Every Move She Makes (21 page)

"You're welcome," he responded quietly.

I don't know why, but when I saw him give me a glimmer of a smile, I
wanted to cry all over again. He couldn't take away my pain, fight my
demons, but he could do this one small thing. For now, it was enough.

The number on my pager turned out to be Professor Rocklin of UC

Berkeley. "I just wanted to give you a progress report," he said. "Hold
on a sec." "Sure," I told him as I clutched the phone. Torrance found
the remote control to the TV and started flipping through the channels.

Beth Skyler's face filled the screen. "Pharmaceutical giant Montgard,
NOR, of Arkansas announces a merger possibility with Hilliard
Pharmaceutical ..." I had a strange sense of deje vu, and it had
nothing to do with her announcement. It was her voice. Before I could
pinpoint it, the professor spoke again. "I've got the report here."

Skyler's voice droned on," ... and the search continues for the suspect
in the Hall of justice murders. News at five on Two." Before I had a
chance to place why her voice got to me, Torrance switched channels.

"You there?" Professor Rocklin asked.

"Yes," I said, drawing my attention back to the matter at hand.

"Definitely pokeweed."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Thanks." I hung up.

"Anything?" Torrance asked, looking away from his hockey game.

"I don't get it. Why on earth would a dead guy be hiding seven pokeweed
seeds in his ring?" on day morning, while Torrance informed the hospital
billing department where to send the papers for worker's comp, I stood
beneath a hot spray, hoping that a shower would wash away some of the
residue of the past few days. It did little to restore my spirits, but
at least my hair was clean and no longer standing on end. The bruise on
my temple was another matter, as were the doctor's instructions, "No
driving, no exerting yourself, no going up or down stairs by yourself
..." etc., etc.,
etc.
Had my head not started spinning when I got out of
bed, I might have disregarded everything he said. And until he released
me, I was on light duty. Desk job. I'd find a way around it, with or
without Torrance. Wrapped in a towel and designer hospital gown, I
stepped from the hallway shower past an orderly who politely pretended
not to notice, and into my hospital room to find my clothes wrapped
neatly in a package from the laundry. I'd completely forgotten about
them, but apparently Torrance hadn't. He walked in at that precise
moment. "Thanks," I said, holding up the package. "I'm assuming it was
you who sent them out to be washed?" "Don't have time to get anything
clean from your apartment. We need to head straight back to the Hall
this

morning. I've got a couple interviews I couldn't reschedule."

"Well, thanks," I said. "Don't mention it." We stood there looking at
each other, and I smiled, waiting for him to leave. I wanted to dress.

Didn't think I needed a bodyguard to do it. "The door?" I said,
pointing.

He got the hint, and exited.

I dressed, buckled my fannypack around my waist, and realized my gun
wasn't in it.

Torrance was waiting down the hall.

"Where's my weapon?" I asked, ignoring the nurses who were insisting I
leave in a wheelchair. I wasn't the least bit dizzy.

"In the trunk of my car." He guided me toward the elevator.

"What now?" "Now we get down to investigating this iiiess." At the car,
he returned my weapon. Our gazes met briefly, and I wondered if he had
any doubts about letting me carry it. If so, he kept his thoughts to
himself. An hour later we were at the Hall, bagels and fresh coffee in
hand. Torrance stationed me at Mathis's desk, where he could watch me
through his office window. Mathis was still guarding my apartment,
waiting for Scolari to show. I thought about telling them they could
save the overtime-Scolari wasn't stupid-but after the pizza fiasco, I
didn't really want to bring up his name. Torrance made a few calls from
his office, watching me like a hawk through the glass, and I again had
that feeling of being a prisoner. I wasn't altogether wrong, because
when I got up to toss my empty coffee cup in the trash, Torrance was out
of his chair, through his office door, the phone cord stretched taut.

"Where're you going? You're not dizzy are you?" he asked, covering the
mouthpiece with his hand. He eyed the exit as though judging the
distance between it and me, and whether or not he could get there before
I crashed to the floor should I decide to flee. I lobbed my coffee cup
into the trash, annoyed that my life had come to this. "Just doing my
part to keep the environment clean." I returned to my chair, pulled out
a desk drawer, and propped up my feet to show my boredom. Finally he
hung up, then went to his file cabinet and opened the top drawer. I was
anxious to get out of the office, but felt funny having to ask him how
much longer. I didn't need a chauffeur, but figured he'd be taking this
light duty stuff as seriously as the doctor. "Am I getting OUT for this?"

He raised his brows. "No offense," I said, "but I can't go anywhere, or
do anything without you. What do you expect me to accomplish?"

"What do you need?" he asked without glancing up. "My stuff."

He closed the file drawer and faced me. "And then you'll be happy?"

"Infinitely."

"After you," he said, waving his hand toward the door.

Homicide was deserted. On my desk was a large box.

There must have been dozens of photocopies stacked inside. I picked up
the top sheet.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's from the Coroner's office. I guess it's those autopsy reports that
I ordered from Dr. Mead-Scolari's files." Torrance picked up the box.

"Apparently you'll have something to occupy your time now." "I guess
so," I said, sorting through the files on my desk, looking for the clasp
envelope containing Doctor Mead-Scolari's autopsy. I opened the top
drawer, certain that's where I'd shoved it, but it wasn't there. I went
through all my other drawers. Nor was it in my briefcase.

"I can't find the doctor's autopsy."

"I have another copy. You can look over that one." I grabbed my
briefcase, then followed him back to his office. "How long are we going
to play ball and chain?" "You anxious to start working with Zimmerman?"

He had me there. "Not exactly."

"Then consider this a temporary reprieve until you're off light duty."

"How temporary?" Torrance hefted the box to one arm, held his office
door open, allowing me to step through. His phone was ringing on his
desk. "I told Andrews I wanted you assigned to me for the next couple of
days. He agreed." "Which makes you my boss." His eyes fairly sparkled as
he dropped the box onto Mathis's desk, then answered his phone. "I don't
find it the least bit amusing," I said. He opened a case file on his
desk while he spoke softly into the phone. If he heard me, I had no
idea. I followed his example, found myself grateful for the mundane
chore of reviewing the doctor's old autopsies. But after a half hour, I
changed my mind. Perhaps reviewing the autopsies was too mundane. I'd
seen four stabbings in a row. As I picked up the fifth, a
thirty-year-old white female, I thought about the pizza, and how if not
for nearly overdosing myself, I'd be able to get up and walk away
without Torrance acting like an overzealous Secret Service agent.

Who had placed the drug on the pizza? And where?

Suddenly I wondered if anyone had contacted Giovanni's to see who
ordered it. Absently I turned to the next page on the autopsy report,
forgetting why I was reviewing the thing at all. From the corner of my
eye, I saw Torrance sitting in his glass-enclosed office, conducting his
interview with one of the property clerks, who had walked in right after
her coworkers were murdered. The whole time, Torrance kept close watch
over me. I closed my eyes, blocking him out. Who had ordered the pizza?

Torrance was there, but I couldn't see him as the enemy. If he was, I
was in serious trouble. No, it had to be someone else, and I reviewed
the list of possible suspects in my mind. Shipley had been sitting
across from me that afternoon. He certainly heard my half of the
conversation with Scolari. Reid was there with the Hilliards, who were
talking to Torrance, and Reid more than anyone knew I liked iovanni's.

And I didn't want to forget Markowski, who brought the pizza in. But he
had taken a slice-and would have eaten it had he not dropped it. Or
would he have? I didn't want to think about that possibility. There was
Zimmerman, of course. The man made my skin crawl, but that wasn't enough
to convict him. Still, Zim had motive and opportunity. And he was making
it clear something was up by his constant avoidance of working with me.

Not that I was anxious. I'd seen him lose his temper, and wondered if he
had it in him to shoot someone in a fit of rage. Could he have spiked
the pizza? Working in Property, he certainly had access to any number of
drugs.

I had to find out.

I broke the tip of my pencil. I hadn't taken two steps in the direction
of the sharpener when Torrance got up, stood in his doorway, and asked,
"Something wrong?"

"Just sharpening my pencil." I held it up.

He waited there while I inserted it into the machine.

It whirred, and the scent of wood and graphite drifted up.

"You're not feeling dizzy?" "No." I pulled it out, shoved it in again.

"Anyone check on who ordered that pizza from Giovanni's yet?" The
sharpener whined. Jerking out the pencil, I touched the tip to my
finger. When he failed to answer, I met his gaze, surprised to see him
look away.

"I'd intended to do that once we got back," he finally said.

I couldn't believe it. Had he actually forgotten? Or was there something
more? I blew on the pencil point, not wanting to give away just how much
my thoughts were churning. I made no reply. I couldn't find my voice.

Torrance returned to his office and his interview, and I returned to my
seat at Mathis's desk. I started writing notes on the last Coroner's
case I'd read. "No unusual findings." I underlined it twice, then picked
up the next report, which dropped from my shaking hand. As I watched the
report float to the floor, I realized I was angry.

Even frightened.

I wanted to know why he hadn't checked with Giovanni's. A weekend had
gone by, and it bothered me that he'd let something like that slip past.

In the back of my mind was the vague memory of my ride to the hospital,
and my suspicion that Torrance had heard me 'order" my pizza. What an
elaborate ruse to poison me, then faithfully stand guard over my
hospital bed. Was that why I was obsessed with this need to get to
Giovanni's and discover who had placed the order? Was I worried that it
was Torrance who didn't want me to find out?

Ridiculous. The man had no motive.

But there were plenty of others who did, and I knew what I needed to do.

I was going to Giovanni's, and I wasn't about to wait for Torrance or
anyone else. I exited, hearing Torrance's "damn it" echoing after me as
I darted around the corner and down the hall, only to stop short when I
saw Zim deep in conversation with my ex. They stood outside the men's
room. Reid had his hand on the door as though about to enter, or leave.

I'd always been under the impression that Reid and Zim disliked each
other, and I couldn't help wonder what the two seemed to find of common
interest on such a chance meeting. Reid looked up and saw me. "Kate?

Wait up." I pretended not to hear, continued on, but he caught up with
me as Zim took off down the hallway and around the corner.

"I've been looking for you," he said.

Something in his expression set my senses on alert. The hallway was
entirely too quiet, and I didn't want to be here alone with him. Turning
on my heel, I started back toward IA. He followed, grabbed my arm,
turned me toward him. "Why won't you stop and talk to me?"

"Let go of my arm, Reid."

"Not until I get some answers." "What do you want? A blow-by-blow
account since I came home from the hospital? I'm busy. We're no longer
married." I yanked my arm from his grasp and entered IA. Torrance wasn't
in his office. He must have gone off in the opposite direction. "What
were you and Zim talking about?" Reid hesitated, glanced at Torrance's
vacated desk. "An old homicide case. Nothing important." Suddenly the
door flew open. Torrance stormed in.

"Leave," he told Bettencourt.

Whatever protest Reid had been about to give faded at the sight of
Torrance's deadly calm. "I'll call you later, Kate," he said, never
looking at me once. I wasn't sure what Torrance had witnessed in the
hallway. A muscle in his jaw ticked, his dark eyes unreadable. I sat,
took a sudden interest in the nap of the gray carpet, feeling as guilty
as a child caught stealing. Finally I lifted my gaze to Torrance's,
waiting for his lecture.

What I saw surprised me, and I thought perhaps I was mistaken.

A man like Torrance didn't wear his emotions on his face, allowing
others to be privy, but I could have sworn what I saw there was
disappointment-no, fear. "Ignoring the fact that we have two dead
officers, and you have a concussion, what the doctor said made no sense
to you?" "I'm fine." He closed the distance between us. He leaned down
and gripped the wooden arms of my chair, his face mere inches from mine.

His dark eyes burned into me. My pulse thudded several times while I
waited for him to

speak. It took every effort on my part not to back away.

Not that I had anywhere to go. I stared into my lap.

"Where did you think you were going?"

"Out." "Right now, you can be partnered with me, or with Zimmerman. If
you're with me, you stay with me. No exceptions." "Understood." When I
gathered the courage to look him in the eye, his gaze dropped to my
mouth. I could feel his breath on MY lips, he was so close. The seconds
ticked by. "If you try that again," he said, his voice deceptively soft,
"I'll handcuff you to the goddamn chair." Then he walked past me into
his office. I sat there for a good five minutes, not doubting for a
second that given the slightest provocation, Torrance would do exactly
as he had threatened. I thought about the way he looked at my mouth.

"Definitely not gay," I quipped to the empty room. When I dared glance
into his office, I wondered if I'd lost the last of my good sense by
taking off. I wanted to discuss Zim's and Reid's meeting. Wasn't sure
how to bring it up, since it fell into the realm of two-guys
talking-about-nothing-in-particular, which meant I was reading something
into nothing. "Let's go," Torrance said from his doorway. His voice,
while understandably terse, held none of his earlier anger.

"Go where?" I asked, surprised he was still speaking to me.

"Giovanni's." So much for my earlier speculation that he didn't want me
to find out who had ordered the pizza. The restaurant was crowded with
the usual lunch rush as the manager led us into his cramped office that
doubled as a storeroom for canned goods. "I could pull up the computer
tapes for that day. See when a small pepperoni was ordered, and who was
working delivery," he told us.

"How long will that take?" I asked.

"Depends on the time frame, and how many orders I'm sifting through.

We're talking phone orders only?"

"Anything to go," I said.

"I could have it for you by this evening." "That will be fine," Torrance
responded. He stood and shook the manager's hand.

"You don't think it was one of my people, do you?"

"No," Torrance and I said emphatically.

The young man's face flooded with relief. "I'll get right on it."

"We'd appreciate it," Torrance replied.

In the car, I thanked him.

"For what?" "I don't know. I guess I felt sort of helpless. Not knowing.

Not doing anything about this." "Cops are like that," he said, pulling
out of the parking lot. "But it's probably my fault. I should have done
this sooner." "Well, it's done now." I glanced at the digital clock on
the dash. "It's after three. I want to go home, change clothes." We were
almost to the Bay Bridge when Torrance snapped his pager from his belt,
then took a moment to read it. "Looks like your comfort will have to
wait a few.

We're wanted elsewhere."

"For what?" "Josep the FBI is requesting our presence." And as he made
an illegal U-turn, I wondered how I had forgotten about the woman who was
allegedly Dr. Patricia Mead-Scolari's lover. wasn't prepared to
interview Josephine Hilliard, but I didn't want her or Torrance to know.

On the way over, I grilled him about why he'd kept his knowledge about
Mrs. Hilliard's relationship with the doctor to himself.

"It wasn't something you needed to know," he told me.

"Excuse me?" I said. "My partner's suspected of killing his wife, and
you arbitrarily decided I don't need to know?" I couldn't keep the
sarcasm from my voice. "You taking lessons from the CIA now? Sorry,
ma'am, if we told you, we'd have to kill you?" Torrance threw me a dark
look. I chose to ignore it and plunged right on. "Did it occur to you
that I might be able to help? That I might know him better than you?

That maybe, maybe, I might be able to make-" He slammed the brakes and
pulled to the side of the road. "Look, Gillespie," he said, his fingers
gripping the steering wheel, his gaze angry. "At the time I made that
decision, I felt it was in the department's best interest. We had to
know what Scolaii knew of his wife's relationship, and if he'd ever told
you."

"In other words, you were looking for more motive.

You were using me to see if you could pin more motive on him."

"I was conducting an investigation."

"Did Reid know?"

"Yes."

"And Shipley? Markowski?" I asked, recalling a portion of their
conversation one morning, and the silence that followed once they
realized I'd overheard them. At the time, I hadn't paid much attention,
though now it was clear they'd been discussing Scolari and his wife.

Wouldn't you do the same if you found out your wife ... was gay. I'd
assumed it was the typical male bonding, we-don't-tell
those-jokes-in-front-of-females thing. Now it smacked of the
can't-tell-her-because-she's-female-therefore-not-as
good-an-investigator syndrome.

"Yes," he said, even quieter than before.

Several swear words in connection with Torrance's name hovered on the
tip of my tongue, the least of which could bring me under charges of
insubordination. "Mrs. Hilliard awaits," I said instead. Torrance looked
straight ahead, said nothing. A cable car rumbled up the hill, the
operator ringing the bell when it approached the intersection. After it
passed, Torrance signaled, and drove back into traffic. Eight minutes
later we were parked in front of Hilliard Pharmaceutical's executive
offices, and I promised myself then and there that I'd have to come up
with a line of questioning that made her-and Torrance-believe I knew
what I was talking about. I didn't see that convincing Mrs. Hilliard
would be a problem. Torrance was a different matter entirely, and I
wasn't sure why it was important that he be included in my charade of
wits.

Surely I didn't consider him a threat? Not to me, at least.

To Scolari? That had to be it. Josephine Hilliard's hilltop office
overlooked the bay, which this afternoon appeared calm despite the
increasing wind. "Come in," she told us from behind her mahogany desk.

"Please, have a seat." She indicated two leather armchairs placed with a
Niew to the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, a half dozen or
so pelicans circled over the bay, their wings flashing silver in the
sunlight.

Torrance and I both entered and sat, ignoring the picturesque scene.

"May I get you a drink?" She crossed the room, her footfall silent on
the thick white carpet. She opened an armoire made of the same polished
wood as her desk. There was enough liquor inside the thing to supply an
entire shift party, though I doubted any cops I knew would appreciate
the quality labels on her bottles.

"no thanks," I said.

Torrance shook his head. "Well, then." She poured herself a vodka and
tonic, smiled, returned to her desk, and sat. "What can I do for you?"

"You called us," I reminded her.

"You did want to interview me?"

"Of course."