“Well, you kind of don’t, Mia.” Ned shrugged. “The guy says he didn’t kill the dude and you say he did.”
“I saw what I saw,” Mia muttered, but felt tears prick at her eyes. She wiped at them quickly as her mother came into the presentation room wearing a long tea-colored gown, the train following regally behind.
“Wow, Mrs. K,” Ned said, clapping his hands together. “That’s stunning.”
Jessie pivoted in front of the three-way mirror. Beadwork studded down the bustle to the hem. The A-line silhouette in the gown nipped her waist and then fell into a train of chiffon.
“It is pretty, isn’t it?”
“Mom, you look like a princess in that one.” Mia said, jumping up to get a better look.
“Well,” Jessie said, eyeing her reflection critically and then breaking into a smile. “I am marrying my prince after all.”
“Aw, Mrs. K,” Ned said. “That is so sweet.”
“So I’m going to get this one,” Jessie said with a nod.
“But, Mom, it’s literally the first one you tried on.” Mia walked around her mother. She had to admit this one would be hard to top.
“You know when you’ve found the right one,” Jessie said pointedly to Mia. “Ned, dear, would you be an angel and tell Katie that I need assistance in the fitting room?”
As Ned left, Jessie turned to Mia and took both her hands.
“In case things get so hectic that I don’t get a chance to tell you, Mia,” Jessie said, “marrying Bill takes nothing away from how much I loved your father.”
“I know that, Mom.”
“But having said that, this day—my wedding day—is one of the most important of my life. Do you understand?”
“I think so. I won’t wear leather, arrive late or get any noticeable piercings or tats before then.”
Jessie kissed her daughter on the cheek. “After Bill, you are the most important person in my life, dear girl,” she said, her eyes filling, “and I need you to make sure that nothing, and I mean nothing, prevents you from being there—at my side—when I take Bill as my husband.”
“Sure, Mom. Of course.” A wave of uneasiness passed through Mia. Her mother’s hand on her tingled with anticipation, love and…worry. They weren’t emotions Mia was unfamiliar with coming from her mother—but at the intensity she was feeling them now, yes, this was different.
“I know the chief makes you happy, Mom,” Mia said. “I love him, too.”
Jessie squeezed Mia’s hand just as the saleswoman bustled toward them two steps ahead of Ned. When she and Jessie disappeared into the dressing room, Ned nudged Mia.
“So what’d your mom want to speak to you alone about? Did you give her some hints for the wedding night? Probably been awhile.”
“She wanted to make sure I’d be there. Kind of hurt my feelings a little. I mean, is she really worried I won’t make it?”
“Come on, Mia, this is you we’re talking about. Duh.”
“I’d die rather than miss her wedding.”
“Well, then you’d miss it for sure, so whatever your mama told you to do, just do it, girl.”
When Mia got back to the condo—with little Daisy in tow—Jack was in the kitchen packing for his dinner party. Normally, Mia enjoyed watching him wrap up his favorite knives, pans and spices in his wire utility cart. He wore a starched white chef’s uniform. She used to tease him about getting a toque to finish the look. He didn’t look to be in the mood for teasing at the moment.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, as she dropped her car keys in the bowl by the door. Daisy ran to Jack and he squatted down to greet her.
“I’m glad you brought this one back to the condo,” he said, not looking at Mia. “She’s a good little watchdog, aren’t you, Daisy?”
Mia waited patiently for his greeting of the dog to wind down. “Should I be jealous?”
He stood and gave Mia a kiss on the cheek.
“Wow. So not jealous,” Mia said, “but definitely worried.”
“I’m just in a hurry,” Jack said.
“I can count the orgasms on both hands the last time you were ‘in a hurry,’” Mia said, crossing her arms.
“You do know I’ve been arrested for killing a man, right?” he said, returning to his cart. “So I might be a little distracted these days”
“Have you talked to your lawyer today?”
“No news.”
“When’s the preliminary hearing set for?”
“Mia, I’m late. Let’s pick this up later.”
“I’ll wait up.”
“No, don’t. I’ll be after two.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Mia, no. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She followed him to the front door. “I got a call about a possible new case,” she said. “A gay couple working in midtown. One of them thinks the other’s cheating on him.”
“You handle it.”
“Alone?”
“Mia, what part of I lost my license is confusing to you?” Jack raised his voice. “If you want to take a case, you’ll need to handle it without me. I’m sorry. I’m just really late now.” He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone.
Daisy ran to the door after Mia shut it and looked up at her.
“We’ll get through it,” Mia said to the dog before turning back to the kitchen. Jack had prepared her dinner, foiled the top and scribbled baking instructions on a post-it note attached to it.
Even mad and disgusted, he still takes care of me.
She set the oven temperature, found a cookie sheet and peeked under the foil. Chicken something. Didn’t matter. Jack knew what she liked. Her cell phone rang and she dug it out from her purse perched on one of the dining room chairs. The screen said Bentley and Jamison, a law office in town Jack and Mia had worked with before.
“Mia Kazmaroff,” she answered crisply.
“Oh, good, Ms. Kazmaroff. My name is George Peterson. I’m an attorney with Bentley and Jamison law firm. I have a case for you that I hope you’ll be interested in taking.”
Mia sat down at the kitchen counter and pulled a notepad out of a drawer and fumbled for a pen.
“Absolutely, Mr. Peterson,” she said. “Can you give me some information?”
“Have you heard of the Internet Hussy case? It’s been in the news quite a bit.”
Mia hesitated. The murder of an attractive young woman who used a local dating service to find her victims had been in the papers fairly steadily all month. “I have,” she said, tapping her pen against the paper. “Didn’t the cops solve that case?”
“Well, it depends on your perspective. I am the defense attorney for the man they believe killed Victoria Baskerville.”
Before Peterson finished his words Mia felt her mouth dry as excitement began to well up inside her. This was a very big case. Bentley and Jamison didn’t do public defense work.
“You need us to find out who else might have killed Ms. Baskerville,” Mia said, forcing herself to sound professional.
“Can you meet to discuss the details of the case before you decide?”
“I’m free any time this week,” Mia said, tossing the pen down.
“I’ll meet you at your offices tomorrow morning at eight o’clock,” he said.
After Mia hung up, she glanced at the kitchen wall clock and then called Maxwell.
“Just on my way to your mother’s,” he answered. “What’s up?”
“I got a new case. One I think you know a few things about. I was wondering if you could give me a quick briefing before I meet my client.”
“Who is it?”
“George Peterson with Bentley and Jamison. He’s defending your prime suspect in the Victoria Baskerville case.”
“I know who he is. What do you want to know? Keep in mind that if you take the case, we’ll be on opposite teams and I won’t be sharing anything with you.”
“Can you tell me the facts of the case that ar
en’t in dispute?”
Maxwell sighed. Mia could hear traffic on his end and wondered if she hadn’t gotten very lucky catching him in rush hour.
“Thirty-two-year-old vic stabbed to death in her apartment,” he said. “She was running a scam on men she trolled for on a local online dating service called Atlanta Loves.”
“What was the scam?”
“She promised her marks sex with underage twins, emptied out their ATMs, then blackmailed them with covert photos to keep them from coming after her.”
“Ouch. And everybody’s surprised she ended up stabbed to death?”
“Twenty-four times.”
“So my client’s client…he’s a pedophile?”
“Well, that would be a logical conclusion to draw considering what he was doing with Ms. Baskerville.”
“Yeah, I’m not thinking I want to help a child molester beat the rap.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Okay. Well, thanks, Chief. Hurrying home to the little woman?”
“Goodbye, Mia.”
Mia hung up. She debated calling Peterson back to cancel, but decided she’d at least hear him out. His client must have money for them to be defending him on this. Even if he didn’t kill Baskerville, he’s still a disgusting perv who deserves to go to prison. She hopped up to slide her dinner into the hot oven then take a quick shower before supper. The little dog trotted at her heels.
*****
The next morning, Jack stood in the kitchen watching the espresso maker heat up.
“How desperate do you have to be to take this case?” he said.
“I didn’t say we were taking the case.” Mia was seated at the kitchen counter. “I’m just talking to the guy today.”
“Why are you even talking to him? And it’s not ‘we,’ remember.”
“Yeah, I get it, Jack. You’re out for the game.”
“I mean, what is it about a sexual deviant that brings out your nurturing side?” He turned to her. “Sorry.”
He didn’t want to snipe with her. Hadn’t he spent all last night during the prep for the dinner party telling himself he wasn’t going to take it out on her any more?
“Can’t we clear the air about what’s going on with you?” Mia asked.
He poured two cups of espresso and slid one in front of her. He took in a long breath and let it out. “The guy seemed to stop breathing as soon as I threw him down,” he said. “What you saw was me trying to get his heart going again.”
“But the ME said he died from a busted spleen.” Her face was creased in a frown. He could tell she wanted to believe him. “His spleen didn’t just self-destruct. And Jack, you were so mad.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mia.”
Mia got up and went to him. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m on your side, Jack.”
A part of him wanted to pull her into his arms but he felt her distance—even if she was standing right next to him. He didn’t move.
“Daisy hasn’t been out yet,” she said, turning away.
Jack stood in the kitchen for a moment, still smelling the light wisp of perfume she left behind, and cursed.
*****
Downstairs at the front door of the offices of Burton & Kazmaroff Detective Agency—located on the first floor under her condo—Mia noticed a man standing by a black Mercedes Benz. He was looking at his cellphone but jerked his head up when she arrived.
“Ms. Kazmaroff?” he said.
“You’re early,” Mia said, fumbling for the keys to the office door.
George Peterson approached her. He was blond, average height, good-looking.
“If I may make a suggestion?” he said. “To save time?” He stepped back and gestured to his car. “Allow me to fill you in on the way to breakfast. If you’re interested, we can go straight to where he’s being held and you can interview him. If not...” He shrugged.
Mia hesitated and then decided, why not? She climbed into the Mercedes, nearly sliding off the slick, lush leather seating and onto the floor.
“My client’s name is Josh Cook,” Peterson said, backing out of the parking lot and pointing the car toward Midtown. “He was one of twenty men Ms. Baskerville scammed out of money by masquerading as a sex procurer.”
“Wow. You make it sound so defensible,” Mia said. “Your client admitted he contacted Victoria Baskerville in order to have sex with two underage girls, right?”
Peterson glanced at her and frowned.
“The girls were not, after all, underage, Ms. Kazmaroff.”
“I see. He just thought they were. Does he have any priors?”
Peterson nodded. “He was arrested in 2010 for stalking his fourteen-year-old neighbor. Charges were dropped.”
“Is he wealthy?”
“Does it matter?”
“Might explain why a lowlife like him can afford one of the best law firms in Atlanta.”
“His family has money, yes,” Peterson said. “But we wouldn’t have taken the case for that reason alone.”
“His winning personality?”
“No, he’s not very nice. If you meet him, that will be clear enough.”
“Then why?”
“We believe he’s innocent, Ms. Kazmaroff. We need you to uncover the proof to support that.”
Mia gnawed on a cuticle and glanced out the window.
“You wouldn’t want the wrong person to pay for this crime, would you, Ms. Kazmaroff? Even if they repulsed you?”
“You can skip the breakfast stop,” Mia said, without looking at him. “And you can skip the visit to the jail. I’ve heard enough.”
“May I ask to what end?”
“I don’t know. I just know meeting him will not help me look at this dispassionately.”
Especially if I touch him. I’ll probably want to drop the noose on him with my own hands.
“Fair enough.”
They drove back to Atlantic Station in silence. Peterson pulled back into a parking spot and handed Mia a file folder.
“I need you to at least have all the facts before you make up your mind,” he said. “Included there are several copies of pages from Victoria’s diary.”
Mia got out of the car with the folder.
“I’ll await your call,” he said, before driving off.
An hour later, Mia sat in her car, a cold Starbucks in her drink holder, the contents of the file folder spread across her front seat. She had to hand it to Peterson. He didn’t sugarcoat who his client was.
Cook was a degenerate sex offender kept out of the prisons and off the streets by the fact his family had money. Mia had to stop herself from wanting to be the caped crusader who finally stopped all that. But Peterson had been right about that, too. Cook’s disgusting personality and other crimes were not the point of today’s meeting.
The question was: Did he murder Victoria Baskerville?
Mia looked up from the sheaf of scattered pages and photos. The case against Cook was weak. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t go down for it. What was it Maxwell always said? Most police departments didn’t have the resources to chase down every case the way it should be.
Murders went unsolved because of budgetary cuts and lack of personnel.
Mia started her car and drove down Peachtree Road until she came to the block-long building called the Alhambra Condominiums—an ochre monster of Moroccan style and Old World charm. The building, dating back to the twenties, sat on Peachtree Road, its spacious stone balconies facing the famous street. She pulled into the back parking lot and got out.
It surprised her that Victoria would choose the Alhambra to live in. It definitely had more charm than glitz, but the location was one of the best in the city—right in the heart of Buckhead and walking distance to shopping and restaurants.
Mia stood on the sidewalk in front of the building. Victoria’s balcony was the second from the sweeping entrance. Even on the first floor, it hung too high off the ground to make access from the outside plausible. A st
ained glass window panel hung in the bedroom window. A flutter of yellow police tape from inside the condo caught Mia’s eye, explaining why the place didn’t have a For Sale sign in the window yet. She took a step back, mindful of the steady stream of traffic behind her.
As a home base, it was a little too bohemian for the picture of Victoria Baskerville painted by the media. It just didn’t seem like the headquarters for a scam artist and budding pimp. Only, she wasn’t a pimp. Promising underage girls was a part of her scam but the file indicated she never delivered. She’d walk with the marks to an ATM, empty it, then lead them to where the girls were—often right here at the Alhambra—where Victoria would covertly photograph the foreplay. The pictures in the file showed two girls in bras and panties frolicking with the suspect, Joshua Cook.
Mia’s stomach tightened at the memory of the photos. The guy looked sleazy. He watched the girls with an indecent hunger in his eyes.
Then Victoria would shoo the girls away, present the patsy with her photo montage and tell him to forget her name and address unless he wanted the photos to show up on Facebook, Linked In, and the entire email address book of his cell phone.
Mia knew now why the attorney included the pages from Victoria’s diary in the file. Mia only skimmed them but they succeeded in doing the one thing all the newspaper headlines couldn’t. They humanized her.
Her diary pages turned the Internet Hussy into a young woman looking forward to Fridays with friends and planning on catching Nordstrom’s latest shoe sale. Mia wiped her hands on her jeans, surprised to discover they were damp.
Victoria lived at the Alhambra for five years. Mia envisioned her watching the Peachtree Road Race from her balcony. She must have walked across the street to the Barnes and Noble bookstore hundreds of times in five years. Two blocks down was the famous Raj Indian restaurant—a little hole-in-the-wall bistro serving the best Indian food this side of Delhi. Victoria for sure drank beers and ate pizza at the Mystic in Garden Hills, not a quarter of a mile from the Alhambra.
Only now, of course, she did none of those.
Mia walked back to her car. The temperature had dropped since she set out this morning and she noticed a low grey cloud cover hovering overhead. She should have worn her coat.
Complete Mia Kazmaroff Page 64