Bargain Hunting (13 page)

Liam glanced at the paper, then handed it to Tony.

Tony then said, “He just told you he handled the gun in question. Finding his fingerprints on the weapon doesn’t mean anything.”

“But we found only two sets of prints on the gun. McGarrity’s and Lopez’s,” Metcalf countered. “If there was a mystery shooter, why weren’t there three sets of prints on the gun?”

“Maybe the shooter wore gloves?” Liam suggested.

“Then we’d probably find smudges,” Metcalf claimed. “In this case, we have partials matching Deputy Lopez and a pristine set from McGarrity.”

“Again,” Tony interjected, “Mr. McGarrity admitted he touched the gun.”

“Then explain this,” Metcalf said as he took another sheet of paper from his file. “Deputy Lopez was killed with your gun. How do you explain that?”

“I haven’t seen that gun in five years. I have no idea how or why it ended up at José’s place.”

“According to this,” Metcalf said, pausing and taking yet another sheet of paper from the file, “Deputy Lopez returned the gun to you a week ago.”

“Impossible,” Liam said. “Like I said, José and I hadn’t spoken or seen each other in years.”

“So you’re claiming to know nothing about how the gun got from the property room to Deputy Lopez’s house with your prints still on it?”

“I handled the barrel,” Liam said, agitation in his voice. “Other than that I never touched the gun.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Tony asked.

“As you can see, McGarrity’s prints are on the butt and we lifted a ten-point partial match off the trigger. That sort of positioning shows he handled the gun with his left index finger on the trigger. So, is your client going to stick to his story that he never touched the trigger?”

Tony shoved the ballistics report back at Metcalf. “We both know you can’t time-stamp fingerprints. They very easily could have been left there years ago when the gun was in my client’s possession.”

“Not possible,” Metcalf said. “The gun was tested for prints five years ago and it was clean. The officers on-site that night said McGarrity was wearing gloves.”

“That was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now. I believe Sergeant Cain testified to that fact at the grand jury.”

I wondered if Liam knew that Cain was now deceased.

“Are you saying you never wore gloves?”

“No, I often wore gloves. Department issue. They have special grips on them to make holding a weapon more stable.”

“And the added bonus of leaving behind no prints.”

“What’s your point?” Tony asked.

“My point is, the gun was registered to your client. According to official reports, the gun was returned to your client by Lopez a week ago. Now suddenly that same gun is used to kill the deputy. Your client had the means, the motive, and the opportunity.”

“You’re forgetting about the gunshot,” Tony argued. “Are you claiming that Liam shot Lopez, then turned the gun on himself?”

Metcalf shrugged. “It’s a nothing wound. As a former officer he would know exactly where to shoot to avoid a major injury. Or he was shot by Lopez. Maybe there was a struggle for the gun.”

“Does the autopsy report indicate Deputy Lopez was involved in a struggle before the shooting?” Tony asked.

“Report’s not complete yet,” the previously silent Wells conceded. “That’s why it’s better for your client to come clean now before any more evidence piles up against him. Assistant State’s Attorney Garza is on his way down to take his statement. Maybe some sort of plea is appropriate. Maybe there was a struggle and the shots were fired by accident. Maybe your client got shot by accident. Maybe the bullet from Lopez’s head nicked McGarrity in the side.”

“So what are you saying?” Liam asked. “I shot him in the head, then ran around the chair in enough time to let the bullet go through me? That’s an idiot theory.”

Metcalf’s neck began to turn red. I knew from experience that this was not a good sign. “Then Lopez shot you, you struggled for the gun after you got shot, then returned the favor.”

“The bullet that hit me was a through-and-through. It has to be lodged somewhere at the scene.”

“We only recovered one slug,” Wells said. “The shot that killed Lopez was a through-and-through, too.”

Liam raked his hands through his hair. I now recognized that as his tell. I don’t think it was nerves, more like his pissed-off-o-meter. “So we’re back to me moving faster than a bullet?”

“Possibly. Excuse us for a minute,” Wells said, turning off the tape, then scraping the chair legs against the floor as he stood.

Wells and Metcalf left the room.

Liam instantly got to his feet. “I’m done with this crap,” he told Tony. “Let’s go.”

I’d started to put my pad and tape recorder in my briefcase when the door opened. This time the detectives had a third person with them. I recognized him from television and the papers. ASA Alberto Garza was a career prosecutor with an impressive conviction rate. He was tall, maybe an inch or so shorter than Liam, with a shock of black hair and eyes so dark you couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupils began. I put him somewhere in his early fifties. I could tell by the way his suit fit that he worked out regularly, and his dark complexion was even darker due to sun exposure. This guy was definitely fit. And I sensed an inkling of something—maybe skepticism—etched in the deep lines on either side of his eyes. He smiled and it seemed genuine.

He looked past me to Liam. “McGarrity,” he said. Then he moved around me and extended his hand to Tony. “Counselor.”

“Been listening in?” Tony asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

Garza took a deep breath, pushing his chest out, then releasing the air slowly. “Detective Wells?”

“Put your hands behind your back,” Wells said to Liam.

“What the f—?”

“Liam McGarrity, you’re being charged with suspicion of murder in the death of José Lopez.”

“This is crazy,” Liam said as he reluctantly followed the order. “I didn’t kill José.”

Panic flooded every cell in my body as I watched Wells snap on the cuffs. I wanted to leap up and scream at them that they were making a horrible mistake. But shock had me glued to my seat.

“What’s the probable cause for the arrest?” Tony asked.

Metcalf smiled broadly. “He probably did it.”

Eventually one of two things will happen—either he’ll realize you’re worth it or you’ll realize he isn’t.

“So what happens now?”
I asked Tony as we left the PBSO station. I was trying not to think about Liam behind bars.

“They’ll keep him in the infirmary because of his wound and his law enforcement background,” Tony explained. “They have forty-eight hours to arraign him, then the judge, hopefully, will set bond.”

Somehow that didn’t make me feel better. Forty-eight hours locked up is an eternity. “So what do we do for now?”

We were standing next to my leased Mercedes convertible. “Nothing.”

“We’re just going to leave him here?” I practically whined.

Tony touched my arm. “He’s tough, Finley. We just have to hope he keeps his mouth shut.”

“He will,” I assured Tony. Liam was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.

“If it will make you feel any better, you can visit him on your own time.”

“Don’t I have to be with you?” I asked.

Tony looked down at me, his dark eyes registering regret. “No. But I can tell you want to be with him.”

I felt a blush. “You’re making that sound—”

“True,” he interrupted. “Izzy was right. I should never have pushed you away.”

Well, what the hell was I supposed to say to that? It made me feel a little panicked. Liam and I weren’t a
thing,
so I was a tad sorry to hear Tony throw in the towel so easily.

Was I really one of those women who needed a man in the wings just in case? A second-stringer if things didn’t work out with man number one? Apparently so. Worse yet, it was something my mother would do. She never left a marriage without an exit strategy. I guess there comes a time in every woman’s life when she has to admit that part of her is her mother. Only I wasn’t going to do it willingly. No, they’d have to carry me kicking and screaming into Cassidyville.

“You didn’t push me away,” I said, suddenly aware of how he was keeping his distance. “You made a rational decision based on what you thought was best for your daughter.” And screwed me in the process.

Tony let out a deep breath. “I think you just scare me.”

I scoffed. “Scare you? What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said as his hand rubbed my bare arm, “you were the first intriguing woman I’d met since my wife died. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

“Dinner and a movie?” I suggested.

He slowly shook his head. “I see what’s going on with you and Liam.”

My mother saw it, Becky saw it, now Tony? How come everyone but me was seeing it? All I saw was a man I was physically and slightly emotionally attracted to spending more time with his ex-wife than me. Hardly a rousing endorsement of my ability to pick men. “Liam and I are just friends,” I insisted. Only I insisted a little too forcefully.

Tony laughed. “I’ve known Liam for more than a decade. I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you.”

“But there’s Ashley.”

Tony moved his hand off my arm and waved it dismissively. “They’ll never get back together. That’s old news.”

For old news she certainly had staying power. “Liam’s too complicated.”

“He really isn’t,” Tony said. “He has his reasons for helping Ashley.”

“Which are?”

“His to tell, not mine.” He shrugged out of his suit coat.

Tony turned to go to his car. “Wait a sec,” I said.

He turned back around and looked at me with those knee-weakening chocolate eyes.

I set my briefcase on the hood of my car and pulled out my pad of paper with the notes from my earlier phone call. “I’ve been doing a little digging.”

Tony’s expression registered instant disapproval. “This is a murder investigation, Finley. You shouldn’t be digging around anything.”

I pretended not to hear him. Instead I told him all about the facts surrounding Stan Cain’s sudden demise just a week earlier.

“Good work,” he said grudgingly. “Get the autopsy report
from the South Carolina medical examiner, and while you’re at it, get the one for Lopez, too. It should be ready by now. The detectives were stalling. There has to be something in that report they don’t want us to see.”

“On it.”

“And, Finley?”

“Yes?”

“We don’t know what or who we’re up against here so your investigating ends now. Understood?”

“Sure,” I lied. There was no way I was going to sit on my hands while Liam was in custody.

“See you back at the office.”

As soon as I hit my desk, I was in touch with the powers that be in South Carolina. In accordance with their rules, I had to send a formal, written request for the autopsy report. Thankfully South Carolina wasn’t one of the few states that kept those records confidential. I quickly typed up my request on the firm’s letterhead and had one of the interns fax it to the number provided by the clerk.

I repeated the process for Florida, only this time I grabbed my purse and went directly to the morgue. It was located in the basement of the largest trauma hospital in Palm Beach County.

It had a medicinal smell—kind of like the science labs at college. And it had a seriously creepy factor. There was a desk with a long hallway beyond it. Tile covered the floors and extended up the walls about three feet. I assumed this was for easy cleaning but I didn’t want to think about
what
was being scrubbed away. The assistant behind the desk didn’t look happy to see me at all, probably because it was fifteen minutes before closing
time. I had no sympathy. After all, I’d slept the previous night at my desk. He’d just have to put on his big-boy pants and get the job done.

Every time someone came through the double metal doors at the end of the hallway, I jumped. I had this irrational fear that they were going to bring me José’s body in person. Stupid, I know, but morgues don’t bring out the smarts in me.

As time dragged on, I got bored and sent texts to Liv, Becky, and Jane to see if they were interested in an early dinner. It had been an exhausting day and I could use some girl time. Actually, I could use anything to divert my attention from the fact that Liam had been arrested.

As expected, I got three instant affirmatives, so we opted to meet at the Food Shack in Jupiter. It was probably my favorite funky eatery in all of South Florida. It was in a strip mall, nestled between a dentist’s office and a surf shop. The food was Floribbean and never disappointed. I was almost salivating at the mere thought of a tuna-basil roll when the young man came back from the part where they keep the dead people with a file in his hand.

“Thank you,” I said pleasantly.

He grunted something unintelligible in return. As I was leaving, my cell rang. It was Ellen Lieberman.

“We’ve hit another snag in the Egghardt estate,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “What is it now?”

“The Bollans have hired Frank Mertzberger as their attorney. He wants a meeting first thing in the morning.”