Hazardous Duty (11 page)

“Gabby, they found stolen items from the
house in his car.”

“Someone smart enough to stage a murder,
vicious enough to murder his wife, desperate enough to shoot himself, tough
enough to leave the hospital with a bullet wound in his leg, and cold-blooded
enough to burn down a house with an innocent woman inside might dare to plant
evidence.”

“Yeah.” He bent down until his nose
almost touched mine. “Or maybe no one’s that smart, vicious, desperate, and
cold-blooded. Maybe you’re just reaching because you can’t stand that you hired
a petty thief who was stupid enough to torch the crime scene without checking
that you’d left yet. Just because a person is nice, doesn’t mean they’re not
guilty.”

“Are you sure about that? Criminals
aren’t usually all that nice.” His bossiness irritated me, and as I looked at
him, standing there defending Cunningham, sneering at my theories and
condemning Harold, I couldn’t remember why I’d ever liked the big jerk.

“Gabby, be reasonable.”

“I have no intention of being
reasonable,” I said, tilting my nose in the air. Then I furrowed my brow trying
to remember what I’d just said. With a shrug, I decided it didn’t make any
difference.

“I don’t want to talk about this
anymore.” I turned away. Then my pesky conscience reminded me that Riley had
saved my life. I just didn’t have it in me to be gracious right now. “Thanks
for all of your help today, but I need to go to bed now. Goodnight.”

Storming away, I took the stairs by two
and hurried to my apartment. I stripped out of my jeans and T-shirt as I walked
to the bathroom. Pushing my mop of strawberry blond curls out of my face with a
headband, I washed my face, and patted it dry with a towel.

Someone tried to kill you. Again.

I pulled on some running shorts and an
old T-shirt and crawled into bed, determined to get some rest. As soon as I
turned the light on my nightstand off, cold fear crept into my bones.

Someone tried to kill you. Again.

I shivered. The dark room closed in
around me.

It was still better than the place where
Harold was spending the night.

I pictured him sitting in a jail cell.
Poor Harold. Poor Mildred. They were too kind to go through this.

Of course, Riley thought my assistant
was guilty. But he didn’t know Harold the way I did. Harold was a good man.

He did jail time for arson before.

Yeah, but a person could change. Harold
had changed.

I pulled the covers up to my chin and
drew in a deep breath, trying to slow my heartbeat. I knew what I had to do.

I would prove that Harold was innocent,
if it was the last thing I did.

Chapter Twelve

The stench in the apartment
turned my stomach. How had someone lived in this mess? Cat feces smeared across
almost every surface, and the carpet reeked with urine.

My gag reflexes kicked into gear, and I
pressed my mask tighter.

Staring at the mess would do nothing to
get it cleaned. I might as well get to work. It would probably be an all day
task, even though it was just a one bedroom apartment.

Mindful of my injured hand, I sprayed
down the walls with a heavy duty cleaner. I left the liquid to absorb for a few
minutes, as I pulled up the carpet. No amount of cleaning would remove its
odor. I rolled it and tugged it, inch by inch, out the door. I turned back to
the walls and wiped the white plaster down.

I sure did miss Harold. Working alone
wasn’t nearly as fun or productive. If I wasn’t miffed with Riley, I might have
asked him to come along and earn a few extra dollars.

Just the thought of Riley caused a
weight to rest on my shoulders. His reaction had been so strong, I’d let my
temper get the best of me.

In the light of day, I knew I’d
overreacted. I scrubbed away, wallowing in equal parts cat dander and guilt.
Riley had been a sweetheart up until that fatal conversation. He’d taken me to
the police station, played with Harold’s grandkids, warned me about the package
before I opened it. Good grief, give the man some chain mail and he’d have
brought chivalry back to life single-handedly.

Then he told me to let the detectives do
the job and I’d turned on him. Thanks for saving my life, buddy, but what have
you done for me lately?

I lifted stacks of putrid newspaper off
the countertops. Today’s heart stopping deadlines, tomorrow’s discount kitty
litter. Stuffing the newspaper in garbage bags, I wondered why I should have
expected him to be concerned about me? We’d only know each other two days. But
I’d felt a connection to him from the first. Did he feel it, too? Could there
be something between us?

Knowing my past track record with men,
probably not. I always seemed to fall for the ones who were no good for me, the
jerks. Riley was a nice guy. Except that he thought I was a moron who hired
criminals. He seemed to like and respect a man I’d accused of murder. And he
seemed to be unemployed. So maybe I was on track as usual.

So what was I going to do with these
feelings?

Considering the stress I was under, the
best answer was, “do nothing.”

My cell phone rang. Detective Parker.

“I just talked to the bomb squad. They
told me what happened last night.” His voice sounded surprisingly kind and
relaxed. Yeah, right. I sucked in a breath, waiting for the lecture to come.
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

I raised an eyebrow. The detective
sounded genuinely concerned. He must be having a good hair day. Or maybe Hollywood had called and
asked him to be a stunt double. Better yet, maybe the BTK Strangler had been
cleared of all charges and released. Parker seemed to like having guilty men on
the street.

“Yeah, I’m glad someone stopped me
before I opened the package. It could have taken out more than just me, or so
I’ve heard.”

His voice seemed to soften. “Look, I
just wanted you to know we’re doing everything we can to figure out who sent
you the package.”

I felt like I was in an episode of the
Twilight Zone. Why was the detective being so open and nice? Quite the change
from the hostile man I’d talked to yesterday. Maybe I’d just caught him on a
bad hair day.

My best friend was turning into a
woodland creature. A man I had feelings for thought his parrot was smarter than
me. My only employee might be going up the river. I didn’t have it in me to
alienate Parker just because he’d had his body snatched and been replaced by
someone with manners. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“And Gabby?” His voice sounded warm
enough to toast acorns. Maybe I should introduce him to Sierra.

“Yeah?” I stopped scraping cat mess off
the mob board to pay attention to the only person on the planet still speaking
to me.

“I just want you to
know . . .”

I took a deep breath. Emotion clogged my
throat. Well, emotion and cat hair, but who was keeping track at this point?
Brad Pitt was worried about me.

“I’m here for you. Any time.
Day . . .” A long lingering silence, full of promise stretched
between us across the phone lines. “Or night.”

After hanging up, I stared at the phone.

What do you know? I thought. Maybe the
detective did have a heart and a brain, after all. But I’d have to watch the
news for that report on the BTK Strangler, just in case.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, the garage
working on my van called. They’d changed the tires, replaced the windshield and
a whole bunch of other things that I didn’t understand. It seemed a near
miracle to get my van back so quickly. Sierra had dropped me off and I found my
mode of transportation looking as good as new.

And now that I had my own set of wheels,
I was determined to get some answers. Starting with Michael Cunningham.

I’d thought about it for the entire
evening. Okay, I’d thought about it most of the time. Thoughts of Riley had
slipped in there a few times, too. Thoughts of his smile, his eyes, his total
lack of confidence in my judgment. I scowled.

It would only make sense to stop by
Cunningham’s mother’s house. After all, she was the one who hired me to clean
the house. Strictly business. Totally innocent. Brilliantly devious. If I could
oh so subtly grill the old lady, maybe I could find something to prove Harold
was innocent.

It was the only thing I could come up
with.

I pulled out the phone book and searched
the
c’
s.

“Cunningham, Cunningham,” I mumbled.

There it was. Susan Cunningham,

Stuffing the phone book back in place, I
hurried to my van. As I started down the road, I pulled out my cell phone and
dialed Mildred’s number. She answered on the first ring. “It’s been terrible,
Gabby. Reporters keep calling.”

“You don’t have to tell them anything,
Mildred.”

“I know. But Harold is going to be found
guilty by the press before he’s even tried.”

“What are they saying today? Any
updates?”

“They said his fingerprints were all
over the evidence.”

I thought about that for a moment. If
Harold hadn’t stolen those things, then someone had come in the house and
picked up things Harold had touched, planning to frame him for arson. It had to
have happened while I was there alone, because with two of us there, no one
could have sneaked in. How long had I been alone in that house with a murderer?
Had they known I was still there? Was my presence a surprise to the arsonist,
or did they intend for the charge of arson against Harold to include murder? Or
did they just need to get rid of the evidence in the house and not have the
patience to wait for me to leave? A man in a hurry to get back to the hospital
before he was missed might be willing to kill, especially if he’d done it
before.

“Of course, his fingerprints were on the
evidence. We were cleaning the house. He probably touched things along the
way.” I shuddered to think of a murderer watching us. Picking up things Harold
had touched. Tucking them into Harold’s car later that night.

Mildred sniffled. “It’s not looking
good, Gabby. Everything seems to point to him. It’s almost like he was set up
or something.”

It was exactly like he’d been set up,
but I wasn’t going to tell Mildred that now. She had enough to worry about.
“How’s he doing?”

“As well as can be expected. We have a
lawyer. You didn’t tell me that’s what your friend did for a living.”

I didn’t have any lawyers as friends. I
religiously stuck with blue collar workers, eccentrics whom no one else liked,
and psychos. Me and lawyers didn’t mesh. “My friend?”

“Yes, the young man who was with you
yesterday. Riley.”

I started forward. So much for my
freeloader theory. “Yes, Riley. He is a nice guy.”

“He certainly is. He promised he would
take care of us. What an answer to prayer. We didn’t have the money to hire anyone,
otherwise.”

Warmth filled my chest. “Let me know if
I can do anything for you, Mildred. You know I’m just a phone call away.”

“Thanks, sweetie. With my sister here,
we’re doing okay, for now.”

I hung up and shook my head. Riley a
lawyer? Why hadn’t he mentioned that? My heart softened. It was kind of him to
take on this case. Perhaps I’d passed judgment too quickly.

The traffic became heavier on the
interstate as rush hour began. I turned the vent toward my face to cool off,
unsure if it was the heat or what I was about to do that had me sweating.

Don’t think about it, Gabby. You’ll only
talk yourself out of it.

I turned on the radio to an AM station,
hoping to catch the news. An anchor came on, and I turned the volume louder.

“A trial date has been set for William
Newsome, the man accused of armed robbery and the death of Gloria Cunningham.
The original trial date was set for this week, but it was delayed when Gloria
Cunningham turned up dead in her home. Newsome is accused of murdering
Cunningham, the only witness that placed him at the scene of an earlier crime,
a convenience store robbery.”

A different voice came on the radio.
“There’s no question that Newsome is guilty. It’s just a matter of whether or
not he’ll receive the death penalty.” It had to be the prosecuting attorney
speaking, I mused.

“In a bizarre twist, the Cunningham’s
house was burned down earlier this week. Harold Morris, a cleaner who was at
the home, has been accused of the crime. The motive appears to have been
robbery.”

I hit the off button. I couldn’t listen
any more. I went through the downtown tunnel and crossed into Portsmouth. Only a few more turns and I would
be there.

What would I say?
Hi, Mrs.
Cunningham? Did you know there was a sale on ammo at Wal-Mart this week? I’ll
bet your son needs to restock.

Any un-investigated trail of dead
bodies in your family, just since your son was born?

Has your son, the senator-to-be, ever
tortured small animals?

Don’t think about it, I told myself.
Just go with it as it comes.

The more I planned, the bigger the
explosion when things blew up in my face. Like when I confronted my former
neighbor about his loud music. I’d planned out exactly what to say, but when
the conversation was over, my neighbor promised to turn his music up louder so
I could better hear his personal Top 40. I thanked him and went home.
Later—like two days later—I came up with great responses that I should have
used. Of course, in fairness, before he finally moved, I’d developed a taste
for Metallica and The Rolling Stones that remained with me to this day, so the
experience wasn’t a total loss. In fact, it helped broaden my tastes and shape
me into the person I am today—one who can annoyingly quote the lyrics to
thousands of songs of different styles and generations. Who said I couldn’t get
no satisfaction?