Bargain Hunting (6 page)

“Of course,” I murmured as Lucky, now occupying Wanda’s lap, gave me a cycloptic glare.

“We fixed her up best we could but didn’t think she would make it. But she’s tough,” Wanda said, scratching the cat between the ear and a half. “That’s why we call her Lucky.”

I’d clearly been there too long because the explanation made perfect sense. Of course these people wouldn’t do vets. From the décor, early 1970s greens, browns, and avocados, and the antiquated appliances—who doesn’t have a microwave?—and all the other knickknacks, I guessed the Bollans had little if any substantial income.

“What happens with the proceeds from our sugarcane?” Sleepy asked. “We’ve lived here since the late sixties. Raised all them kids here. You trying to tell me some woman we’ve never met can toss us out? Just like that?”

“We’ve done everything possible to bring this to an amicable resolution.”

“Load of crap if you ask me,” Sleepy grumbled.

I reached into my briefcase, took out the letter, and passed it to Wanda Jean. I thought that was the safest way to handle it. Turned out not to matter. Sleepy snatched it away from her before she could so much as read the letterhead.

Sleepy’s face burned red. “This is bullshit!”

“Sleepy, mind yourself. This young lady is only doing her job.”

“I’m sorry it’s come to this Mr.—Sleepy. Miss Egghardt’s offer still stands. She’d be happy to set you up on the southwest corner of the property.”

“What’s it say?” Wanda asked, her face pinched with concern.

“Says we gotta be outta here in ten days.”

“That isn’t what it says,” I corrected. “It requests that you move to the assigned parcel of land within ten days or we’ll have no option but to begin the eviction process. If that happens, you’ll end up with nothing. Is that what you want?”

“ ’Course not,” Wanda Jean answered.

“Then please take Miss Egghardt up on her offer. It’s more than generous.” I stood and moved to the door, then reluctantly stepped onto the porch, fully prepared to pick up the shotgun and start picking off the herd of vicious dogs. I was spared that unpleasant task by Wanda Jean, who also had perfected the two-fingered, piercing whistle.

“We’ll think on it,” Wanda Jean said as I went to my car.

“Not a damned thing to think on,” Sleepy growled.

The dogs chased me halfway back to the main road.

A secret is often followed by a lie.

I was the last
one shown to our table at Cheesecake Factory. The place was loud and crowded with workers from in and around City Place. I wove my way through the labyrinth of tables, then slid in next to Becky in the booth.

“Bad morning?” Liv asked.

“Bad everything,” I replied with a weak smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

A waiter came by and handed me the tome they called a menu. I didn’t need it. A bad day meant only one thing—high-caloric sweet corn tamale cakes. I placed the menu down in front of me.

“So what’s the dish?” Becky asked.

Liv’s aquamarine eyes lit up and Jane leaned forward.

“Liam got shot.”

“By whom?”

“How?”

“When?”

I held up my hand. “Ashley brought him to my house at four
A.M.
,” I began, then told them the full story. Or as much of it as Liam had shared with me.

Jane shook her head, a mass of brunette hair brushing against her shoulders with each movement. “I don’t believe it. Liam wouldn’t just shoot a kid.”

“I agree,” Liv seconded. “There has to be more to the story.”

“But that doesn’t explain the dead ex-partner or getting shot five years after the kid got killed,” Becky said in her usual analytical style. “Did he give you a hint as to why he thinks the two things are related?”

“He said something about a serial number, but then he pretty much just blew me off.”

“Did you seriously use Super Glue?” Jane asked.

I nodded. “Well, not me. Beer Barbie, I mean
Ashley,
did the actual gluing.”

Liv tapped her chin with one pink-tipped fingernail. “How come he called Beer Barbie and not you? I thought after the wedding that you two were . . . ya know.”

“Apparently not,” I said on a long breath. “He must trust her more than he trusts me. Probably takes her calls, too.”

“That was kind of rude to leave your place without so much as jotting you a note.”

“Jotting?” Becky teased Jane. “What man do you know who jots?”

I reached into my purse. “I think it’s time for a Google search.”

The waiter returned for our orders, then I went right back to my smartphone hunt into Liam’s past. “The print is so damned small,” I grumbled.

Becky laughed. “Or maybe you’re getting so old you need glasses to see fine print.”

I glared at her for a second. “There’s a ton of hits. I’m going to have to do this back at the office.” I slipped my phone back into my purse.

Becky frowned. “What happened to the no-Googling-friends rule?”

“Liam and I aren’t friends,” I insisted.

“Then what are you?”

That was a good question. One that followed me back to my office, my belly full of fried carbs. My gut was telling me to go to Tony and come clean but something was stopping me. Loyalty to Liam? Fear of losing my job for getting involved—even peripherally—in Liam’s shooting? Maybe both.

I listened to my voice mail. My heart sank into my shoes when I got the message from Tony to meet with him at three o’clock. Did he know?
Shit.

That gave me an hour to research Liam and check my bid on eBay. I opted to do the latter first. It was quick and easy.

Settling into my comfy leather chair, I wiggled my mouse to bring my computer out of hibernate. I found an additional e-mail from Tony reiterating his need to see me. That didn’t bode well. Great, I was up to my eyelashes in debt. The last thing I needed was to lose my job. There was also an e-mail from Tony’s daughter, Izzy, reminding me again of our Saturday shoe-shopping date.

I poured myself some coffee, then logged into eBay. I was still the high bidder, but that didn’t mean much. The auction didn’t end for another two days. Plenty of time for someone to
swoop in and steal the coveted bezel away. I set my account for hourly updates so I could stay on top of the action.

Tony’s summons caused a knot to form in my stomach. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but my possible dismissal. Not known for my patience, I decided the best defense was a proactive offense. I carefully crafted an e-mail response:

Tony: What case, so I can prepare? Thanks, Finley

In a flash I got my answer:

New case. Murder. See you at three. Tony

That wasn’t exactly helpful, but he didn’t mention termination. Or Liam. Maybe I was just suffering from my guilty conscience. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. What were the chances of Tony getting two new homicide cases in one day?

I had two choices: I could sit and obsess for an hour or I could keep my brain occupied by researching Liam. Again, I opted for the latter. I’d be just as fired in an hour as I was right this second.

I started with a simple Google search but that brought up enough hits to be unmanageable. I narrowed the search to just his name and the word “shooting.” Now my results were culled enough for me to work with. What I gathered from news clippings was that Liam and six other officers were executing a warrant on a known gang hangout when a gunfight ensued, leaving one Fernàndo Peña, age fifteen, dead. After further searching, I found two more articles. One was an article about state’s attorney
Alberto Garza’s inability to get indictments against any officers. The second was a few column inches about Detective Liam McGarrity deciding to leave the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. No definitive reason was given.

Not a ton of information but more than I’d had an hour ago. And now it was time for me to walk the employment plank.

Tony’s office was much like his home. The décor was midcentury modern and about as un-Florida as you could get. I knew a decorator had redone the office but I also guessed Tony had something to say about the chrome, teak, and clean lines. The pops of color, in my humble opinion, looked more like they belonged in a loft in New York than a water-view office in South Florida.

The man behind the desk was a different story. I was practically shaking until he greeted me with a smile.

“Afternoon.”

“Hi,” I returned as I took a seat, pad and pen in hand. “What’s up?”

Tony tossed a thin folder across his messy desk. “New client. Travis Johnson. Murderer.”

Yeah, my transgressions were still a secret.
I opened the file and scanned the booking sheet. “He’s thirteen,” I fairly gasped.

Reading Tony’s hastily scribbled notes, I found myself shaking my head. “What would make a thirteen-year-old stab his foster father to death?”

“That’s our job,” Tony answered. “The kid is a basket case and not much help. They’re holding him at juvie pending his arraignment before the judge day after tomorrow.”

“Will the case stay in family court?”

Tony shook his head. “They’ll probably try him as an adult and I’m guessing they’ll go for the death penalty.”

I felt my eyes grow wide. “But he’s thirteen!”

“Which is why I need you to pull
Thompson v. Oklahoma
and
Roper v. Simmons
.
Thompson
sets the minimum age at sixteen and
Simmons
prohibits the execution of anyone under eighteen. I think we can avoid a death sentence, but it’s more important that we win at trial.”

I wrote quickly. “But your notes say he did it.”

“Travis called 911 after the stabbing. Then waited patiently for the police and paramedics. Spilled his guts to the responding officers. That’s going to be a problem, by the way. I need you to find me Florida case law on the admissibility of statements by juveniles outside the presence of a parent or guardian.”

Noted and underlined. “Anything else?”

He ticked items off on his fingers. “Travis’s school records, medical records, and get in touch with a shrink at University of Florida. His name is Reubins. He specializes in battered children and I want him to sit down with Travis.”

“Travis was beaten?”

“Just a hunch,” Tony said with a shrug of his impressive shoulders.

That simple motion was just enough to send a hint of his cologne in my direction. He smelled delicious. Too bad he’d played the single-father card, taking me out of the running.

“You’re taking Izzy shopping this weekend?”

I nodded. “She needs shoes for her fall formal.”

He sighed. “What’s wrong with the shoes she wore to homecoming?”

I smiled. “They’re the shoes she wore to homecoming. It’s a girl thing.”

“It’s an expensive thing.”

“If you don’t want me to take her . . .”

“No, no. Get her what she wants. And thank you for handling this so I don’t have to.”

I’d tried Liam’s number
several times during the rest of my workday to no avail. I even considered calling Ashley to see if she knew where he was, but that just felt too desperate. The more often I called him, the more my annoyance level skyrocketed. By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was considering calling Crime Stoppers and turning him in myself.

I stopped by the store and grabbed a salad on my way home. Though I was pretty sure my attempt at eating healthy would be waylaid by a few handfuls of Lucky Charms, maybe I could be strong. And maybe hell would freeze over.

Salad in hand, I unlocked the front door and went inside. That’s when I saw him and let out a startled scream. “You scared the crap out of me!”

Liam just smiled and shrugged. Then he winced slightly. Good, karma is a bitch.

“Welcome home.”

My alarm was beeping so I automatically went to the keypad and reset the system. “How did you get in here without tripping the alarm and why is the alarm back on? That requires a code.”

“Safety first,” he said.

His voice was deep and seemed to resonate inside me. Tiny goose bumps tingled my skin, making it hard to concentrate.

“How did you set the alarm?”