Saving Scott (Kobo) (14 page)

“Nobody’s
answering,” Kovak’s stare bored into Scott. “I’m going to unlock the door now.”

Resentment
replaced anxiety at Kovak’s tone. Damn, Scott liked it better when he was up on
that stupid pedestal instead of being treated like a rookie. Yet despite logic
saying this was an empty apartment, his eyes automatically sought Kovak’s
weapon. Kovak’s lips flattened, but he unsnapped the holster.

“I’ll go in
first,” Kovak said, tapping the butt of his SIG Sauer, as if to reassure Scott
that he would take care of him. “I’ll let you know if it’s clear.”

As soon as
Kovak entered the apartment, Scott leaned against the cool wall beside the
door, sucking air. Cursing himself for succumbing to a trip through his Dark
Place, he dug his fingernails into his palms, the pain centering him.

It’s
broad daylight. You’re awake. Kovak’s got the weapon. It’s standard procedure
for him to clear the room.

Scott was a
civilian. A consultant. He’d never have let anyone enter a potentially
dangerous situation when he was a cop. Kovak was doing the right thing. No need
to feel like he’d been relegated to the kids’ table at the holiday dinner.

“Clear.”
Kovak’s voice preceded him to the doorway.

As soon as Scott
stepped inside, the constriction in his chest eased. This was as routine and
familiar as the burnt sludge at the station.

Home.

“I’m going
to run down and get my kit,” Kovak said. “You can start looking around.”

Scott
stepped into the living room, closed his eyes and took a breath.

All
right, Felicity Markham. Who were you, and who wanted you dead?

Felicity’s
decor suited the character of the older building. Comfortable sofa, overstuffed
chair with a matching ottoman. A large rag rug under the oak dining room table.
He moved into the kitchen, not surprised to see shelves of teapots along one
wall. Some were plain ceramic, in a variety of colors. Others had patterns on
them, from florals to modern geometrics. Some were red clay, and didn’t look
big enough to hold more than a tiny cup of tea.

Kovak’s
footfalls disturbed Scott’s contemplations. “Got a camera?” Scott asked.

In response,
Kovak started shooting pictures. “Man, who needs that many teapots? Think she
hid something inside one of them? Something the killer wanted? Connor’s going
to love printing all of them.”

Scott
perused the shelves. “Not sure that’s necessary. Look at them. Perfectly
aligned. I can’t imagine someone looking inside each one without messing them
up some.”

“Maybe the
killer took the whole thing.”

“There are
no gaps in the shelves. Unlikely he’d take the time to rearrange them so the
spacing is even again.”

Kovak cocked
his head. “You’re saying ‘he.’ I thought poison was a woman’s crime.”

“True. But I
tend to lump bad guys into the masculine until I have actual suspects.”

“Works for
me. Since drugs are front and center, I’ll check the bedroom and bathroom.” He
reached into his kit and pulled out latex gloves, snapping his hands into a
pair and handing the other to Scott.

Definitely
feels like home.

“I’ll take
the rest of the kitchen.” Scott donned his gloves, then opened cabinets. The
usual suspects. Dishes, pots, pans. His pulse quickened when he found a shelf
of what appeared to be medicine bottles in the cabinet next to the sink.

Vitamins
from A to Zinc, and supplements he’d never heard of, but not even an aspirin
bottle. Because he was thorough, he opened each bottle, looking for any pills
or capsules that didn’t seem to belong, although he didn’t buy that Felicity
Markham would have hidden painkillers amongst her vitamins.

“You find
any drugs?” he called to Kovak. “From what’s in here, she’s a health nut.”

“I’ll buy
that. Nothing here more potent than toothpaste. And it’s some kind of organic
brand I’ve never seen before.”

Scott joined
Kovak in the bedroom, where the detective was opening night table drawers. “Reinforces
our homicide over suicide, I’d say.”

“So, what
else can we learn about our victim?” Scott asked.

“I looked at
the second bedroom. Dedicated exercise room. Mirrors on one wall. Television.
Music setup. Treadmill, bike, and one of those rubbery mat things. Yoga or
Pilates, probably.”

Scott looked
at the selection of DVDs in the television cabinet. “Both, apparently.”

“Another
check in the homicide column.” Kovak said.

Scott
crossed to the closet. He paused at the half-open door. There was a light
switch on the outside wall, and he flipped it on, standing at the threshold.
Breathing. Collecting himself.

It’s a
clothes closet, asshole. Do your job.

“Anything?”
Kovak asked.

Hearing the
detective’s voice snapped Scott into the present. He stepped inside, ignoring
the sweat trickling down his spine. Exercise attire, including at least five
different kinds of shoes. Boxes, neatly labeled, filled the shelf above the
clothes rod. He reached up and wrestled down one marked
Sweaters
and
handed it to Kovak, who opened it and peered inside.

“Well, what
do you know?” he said. “It’s full of sweaters.”

After they
opened a couple more, labeled
Hats
and
Scarves,
Scott said, “I’m
going out on a limb here and saying the rest of these are going to contain
exactly what they say they do.”

“We need to
find her phone, or address book, or whatever she used to keep track of things,”
Kovak said. “That might lead us to the boyfriends.” He looked at Scott like a
kid waiting for approval.

“Makes
sense. She’s converted what was a breakfast nook to a home office. That’s
probably where she keeps everything.”

Everything
,
aside from pens, pencils and typical desk detritus, turned out to be a laptop
and two flash drives. No cell phone. They hadn’t found a purse with the body,
and a search of the apartment revealed a few empty ones in her closet. The
everyday female catch-all was conspicuous in its absence.

“What woman
doesn’t take a purse with her when she goes out?” Kovak asked. “Janie would
have to be surgically removed from hers. So if it’s not here, and wasn’t with
the body—”

“Then it’s
likely the killer took it.”

“I guess we’ll
take her laptop and let the geeks see what they can find.”

“Better them
than me,” Scott said.

After
bagging and tagging the flash drives, they took them, along with the laptop, to
Kovak’s car.

“Where to?”
Kovak asked.

“It’s your
case,” Scott said. “But if you’re asking for my advice, I’d head to the victim’s
store.”

“Yeah, she
probably has a lot more records there.”

Arriving at
the tea shop, Kovak slipped his unit into a slot on the street. Although
Felicitea had a “Closed” sign in the window, a moving shadow indicated someone
was inside.

Kovak
unsnapped his holster again. “Wait here.” He left the engine running and strode
to the door. Standing to one side, he pushed on the handle. Must have been
locked, because he pounded on the glass. “Pine Hills Police.”

The door
opened, revealing a slender woman. Five-six, mid-twenties. A short cap of light
brown curls framed her face. Kovak said something, the woman frowned, fisted
her hands at her hips. Shook her head, but opened the door wider and stepped
aside.

Scott
flipped the engine off and joined the pair inside the shop.

“Scott
Whelan, meet Paige Haeber. She worked for Felicity Markham.”

“I have
every right to be here,” she said. “Felicity owed me money. I want what’s mine.”

“And I’m
sure you’ll get it,” Kovak said. “Right now, though, you shouldn’t be
interfering with our investigation.”

“Interfering?
I’m not doing anything wrong. I work here.” She paused. Frowned. “At least I
did work here.” She tilted her head. “I don’t suppose I can keep things
running?”

“That’s
something the lawyers will have to work out,” Kovak said. “Meanwhile, we have a
few questions. We can do it at the station, or we can go to Sadie’s for coffee.”

Paige
crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t drink coffee.”

***

Ashley
stared at the man standing in front of her, aware her mouth gaped.
Pig
was all she could think. Little eyes, fat nose. Sausage fingers. “What?”

He cleared
his throat, a snorting sound that added to the image. “I said, what was it
like—?”

Fury
mounted, threatening to erupt like a pan of melting chocolate left unattended
on too high a heat. “I know what you said. I can’t believe you’d actually have
the nerve to come here and shove that recorder in my face and ask the stupidest
question imaginable. A woman
died
. A young woman. What do you think it
felt like? How many dead bodies have shown up where
you
work? How would
you
feel?”

Distantly
aware that she needed to stop talking before this … this porky little man had
enough ammunition to put together a quote taken totally out of context, she
waited until her brain caught up with her mouth.

Porky the
Reporter stood there like a deer caught in the headlights. Okay, so she was
mixing her analogies. Did pigs freeze when they got caught in the headlights?
And why would pigs be anywhere there were headlights to begin with.

Get a
grip.

She clenched
her fists, but forced the rest of her to relax. “Mr.—?”

“Vossler.
Howard Vossler.”

“Right. Mr.
Vossler. You can tell your readers that I’m greatly saddened by the death of
Felicity Markham, and I offer my condolences to her family.”

“How well
did you know her? Why do you think she died in your establishment?”

“I hardly
knew her, other than as a fellow merchant in Pine Hills. And I’m sure the
police are working diligently to uncover all the circumstances of her death.”

“Speaking of
the police—”

“I think
your questions might be better directed there, Mr. Vossler. If you’ll excuse
me, I have things to do.” She reached for the door and started swinging it
closed.

He grabbed
the edge. “One more quote, please Miss Eagan. Are you still planning your grand
opening?”

Should she
answer? Would it sound like she was using Felicity’s death as a publicity
stunt? But she wasn’t going to delay the opening, and was it so terrible to
have her bakery mentioned in the paper? Hadn’t Scott said that people would
come because of Felicity’s death?

She schooled
her features into a sad, but calm expression. “The police have taken down the
crime scene tape, Mr. Vossler. I’m sure you know that means there’s no official
reason to postpone my opening. Everything will go on as scheduled.”

This time,
she swung the door with enough force to make Porky the Reporter jump back.

She stood,
frozen to the spot, until her heart stopped its frantic pounding and her knees
stopped shaking.

Another half
hour of scrubbing couldn’t erase the fear that all her hard work and sacrifices
had been for nothing. That somehow, Porky the Reporter would ruin her business.

No way was
she crawling back home, where her father would pull strings so she could work
for his cousin Norm. She’d flip burgers before that would happen.

After stowing
her cleaning supplies, she locked up and went to the grocery store for one more
batch of ingredients. If nothing else, the Pine Hills Police Department would
have the best dessert spread in the history of the town.

Arms filled
with her purchases, Ashley shouldered open the door to her apartment building.
Mr. Spencer intercepted her before she could get to the elevator. “You’re quite
the popular tenant, Miss Eagan.”

“What?”

“Had at
least five people wanting to talk to you. Can’t say that I appreciate them
knocking at
my
door.”

Her heart
jumped to her throat. “Who? When? What did you tell them?”

“Reporters,
I think. At least the first two were. After the third, I stopped answering the
door, but they started calling on the phone. When they couldn’t find you, they
wanted to know what I knew about a dead body. What kind of a tenant you were.”
He scowled. “None of their damn—excuse me—darn business. Told ‘em you never
caused any trouble, I didn’t know where you were, and your business was your
own.”

“Thanks, Mr.
Spencer. And I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”

“Not your
fault. By the way, I went upstairs about an hour ago, to check on things. Found
one camped out by your door. Told him I’d call the cops if he didn’t vacate the
premises.”

“You said
five people? But Pine Hills only has a weekly paper. And no television
stations. Where did they come from?”

“Salem,
probably.” He shoved his glasses up his nose. “Thought I ought to let you know.
Might not want to answer your door. At least not without making sure you know
who’s on the other side.”

“I’ll do
that. Thanks.”

Mr. Spencer
reached for one of her canvas grocery bags. “Let me help you with those.”

“I can
manage.”

“No trouble
at all,” he said. “I have to check the laundry room on three, anyway.”

Before she
could protest, he took one of her bags and pressed the elevator button,
pointedly avoiding her gaze.

She’d always
considered him a watered-down male version of Maggie, with less busybody and
more grandparent. But he’d never really paid her much attention, nor she him.
He seemed to care more about the building than the actual people who lived in
it. She and Mr. Spencer exchanged nods and polite greetings when their paths
crossed, rarely anything more.

The elevator
opened and he pressed the button for her floor. He glanced her way, then
shifted his gaze to the display. She took the time to study him as a person,
not as Mr. Spencer, the manager. Tall, lean, white hair with a matching goatee.
Definitely grandfatherly. It dawned on her that he didn’t have any tools or
supplies. She wondered if he really needed to check the laundry room. He shot
her another quick glance, then cleared his throat. The chime dinged. The doors
opened. He preceded her out of the elevator, peering down the hall toward her
apartment.