Wow, he was superfast.
If I was going to be a private detective, I was definitely going to have to up my game.
Seconds ticked by while the disk copied. Jack sat perfectly still, watching the screen. I glanced at the glass panel in the door to the hallway. Nobody outside. I scanned the drawers to make sure Jack hadn't left anything open. He hadn't.
Somebody walked past the door. Yikes!
“Hide,” I whispered.
I ducked down behind the common wall. A couple of seconds passed. I straightened up and peered into Constance's office. Jack had the CD out of the tower. He snapped it into a jewel case, logged off of the computer, then gathered up all the cases.
Something caught my eye. One of the cases had a cover that looked familiar.
“Bring that one,” I whispered.
Jack looked up at me and shuffled through them one by one until I nodded. He put the rest back in the drawer, did a quick sweep of the room, then headed toward me.
I scrambled down from the file cabinet. A second later, Jack's face appeared over the wall. He must have pulled himself straight upâhow hot was that?
He climbed over the wall, put both panels back in place, then jumped down from the file cabinet.
“Wow. That was awesome,” I said.
“Damn right it was,” he told me, then presented me with the CDs he pulled from his back pocket.
I recognized one of the covers right away. It was a pink and black Burberry.
“You owe me,” Jack said.
I'd seen this pattern several years ago when they'd come out with a limited edition line of handbags and accessories.
“I'll tell you what I want,” Jack said.
Only, I'd seen it recently. But where?
“When I want it,” he said.
Jack's hand splayed across my cheek. His palm was hot. He tilted my face up until I met his gaze. His eyes were hotter.
He leaned down until his mouth hovered above mine. His breath was smoking hot.
Jack angled closer and his lips moved closer.
I put my finger across his mouth, stopping him.
I've got an official boyfriend. And that's that.
Jack just hung there for a minute, then backed away.
“You still owe me,” he said.
He picked up his shirt and sport coat, and left.
Â
“My boyfriend and his new girlfriend broke up,” Sandy said.
Bella and I sat across from her at a table in the Holt's breakroom as the minutes remaining on our break ticked away and we all waited for the store to close so we could get on with something interesting.
For a change, my evening shift had flown byâprobably because I couldn't stop thinking about what had almost happened between Jack and me in my office a few hours ago.
I desperately needed to talk to Marcie about this. Only a BFF could help me process this whole thing.
Sandy's comment blew me out of my own problems and landed me squarely into hers.
“You mean your
ex
-boyfriend?” Bella asked.
She still had the tropical thing going on with her hair. Tonight she'd sculpted it to resemble an erupting volcano. Or maybe it was a whale with a waterspout. I couldn't be sure.
“You two broke up,” I said. “He and the new girlfriend were going to Hawaii, weren't they? You went shopping with him for clothes.”
Sandy nodded. “They broke up. Things weren't as serious between them as I thought.”
“You mean he didn't buy her an engagement ring when he went into the jewelry store?” Bella asked. “While you sat outside holding all the bags?”
“No,” Sandy said. “He bought her earrings. See?”
She pulled back her hair and pointed to gold loops swinging from her earlobes.
Bella and I looked at the earrings, then at each other. If somebody had held a match to us, we'd have launched straight through the roof.
“Those are the earrings he bought for
her?
” Bella demanded.
“And he gave them to
you?
” I asked.
“They're really quite lovely,” Sandy said.
“And you
took them?
” Bella asked.
“And
kept them?
” I asked.
“He said he really had me in mind when he bought them,” Sandy said. “He said I truly deserved them.”
“Lord help me,” Bella murmured, as she rose from the table. “Get me out of here before I say something that ought to be said.”
She left the breakroom.
I, however, couldn't hold back.
“Dump that loser,” I told her. “He treats you like dirt.”
“He's an artist, Haley,” Sandy said.
“He does tattoos.”
“That's how all artists are,” she said. “That's the price they pay for being so creative.”
Sandy and I had been friends for a long time, but for a moment I thought I might bitch-slap herâjust to knock some sense into her.
The breakroom door swung open and Jeanette, the store manager, walked in. Tonight she had on an I-paid-big-bucks-for-this-six-years-ago-and-I'm-going-to-wear-it- until-the-buttons-pop-off suit which, from the look of things, could happen at any moment. She'd gone urban, for some unknown reason, with a gray skirt and a matching jacket that had wide shoulders covered with crystals.
She looked like the Chrysler Building.
“Haley, could I see you for a moment?” Jeanette asked.
Immediately, I shifted into no-can-do mode. I've found that when a supervisor seeks you out, it's only because they want you to do somethingâlike a special project, or additional duties. No way was I saying yes to anything.
That's how I roll.
“I just sat down for my break,” I said, which was a total lie but absolutely necessary under the circumstances.
“You can come back,” Jeanette said. “There are some people in my office who need to speak to you.”
Somehow, I doubted this was anything that would benefit
me
.
“Immediately,” Jeanette added, using her I'm-the-boss voice.
I hate that voice.
I followed her out of the breakroom and down the hall to her office. Jeanette paused outside the closed door.
“You can ask for a lawyer,” she said, then pushed the door open and walked away.
I looked inside. Detective Madison sat behind Jeanette's desk and Detective Shuman stood behind him.
Oh, jeez, this couldn't be good.
“And so we meet again,” Detective Madison called. He reared back in his chair and gave me a wide I've-got-you-now smile. “Come in, come in. We have lots to talk about.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
“Oh, but we do,” Madison said. He was still grinning, still thoroughly enjoying himselfâat my expense, of course.
I glanced at Shuman. He looked tense. I'd seen that expression beforeâbut not in a good way. I was sure his girlfriend had never seen it.
“Let's start off with Erma Pomeroy,” Detective Madison announced.
I got a weird feeling.
“You saw her today, didn't you,” Madison said.
It wasn't a question. He already knew.
My weird feeling turned sickly.
“What happened?” I asked. “Is Erma okay?”
“She's dead,” Madison told me. “Murdered in her own home. And you were the last person to see her alive.”
Oh, crap.
C
HAPTER
24
E
rma was dead. I could hardly believe it.
I sat in my office the next morning ignoring my official Dempsey Rowland duties, lost in the recollection of my confrontation with Detectives Madison and Shuman in Holt's last night.
Well, actually, it wasn't really a confrontation. When Madison had claimed I was the last person to see Erma alive and suggested that I was responsible for her death, I just walked out. I was surprisedâand relievedâthat neither detective came after me. At first I thought it was kind of odd, since they'd come all the way to the store to talk to me, then I figured Madison was just trying to scare me by showing up, and he had no real evidence against me.
Jeez, I really hope he has no evidence against me.
My cell phone made a familiar pinging noise. I glanced at it on the corner of my desk and saw that I had a text message from Marcie, but I wasn't ready to read it. Erma was still in my head, big time.
I'd just seen her at lunch yesterday, and now she was goneânot just gone, but murdered. She seemed like a nice lady who'd worked hard most of her life and deserved to enjoy her retirement. Now that wouldn't happen.
I was grateful she'd given me the list of retirees and people Dempsey Rowland had done business with over the years who knew Violet. I'd contacted them all yesterday afternoon, and most everyone wanted to attend tomorrow's memorial service.
I wondered if anyone would have that kind of service for Erma.
I gave myself a mental shake. Enough with the depressing thoughts. I had to move on.
The files Jack had retrieved for me from Constance's office last night were stacked on my credenza. I had to go through them and figure out just what the heck was going on with Mr. Dempsey's retirement party.
Jack looking way hot in that white wifebeater sprang into my mind.
I forced the image away.
Jack, trying to kiss me.
Jeez, maybe I should stick with the depressing thoughts of Erma dying.
I decided to call Marcie. I had a lot to talk to her about and she always made me feel better about things.
I called and she answered right away.
“Were the reports what you expected?” Marcie asked.
What the heck was she talking about?
“The reports,” she said again, like she could read my mind, or somethingâwhich, I guess, she kind of could. “The title searches you asked for. I sent them to you a few minutes ago.”
Jeez, that must have been the text message she'd sent. I'd forgotten all about it.
“They're great,” I said. “Thanks. I owe you.”
“Want to go shopping on Saturday?” Marcie asked. “I'm itching to go to the factory outlet mall in Camarillo. We can leave early and spend the whole day.”
My spirits lifted.
“You bet,” I said. “We can stop at thatâoh, crap.”
I was supposed to be at Holt's all day on Saturday making up those stupid training sessions.
I hate training.
“What's wrong?” Marcie asked. “You can't make it?”
No way was I missing out on a trip to the outlet mall.
This morning when Ty handed me my lunchâit was omega-3 and magnesium day, apparentlyâhe mentioned that he had a meeting at the Golden State Bank & Trust at one o'clock today.
He explained why, but I drifted off.
I'd just go to the B&Tâif I interrupted an important meeting, oh wellâand have him sign a statement excusing me from making up those training sessions, and I'd be free to shop all weekend long if I wanted.
“No problem,” I said to Marcie. “I'm in.”
We hung up. I got on my computer and generated a statement for Ty to signâon fake Holt's letterheadâand tucked it inside my purse, a totally fabulous Dior clutch. This put me in the mood to work, but I fought that off by reading the text message Marcie had sent me.
Just as she'd said on the phone, the two title reports I'd asked her to do on Max Corwin were complete. She'd e-mailed them to me.
My heart rate picked up a little as I logged onto my e-mail account. If the title reports contained the info I hoped forâthat Max Corwin owned two houses and had two familiesâthat meant he had a humongous motive for murdering Violet.
Of course, that might also mean that he'd killed Erma. I figured the two murders had to be related. I didn't know how, exactly. I'd worry about that later.
I opened the files with the title reports. They contained all kinds of information about the propertyâthe legal description, taxes, mortgages. Most of it I didn't understandâor care about.
The property on Tampa Avenue in Northridge showed the legal owners were Maxwell Corwin and Melanie Corwin, husband and wife.
The El Segundo property was vested to Maxwell Corwin and Mandy Corwin, husband and wife.
I couldn't help it. My mouth flew open.
Oh my God. I'd been right. Max secretly had two families.
Bastard.
If this wasn't a motive to murder the person doing background investigations, I didn't know what was. I grabbed my cell phone and called Detective Shuman, as I printed out the title reports.
“We need to talk,” I said when he answered.
I could hear voices and phones ringing, and figured he was in the squad room. Madison was probably seated nearby.
“About what?” Shuman asked.
“Don't get your hopes up,” I said. “I'm not confessing to anything.”
I wanted to talk to Shuman alone, and tell him what I'd learned. If the info I had on Max Corwin turned out to break the case, no way did I want Madison to take any of the credit for it.
“Starbucks on Fig at twelve-thirty,” I said.
Shuman paused for about ten seconds, then said, “I can do that.”
He hung up and so did I.
It was still early and my meeting with Shuman was hours away, so there was nothing to do but perform some actual work.
I hate it when that happens.
Mr. Dempsey's retirement partyâand, thus, my opportunity to keep my jobâhad to be my priority. I picked up the files from my credenza and started looking through them.
Immediately, I was overwhelmed.
Constanceâwhose handwriting resembled that of a serial killerâhad written comments on everything, but in no particular order. Pink sticky notes were plastered over yellow sticky notes. Orange highlighter struck through blue highlighter. There were list after list of names, addresses, places, and times. A huge stack of papers that looked like legal contracts was clipped together.
Jeez, how was anybody supposed to make sense out of this?
I drew in a big cleansing breath and blew it out slowly.
There was nothing to do but buck up, dig in, and hunker down.
But, well, no sense in getting into this thing too deep right now. Somehow, there had to be an easier way.
Maybe Constance had straightened out all this mess when she'd input it into her computer. I hunted through the pile of files for the disk Jack had copied last night and, instead, found the one with the pink and black Burberry case.
Huh. I knew I'd seen this pattern recently, but where?
The new employee orientation session on my first day of work here flashed in my mind. I'd seen this pattern on Violet's laptop case.
A great idea zapped me. If this Burberry pattern was on her laptop, that must mean this CD case belonged to her, too.
Oh my God. What if there was a major clue on the CD?
I popped it open. Inside was a disk labeled D
EMPSEY
R
OWLAND
T
HROUGH THE
Y
EARS
.
Damn. Not exactly the smoking hot piece of evidence I was hoping for. More like a stroll down Dempsey Rowland memory lane.
Violet had worked for the company since its inception, so she probably had photos from day one. I figured she'd scanned them onto the disk so Constance could show them at Mr. Dempsey's retirement party.
Or maybe Constance had made the CD herself and just borrowed the case from Violet, or perhaps Constance had her own pink and black Burberry office accessory collection.
Regardless, nothing on the disk was going to help me figure out what was up with Mr. Dempsey's party and get it staged in an I-can't-possibly-be-fired fashion.
My office phone rang.
“Your cupcakes have arrived,” Camille said when I answered.
“I'll be right there,” I said, and hung up.
Wow, I hadn't realized it was noon already. I'd put several hours into trying to figure out what was going on with the retirement party, but hadn't gotten very far.
I figured I could always go to the Roosevelt Hotel and try to fumble my way through an interview with their event coordinator and not look like a complete idiot, but I wasn't confident I could pull that off.
Amber, Ty's personal assistant, popped into my head. She was a whiz at absolutely everything. I was sure she could make sense of Constance's notes in no time.
I shoved all the files into the no-name tote I'd purchased yesterdayâoh my God, I desperately needed that Temptressâalong with the title reports I'd printed out and planned to show Shuman. I'd call Amber after I finished with him, and ask her to meet me somewhere.
Wow, am I good at this, or what?
I went to the reception area, relieved to see that the guy from the bakery hadn't taken one look at Camille and bolted. She made him sign inâgood griefâthen he helped me deliver the cupcakes to all the breakrooms.
They looked really yummy. I ate oneâokay, twoâbut only to be certain they were the top quality cupcakes Dempsey Rowland employees deserved.
By the time I got back to my office and sent out an e-mail to all the employees announcing that cupcakes were available, it was nearly 12:30. I grabbed my handbagâa gorgeous Diorâalong with the tote, and left.
As promised, Detective Shuman sat at a table by the window in Starbucks. He had on his usual dress-shirt-tie-sport-coat combo that didn't look all that great together. I figured that meant he and Amanda weren't living togetherâno way would she have let him out of the house looking like thatâand for some reason I was kind of glad. Just
kind of
glad. Not
really
glad. Okay, well maybe a little more than kind of glad.
Anyway, Shuman was working on a coffee. A mocha frappuccino waited at the spot across from him.
“My favorite,” I said, sitting down. “How did you know?”
“I am a detective,” Shuman reminded me.
It was niceâreally niceâthat he had paid attention to what my favorite drink was and had bought it for me. So I certainly couldn't refuse it. How rude would that be? Besides, one exception to my whole-new-me plan wouldn't hurt anything, and I did have Ty's barley and bean broth soup waiting for me back at the office. It was low sodium day, apparently.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a long sip. “Oh, and by the way, I didn't kill Erma Pomeroy.”
Shuman gave me a half grin, then shifted into detective mode.
“Madison thinks her death is connected to Violet Hamilton's murder,” he said.
“Because Violet worked for Dempsey Rowland, and Erma had recently retired from there?” I asked.
“Cause of death, too,” Shuman said. “Blunt force trauma to the skull.”
I flashed on Erma getting hit on the head with something big and heavy. Not good. I forced the image out of my thoughts.
“Any other connection?” I asked.
“You.”
Oh, crap.
“Look, I saw Erma at lunch to get the names of Dempsey Rowland retirees who might want to come to Violet's memorial service. That's the first time I'd met or talked to her. And I only knew Violet because of the new-hire orientation class I was forced to attend,” I said. “That's not much of a connection.”
“It's more than we've got anywhere else,” Shuman admitted.
Oh, jeez. This wasn't good.
“So, what? You think I had some problem with Erma, invited her to lunch, then followed her home and bashed her over the head with something?” I asked.
Shuman sipped his coffee. “If not you, then who?”
“How would I possibly know?” I asked.
Okay, I was getting a little fired up right now. I didn't come here to get grilled over Erma's murder. I was here to pass along my newly discovered, sizzling hot evidence against Max Corwin. Apparently, Shuman didn't realize I was about to do his career a huge favor.