No Returns (7 page)

My mother and Deacon were sitting on the couch sipping wine. The very picture of bliss. Apparently Deacon didn’t know my mother was a serial bride and he had the shelf life of potato chips.

“You look dreadful,” my mother said as I walked through the door.

I described – in detail – about the car and the shooting. “Have you noticed a big dark sedan? Maybe following you?”

My mother looked at Deacon and then they both shook their heads. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But you didn’t say anything to the authorities, did you?”

“Liam wouldn’t let me,” I told her with a level gaze. “But on all seriousness, one or both of us could have been killed just so your little tape doesn’t get out.”

“Don’t be overly dramatic, Finley,” my mother said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I’m sure Liam had the situation under control.”

Liam reached out and took the DVD off the table. He explained how the nasty parts had been scrambled and then slipped it in the player. I tensed. This was just too surreal. I went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. I could hear moaning and giggling. “Can we ditch the audio?” I asked as I felt my cheeks grow warm.

Liam complied so now the picture was a blurred image framed in orange, pink and green. “Flowers?” I asked.

“That’s what I thought,” Liam said. “Who sent them to you?” he asked.

“The resort,” Deacon answered. “A courtesy because we-
I
stay there so often.”

I zoned out when my mother described the flowers in detail. I know roses, tulips and carnations. I didn’t want a blow-by-blow on horticulture.

“How did the flowers get into your room?” I asked.

“The butler brought them about an hour after we checked in.”

“And you didn’t notice a camera?”

My mother’s spine stiffened. “Obviously not.”

“Did the butler put them on top of the dresser, or did you?” Liam asked.

“He did,” my mother replied. “I had every intention of moving them to the bedside table but then we got . . .”

Dear God please don’t finish that statement.
“Does the name Gerald Cavanaugh mean anything to either of you?”

They shared a look. “No,” they said in unison.

My mother stood and brushed the front of her raw silk skirt. “Can you turn that off now, please?”

Liam did as asked. Then he turned to me and asked, “Where’s your laptop?”

“Bedroom.” I quickly went and retrieved the computer and brought it back to the living room.

Deacon and my mother were holding hands and moving away from the sofa. “Where are you going?”

“Just getting out of your hair so you and Liam can do whatever it is you do.” My mother glided past me and of course, all I could think about was the two of them defiling my guestroom. When this is over, I’m going to have to buy new sheets and a comforter. Maybe even a new mattress. I can’t have mother ya-ya in my house. Deacon looked a tad uncomfortable and didn’t seem as willing to extract himself from the room. Good, at least he was taking this more seriously than my mother.

With the happy couple down the hall, Liam fired up my computer. “I can take the new note to my guy in latent prints. He works midnights. If our guy is in the system, there should be a hit on AFIS.”

He logged into the DMV database. “I can’t do that,” I said.

“I pay for a service,” he explained as he entered the shooter’s tag number in the box provided. A spinning hourglass appeared on the screen. “Give it a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Heard you were out interviewing witnesses today.”

“Did you and Tony have a chat?” I asked, a little testy.

“He mentioned it. Said you did great work.”

I shrugged. The action caused our thighs to rub. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking about license plates and trial witnesses. God, I needed to get a grip. “I found a couple of potential witnesses but who knows if they’ll come around by the time the trial happens.”

“Assuming the kid doesn’t take a plea,” Liam suggested.

“I hope he doesn’t. It sounds to me like his foster father was a violent jerk.”

“Here we go,” Liam said. “And the winner is Steven Buckner.”

“Can you get his photo?”

“Yep.” Liam switched screens and pulled up Buckner’s driver’s license photo.

“Tall,” I looked at his photo and also read his vitals as well. Dark blonde hair. Blue eyes. Thin. Sounds a lot like the butler my mother described.”

“Go get her. Have her look at the photo and-”

“I’m not going to get her. I have no idea what they’re doing but I don’t want to think about it, let alone interrupt it.”

“I’ll knock,” he said, then went down the hall.

Deacon came out first, then my mother emerged a few minutes later. Every hair was in place and if it hadn’t been for her smeared lipstick, I would have sworn they were playing checkers.

Liam showed them the DMV photo. “Recognize him?”

“That’s our butler,” my mother said with amazement. “Liam, how did you find him?”

“I get motivated when someone shoots my car.”

“And we both got the plate,” I added, then felt completely lame for wanting my mother to acknowledge my part in the discovery.

“I’m sure you did your best,” my mother said.

“Are you sure?” Deacon asked. “He looks like the young man but I can’t be positive. Something about the nose.”

“It’s him,” my mother insisted. “I’m very good with faces.”

“I can’t be one-hundred percent,” Deacon admitted reluctantly. “I only caught glimpses of him when he was in and out of our room.”

“Okay,” Liam said.

“So what do you do now?” my mother asked. “Does this mean you’ve found the blackmailer?”

“It would seem so,” Liam answered, though I heard some doubt in his tone. “I’ll go check it out.”

“Now?” I asked. “We’re going out now?”

“Not we,” he said. “Me.”

“It’s dangerous,” I argued. “He shot at us.”

“Which is precisely why you’re staying here. I don’t want to be responsible for your safety, too. Screws with my concentration.”

“Can’t we please call the cops?” I pleaded. “This has gotten way out of proportion. Liam could get killed for God’s sake.”

My mother sighed. “Then maybe Liam should just let sleeping dogs lie. We can pay the ransom and if the blackmailer ever comes back for more, Liam knows where to find him. Simple and it keeps the reason behind the blackmail quiet. Just what we want.”

“I have to agree,” Deacon said. “Your mother tells me she told you that I’m in a precarious position with my wife. Having evidence of an affair come to light could potentially cost me a great deal financially. Forget the scandal. Though I don’t think my investors will be pleased to see my name splashed salaciously all over the newspapers.”

“Yeah, well I’d rather see your name splashed than Liam’s blood spilled.”

I
stumbled out
of bed early. Not because I wanted to but I was drawn to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It’s my crack. Barefooted, I moved silently down the hallway. My mother’s door was closed, but obviously she’d gotten up to make coffee.

As I rounded the corner, I came to a stop mid-stride. There, standing in my kitchen was a half-dressed man with a cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Thank you. Good-bye,” he said quickly, then Deacon offered me a smile.

Then he did something creepy. His eyes looked me up and down, making me feel like I needed a shower. That wasn’t an option, but I did excuse myself and get the robe I rarely wore.

When I returned to the kitchen, he said, “Good morning. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“Not a problem,” I lied.

“I was just bringing your mother some coffee in bed.”

“That’s very nice of you.” Even nicer if the two of you didn’t play house in my house.

The hair on his chest was white but other than that he seemed pretty toned for a guy in his sixties. I could tell since all he’d bothered to put on was a pair of boxers and a leer. I was starting not to like him.

I flattened myself against the wall as he passed me carrying two mugs. Once I heard the door open and close, I went to the pot and poured myself some nectar of the Coffee Gods. Seeing my mother’s half-naked boyfriend was not exactly how I thought my day would start.

It was almost nine, so I called Becky to check on her. She insisted she was fine. We chatted for a few minutes, then hung up. I impatiently waited until nine-thirty to call Liam.

“Hi,” he said. “What color is Becky’s car?”

The question caught me off guard. “Champagne. Why?”

“I found the shooter’s car last night. There’s a big scratch of paint transfer on the side and rear. Beige, which I’m guessing is another way of saying champagne.”

“Our shooter ran Becky off the road?”

“Looks like. But the guy is in the wind. I think he ditched the car at his apartment and switched vehicles or something. I’m going back this morning to see if he’s come back.”

“Let me come too?” I fairly pleaded. “Three is definitely a crowd.”

“I’ll come by and pick you up. But you stay in the car. Deal?”

“Of course,” I replied, though I had no intention of sticking to it.

I took a shower, dried my hair, then went into my closet to peruse my options. Hard to know what to wear to meet a gunman. Red, probably, but I didn’t wear red. It makes me look like I need a liver transplant.

I settled on a pair of ankle skinny jeans, a black draped faux wrap tank and lace-up Hinge wedge sandals. I did my make-up, then slipped a simple silver necklace over my head before finally adding silver hoops.

My mother emerged from the guest room just as I was walking down the hallway. She greeted me with a chipper ‘I-just-had-sex smile’. “Good morning.”

She was dressed in a stunning Michael Kors dress with killer pumps and a double strand of pearls at her throat. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and her make-up was flawless and her perfume was leaving a vapor trail.

“Good morning. Going out?”

An odd look flashed in her eyes. “I’m meeting with my banker this morning to pick-up the cash.”

I sighed. “This really is a mistake. You need to call the police. They can help you.”

“I don’t need any help. I just need this ordeal to be over.”

“But paying him off doesn’t mean it will be over. Why can’t you see that?”

Now her expression showed annoyance with a touch of irritation. “Why can’t you do one thing for me without being difficult?”

“I’m being practical,” I countered, my voice slightly raised.

She waved her hand and motioned for me to go toward the kitchen. “I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, but since you are being such a pain, Deacon has asked me to marry him.”

I’ve been down this road before, made a U-turn and did it a few more times. “Isn’t he already married?” I asked.

“Yes, but his divorce should be final in a month or two. But only if we are discrete. If his wife gets wind of our affair, months of settlement negotiations will go out the window. Deacon would lose a lot financially.”

“Okay.”

Her lips pursed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“And congratulations.” I gave her a stiff hug and a few air kisses. Luckily for me, Liam pulled up and I was saved.

“We can all have dinner tonight,” she suggested. Only I knew it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. “Seven-thirty at the club? I’ll make the reservations.”

After unplugging it from the charger, I put my phone in my purse and headed for the door. Liam was out of the car. He looked particularly good in his signature jeans and Tommy Bahama shirt. And the sunglasses gave him a slightly dangerous look. Desire coiled in the pit of my stomach.

“Let’s take my car, “I said as I handed him the keys.

He kissed my forehead. “I’m going to start to think you don’t like my Mustang.”

“You’d be right. The muffler is loud, there’s only paint on half of it and now it has a bullet hole.”

“But it’s a ’65. It’s a classic.”

“It’s a hot mess.”

Liam maneuvered my car around the Jag and the Bentley. I turned in my seat, looking at him in profile. “I had a thought,” I began.

“Yes?”

“What if this has nothing to do with the blackmailer?”

He glanced at me for a second. “You think some random guy picked you out of the phone book?”

“I was thinking more of the Travis Johnson case.”

“Then Tony would be the target. And why go after Becky? She has nothing to do with that. It’s a criminal matter.”

“As for Tony, maybe dark sedan guy is starting from the ground up. And Becky has worked on the Johnson file. Tony had her go over the DCF foster parent agreement and she compiled all the information on the placement. That foster family was getting eleven hundred a month for Travis.”

“Any relatives who might want to see the Johnson kid rot in jail?”

“Can we swing by my office?”

“Sure. I often take detours when I’m chasing down a guy with a propensity to shoot first.” He smiled and I almost melted into the seat.

“It’s on the way. Besides, we can research Gerald Cavanaugh. We didn’t get around to that last night. And I have to pick up my mother’s computer.”

When Liam pulled into the parking lot I saw Vain Dane’s hummer in its spot. Maybe I could get some brownie points for coming in on Saturday. Vain Dane didn’t have to know it was for personal business.

I unlocked the door with my key and we went to my office. I pressed the button to turn on the coffee maker. The scent of brewing coffee reminded me of my early morning rendezvous with shirtless Deacon.

I wiggled my mouse to bring my computer to life. Liam dragged a chair over and sat next to me as I scanned the Johnson file while my machine woke from hibernation. “There was a brother,” I said as I tapped the page. “Randall Houser.” I typed the name into a basic Google search. There were maybe a dozen items listed.

“Click that one,” Liam said, pointing to the fourth entry.

It was a 1991 newspaper article from the
Palm Beach Post
praising the sacrifice of local hero Randall Houser. I read a few more lines. “He lost an arm in the first Gulf war.”

“Then he probably isn’t the shooter. Sorry Finley,” he said as he rubbed my back. I was enjoying the sensations inspired when he continued. “I don’t think the Johnson case is the link.”