Chief Benny Hughes had worked as a lieutenant with her in the Special Offense squad, also known as the Sex Offense squad or SOS, before getting promoted. It was good to see his smiling face. “Thanks, Benny. I mean, Chief,” she fumbled.
“I don’t know what to call myself sometimes,” he told her, putting the truck into gear and flipping on the overhead lights. “You call me Benny. Just don’t call me Bunny Hedges.”
“I forgot about that.” She explained to Reese, “A lady left a message for him, only the cleaner had answered the phone and it got posted as Lieutenant Bunny Hedges. You know the guys in the squad had a field day.”
Reese smirked. “I love hearing all your old-timey cop stories.”
Hughes raised an eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror. “Don’t get on my bad side now, kid. It’s tragic enough I’m going to take all your money in the playoffs this year.”
Listening to them go back and forth about their fantasy football teams, Lauren leaned her head against her window, feeling the cool of November through the glass against her skin. Outside, the trees had shed the majority of their leaves but were still painted up in reds and oranges and yellows. She loved fall, loved the crisp autumn air, the pumpkin pies, and crunchy scarlet apples. Buffalo was known for its snow and terrible winters, but it should have been known for its spectacular falls.
Benny killed the lights once they were clear of the paparazzi in the parking lot and was now taking his time to get her over to her house. Awarded her mini mansion, clear and paid for, in her second divorce settlement, Lauren lived in a gated community off of Millionaire’s Row on Delaware Avenue. At the turn of the twentieth century, there had been more millionaires in Buffalo than anywhere else in the country, and the legacy of that was the number of opulent mansions left behind by the grain and steel barons. Most had been converted into business use, but a few were still private residences. While Lauren’s house was not on their grand scale, it was still an impressive dwelling for a city cop, detective or not.
Benny pulled into the driveway, which was blessedly free of the press. That was one good thing about having an actual guard stopping people trying to get in: the press was thwarted in their coverage of her homecoming. Wondering if her lawn service had watered them while she was gone, Lauren noticed that her yellow and orange chrysanthemums were still blooming beautifully in their pots along the front of her two-story Colonial. Thankfully, she had taken down all her Halloween decorations two days before she got attacked. It would have been more than a little freaky to come home to a lawn full of plastic tombstones.
The burly chief got out and grabbed her bag from the front seat. She didn’t have much; Reese had taken almost everything back to her house the night before in preparation for this homecoming. Benny came around the front of the car to help her out and give her a deep hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t scare us like that again.”
Reese took the bag, gave the chief half a man-hug, then held on to Lauren’s arm as they went up the front walk. Out of nowhere her neighbor Dayla came tearing up Lauren’s driveway wearing high heels, an orange maxi dress, and a thick brown sweater. Benny almost restrained her until Reese waved him off. “She’s with us,” he told the chief.
“I’m so happy you’re home! They wouldn’t even let me see you. Can you believe that?”
She had Lauren around the neck, hopping up and down as much as her stilettos would allow. Lauren never knew what look Dayla was going to be sporting on any given day. Dayla was married to a prominent local plastic surgeon and had had at least six procedures since Lauren moved in. She’d taken the weave out of her jet-black hair sometime since Lauren had been hospitalized, leaving the locks to flow in natural curls against her coffee-colored skin. Beautiful and careless, Lauren’s best friend gave her the worst advice but was the greatest company.
“And you!” She stuck a manicured finger in Reese’s face. “Shane Reese, you should have told them to let me in. Shame on you.”
“Dayla, if I’d have known you were on the floor, don’t you think I would have welcomed you in instead of incurring your wrath?” Reese tried to maneuver around Dayla’s flailing arms.
“On that note,” Benny said, backing up, still not quite sure what to make of the tornado that was Dayla, “I’ll be going. Lauren, call or text me if you need anything. Reese, see you at the last football party. And um …” He looked at Dayla, who still had Lauren in a chokehold. “It was nice meeting you. Goodbye, all.”
“You scared away my friend,” Lauren told Dayla, untangling herself from her grip.
Waving to him as he drove away, Dayla admonished her, “He has police stuff to go and do. I get to take care of you now. You need a good dose of black-girl magic.”
Hearing Reese suppress a laugh from behind her, Lauren let Dayla guide her up the front walk to the door. The lawn had been freshly cut and the leaves raked, although some stragglers blew across the path in front of them. Reese fished Lauren’s keys out of his back pocket and opened the front door.
“What the hell is that?” Lauren asked, looking down.
“It’s a dog.” Reese brushed past her, set her bag on the floor, and started to rub the little white dog under his chin. The dog jumped up, licking at his face in pure happiness.
“I know it’s a dog, but why is it in my house?”
“This is Watson, my West Highland Terrier.” Reese fell back and let the dog fully pounce on him, jumping on his chest, barking and licking.
“He’s been here a couple days now. Shane had me taking Watson out for walks while he was at the hospital with you.” Dayla eased Lauren farther into the hallway so she could shut the door behind them.
“How long have you had a dog? And how did I not know?”
He sat up, cradling Watson in his arms like a baby. “You don’t know everything about me. Four months ago an old friend was moving to Missouri and couldn’t take him. I always loved the little guy when I was over at his apartment, so Watson came to live with me.”
“And his name just happens to be Watson?”
Reese shrugged and let the dog go. He promptly ran over to Lauren and jumped up on her shins. She bent down as far as she could and scratched his ears.
“It was actually Wilson, but that’s my grandfather’s name, so I altered it a little.”
Maybe it was the shock of the dog, or maybe the relief of being in her own home, but suddenly Lauren was overpowered by the smell of hundreds of flowers. Looking around her living room, still scratching Watson, Lauren absorbed the sight of dozens of floral arrangements covering every conceivable surface. Some were even set off to the side of each step going up her staircase. “What am I going to do with all of these?”
“Every day I’ve been taking a few to a nursing home, but as soon as I clear a spot, another vase arrives.” Dayla reached over to pluck a lily out of an arrangement and tuck it behind her ear. “That one there is from Mark.” She pointed to an enormous, elaborate arrangement of roses and lilies. “He also sent a robe and slipper set, new three-hundred-dollar pajamas with the tags still attached, and left twelve messages for you on your twentieth-century land line answering machine.”
Wrinkling her nose, she motioned to Mark’s flowers. “Get rid of those next.”
Dayla admired her new floral accessory in the hall mirror, muttering, “Harsh.” Lauren ignored Dayla’s attempt to bait her into a conversation about her ex-husband.
“I think you found a new friend,” Reese observed with a grin. Looking down, Lauren realized she was standing with Watson in her arms. Despite the painful ache in her side that warned her to not strain herself, she didn’t have the heart to put the soft white dog down. Perfectly content, Watson had closed his eyes, ears flat against his head, enjoying the attention.
“He’s a little sweetie.” Lauren had been going back and forth for over a year about getting a pupp
y. Growing up, her family had always had dogs. She’d almost caved in to her daughters a couple of times but then came to her senses that they weren’t home enough to care for a puppy the way they needed to be. Now with this little ball of pure love in her arms, she remembered why a dog might be the best thing for her.
“Go upstairs and get settled in,” Dayla said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“You won’t even know me and Watson are here,” Reese assured her. “He has a crate in my room and hardly ever barks. He’s so mellow.”
“Thanks, guys.” Feeling tired, Lauren started to climb the flower-strewn staircase.
“Can I have my dog back?” Reese called as she reached the landing, still holding the snoozing Westie.
Disappearing with Watson onto the second floor, Lauren called back, “We’re good.”
11
Being home did feel good, especially knowing Lindsey and Erin would be back in less than four days. She talked to them on the phone every night, and she was even getting the hang of the whole Facebook thing, including stalking people she hadn’t seen in years and poring over their photos. It was crazy what normal people posted for the entire world to see. They’d been using Facebook to track suspects and witnesses for years, but it always seemed like such a foreign thing to her, like something aliens from another planet might do, not people she knew and loved.
With the companionship of her new best friend, Watson, who followed her around the house all day long, she had no urge to rush off to try to figure out who shanked her just yet. Because she was home from the hospital, that meant Reese was back at work and could bring back information to her about developments in the case first-hand. All she had to do was wait for him to walk in the door so she could grill him.
Living with Reese turned out to be surprisingly easy. But it had only been a day. He would retreat into his wing and watch sports, giving Lauren the space she needed. With Watson to keep her company while she was healing, she was in a good place, all things considered.
David Spencer’s visit to the hospital still nagged at her, though. She had gotten him off on a murder he most certainly had committed, lied to her, used her. She couldn’t imagine what else he could possibly want from her. Nothing good, anyway. Not a nice chat or to hold her hand, that was for sure. No, people like him had to have ulterior motives. Their entire lives were ulterior motives.
Now that she was home from the hospital, she decided to find out what was going on in David Spencer’s sick little brain.
Unused since her attack, her home office in the basement definitely needed a good dusting. Setting Watson on the carpeted floor, she sat down at her desk and fired up her computer. She used her iPad to Facebook-surf in bed; this computer was strictly for business. Having a private investigator’s license meant having access to several excellent, but expensive, databases. She couldn’t legally use the law enforcement resources at work for her PI business, but that really wasn’t a hindrance. People’s whole lives were documented on the Internet. Having her own account on Facebook reinforced that truth. You just had to know how to do a proper search.
As Watson shuffled around the floor, sniffing feverishly at this newfound territory, Lauren typed David’s name and date of birth into her favorite public records database.
Interesting. David had changed his address two months ago from his mom’s place to a house in a section of Clarence, north of the city. A woman named Melissa St. John was listed as the property owner. Running a check on her name revealed Melissa’s age to be twenty-nine. What kind of game is he playing? she thought as she printed out their address: 1462 East Goose Lake Road. That was an expensive section of Clarence, very high-end new builds.
Lauren had only just been released from the hospital. Her doctor, her partner, her parents, and her kids would have a fit if she went off to talk to David Spencer on her own. She wasn’t even supposed to drive yet.
“Well, Watson,” she announced to her tail-wagging sidekick, “looks like I’m going on a road trip tomorrow.”
12
Watching Reese inhale the pancakes she made him for breakfast the next morning brought back memories of long-ago hectic Tuesday mornings with the girls rushing to get ready for school, hopefully not forgetting their lunch bags or gym clothes, and her reminding them not to drip syrup on their uniforms.
Now she was having coffee while Reese ate with his fingers, alternately shoving a piece in his mouth, then giving Watson some and letting him lick his fingers clean, then popping another piece in his own mouth.
“No wonder you’re single,” Lauren observed, sipping black coffee from an oversized mug.
“If I had a dollar for every time you said that …” Reese picked at another pancake while Watson’s tail wagged furiously in anticipation.
“I don’t think maple syrup is good for dogs.”
“Don’t tell me how to raise my kid,” Reese said good-naturedly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Standing up, he pulled his jacket off the back of the kitchen chair, slung it over his arm, and went over to the sink to wash. Watson jumped on his legs, wanting to be picked up. “Sorry, boy. My hands are all sticky. I wouldn’t want you to have to get another bath because your stepmom kissed your white fur with her red lipstick on.”
“That was Dayla,” Lauren protested, clearing the dishes from the table. She waited for Reese to finish wiping his hands. He moved aside, stuffing his arms in his jacket as he went. Lauren stacked the plates on the granite countertop next to the sink. Running the water, she gave it a second to heat up before she began to clean the tableware.
Reese nuzzled his face close to Watson’s nose. “It’s a good thing you have all your shots then, isn’t it, Watson?”
“Hey! Be nice.”
“I’m sorry, Lauren. But every time she’s here, I feel like she’s undressing me with her eyes. I’m not some piece of meat.”
Lauren cocked an eyebrow as she rinsed the plates. Seeing Lauren’s skepticism, Reese continued: “I’m a proud biracial man and I admit I let myself get used by the opposite sex quite often, but Dayla’s different.” He shuddered as he scooped up his portable police radio. “It’s like she wants to consume me.”
“She is a happily married woman who loves to make you squirm.” Lauren noticed one of her good bowls was missing from the cabinet and wondered if it was sitting on the floor of Reese’s bedroom attracting bugs.
Reese was still busy pleading his case. “She’d make me squirm, all right. And buck. And kick. And bite.”
“Go to work. Find out who attacked me.” She began to line the dishes in the dishwasher, plates in a neat row, thinking the only thing that got consumed that day was seven pancakes, five slices of bacon, and half a jug of orange juice. “Have a good day.”
Waving as he cracked open the back door, he called, “Bye, my best friend! Have a wonderful day! You too, Lauren.”
She threw a dish cloth at him, but he’d already shut the door. Watson ran over, picked it up with his mouth and gave it a good shake. Kneeling down, she tugged on the cloth, and Watson playfully pulled back. “You won’t rat on me, will you?” She gave him a scratch between the ears and let go of the cloth. “Not my good boy.”
13
Driving turned out to be much more painful than she thought it would. Every turn, bump, or pothole was its own slice of shiny white agony. The stab wound in her back began itching again, making her twist in her seat to try to scratch it while the seat belt strangled her. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, she thought as she pulled onto the thruway. Still, she had to know. She had to see David in person and get to the bottom of his visit. She knew he hadn’t gone away to college after he was acquitted of murder, like he had planned. She also knew that his lawyer/godfather had given him a job in his office. She wondered how that had turned out. Frank Violanti was never the easiest person to get along with.
The traffic was light
for ten in the morning on a Tuesday. The sun was bright, the sky was clear. It was another perfect late-fall day. But it was Buffalo, so the specter of a freak storm always hung over their heads.
Listening to music on her iPhone synced to the car’s sound system as she drove, Lauren sang along. She loved to drive, loved taking road trips by herself, although she hadn’t done it in a while. There was something peaceful to her about the long stretches of highway, and it helped take her mind off her lingering pain.
She hit a hard right onto the exit and thought how grateful she was that the guys down at the police garage had disabled her airbags after she got her new SUV earlier in the year. It wasn’t strictly legal, it was an old cab driver trick, but she couldn’t afford replacing the bags every time she smacked into something. That white powder was a bitch to clean out.
Passing Amherst’s Big Blue Water Tower, the traffic epicenter of the Buffalo Niagara Region, Lauren turned off her music. She wasn’t as familiar with the Northtowns as the Southtowns and had to rely on her Ford Escape’s GPS. As a joke, Lindsey had changed the voice to sound like an Englishman the last time she’d been home. Lauren had never gotten around to changing it back. Now Jeeves was dutifully telling her to take the next left in one quarter of a mile.
She slowly drove down East Goose Lake Road, checking the house numbers from the mailboxes at the end of the long driveways. This is what my ex-mother-in-law would have called “new money” in her passive-aggressive tone, Lauren thought as she rounded another corner, as opposed to what I was, which was “no money.” Being married to the ridiculously wealthy Mark Hathaway for a year had had its advantages, but so had their divorce, like getting away from Mama Hathaway.
Double-checking the address before she pulled in, Lauren couldn’t help but be surprised at how over-the-top Melissa St. John’s house was, even for this neighborhood. Twice the size of the houses that flanked it on either side, the modern three-story monstrosity boasted terraces, huge oval glass windows, and an elaborate layout that looked like it belonged on a spaceship rather than in Clarence, New York.
The Murder Book Page 5