She ground her teeth, turned off the stove, and flopped the eight-inch egg patty on a plate. If the idiot was still alive, off living with his millions, she hated him for it. If he was dead, having attempted such a fool thing, she hated him even more. How could anybody be so insensitive?
Lacy sat at the dinette and forked her omelet. She had decided a week ago that she should go to the authorities, even though she had promised not to tell. Give the little information that she had to the lead investigator.
“Hey, FBI man, you ever consider that maybe it was Kent Anthony who was the real robber?”
That would set them on a new track. Problem was, she could not be absolutely certain, which relieved her of any obligation, she thought. So she might very well tell them, but if she did, she would take her time.
Meanwhile, she had to get back to a normal life. The last time she remembered feeling in any way similar to this was after Kent had severed their relationship the first time. For a week she had walked around with a hollow gut, trying to ignore the lump in her throat and furious all at once. This time it was going on three weeks, and that lump kept wanting to lodge itself in her windpipe.
She had loved him, Lacy thought, and lowered her lifted fork. She had actually fallen in love with the man. In fact, to get right down and honest about the matter, she had been crazy about him. Which was impossible because she really hated him.
“Oh, God, help me,” she muttered, rising and crossing to the ice box. “I’m losing my mind.”
She returned to her seat with a quart of milk and drank straight from the carton. Impossible habit, but seeing as there was no one to offend at the moment, she carried on anyway. Now if Kent were here—
Lacy slammed the carton on the table in a sudden fit of frustration. Milk cleared the spout a full six inches before splashing to the table. Good grief ! Enough with this Kent foolishness!
She jabbed at the omelet and stuffed a piece in her mouth, chewing deliberately. For that matter, enough with men, period. Lock ’em all in a bank somewhere and burn the whole thing to the ground. Now, that might be a bit harsh really, but then maybe not.
What in the world would Kent do with twenty million dollars? The sudden chirp of the doorbell startled her. Who could be visiting her tonight? Not so long ago it might have been Kent. Heavens.
Stop it, Lacy. Just stop it!
She walked for the door and pulled it open. A dark-haired man with slicked-back hair and wire-framed spectacles stood there, grinning widely. His eyes were very green.
“May I help you?”
He flipped a card out of his breast pocket. “Jeremy Lawson, seventh precinct,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
A cop? “Sure,” she muttered, and stepped aside.
The middle-aged man walked in and looked around the apartment, offering no reason for his being there.
Lacy shut the door. Something about the cop’s appearance suggested familiarity, but she could not place him. “How can I help you?”
“Lacy, right? Lacy Cartwright?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I just want to make sure that I have the right person before I fire away, you know.” He was sill wearing the wide grin.
“Sure. Is there a problem?”
“Oh, I don’t know really. I’m doing a little looking into a fire down in Denver. You hear about that blaze that burned down a bank about a month ago?”
Whether or not it showed Lacy did not know, but she felt as though her head swelled red at the question. “Yes. Yes, I did read about that. And what does it have to do with me?”
“Nothing, maybe. We’re just talking to people who might have known the gentleman who was killed in the fire. Do you mind if we sit, Miss Cartwright?”
Kent! He was investigating Kent’s death! “Sure.” She motioned to the sofa and took a seat in the armchair opposite. What was she to say?
Now that she looked at him carefully she saw why Kent had referred to him as a pinhead. His head seemed to slope to a point covered neatly in black shiny hair.
“Just a few questions, and I’ll be out of your hair,” the cop said, that smile stubbornly stuck on his face. He pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open. “I understand that you knew Kent Anthony. You spent some time with him in his last few weeks. Is that right?”
“And how did you discover this?”
“Well, I can’t very well spill my trade secrets, now, can I?”
Lacy settled in her chair, wondering desperately what he knew. “Yes, I saw him a few times.”
“Did his death surprise you?”
She scrunched her eyebrows. “No, I was expecting it. Of
course
it surprised me! Am I a suspect in the case?”
“No. No, you’re not.”
“So what kind of question is that? How could I not be surprised by his death unless I somehow knew about it in advance?”
“You may have expected it, Lacy. Can I call you Lacy? He was depressed, right? He’d lost his wife and his son in the months preceding the fire. I’m just asking you if he seemed suicidal. Is that so offensive?”
She breathed deeply.
Calm down, Lacy. Just calm down.
“At times, yes, he was upset. As would be anyone who’d suffered as much as he had. Have you ever lost a wife or a son, detective . . .” She glanced at his card again. “Lawson?”
“I can’t say that I have. So you think he was capable of suicide, then? Is that your position?”
“Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that. I said that at times he was upset. Please don’t turn my words around.”
The cop seemed thoroughly undeterred. “Upset enough to commit suicide?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Not the last time I saw him.”
He lowered his voice a notch. “Hmmm. And did you know about his little difficulties at work?”
“What difficulties?”
“Well, if you knew, you would know what difficulties, now, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, you mean the bit about his boss betraying him while he was mourning the death of his wife? You mean that tiny speck of trouble?”
The cop studied her eyes for a moment. “So you did know.”
She was matching him tit for tat without really knowing why. She had no reason to defend Kent. He’d dumped her, after all. Now, if Lawson came right out and asked certain questions, she didn’t know what she would say. She couldn’t very well lie. On the other hand, she had promised Kent her silence.
“You knew him well, Lacy. In your opinion—and I’m just asking your opinion here, so there’s no need to jump up and down—do you think he was capable of suicide?”
“Do you suspect he committed suicide? I thought they concluded that a robber had murdered him.”
“Yes. That’s the official line. And I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m just doing my best to make sure everything fits. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“So then, yes or no?”
“Suicide?”
He nodded.
“Capable, yes. Did he commit suicide? No.”
The cop lifted an eyebrow. “No?”
“He was a proud man, Detective Lawson. I think it would take the hand of God to bring him to his knees. Short of that, I don’t think he was capable of giving up on anything, much less his life.”
“I see. And from what I’ve heard, I would have to agree with you. Which is why I’m still on the case, see?” He stopped as if that should make everything crystal clear.
“No, actually I don’t see. Not in the least.”
“Well, if it were a suicide there would be no need for further investigation. Suicide might be an ugly thing, but it’s usually an open-and-shut case.”
She smiled despite herself. “Of course. And being murdered causes guys like you a lot more work.”
He smiled. “If he was murdered there would be no need to investigate
him.
We’d be looking for the murderer, wouldn’t we?”
“Then it seems to me that you’re barking up the wrong tree, Detective Lawson.”
“Unless, of course, your friend Kent was not murdered. Now, if he did not commit suicide and he was not murdered, then what are we left with?”
“A dead body?” Mercy, where was he headed?
Lawson shoved his little notebook back into his pocket, having written maybe two letters on the open page. “A dead body! Very good. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.” He stood abruptly and headed for the door. “Well, I thank you for your time, Miss Cartwright. You’ve answered my questions most graciously.”
He was hardly making sense now, she thought. She stood with him and followed him to the door. “Sure,” she muttered. What did he know? Every bone in her body screamed to ask the question.
Did you know we were in love, Officer? Did you know that?
No, not that!
He had his hand on the door before she spoke, unable to restrain herself.
“Do
you
think he’s dead, Detective?”
He turned and looked her in the eyes. For a long moment they held eye contact. “We have a body, Miss Cartwright. It is burned beyond recognition, but the records show that what is left belongs to Mr. Kent Anthony. Does that sound dead to you? Seems clear enough.” He flashed a grin. “On the other hand, not everything is what it seems.”
“So why all the questions?”
“Never mind the questions, child. We detective types practice long and hard at asking confusing questions. It throws people off.” He smiled warmly, and she thought he was sincere. She returned the smile.
He dipped his head. “Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright.”
“Good night,” she returned.
He turned to leave and then hesitated, turning back. “Oh, one last question, Lacy. Kent never mentioned any plans he had, did he? Say some elaborate plan to fake his death or any such thing?”
She nearly fell over at the question. This time she knew he saw her turning red under the gills. He could hardly miss it.
And then he simply flipped a hand to the air. “Never mind. Silly question. I’ve bothered you enough tonight. Well, thank you for your hospitality. Coffee might have been nice—we detectives always like coffee—but otherwise you did just fine. Good night.”
With that he turned and pulled the door closed behind him.
Lacy sidestepped to the chair and sat hard, heat sweeping over her. Lawson was on to him! The detective was on to Kent! He had to be! Which meant that Kent was alive!
Maybe.
KENT DROVE his new black Jeep down the hill to the town at seven, just as the orange sun sank behind the waves. The sound of calypso drums and laughter carried on the warm breeze. Brent the real-estate broker had recommended the Sea Breeze. “The finest dining south of Miami,” he’d said with a twinkle in his eye. “A bit draining on the wallet but well worth it.” Kent could use a little draining on his wallet. It was feeling a tad heavy.
He mounted the wooden steps and bounded up the flight. A fountain gurgled red water from a mermaid’s lips just inside the door. Like some goddess drunk on the blood of sailors. He turned to the dim interior. Through a causeway a fully stocked bar already served a dozen patrons perched on tall stools. Mahogany stairs wound to the upper level to his right.
“Welcome to the Sea Breeze, sir. Do you have reservations?”
Kent faced the hostess. Her black hair lay long on bare shoulders. She smiled carefully below dark eyes, and an obscure image of red water spewing from
those
round lips slinked though his mind. Miss Mermaid in the flesh. Her nametag read “Marie.”
“No. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I needed reservations.”
“Yes. Maybe you could return tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow? Negative, Black Eyes.
“I’d rather eat tonight, if you wouldn’t mind,” Kent returned.
Marie blinked at that. “I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t understand. You need a reservation. We are full tonight.”
“Yes, evidently. How much will a table cost me?”
“Like I said, sir, we don’t—”
“A thousand?” Kent lifted his eyebrow and pulled out his wallet. “I’m sure that for a thousand dollars you could find me a table, Marie. In fact for a thousand dollars you could possibly find me the best table in the house. Am I right? It would be our secret.” He smiled and watched her black eyes widen. He felt the subtle power of wealth run through his veins. In that moment he knew that for the right price, Miss Mermaid Marie here would lick the soles of his sandals.
She glanced around and smiled. Her breathing had quickened by the rise and fall of her chest. “Yes. Actually we might have an opening. I apologize, I had no idea. This way.”
Marie led him up two flights of stairs to a glass-enclosed porch atop the restaurant. Three tables rounded out the room, each delicately laid with candles and flowers and crystal and silver. The musty scent of potpourri hung in the air. A party of well-groomed patrons sat around one of the tables, drinking wine and nibbling at what looked to be some sea creature’s tentacles. They looked at him with interest as Marie sat him across the circular room.
“Thank you,” Kent said, smiling. “I’ll add it to your tip.”
She winked. “You are kind, Mr. . . .”
“Kevin.”
“Thank you, Kevin. Is there anything else I can do for you at this time?”
“Not at the moment, Marie, no. Thank you.”
She turned with a twinkle in her eyes and left the room.
The two waitresses who served him had obviously been told of his generosity and were unabashed in their attempts to please. He ordered lobster and steak and wine, and they were delicious. As delicious as they had been three months earlier when he had ordered the same in celebration with Gloria at the completion of AFPS. He lifted his glass of wine and stared out at the dark seas, crested with moonlit waves.
Well, I did it, Honey. Every bit and more, and I wish you were here to enjoy it with me.
It settled on him as he ate that the food, though quite good, did not taste any different than it had when he’d paid twelve dollars for it back at Red Lobster in Littleton. The Heinz 57 sauce certainly came from the same vat. In fact the wine probably came from the same winery. Like different gasoline stations selling branded gas that anyone with half a brain knew came from the same refinery.
Kent finished the meal slowly, intent on relishing each bite, and uncomfortably aware that each bite tasted just as it should. Like lobster and steak should. The wine went down warm and comforting. But when he was done he did not feel as though he’d just eaten a thousand dollars’ worth of pleasure. No, he’d just filled up his tank.