Until then, I was told that my name—er,
names
—were old family names on my mother’s side. Technically true.
Finley and Anderson are both family names, just not members of her family. They’re the surnames of the two men my mother was sleeping with when she got pregnant with me.
Maybe it should have bothered me, but it didn’t because Jonathan was a great dad. Ironically, even though we didn’t share any DNA, he never treated me any differently than Lisa. My mother was the one who blatantly showed favorit-ism. It wasn’t that I was unwanted. It was more a function of Lisa being so perfect. Lisa was an easy child. I was the challenge—the kid who, when told the stove was hot, had to touch it just to make sure. My dad saw it as spirited.
My mother found it irritating.
I’m guessing that’s why, after fifteen years, I still miss him. Jonathan was a great guy and a hard act to follow.
I’m sure he’s why my mother likes being married.
She’s currently on the prowl for husband number six, which is how I got stuck with the chore of watering the self-injurious orchids. While she’s off expanding her search to include other continents, I have to drive seven miles out of my way to tend to the plants. Ten miles if you count the U-turn, which I will.
Thanks to three profitable divorce settlements and two sizable estates, my mother has a stunning condo on Singer Island with breathtaking views of the Atlantic. It’s a twelve-story building accessible only by decree of the ever present security guards posted on the overly air-conditioned side of double glass doors.
I parked in a spot marked DELIVERIES ONLY, ALL OTHERS TOWED, got out of my car, then climbed up the polished stone steps. A large, ornate fountain sprayed the walkway with a fine mist. A crew of landscapers were busy changing the flowers. I must admit, it was a practice that didn’t make a lot of sense to me. Routinely, perfectly good plants were dug up, tossed in the back of a truck, and replaced by other plants in different colors. They were plants. Who cared? Someone on the owner’s association had too much time on their hands. They treated the foliage as if it was the important accessory, removed and banished like last year’s out-of-favor fashion item.
The guard buzzed me in, nodding a general recognition before he made a notation of my arrival on his clipboard as I strode toward the elevator. My heels clicked and echoed against the marble walls of the two-story atrium lobby.
The elevator always smelled faintly of the vapor trails left by previous riders. I sniffed, recognizing the scent of tuberose, jasmine, and orange blossom blend as Annick Goutal Gardenia Passion.
My game of guess-that-perfume only got me as far as the fifth floor. I shifted from foot to foot, bored and anx-ious while the elevator slowly rose toward the penthouse.
Even though my mother wasn’t here, I suffered a moderate failure-as-a-daughter attack. Strange how that happened.
I could be completely confident in all other areas of life, yet I crumbled when it came to all things “mother.” I had this vision of myself, stepping off her elevator, certain that I had a big neon sign over my head flashing I SUCK! It was a mother-daughter thing. Mothers had this amazing ability to make you feel sixteen and lame even when they were thousands of miles away out at sea. The little telepathic bitch-slap did little to lighten my mood.
A mood that careened down when I opened the door
and started counting dead plants. Just for fun, I considered running out and buying chalk, coming back and outlining their little plant bodies, and treating the whole place like a massive botanical crime scene. That would be my idea of fun. My mother would take it as yet another example of my irreverent propensity to treat her disrespectfully.
So I dropped my purse onto one of three ornate sofas in the living room and moved past the pricey and mostly headless marble statues that had scared me senseless as a child, finally ending up in the kitchen.
My mother’s penthouse was nearly five-thousand square feet, more than three times the total area of my apartment if I added my parking spot into the equation. Large windows, balconies, and sliding glass doors made you feel as if you were standing in the clouds above the ocean.
The space was very Mom. The decor was formal, floral, and—I glanced around just to check—organized. In a futile attempt at triage, I filled the copper watering pail and went plant to plant, drizzling water onto hard soil. It wasn’t working. The water just rolled off the caked dirt into the saucers.
Fortunately, while I suck at plant care, I know people.
The day after my mother left, I took photographs of the plants on my cell’s camera. A great reference for getting their little plant doppelgängers. It was my backup, a pretty foolproof plant-care system.
Time for Plan B. Luckily, my mother left the stakes in the pots, identifying each plant by color and variety. I wrote the information on a sheet of paper, then guesti-mated the height. I have a great relationship with Ricardo, who has a cute plant stand up in Juno Beach. One phone call and I can replenish the plants by Saturday morning, hopefully without my mother being any the wiser.
List tucked inside my purse, I left the penthouse and headed back to my place. I thought about stopping at the store for something to make for dinner but then decided not to bother.
My modest, rented apartment is on the ground floor of a complex in Palm Beach Gardens. It has a decent-sized bedroom and bathroom, but I chose it mainly for the walk-out patio. Ignoring the statistical reality that I was something like twenty times more likely to be robbed in a garden apartment, I opted for this place because the patio made it seem bigger.
I changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then made some coffee and opened my refrigerator. Chinese takeout and a jar of mustard. My pantry wasn’t much better. The only thing that didn’t require cooking was a box of stale Lucky Charms. One of the greatest joys of living alone is the complete freedom to eat Lucky Charms by the handfuls straight out of the box. Paired with an excellent cup of hazelnut coffee, I was all set for the evening.
I flipped through the channels, stopping only long enough to see if something grabbed my interest. I was feeling restless for some reason. It wasn’t the caffeine or the sugar. Given my generally poor eating habits, my body was used to the nutritional void.
There were a few framed pictures on top of my entertainment center. I focused on the one of Patrick and me taken two months earlier when we’d slipped over to the Bahamas for a weekend. We did look perfect together—all blond, blue-eyed grins set against a tropical backdrop. I smiled. It had been a nice trip. Patrick and I traveled often, and he always picked romantic, beachy locations. He took great care to make sure the hotel was just right, the room was just right, the view was just right, the wine was just right, the sex was just right.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I knew I should feel more appreciative. What woman wouldn’t kill for a guy who was so considerate?
Me. But,
I told myself,
In the world of dating, the evil
you know is always better.
“He isn’t evil,” I mumbled. I could make a long list of Patrick’s plusses. Unfortunately, none of them compensated for the fact that if I was being totally honest with myself, I had to admit I was growing bored.
I crunched another handful of cereal into my mouth just as my cell phone rang. Half-expecting it to be Patrick, I glanced at the Caller ID, but the identification was blocked.
“Hello?”
“Miss Tanner?”
The last time a person called me “Miss” I was twelve and standing in front of the headmistress’s desk about to suffer the consequences for being late to class . . .
again.
“Yes.”
“This is Stacy Evans.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I quickly tossed my Lucky Charms aside as if she could actually see me stuffing my face with marshmallow stars, hearts, moons, and clovers.
“How was your flight?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.”
“I was in and out,” I supplied.
“What have you learned?”
That giving you my cell number was totally fucking
nuts.
“I’ve completed all the paperwork, and I’m meeting with an investigator in the morning.”
“Why did you put it off?”
Off? I’m thinking less than a twenty-four-hour turnaround is pretty damned impressive!
“It was the first time that was convenient to both our schedules.”
“I’m not paying you for convenient. I’m paying you for results.”
“I understand that. I will be in touch as soon as I’ve met with Mr. McGarrity.” That should have been the end of the conversation, but it wasn’t. Mrs. Evans spent the better part of ten minutes chewing me out for not returning her phone calls, for not keeping in touch, for basically everything shy of global warming.
After I hung up, I made a mental note to make sure I added the time spent on the phone call to my billing sheet.
I went into the bedroom and pulled out my laptop. It’s pretty much just for e-mails, photographs, and shopping, but every now and again—like now—I actually do some work from home.
I plugged in all the wires and cables, then went online and Googled Marcus Evans. His obituary was the first thing to pop up. Nothing new there. The next few entries were just what you’d expect. Photographs accompanying articles regarding various charitable events in and around Palm Beach attended by Mr. and Mrs. Evans. I scrolled down, finding an article that seemed marginally more relevant.
It showed a picture of the Evans family standing in front of a store in New York. The article described the successful and profitable jewelry business Marcus had built from really humble beginnings. Along with retail, Evans & Evans did commission pieces for an impressive clientele.
But Marcus had retired years earlier, maintaining little more than an advisory presence in the business. According to the article, his son, Abram, carried on the family enter-prise with great acumen.
“None of this has anything to do with a car accident in Palm Beach,” I said with a sigh as I scrolled down through the next few mentions. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, mainly because I was convinced there was nothing to find.
My heart skipped when I saw the next to last listing.
Having clicked the link, I was frustrated by a series of registration processes that made me jump through hoops before I could read the text of the article. Mild interest had turned to genuine curiosity as I waited for the server to grant me permission to access the newspaper archive.
Patience isn’t one of my strong suits, so I drummed my nails on the edge of the computer as the annoying little hourglass spun and twirled on the screen. We can fly probes to Mars, but I can’t read a newspaper article from three years ago without a screen name, a password, and a reminder-tip question just in case I couldn’t remember said screen name or said password. Amazing.
Finally, a copy of the article came up. I read it over, looking for some reference to Marcus Evans. It was a long article. I must have missed something, so I read it again.
Irritated, I used the
Find
key. No Marcus Evans, no M. Evans, no Evans, period. No jewelry, no business, not even a mention of New York or New Jersey. I tried searching for golf, charities, pretty much anything I could think of that might somehow link my guy to the story.
Nothing.
I was vaguely familiar with the story, though. My firm had represented Kent Hall, M.D., in the medical wrongful-death suit filed by the estate of Brad Whitley. The jury had completely exonerated the renowned transplant surgeon.
So what, I wondered, did the Hall trial have to do with my poor dead jeweler’s car accident?
Men are like a great pair of shoes in the wrong size—no matter how much you love them, they can’t be fixed.
Three
“He was a juror,” I excitedly told Becky when we met for coffee the next morning at our favorite coffee shop a couple of blocks from the office. Nancy Drew had a break in the case. “Marcus Evans was a juror on the Hall trial.” I was quite pleased with my minimal de-tecting skills.
Becky’s brow furrowed for a second as she sipped her chai tea. “The Hall case? That was the doctor who did the heart transplant on the rich guy who died anyway, right?”
I nodded. “Brad Whitley,” I said. “Forty-three-year-old real estate developer. He had”—I paused to consult my notes—“cardiomyopathy. His only chance was a transplant. Crappy luck that he finally got the transplant and then got nailed by some funky postop infection. Killed him.”
“That’s some pretty cruel karma,” Becky agreed. “Was there any negligence?”
We both knew that a jury verdict, especially one in a medical malpractice suit, didn’t mean squat. That whole “jury of your peers” thing pretty much flies out the window when you’re talking about complex medical proce-34
Rhonda Pollero
dures to people who, on average, have the same medical IQ as a bag of hair.
Normal people find a way out of jury duty. Jobs, family obligations, and general hardships are just some of the claims used to get out of the civic call to service. In a case like the Hall trial, potential jurors run for the hills. Can’t say as I blame them, either. It’s hard to ask someone to commit to sitting on a trial that could last for weeks, if not months. All for the whopping sum of roughly twenty dollars a day.
So, in Palm Beach county, at least, juries are composed of people under seventy—you get an automatic pass if you’re over seventy—who are the unemployed, the under-employed, the never-employed, professional students, house-wives, retirees, and the occasional true believer who actually answers the call to duty regardless of the personal cost.
“I’m going to review the file today,” I said. “After I meet the redheaded-surfer-slash-investigator.” I glanced down at my watch and gave myself a little mental pat on the back. It was only eight-twenty and I was ready to get to work.
“That trial was, like, um, three years ago,” Becky reminded me. “What’s the connection?”
I shrugged. “Probably none. But at least I have something to say to Mrs. Got-Finley-on-Speed-Dial Evans.”
“If Dane had a relationship with the Evanses, how did Marcus end up on a jury where Dane was defense counsel?”
“That bothered me, too,” I admitted. “I won’t know until I read the transcripts.” I stood, taking my half-finished latte with me. “Can you do lunch today?”
“No.” Becky sighed. “I’ve got meetings. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“Seven o’clock, the fountain at City Place.” Waving as I walked, I headed out and strolled the two blocks to the office.
There was a chill in the morning air. Well, chilly to me. I consider anything under eighty degrees a major cold front.
But there was hope in the bright orange sunshine slowly rising above the buildings. By lunchtime I’d be able to shed my denim jacket and show off my Tom K Nguyen embroidered tulle blouse. I got it at a serious discount on my last trip to The Mall at Wellington Green because some poor soul in my size had torn the ribbon tie, allowing me to score the blouse for just under one hundred pre–sales tax dollars. Tacking the ribbon back in place had taken me less than five minutes even with my limited sewing skills.
My new blouse was so terrific that it acted like a force field, protecting me from the nasty glare Margaret shot my way when I arrived at work.
“I think my watch is running slow,” I told her sweetly.
“Got the correct time?”
She gave me a dark look as I went for the elevator.
Even her snarl couldn’t rain on my “I’m here early” parade. Not just on time, mind you—early. The last time I was early to work was when the hot repair guy was there fixing one of the state-of-the-art, computerized, automated copy machines that jammed more often than it worked. I greeted my coworkers as my uncharacteristically cheery mood carried me into my office.
I shrugged off my jacket and looped it on the hook behind the door before flipping on my coffeepot and settling into my chair. Pulling the list I’d made the night before from my purse, I unfolded the wrinkled sheet of paper and went over it again.
My voice mail was clear, which was good. By nine-ofive, I was scanning my e-mail and feeling the first wave of annoyance wash through my system. Liam McGarrity was late. Worse yet, his tardiness was screwing with my unusually sprightly mood. And here I’d made a point of being on time.
Most of my e-mails were easily dispatched with minimal effort on my part. Including, as expected, a chatty little note from Mary Beth offering, yet again, to help me. What I didn’t expect was the curt, single-line e-mail from Victor Dane, commanding my presence in his office at noon. I groaned. My really great morning was turning to shit.
I put in a request for the Hall transcripts from the fileroom, marking it
urgent
just because I could. I did the other things on my list that didn’t require input from the investigator, who was now a full twenty minutes late.
My latte was history and I was on my third cup of coffee by the time Margaret buzzed my line to inform me that McGarrity was on his way up. Not that I’m anyone to talk, but the fact that he was almost an hour late didn’t bode well. Grabbing a sticky note, I made myself a reminder to keep a close eye on his billing. It wasn’t my money, but that didn’t mean I was going to pay for late.
The scent of cologne and soap arrived a few seconds before the man. I noticed two things right off the bat. He wasn’t redheaded and he wasn’t middle-aged.
There are few times in adult life when you have a purely primal response to a man. This was one of mine. My guy-dar picked up and tracked him as he came through the doorway. It wasn’t that he was classically handsome. He was more the casual, rugged type. In a fraction of a second, I sized him up as dangerous—the kind of guy you’re attracted to even though you know, going in, it will be a disaster.
“I’m Finley,” I greeted him, extending my hand in his direction and silently praying I wouldn’t do something stupid, like leap over the desk and tackle him.
“Liam,” he returned, not shaking my hand so much as gripping it for an electric second.
The deep, sensual voice was even more of a distraction when I was looking into his clear gray-blue eyes. Who knew he’d be Baldwin-brother black Irish? I was expecting an unattractive redhead with freckles and a paunch, and here I was faced with the very real possibility of drooling on my new blouse.
Lazily, he lowered himself into the chair opposite my desk and slapped a folder in front of me. The sound was enough to clear my man-fog. I asked, “What’s this?” Pulling the elastic band off the folder, I glanced inside. Several hand-labeled files were organized in neat order.
“Copies of all the pertinent reports, hospital, M.E., preliminary background checks, and the responding-officer’s notes.”
Okay, I was duly impressed. “What about having the car inspected?”
“I’m on it,” he answered easily. “That coffee private, or can I have some?”
Coffee, water tea, . . . me.
“Sorry, sure.”
Turning in my chair, I opened my credenza to grab a second cup. Bypassing my big, bright pink emergency mug, I grabbed one of the emerald-colored cups embossed with the firm’s logo. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Straight,” he answered.
Are you? I wanted to ask. Of course he was. He was too scruffy to be gay. No self-respecting gay man would wear stone-washed jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and a crooked tie.
There wasn’t so much as a hint of product in his black hair, nothing to smooth the wayward lock off his forehead. I wanted to run my fingers through it. I wanted to do a bunch of other things that I think are still illegal in twelve states. But I settled for pouring his coffee.
“What do you know about the Hall trial?” he asked.
I slid the cup to the edge of the desk, childishly avoiding the potential brush of the fingertips. Until I knew his fatal flaw, I didn’t want to feel that zing. I knew he had one. My best guess at this point: he’s one of those guys who makes you think you can fix him. He had a hooded, George Clooneyish kind of gaze.
I came of age to that look. The whole “I’m open to it if only the right woman comes along” expression that Doug Ross used to give long-suffering Carol Hathaway. Mentally, I reminded myself that
the look
had driven Carol to suicide, so it was probably best for me to switch gears and focus on the case.
“I know Marcus Evans was a juror.”
He tossed me a little half-smile. “Very good. This firm defended Dr. Hall.”
“I’ve already requested the transcripts. I don’t remember much about the case, except that it made the news every night until the verdict came in.”
Liam brought the mug to his lips, paused, and looked at me over the rim. “Rich folks usually make for good rat-ings.”
“I met Brad Whitley once,” I mused. “Correction, I didn’t actually meet him. More like I passed him leaving The Breakers.”
“Go there often?”
I couldn’t get a sense if he was mocking me or making conversation. I hate when that happens. “A friend of mine did his wedding.”
“And?”
“Nothing,” I said, wondering now why I’d brought it up in the first place. “When do you think the car inspec-tion will be completed?”
“My guy will give me first impressions later today if there’s something obvious and suspicious.” He drained his cup, rose, and set the mug on my desk. “If this is a wild-goose chase or if the tampering is sophisticated, then it could take a couple of weeks.”
“What about the background checks? Did anything
jump out at you?”
He shook his head and slowly let out a long breath. “On the surface, your dead guy’s squeaky clean. Good husband, good father, good businessman, charitable. Model citizen.”
There was a decent amount of cynicism in his tone that I admit made me a little curious. “You think he had some sort of double life?”
His broad shoulders strained against his shirt when he shrugged and shoved the hair off his forehead. “He’d have to if that’s what got him killed. Random victims are pretty rare. Murder is up-close and personal.”
“So he probably wasn’t murdered?”
“If he was, you’re dealing with a slick killer. I know the officers who responded to the accident. They’re good cops.”
He was framed in my doorway, leaning against the jamb as he checked the fancy Breitling chronograph watch on his tanned wrist. I was impressed for a second time. Watch-envy washed over me.
“How do you know the police officers?”
“Used to be a cop,” he replied. “I’ve got another thing,”
he added. “I’ll be in touch.”
Again with the “thing.” For a large man, he moved flu-idly. I was half-tempted to jump up and watch him walk down the hall, but that would be just too obvious.
Instead, I spent the remainder of my early-for-me morning catching up on my open cases. The D’Auria estate accounting was due in less than a week, and I still had a math error making me crazy. There were a few other odds and ends that needed my attention as well, and I wanted my desk to be clear when the transcripts arrived. Thinking about them, I sent an e-mail to the file clerk, asking when I could expect action on my “urgent” request.
I got an instant reply letting me know the files were on their way. So, having some free time, I logged on to eBay and hunted for Rolex parts. I found a box in excellent condition and entered a bid, but the item auction didn’t end for another seventeen hours.
I also called the orchid guy and told him what I needed.
It was annoying to hear he was going to tack on a rush-order fee of ten percent over retail, but I wasn’t in any position to argue. He knew it, I knew it, so I coughed up my credit-card number and kept my irritation in check. Orchid replacement was going to cost me roughly as much as a pair of decent sandals at the Dillards’ semiannual shoe sale.
The transcripts arrived at eleven-fifteen, and I dove into them as if they were cheesecake and I was seriously PMS-ing.
Trial transcripts are the most mind-numbing reading on the planet. Which probably explains why television shows depending on actors reciting them are about as interesting as watching C-SPAN at three in the morning. It isn’t
Perry
Mason
or
Matlock.
The people aren’t ever scripted, and the lawyers aren’t usually brilliant. In fact, the process is technical, and jurors often nod off during lengthy objec-tions. Hell, some even nod off during actual testimony, though that’s never indicated in the transcripts.
The content was daunting—lots and lots of medical terms and names of complex surgical and diagnostic procedures that had me reaching for dictionaries and searching the Internet for some semblance of understanding.
Volume one covered jury selection, opening statements, and the first morning of testimony. Looking over at the eleven boxes stacked neatly against the wall made me want to rethink my approach.
My computer alarm chimed at a quarter to twelve, reminding me of my high-noon summons to Dane’s office.
Needing a break, I typed the names of all the jurors and witnesses to check after my meeting. I just needed to see if anything popped. I didn’t expect to find anything. For a trial of this magnitude—a multimillion-dollar verdict at stake—jurors are vetted pretty thoroughly by both sides.
Carrying a pad of paper, I headed for the elevators, not thinking about the time and that they would be loaded with people heading off to lunch, so would be running really slowly. In a quick change of decision—it wouldn’t do to be late—I turned for the stairs instead and climbed the four flights up to the executive office suite.
As I entered the office doors, I felt like Dorothy when she stepped into Oz. Posh carpet, buttery-soft leather furniture, stunning fresh floral arrangements greeted me. I tried to think of the last time I’d been up here. My last review, maybe, when Ellen Lieberman had reamed me out for not taking enough initiative. My stomach knotted at the memory. Ellen’s assessment had cost me a bonus. A con-templated bonus I had already spent. Twice.