Hush (35 page)

―You‘re seeing him?‖ he repeated, sounding dazed.

―Yes.‖

―What about Joe?‖

―You know we‘ve been through a long time. Danner‘s going to find out the truth, Dad.

Don‘t worry.‖

His answer was a short, disbelieving bark of laughter, then a mumbled good-bye and a hang-up.

Coby replaced her receiver and wondered if interviewing her friends was a waste of time.

Maybe she was making things too complicated. She wanted answers about Annette‘s death, and it might have nothing to do with Lucas Moore or her group of friends or anything that happened in the past.

Were her friends right? Was Yvette involved? Coby had resisted adopting their view for the very reason that Yvette felt like such an easy target. Too easy, maybe.

But maybe she should rethink that attitude, because she was beginning to be worried sick about her father . . . and mother.

She was gathering her purse, laptop, and some papers when she heard a knock on her half-open door. She‘d thought she was alone in the offices, and her pulse skyrocketed in tandem with her worried thoughts. ―Yes?‖ she called.

Joe stuck his head inside. ―Here you are on a Saturday again. Trying to get employee of the year?‖

She exhaled hard, forcing herself to relax. ―I see you‘re here, too.‖

―Yeah . . . about that . . .‖ He strode casually into her office, his hands in his pants pockets.

―You know who Jarvis Lloyd is?‖ he asked.

―Um . . . yeah . . . he‘s the home invasion victim?‖ Coby wasn‘t about to tell him that Danner was investigating the crime, though as it turned out she needn‘t have worried about being so protective.

―You‘re looking at his new attorney,‖ Joe said, pleased with himself.

Coby stopped in the act of zipping her laptop computer into its case. ―Since when did you become a criminal defense attorney?‖ Coby asked, surprised, though she knew the answer only too well, which Joe immediately pointed out.

―Oh, come on. You know my background,‖ he said.

―But you prefer divorce cases. You purposely gave up criminal law.‖

―Why do I get the feeling you‘re trying to talk me out of this? Is it because of your relationship with Detective Lockwood, who‘s been mercilessly dogging my innocent client, I might add?‖

Coby stuffed papers into her briefcase, feeling pressure building on all sides. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to deny, deny, deny. Instead, she counted mentally to five, then said in an even voice, ―My dad‘s looking for a good attorney. He thinks the police suspect him of his wife‘s murder. Maybe you can fit him into your busy schedule.‖

Joe instantly dropped his act. ―Jesus. Are you kidding?‖

―Take it up with my father. He likes you. Tell him you talked to me and I thought it was a good idea.‖ She brushed past him, then paused at the door. ―And stop needling me. I thought we were over that.‖

―
Are
you dating Lockwood again?‖ he asked seriously.

―Working on it.‖

―I miss you, Coby.‖

―Oh, Joe . . .‖ She would have laughed if she hadn‘t been so worried about everything as she walked out of her office ahead of him. He didn‘t miss her. He was merely a master at rewriting the past and making it seem better than it was.

Punching the Down button on the elevator, she checked her watch. Almost one. She had the whole afternoon to catch up on work and then she would be seeing Danner.

The elevator doors opened and she hurried across the echoing concrete chamber of Parking Sublevel B, her heels tapping rapidly. There were only a smattering of vehicles this afternoon, though Sublevel A was public parking. Digging for her keys, she was halfway to the Sentra when she noticed something wrong.

Her steps slowed. The car‘s rear tires were flat. As she drew nearer she saw the same was true of the front two, as well. All four tires were flat, and as she bent down, she saw a series of slash marks against the nearest rear tire, as if someone had been in an awful hurry, or a blind rage, before it had been punctured.

And there was something on her windshield. A paper.

Heartbeat racing, she moved forward and carefully grabbed the edge of the page. It was a piece of blank printer paper.

Scrawled in black marker, it read:

YOU DON’T BELONG, BITCH
.

Coby‘s breath came in sharp gasps, matching her wildly beating pulse. She glanced around jerkily, certain someone was waiting for her behind the post, or the side of the elevator, or that huge black Tahoe.

With a shaking hand she unlocked the Sentra, sliding the paper onto the passenger seat.

Then she pulled out her phone, her eyes darting to every darkened corner. She punched in Danner‘s number, and a heartbeat later clicked off. She waited. There were cameras, right? Maybe the perpetrator was on film.

She walked the length of the garage, her nerves screaming. But she was alone. Whoever had slashed her tires and left the note was long gone.

And there were no cameras apart from the ones at the entrance to Parking Sublevel A, which captured all the weekend shoppers who used the parking structure. The garage was ticket-accessed; no one on duty. She would have to pull the tapes if she wanted to find whoever did this. Unless they‘d walked in . . .

And it could have been anybody, she realized. Maybe it wasn‘t even meant for her personally. JJ&R had their share of dissatisfied customers, Rhys Webber being a case in point. He sure as hell didn‘t like her.

Yet . . . the not belonging part . . .

In the end she punched in Faith‘s number and started counting in her head, distantly aware that her heartbeats were still fast and hard. When Faith hadn‘t picked up on the third ring, she almost chucked the whole idea and went back to her first thought. Danner. He would gladly help.

He was a cop. She just didn‘t want to be a damsel in distress, especially while he was working.

―Coby?‖ Faith finally answered.

And despite feeling in control, Coby could feel hot tears fill her throat. It took her a moment to say, ―I . . . need help.‖

―What‘s wrong? Are you okay? Coby! Where‘s Danner?‖

―I‘m in the parking garage at work. Someone‘s slashed my tires. Can you come get me?‖

A long moment as Faith assessed. Then, ―I‘m on my way.‖

Coby clicked off, calmly called a towing company, then leaned her back against her car and kept a wide-eyed vigil until Faith‘s BMW came down the ramp onto Sublevel B.

An hour and a half later, she told her sister, ―I‘m all right,‖ for the umpteenth time, sitting on a plastic waiting room chair, having Faith pace around in front of her. It was a living nightmare.

Coby realized she never should have called her.

―You‘re not all right,‖ Faith snapped. ―Stop saying that.‖

Faith had arrived just before the tow truck. They‘d made plans to have the Nissan towed to Les Schwab Tires, and the towing man had winched the car up and onto a flatbed. She and Faith had followed the truck to the tire store and then Coby had picked out new tires.

―I needed new tires,‖ she said to Faith, trying to make light. ―Just hadn‘t gotten around to it yet.‖ And to the employees at Les Schwab, ―There‘s kind of a clunk under the right front tire.‖

Faith was having none of Coby‘s ―I‘m more than okay‖ attitude. ―Somebody‘s out for you,‖

she said in a whisper, as they were only a few feet from the counter. ―What does that mean, you don‘t belong? Who‘ve you pissed off?‖

―Any number of people.‖ Coby walked farther out of earshot. Though she appreciated Faith helping her out, she now wanted to handle things herself.

―This has to do with Annette‘s murder, doesn‘t it? You‘ve made somebody nervous.‖

―All I‘ve done is talk to a few old classmates.‖

―You think one of them did it?‖

―No.‖ Coby gazed at Faith in frustration. ―
No
.‖ She wasn‘t about to discuss her theories with her sister.

―Who, then?‖

―I don‘t know.‖

―You have an idea who killed her, don‘t you? And somebody knows it.‖

Coby held up her hands and sidestepped her sister, going to a vending machine. She yanked her wallet from her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. ―I need caffeine. You want anything?‖

―No, thanks.‖

Coby inserted the bill and waited for her can of soda to drop, gathering her change and dropping it into her purse. Then she popped open the can and took a restorative swallow.

―Coby, c‘mon,‖ Faith said. ―Stop being so strong. I get it. This is scary. I‘d be out of my mind, considering someone killed our stepmother.‖

―Faith, thanks. Really. You‘ve been great, but really—stop. You don‘t have to stay with me.‖

―I want to,‖ she said, trying hard to read Coby‘s feelings and failing.

―No, really. Please.‖

The two sisters stared at each other a moment, then Faith sighed and asked, ―You sure you‘re okay?‖

―Yes.‖

―You‘re going to tell Danner about this, right?‖

―Yes. Tonight.‖

―All right.‖ She gave a quick little shrug of her shoulders. ―One more thing: Mom and Dad.

They really are together.‖

―Oh . . .‖ Coby sighed. ―I keep hoping it‘s a bad dream.‖

―Don‘t you want them together?‖

―Not
now
.‖

―But after this is over?‖

Coby stared at her older sister, who sometimes was so damned dense it made Coby want to bang her head against the wall. ―What if this isn‘t over, Faith? What if Dad, or Mom, or someone else we care about is responsible? What if, in the end, we learn something we just don‘t want to know?‖

Faith gazed at her steadily. ―Maybe you should stop investigating with Danner. Maybe he could be . . . diverted.‖

―Diverted? Oh . . .‖ She felt like she‘d been kicked in the stomach. ―You really do think one of them did it!‖

―No. No . . . no, I don‘t.‖ She shook her head, trying to convince herself as she moved toward the door, not even looking up to say good-bye as she headed through the double glass doors and across the tire store‘s parking lot toward her vehicle, her hair blowing in the wind.

Coby thought about what she‘d said, and the note on her windshield, and her slashed tires.

Anger burned through her; her veins felt on fire. Whoever had tried to warn her off had scared her; that was true. But if they‘d thought they would actually scare her off, they‘d miscalculated: she was more determined than ever to learn the truth.

Danner walked into Rick‘s with Metzger at about three o‘clock. The same bartender he‘d met the first time he visited the nightclub was there. This time he gave his name —Charlie—but he looked nervous about talking to the cops.

―We need to see Rick,‖ Danner told him.

His eyes rolled toward the door to the inner sanctum, then back to Danner. ―He doesn‘t like to be disturbed in the afternoon.‖

Metzger leaned an elbow on the bar. ―Call him.‖

Charlie sized her up. Elaine wore her dark hair short and didn‘t give a damn about the silvery strands of gray curling near her ears. He picked up his cell phone, punched in a number, and said nervously, ―Mr. Wiis? The police are here.‖ They heard squawking on the other end. ―I told them, but . . .‖

Elaine snatched the cell phone from his hand and said pleasantly into the receiver, ―Mr.

Wiis, we‘ll be coming into your back offices in one minute unless you‘d care to meet us out here.

We‘re investigating a murder and would prefer not to bully you. But if we have to, we will. Your choice.‖ More squawking. Louder this time. Then she said, ―We‘ll be right in.‖ She hung up, looked at Danner, who couldn‘t quite smother a smile, and said, ―He seems like a very engaging personality.‖

They left Charlie and pushed through the door to the inner hallway, which this time was void of hovering women. Danner led them to Rick‘s door and Elaine gave a light knock. A moment later the man himself answered in a burgundy smoking jacket and an expensive toupe that had tilted just a smidge.

―I was resting,‖ he answered defensively to Metzger‘s narrowed assessment of him. It was clear he‘d come up short.

―All we need to know is how to find Sheila,‖ she said. Danner passed the man the artist‘s sketch.

Rick wanted to both rush them out the door and somehow defend himself, so he kept them standing by the door but started into a convoluted explanation about the women in his entourage and how sometimes he didn‘t know them that well, how he even had a few who just popped in for a bit and then left, not wanting to join the group, so to speak.

―Hard to believe,‖ Metzger muttered to this last part.

―Tell us about Sheila,‖ Danner said.

―Sheila was like that. Didn‘t want to join. She just sorta hung around, but she wasn‘t really Rick‘s material, if you know what I mean. She was better than Lucky, though. That girl was fucking weird.‖ He kissed the tips of his fingers and touched the sandaled feet of a brass figurine on a nearby table that might‘ve been Buddha but looked a lot like the character of George Costanza from
Seinfeld
.

―So Sheila moved on to Jarvis Lloyd,‖ Danner prompted.

Rick shrugged. ―She thought he was a patsy. She was looking for the big score.‖

―You kinda pick up stray women here, don‘t you?‖ Metzger said, glancing around at the black-and-white photos he had on the wall. New photos, Danner suspected, though the look hearkened back to the Rat Pack and the sixties.

―I run a nice place,‖ he said.

―Uh-huh.‖ She gave him another assessing look, her gaze lingering on the smoking jacket.

―We think this homicide was about Mrs. Lloyd,‖ Danner told him. ―But something went awry and the daughter got killed, too. Lloyd made himself believe he could put his dying wife out of her misery. An act of mercy, self-involved as it was, and stop the financial bleeding.‖

―Enter Sheila,‖ Metzger said, picking up the narrative. ―And Lloyd suddenly has a plan and a timetable. No sense waiting around. They set up a plan and Sheila kills the wife, wounds Jarvis Lloyd, and then is surprised by the daughter. Then mayhem.‖

―Suddenly, Jarvis Lloyd‘s plans to ride off into the sunset with Sheila are scratched. He‘s seen her kill his own daughter,‖ Danner said.