Claws for Alarm (17 page)

“Knowing Lacey, she probably panicked. Her first inclination would be to run.” Lance shook his head. “What about the wife? Don't they normally look at the spouse in a murder case?”

“They do, and they did. She has an ironclad alibi.”

He set down his rag and cupped his chin with his hand. “I'm usually suspicious of people who have ironclad alibis. Why, nine times out of ten they can be broken. Just watch
Law & Order.
”

“This is real life, not a TV show,” I said, finishing my drink and pushing my glass toward Lance for a refill. “But in this case I have to agree with you. It just seemed a bit too pat, too perfect to me.”

“What was her alibi, if I might ask?” Louis leaned forward.

“She was at a fund-raiser party. People did see her there, and pictures were taken, but there were none for the exact time of the murder. I searched Google for the distance from the party locale she mentioned to Pitt's office. It came in at
just under three miles. She could easily have made it up and back and no one probably would have noticed she was gone.” I sighed. “Unfortunately, it doesn't prove she actually left. And without proof . . .” I stopped speaking as a sudden thought occurred to me.

Lance glanced over at Louis and jerked his thumb at me. “See that face. That's the face she usually gets on when a lightbulb has gone off in that pretty little head of hers.” He held the refreshed white gin and tonic aloft. “None for you until you spill. What idea popped into that brain of yours?”

I reached for the glass, but Lance held it out of my grasp. I made a face at him and then said, “Just this: Events like that fund-raiser party are always a nightmare. There are too many people and, oftentimes, too little parking. Giselle's got a fancy-schmancy car. No way would she trust parking it to a valet. She'd park it herself, and if she planned to make an early exit, she'd park it where there was easy access.” I reached for the glass again, failed, then said, “You wouldn't have a laptop here by any chance?”

Louis was already reaching underneath his stool. “I do.” He opened it, powered it up. “What am I looking for?”

“She was at a party in Sea Cliff the night of the murder. The VanBlandts', I'm pretty sure.”

Louis pulled up the white pages, plugged in VanBlandt. “Six of 'em, but only one in Sea Cliff. Percy VanBlandt the Third. Chauncy Court.” Louis's fingers flew over the keyboard. “If we pull up the town site it should be able to tell us what streets have parking restrictions. Ah, there it is!”

A swift perusal confirmed the fact Sea Cliff—and Chauncy Court in particular—had no parking restrictions. I nodded.
“So. She could have parked the car there and taken it out, undetected, at any time.” I paused, my eyes slitted in thought. “Althea Pitt—that's Pitt's first wife—was particularly insistent that the police check her alibi. It makes me wonder why. At first I thought it was just bitterness and a desire to see Giselle convicted of the crime, but maybe not. Maybe Althea knows something.”

“What could she know?” Lance asked.

“Damned if I know.” I closed my eyes. “It could be possible Althea saw something that placed Giselle at the school at the time of the murder.”

“If that's the case, she would have told the police,” Louis said practically. “After all, if she wants to see the woman convicted of murder, you'd think she'd be shouting it from the rooftops.”

“Maybe what she saw would place her at the murder scene,” suggested Lance. “Although out of everyone, she's got the least motive, right?”

“Right. But what if she wasn't the one who saw . . . whatever?”

Lance's brow puckered in thought, then he brightened. “The son, right? She could be protecting the son?”

“But what might he have seen that could be so incriminating?” asked Louis. He was hunched forward, elbows splayed on the counter, a look of keen interest on his face.

“Maybe one of them was out that night and happened to drive by the school. Maybe they saw Giselle's car parked there, or something,” I said.

“Possible,” Lance agreed. “But how could one prove that?”

I lurched forward, almost toppling over the stool, and
gestured impatiently toward the laptop. “Look up the Pitt Institute in St. Leo. It's on Northumber Court. See if there are any parking restrictions by the school.”

Louis grabbed the laptop, started typing. A few minutes later he let out a little mew of triumph. “There sure are. Three places, and one is in the very front of the school. No parking allowed on Wednesday nights. The murder occurred on a Wednesday, correct?”

I clapped my hands. “The only way I could prove Giselle was at the school would be if she parked illegally, and if said car received a parking ticket.”

“It would be easy enough for Samms to check out, right?” Lance asked.

“It would be if the DA weren't so positive he had the right perp in custody. The red tape to get this info could take weeks.” I sighed. “Why, oh why, did I never learn computer hacking when I worked in Chicago?”

Louis flexed his fingers. “Well, lucky for you I used to be a pretty good system hacker, back in the day.”

Lance grinned. “Me, too. And old habits die hard. Hacking's like riding a bike—you never forget.”

I looked from one to the other. “Do the two of you honestly think you can hack into the St. Leo police database?”

Louis puffed out his chest. “Darlin', I can hack into the New York City police database. As a matter of fact, I did, once.” He flexed his fingers. “Haven't done it in a while, but Lance is right. I might be a bit rusty, but . . . one never forgets.”

Lance glanced at the clock on the wall. “It's a good hour and a half till my happy hour crowd comes in. I'll get us all fresh drinks, and let's see what we come up with.” He gave
me a huge grin and rubbed his hands. “Boy, talk about memories . . . This is gonna be
fun
!”

*   *   *

T
o Louis's credit, it only took him forty-five minutes to come up with the information that a parking ticket was issued to a vehicle with the license plate
TRPHYWF
at 10:37 p.m. on the night of the murder.

“She's one careless doll,” Louis remarked, taking a swig from his fresh bottle of Sam Adams. “She parked in the
NO PARKING
zone right in front of the school. Didn't even bother to hide the car.”

I let out a low whistle. “Well, that's a break. It definitely sheds a whole new light on things. The ticket itself places her at the scene of the crime at the time of the murder, and while it isn't in itself enough to convict her of murder, it would go a long way in raising reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury.”

“And get an acquittal for Lacey,” Lance added excitedly. “So, now what happens? Who do you give this information to?”

I fished my cell out of my purse and punched in Peter's number. When he answered I said quickly, “Peter, it's Nora. Get in touch with Samms and have him go through the parking ticket records for the night of the murder, particularly for a vehicle with the license plate
TRPHYWF
. Tell him it's urgent and he should forgo the paperwork . . . No, I can't tell you any more than that, but trust me. Have him do it ASAP. And don't mention my name unless you absolutely have to. Even then, tell him he's not on a
need to know
basis.”

I rang off and Lance cocked his brow. “That should go over big.”

“Yeah, just as big as my earlier tip, I'm sure.” I slid off the stool. “Well, thanks for all your help, guys. You'll visit me when Samms hauls me off to the slammer for interfering in a police investigation, right?”

“Heck, Nora, if anyone should go to the slammer it should be Louis and me. We're the ones who hacked the system,” Lance said, scratching his head.

I blew them a kiss from the doorway. “Probably, but a good reporter never reveals her source, or squeals on her hackers. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Louis said. “And stay out of jail. You've got a column to write.”

“And delicious sandwiches to feed the hungry public,” Lance added. “Keep me posted.”

Back on the street, I squared my shoulders. It was pretty obvious Samms was going to know right where that lead had originated, and a good bet he'd be damn mad. It was even more obvious what my next move had to be.

I had to find Mr. Taft Michaels and grill him about lying to provide Giselle Taft with an alibi. Hopefully I'd be able to find out something that would make Samms forget all about pressing charges on me and focus his concentration in other areas.

“I
can't thank you enough for helping me with this, Ollie. Keep an eye out for Pine Street, won't you?”

It was the next afternoon. Chantal had agreed to take the last half of the lunch shift, and I'd picked Ollie up at his office at twelve thirty. When I'd outlined my plan to him the afternoon before, he was more than willing to go along. As a matter of fact, he had some very good suggestions. I slid a glance at him as I made the turn onto Clover Road that would take us to the Pitt Institute, and he smiled, his teeth sparkling against his coffee-colored skin.

“No need to thank me, Nora. I told you, I consider furthering your PI education an investment.”

“An investment? How do you figure that?”

He chuckled. “The way I figure it, detective work is in your blood, same as reporting and sandwich making.”

I slid him a glance. “You've been talking to Louis Blondell,”
I accused. “He thinks I should get a PI license, although he wants me to get it so I can write a magazine article on it.”

“You should get it,” Ollie said. “One of these days you'll realize this is what you really want to do, and I, most likely, will need a new partner.”

I chuckled. “Giving up on Nick Atkins already? There's no proof he's dead, you know. No body's turned up, that we know of, anyway. For all we know, he could be wandering around California, an amnesia victim.”

Ollie let out a loud snort. “A more likely scenario is one of his many secrets finally caught up with him, and if it didn't kill him first, he probably thought it prudent to just . . . disappear.”

“Well, maybe we'll get lucky and finally find out the truth. I asked Daniel if he could look into it—into Pichard's connection to Nick, specifically. I know you disagree, but I still think he might know something.”

“It's possible, I suppose. Pichard hung with a pretty shady crowd. For that matter, so did Nick. I always told him his daredevil ways would do him in—oh, damn, Pine was back there, sorry.”

“No problem.” I turned onto the first side street and made a quick U-turn. I found Pine, made the appropriate turn, and a few minutes later pulled up in front of the Pitt Institute. As I cut the engine I remarked, “Call me crazy, but I just can't shake the feeling that Little Nick chewed that page out of his master's journal for some reason.”

“You think he's trying to send you some sort of message? Well, it wouldn't be the first time.”

“No,” I said, my lips twitching as I remembered Nick's “Mickey Finn” message. I had yet to hear back from Samms.
I'd have to give him another call. “That cat's blessed with a—a sixth sense. It's uncanny, the things he does. He's no ordinary cat.”

“I believe I told you that the first time we met.” Ollie reached over to pat my hand. “But we've got something far more important than Nick Atkins to worry about now, my dear. Clearing your sister must come first.”

I nodded as I pushed my door open. Ollie was right. The mystery of Nick Atkins's disappearance would have to remain just that, at least for now.

*   *   *

A
few discreet inquiries led us to the admissions office. The woman behind the reception desk appeared none too friendly when I told her we needed to get in touch with Taft Michaels on a matter of the utmost importance. She snorted and peered at me over the rims of the Joan Rivers readers perched on her beak-shaped nose, and she tucked a stray strand of iron gray hair into the bun at the nape of her neck.

“He quit,” she said bluntly. “Yesterday.”

“Quit?” I didn't have to pretend to be surprised. I looked at the bronze nameplate prominently displayed on the desk—Agatha Bowman—and thought the name suited her. “Are you certain, Ms. Bowman? That's rather sudden, isn't it? I mean, I saw him here just the other day. He seemed quite happy with working here.”

“Well, appearances can be deceiving,” she said with a sniff. “He said a golden opportunity had presented itself, and he couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Taft is a selfish man. He didn't even have the courtesy to give us two weeks'
notice to find another model.” She plucked a pencil from the tin holder on her desk and tapped it against her blotter. “It doesn't surprise me, though. In addition to being selfish, that boy was also vain. You could see it in his appearance, the way he carried himself. Thought he was a god, too good to be stuck here with the rest of us mere mortals. I always said it was only a matter of time before he went on his merry way.”

“Yes, he did strike me as arrogant, and I certainly don't agree with his handling of the situation,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, we really need to speak with him. I don't suppose you have a home address for him, or a phone number?”

“I do,” she said, eyes flashing, “but I'm really not permitted to give out that information.”

“Excuse me.”

I jumped at the voice so close to my ear and whirled around. Armand Foxworthy, his arms filled with papers, stood so close to me you couldn't wedge a paper clip between us. I took a step forward, the edge of my hip coming in contact with the desk.

“Sorry,” he said. He brushed past me and set the pile of papers down in front of Agatha. “These are my students' final graded exams. They have to be entered into the computer before Thursday.”

Agatha's expression softened, and her voice took on a gentler tone. “Certainly, Professor Foxworthy. I'll get right to it, just as soon as I've finished with these people.”

Foxworthy straightened and flashed Ollie and me a tight smile before he left the office. Agatha sighed audibly as we turned back to her desk.

“Such a nice man. He hasn't been on staff long, but he's a real gentleman. Too bad about his allergy, though.”

“Allergy?”

She nodded. “To fluorescent lighting. It's pretty rare, and if he's not careful he could also become allergic to sunlight. That's why he wears the glasses. A pity, though—he's such a nice-looking man.” She let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I'll bet he's got really beautiful eyes.”

“I'm sure he does.” I leaned forward, my palms flat on the edge of her desk. “We don't want to take up much more of your time, Agatha—may I call you Agatha?” At her nod I continued, “We can see you've got a lot of work to do here.” I indicated the pile of papers with a flick of my wrist. “I can tell you're a person with a good work ethic. I bet you've got a good sense of justice, too, am I right?”

A ghost of a smile played across the older woman's lips. “I believe very strongly in fair play, and the justice system.”

“Ah, I knew it.” I gave her a big smile. “That's just what we're after, Agatha. Justice. We can trust your discretion, I know. It's very important we track down Taft Michaels. We need to ask him some questions in regard to a recent murder.”

Agatha pushed her glasses down lower on her nose, and her beady gaze skittered between me and Ollie. “Oh my Lord! Not Professor Pitt's?”

Ollie nodded solemnly. “Yes. The very same.”

I didn't say anything, just raised one eyebrow.

She gave us another once-over. “You're with the police?”

I hesitated. Oh well, what the heck. I was already in deep doo-doo with Samms for telling a white lie to Giselle Pitt. What was one more at this point, especially if it helped crack this case? I held out my hand. “Abigail St. Clair. This is my partner, Mr. Oliver. We're associated with the investigation into Professor Pitt's murder.”

Her brow puckered. “I don't recall ever hearing your names, Detective.”

“Probably because we've just arrived from out of town,” Ollie said smoothly. “Special consults. It's quite a baffling case.”

More brow puckering. She shook her head. “I was under the impression the murderer had been apprehended . . .”

“There is a suspect in custody, yes. But our investigation is ongoing. Loose ends, you see,” Ollie supplied.

I inclined my head toward the phone. “Call Homicide if you're unsure. Ask for Detective Leroy Samms. He's in charge of the investigation, and believe me, he's quite familiar with the name Abigail St. Clair.”

Agatha Bowman's lips scrunched up as she thought. Meanwhile, I took a page from Chantal's book and sent out a mental message of positive programming:
oh please don't call oh please don't call oh please don't call.

“Ah, Detective Samms,” she said at last. “Yes, I remember him. Very nice man. And so good-looking.” She gave me another cursory look and shrugged. “Oh well, in that case . . .”

I said a silent prayer of thanks my mantra worked as her head swiveled to her computer. She tapped out a few swift strokes on the keyboard, and a minute later I heard the soft hum of her printer. She plucked a sheet of paper from the tray and handed it to me. “Here you go. And do give Detective Samms my regards.”

“I surely will.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I never liked that boy, not at all. And if he had something to do with the professor's death . . . well, I'd just like to know.”

I gave her a wide smile as I tucked the paper into my
purse. “Agatha, we appreciate your cooperation more than I can tell you. I promise you, when we find out who killed the professor, you'll be one of the first to know. You have no idea how much help this is.”

“My pleasure.” Her lips tugged downward. “And if you find out Taft had anything to do with it—well, I hope he gets what he deserves.”

“Believe me, we'll try our best to make that happen,” I said.

*   *   *

F
ifteen minutes later we pulled up in front of the Archstone Grove Apartments. “Well,” Ollie said as he surveyed the complex. “Looks pretty ritzy for an art student slash part-time broker slash former model. I bet the rent's almost two thousand a month. You can't tell me he earned that much modeling for Pitt's school. After all, it's not like he posed for
GQ
.”

“According to this printout he's only lived here a few months. Before this there's an address near Chinatown.”

“Ah. A more modest district but a long drive.”

“Something paid him enough to afford this. His gallery job, perhaps? Think about it; if he's involved in fencing forged masters . . . maybe this golden opportunity he can't pass up has something to do with that. Maybe he's going into it full-time.”

We exited the SUV and strolled into the complex. The grounds were large and beautifully maintained. We passed a large kidney-shaped pool, and I paused to dip my hand into the shallow end.

“Nice. Maybe I should look for a place with a pool one day.”

“Not a bad idea. Fill it with fish. Little Nick would love it,” Ollie said.

We continued our perusal of the grounds. There was also a spa with a state-of-the-art fitness center, a large clubhouse, and, behind the two modern-looking buildings, a picnic area with gas barbeque grills. There was also a path that led, according to the brightly painted wooden sign, to a hiking and a biking trail. The buildings themselves were three stories of modern design that appeared to be rather new, and there were about two dozen of them, all without any visible numbers.

“Grand,” I muttered. “Now how in hell do we find 1675?”

“Can I help you?”

I whirled around to face a woman who reminded me vaguely of Joan Collins in the old television series Dynasty. Her artfully coiffed black upsweep didn't have a hair out of place in spite of the fact the humidity was high. She wore a tailored suit—Dior, unless I missed my guess—in a shade of blue that matched her eyes exactly. The four-inch black Manolos on her feet added enough height so that she came up to just below my shoulder. She extended her hand, her French tips lightly brushing my wrist.

“I'm Marlene McKay. I'm the Realtor in charge of these apartments. Are you interested in renting one? I've got a few vacancies.” She looked me over like an eagle about to pounce on a helpless mouse. I could practically see the dollar signs in the irises of her eyes.

“We are interested, but not—” Ollie began, but she cut him off with a brisk wave and a smile.

“Then you've come to the right place, all right. We're one
of the best complexes in Pacific Grove. We're near everything—shopping malls, transportation, major highways. Good schools nearby. Got kids?”

“No, just a tuxedo cat,” I said, and Marlene let out a little squeal.

“Ooh, I love tuxedos! My favorite kind! They always look so well-groomed, like they're ready for a night on the town.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I've got an apartment I think the two of you will just love. The guy next door has a Chihuahua—Pepe, he's a scrappy little thing—but don't worry, his owner never lets him out on his own. What's your cat's name?”

“Nick, but . . .”