Paid in Full (20 page)

Bob’s gum smacked in Ari’s ear. She was sure he was furious and if Russ ever did get out of prison, she worried about what Bob would do to him. “This is going to hit the newspapers today,” he continued. “It’s gonna kill my reputation, this combined with the murder investigation.”

“Not necessarily,” Ari said. “Russ claims you didn’t know and if there’s nothing that can tie you to it—”

“There’s nothing,” he shot back. “This was all him, the little prick.”

Ari heard him breathing deeply. She sensed he was starting to calm down, his emotions vented. Now was the time for logic. “Bob, please come back. You need to be here to defend your business.”

“Not yet, Ari. There’s still a murderer out there who’s willing to let me go to prison.”

“Do you know who it is?” Bob didn’t say anything for several seconds, long enough for Ari to gauge that he was calling from a payphone at a busy intersection. “You do, don’t you? You know who killed Michael Thorndike.” It was no longer a question but a statement.

“Yes,” came the simple reply. Before Ari could ask questions or protest, the traffic noise disappeared, and only when the annoying dial tone echoed in her ear, did she hang up.

Chapter Twenty

Friday, June 22

5:53 p.m.

Molly left the city for the rural outskirts, the street numbers hitting triple digits. Her parents lived in Avondale, a community that possessed as many sorghum fields as it did housing developments. Caught in their version of David and Goliath, the farmers fought to keep their heritage, but each year there were fewer and fewer blocks of green and brown, and they watched the houses encroach their territory a little more. Goliath was clearly going to win this one.

She drove through one of the many developments that bordered the highway, tract homes that all looked alike—beige stucco and tile roofs. Molly’s father was a semi-retired plumber who owned his own small company. A white truck sat in the driveway, Nelson Plumbing painted on the side. As she wandered inside, her ears were assaulted by screaming children. Her niece, Chelsey, a honey blond five year old, raced around her, eagerly pursued by Kenny, Chelsey’s three-year-old brother.

Molly followed the peals of laughter down the narrow hallway into the kitchen, which was the hub of activity. Her sister-in-law, Jenna, a petite brunette with a serious expression intercepted the children, while her brother, Don Jr., set the table. She watched the commotion, glad to be home, away from the city and its problems, and more importantly, away from her own.

“Hey, sis,” he called, distributing the plates. Jenna smiled as she passed by Molly, one child under each arm.

The greeting got the attention of Molly’s parents, who were standing in the kitchen working on dinner. Her mother wiped her hands on a dish towel and rushed to give Molly a ferocious hug. Her equal in height, with the legs of a dancer, Teddy Nelson stared into her daughter’s eyes, a worried expression forming on her face. “What’s wrong?”

Unwilling to dampen the evening with her multitude of problems, she shook her head and turned to her father, who had joined his wife.

“Hey, honey,” her father, the elder Don, said warmly. Not only did Molly sound like her father, she looked like him too. God had played a little prank on the only Nelson daughter, giving Molly her father’s strong jaw and body, while her brother, Fred, got the tall, lean figure from his mother. Molly had long forgiven him and God for the mix-up, figuring Fred had used the gift better than she ever would, having won two state swim championships with his lanky frame.

Don broke the silence with a drink request, and once she was armed with a Budweiser, Molly allowed herself to wander around the house, trying to forget that Ari was supposed to have come with her. She imagined if Ari were there, she would have given her a tour of the house, and Ari would have gawked at all the photos of Molly that adorned the walls, bookcases, dressers and nightstands of each room. Molly in her baptismal dress, her Little League pictures, a grinning cowgirl at Halloween, her first flying lesson and her senior portrait. Interspersed were photos of her four brothers. Besides Fred and Don, there was Gary, a rodeo clown, and Brian.

Circling back into the kitchen ended her peaceful moments and thrust her into the family chaos. Chelsey and Kenny laughed heartily at the blaring TV, while father and son debated the Phoenix Suns’ season. Jenna enlisted Molly’s help with the salad, and soon she really had forgotten everything that weighed on her mind.

When they sat down half an hour later, one seat was empty since Brian was still working on his last plumbing call. The room turned pleasantly silent, everyone devouring Teddy’s fabulous dinner. Molly ignored her arteries’ cry for mercy and filled her plate with fried chicken and dumplings. In between bites, her family conducted a tag-team debate about political and social issues. The Nelsons were up on current events, and everyone participated in the discussion. There were no introverts allowed.

The squeak of the screen door brought a pause to the conversation as Brian Nelson shuffled through the kitchen and headed straight for the laundry room, his work boots clunking against the tile. When he joined them at the table, he leaned over and kissed his only sister on the cheek. “Hey, Mol. Catch any bad guys?”

Molly fiddled with the gold hoop that dangled from his left ear. Except for the twinkling blue eyes and winning smile, he was a stark contrast to the rest of his family. His waist-length blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his tank top exposed the many tattoos that covered his biceps and forearms. He wouldn’t win any awards for Mr. All-American, but his magnetic personality had always attracted the girls. Molly loved all her brothers, but Brian was special.

“Where’s Lynne?” Molly asked, surprised that Brian’s steady girlfriend was absent.

“She had a study group,” Brian answered between bites. Molly nodded, knowing that this was Lynne’s final year of her architectural program. It amazed her family that Brian, the family scamp, had landed such a classy woman as Lynne.

“Did Mrs. Polanski’s shower turn out okay?” Don inquired of his son.

Brian picked up the bowl of dumplings and frowned. “I’ll finish tomorrow,” he said evenly.

“You didn’t finish today?” his father asked incredulously. “That’s a one-day job. You should have finished.” Brian assaulted his dinner, spearing his food angrily. “Can’t keep doing one-day jobs in two,” his father continued. “You’ll drive us out of business.” Brian ate like a maniac, his jaws pulverizing whatever was inside. Molly watched the exchange between the two of them, knowing the outcome before it happened. “So what was the holdup?” Don demanded.

Brian’s answer came through clenched teeth. “There was a problem. It would have taken you twice as long too.”

The challenge in his voice was clear. Molly focused on her beer. Don Junior and Jenna pretended to discipline the children. Only Teddy showed any reaction, patting her husband’s hand to calm him down.

“How’s business?” Molly offered, hoping to avoid a confrontation. Brian welcomed the diversion and opened his mouth to respond, but Don quickly cut him off. “Won’t be a business much longer.”

It was too much. Brian dropped his napkin on the table and stomped outside. Molly fought the urge to jump up and follow Brian out, knowing that it would ruin the evening for everyone else. Brian’s clashes with their father dated back to childhood, and everyone in the family had learned not to take sides, but just stay out of the way.

The atmosphere lightened with Brian’s departure, Don returning to his jovial self, the encounter forgotten like a black cloud that rolled away.

After dinner, when she was sure that her father was planted in front of ESPN, Molly made a huge plate of food and carried it to the back shed, Brian’s refuge from the world and the home of his prized possession—an Aston Martin he was slowly restoring. She found him under the car, two feet in heavy work boots keeping time to music that Molly couldn’t hear. She kicked the left one and waited for Brian to roll out on the dolly. He took off his Walkman and faced her. “Sorry,” was all he said.

Molly gave a sympathetic smile and motioned to the plate while she retrieved two beers from a small refrigerator and they settled down at his workbench. “The car’s coming along,” Molly commented, noticing that most of the body work was done.

“Got about another year I figure,” Brian said between bites. Molly slugged down the rest of her beer and went for another. With his eyes focused on his dinner he asked, “How much you drinkin’?”

Molly inhaled. Only her favorite brother could ask that question and get a true answer and not a fist in his jaw. “You don’t want to know,” she said frankly. “I’m on a killer case, I hate my life and I’m seriously considering turning straight.” Brian blinked in shock. “Okay, that’s not true,” Molly admitted, “but my life sucks.” She put her head down on the workbench and cried.

His hands covered in grease, Brian resisted the urge to smooth her hair. She’d probably been holding it in for days. Molly was not a crier. When her sobs had faded, he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “A dollar for your thoughts,” he said.

Molly couldn’t help but crack a small smile as Brian resorted to the saying of their childhood created during the recession of the Seventies. She had offered a penny for his thoughts one day when he was six. He said that with inflation, she’d need at least a dollar. The phrase had stuck long after the era had ended. She poured her heart out to Brian, starting with Michael Thorndike’s murder, her intense attraction to Ari and finally her encounter with the redhead from the bar.

“Why do you think you did that?” he asked nonjudgmentally.

“You mean why did I have a meaningless sexual encounter with someone I just met?” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “You know what I don’t get is that I feel like I cheated on Ari. We’ve known each other a few days, we’ve only slept together once, so why the hell do I feel so guilty?”

“You tell me,” Brian responded, already knowing the answer. Molly stared back at her brother. She knew the answer too. “Why don’t you stay at my place for a few days,” Brian offered. “I think you need a break from your own life. How long has it been since you’ve flown a plane?”

Molly shook her head, unable to remember the last time she’d sat in a cockpit or actually done anything fun on a weekend.

“That’s it, then,” Brian concluded.

Before Molly could thank him, her mother appeared at the shed door, the cordless phone in her hand. “Molly, honey, it’s your partner.”

Molly had to tell Andre to speak up twice before she could understand what he was saying. “We’ve got a situation,” she heard through the crackle of static.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Deborah Thorndike called. She was going through Michael’s papers and found something very interesting, something she thought we would want to see.”

“What?” she repeated as she headed toward her parents’ house and better reception.

“It turns out Michael Thorndike kept a journal or a notebook of some sort. Deborah never knew it existed, but it’s got all of his thoughts and stuff. It’s really strange, Molly. It’s like he had to brainstorm everything before he made a decision. Had to write it down. He’s got flowcharts and notes and pro and con lists. The man was totally organized.”

Molly pulled open the back door and shut it behind her before she asked the obvious question. “He didn’t happen to mention the name of someone who might want to kill him?”

“Almost,” Andre said, his voice filled with glee. “Apparently, he decided to break up with his mistress two days before he was killed. Wrote out a whole list of reasons why he couldn’t continue the relationship. I’d say we’d better have a chat with Lily Watson again.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Saturday, June 23

8:47 a.m.

Ari cleared off her dining room table as she tried to clear her thoughts of Michael Thorndike’s murder and Molly. She hadn’t slept more than two hours, her mind unable to stop working, her heart filled with remorse and guilt. There was no way her body would let her rest; it seemed the only way to avoid total depression was to keep moving. She was forced to torture herself and continue the spring cleaning from the day before, only today would be her professional life. She would sort through every file and paper she owned, alphabetize everything and organize it all properly. In the end, she might drop dead of exhaustion, but her body would hit a sparkling floor and Jane could find her last will and testament easily.

She started with her most recent files. The oak table was quickly covered in a sea of white. Real estate agents were paper pushers just like attorneys, and she had more than most because of the extra notes she took. Jane called them “Ari’s anals,” a crude term that always made Ari scowl whenever Jane said it. They did, however, indicate the level of thoroughness with which she handled any transaction. She kept a running record of every phone conversation, interview or initial meeting with a client. You just never knew what would be important later.

She picked up Bob Watson’s file and started sorting through it. She read her notes from their initial meeting eight months ago, where Bob and Lily told her why his parents were selling, where the house was and other real estate related details.

Her mind went back to that time and she pulled the memories from her subconscious. Signing the listing, walking through the house with Bob—still taking meticulous notes and fighting with him about the flooring. He had insisted on dealing with the floor guy and supervising the placement of the oak planks. Why was that? There was some little detail, some reason . . .

The doorbell rang, squashing the burgeoning thought. Ari could already hear Jane’s voice speaking to another person. She opened the door to discover Jane, alone and arguing with someone on her cell phone. Jane wandered through the open door and headed straight for the couch. From the bits and pieces she could gather, Ari knew Jane was talking to another agent, probably one on the other side of a deal judging from her combative tone. She went to the kitchen and poured some iced tea, and by the time she returned, Jane was using her standard exit lines, trying to end the call. It took three times, but finally she snapped the phone shut and dropped it in her bag.