Paid in Full (18 page)

Ari smiled at her godfather. “Sol, may I speak with you alone?”

The chief nodded and the three other detectives quickly filed out, Ruskin no longer interested since he was outranked. He murmured something to Andre and left. Molly craved a drink and seriously considered disappearing to the corner tavern. She had no idea what Ari was saying to the chief, but he would most likely chew her out for improper procedure.

She’d made a terrible mistake bringing Ari in for questioning. Standing in the apartment, her emotions on overdrive, the words had poured out of her mouth without any logic or thought. She had not been acting as a police officer but as a wounded lover, practically arresting Ari to get even, knowing she would be uncomfortable downtown and that Ruskin would try to make her life miserable, even threaten her. Watching the scenario unfold had been a different story. All of the cops downstairs staring at her like a circus attraction made Molly sick, and then Ruskin threatening Ari with a lockup had sent Molly’s gut into spasms.

“Would now be a good time to discuss my follow-up progress?” Andre asked mildly.

“Sure,” Molly said, her eyes riveted to the office door.

Andre opened his notes and read. “I still haven’t been able to talk to Kristen Duke’s roommate, the one who was home when Duke got off work that night.” Molly nodded and Andre continued. “She’s getting back from San Diego late tomorrow, and I’ll talk with her ASAP. I spoke with some more theatre employees and one of them remembers seeing Deborah Thorndike at the end of the movie. Seems she dropped some of her trash onto the floor as she left and the kid who had to clean the theater remembered her simply because he thought she was a bitch.”

“Figures,” Molly murmured. That sounded like the widow. “I’d say she’s probably off the hook.” Molly emphasized the probably, never liking to totally eliminate anyone too soon.

“Now here’s something interesting. I talked to a few of Lily Watson’s table companions at that charity dinner. One of them swears she left the table after dessert and didn’t return at all. That would have been around seven thirty. Now she could have been mingling or dancing, or something—”

“Or she could have left and killed Thorndike,” Molly interjected.

“Exactly. I’ll keep working on that angle. It’s possible she moved to another table just to talk to a friend, or that the witness is wrong, since there was an open bar and everyone was drinking.” Molly rubbed her temples, envisioning a spider’s web, all of the intricate connections and Michael Thorndike at the center. “As for Russ Swanson,” Andre continued, “he hasn’t been back to his apartment, but there are officers there and at his workplace, so I’m sure we’ll pick him up.”

“I’ll bet you he doesn’t know where Watson is now,” Molly said. She wondered what Ari and the chief could possibly be discussing for so long.

“Well, his alibi checks out,” Andre said. “The judge confirms they were together at the Hilton. Of course this was after he denied the whole thing for half an hour and nearly wet his pants.” Molly cracked a smile at the judge’s discomfort. “There’s something off about Swanson, though,” Andre added thoughtfully.

Molly turned her head and looked her partner in the eye, suddenly interested. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been looking over Speedy Copy’s books, and the pieces don’t fit. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ll keep looking.” Molly knew Andre had minored in finance during college and knew a lot about business. She was happy to let him wade through the bank statements and financial reports, which reminded her that she needed to talk with Cyril Lemond, another person who still had no alibi.

The office door swung open and Sol led Ari toward the elevator. Ari glanced at Molly but her expression was unreadable. Ari didn’t seem to be anything—not angry, not upset, just calm. Sol gave her a big hug and held her like a protective father would. Molly found herself aching for Ari, longing to put her own arms around the slight body. Ari had reached for her in the apartment, but she’d been too proud and angry.

The elevator doors closed and Sol motioned to Molly. “In your office, Detective.” Molly took a deep breath, preparing herself for the worst—being thrown off the investigation. She sat in her chair before her knees gave out. The chief stood over her, his arms folded across his chest. Molly knew this wouldn’t be good. “As your superior, I’m telling you to rip up any report you started on this little farce, and if you haven’t written one, don’t start. That young woman is my goddaughter and I doubt she’s guilty of anything greater than not telling us where Bob Watson u
sed
to be.”

“But that’s a crime,” Molly argued.

Sol Gardner made a dismissive gesture. “And in my opinion, forgivable. Do we understand each other?” That was Gardner’s way of ending a conversation. He hiked up his pants and leaned over the desk. “Now, as your friend who has slugged down a few beers with you, let me say this: I know Ari. I know a lot
more
about Ari than you do. You’re going to need to trust me.” He gave her an understanding look before turning to leave. “And I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said, his hand on the knob, but the door still closed. “I know Bob Watson, and between you and me and the walls, I’m with Ari. I don’t think Bob Watson killed Michael Thorndike. You’d be wise to look a little closer at the suspects who haven’t flown the coop.”

Molly took a breath, the air space increasing with the chief’s departure. She sat very still, Gardner’s words hitting home, his gut feeling that Watson was innocent.
Her
gut was telling her to finish the bottle of Maalox, which she did in one swig.

Two hours later she slumped back down in her chair and winced. Her ass still hurt from sitting on the poorly padded government issue piece of crap. She looked around. Only her desk light was on, casting shadows into the corners of the small office. When she was here at night, which was often, she’d leave the door open just a crack and do her paperwork in the near dark. She liked sitting in the silence and staring out her window at the city below.

She’d look out into the lights and think about the thousands of people settled into their cozy houses, winding down for the evening. Then she’d think about the violent scum who preyed upon them. Of course, daytime crime stats were almost as bad, but for some reason, it bothered her more to think about the victims of the night.

She didn’t want to go home. Although most of the detectives had left and the third floor was quiet, she felt more alone at her apartment, disconnected. The eight hundred square feet she’d inhabited since moving back to Phoenix had merely been an expensive storage unit. The only thing she owned that she loved was the piano. If she went home tonight and found everything gone, she wouldn’t care as long as the piano was unharmed.

Depression was a stalker that hounded her relentlessly, kept her on her guard and at times terrified her—like right now. She debated whether or not to call Brian, but the idea slipped away immediately. She knew where she wanted to go.

Vicky the bartender had a whiskey in front of her before she’d planted herself on the stool. Hideaway was just kicking into gear for a Thursday night. She finished the first one and didn’t even realize she’d drunk it. With a quick flick of a finger, Vicky poured another shot. Molly was a good tipper and a regular. She got service before most, even if the bar was three deep.

Pity came easy. Why had she ever thought she could have someone like Ari? Or anyone for that matter? She was just too volatile, unable to control her emotions, too unpredictable. Long-term relationships were not for everyone. Some people’s personalities demanded that they stay alone, solitary. That was her situation, and after her third shot, she was absolutely convinced that she would die alone.

Loneliness was the emotion she avoided at all cost, sacrificing her common sense and decency at times to escape the feeling. If she really faced the truth, it was what she feared most. Sleeping with strangers provided short-term relief and numbed the pain. She’d convinced herself it was what got her through some hard times.

Her failed relationships were a reaction to loneliness. She’d settled for people who waved red flags in her face that she chose to ignore. Rationalization triumphed. Why wait for someone who might not exist, or if she did, might never cross her path? Take what you can get was her attitude, and Molly had—four times. Four long-term relationships that never should have occurred.

Lost deep in her thoughts, Molly didn’t notice the familiar redhead sidle up next to her. Only when the woman’s hand massaged her thigh did she look at her. Too much makeup covered her face, but she had a nice mouth. If Molly had one more whiskey, it wouldn’t matter.

The redhead increased the pressure of her stroke, and Molly motioned to Vicki.

“Last one,” the bartender ordered.

“So you’ll be ready to leave after this drink?” the stranger whispered in her ear, her breath smelling of rum and cigarettes. She licked Molly’s earlobe tenderly. This was someone who wanted her, who could make the fear disappear or at least force it into the shadows of Molly’s heart for awhile, and after today, she was more afraid than ever.

She threw back the whiskey and smacked the glass on the bar. “I’m ready to go now,” she announced. Yet, she hesitated. Ari’s figure boarding the elevator flashed in her mind. It was gone in a second and only the redhead remained. She buried her tongue deep between the glossy lips, fortifying her resolve.

From across the room, Jane watched Molly and the woman exit the bar.

Chapter Eighteen

Friday, June 22

5:00 a.m.

The blue numbers on the oven’s time display flipped to five o’clock, the flicker drawing Molly’s attention away from the wall momentarily. The kitchen strained to receive the morning light peeking in from the window, confirming that it was indeed barely dawn. She reclined on the breakfast bar, her legs propped up on the opposite bench. Her back was beginning to ache, but she wanted to feel miserable. She deserved it.

What brought Molly to the crime scene before sunrise was sound advice from her first mentor who believed it was wise to go back to the beginning whenever you felt you were losing your bearings. Molly certainly felt lost, a kite whose string had detached, floating further away from the truth in a direction she couldn’t control. Propping her head up with her fists, she closed her eyes and reviewed each piece of evidence and each suspect, her mind turning through the information like cards in a Rolodex. Molly had an amazing memory, one that allowed her to store tiny details in addition to major facts. She sorted it all out as if doing a jigsaw puzzle, connecting like with like and finding a border or frame with which to guide the investigation.

Bob Watson was a critical piece, of this she was sure, but his role was unclear. She shared Sol Gardner’s belief that Captain Ruskin was hanging too much on a suspect who kept proving at every turn that he might be innocent, including the test results which confirmed that the gun Andre had taken from Bob’s desk had not been fired any time recently.

She wandered into the living room and hovered over the spot where Michael Thorndike was killed. She thought Ari was right about the handwriting. The killer had used Michael Thorndike’s hand to write
Robert
on the wall. So then why move him? It was a key question, one she wished she could discuss with Ari.

She gazed out the front window, Ari’s red and blue real estate sign barely visible in the soft daylight. Part of the reason she’d come here was to feel close to Ari and get as far away from the previous night as possible. The redhead had been too hung over to notice Molly slipping out of her apartment at three in the morning, Molly herself barely able to operate the truck and bee- line out of the rundown duplex that sat only a block away from Hideaway. She couldn’t bring herself to face the woman in daylight, knowing her shame and guilt would be a headline on her forehead. At the same time, she couldn’t go home, the loneliness now worse than ever. She had hoped the sex would fill the void in her heart, but it only burned it deeper, and when nightfall came again, she knew she would either be sleeping in her office or at her brother’s apartment.

She played the case in her mind for the next two hours as she roamed through the house, periodically stopping and staring into closets, looking out the windows, or sitting on the patio. At seven o’ clock a dog walker meandered down the street followed by a schnauzer who just couldn’t keep up with its owner’s fast stride. They both stopped in front of the house, the dog sniffing the grass border intently, and Molly wondered if the dog could smell the scent of death. The longer the dog sniffed, the more agitated the walker became, trying to coax him along with gentle tugs on the leash. Clad in running clothes, a baseball cap covered his face, and it was only when he looked toward the house that Molly realized it was Cyril Lemond. He looked right at her, and his face paled in recognition. As she came outside to greet him, the schnauzer yipped and growled, his canine senses understanding that his master and the woman approaching were adversaries.

“That’s enough, Buddy,” Lemond ordered. The schnauzer immediately ceased barking and turned his attention back to an interesting spot on the grass. When Lemond was sure the dog was occupied, he smiled at Molly, the color returning to his face. “Detective Nelson, this is certainly a surprise. I must say I’m impressed that Phoenix’s finest seem to be working around the clock to solve Michael’s murder.” He greeted Molly with a firm handshake, and Molly recoiled slightly at the realization that his hands were softer than her own. “Can I assume that our meeting out here on the street really isn’t that coincidental?”

“No, it’s not. But I thank you for saving me the extra block,” she said, her eyes glancing down the ten houses to Lemond’s bungalow. “You certainly live close,” Molly added.

His eyes glimmered at her subtle insinuation. “Yes, I was the Watsons’ neighbor for three years before they moved. It’s a shame something like this happened in this area. The property values will probably plummet now. Probably even more so if it was discovered a murderer lived on the street,” he added.