Knock Off (15 page)
It was eleven minutes before midnight, and I learned from Big Ethel that night court stopped accepting bail motions at the stroke of twelve.
Pacing in the six-feet-by-three-feet cage, I felt a surge of something new. Something unrelated to the fact that I was in police custody and dressed like the Pillsbury Dough Girl.
In the past, this kind of adversity would send me straight to an all-day spa to bury my embarrassed head in a facial wrap. Maybe flashing my ass to Charlie had put things in perspective. I was getting close to thirty and what did I have? Credit-card debt.
But now, for the first time ever, I had a Cause, with a capital C. I would crack the Evans case, keep my job, and restore my dignity.
Problem was, I didn’t have a clue how to go about doing those things.
But wait! I was smart, resourceful, and more determined than Boo-Boo when he’d sunk his gnarly teeth into my flesh to see this through. I was done with doubts, regardless of who thought I was or wasn’t capable. Screw Dane, screw Liam, and anyone else who got in my way.
I felt inspired after my mental pep talk, but I also wanted the hell out of jail. As if on command, I heard Becky’s voice in the other room. I had four minutes to make a motion for release. If not, I was supposed to do rock, paper, scis-sors with Big Ethel to see who got dibs on the lower bunk.
“You cut it a bit close,” I snapped at Becky as we exited the courthouse and I sucked in deep breaths of fresh air.
“Freedom is a wonderful thing.”
“You were only locked up for three hours.”
“In this,” I groused, yanking on the front of my jumpsuit. My clothes—or what was left of them—were in a plastic drawstring bag hanging from my wrist.
“Well, I’d say you bit off more than you could chew, but the way I hear it, you weren’t the one doing the biting.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “It was a good plan. Only the execution sucked.”
“Ya think?”
Becky drove me back to my apartment, listening intently as I filled her in on the information I’d gathered thus far. By the time we were at my front door, she seemed almost as spooked as me.
“Why don’t you pack a bag and stay with me?” she suggested.
“I was thinking about that while I was in the pen.”
“It was county lockup, and you were in a holding cell, not solitary.”
“I think AfterAll is trying to scare me off.”
“And doing a fine job of it,” Becky remarked.
I glanced over to find her studying the note from my drawer. “Cripe, Finley, you need to give this to the cops.”
“In the works,” I assured her. “Don’t touch that. A de-tective is going to call me first thing tomorrow to make arrangements to pick up the note and my computer.”
Becky’s head whipped up. “You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can. I spoke to a nice sergeant, and he—”
“I mean you are barred by the Canon of Ethics from turning over your laptop.”
“But it’s mine,” I reasoned. “I have the twenty-two-percent finance charge agreement to prove it.”
“You’ve used it for work, though, right?”
I nodded. “A few times. A lot in the last week.”
“Then the data contained on that machine is attorney-client work product and can’t be turned over to anyone without prior written consent and waiver by the client.”
“The police said their tech people could track down whoever sent me the IM. They also agreed to test the note for fingerprints and other bio-something-or-another stuff.
They told me it would probably only take a matter of hours for them to know who sent this to me.”
“You can’t do it,” Becky stated flatly.
Tossing my hands in the air, I let them fall to my sides with a frustrated smack. “I’m not a lawyer, I’m the victim, so those canons shouldn’t apply.”
“They always apply. We’ll have the firm’s tech people go over your laptop, and I’m sure that totally hot investigator, Liam, can find someone capable of lifting prints and/or DNA from the note.”
I flopped down on my sofa and cautiously curled my legs beneath me, not wanting to irritate my already sore tush, as I hugged a pillow to my chest. “This isn’t fair.”
“C’mon, Finley”—Becky glanced down at her watch—
“pack a bag and come to my place. In the meantime, I’ll call the police and explain why you can’t turn over your computer or the note.”
I shook my head, dismayed by the surrealness of it all.
“Toss me the phone. I’ll call Sam and see if he’s home.”
He was, and after a tiny bit of coaxing, he agreed to spend the night so long as he could bring his own bed-sheets—he doesn’t do anything under one thousand thread count—and the cats.
Becky hung around until Sam showed. It took him two trips.
“Be careful, and watch out for her,” she warned Sam.
“I’m your girl,” Sam insisted with a dramatic salute.
While I showered and changed into my PJs, Sam first covered the sofa with a body pillow, then created a makeshift bed that looked as comfy as the one in my room. Butch and Sundance were stalking around the kitchen, getting the lay of the land. Either that or they were looking for someplace discreet to pee.
Sam had changed, too, into a pair of silk pajamas with bright red, green, and gold stripes. He looked a lot like a clown, sans red nose and wig, but since he was kind enough to hang out with me, I didn’t dare share that thought.
“How was your weekend?” I asked, pulling one of the chairs off the patio to join him.
One look at his deflated expression and I had my answer. “He’s redoing the beach house as an anniversary surprise for his wife. I got the impression she’d be more surprised if she found out what we did in the hot tub, but what’s a guy to do?”
“Sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.” He sighed. “He’s an interesting man. I think, under different circumstances, we could build a life together.”
“Sure, if it wasn’t for the fact that he bats for both teams.”
I got up, wincing at the stiffness in my thigh, and scrounged around in the kitchen. I was really tired—getting arrested can be exhausting. “Want something to drink?”
“Nope.”
I looked over and saw him studying the medical reports and photos. “Sure?”
“Uh huh.”
Grabbing the last bottle of Diet Coke from the vegetable bin, I twisted the cap and checked to see if I was a winner in their latest game. I wasn’t.
Sam’s legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
One of the cats was curled into a ball by his feet; the other was nowhere to be seen. “What does ‘probable injection site’ mean?” he asked.
“Sometimes the paramedics or nurses can’t get an IV
positioned, so they try another location, like the hand or sometimes the wrist. Why?”
“This Keller guy had one.”
I took a long sip of my soda. “He had a lot of stuff, Sam. They were trying to save his life.”
“Before they got to him?”
“What?”
He sat up, leaning over to highlight the notation with his fingernail. “See? Right here. The paramedics noted a suspected injection site on his neck when they found him on the floor of the Kravis Center.”
I’d been so focused on the hospital findings that I’d pretty much glossed over the EMS reports. “You are brilliant,” I said, kissing him full on the lips. Then, “Where are the postmortem photographs?” I asked rhetorically as I started sifting through the piles on the table. “Success.”
Taking the cheap magnifying glass, I went over every cen-timeter of the picture until I found it. A small, reddish pin-prick about two inches below Keller’s right ear. “Someone injected him with something. I’ve got to call my mother.”
“I know the two of you have your problems, but do you honestly believe your mother gave Keller some sort of injection?”
I shook my head and smiled. “No, she only kills her young.”
“So why call her?”
“Give me a minute,” I insisted, as I tugged the cordless free from the base and pressed the assigned speed-dial number.
“Hello?”
“Mom?” I breathed excitedly, relieved that she answered the phone. She has a habit of turning off the ringers and forgetting to turn them back on again.
“It’s well after midnight, Finley.”
And we both know you never go to sleep before two.
“I’m sorry, but I need to ask you a question about the opening night of
Figaro.
”
“An exceptional performance,” she proclaimed. “I did offer to get you a ticket, but as I recall, you had made other plans. I’m not sure what they were, as you were rather evasive when I—”
I’ll stand still for the verbal spanking later.
“A guy had a heart attack that night.”
“It was quite distressing.”
“You were there?”
“Do I ever miss an opening night?”
“Right. Of course you were there. What do you remember?”
“It was intermission, people were mingling, and then I saw him crumble right there. Practically at my feet. You have no idea how that affected me.”
It didn’t work out too well for Graham Keller, either.
“Was anyone with him or around him before he collapsed?”
“Talk about a blessing,” my mom gushed. “As it happened, Dr. Hall and his family were right there. The doctor insisted someone call nine-one-one while he started CPR.”
“Dr. Hall?” I repeated, a chill settling in the pit of my stomach.
“He’s a renowned cardiologist, Finley. What else would he do under those circumstances?”
If Hall was all involved in treating Keller at the scene, why wasn’t that listed anywhere in the medical records?
“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”
“Yes,” she answered testily. “He followed the ambulance that took Mr. Keller to the hospital. Which didn’t seem to sit well with his wife.” Another thing omitted from the hospital records.
“Mrs. Hall?”
“She wouldn’t be Mrs. Hall if she wasn’t his wife,” Mom shot back brusquely. “Finley, what is all this about?”
“Were the Halls and the Kellers close?”
“I believe I saw them at some of the same functions, but, no, I never got the impression they socialized, just passed one another at the occasional charity event.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I was about to hang up the phone when I remembered that would be a huge mistake. Quickly, I added, “Thanks again for brunch. I enjoyed seeing you.
Bye.”
I shared my new information with Sam, watching his eyes widen as I spoke.
“So you think Dr. Hall injected Keller with something that killed him?”
I paced between the entertainment center and the coffee table, nibbling the tip of my chipped thumbnail while my mind spun possibilities. “Hall’s financials show regular donations to the Opera Society, only, according to my mother, the Society wasn’t getting the cash. Keller died with a safe full of unknown-origin cash.”
“So Keller was blackmailing Hall, so Hall killed him?”
I took a theatrical bow. “I believe I have cracked the case. Thank you very much.”
“Well done, Agatha Christie, but aren’t you forgetting about the other two dead guys?”
I straightened, scowling. “There’s that. Maybe Hall killed them to cover up the fact that he murdered Keller.”
“But until you, no one thought Keller’s death was a murder.”
“Stop shooting holes in my theories.”
“I’m being a sounding board,” Sam corrected, turning onto his side and bracing his head against his palm. “The landscaper?”
“José Vasquez?”
“Yeah, he was the first to die, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then Keller, then Marcus Evans. But Keller was the one with the Hall’s money squirreled away? Presumably because he’d been blackmailing the good doctor.”
My feelings of jubilee were draining quickly. “Vasquez might have been Hall’s first target because a lowly gardener would be an obvious suspect in a blackmail scheme.
I didn’t see anything at the Vasquez home to indicate José left behind any secret rolls of cash.
“Hall must have figured out that Keller was the blackmailer. But once he killed Keller, there was no reason to kill Marcus.”
“Unless they were in on it together. Maybe Keller and Marcus and Vasquez, or some combination of the three, were all involved in the blackmail.”
That had possibilities. “It would help if I knew why, or maybe
what
they had on Dr. Hall.” I went back to pacing.
“An important detail,” Sam agreed. “Maybe the other jurors know?”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “I’ve been too focused on proving the jurors were killed. What I really need to know is
why.
”
I assume full responsibility for my actions,
except the ones that I think are someone else’s fault.
Thirteen
“Good God, Finley, your phone’s been ringing non—
stop.”
Sam was exaggerating, as usual. I’d received only three calls: Liv and Jane offered sympathy after hearing about my injury and arrest. Becky checked in as well, making sure I was okay and reminding me that I needed to bring my laptop and the note into work. I promised to hand over the computer if she’d work on finding out who I had to suck up to at the police department in order to get my car out of the impound lot.
Sam remained prone on the sofa, one arm flung over his eyes as I zipped around my apartment, trying to get everything together since I’d already called for a cab.
“I need money,” I told him. It was already after eight so I didn’t have a lot of time for pleasantries.
“Don’t we all,” he said without moving a muscle.
“I need it now,” I clarified. “I’ve got seven dollars, a few coins, and six Tic Tacs to my name. I’ll hit an ATM during lunch and give it back to you tonight.”
“Right front pocket of my pants,” he said. “Take what you need.”
“Thanks.” I took a twenty, then kissed his forehead.
Slinging my briefcase onto my shoulder, I started for the door when the bell chimed.
“Have a nice day, honey,” Sam teased.
When I opened the door, the word “hello” lodged in my throat. I didn’t think Liam moonlighted as a cabbie or had a paper route, yet here he was.
“Good morning,” he said, stepping over my laptop carrier and the white file box I had stacked and at-the-ready.
“Yes, it is,” I heard Sam say. Apparently, my friend was suddenly fully awake and no doubt fantasizing about the tall, dark man sauntering into the living room. How was it possible for him to have such bad gay-dar?
“Sam, this is Liam. Liam, Sam.”
“You’ve been busy,” Liam said, looking at me and
drumming the rolled newspaper on the edge of the coffee table.
“If this is about the whole thing at Charlie’s Garage—”
“I took care of it,” he cut in. “Charlie’s going down to drop the charges later today.”
I felt relief roll through me. “Thanks.”
“I heard his dog took a bite out of your . . . crime.”
“Very funny.” I still gripped the knob on the open door.
“I’ve got to get to work.”
“I figured as much,” Liam said, digging into the pocket of his really well-fitted jeans, then taunting me by dangling my key between his thumb and forefinger.
Closing the door, I went for the key like a desperate bridesmaid during the bouquet toss. “I thought it was impounded.”
He shrugged, and I inhaled, savoring the scent of his soap in the space between us. Reaching for my key, I felt the cool metal against my palm and the searing heat where his fingertips touched my skin. Our eyes locked, and I allowed myself to enjoy the liquid warmth spreading through me. It was one of those electric, tingly moments that don’t happen too often. At least not to me.
“Hello? Gay man sleeping here?”
The moment was over, I practically jumped away from Liam. “Um, thank you. I really appreciate you taking care of it. It was really . . . I thought there’d be forms . . .” I let my voice trail off. Rambling isn’t one of the things I do best.
“I still have a few friends on the force.” Unfolding my paper, he spread one of the inside pages open. “But you don’t.”
Looking down, I read the two-inch piece in the morning police blotter: LOCAL PARALEGAL HELD IN BURGLARY. The crime reporter cited Dane-Lieberman as my employer—in bold type, no less. And hinted that the crime I allegedly committed was linked to a new investigation of a prominent Palm Beach cardiologist who’d previously been involved in a notorious malpractice trial.
That was wrong. I’d never made that claim to the officers. I guess I should be grateful they hadn’t printed Dr.
Hall’s name. Oh, and they got my age wrong. I heard myself say, indignantly of course, “I’m twenty-nine, not thirty.”
Liam chuckled. “Talk about your absolute journalistic disregard for the truth.” I ignored the tsk-tsk sounds he was making between loud, dramatic sighs. That warm, fuzzy feeling I’d so enjoyed was totally gone, replaced by utter panic. “Vain Dane will have a cow when he reads this. A herd of cows.”
“A herd would be cattle,” Liam corrected, very clearly amused.
I snarled at him, sorely tempted to smack the mocking grin off his too-handsome face.
“Maybe he won’t notice,” Sam offered sympathetically.
“Really, Finley, who reads the
Crime Blotter?
”
“Lawyers.”
Damn, damn, and triple damn.
“I’ve got to get to work. Maybe I can sneak into my office before anyone else is at their desk.” I turned to Liam. “You can help me cart that stuff to my car on your way out.”
“Why not? Happy to help.” He stood, leaving the newspaper behind, then tossed a “Nice to meet you” to Sam.
“My pleasure,” he practically purred. “I’ll lock up, Finley. Feel free to call me later.”
Translation: Sam wanted to be among the first to know when the proverbial shit hit the fan. Oh, and he probably wanted to know if Liam had an identical, gay twin.
“I have the cup from the car and the blood samples from the hospital,” Liam mentioned as he lifted the box into the trunk of my car.
“Already?”
“I’m efficient. I should know something in a few hours.”
“Call my cell,” I told him, reciting the number again.
“Will do.” He held out a bright orange card, smiled, and walked toward his car.
How had he managed to get both cars here at once? I would have asked, but then I looked down at the card he’d given me. It was the GET OUT OF JAIL FREE card from a
Mo-nopoly
game. Turning it over, I read his bold, block hand-printing: Impound Fine—$150.00; Towing—$70.00; Bite
in the Ass—Priceless.
“Jackass,” I grumbled, though I was smiling as I said it.
I made it to the office before nine but not before Margaret. One look at her pinched face and I knew she’d read about my weekend exploits. Knowing her, she’d probably scanned the clipping and e-mailed it as an attachment to every Dane-Lieberman employee, up to and including the janitor.
Even though I was balancing the box, my briefcase, my laptop carrier, and my purse, she insisted I sign the penance clipboard.
I piled my things on her desk, knowing full well she hated it when people disturbed her space. It was the only thing I could do since I wasn’t exactly in a position of power.
My job was dangling precariously by a thread, and I didn’t dare do anything overtly confrontational.
A covert moment, however, was a whole different thing.
While she was distracted by an incoming call, I looked at the message on top of one of her neatly, alphabetically-arranged-by-recipient piles. Even upside down it caught my attention. Jason Quinn, Esquire, wanted Vain Dane to return his call ASAP. In the reference line, Margaret had written
Graham Keller, Jr.
I knew Jason Quinn by reputation. He was a big-time Miami attorney who handled a lot of high-profile trials and made regular appearances on national television. He had serious clout.
Margaret waited—on purpose, I’m sure—until my hands were full before she offered me my messages. Tucking them between my chin and chest, I went to the elevator, pressed the button with my knuckle and almost wept with joy when I stepped inside and the doors closed behind me.
Only one member of the administrative staff was at her desk, and she didn’t even look up as I shuffled my way down the hall to my office. With the exceptions of my laptop and my purse, I dumped everything onto one of the chairs, then pulled the messages out from under my chin.
As I sorted through them, I turned on my coffeepot.
Seven of the nine jurors from the Hall trial had called.
Why hadn’t they left me a voice mail?
Because, I discovered a few minutes later when I went in to record my daily message, someone had blocked my voice mail box. Someone inside the firm. Not one of the partners personally—they didn’t do mundane things like that. More likely it was one of their minions. I imagined Margaret downstairs doing a Snoopy dance now that all my incoming calls were routed through her pudgy, power-hungry hands.
Nine A.M. and all’s Hell,
I announced in the privacy of my own mind. Someone—I couldn’t remember who— once said the best defense is a strong offense, so I decided it was time for me to be as offensive as possible.
I started with Stacy Evans. She seemed genuinely horrified that I’d been mauled while gathering evidence. Okay, so maybe I overstated the extent of my injury, but I needed to make sure she was still my ally. She was.
“Is your job in jeopardy because of the incident at the garage?” she asked.
Big time.
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’d be happy to talk to Victor. He called while I was in the shower, so I’ll be speaking with him anyway. I’m quite pleased with the dedication you’ve demonstrated thus far.
Victor needs to know what a valuable asset you are to the firm.”
“Please don’t say anything,” I said quickly. “At least not yet. Once I have the lab results, I’ll be in a better position to brief Mr. Dane, and I’m sure all this will blow over.”
“I know he’ll be impressed, Finley. And to think he wanted to reassign this to his niece.”
“Excuse me?”
“His niece. Carly. Candy, something like that.”
“Cami?” I asked.
“Yes. That one. Pleasant enough, but I told Victor I wasn’t interested in having an intern, even one related to him by marriage, take over the case.”
Well, well. I now understood why Cami had been shadowing me all last week.
Poacher. Screw her.
After I hung up, I poured some coffee while I mulled over my options. A slow smile formed as I again reached for the phone. Stacy’s revelation had answered a nagging question for me.
“Cami Hunnicutt.”
“I’m so glad you’re in.”
You back-stabbing, interoffice
spy.
“I need someone I can trust.”
Which so isn’t you.
“Yes?” Her interest was palpable. “What can I do for you?”
“Could you come to my office? I’m not comfortable discussing this on the phone.”
“Sure. Ten minutes?”
“Great.”
Using that time to my benefit, I put the phone messages from the jurors through the scanner on my desk and made copies. Folded them in quarters, then tucked them into my purse. Next I downloaded all my notes on the Evans investigation to a memory stick and slipped that inside one of the zippered compartments in my purse. Which left me just enough time to hit the copy room and load the medical files into the machine. It could do the work while I picked Cami’s brain.
When Cami arrived, I was seated behind my desk, Friday night’s threatening note in plain view on my desk, sealed in a plastic zipper bag. I carefully gauged her reaction when her eyes dropped to the page.
“Holy crud, Finley. What is this? When did you get it?”
I briefly explained the circumstances. “The same person sent me an e-mail expressing a similar sentiment.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Me?”
I took a slow, deliberate sip of my coffee, never breaking eye contact with Cami. “Stacy Evans outed you.”
Color stained her cheeks. To give her credit, once she realized I knew, she didn’t try to lie. “It wasn’t my idea.
Uncle Victor told me to keep tabs on you. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”
“You could have given me a heads-up.”
“In fairness to me, Finley, he did warn you not to make a big deal over Mrs. Evans’s unsubstantiated suspicions.
You chose not to let it go.”
“Was it his idea to try and scare me off or yours?”
Her brows drew together as her mouth dropped open.
“That’s crazy. Uncle Victor wouldn’t threaten you, and neither would I.”
“No one else knew what I was doing.”
“Apparently someone does,” Cami insisted.
I’m pretty good at reading people, and I was convinced that neither Cami nor Vain Dane were AfterAll. “Why was Dr. Hall here last week?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“You owe me. It was pretty crappy of you to skulk around and report my comings and goings to Va—Mr.
Dane. I don’t care if he is your uncle.”
Cami sighed, then relented. “It was a nothing meeting.
The daughter, Zoe, turned eighteen a few months ago so they were just updating beneficiary information and changing their wills since the kid’s now of legal age.”
“Nothing about Marcus Evans?”
“I was in the room,” Cami said. “The subject of the trial came up once. Dr. Hall said something to the effect that he hoped the matter would remain closed. The wife and the daughter both asked if Mrs. Whitley could file a second malpractice lawsuit, and Uncle Victor told them it wasn’t allowed under the law.”
“What about Graham Keller or José Vasquez? Either of those names come up?”
She shook her head. “The only thing slightly out of the ordinary happened as the Halls were leaving.”
My pulse skipped. “What?”
“Dr. Hall forgot to sign one of the forms, so he came back upstairs alone. I was outside Uncle Victor’s office, but the door was ajar. I couldn’t hear the conversation, just a name.
Helen Callahan.”
My pulse went from skipping to racing. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. The partners are upstairs right now discussing your future here.”
“I figured as much. Guess they weren’t too impressed to learn I’m facing a B & E charge.”
“You might be okay. Becky Jameson talked Lieberman into letting her plead your case. Becky was waiting outside the executive conference room when I came down.”
It was nice to know my friend had my back. But even better to know I had a new lead and a new theory. Even if both elements had a few holes.
As soon as Cami left, I considered another pressing problem. Putting my notes on a flash drive and copying a few dozen pages of medical and accident reports was one thing. Glancing over at the huge stack of trial transcripts, I knew there was no way in hell I’d be able to sneak those out of the office.
