Knock Off (18 page)
ous piles I’d semi-organized.
“A one-month slap on the wrist. No biggie.”
Shifting his weight to his hands, he used the armrests to leverage himself out of the chair. “Okay, we can pick this up again when you get back.”
“Wait!” Yelling was overkill, but I couldn’t seem to contain myself. Every drop of panic inside me came out in that single word. “What do you mean, ‘pick this up again’?”
“As soon as you’re back at work on the Evans case, I will be, too.”
I nearly tripped as I rushed to close the door before he could leave. I was careful to keep my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m still on the Evans case, and so are you.”
Cocking his head to one side, Liam asked, “The bosses are letting you moonlight?”
“Not exactly,” I hedged. “You and I both know something hinky is going on here. I need to prove it to everyone else.”
“And I need to get paid. I don’t work for free.”
“I already took care of that. Mrs. Evans is happy to pay you directly.”
“And when the people here find out about it, they’ll never use me again. Do you have any idea how much business I get from this firm?”
“I won’t tell if you don’t. C’mon, Liam, be a nice guy and help me out here.”
He shook his head. “When did I ever give you the impression that I was a nice guy?”
I began clicking things off on my finger. “You got Charlie to drop the charges against me. You brought me my car.”
“Which reminds me, you still owe me two hundred and twenty dollars for that.”
I held his gaze. “I know you believe that Marcus and the others were murdered. You know I’m right.”
“ ‘Right’ is often overrated.”
“Stacy Evans is willing to cover all expenses,” I said again, just in case, like me, he was worried about paying the rent.
“Besides, you can’t leave me hanging in the breeze. It
shouldn’t take much longer to find out what really happened. I must be getting close or the killer wouldn’t be trying and almost succeeding to scare me off. Wouldn’t you feel horrible if you walked away now and something terrible happened to the other jurors?” Or me?
He sucked in a breath, then blew it out slowly in the direction of his forehead. His ever present wayward lock of hair momentarily moved back into place. “I don’t like being guilted into things.”
“Then avoid my mother at all costs.”
I held my breath as I watched the indecision play out on his face. “I know I’m going to regret this.”
“No, you won’t.”
“The lab results are ready. I need fifteen hundred bucks before I can pick them up. And, since this isn’t Dane-Lieberman–authorized, they’ll want cash or a money order.”
I made a quick call to Stacy. She agreed to messenger the money to Liam immediately. “Where should she send it?”
“I’ll need a retainer, too.”
“How much?”
“Three grand.”
I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Three thousand dollars plus the lab fees? Don’t you think you’re getting a little greedy? Her husband was just murdered. Do you really think now is a good time to take advantage of her?”
“I’ve already put time into this case. I’ve got obligations, too. Or, if she doesn’t like the price, I can bag the whole thing.”
I narrowed my eyes, glaring at him, while I broke the news to Stacy. She wasn’t exactly thrilled but accepted the terms. A messenger would deliver the money to Liam in the parking lot of the lab no later than three.
As I was hanging up the phone, Liam pulled a slightly
mangled manila envelop from his back pocket and gave it to me. “Dr. Hall’s bank statements for the last six months.”
I tested its weight in my hand but didn’t open it immediately. “How’d you get confidential bank records?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
I shook my head. “I want you to take this note to some-body and have it dusted for fingerprints.”
“You put it in a baggie?” The amused smirk was back, and seeing it really yanked on my last good nerve.
“I was preserving any potential evidence,” I stated in my most clipped, professional voice. “And what about the background information on the jurors?”
“Still waiting on a few things. I’ll bring you what I’ve got after I pick up the lab results. Should be able to be here by four.”
“Make it a little later. I’m meeting Paula Yardley at three. I should be back here by four-thirty.”
He made a “T” with his hands. “You’re meeting one of the jurors?”
I nodded. “All of them, actually.”
“Does the word ‘dangerous’ mean anything to you?”
“She’s a suburban soccer mom with three kids. I think I can take her.”
Liam had much the same “I’d like to strangle you” look that Dane had shown me a little earlier. “Do you have a gun?”
“Of course not.”
“A knife? Some self-defense training? Anything?”
My patience was practically nonexistent at this point.
“I’ve got a nail file and a bad attitude. Those will have to suffice for now. If there’s nothing else”—I paused to open the door—“I’ll call you when I’m on my way back from seeing Mrs. Yardley.”
“I’ll be waiting by the phone.”
I doubted that, but my brain blanked on a snappy retort so I fell back on my nonverbal communication skills and flipped him off. His back was to me so he didn’t see it, but I still considered myself as having gotten in the last word.
A couple of guys from the fileroom showed up just after Liam left. They carted away the trial transcripts, and before they could load the last box, I was informed that a courier was on her way up to take the Evans files over to replacement counsel.
It was like watching a swarm of ants carry things off one by one as my office was cleared of everything even remotely associated with the death of Marcus Evans.
All except for the things I’d secreted away in my purse.
Including the bank statements. As much as I wanted to tear into them, I didn’t. I figured it was probably best to wait until I was no longer on Dane-Lieberman’s payroll. I had no doubt Vain Dane would can me on the spot if he knew I was continuing the investigation on my own.
I prepared an extensive, color-coded memo for Cami and slapped sticky notes in corresponding colors on a few files. I printed a copy of the memo for myself and took a picture of the files stacked neatly in the center of my desk.
Covering my wounded ass seemed like the prudent thing to do in the current climate. Solving the jury murders should earn back my rightful place at the firm—and possibly a hefty bonus—but on the off chance that I couldn’t find the killer, I wanted to make sure I could prove my competence.
With the clipboard system abandoned, I felt completely free to waltz out of the lobby without offering an explanation to Margaret beyond letting her know I could be reached on my cell. She didn’t look too pleased, but, really, what could she do? Insist they double-suspend me?
As soon as I was out on the road, I dialed my sister’s number and hit the SPEAKER button on the keypad.
Thankfully, she answered. “Dr. Tanner.”
“Hey, Lisa.”
“If it isn’t my sister the parolee,” she teased.
“Very amusing.” Obviously she’d gotten a Mom-ogram, so I didn’t need to fill her in on much. “Is this a bad time?”
“Nope, I’m sitting here going blind reviewing charts.”
“I need to borrow some money.”
“How much?” she asked without hesitation.
I made seven hundred sixty-nine pretax dollars a week.
If I went on complete shopping restriction and “accidentally” forgot to sign a few checks when I paid my credit-card bills so they’d have to return them without banging me with late fees, I could get by on roughly three quarters of my normal income. After doing the math in my head, I quoted her a figure.
“And that will put you how far behind with your creditors?”
“I’ll catch up,” I insisted. “Can you not tell Mom? She’s already furious with me.”
“I know. Are you okay? Getting arrested must have been a pretty scary thing.”
“Paled in comparison to the dog thing,” I admitted. “I really, really appreciate this, Lisa.”
“I know you do. I can go to Western Union on my break and send you the money by six.”
“It doesn’t have to be this instant. I just got paid.”
“Yeah, well, what if you get arrested again and need bail money?”
“I was released on my own recognizance,” I said
proudly. “The judge said she was impressed by my character and demeanor.”
“Mom always stressed that first impressions are the only ones that truly count.”
Lisa brought me up to speed on the wedding. It was my first time as a maid of honor, and I was still trying to figure out where the “honor” part figured into the equation.
Every time we talked, she shared another little detail that was part of the job description. When she started giving me possible dates for the bridal shower I was hosting—in Atlanta—I no longer felt guilty about asking her for the loan.
“Is there something you can inject into a person that would cause a heart attack but not show up in normal testing?” I asked.
“You’re that pissed at Mom?”
I grinned. “It’s the other way around. No, this is just background.”
I heard a tapping sound and knew what it was. Lisa had a habit of drumming a pen or a pencil whenever she was deep in thought.
“Nicotine.”
“Like cigarettes?” I immediately thought about Wanda Babbish’s habit.
“No, a purer form.”
“Is that something you can get at a local drugstore?”
“No. It’s strictly controlled. Potassium chloride might do it.”
“Easy to get?”
“Easier,” Lisa said. “Insulin would do it, too, though you’d have to dose appropriately or the person might just slip into a coma. Hang on a sec.” She was gone for maybe a minute. “Florida doesn’t require a ’script for insulin.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Stupid, but not all that uncommon. It’s an un-regulated drug in a lot of states. If I wanted to kill someone and make it look like a massive coronary, insulin would be the easiest way to go.”
“Thanks.”
I was about to hang up when Lisa said, “Fin?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry you’re having a lousy time right now.”
“Me too.” Only the strange part was, I didn’t feel lousy.
I felt . . . inspired, and it was scaring the shit out of me.
When it rains, it pours . . .
then your umbrella turns inside out.
Fi fteen
Even from a distance, I noticed Paula Yardley had a tan line where her wedding ring had once been. She was a tall, slender blonde with pretty green eyes. I watched from my car as she herded two little girls dressed in matching pink leotards inside the dance studio. A boy, toddler-sized, was balanced on her narrow hip.
No woman should look that thin after pushing three humans out of her body. It was . . . unnatural.
A few seconds later, she came out and sat down at a pic-nic table adjacent to the studio. I figured that was my signal, so I opened my car door and started digging for my trusty notepad. I had one foot on the pavement when a stern-looking woman with dark hair pulled back into a severe bun came out and went over to where Mrs. Yardley was sitting.
Bun Lady seemed annoyed, or maybe her hair was just too tightly pinned. At any rate, she resembled one of those Palm Beach matrons whose face-lifts were so extreme they looked like they were standing behind a jet engine at full throttle.
Not that I was deliberately eavesdropping, but I caught
the last half of the first sentence. “. . . if not, your girls can-not continue to dance here.”
“I’ll have the money next week,” Mrs. Yardley
promised, clearly embarrassed. Particularly when she saw me out of the corner of her eye.
“You’ll have to cover the bounced-check charges as well.”
“I will. I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” With that, the B-52 woman piv-oted and walked gracefully back into the studio.
“Mrs. Yardley?” I asked, doing my best to pretend I hadn’t overheard the discussion.
“Yes.” She reached into a dated designer bag and pulled out a couple of toy trucks. Handing them to the little boy, she said, “Stay where Mommy can see you.”
The kid squealed, then waddled off to a small pile of dirt mounded against the wall.
“Thank you for meeting me,” I began as I joined her at the table.
“I’m not sure why you think I can help.”
“Mrs. Evans believes that her husband’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“She told me that, and about José and Graham. After I spoke with her, my husband insisted I call the police. They assured me all three men died accidental deaths.”
If the husband was still in the picture, where was her wedding ring? Maybe she was like Liam, semi-divorced.
Divorced with privileges. I had to stop obsessing over Liam and his not-so-ex-wife. It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t any of my business. It was, however, capable of making me more than just a little nuts.
“First, have you received any strange communications—
letters, e-mails, strangers hanging around?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “I’m sure you mean well, but if the police don’t think there’s anything suspicious going on, I trust them.”
“Your call. Though I do think you should take extra precautions.” I didn’t think it necessary to remind her that she had three kids.
“Our house has a long driveway and an alarm system.
Anyway, I just can’t believe some lunatic has suddenly decided to kill people over a trial that ended more than three years ago.”
I told her about the note and e-mail I’d received, but she dismissed them just as Vain Dane had done. Obviously this woman didn’t want to hear what I had to say. Time to change topics. “Was there anything about the deliberations that now, looking back, seemed strange to you?”
“Not re— John, honey! Please don’t eat the dirt. Sorry,”
she said. “Boys are a . . . challenge.”
“And they don’t get any easier even after they’re all grown up, do they?”
She smiled at me. “I guess not. Look,” she continued, tucking her hair behind her ears, “we were twelve strangers who just happened to be unlucky enough to be selected for that trial. It was tedious. A parade of medical experts and a ton of exhibits we were supposed to scrutinize.”
“You didn’t?”
“We did the best we could. One of the jurors was a flaky college freshman. Kayla was her name. By the third day of the trial, I wanted to put her in time-out.”
“Why?”
“She whined and complained about missing some audition. I think she was a drama major at FAU. I don’t think she paid much attention to the witnesses, and I know for a fact she didn’t touch the medical records when we were in the deliberation room. If you ask me, they shouldn’t let people that young serve on a jury.”
