Dead Lift (14 page)

I didn’t argue.

Young slid his gaze to Richard. “Do you agree that Diana King isn’t a likely factor?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “She’s openly hateful toward Claire. And Platt left her a sizable stake in Tone Zone.”

“That’s not verified,” I said.

“It’s as good as verified,” Richard said, quickly enough to be terse.

I tried to force a professional, impassive expression but I was pretty sure my face had Sour written all over it.

Young spun his pen, studied me. To Richard, he said, “What about Diana’s husband? The surgery center?”

Richard shook his head. “King will buy Platt’s interest in the practice from the elderly uncle. The buyout price from an estate or from heirs is set by a third party. No chance of King low-balling the old guy.”

“Perhaps
low
chance,” Young said. “Can’t be sure about
no
chance. I know from this practice, for example—” he opened his hands to indicate the room in general—“that there are multiple ways to structure business exit and succession plans, not to mention tax and estate planning.” He paused, tapped his pen once on the table for emphasis. “But I’m inclined to agree with you. King’s a visible member in the community. Has a large client base at stake. It’d be difficult, if not impossible, for him to acquire Platt’s interest in the center for less than its fair market value and not draw attention. And even if he could pull it off…what a risky way to get a discount, no?”

He pulled a sticky pad from his top drawer, wrote something down. Then he looked up at us again, letting his eyes flit from one of us to the other before finally settling on Richard. “Anything to suggest someone we haven’t considered?”

Richard tapped his thumb on the arm of his chair. Its thumping, noticeably severe, reminded me that despite middle age, Richard was still a solid guy. He stopped suddenly and surprised me.

“Emily thinks we should have a look at Daniel Gaston.”

Young smirked. “Interesting you should bring him up.”

Richard’s cell rang and he pulled it from his belt holster. “Excuse me.” He read the display. “It’s about the case.” He motioned that he’d be a minute and slipped out the door before I could fully register the awkwardness his absence would leave in the room.

The door clicked shut behind him and Mick Young and I were left alone to stare at each other over the wide expanse of his shiny, intimidating desk.

Young folded his fingers together and rested his chin on top of them, evaluating me. His fancy glasses, I noticed, had been upgraded with the nice, no-glare feature. It occurred to me he probably kept spares all over the place for convenience. I imagined an extra set in his desk at that very moment, another in his Jag, maybe an old pair at the beach house…all framed by Versace or Dior. It irritated the hell out of me that Young paid for his stupid frames, annoying pen, and Presidential, double podium, high-gloss desk with money earned from defending my husband’s killers.

“Nobody’s looked at me that way since Jimmy Basso,” he said.

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

“Riff-raff we put away years ago when I worked in the D.A.’s office.”

“Before you sold out, you mean. When you still worked to put criminals away instead of set them free.”

“That’s what you think of Ms. Gaston?”

“I’m not talking about Claire and you know it.”

He held my gaze a moment, started over. “Anyway. I’d just finished questioning Basso at trial. I took my seat at the plaintiff’s table. Basso was excused from the stand, but he didn’t move. He was excused again. Same thing. I looked up then. He was staring at me hard. I knew right then, no doubt about it…if we didn’t put that guy away he was coming for me.”

I crossed my own hands in my lap. They were sweaty and I felt my face growing warmer too. It took everything I had to fake the appearance of being unaffected. “I’m not sure what the point of your story is, but I have no intention of coming after you.”

He chuckled. “A relief. Still, you don’t care for me much.”

“That’s right.” My voice, quieter now, nearly caught but I forced myself to continue and even managed eye contact. “There are few people I hold in lower regard, actually.”

I was surprised at my boldness and complete lack of shame, but despite how it had come out, I hadn’t meant the remark as a dig. Rather, now that I could finally confront Young personally, the overwhelming feeling he elicited was not rage or disgust, but supreme disappointment that one human being could so completely fail another. It seemed to me that somebody should point that out.

“Your client,” I said, “had my husband murdered and almost got me too.
Twice
. My little girl is five years old and doesn’t understand why she suddenly has three parents. Why does she have to live with the strange, new mother now instead of the one she’s known since infancy? She’s too young to remember her dad and she has no idea what to make of me. You did everything in your power to restore the liberties of the monster that did this to us. That makes me sick.”

I was prepared for a scathing response, perhaps a reminder that I worked for him, but Young said nothing. Instead he lifted a tissue box from the corner of his desk and offered it to me even though I wasn’t crying. What to make of that? Was he giving me permission to cry or was he insulting me? When I didn’t move for the box, he dropped it on his desk, not in its original spot, and it landed with a punctuated thud.

“It’s not my job to decide guilt or innocence,” he said. “Everyone deserves the best defense I can present. Understand, your specific circumstances were not part of the charges that we—”

I motioned for him to stop talking. “Spare me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Don’t talk to me about fair.”

I started to absently read the diplomas and certificates on his wall, wishing Richard would come back.

“While we’re on the topic of jobs,” he added, “Yours is to collect evidence. Since you have such strong feelings about working for me, quit if you’d rather. Although, I asked for you specifically and would regret seeing you go.”

I turned back to him. He wasn’t watching me anymore, just scribbling something on the same pad he’d used before.

“Excuse me?”

“When I hired Richard. The work you did last spring was impressive, particularly with no experience. I knew he’d picked you up after your move to Houston.” He glanced up from his writing for a moment.

“But that was
against
your client.”

“That’s not the point. Ms. Gaston’s my client now. A strong defense requires apt investigators. If you were accused, wouldn’t you want the best defense you could get?”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“Again, not the point.” He set down his pen again in the same decisive way. “You showed that you were capable in March. Sharp reasoning, observation…maybe intuition. Your skills were a problem for me in that case but I’d like to capitalize on them this time. I hope Richard’s paying you enough that you’ll stick around despite our differences.”

I wanted to scoff at his assumption that my decisions, like his, were motivated by money. Instead I studied him and grew a little uneasy with his flattery. If he were dirty like his recent clients, in cahoots with their collaborators, maybe he was trying to get close to me because he wanted to avenge pals I’d helped send to the state pen.

He switched gears. “You’re more confident than Richard about Diana King’s lack of involvement.”

I took a moment to refocus. “Richard’s not convinced because he doesn’t know everything. It’s not in his best interests, or yours, for me to elaborate.”

Young grinned and drummed his knuckles twice on the glossy desk. “A delightfully coy presumption.”

“It’s your case,” I said. “Say the word.”

He leaned back into his chair and it squeaked. Richard burst through the door.

“Sorry to be so long.” He took his seat again. “Got some interesting news.”

“The husband?” Young asked.

Richard’s eyebrows shot up and gave away his surprise. “Yeah. How’d you—”

“I got the call right before you arrived. It’s why I was late to meet you.”

Catching my annoyance before it ballooned, Richard filled me in. “Daniel Gaston was murdered last night.”

Chapter Twenty-four

So much for my hunches.

“Murdered?” I said. “What happened?”

“He was shot in an apartment. Rice Village.”

“I heard it was in the carport,” Young said.

“Whose apartment? Does Claire know?”

Inside his dark frames, Young’s eyes narrowed. It was enough to tell me that he hadn’t considered how she’d take the news. “I’ll tell her.”

I feared his delivery might leave something to be desired. “No,” I said. “Her mom should probably do it.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

I wondered how that exchange would go. Upon hearing the news, she’d be equally capable of smug satisfaction or inconsolable grief. “This is nuts.”

Young continued to scrutinize. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me to shut up or continue.

I didn’t care. “Claire says she and Platt didn’t know each other, yet crime scene evidence points to her. Diana has a plausible motive to frame Claire
but
she and Platt were close. It doesn’t make sense that she’d be involved. In fact, I think Diana’s more affected by Platt’s death than she’s letting on.”

Young leaned forward, drew a breath.

“That’s all I can say,” I added, before he could question me.

I felt Richard’s eyes on me but didn’t turn. Young, I thought, deserved to know about the strange e-mails I’d received, but Richard hadn’t offered them up so I refrained. It seemed unlikely that the crazy person threatening me would be the same one to provide a key to Platt’s house. Presumably, one of those people wanted to stop the investigation and the other wanted to move it along. In my book, this was compelling evidence of Diana’s innocence but I couldn’t openly share that without compromising Richard’s professional ethics. Or Young’s, if he had any.

“So Daniel’s dead and Diana’s off the table,” I said. “Frankly, I’m glad Claire’s in jail. It proves we’re overlooking someone.”

“Your generalizations aren’t working for me,” Richard said. “We can’t dismiss Diana that easily. What exactly did you do yesterday? Let’s hear it.”

Young stood. “Let’s not.”

He came around to our side of the desk and motioned toward the door. “At least not yet.” The wheels were turning, spinning out. Young wanted the full story—they both did—but not at the expense of jeopardizing Claire’s defense. “I’d like to regroup later…by phone is fine. Let’s see what details shake loose about last night. I’ll get in touch with Ms. Gaston’s mother. You—” he watched me gather my purse and stand to leave “—keep it on the level. Please.”

Richard, already out of his chair, waited for me to be first out the door. I sensed silent admonitions and what-the-hell-were-you-thinkings as I passed through his aftershave aura on my way to the reception area. Behind me, he and Young muttered low enough not to be overheard. But thinking I heard my name, I turned. Neither was looking. Richard was probably working on damage control.

Later, at a pastry shop midway between Young’s office and Richard’s, I tried to make amends by buying brunch. Richard eschewed the bistro’s assortment of gourmet coffees in favor of a large cup of regular black, and instead of a signature crepe or quiche, he took an unadorned bagel with plain cream cheese.

“No cinnamon swirl or blueberry?” I said. “No flavored schmear?”

He cut a glance at me, clearly unwilling to make up.

I felt a little overindulgent with my Hawaiian Kona and baked egg soufflé but not enough to deny myself. The rich aromas were simply too compelling.

We inched through the tray line.

“Nobody likes their job every single day,” he finally said.

“I know.”

“Plenty of people work for folks they don’t like.”

“Yep.”

“You think I like sitting behind the wheel of my car for six hours watching a house? Rummaging through trash? Combing through old records?”

I hoped this would be a short lecture.

“Fact is, on some level, anybody who works in investigations is capitalizing on another person’s misfortune. In this job, sometimes you’re going to have to do stuff you don’t like.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I get it.”

“Even when it’s personal,” he said. “I’m sorry that where Young’s concerned, the misfortune was yours, but you have to learn to compartmentalize. Otherwise, this job—and I don’t just mean this case—will eat you.”

I slid my tray to the right and rooted in my purse. “It’s not like I don’t think about this, Richard. I do.”

His career guidance heart-to-hearts, though infrequent, were infallibly uncomfortable. I pulled my billfold from my bag, kept my gaze on the check-out girl, and nodded.

He let the subject drop.

I kept thinking about it though, and remembered Tuesday’s talk with Betsy. Self-doubt, in the way it so often does, encapsulated me before I knew what was happening. When it was my turn at the register, I was glad for a reason to push the thoughts aside.

At the register, the tab came to $11.47 and having only a ten, I handed over my Visa. It was swiftly denied.

The checkout girl frowned. “Is there another you’d like to try?”

“What’d it say?” I asked. “Could you try again?” I turned to Richard. “Sometimes those magnetic strips get scratched.”

She swiped it a second time. “It says ‘Contact card services for billing information,’ same as before. Sorry.”

Richard reached for his wallet.

“No,” I said. “I got it.” I took back the defunct Visa, switched to MasterCard.

She ran it and shook her head. “Same thing.”

“What the hell?”

Panic set in. I took the second card back and left Richard to pay and deal with the trays. My cell phone was out of my pocket before I reached the nearest empty table.

The Visa representative explained that unusual account activity had resulted in the temporary suspension of my card privileges. Messages had been left on my home and cell phones.

Thinking back, I realized I hadn’t checked my answering machine after returning home from dinner with Jeannie and Annette the night before. But my cell phone? The voicemail icon hadn’t been on my display.

I listened as she read backwards through over eight hundred dollars in recent charges, mostly at automotive and electronics stores. None were mine. She explained that the most I’d be responsible for was a fifty dollar cap, likely to be waived considering the circumstances. Paperwork would follow in the mail.

We hung up. I dialed into my empty voicemail box and was astonished to find messages waiting. I glared at Richard. “This is all your fault!”

He was chewing. “Mine?”

I pushed the button to get the first of four new messages.

“The voicemails were here but the
phone
is screwed up and didn’t tell me they were waiting.”

“I thought you were getting a new phone yesterday.”

“We went out to dinner. The store closed.”

I left out that Jeannie had convinced me to bake my phone in the oven all night at 125º, another apparent failure at cellular resuscitation.

It was the same story each time. Three more credit cards with suspicious activity and one message from Betsy, who wanted to know if it was safe for Annette to swim with newly pierced ears.

I called MasterCard. Six hundred dollars.

Discover. Twelve hundred.

Dick’s Sporting Goods. Less than a hundred, so no suspicious activity had been flagged, but even so, the charge wasn’t mine.

“Your
sporting goods
card?” I thought Richard was making fun of me so I ignored him.

“Damn,” I muttered. Replacement cards with new numbers would come soon. “Do you have any idea how many automatic bill pay accounts I’ll have to re-map now? You’re so lucky I’m not on the hook for those charges.”

He wasn’t listening. He was scanning the various cards I’d laid all over the table so I could find the customer service numbers. “You have all your cards here, but they’ve all been hit.”

Unsure if I was expected to draw a conclusion from this, I just nodded, annoyed.

“I could see a single card being hit, like if a waiter copied your number when he took the card away to run it,” he said. “But all of them on the same day? And a sporting goods card?” He set down his bagel. “Who could have gotten into your purse?”

“It’s with me all the time,” I said.

“You mentioned automatic bill pay. Who can use your laptop?”

I shook my head. “I never take it out of the apartment and these accounts are password protected anyway.”

“What about your wireless network?”

“It’s secure,” I said. “Secure network, password protection, locked apartment. My purse is always with me.”

He grew more agitated with every assurance. “I’m afraid of what we might be dealing with. A slick, sophisticated thief bothers me way more than a third-rate purse snatcher or a sleazy waiter. Maybe Jeannie left the apartment and forgot to lock the door.”

“No way,” I said. “She’s a city girl.”

“Your apartment was empty yesterday while you were out doing your secret errand. Jeannie took Annette to the movies while you were gone. Was anything out of place when you came back?”

“They leave stuff out everywhere, all the time.” I remembered the nail polish and cotton balls strewn across the table and the leftover party mess in the kitchen. “It was nothing worse than usual.”

He finished his coffee. The paper cup made a sharp hollow sound when it hit the table. “Sorry about your phone.” He pulled out his wallet and passed me his small business credit card. “Use this to get a new one.”

I stood up, pocketed it, and amassed all our trash on my tray. “If I get stuck with those fifty dollar maximums, you’re covering those too.”

He pushed back from the table, checked his watch. “What’s on your plate today?”

“Besides this?” I walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the tray.

Richard’s visit to the apartment the night before had interrupted my work on Platt’s Caller ID list. Jeannie, Annette, and I had gone out for dinner afterward, and the evening ended at Betsy and Nick’s where we’d dropped Annette off to finish her promised week with them.

“I have some calls to make.” I wondered what percentage might land in voicemail boxes. “And tomorrow’s Jeannie’s last day here. I should take her somewhere fun before she leaves. What about you?”

“Also calls. See if anybody will talk about Daniel.” Something in his voice told me he expected bad luck. I was beginning to feel like I’d hit a dead end myself.

When we got back to my apartment, he parked the car. “I’m going to talk to your neighbors.” He turned off the ignition.

“About what?”

Four seconds had passed and already the car was heating up. I opened my door and let one leg dangle out.

“To ask whether anybody strange has been by your place.” He opened his own door. I’d had enough company for the day and didn’t like where this was headed.

“No.” I scooped up my purse. “I’ll ask them myself.” I stepped out, shut the door, and climbed the steps to my apartment without looking back.

Behind me, a door slammed shut and his motor started.

Maybe Jeannie was right. Assertiveness could be learned.