Bargain Hunting (12 page)

Sour-faced Margaret gave me her usual surly look as I asked for messages, then went to my office. It was a disaster area. I had law books piled up like paperbergs, mocking me because I still had four abstracts to write.

Apparently Margaret had sounded the alarm because within five minutes, Tony was standing in my doorway. Unlike Ellen and Vain Dane, he was just as comfortable coming to me as he was asking me to venture to the fourth floor. What I didn’t know was whether he was there to ream me again. I didn’t like the tension strung between us.

“Still mad at me, I see?” I said with a smile, hoping to clear the air.

“I’m still mad,” he assured me with a grin. “But I’ll get over it.”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t quite finished the Travis Johnson research. Give me about an hour and a half and I’ll send everything up.”

“That’s fine. I just need you to be available after lunch. Liam’s being released from the hospital, so we’re going back to the station to finish the interview.”

I was relieved that Liam was being discharged, but I didn’t relish the notion of going back to see Wells and Metcalf. “Okay.”

“Heard you slept here last night. Do we need to get you a sofa for your office?”

“Hopefully it won’t be a regular thing.”

“One thirty at the station.”

“Okay.”

“And bring your little tape recorder. That was a nice touch.”

“Thanks.”

I felt better after he left. His anger seemed to have dissipated for the most part, and thanks probably to Becky, he’d heard of my devoted night at my desk. I was reveling in the glow of a compliment when my intercom buzzed.

“Line two for you,” Margaret said. She could have at least told me who was calling, but no, she had to be a snot.

“Finley Tanner.”

“So you’re finally reachable.”

Reveling officially over. My mother’s tone dripped disapproval. “Good morning, Mom.”

“What if the story about your seedy date goes national?” she asked without preamble.

“Liam isn’t seedy and he was a victim in the case, not the perpetrator.”

“But they called him a person of interest on the news. What if your sister’s new family gets wind of this?”

“It’s not a problem, Mom.”

“Everything with you is a problem, Finley.”

“Sorry to be such a disappointment.”

“Did I say that?” she asked in a huff. “I’m simply pointing out that unlike your sister, you seem intent on bringing attention to yourself. Negative attention.”

“Then we have a lot in common.”

“That was uncalled for. I’m only thinking of your best interests.”

Yeah, right.
Sometimes it is better to surrender than to fight on. I tried to muster some submission. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a ton of work to do. Maybe you could call and berate me later.” Okay, so I was only partially successful.

“Obviously you don’t care about my opinion or my standing in this community. How am I supposed to explain you cavorting with criminals?”

“Liam isn’t a criminal and we aren’t cavorting.”

“I have eyes, Finley, and I’ve seen the two of you together. Why couldn’t you just stay with Patrick? He was such a gentleman.”

And a bastard.
“Mom, I’ve got another call,” I lied in tribute to my crappy ex-boyfriend.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to have brunch on Sunday.”

If this was my punishment, I was all in. “That’s a shame.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“I just told you I have another call.”

“Fine. Don’t care what’s happening in my life.” Click.

I stared at the receiver for a few seconds, then placed it on the cradle. It took me only an hour to finish the abstracts, so I decided to make my life easy and do some housekeeping on the Lawson estate. In no time my printer was spitting out letters to various financial institutions so Mrs. Lawson could have complete control over the seven million little friends she was about to inherit. I also drafted letters for the disinherited, leaving spaces for the names and addresses once they were provided by Joseph. That left me with a half hour before I had to leave for the Riviera Beach Sheriff’s Office.

I started a search on the late Stan Cain, which, thanks to all the database subscriptions at my fingertips, was a pretty easy thing to accomplish. Cain had married his college girlfriend and settled back in Palm Beach County. He had been a decorated deputy who’d achieved the rank of sergeant. The Cains had two children, just as Ashley had said.

I stopped reading for a minute and glanced at my phone. I wanted to call Liam, but I was afraid. Afraid that Ashley was with him. It would be like her to spend the night at his side, and it was in keeping with Liam’s MO to let her. For months I’d been torn between my curiosity over Tony and my lust for Liam. Only now I was fairly sure what I was feeling was more than just lust. I used to believe that if we just slept together, it would scratch that itch and I could move on to someone less complicated. But I couldn’t ignore the jealousy factor. Or the idiot factor. As always, I was attracted to the wrong man.

“And what do you really know about him?” I asked the air. Easy answer. Not much. Not enough and
really
not enough to be angsting over his relationship with his not-so-ex-wife.

Back to Stan Cain. Getting copies of his birth certificate, marriage certificate, and work history was easy. Now I’d moved on to news articles. I found a few column inches in the
Palm Beach Post
regarding the accident. It wasn’t detailed, so all I could garner was that he’d had some sort of accident. I glanced at the byline. Luckily, I knew the reporter. We’d gone out a few times several years ago. He wasn’t my type, but he was very persistent. It had taken me a month to shake his incessant calls. I weighed my options. There was a chance that by making contact I’d renew his interest. But if I didn’t contact him, I’d have to go see the widow and that seemed like the worse option. Especially since I had no authority and she’d have no reason to share her pain with me.

Justin Haller picked up the phone on the third ring.

“Um, hi, Justin, this is Finley Tanner.”

“Finley, it’s been awhile.” I could almost hear him grin.

For good reason.
“Yes it has. I called because, well, because I need some information on a piece you wrote about a week ago.”

“You follow my work?”

His “work” was mostly grunt assignments, but he thought of himself as South Florida’s version of Woodward and Bernstein. I dodged the question. “I’m working on something that is tangential to a story you did. The Stan Cain hunting accident? The deputy sheriff killed in South Carolina?”

“Yeah. What do you need to know? And what’s in it for me?”

“Something has to be in it for you?”

“Sure. Like getting Tony Caprelli to return my calls. I want an interview with Liam McGarrity. Your firm does represent him, right?”

I sighed heavily. “You know I can’t comment on clients.”

“I know you can’t comment on privileged information, but your client list isn’t confidential. Besides, my source at the sheriff’s office already confirmed that McGarrity showed up with you and Caprelli in tow. I also know McGarrity was shot. Care to comment?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t think I can help you.”

My stomach knotted. “C’mon, Justin.”

“Sorry, Finney.”

My teeth clenched. He was the only one who ever called me that and I hated it. I wasn’t big on pet names, especially from a guy I thought was a total jerk. “I’ll ask Mr. Caprelli. Good enough?”

“For now. What do you need to know?”

“What kind of accident did Stan Cain have?”

“Accidentally shot himself while he was hunting in South Carolina.”

“I read that,” I said, trying not to let my frustration bleed into my voice. “I mean, how did it happen?”

“According to the cops in South Carolina, he was climbing into a blind when his rifle discharged. Died instantly.”

“So it was definitely an accident?”

“Now you sound like the widow.”

“Because . . . ?”

I heard papers shuffling before he said, “She was adamant that something was wrong. Said her husband always hunted with a crossbow. She didn’t even know he had a gun with him.”

I was jotting down notes on a pad. “Was there any kind of investigation?”

“Just cursory. Cain was hunting alone, so there were no witnesses, and rifles, unlike handguns, don’t have to be registered. The best they could do was confirm that the rifle was shipped by the manufacturer and sold at a store in Palm Beach County. Cash transaction. The receipt was made out to Cain. Like I told the widow, I couldn’t find anything hinky about the accident.”

“Okay. Thanks, Justin. Take care.”

“Wait!” he called into the phone. “What are you doing Saturday night?”

“I, um, have a date.” Partially true, I had a date to meet Izzy and then we’d grab some dinner after shoe shopping.

“Sunday?”

“I have a standing obligation with my mother.” Again, mostly true. I usually was commanded to Sunday brunch, only not this week—but Justin the Jerk didn’t need to know that.

“Okay,” he said, a tad defeated and totally clueless. “When will you talk to Caprelli?”

“This afternoon,” I promised. And that was true. I’d ask Tony, but I already knew his answer. Tony never tried cases in the press and he was always discreet when it came to his clients.

“I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Works for me.”
Hope you don’t mind waiting a long, long time.

I wrote Stan Cain’s name down, then circled it. I also wrote “accident” with a question mark. Coincidences didn’t sit well with me, so my mind began to wade into possibilities. Were José’s murder and Cain’s accident somehow connected or was I making some sort of giant leap? That was exactly the kind of question I’d discuss with Liam, only his plate was already full with the investigation into José’s death. Maybe we could discuss it after his interview with the police. Which I was going to be late for if I didn’t get moving.

I made a travel mug of coffee to stave off hunger as I drove to Riviera Beach. I wasn’t looking forward to another round of questioning. I didn’t like seeing Liam in the hot seat. I knew all too well what that was like.

Tony and Liam were already in the lobby when I arrived, briefcase and coffee in hand. I was glad I’d brought my own roadie; cop coffee was sludge. No wonder so many cops ate antacids. I was astonished that any of them even had stomach linings left.

There were three other people in the lobby. One large woman sat wringing her hands and a middle-aged couple sat calm and collected. All three of them looked at me as I entered
and stood next to Tony at the desk. Liam looked better, but tired. Either it was a residual drug thing still in his system or he and Ashley had spent the night chatting. It had to be chatting, I told myself. The idea of the two of them getting frisky made me a little crazy.

A buzz sounded and the door marked
NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY
swung open. Wells came out and said, “This way.”

We followed, me sandwiched between Liam and Tony. I could feel Liam’s eyes on me, but I didn’t dare return the gesture since I was afraid my eyes would give away my conflicted feelings about him. Better to be silent than stupid.

We were shown into the same interrogation room, which was already set up with the appropriate number of chairs. Again, Liam and Tony sat across from the two-way mirror while I sat at the end of the table, taking out my recorder and a pad of paper. I’d just settled in, thinking how much more at ease everyone was without Metcalf in the room when the man himself came striding in. He had a folder in his hands that he slapped on the table before sitting in his seat.

Metcalf’s no-name cologne was enough to make me choke. What did he do, bathe in the stuff? Like Wells, he was wearing a different suit, this one gray with a yellow shirt and matching tie. The color gave him a jaundiced cast. Conversely, Wells was wearing khaki slacks, a blue blazer, and a striped tie. He looked more like he was going to a poor man’s polo match than conducting an interview. Wells also had a softer expression. Businesslike, but without the condemnation that dripped off Metcalf’s face.

I started my tape recorder at the same time Metcalf started the official recording. He gave the date, time, names of the people in the room, and reminded the forces that be that Liam had been read his rights and that this was a continuation of his statement in the presence of counsel. As a little dig, he added, “Also present is Mr. Caprelli’s secretary, Finley Tanner.”

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a secretary. I actually felt sorry for them, especially the ones who worked at Dane-Lieberman. They often put in long hours, kept complex calendars, and were forced to work late at the whim of their bosses. And they had no backup.

As much as I longed to correct him, I knew it wasn’t worth it.

Metcalf began. “Mr. McGarrity, is it your position that when you arrived at the home of Deputy Lopez he was already deceased?”

“Yeah.”

“Walk me through it.”

“We’ve already covered this.”

Metcalf offered a humorless smile. “Humor me.”

“I went inside, José was seated in an armchair in the family room. He’d been shot through the head. I was about to check for a pulse when I was shot by someone I can only assume was the killer.”

“Then what?”

Liam cursed. “I was unarmed, so I went out the back door.”

“You were unarmed?” Metcalf challenged.

Liam nodded.

Metcalf got sort of a Cheshire grin on his face. “Did you touch the weapon?”

“Yes, I picked it up off the floor for a few seconds. It fell out of my hand when the shooting started.”

“Why not use it to protect yourself?”

“A—the room was pretty dark, and B—I didn’t know where it fell. Plus, I didn’t see the perp. And I wasn’t about to crawl around on the floor while someone was taking potshots at me. Besides, it’s hard to exchange fire with a ghost. Leaving seemed to be the most prudent thing to do under the circumstances.”

Metcalf opened his folder and took out a single sheet of paper. “This came in this morning. Can you explain it?”