Liver Let Die (16 page)

“Do you think we’ll catch someone on tape?” Lola asked.

“They have no idea who they’re playing with,” Ray said, more to himself than to the women.

Jordan stood and made her way to the door. An uneasy feeling about the guy lurking in the hallway still nagged at her, and she wasn’t sure they would ever find out who he was.

Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know.

CHAPTER 12

Jordan stared at the empty computer screen, willing her fingers to fly over the keys and come up with the perfect recipe for the week. The Kitchen Kupboard had taken off with the good citizens of Ranchero, especially since the pork chop casserole, effectively called Côte de Porc á la Cocotte, had boosted the print runs at the
Globe
for a second time. Needless to say, Dwayne Egan pranced around like a proud papa, taking all the credit for the column’s amazing success.

In three fast weeks, Jordan had gone from low reporter on the totem pole in the newsroom to hearing her name mentioned simultaneously with “culinary goddess” on the local morning radio program. Even though it was only her friend Michael plugging her on his show, it was way more than she’d dreamed could happen after moving to this sleepy little town just three months before.

She sighed, thinking back to the way Michael and her other neighbors had instantly taken to her. It was as if an entire building of misfits had found yet another person who “got” them. With her new friends, she never felt the need to pretend she was someone other than the quirky girl who preferred curling up watching
Saturday Night Live
with them than going to a club with people her own age.

The phone on her desk suddenly blared, jarring her from her thoughts. “Jordan McAllister.”

She smiled, thinking she no longer had to say “Personals” when she picked up the phone. She still had to write them, but Egan had insisted she answer with only her name now. Okay, so he only did that because he was cheap and didn’t want to spring for a separate line for culinary fans who wanted to chat about recipes. Still, it was a step up in her book.

“McAllister,” she repeated when there was no response on the other end.

“Jordan.”

She gasped, nearly dropping the receiver. She’d never forget that sensual tone. “Hello, Brett.”

She heard him take a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. I wondered how you were.”

Really? Was this while you were boinking your thunder-and-lightning girl?

“I’m fine,” she replied, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. She’d thought she was over him, and it ticked her off that just the sound of his voice blew that theory all to pieces.

“I called your mother this morning to find out where you were. She filled me in on your new job.”

Jordan opened the notebook in her head and added “Kill Mom” to her mental to-do list. Sylvia McAllister had adored Brett Wilson from the day Jordan had brought him home over the Thanksgiving holidays her junior year at Texas. Like every other red-blooded female on the planet, Sylvia had been taken in by his rugged good looks and sweet-talking line of bull.

“What do you want, Brett?” Jumping right to the point would get her off the phone faster. She hated that the man who had broken her heart so easily could now speed it up simply by saying her name.

He laughed, one of those fake attempts he’d always used when he was bored with an interview. They’d called it his that’s-a-wrap giggle.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve moved on,” she lied, squirming in her chair. She hadn’t realized it wasn’t true until this very moment. She had no idea why her ex-boyfriend was calling out of the blue, but a warning bell pealed in her head.

In the seven years she and Brett had been together, he’d used this same technique many times when he’d screwed up and wanted her back. God help her weakness, it had worked every time. You couldn’t blame the guy for sticking with a winning plan.

“What happened to your weather girl?” she blurted out, wishing the filter in her brain worked. The last thing she wanted to hear about was Brett’s love life with the woman who had marched up to him his first day on the job and rubbed her store-boughts all over his chest.

“Christy and I decided we’re better colleagues than we ever were as a couple. She never understood me the way you always did.”

Jordan held the phone away from her mouth so he wouldn’t hear her gag. The arrogant assumption that he could dump her so easily, then try to pick up where they’d left off like nothing had happened infuriated her—as if humiliating her three weeks after she’d packed up and followed him to Dallas like a loyal roadie wasn’t enough.

She strummed her fingers on her desk then noticed the girl three cubicles over watching her intently. She’d spoken to her a few times at the coffee machine and knew her name was Sandy and that she was a fact-checker for the Business section. When Sandy mouthed,
Do you want me to call you?
and made the classical phone signal with her hand to her ear, Jordan nodded gratefully.

She brought the phone back up in time to hear Brett ask, “So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“I’d like to come up this weekend and talk.”

“Not a good idea, Brett. I told you, I’ve moved on. I’m seeing another man.” Maybe making a complete idiot out of herself by trying to seduce a guy when she was drunk didn’t exactly constitute “seeing” him, but it was all she had right now.

Maybe it was even a little wishful thinking.

“I only want to talk, Jordan. Surely I deserve that much.”

Deserve that much?
She huffed into the phone. “You don’t
even
want to get me started, Brett,” she said, before the beep came across indicating another call coming in. “Sorry, it’s my other line. I have to run.” She quickly disconnected, then gave a thumbs-up to Sandy, thinking she should make an effort to get to know her better.

The rest of the day zoomed by without Jordan replaying Brett’s phone call in her head more than once every five minutes. No doubt a part of her was excited he wanted to get back together, but her smarter self warned her to cut and run without thinking twice.

Blowing out a breath, she tried to concentrate on her work. Since they’d gone to the karaoke bar instead of having potluck last Friday, she had nothing for this week’s column.

She wondered if she could talk Ray into giving up the Mandarin Orange Cake recipe he’d snagged from the owner of the diner but decided it wasn’t his to give. If she wanted Myrtle’s recipe, she’d have to ask her permission. She wasn’t about to do that since it would be admitting she had none of her own. That wouldn’t bode well with her newfound popularity as a kitchen diva.

No, she’d have to come up with one by herself or as a last resort, beg Rosie for yet another one of hers. Not that Rosie would mind, but she’d been preoccupied lately, entertaining Quincy Dozerly. Jordan scrunched her nose at the thought of the man, and her lips puckered as if she had just put something sour into her mouth.

She packed up her things and headed toward the exit, wishing her mother had taken the time to teach her how to cook instead of leaving her life’s training to her dad and four brothers whose curriculum didn’t include home economics. Needing her outside to even up the teams when they played football in the afternoons, her brothers left her no time to develop baking skills. Although she had no clue how to cook a roast, she could throw a mean touchdown pass from forty yards out. Because of that, she was usually the first one chosen for the teams.

A lot of good that did for writing a food column!

Hence, her current dilemma with the weekly recipe since her only expertise was frying bologna and toasting Pop-Tarts.

Walking down the hallway at her building, Jordan spied two policemen outside her apartment who snapped to attention when they spotted her. Her anxiety escalated, fearing she had been burglarized again. Getting closer, she recognized both Sergeant Calhoun and Officer Rutherford.

The short, stocky sergeant held out a legal-looking paper when she approached. “I have a warrant, ma’am,” he said, almost apologetically. “We need to have a look around your apartment.”

“Why?” Jordan took the paper and skimmed it. It looked legit enough, signed by a judge from the Fifth District Court in Connor. “What are you looking for?”

“We have reason to believe you might have a knife missing.” He motioned to the door. “Could you open it for us, please? We’ll get out of your hair as quickly as possible if you cooperate.”

Jordan fumbled with the lock, trying hard to stop her hands from shaking. How could they possibly know about the knife?

Once inside, Calhoun immediately went to the kitchen and pointed at the knife rack. Fortunately, Ray had remembered to bring it back on Saturday, and all the knives were safely in their slots.

The officer pulled one out and examined it. “Do you have any other knives, Miss McAllister?”

She shook her head. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with J. T.’s death?” she asked, half hoping she had mistakenly jumped to conclusions.

“Too soon to say,” Rutherford replied, although the look in his eyes confirmed her suspicions. “Are you absolutely positive you’re not missing one?”

“We found a knife in the grass across the street earlier today,” Calhoun added, pulling out the drawers and emptying the contents on the counter.

Jordan pointed to the rack as a wave of nausea washed over her. “They’re all I have.” She stopped short of confessing that most of them didn’t get much of a workout. “Are you asking everyone in the apartment building if they’re missing a knife?”

Both Calhoun and Rutherford lowered their heads, giving her the answer she needed.

“So why me?” She was feeling harassed and let her play-nice attitude slip a little. “Why would I break into my own apartment and shred my furniture when I clearly have no money to replace it? Tell me that.”

Calhoun responded first. “Sometimes people who commit crimes do things to throw suspicion away from themselves.” He paused. “Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test?”

“Absolutely not.”

They all turned toward the sound of the voice just as Quincy Dozerly walked into the apartment.

“I’m representing Miss McAllister now, and I would appreciate it if you gentlemen directed any further questions to me.”

For the first time since Jordan had met Dozerly, she was genuinely glad to see him.

He took the warrant from her and studied it. “Unless you have the evidence to charge my client with something, there will be no more questions and definitely no interrogations at the police station without me present.”

“You found a knife across the street?” Jordan asked, unable to stop thinking about it. “And you think it’s the one that killed J. T.?”

Rutherford crossed the room and stood in front of her. “It was positive for dried blood, and they’re testing it for DNA. The ME says the serrated pattern is similar to the victim’s entry wound. We should have positive identification in the next few days.”

“You’re sure there are no other knives here besides the ones in the rack?” Calhoun asked, again pointing to the counter behind him.

Dozerly shot up from the couch and walked to the kitchen, staring at the rack for a few minutes before speaking. “As you can see, clearly they are all here. The warrant only covers the kitchen, so if there are no other questions, I’d say we’re done here.”

Both Calhoun and Rutherford stared at the rack as if they half expected blood to ooze out of one of the slots.

“We’ll be in touch,” the shorter one said on his way to the door.

“Sergeant?”

He turned back to face her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“May I ask why you specifically thought I might have a knife missing in my kitchen and why you aren’t questioning the other residents about it?”

Calhoun glanced toward his partner, who nodded. “We received a tip that mentioned the knife we found might have come from your apartment. We had to check it out.”

“That’s it, boys. Let us know if we can be of further assistance,” Quincy said, placing himself between Jordan and the cops. “Miss McAllister has had a busy day, and you’ve taken enough of her time, not to mention the hours she’ll have to spend putting her kitchen back together.”

He held the door open and waited as the two police officers exited.

“Who would have called about the knife?” Jordan asked when she was alone with Dozerly. “Only my friends knew about it.”

“Where was it?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Alex found it behind the toaster.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she gasped. She’d forgotten the way Alex had questioned her about the knife rack Saturday morning. He must have been the one who called the police.

But why?

Did he think she might be a killer? Or worse, was he covering his own tracks and trying to mislead the investigators?

Dozerly studied her face. “Do you think one of your friends called them?”

She shook her head.

“Then who else knew about it?”

“Alex,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Quincy’s eyes widened. “You think Alex may have been the one who tipped off the cops?”