“You’re not even trying to understand,” Lyddie retorted in an exhale of disgust.
“Maybe it’s because you lost me at the word ‘artist’. That is such a stretch.”
“And your word for him would be?” the girl with red flushing her cheeks hammered.
“Couch potato? Freeloader? Scam artist?”
“Ha! You said ‘artist!’ Then you agree he’s one?” Lyddie blasted.
“Grasping at straws. You’re getting desperate, my ex-friend.”
“Do you think I’d get my hair done for just anyone?” the follicly-blessed bombshell asked as her hand went to the pampered locks poufed out in a bouffant styling. She kept the fact that the appointment was also for the benefit of Lepperman, the zillionaire who reaped the rewards of seeing the debut of the freshly whipped coiffure. And the rewards didn’t end there. She benefited mightily by accruing another invitation— this time to Paris.
“Yes, I do think you would,” Sam snapped. “You’d be calling for an appointment in the middle of a flood.”
A gaggle of teenagers strolled in, the males in the group pushing each other. It brought back memories of when Sam had energy to burn. Her leg was cramping up, so she shook it out, promising herself she’d get up for a morning run. The falling off her aerobic exercise was what was making her feel old before her time.
“Enough!” Lyddie blurted. “What went on in your world today? That is why we’re here, no?”
She had a point and Sam conceded to the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.
“Yes, it is. And what went on is the talk with Kwani. Lyddie, it was so worth it; the papers got it all wrong.”
“Typical,” the fashionista shot.
“My mother too.”
“Now that is surprising.”
“I know. That’s what I thought … but she wasn’t wrong about everything.”
“Ah, well, now it makes more sense,” Lyddie opined.
“Yes, she was right about the money. Drossider did keep money at the office.”
“But we knew that. Swayzie and Tilbert had cash on them when they were arrested.”
“No,” Sam dispelled. “That was just to throw people off the scent.”
“What do you mean?” the girl who was suddenly more interested than at the start of the conversation queried.
“I mean, that they had a few thousand on them when arrested, but according to Kwani, there were hundreds of thousands of dollars in that safe—and that’s a conservative estimate. Sometimes it veered into millions.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“You mean, was Alfred Langford sure, and Kwani says his father was. According to his dad, Swayzie and Tilbert filled two sacks full of cash, but when the police arrested them, they only found the cash they’d stuffed in their pockets.”
“Then they threw the cops off the scent,” Lyddie paraphrased.
“Yes, and speaking of coppers,” Sam said as she nudged her ex-friend’s arm.
There he was—Detective Death—sleazing his way to the counter and leaving a snail’s trail of slime, smirking at the two girls. If ever there was someone that should be repeatedly throttled, it was him.
Fourth down and five minutes to go.
The phrase returned. It was the one that she’d had while interviewing Kwani Langford, but why had it returned? And why had it triggered the unearthing of a buried memory that wouldn’t surface no matter how hard she tried to prod it loose.
“Ladies,” Jennings greeted as he walked over, coffee in hand. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“You are, but then you’re probably used to being a pain in the butt by now.”
This time, it was Lyddie delivering the bitch slap. Sam high-fived her under the table.
Did that mean it was a low five?
“Just being neighborly,” he replied.
“I have enough friends,” Sam retorted. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”
“Oh, I’ll excuse Ms. Wexler, but remember what I said about not getting involved in police business, Nancy Drew. Naughty, naughty!” he admonished with a waggle of his finger. “Evening, ladies.”
They remained silent as he sauntered away and out the door.
“Naughty, naughty? Did he really say that to me? He’s so, so … infuriating!” Sam blasted.
“But hot! Super hot! Poblano chili time. Aye Chihuahua!”
“Lyddie, will you stop reinforcing that egotistical tyrant! He’s hunting me!”
“He does seem to be obsessed—”
“A term you fought me on,” Sam reminded.
“Yes, but so apropos. But why the fixation? Why?”
The straw slipped in between the glossed lips as the ex-friend took another swallow of the pink cooler.
“You’d have to be a psychopath to understand. Only psychopaths can understand their ilk,” Sam surmised.
“True … which brings us back to that money,” Lyddie segued.
“Yes, the money,” Sam repeated. “Kwani insists it was never found.”
“Then that theory you came up with is starting to make sense,” Lyddie argued.
“You mean, the one about the cash being hidden under the floor?” the shop owner asked.
“Yes. Except …”
“Go on,” Sam encouraged.
“Except that Drossider was out millions. He’d have said something. Put in an insurance claim and—”
“No … no, he wouldn’t,” Sam said lowering her voice to a dull rasp. “He wasn’t only a loan shark, Lyddie … he was dealing drugs!”
“You’re kidding? You didn’t mention that.”
“Not kidding and I was getting to it. That’s why Drossider contradicted what Langford said to the police. Langford mentioned the two sacksful of cash, but Drossider denied it by saying it was impossible.”
“Interesting,” Lyddie remarked after taking another sip.
“Plus—get this—Drossider was acquainted with both Swayzie and Tilbert.”
“No?”
“Yes!” Sam answered. “Kwani’s father insisted that the two worked for Drossider a few times. That’s how they knew about the stash. It’s also how they knew that there wasn’t time to drop that week’s haul off at the Merrimack Casino. Merrimack was where Drossider laundered the money.”
“Well, shut my mouth and call my wardrobe out of style.”
“Yeah, no one would do that.”
“That’s the point, Einstein,” Lyddie quipped.
Sam emitted a growl not unlike the kind Mr. Cuddles gave to interlopers breaching his territory.
“Not nice, Sam. Especially since I don’t have any salmon treats.”
“You’re so obnoxious. The only reason I ever befriended you was because of what you did for me. If it weren’t for that, phffft!”
“Oh, really? Well, the only reason I did what I did was because you wear clothes well. You’re like one of those hangers that the modeling agencies scout for—all shoulders and nothing else.”
“Well, that’s so pleasant of you to say because—” Sam snapped her fingers, stopping in delivering the one liner.
“By the look in your eye, I’d guess you, The Hanger, have something in that double-boiler you call a brain,” Lyddie stated, heralding the advent. “Care to share?”
“Not yet … I need my laptop to confirm my hunch.”
“And I need to go. I am not keeping Bailey waiting. Besides, there’s always tomorrow morning, Adios.”
Grabbing her satchel, Lyddie dumped the clear plastic cup still coated in foamy pink in the trash and minced out the door.
The sway in her hips always came out when Bailey was in the picture.
Sam stood, stretching out her legs and giving Matt a smile.
“How’d we do?”
“Here’s the tally,” he said. “Took it when I got on duty, and we’ve made a few sales since then.”
Not bad.
Add in what she was projected to make with what Bliss Harper and Leticia Hundle
threw her way, and she’d more than manage.
“Thanks. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
Taking a swig of her green tea, she made her way to the back, taking out time to jump up and down on the spot that caused all the trouble.
Dang floor!
Sitting in her comfy swivel chair, she popped the lid on her trusty laptop and did a search for Peter Dengrove’s incarceration to check out her theory.
“Well, I’ll be,” she mumbled.
The hunch panned out, but just because someone had the opportunity, didn’t mean they took it.
Like Lyddie said, there would be a tomorrow. She’d pass the theory on then, because right now, she needed food in her stomach and, more importantly, so did Mr. Cuddles.
CHAPTER 25
“Oh, you widdle sweetie pie,” Sam cooed to the cat lapping up the spoonful of yogurt she’d put in his food dish.
Tazzie loved blueberry yogurt almost as much as he enjoyed eviscerating his scratching posts. He went through one every three months, and the latest was almost demolished. Sam could foresee a trip to Petco in her future.
And a claw trimming.
Taz’s nails had gotten impossibly long and were catching on throw rugs when he walked. She was so done with fixing them every time he took a stroll.
Sam loaded the dishwasher, feeling a tickle on her ankles. It was her beloved furball rubbing up against her bare skin.
“You done, sweet ’ums?” she queried before bending over and kissing the top of his head. Retrieving the empty blue bowl, she rinsed it out and put it in the rack. With the dishwashing load complete, she turned on the stainless steel appliance and listened to the gush of water roll on in.
“Come on, baby … time for bed.”
A ringtone.
Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, she responded by padding over to the cell she’d left on the table. It was almost eleven and probably Lyddie calling to reveal TMI about the big date with Bailey. She’d let her talk for a few minutes before slamming the phone down on her ear. Her ebff hated to be rebuked and there was no better reason to do it than that.
“Hello,” she answered, bracing for the blow-by-blow playback.
“You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
A chill sped up her spine. She’d recognize that gruff voice anywhere. It was the one she hoped to never hear again.
It hadn’t been a joke.
“Who … who is this?” she stammered.
“Never mind, Ms. Powell. Time’s up. Are you ready to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” she blasted, momentarily recovering her nerve.
“What I need to know. Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The money, bitch. I know you’ve got it.”
The money!
It had to be Drossider’s money, but just because she’d figured out that part of the puzzle didn’t mean she knew where it was.
Shivers traveled in both directions sending a claustrophobic panic to all points of her body. The bravado gone, all she wanted to do was hide.
“Leave me alone! I don’t know anything!”
“You must! It’s not where it’s supposed to be … and you were the only one with access! I’m not playing with you! I want what’s mine!”
“I told you I don’t know! And if you don’t stop threatening me, I’ll call the police!”
“Why didn’t you before?”
A pregnant pause highlighted the danger. She was alone in the house, and this crazy nut could be anywhere!
Anywhere?
The open window caught her attention. She moved to the side so she couldn’t be seen and crept towards it.
“Nothing to say? It proves you’ve got that money, bitch. Twenty-four hours … I’m giving you another day to give me what’s mine … or else …”
The line went dead. Sam was barely breathing, but there it was … the snapping of a twig from outside. She switched to Plan B.
“Come on, Mr. Cuddles! We’re going to bed!” she shouted way too loudly. The expression on her feline’s face confirmed that the tone had him confused. He wasn’t used to be yelled at, especially at bedtime, but then, the shout wasn’t for him. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying she could wish the danger away, but things were never that simple. Another second went by before she sprang into action. Shutting off the kitchen lights, she ran up the stairs, snapping on her bedroom light, but she was far from done.
She rushed to the spare bedroom, and in the dark, peeked out the window.
Game on!
If her cat was confused before, he was positively flummoxed now. He sat dumbfounded at the bottom of the staircase staring up as she tiptoed back down.
“Shhhhh …” she hushed as she passed by. The paw extended batted at her ankle, but she ignored the enticement to play. Instead, she plastered herself against the wall and slithered along it until she reached the light switch.
She took a deep breath, gathering every ounce of resolve. With her left hand on the switch, she slowly counted.
One … two … three …
In a seamless move, the outdoor lights sprang on as her right hand twisted the knob and flung open the door. The figure on the sidewalk was cast in the spotlight, and his startled face shone in stark contrast to the darkness of the night. His features were illuminated—
And she had her man.
* * *
“That was a remarkably foolish thing to do, Ms. Powell. You could have gotten yourself killed.”
That’s all Jennings could say?
She’d solved the case and he was pestering her about the stupidity it took to follow through on the reckless plan that no one in their right mind would have carried out? She wasn’t so addled as not to recognize that fact.
“You gave me no choice, did you?” she shot back accusingly. Jennings’ hazel eyes apprised her with what?
Curiosity? Shock? Wonder? Disdain? Hatred?
It was hard to tell what was going on behind what would be considered by anyone but her to be a handsome face. But she refused to give him that much credit—even to herself. Men without souls hardly needed their egos boosted by being tossed accolades. More importantly, they hardly qualified either.
“Have no idea what that means, Ms. Powell. I was on call. You could have gotten hold of me at any time. All you needed to do is pick up your cell—just the way you did tonight—and speak to dispatch.”
“And all you needed to do was tell me you were on the New Castle Wolverines!”
He smirked, his eyes darting down before leveling with hers.
“Who told you?”
Her arms crossed as her dark eyes flashed curses originating in dark infernal pits of hell.
“Excuse you? I do have a brain! How else would I have worked out that it was the Drossider robbery behind Doris Cunningham’s death? And the only reason I didn’t recognize you sooner is because you don’t have your face half-covered by that ridiculous helmet. Don’t know how you saw where to throw the ball, Mr. Fancy Pants Quarterback.”
“And here I thought you remembered me for other more intimate reasons.”
He went there!
He really went there!
Her cheeks burned with a bright crimson not seen since St. Nick went down the wrong chimney and lit his backside on fire.
“Then you do know everything,” she hissed.
“Everyone who had a cell knew. It isn’t every day you get a message that alleges Ms. Samantha Powell had sex under the bleachers with the entire football team. And if you’re as logical and smart as you think, the locker room would have been way more comfortable.”
Kapow!
“Look here, NoBo!” she shouted, spitting out the old nickname. “That did not happen and—”
“Relax, Ms. Powell. You’re the girl who gave the cold shoulder to everyone. But then maybe that’s why it happened.”
“What?” she sputtered, shaking her head. “You’re excusing someone trying to ruin my life by sprea
ding an unconscionable lie by blaming MY behavior? You really are a complete jerk!”
“Everything all right over here?”
It was Mr. Warm Siberian Nights.
“No, everything is not!” she howled.
Petrovich exchanged a look with his partner, moving closer to Sam.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but we came to find out about the 9-1-1 call. That is what you were asking her about?” he asked the man who had veered off topic in order to humiliate her.
“No!” she interjected, answering for the putz in front of her. “He most certainly was not! One would expect a professional to adhere to ethics, but maybe that’s the problem! Your partner is anything but professional! He barely qualifies as human. Right, NoBo?” she taunted.
Her comment landed in the small center circle marked “bull’s eye.” But the best part was that it went unchallenged. NoBo wouldn’t dare cast aspersions on her with Petrovich within earshot. If he did, he’d have to explain what he was doing, and it wasn’t investigating.
“I would be glad to tell the entire story to you,” she continued, devoting her full attention to the man with the dreamiest green eyes this side of heaven. Petrovich nodded.
“Well, it started with an anonymous call.”
“The one you lied about not receiving?”
There NoBo went again! She dissed him with a roll of her eyes.
“Is that true, Ms. Powell?” the tall Russian hunky-a-doodle asked.
“Yes and no. I did receive another call, but I wasn’t sure the first one was serious.”
“I see … well, when did you receive it?” Petrovich responded while Jennings went back to playing statue with pigeon droppings.
“Last night. The person pressured me about telling him where it was. I had no idea what he was talking about and why I thought it was a joke. It wasn’t until today it came together and I figured out he was talking about the money.”
“Money?” the non-offensive detective probed.
“Yes, money. I found out from Kwani Langford, the son of the security guard shot in the Drossider hold-up, that there were thousands and thousands of dollars in the safe. It was never recovered because the police thought the money the two culprits had on them was the take. I had an intuitive feeling that the robbery money was what the caller meant, but it wasn’t until tonight that I learned that Peter Dengrove was sent to the same maximum security prison that Lee Swayzie and Jenkins Tilbert were sent. Swayzie and Tilbert were the two hold-up men in the Drossider robbery.”
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