Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (31 page)

“You’re welcome to stay here. I have an extra toothbrush.”

“I’ll be okay. Thanks for taking care of me this evening, though.”

“Gracious, Kali, you don’t have to thank me for that.” She walked me to the door, then hesitated. “Did you talk to Vicky?”

I nodded.

She gave me a funny smile. “I figured you would.”

We were silent a moment.

“What’s she like?” Jannine said finally. Her voice had an unfamiliar scratchiness to it. “Besides being beautiful, I mean.”

“She isn’t even beautiful. Blonde and skinny, but that’s about it.”

Jannine sighed. “That’s enough, isn’t it?” Then she hugged her arms across her chest. “Vicky couldn’t have known him as well as I did, though, or loved him as much.”

I had no doubt about the love. But when I thought of the pictures, I wondered if there was a side of Eddie Jannine hadn’t known at all.

Chapter 23

It took me a long time to fall asleep that night, and when I finally did, the quiet comfort I’d sought eluded me. I slept fitfully, like a dog hunting in his dreams. What woke me a little after two, however, was neither my aching body nor the demons I’d been chasing in my mind. It was a sound. A sound so faint, so fleeting, that once I was fully awake, I wasn’t sure I’d actually heard it.

I glanced at the clock, using its green glow as a beacon to orient myself. I lay perfectly still, barely breathing, straining to hear through the surrounding blackness.

For a long time there was nothing, then I heard it again. A soft, rhythmic crunching, like footsteps.

The sound stopped. I waited, my heart pounding in my ears. It had seemed to come from outside, by the driveway. I listened hard for other, closer sounds. I thought I heard a creak. And then nothing.

The only telephone was in the kitchen, at the front of the house. The stretch of darkness between here and there was like uncharted space. Avoid of untold peril.

But I couldn’t simply lie there, either.

I slid out of bed as if in slow motion, pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt. As I reached for my shoes, my arm knocked against the nightstand. I froze, anticipating a quickened shuffling in response.

But the house was still.

Then I heard a low hiss, coming again from somewhere outside.

Moving as quickly as I dared, I felt my way along the wall to the bedroom closet where my father kept his shotgun. I’d left it there, out of harm’s reach, when I’d learned Goodwill wouldn’t accept firearms.

I hadn’t fired a gun since my father had taken me duck hunting for my thirteenth birthday. I’d practiced all summer on old cans out back, and I hit a duck almost immediately. I strutted along behind my father when we went to retrieve it. And then vomited as I watched him ring its neck for the final kill. I haven’t eaten duck since. Nor, until that night, had I touched a gun.

I felt for the box of shells, slid one into each chamber and another two into my pocket. Not that the extras offered much beyond peace of mind. If I had to reload, it was already too late.

At the closet door I stopped to listen again. Then I carefully tiptoed into the kitchen, checking for unexpected shadows along the way. It was a warm night, and I’d left the windows cracked, but as far as I could tell, none had been opened farther. The back porch door remained locked as well.

It was small comfort, but it was something.

I was reaching for the phone when I heard a frantic scurrying outside, followed by a loud crash. Then car alarm began to shrill. And mingled in with all of it was the yelping of a very agitated dog. I went to the front door and flipped on the outside lights.

There, where I’d parked it earlier, was my lovely, new BMW — with tires slashed, a window shattered, and kindergarten-style splashes of red paint covering the doors and hood. My heart, which had been in my throat for what seemed an eternity, dropped suddenly to the pit of my stomach. Not even a thousand miles on the odometer, and the thing looked ready for the salvage yard.

What with the alarm’s wailing and Loretta’s yapping and my heart dropping, it took a moment to make out the figure sprawled on the car’s roof — George Marrero, hunched on all fours, intent on fending off Loretta with a can of spray paint.

I unlocked the door and stepped slowly out, keeping the gun raised and ready. The alarm continued to wail, and Loretta continued to yap so I had to scream to make myself heard. “I’ve got a gun here,” I shouted, “so don’t try anything funny.”

“Call him off,” George shouted back. “Call the goddamn dog off.” His face glistened, and there were dark circles of sweat under his arms.

“It’s a
her,
”1 said, “not a him.”

“Call
her
off then, for Christ’s sake.” In desperation, George flung the can at Loretta, missing her by several feet.

This, of course, only made Loretta bark more frantically. And her tail wag even harder. In spite of whatever guard dog instincts she may have possessed, she was clearly having the time of her life. It was probably the most excitement she’d seen.

George had leaned over to toss the can, and now pulled back as Loretta leapt once again against the side of the car. “Call her off, would you.” It came out as an order rather than a request.

I readied the gun, then called Loretta’s name, as much to protect what was left of the car’s finish as to appease George. In an instant, she stopped her barking and sat, but her body continued to wiggle with excitement.

“Can’t you put the gun away, too?” he asked.

“You must be joking.”

The car alarm cycled off, and I lowered my voice. But I raised the gun to eye level. I wished now I’d thought to phone the police before coming outside. I was having a hard time figuring out the logistics of keeping my eye on George and calling the cops at the same time. “Slide down off the car now, nice and slow. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“You going to hold the dog?”

“Move it,” I said, keeping my voice low and gruff.

George hesitated, his eyes wide and fixed on Loretta.

“Oh, for goodness sakes.” I grabbed her collar, and George slid off the roof. There was a sharp grating sound as the metal from his belt buckle scratched the car’s finish. I winced.

“I knew this was a stupid idea,” he said when he was once again on firm ground.

“Damn right, it’s stupid. And a whole lot more.”

“It wasn’t
my
idea in the first place.”

“Whose was it then?” George started to tuck his hands in his pockets. “Hands up,” I told him, “on top of your head.” The hands went up, begrudgingly.

“It was Carla’s idea. I told her it wouldn’t work.”

“Carla?”

“She was only trying to help me out. I mean, it’s not really her problem. Look, do I really have to keep my hands up like this? I feel ridiculous.”

“Is that so?” He wasn’t winning my sympathy. “Keep your hands where they are and start moving toward the house.”

“What are we going to do?”

‘You’re
not going to do anything.
I’m
going to call the police.”

“The police?”

“What did you expect, a sit-down meal?”

“Listen, I know you’re upset, but do you really
have
 
to call the police? I’d prefer that this whole thing didn’t get out.”

George hadn’t budged, and I was getting angrier by the minute. “Get moving.”

He started for the porch, dragging his feet like a schoolboy. I followed, one hand on the gun, the other on Loretta’s collar.

Once inside, I ordered him to sit against the far wall of the living room. There was nothing there he could grab as a weapon, and I could see him easily from the phone in the kitchen. I kept Loretta in tow, as though I were restraining her. Only a person truly terrified by dogs would have been fooled, but George apparently fit the description.

“I’ll pay for the damage,” he said, lowering himself awkwardly onto the threadbare rug. “The spray paint is water soluble, and I can have someone out to replace the tires first thing in the morning. The window was an accident. The damn dog was chasing me, so I threw a brick. Only I missed and hit the window.”

I backed into the kitchen, keeping the gun pointed at George.

“I was just trying to scare you off, is all,” George said.

“Well you’ve made your point loud and clear.” I held the gun over my forearm, freeing my hands for the phone. “But you’re a little late. I’ve pretty much figured it out. You’ve been skimming money from the business, probably have been for years. You managed to cheat Eddie’s father pretty easily, but you knew it would be hard to pull that kind of stunt with Eddie. That’s why you were so anxious to buy Susie’s interest and force him out. When she decided to sell to Eddie instead, you got desperate and killed him.”

“Killed him?” George mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Surely you don’t think—”

“You and Carla have a nice little scam going there with Foothill Cleaning. Tell me, what do you do with the money? Is it drugs?”

“You think that
I
killed Eddie?” His voice had a kind of squeak to it, like a broken record. “Are you out of your mind?”

“We’ll let the police decide that. And while we’re at it, maybe you can tell them about Cheryl, too.”

George stared at me. His face went white, and fresh beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Then he dropped his head to his hands and moaned. “I should have known. You can’t keep a thing like that quiet.”

It had been something of a stab in the dark, but it appeared I’d been right. “Those photos may not be technically obscene, but that’s irrelevant when you’re dealing with girls that age.” My disgust was apparent in the tone of my voice. “Did you ever stop to think what it would do to them?
 
What emotional scars it would leave?”

George remained hunched over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

“I think you do.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t kill Eddie. And if you think I’d do anything to harm Cheryl, you’re crazy.” He looked up. “After all, she’s my only child.”

Chapter 24

Maybe
it would be best,” I said, hanging up the phone and moving back into the living room, “if you started at the beginning.”

George stared glumly at his two thumbs.

“Is Cheryl involved in this scam you and Carla are running?”

“It’s not a scam. All I’m trying to do is help support my daughter.”

“Opening a phony business account is a funny way to go about it”

“Yeah, well I couldn’t exactly write a personal check, now could I? Not without Gloria finding out.” He moved his eyes from his thumbs to my face. “Look, can I move to the sofa or something? My back is killing me.”

I nodded, but kept the gun ready. George pushed himself off the floor and lumbered to the sofa. He sat heavily, arms crossed against his chest.

“Go on,” I said.