Knock Off (17 page)

Fourteen

“I’m sorry,” Becky said. Her tone reinforced the sentiment. “I tried to call you, but you’d already gone upstairs.”

I was walking down Olive Street, on my way to see Wanda Babbish, when Becky rang my cell phone. “Thanks for speaking up for me,” I told her sincerely. “I’m sure that cost you.”

“What are friends for?”

“Ratting out my shopping habits, apparently.” I didn’t check the mild irritation still lingering from Dane’s revelation on that point.

“They asked. I had to answer.”

“I know. The geek squad has to keep my computer overnight. Since my shunning begins tomorrow, would you mind bringing it to me after work?”

“Consider it done. Need anything else?”

“Food, clothing, shelter.”

“I can float you—”

“I’ll call the Bank of Lisa,” I interrupted. I didn’t mind owing money to nameless, faceless financial institutions, but I didn’t want to borrow that kind of money from my friends. Lisa was my younger sister, so she fell into a different category. She had David IV’s money at her disposal and was pretty good about bailing me out the few humiliating times I’d been forced to ask. Besides, if my mother was right and I was expected to wear bone or chalk taffeta for the wedding, Lisa could pony up a few dollars to tide me over and I’d promise not to complain—to her.

We spent a few more minutes Dane-bashing. I told her I’d probably spend the night at Patrick’s place. Becky seemed to think that was a smart move in light of recent events.

She was still worried about the threatening notes, while I was moving on to more immediate things, like rent. I thought about telling her I had sent copies of everything to Liv but decided against it. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her; I just figured it was better not to put her in a position of having to take any heat should anything go wrong.

Just as I ended that call, my phone rang again. It was Stacy Evans. She wasn’t happy.

“I want you back on the case.”

“I am.”
Sort of.

“But Victor said the firm couldn’t represent me anymore, and that you were taking a medical leave. Are you ill?”

“They can’t, and I will be off for the next month, but I’m not ill.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Finley?”

What the hell.
“They suspended me without pay for thirty days.”

“Why?”

“Getting arrested doesn’t reflect well on the firm.”

“How can I help?”

“Have you met with your new lawyer yet?”

“No.”

“Would you mind holding off for a few days?”

“Why?”

“I have a few more ideas I want to explore, but I can’t do that once another attorney is involved.”

“Consider it done. Anything else?”

I thought for a minute, then asked, “Do you mind paying the investigator directly? He has a lot of useful contacts, but he doesn’t work for free.”

“Easily done.”

My fingers closed around the smooth brass handle on one of Café Normandy’s double doors.
I wonder if she’d
give me a month’s wages? Nah.
“I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Finley,” Stacy said, genuinely appreciative.

“I know you’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Glad one of us is that confident.
“I’ll do my best. Bye.”

The café specialized in country French cuisine. The smell of fresh sage, garlic, and butter filled the empty room. It was a long, narrow space with tables running along both walls, separated by an aisle. I stood at the vacant hostess stand, watching the three staff members setting tables, checking condiments, and doing all the prep work required in anticipation of the lunch crowd.

I had no idea what Wanda Babbish looked like, but I excluded one of the people immediately. I was sure
he
wasn’t Wanda. The other two looked about the same age—late twenties. One was a pretty, petite redhead; the other an attractive blonde with a killer tan.

The guy glanced in my direction and called out, “We don’t start serving for another forty minutes.”

That’s when the redhead noticed me. She whispered something to the blonde, then walked over to me. “Finley Tanner?”

I nodded.

“Let’s step outside,” she said, leading me out of the restaurant and around the corner of the building. Pulling a pack of generic-brand cigarettes from her mini-apron, she flicked a lighter and inhaled deeply.

The action caused her chest to swell. I only noticed because of her outfit. The tight, short, revealing getup was a cross between a sex-shop French maid’s costume and me-dieval wench. Luckily, I’d never had to wait tables, but apparently there was a direct correlation between cleavage reveal and tip collection.

“So what’s the deal? And make it quick, would you?”

she asked, puffing on the cigarette. “I missed two days last week because my daughter was sick. Boss isn’t happy, and shit goes downhill.”

Classy girl.
“Are you aware that three of your fellow jurors have died in the last few months?” I asked as I pulled a pad and pen from my purse.

“Mrs. Evans said that when she called, but I don’t know what it has to do with me.”

“Has anything out of the ordinary happened the last few months? Calls, notes, strangers hanging around?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Has Dr. Hall or anyone connected to him contacted you in any way?”

“Me? Other than Mrs. Evans and you, no.”

“Does the name Helen Callahan mean anything to

you?”

“No? Should it?”

“She was a witness at the trial.”

“There were a lot of witnesses. They all said the same thing. Even the ones that testified for Mrs. Whitley said the infection was something that just happens sometimes.”

“What else can you tell me about the trial?”

She shrugged. “It cost me three weeks of tips. I mean, I’m sorry that Whitley guy died, but we all agreed it wasn’t the doctor’s fault.”

“No problems during deliberations?”

She took a final drag, then flicked the cigarette into the street. “Nina Fahey was a pain in the ass. She thought the widow’s tears were all for show and didn’t see any reason to award money to Mrs. Whitley since she was already rich. She moaned and groaned when Dr. Wong insisted we deliberate anyway.”

“Did Dr. Wong think there was malpractice?”

“Hell, no,” Wanda scoffed. “He just got all psycholo-gist on us. He went on and on about the stages of grief and on and on and on. Personally, I tuned him out after a while. Keller was the one who finally got him to shut up and move on.”

“Graham Keller?”

“He was the foreman. It took him a while to find the balls to take control of the discussions, but he was an okay guy.”

“What about Marcus Evans?”

Wanda smiled. “He was a sweet old man. Didn’t say much. Pretty old-fashioned. He pulled chairs out for all us women. Even stood up when one of us would come back from a bathroom break or something.”

“José Vasquez?”

She had to think for a minute. “I don’t remember him even opening his mouth during deliberations. Some of the other jurors said some pretty mean things about him behind his back.”

“Like?”

“Like he didn’t say anything because he didn’t speak any English. That kind of stuff. That wasn’t true, though.

His English was fine. I heard him talking to Keller during one of the breaks. Something about a small business loan or line of credit—I can’t really remember. It was three years ago.” She checked her watch. “I’ve gotta get back inside.”

“Thank you,” I said, handing her one of my business cards with my cell number on the back. “Please call me if anything weird happens.” I went back to scribbling notes on my small pad.

She started to walk away, then turned and said, “Do you really think someone might try to hurt us? I mean, I’m a single mom. Should I be afraid? Take precautions or something?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know.” I knew she was taking night classes for her GED as well as working double shifts to support herself and her seven-year-old. Being a single mother strapped for cash was stressful enough. I didn’t want to add “be very afraid” to her list of stuff to worry about, but I wasn’t going to put her life in danger, either.

“Just be careful, okay?” I told her. She pressed for details, but I didn’t have any solid information to share.

Walking back to the office, I was pretty impressed with myself. It was official: I had my very first interview under my belt. I’d asked the right kinds of questions, and I was confident that Wanda had been honest with me. In spite of the fact that I’d temporarily lost my job and my laptop, possibly had rabies from the Boo-Boo attack, had unconsciously cheated on my really great boyfriend, been arrested, and had a creepy stalker, I gave myself mental props in the interrogation department.

Damn, I’m good!

My phone rang, and I instantly recognized the number.

Damn, I’m screwed.
“Hello.”

“How could you do this to me?” my mother railed

loudly. This continued for a good three minutes. Obviously, she felt my arrest—listed in the paper for all to see, no less—was an intentional act to besmirch
her
reputation. One designed specifically to embarrass her in front of the Opera Society, the DAR, her condo association, and the local chapter of the Junior League.

“I’m sorry,” I said for the umpteenth time. I
was
sorry— sorry I’d answered my cell. I’d been dodging her calls all morning, and I should have stayed with that plan. “It’s all taken care of. The charges are being dismissed today.”

“Will that be in the paper?”

“I doubt it. It’s not that big a deal.”

“I’m speechless.”

If only that were true.

“Honestly, Finley, ‘arrested’ not being a big deal? And for robbery, no less. For heaven’s sake, my friends will think you’re some sort of kleptomaniac. That reflects terribly on me.”

“It was burglary, not robbery.”

“That makes a difference?”

“Technically, yes. Burglary is the unlawful breaking and entering of the premises of another with the intent to commit a felony. Robbery is the taking of anything of value from the care or custody of a person by threat of force.”

Stick that in your ear and twist.

“Don’t take that tone with me.”

“Gee, I’m sorry, Mom.” Total lie. “I was just distracted by the fact that you haven’t so much as bothered to ask if I was okay.”

“You committed a crime! That alone tells me you aren’t okay. I refuse to talk to you when you’re like this.”

She hung up on me. From experience, I knew that eventually my mother would understand that her egocentric response to hearing about my troubles might not have been the best reaction. Because, when it came right down to it, she wasn’t evil, she was just flawed. Like everyone else.

Myself included. Of course she was a lot more flawed than most.

Her occasional flare for the dramatic and my sometimes volatile temper were major hurdles that kept cropping up in our tempestuous relationship. Ironically, we both wanted a version of the same thing. I wanted her to be a different kind of mother, and she wanted me to be a different kind of daughter.

It dawned on me that I wanted something else, too.

Something I couldn’t get on eBay or in any store. I wanted to find the killer. Okay, I hadn’t gone completely off the deep end. I still wanted the rest of the parts for my Rolex, but unmasking the murderer had been temporarily moved to the top of my To-Do list. Not only would it vindicate me in the eyes of Vain Dane, it would be one hell of an accomplishment. My accomplishment.

Christ, I was starting to sound as sappy as the dialogue written for Judy Garland in one of those old
Andy Hardy
films. I walked into the lobby of my office building feeling more than just a little foolish.

Margaret’s caustic glare brought me back to reality.

“Where’s the clipboard?” I asked when she didn’t shove it over the desk at me.

“That policy has been suspended.”

It was probably killing her not to add “
just like you.
”

With a saccharine smile on my mouth, I asked, “May I have my messages, please?”

“You don’t have any.”

Fine by me. I had a lot to get done and a very limited window of time. I exited the elevator and went toward my office. About a foot from the door, I smelled woodsy soap and felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach.

Taking a fortifying breath and thinking
Patrickpatrickpatrick, I plastered a nonchalant look on my face and walked in as if I had no idea Liam was there.

Not only was Liam there, he was in my chair with his size-thirteen feet propped up on my desk, thumbing through the latest copy of In Style.

“Is there anything I can get for you, or are you comfy?”

“I’m good, thanks.” He swung his legs down, placed the magazine back on the credenza behind my desk, and slowly walked around close to where I was standing.

Moving a few files to the floor, he switched to one of the guest seats while I reclaimed mine. Well, mine for another five hours, give or take. “The receptionist doesn’t like you.”

“Really?” I asked, feigning a gasp.

“She likes me.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“She said you got blasted by the big bosses.”

“How impolitic of her to tell tales out of school.”

“She likes me,” he repeated, smiling.

I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me or feeling sorry for me. Neither option seemed too appealing. His eyes were a whole other thing. Very appealing. Seriously appealing.

The way those dark lashes set off the brilliant gray flecks against the more dominant blue color . . .

He waved a hand in front of my face as if I was one of those guards at Buckingham Palace that tourists loved to test for signs of life. “Hello?”

“Sorry.”

“How bad is it?” he asked, glancing around at the vari -