out of trouble.”

My eyes narrowed. “Since when does she care if I’m in trouble?”

“I didn’t get the impression she does, but Becky got to her. Lieberman insisted on a guarantee.”

“Like?”

Liam stroked the half day’s stubble on his chin. “Like you can’t investigate the murder.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Then why take the job?”

“I told you, I like challenges.”

L
ike my apartment, Liam’s car is a work in progress. And like my apartment, I didn’t see any progress. His 1964 Mustang had grayish putty along the driver’s side, and the rust spots on the hood had faded to sun-bleached blue. The
pièce de résistance
was the duct tape holding the side mirror in place.

“Go ahead, get it out of your system,” he said.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“I can tell you’re dying to say something bitchy about my car.”

Liam had an unnerving ability to read my thoughts. Scary. Frequently
I
didn’t want to be in my own mind. And I sure didn’t want Liam peeking inside when my thoughts of him were erotic, bordering on carnal.

Time to redirect my thinking. “Nothing to say. Your car speaks for itself. Besides, I’m more worried about impressing Jason Quinn.”

“No,” he countered. “You want to
hire
Quinn. Making your car a poor choice. You should consider taking mine.”

My BMW was, if I did say so myself, a thing of leased beauty. I wouldn’t trust his to get me to the grocery store. “Why?”

“Yours is all wrong for this sort of meeting. It implies that you have financial resources. Which we both know you don’t.”

My back stiffened at the accurate but unflattering summary of my money situation. “How do you know I don’t have money?”

His square-tipped fingers splayed at the center of my back as he steered me in the direction of his dilapidated excuse for transportation. The strength and heat of his touch penetrated both layers of cotton, stirring an unwelcomed warmth in my belly. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t very well blame this involuntary reaction on the lingering effects of my almost-sex with Patrick.

Liam opened the passenger door for me. It creaked loudly, then made a crunching sound as if the door might drop from the hinges at any second. “Where are you taking me?”

“To get your car.”

“It’s parked near—”

“Macy’s,” he finished as he got behind the wheel, key hovering just above the dashboard ignition. “Very frugal, and probably a first, to choose metered parking. Must have been quite a sacrifice for a valet girl like you.”

“You’re making me sound like I’m one step away from eating government peanut butter.” Not all that far from the truth, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “I’m not desperate.”

“Is that why your boyfriend slipped you cash? I’m guessing three or four Gs based on the size of the wad. Then there’s the thin bank envelope in your purse, probably a smaller donation from another friend. Your notary stamp was on your desk, so someone else—I’m thinking Jane, since she’s the one who’s indisposed at the moment—gave you power of attorney to drain her accounts before the arraignment in the morning. All adds up to the classic profile of a compulsive shopper. Maybe you should think about a twelve-step program.”

“What are you? My babysitter
and
my financial adviser? Besides, you’re wrong about Jane giving me her power of attorney.” The rest of his assessment was pretty dead-on, so I clung to the one detail that proved Liam McGarrity was fallible. “It’s illegal to notarize anything when the notary benefits from the document.”

“Whatever.”

He started the engine. Or more precisely, it took three attempts and a lot of mechanical grinding sounds before the car sputtered reluctantly to life. The roar of the engine was deafening and the pitiful excuse for air-conditioning did little more than circulate the stifling air.

When Liam rolled down his window, I did the same. Not that it made much of a difference. Sweat glued my back to the torn leather seat and I felt perspiration begin to trickle down my cleavage. I tasted exhaust soon after he’d pulled into traffic.

Liam seemed immune to the heat. At least that was my impression when I flashed a quick glance in his direction. Okay, only part of my impression. An unimportant part. My brain detoured to the danger zone as I mutely admired his profile.

He wasn’t the
GQ
polished type that normally popped up on my radar. Strike one was his clothing. His jeans were faded and fraying at the seams and the edges of a small tear just above his left knee. But the mold of the soft fabric flattered his really impressive thigh muscles. Strike two was the shirt. I’m not fond of island prints, unless it’s Tommy Bahama, which this wasn’t. But the white background and palm tree motif did complement his complexion. Well, they would have if he’d bothered to stand a little closer to his razor. Strike three should have been the scruffy, Colin Farrellesque hint of a beard, but it was too sexy to warrant a strike.

My other third strike option was his black hair. Not the color; that suited the seriously tall, dark, handsome thing he had going on. It was more about the fact that his over-the-collar hair desperately needed a trim and was completely devoid of product. What man didn’t use product these days?

Not classically handsome Liam, with his slightly crooked nose. My guess is it’s been broken. Maybe more than once.

I had to stop obsessing over him. It wasn’t healthy. And it wasn’t fair to Patrick. Though my interest in Patrick seemed to be slipping on an almost hourly basis. I blamed Liam for that. It was easier and more convenient than confronting my growing ambivalence toward a man who’d been a good, supportive, kindhearted, thoughtful, and decent boyfriend for two years.

All I really knew about Liam was that he was still boffing his ex and he used to be a cop. Deciding I had no desire to discuss his sex life, I asked, “Why’d you leave the police force?”

“It was time.”

Exasperated, I shook my head as I let out a slightly frustrated breath. “Because?”

“It was time,” he repeated as he pulled alongside my car. “Enjoy your trip to Boca.”

“You aren’t coming with me?”

He shook his head, then leaned across me to open the door. In the process his forearm brushed against my breasts and I had to press my lips shut to keep from letting out a gasp.

“Nope. The partners gave the green light for you to meet with the attorney.”

“But aren’t you getting paid to keep an eye on me?”

“Not until you start screwing up. If you take the turnpike, there’s a Starbucks in the service plaza just north of Boynton Beach.” He checked the Breitling Chronograph watch on his tanned wrist. “Gotta go. I have a thing. We’ll touch base soon.”

Liam was famous for his “things.” While I didn’t have any proof, I was fairly sure “thing” was synonymous with hooking up with his not-so-ex. The expression irritated me so much that I was tempted to slam the door on his prized Mustang. I would have too, except that my attention was diverted to the yellow parking ticket tucked under my windshield wiper.

“Later,” he called as his trash heap of a car spewed bluish smoke while he drove away.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I groused loudly as I grabbed the ticket and discovered I now owed the City of West Palm Beach fifty-three dollars because I hadn’t put enough money in the freaking meter.

Fuming in silence, I stuffed the ticket in my purse, got in my car, and headed south on I-95 to Okeechobee, then cut over to the turnpike. Because it was a toll road, traffic and construction weren’t a problem. I had a vague idea where Quinn’s office was, but just to be on the safe side, as I slowed to go through the SunPass lane at the tollbooth, I pulled my cell phone out and adeptly called up the navigation software, queried the exact street address, then selected
VOICE COMMANDS
. Hitting the
SPEAKER
feature, I laid the phone on the passenger seat, knowing it would guide me to my destination.

A new toy always boosts my spirits and this was the first time I’d used the get-me-there feature on the new phone. Well, new to me. I picked it up on eBay for a fraction of the retail price. Though it had a small scratch where the QWERTY keyboard tucked away, that was the only visible imperfection. One of the tech support guys at my office switched out the SIM card and loaded lots of fun things for me—all gratis.

Yes, I knew he’d wanted more than a polite thank-you for his troubles, but that was his delusion. I never said I’d trade sexual favors for cell phone setup.

I’d gone less than fifteen miles when I veered off into the service plaza. My stomach was growling reminders that I had yet to eat. I smiled as I headed inside the building, remembering something Jane had said a few weeks back when we’d gone to John G’s in Lake Worth for Sunday brunch and an afternoon at the beach.

“Finley,” she’d begun, her brows pinched in a frown as she watched the server place a plate of biscuits in front of me. Her plate was a large assortment of fresh fruit with a side of fat-free yogurt. “The body should be treated like a temple, not a drive-through.”

My smile faded. I was still having a hard time reconciling the fact that Jane was in serious trouble. Plus, I couldn’t get the image of her covered in blood out of my mind.

The service plaza was an odd collection of fast food joints, tourist information stations, souvenir stands, vending machines, and large, basically clean bathrooms. I hit the ladies’ room first, washed my hands, and reapplied lip gloss. My hair had seen better days, but all in all, I was presentable.

I was also running low on cash. So low that I had to settle for a Tall Coffee of the Week. Slipping the hot sleeve over the white cup, I wandered past rows and rows of local attraction brochures. The offerings from the Orlando area didn’t intrigue me nearly as much as the color tri-fold map of Sawgrass Mills Mall. Three hundred fifty name-brand outlet stores all under one alligator-shaped roof. It was a bargain hunter’s mecca, one I couldn’t indulge given the dire circumstances of my friend. Not to mention the near capacity balances on my credit cards.

Digging into the bottom of my purse, I foraged around. I had exactly two dollars and eleven cents in change. Enough for a medium-sized bag of peanut M&M’s. Protein. That was healthy. Chocolate covering, well, that was just necessary.

Once I was back in the car, I was directed onto the turnpike by the pleasant British accent belonging to the computer-generated navigational assistant. Boca is one of the hot spots in Palm Beach County. Like every place else in the state, the city was a mix of posh communities, old-style Florida homes, and compact trailer parks. Though in recent years, thanks in large part to hurricanes, many of the aluminum mansions had blown away, opening up small tracts of land to developers. The new construction didn’t include trailer parks, or anything even remotely resembling affordable housing. Every sign I passed as I weaved my way through downtown Boca advertised preconstruction prices between the mid five hundreds to in excess of a million dollars.

The rent on my thirteen-hundred-a-month apartment was a virtual bargain.

Even without the aid of the Daisy the Direction Giver, I spotted Quinn’s satellite office from two blocks away. It was all glass and shaped like a skinny pyramid. There was some sort of wash over the glass, making the building reflect the golden rays of the sun.

I found a parking spot around the corner from the office—not metered—put my cell back in my purse, and headed up to meet the great Jason Quinn.

The door was locked, so I tried the button set in a bronze faceplate just to the left of the door. Simultaneously, a buzzer sounded and I heard a click. Moving quickly, I stepped inside. If I thought the exterior of the building was impressive, it paled in comparison to the lobby. A two-story fountain centered the space, surrounded by a colorful assortment of fragrant tropical plants and flowers. I looked up, counting no fewer than eight floors, all with walkways overlooking the fountain.

Interesting abstract artwork lined the walls, adding color and brightness to what might have been a harsh, austere walk. Some of the stuff was dimensional metal, but most was oil on canvas and I’d bet my—hell, I was pretty much out of things to bet—I’d just have to settle for guessing that they were originals.

A directory hung between the elevator banks and though Quinn’s name wasn’t listed, I figured the top floor would be a safe guess. I called for the elevator, heard the din of the motor and pulleys, and then watched as the numbers ticked off in descending order.

I popped a breath mint into my mouth. I didn’t want coffee or chocolate breath and I hoped the peppermint might stave off the acid starting to accumulate in the pit of my stomach.

When the elevator doors slid open on the third floor, I started out and found Jason Quinn waiting for me. Startled, I think I let out a little yelp before slapping my brightest smile on my face.

The woody, ambery smell of Aquarama by Follio Di Aquarama filled the small compartment. It wasn’t one of my favorite men’s fragrances, but it suited the man standing in front of me. He looked like a high-priced lawyer, from the top of his lacquered, graying hair to the tips of his tasseled Santoni loafers. Quinn was doing the monochromatic thing, a stone-colored silk short-sleeved shirt and tan pleated pants. Before he even said hello, I’d deduced that he’d had some plastic surgery; eye-lift and maybe a mini face-lift. He was also sporting a spray-on tan that in my opinion was a tad too orange to pass for the real thing.

“Let’s go up to my office,” he suggested.

Though his demeanor was pleasant enough, I was not sensing a good vibe. He didn’t bother with chitchat, nor did he even remotely resemble the affable man who spent a good deal of time doing commentary and/or spin on CrimeTV. I didn’t like him. But I needed him.

Following in the vapor trail of his cologne, I was ushered into his office, er, shrine. It made Vain Dane’s digs seem subtle. The office was like twice the size of my apartment, with sweeping views of Lake Wyman and Mizner Park. Every piece of furniture was large, which made sense given that Quinn was at least six-five. According to the professionally framed photographs scattered around the room, I learned that in addition to being number one in his graduating class from Harvard Law and a Rhodes Scholar, he’d spent his undergraduate years as a star basketball forward at Duke.