Hot Rocks (5 page)

nine

“But … I …”
I choked on my words, the truth of what Sly said slamming into me. I felt myself blush, as embarrassed as the first time I caught a boy staring at my budding chest. After a moment to reevaluate, I said, “You may be right. Maybe I am jumping at shadows. I only had a snapshot and the picture was none too clear. In it, he was dressed casually in shorts and a T-shirt. The man I followed wore a suit. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I—”

I almost choked on my words. Snapshot. Ms. Garcia had given me a picture of her husband. The inventory list from the hospital jumped into my mind. No picture listed. I tore my purse open and dumped its contents onto Sly’s conference table and pawed through the lipstick, nail polish, tissues, breath mints, and miscellaneous clutter. It wasn’t there. Nothing I needed was there.

The look on my face must have been something to behold because Sly jumped to his feet and rushed to my side of the table. “Beth? Are you all right? What is it?”

Anger flooded through me. Someone, some damned asshole, had gone too far. I pointed at my pile. “Someone took it, took everything. I have no proof left.” My voice was controlled, but I knew how cold it sounded. I battled the rage that threatened to overtake me.

“Slow down. Let’s revisit the top. Tell me what has you so upset.”

I stopped, took several deep breaths, then looked him in the eyes. “I was set up. That’s the only explanation.”

He pulled out the chair beside me and dropped into it. “What’s missing, and why does it make you say that? Slow and easy, and don’t omit anything.”

I rubbed my temples while gathering my thoughts. I had to make Sly understand without sounding hysterical. I presented my case in as close to an analytical form as I could muster. “When I spoke to Ms. Garcia on the phone, I took notes on a yellow sticky. Her name, the address where we were to meet, the time. When I left the house, I put the paper in my purse—I know I did. It’s not there. At the Chinese restaurant, as she told me the story of her husband’s infidelity, I took notes, jotting them into my pad. She told me where I could pick up the surveillance on her husband, and I wrote that on the same page. She also gave me her card and a check for a thousand dollars, an advance on my fees. Hell, she even gave me a picture of her husband. It’s missing. Everything’s gone. All gone. There’s nothing left in my purse to show I ever met her.”

Sly stared at me a moment, emotions flickering over his face. It was the first time I’d seen a crack in his courtroom façade. “You’re sure they were there?”

I stared at him, re-visualizing the scenes, not wanting to make a mistake. “I put them in my purse.”

“But are you sure? Be absolutely sure. This is incredibly important.”

“Dammit, yes.”

“Maybe they took them at the hospital.”

“Sly, that’s ridiculous. The check? Perhaps. Someone could have light-fingered it, forged my name, and cashed it. But the notes, her personal card, the sticky, the picture? Why? What possible reason could anyone have for taking them? Plus, the hospital did an inventory when they checked me in. None of it is listed.”
I picked up a pink form from the table. “Here’s a copy. You look at it.”

Sly took it from my outstretched hand and examined it. “Nothing here,” he said, then rose and walked to the other side of the conference table, sitting in front of his legal pad. He appeared to study his notes, a frown wrinkling his forehead, no lawyer smile crinkling his lips.

My anger was burning itself out. “There’s more—and worse,” I said. “My gun. It’s missing, too. There was an automatic on the floor beside the dead man. The cop who was first on the scene found it and turned it over to the detectives. It may well have been mine.”

His brow furrowed more than I’d ever seen before. He pursed his lips and stroked his chin, appearing deep in thought. His words came out slowly and in a no-nonsense tone. “Beth, as you know, I excel as a civil litigator. But you need a criminal defense attorney—
and a darn good one
. And that’s a longer reach than I want to claim. Your yarn is so far out, even I can’t stack a jury who would believe it. A couple of golf buddies owe me favors. I’ll call them in and get you competent representation. Until then, be careful. Say as little to the police as you can. If one comes near you, and you feel in jeopardy, call me immediately.”

He took a deep breath. “I know your investigations require you to maintain good relations with the authorities, but watch your words. The best advice I can give you is say nothing. However, I suspect that would fall on deaf ears, since you’re unlikely to keep your mouth shut. But if you feel compelled to talk to any detectives, make sure you think before you speak.” He stood and walked to his desk, picked up his business card holder, then came back to me. “Here.” He handed me several cards. “Use these if you feel the need. Tell anyone who gets too close that I’m your attorney. I fear you could be in serious trouble.”

He gave me a concerned look. “Be careful, Beth. In the meantime, I’ll find someone for you.”

_____

I left Sly’s office feeling as depressed as I’d ever felt. The rush of anger had drained me. There had been some low moments in my life, but that was the lowest. I had to admit my anger, or most of it was because I’d been so easy to set up, so easy to bait. Philandering husband? Yeah, right. Gullible female. Too right.

I walked to my car like an automaton, opened the door, and climbed in. I suppose the temperature was way up, it usually is in South Florida, but I didn’t notice. Only when a drop of sweat rolled in and stung my eye did I realize I was uncomfortable. After starting the engine, I pushed on the air conditioner, set it on recycle, then gripped the steering wheel. I squeezed so hard, the whiteness of my knuckles appeared to glow, the mad threatening to overwhelm me again.

Many things ripped through my brain, but the main one that concerned me, other than a frame for murder, was my lack of cognitive abilities. Why had it taken me so long to remember the check and other papers? I was off my game, and that could cost me on a case, especially this one. I hoped it was the crack on the head and not some other malady—like Alzheimer’s or something worse. Next time I talked to Dr. Rasmussen, I’d have to ask.

In the meantime, my adrenalin flow continued to dissipate, and I realized my headache had returned. The lump had that wet feeling again, like it was bleeding. I touched it, then checked my fingers. No blood, but the feeling persisted. Time for me to dash home and eat a bottle of aspirin for dinner, then get some sleep. Pulling out of the parking space, I remembered the Tylenol PM I’d bought a few months earlier. Much better idea. Two—or a dozen—of those should ease my pain and put me out for the night. Tomorrow, I’d figure out how best to find Ms. Garcia, or whatever her name was. Without a wad of her hair in my grip with her body dragging behind it, I’d never convince the cops I’d done nothing wrong.

_____

Thanks to the miracle of modern over-the-counter medicine, I slept well and awoke feeling better in the morning. My lump was still tender, but not as much as yesterday. The important thing was my mind seemed sharper. Even without coffee, I remembered I had to find Ms. Garcia and deliver her to the police as my unimpeachable witness. Then—proof that my brain was working again—I realized I needed to move fast. The retainer I collected from Bergstrom and Bergowitz paid the basics, but extra cases provided the cash for frills that made life more enjoyable. A shortage of clients had reduced my checking account and credit cards to the point I couldn’t tolerate unemployment too long. Then there was the matter of legal fees if Sly came through for me.

After I cleaned up and dressed for the day—jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt—I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a note pad. I figured inspiration was just around the corner, rushing my way. All I had to do was show patience, and I’d get a message on how to proceed. I waited, pen poised, ready to write. Nothing. No inspiration. I was at the same place as when I went to bed last night. One idea finally popped in. Time would tell if it was a good one—go to the strip mall where I’d met Ms. Garcia and hope it was a favorite hangout of hers. Could be. She picked it.

I spent another hour reconstructing every word she and I had exchanged, concentrating on the phone call, looking for any clue, any hint beyond the obvious. If it had happened, I couldn’t find it. Bottom line was, she picked the Starbucks, and I picked the time. That was it. I decided to hit Starbucks at three o’clock, the time we met. Or better yet, spend the afternoon in the strip mall, working my way from store to store.

One new thing I remembered. As I had rushed to my car to head out in hot pursuit of Ms. Garcia’s
husband
, she went into the dress shop. I doubted the place had such an abundance of customers they’d forget one. Of course, with the way my luck was running, if they did, Ms. Garcia would be the forgotten one.

Too bad I wasn’t in Dallas. I knew a couple of police sketch artists I could inveigle to help me. A picture to show around was what I needed.

I doodled on my pad a moment, attempting to capture her looks. No matter how hard I tried, she came out looking like the Wicked Witch of the West—wart on nose and all. Hey, my hand went where my attitude told it to go. And I was not in a benevolent mood.

Then inspiration struck—just like in the movies. Can’t say cartoons because I forgot to look for the light bulb. We lived in a world of instant communications. I grabbed my phone and, after fumbling though my old address book, dialed.

“Dallas Police Department, Jake Gibbons.”

“Jake. It’s Beth, Beth Bowman. You still celebrating your divorce by bedding every female in sight?”

That launched a series of raunchy give and takes that told me Jake was still my friend. That was iffy for a while after he caught Sonny-the-Bunny with his wife. But the judge gave Jake freedom, and he swore my ex did him a favor—got him out of a bad marriage without alimony.

ten

I eased into my
problem, asking if Jake could create a police sketch for me. My idea was I’d feed him the description and he’d compose, then email the picture to me. I could view and offer corrections until his talent had drawn the perfect picture of Ms. Garcia.

“Sure, Beth, but not here. I don’t think the Captain would appreciate my spending Dallas dollars to help you. Look, I’m off duty in an hour. I’ll call when I get home. In the meantime, jot down everything you remember. Be as specific as you can.”

“I know, Jake. Been there. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. But don’t think I’m doing this pro bono. You owe me.”

“What do you mean? You not getting enough?”

“Hey, easy there. You’re not keeping up. I’m a happy newlywed and plan to stay that way, so get your mind out of my bedroom. You won’t get that lucky.”

“Lucky? Ho, ho. Your bride must really know how to bolster your ego.”

“Yes, something you might want to learn—how to please a man.”

“I give up. How can I repay you?”

His chuckle told me he enjoyed the win. Fine with me as long as he did my sketch.

“Next time you’re in Dallas, I know a great steakhouse with a two-pound porterhouse on the menu. You’re buying—one for me and one for Julie.”

“You’re on and congratulations on your marriage. Is Julie her name? When did it happen?” A memory kicked in. “Julie? Not the cute redhead from records that could have any guy in the department?”

“Yep, that’s her. And she only had eyes for one man—me.” Minutes passed while Jake gave me a detailed description of his new wife and how happy he was. I oohed and aahed with his every word. Then we terminated the call so he could split for home and I could follow his advice. I spent the next hour recording every little thing I could remember about Ms. Garcia’s appearance. This time, I omitted the wart.

True to his word, Jake called an hour later. Well, actually seventy minutes, but I was in a generous mood. We spent a half hour on the phone—me talking and him sketching and asking an occasional question. Fifteen minutes after that, I had a likeness of Ms. Garcia, or a woman who could have been a distant relative. I got Jake back on the phone, and we refined his drawing. After four attempts, I was satisfied with his work. I had a picture of Ms. Garcia that was close enough to my image of her that I trusted it. Even if it only led me to her sister, I’d have a lead. All I had to do was show it around and let someone tell me who she was and where I could find her.

After thanking Jake and inviting him and Julie to visit me in Florida, I hung up and downloaded the .jpg file. I worked on it in PhotoShop, creating three versions. One was unadorned, the second carried my name and phone number on the bottom with a message to call me if she showed up. On the third, I added a line offering a reward based on the accuracy and depth of information provided. I loaded twenty-five pound paper and instructed the printer to go for fifty copies.

By then, the clock had crawled toward two o’ clock, and I was anxious to get to the mall. The sooner I started canvassing, the sooner I’d have the woman in a corner, pummeling her with questions—questions she would answer or I’d pummel her with something a lot harder. Like my fists.

I entered my closet and surveyed the left side. One of the pleasures of my house was the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Every woman is born with the dream of a special room where she can hang every item so it can be seen without being crushed. I had such a treasure. Plenty of space and bright lighting. Even mirrored doors. It was about ten by fifteen feet. The two long sides held rods while the rear was a floor-to-ceiling shoe rack. On the left, I hung my better clothes, those I wore when my appearance was important. There was plenty of space because the inventory was quite limited. The right side held my jeans, casual slacks, blouses, and tops worthy of a hanger. Lots of those. I wish I could say the back wall overflowed with shoes, but no. Lots of casual wear and a few flats. Hardly ever worn were several pairs with higher heels, two with three-inch spikes in basic black. There were still lots of empty spaces, however. I looked forward to the pleasure of filling them one pair at a time.

From the left, I took down a navy blue pantsuit, one of my best, a Donna Karan. It wasn’t too pricey, but nice enough for most any occasion, especially courtroom appearances. On behalf of my clients, I had to appear before judges often enough that I needed proper attire.

I knew we lived in a relaxed-clothing society, even more so in South Florida, but I couldn’t do it. Jeans and courtrooms just didn’t match for me. My upbringing, I suppose. Mom drilled into me how to dress for a formal setting.

From the shoe rack, I dragged out a pair of Anne Kleins with two-inch heels. Also purchased for appearances before judges. I never said I bought expensive brands, but I could make myself presentable when the necessity arose.

My dream closet also held shelves on both sides, above the rods. From a shoebox, tucked in the back corner, I took out my backup pistol. It was a subcompact Beretta .32 revolver—lightweight enough that it wouldn’t weigh down my purse. Stopping power was limited, but it looked formidable when viewed from its business end. And it held five rounds I could fire before I threw it at the target and ran. The pistol went into my Coach bag and the pictures of Ms. Garcia into my attaché case. I was ready for the mall, the very image of a successful businesswoman.