Paper Bullets (17 page)

He leaned toward me, like he had with the elderly woman, only now his smile looked conspiratorial.

“Anything you can share?”

I returned the smile. “In this town? The divorce capital of the world? What do you think?”

His expression didn’t change but rather seemed to freeze for a split second, almost like he was trying to decide what reaction was most appropriate.

He hadn’t paused for a moment when he’d read my last name off my license. Sure, I could have handed him a fake I.D., but I’d wanted to see if he reacted to my last name. Maxon wasn’t all that common, but he hadn’t tumbled to my connection with Melody through her fiancé’s last name.

No. What had tripped him up was the fact that I worked divorce cases, which meant I followed people around trying to catch them in infidelities.

I hadn’t been asked to do that often over the course of my career, and most of the time I turned those cases down. Nevada was a no-fault divorce state, which meant neither side needed proof of infidelity to split the sheets. But throw in a prenuptial agreement and bank accounts with more zeros than I’d ever see in my lifetime, and proof of infidelity became a big deal.

I didn’t like digging into someone’s marital dirty laundry. I wouldn’t be doing it now if the stakes weren’t so high.

“I bet you see a lot,” he said, still smiling that conspiratorial smile, only now it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s get you set up here so you can get back at it.”

He didn’t chat with me much after that. I’d rattled him, as much as I suspected a man like Justin Sewell could be rattled.

Ed Hastings used to send me books that he thought I should read just so I’d be prepared for the kind of people I was likely to meet when I was out trying to serve summons and subpoenas on people who didn’t want to be found. One of the most disturbing books he’d given me was about the sheer number of sociopaths and psychopaths in the world, most of whom hid in plain sight.

Charming and charismatic, the book had called them. People who didn’t mind walking over other people to achieve whatever it was they wanted to achieve. People who faked emotional responses like a pro because they’d spent their entire lives studying and emulating what they thought were normal reactions to any given situation.

I was in danger of releasing my inner Dr. Phil again, but I was pretty sure that Justin Sewell was at least a sociopath.

Was he violent? I had no clue. He could certainly turn his emotions on and off, but not all sociopaths or psychopaths were violent. According to what I’d read, non-violent sociopaths who passed as normal had learned to channel their violent tendencies into some socially acceptable competitive behaviors.

For all I knew, Justin Sewell could have channeled his aggressive tendencies into developing a killer backhand and a murderous serve, charging the net to a first place victory in a local tennis tournament.

But what if Melody had done something that triggered a violent reaction? They’d seemed to part ways after lunch on good terms. Could something have happened that made him snap and kill her just a few hours later?

When Sewell finished setting up my new business account, I wrote a check for the minimum amount required to open the account. He lifted an eyebrow when I handed him the check.

“It’ll take me a while to transfer everything over,” I said.

He seemed to consider me for another split second. “So why are you really opening this account?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I read the brochure you gave me yesterday. I liked what it said.”

His expression told me that he didn’t buy it for a minute. “The bank you’re with now offers better features for its small business customers than we do.”

I decided to play on his vanity. “You’re right, but I’ve yet to be treated as well by anybody there as I’ve been treated by you. Banks make a big deal about giving personalized service, but what they really want is to sell you everything they possibly can.” I gave him a grin I hoped was at least a little flirty. “At least you make me feel good while you do it.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did seem to be thinking over what I said.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Give me the name of your manager, and I’ll write a glowing letter about the great customer service you gave me here today. That’s got to at least win you brownie points, right?”

He chuckled. “Okay. That I can do. But if you really want to help a guy out, you’ll let me tell you about what else the bank can do for your business.”

“You get more than brownie points for sales, I’m guessing, than glowing letters extolling your great customer service skills.”

He spread his hands in
a what can you do?
gesture. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

I nodded toward the paperwork I’d just signed. “You’ve got my name and number. Give me a call sometime, and maybe we can talk about it over a drink.”

Now, I had no illusion that I was anywhere near as attractive as any of the women who worked at Right Track Fitness. I certainly wasn’t dressed like I had a lot of money. But I could tell that I’d intrigued him, if for no other reason that he didn’t know if I knew something about him that he wanted kept secret.

The smile he gave me this time reminded me of a shark’s grin. “All right, Abby. I’ll keep that in mind.”

When he took my check over to the teller line to make the deposit, I sat back in his client chair and wondered if I’d just bitten off more than I could chew.

Ed used to tell stories about how, when he’d been a detective with the Reno Police Department, he used to deliberately push people past their limits to see if he could get them to make a mistake. He had scars from some of the times he’d pushed people too far, including a puckered scar on his right shoulder from a bullet he’d taken when an embezzler thought Ed had backed him into a corner he couldn’t get out of. Embezzlement was usually a non-violent crime, and Ed hadn’t been ready for the man to come after him with a gun.

I didn’t think Sewell would come after me with a gun, but would that change when he discovered my connection to Melody?

I hadn’t come to the bank with much of a plan. Mostly I’d wanted to see if he’d had a reaction to Melody’s death, and when it didn’t look like he had, I’d pushed him. I’d deliberately baited him, and I’d set myself up to get in deeper. I could just imagine telling Kyle that I had a date for drinks with a sociopath.

I glanced toward the front of the bank, trying not to fidget while I waited for Sewell to come back with my deposit receipt so I could leave.

The glass walls at the front of the bank gave me a clear look at the lobby as well as Liberty Street beyond through the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up most of the building’s first floor walls. Even in the middle of the afternoon, traffic was heavy on Liberty Street, the cars backed up waiting for the light. In a few more weeks, a lot of that traffic would be Harley Davidson motorcycles when Street Vibrations rolled into town.

One of the secretaries in Ryan’s office building had told me once that the heavy rumbling of so many motorcycle engines echoing off the smooth glass and steel of the high-rises downtown made it almost impossible to concentrate on her work.

I could just imagine the noise. My office was downtown too, but in an old converted house a few blocks west of Virginia Street, the main drag through town where the Harleys cruised. Still, whenever a major event like Street Vibrations hit town, I was thankful that most of the time my work took me away from the office.

The light must have changed on Liberty because the cars started moving again. In the gaps between the cars, I could see another bank across the street and the parking lot next door.

A white SUV was parked in the lot.

A white SUV with tinted windows.

I couldn’t make out the license plate on the SUV from where I was sitting, and I couldn’t very well just get up and walk away before Sewell had a chance to give me the paperwork for my new checking account.

I made myself turn back toward Sewell’s desk. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse just to give myself something else to look at so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn around and stare at the SUV again.

If that was Richards in the SUV, what the hell was he doing here? Was he watching Sewell now? Why? Because he thought Sewell had something to do with what happened to Melody?

An ugly thought crept in. Richards had taken a picture of me yesterday while I was in line to get gas. He knew what my car looked like, what my license plate number was.

What if he was following me?

But why? Did he suspect I had something to do with Melody’s death, just like Archulette and Squires did? Richards was suspended. He wouldn’t be involved in that investigation.

I almost jumped out of my seat when Sewell came up behind me and handed me the deposit receipt.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to recover with a grin that probably looked as shaky as I felt.

He knew he’d startled me. I could see the enjoyment in his eyes even though he was giving me his best professional, personal banker smile.

“You’re all set,” he said. He gathered all the paperwork together for my new account and tucked it carefully inside a portfolio, making sure to tuck one of his business cards inside. “Just in case you lost my card from yesterday, now you know how to reach me.”

“And you know how to reach me,” I said. “If you ever want that drink.”

His eyes locked with mine for just a moment, and I swore I caught a glimpse the dangerous man who lurked beneath Sewell’s civilized mask. “Be careful, Abby Maxon,” he said. “I might be more than you can handle.”

I didn’t doubt that for a minute.

Playing with fire, Kyle had said. He’d been referring to Richards, but I had a feeling Sewell was really the guy I had to watch out for.

CHAPTER 22

I’D LEFT MY CAR in the parking garage attached to the bank building, safely tucked into one of the spaces earmarked for the bank’s customers.

A sign at the front of the space warned that parking was limited to twenty minutes. I’d been inside the bank for over an hour. Did the bank give out parking tickets?

I certainly hoped not. I’d just put money I couldn’t afford to tie up into an account I couldn’t close for a month without incurring a penalty. At least I had a temporary debit card for cash withdrawals if I needed the money in a pinch. I just didn’t want to use that money to pay for a parking ticket, especially since I wasn’t spending my day working for a paying client.

The security guard in the building’s lobby raised his eyebrows as I walked past him on the way to my car. I smiled at him, and he gave me a nod and touched his cap in a quick salute. He thought I’d scored a date. Maybe I had, but it wasn’t the kind of date the guard assumed it would be.

Kyle was not going to be happy with me. I should probably give him a call. I dug my phone out of my purse again and looked at the display as I made my way from the building into the attached parking garage. No bars on my phone. The parking garage had five upper levels. All that concrete must be interfering with cell phone reception. I’d have to wait to call Kyle until I was on the road.

Distracted by the phone and the conversation I’d just had with Sewell, I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone until it was too late.

Lewis Richards was leaning against the driver’s side of my car, muscular arms crossed over his chest, waiting for me.

This time I did jump.

Richards wasn’t smiling, and the look in his eyes was no less dangerous than Sewell’s.

“Abby Maxon,” he said. “We need to talk.”

His voice was cold, which was at odds with his casual posture.

He reminded me of a cat pretending to sleep when all the while she was watching a mouse creep ever so slowly closer through the grass, content to bide her time until the mouse got within striking distance. I’d watched the cat that had walked along my backyard fence that morning do exactly that, go from apparent sleep to pouncing on a mouse I hadn’t even known was in my lawn.

I had no intention of being Lewis Richards’ mouse.

I gestured with the phone I still held in my hand. “Give me a call,” I said. “Anytime. I’m in the book, or you can Google me. I have a website.”

It was a smartass response and I knew it. Probably not the wisest choice of words I’d ever made considering the only thing I had to defend myself with was the cell phone I held in my hand and a can of pepper spray in my pursue. Oh, and the car keys that were still shoved in the pocket of my jeans. If Richards decided to get physical, I doubted I could reach the pepper spray or keys fast enough to do me any good.

Richards might have been undercover for years, but he still had the intimidating cop stare down pat.

Unfortunately for him, I’d started to recover from my initial surprise. I didn’t care about the intimidating stare or the fact that he was taller than I was and outweighed me by at least fifty pounds of solid muscle, and that he might have had something to do with Melody’s death. He was standing between me and my car, and he expected me to do what he wanted just because he said so. Not going to happen.

“I have an appointment, and you’re making me late,” I said.

I knew my stare couldn’t intimidate worth a damn, but I glared at him anyway.

We must have looked strange to anyone driving by looking for a parking space or gazing out at the parking garage from inside the glass-enclosed walkway that led to the elevators to the upper levels of the garage. Richards still leaned against my car, the pose casual except for the crossed arms, and I probably looked like a little rat terrier straining on her leash.

If Richards wasn’t careful, I’d be launching into another rant like the one I’d given Stacy earlier in the day.

Richards finally shifted position. He didn’t step away from the car as much as straighten his posture so that he was no longer leaning on my car. He broke eye contact to glance at my phone. Probably making sure I hadn’t speed-dialed 9-1-1.