Rod. 2:00 p.m. Breakers.
Since yesterday she’d been thinking one thought; Mr. and Mrs. Beck’s marriage may not have been as fine as he kept saying. They disagreed over having children, an issue known for tearing couples apart. And Mrs. Beck slept in the guest room. Didn’t look like a very cozy relationship to her. Didn’t look like Mr. Beck cared to be too forthcoming about it, either. Were it not for his iron-clad alibi, a complete lack of anything tying him to the crime and her gut instinct he wasn’t guilty, she’d be thinking about slapping a pair of cuffs on him.
Everyone she’d talked to had vouched for Mr. Beck’s fidelity, but maybe he wasn’t the one who’d been cheating. Could’ve been Mrs. Beck who’d been playing fast and loose with the wedding vows. With someone named Rod. Could’ve been Mr. Beck found out about it and was none-too-pleased. Given what she knew of Mr. Beck, however, she suspected if that were the case, they’d have found the body of some guy named Rod at Biscayne Bay Golf Club.
There was another possibility as well. Mrs. Beck was fooling around with some guy named Rod. Some guy named Rod was pressuring her to leave Mr. Beck and she wasn’t going along with the idea. Some guy named Rod went into a jealous rage and offed Mrs. Beck.
Sarge closed her eyes, massaging her temples. This investigation was taking too long. Statistically, the more time that passed after a murder, the less likely the killer would be caught. And this crime had passed the five week mark. She didn’t like it. Not one damn bit.
Her phone rang, and anticipating a call from Miguel, she picked it up without looking at the incoming number. “Sarge speaking.”
“Sergeant Freeman, it’s Nick Beck.”
He sounded angry. Really angry. Like she might be seeing another photo of him punching someone out in tomorrow’s news. “What can I do for you, Mr. Beck?”
“You can tell me why you went to the press with details of Janelle’s autopsy report. You told me you were withholding that information.”
He had to be joking. If there was a leak in her office, someone was about to get their ass reamed over the coals. “What I told you was that our department was withholding the information for the time being, and we would not be releasing it unless there was an investigative reason to do so.”
“You said you would tell me first!”
“Mr. Beck, calm down.”
“I will not calm down!”
“You will if you want to continue this conversation.”
That seemed to shut him up. For a moment, she listened to him huffing and puffing on the other end of the line. She was steamed by the news herself. Just not to the point of huffing and puffing. “Good. Now that you’re listening with a clear head, let me assure you our department did not leak your wife’s autopsy report to the press.”
“Peter Arnold’s got a copy of it plastered on the front page of his paper.”
“Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Mr. Beck.” This feud between Nicholas Beck and Peter Arnold was getting out of hand. Interfering with a police investigation. A murder no less. That was definitely a line she didn’t like having crossed. “I’ll look into this. And I’ll get to the bottom of just how Mr. Arnold acquired this information.”
“I want him arrested,” Nick demanded. “This has gone way beyond trying to one-up me on a story.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Beck. And believe me, if the facts warrant it, I’ll be the first one to slap a pair of cuffs on the guy.”
“Thank you. Now I’d like to talk to you about the matchbook cover you took out of my house yesterday.”
“I’ll be talking to you about that later.”
“When?”
“When I have more information.”
She ended the call just in time for her phone to ring again. This time she checked the incoming number before answering. “Miguel. What have you got for me?”
“You were right, Sarge. Janelle was there. Desk clerk recognized her photo right away. Says he’s been following the story in the paper since she was killed. Wondered if her murder had anything to do with the affair she was having.”
“She there with a guy named Rod?”
“You got it. Rod Skinner. You remember him? Same guy the vic’s brother had disbarred a year or so back. Clerk says the guy’s a regular. In there with different women all the time.”
If Rod was in the hotel with different women all the time, he probably wasn’t pressuring Mrs. Beck to make it exclusive. “So the Becks’ marriage wasn’t so fine after all.”
“Doesn’t look that way. Want me to bring Beck in for questioning again?”
“Not just yet. He knows we’ve found something, but he doesn’t know what. Might be interesting to let him stew about it for a while. Put a tail on him. See what he does. We play our cards right, Mr. Beck may dig up some useful information for us.”
“You got it, Sarge.”
She hung up the phone, vacillating in indecision. This murder could go either way. Domestic squabble gone bad, or something more sinister. Maybe it was time to hang back. Let out a little rope, and wait for someone to slip the noose around their neck.
If she worked it right, gave the warring reporters just the right amount of leeway, this gossip war between Nick and Peter might uncover the facts for her. All she had to do was be ready to strike when the time was right.
Chapter 17
Marianne Clarke read the latest edition of Tidbits, nearly laughing herself silly in the process. Peter Arnold was printing dirt about Nicholas Beck and his dearly departed wife, and in retaliation, Nicky Boy was giving negative press to Peter’s little girl. The whole thing was beautiful. Absolutely delicious.
Lounging in her king-sized sleigh bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, she looked around the room at her photographs of Taralynn. These ones represented her favorites. The newborn photo taken at the hospital, hours after Taralynn’s birth; a family portrait taken when Taralynn was six; Taralynn at twelve in her English riding outfit, mounted on her favorite horse at the hunt club. And her most cherished one, the two of them dressed for the opera, taken six months before her baby girl died.
“You looked so perfect that day,” she said to the photo.
Her therapist had warned her against talking to the photos, saying she was using them as a shield to keep from dealing with reality and processing her grief. The woman was stupid. Marianne had decided to ignore her advice when she realized talking to the photos made her feel better.
“You were so blissfully happy that day,” she said to the opera photo. “Oh, sweetheart, you would just love what’s going on with Peter Arnold and Nicholas Beck. The mudslinging, the rumors, the innuendos. Really, it’s wonderful. And poor Nicky Boy is just so upset over his wife’s death. You would love it if you could see how broken up he is. He actually punched Peter Arnold in the jaw. Right in front of the police station. And with Peter’s cameraman standing right there. I’m telling you it was positively scandalous. Oh, and best of all, Nick, Peter Arnold and Rod Skinner are emerging as the prime suspects. Don’t you just love it? Janelle’s death is proving to be everything we could possibly have hoped for.”
Her conversation with Taralynn’s photo was ended by a ringing telephone. Slightly annoyed, she picked it up. “Hello.”
“Mare, it’s Pearl. Have you been paying attention to what Peter and Nick have been printing in their papers?”
Her annoyance fled, replaced by giddiness. “Of course, dear. Didn’t you love reading about Janelle Tyler-Beck dying with methadone in her system? Who would have ever figured the woman for a junkie?”
“I would, for starters.” They shared a good laugh over that before Pearl cleared her throat. “Yes, but I’m less than pleased Nick has chosen to strike back at Peter by printing unflattering stories about my daughter.”
“Oh, I know, dear. No one knows better than I how awful it is to have your child vilified in the press.”
“You’re right, of course.” Pearl sounded apologetic. “I didn’t mean to be i
nsensitive.”
“Of course you didn’t, dear. I know that. Obviously, it would be better if Nick went straight to attacking Peter directly.”
Pearl huffed out a loud sigh. “I can’t believe he hasn’t already. I mean, really, how dense can the damn guy be?”
“I know. It’s frustrating,” Marianne agreed. “Maybe the next phone call is going to have to spell it out a little more clearly for the idiot.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I also paid that social call on Patrice McKenzie we discussed.”
“Wonderful!” Marianne smiled. “What did she say when you filled her in on all the sordid details?”
“She was positively appalled.”
Marianne laughed. “Funny how she could be appalled at anything.”
“So true. At any rate, it certainly made her suspicious of Peter and Rod.”
“Perfect. When do you suppose she’ll be going to Nick with her suspicions?”
“She’s probably on the phone with him as we speak. She couldn’t wait to get me out of the house after she found out. Said she had some important business to attend to.”
“And Peter, she’ll call him, too?”
“She loved my idea of getting money from them both.”
“Of course she did. She is a gold-digging piece of work, after all. You suggested she arrange the meetings so that one arrived right after the other?”
“I convinced her that would be the best way to keep them both from finding out the other one had also been contacted.”
“That’s very good, dear. Were you able to get the tap on her phone?”
“No problem. I did it just the way you instructed.”
“Wonderful! We’ll know exactly when each of the assholes is due to show up. Certainly was nice of Andy to show me that trick before he got his idiotic ass killed.”
“Yes, it was. Anyway, when will you be coming back down?”
She glanced at the suitcase, half-packed at the foot of her bed. “I’m driving down today.”
“Good. Do you need me to get your place set up?”
“No, don’t worry about that, dear. I’ll see that the house is in order when I arrive.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Of course. Good-bye, dear.” Marianne hung up the phone and looked back at the opera photo. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be taking you to Florida with me. Can’t have you missing out on any of the action now, can we?”
She waited for a long time, hoping Taralynn could somehow answer her. But the photo said nothing.
Chapter 18
Nick arrived at the home of Patrice McKenzie the following day. Sarge still hadn’t told him what was on the matchbook cover she’d taken from his house, and he was beyond getting pissed about it. When Patrice had called offering the inside scoop on Rod Skinner, he’d hopped immediately into his car and made the drive to Palm Beach, checkbook in hand. Unknown to Patrice, he’d also left Danny hiding out near the front entrance, and carried Danny’s audio recorder with him. Anything of interest he heard from Patrice would be more than hearsay.
He’d been to the house twice before, during his first marriage to Janelle. Preston and Maggie were dating then, and Patrice’s brother Edgar had still been alive. Patrice, however, had run the household. Acted like the queen of the castle even then. Before she actually owned the place. Now that she legally held the title, he expected her regal attitude had only intensified. And as soon as she answered the door, she did everything in her power to prove him right.
“Nick, darling.” She greeted him like an old lover, grabbing a kiss from his cheek before he had a chance to back away. “Come in. Come in. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”
Feeling wasn’t mutual. “You said you had information for me.”
She smiled and smacked him on the ass. “Don’t worry, stud. We’ll get to that.”
Nick gritted his teeth. No wonder women got so pissed off about that shit. He followed Patrice inside the house, through the foyer and into the living room.
“You mentioned you liked art the first time we met. Do you remember the Harold Knight painting?” She gestured toward a wall on the opposite side of the room. “I’ve had it moved to that spot above the fireplace. It looks exquisite there, don’t you think?”
What it looked was out of place. The lone piece of Victorian expression in an otherwise contemporary room. A high-quality reproduction of something by Picasso would have suited the room better. Or maybe Jasper Johns. It was a shame to let people without taste loose in an art gallery. And no, he didn’t remember the Harold Knight portrait. Edgar McKenzie had hated art. All of it. Thought it an enormous waste of money. Nick, however, did like art. Patrice had remembered their conversation from years earlier with amazing clarity. And if there had been a painting of that caliber hanging in the house on one of his previous visits, he definitely would have remembered.
He smiled politely at his hostess. “You have quite a style, Patrice.”
“Thank you, Nick. It’s nice of you to notice.”
He looked again at the painting. Real or reproduction? And if real, where was the money coming from? An authentic painting by Harold Knight, even one of lesser quality like the one hanging above her fireplace, would run around fifty grand.
“Have a seat.” Patrice gestured at the small, comfy-looking sofa.
Thoughts of Darla’s advances on him yesterday tumbled forth, followed quickly by his knowledge of Patrice’s well-known sexual appetite and her never ending quest for a husband. “Thank you, Patrice. But I’ve spent nearly two hours in the car. I’d like to stretch my legs.”
“Suit yourself then.”
She sounded as if she could care less, but he was pretty sure she’d been hoping for a cozier arrangement.
“I’m going to need a drink, doll.” She moved toward the bar, visible through an arched doorway in the next room. “You care for one?”
He shook his head. “No thanks. You go ahead.” He waited while she poured herself a Campari on the rocks and returned to the living room.
“You’re wondering why I’ve asked you here,” she said, sinking into the cushiony sofa.
He continued to stand. “To talk about Rod, you said.”
“That’s true. Did you bring the nice, fat check I asked for?”
He pulled the draft from his wallet and handed it to her. “Twenty-five grand enough?”
She stopped licking her lips and pulled back, but then sighed and took the check from him. She studied it and frowned, as though disappointed. “I can make four times this much every year just by keeping my mouth shut.”
“Then why’d you call?”
“You’ve always been known for your business savvy, Nick. The story I have for you will more than double your circulation. And I’m not talking about The Tattletale either.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” She paused, sipping down a good portion of her drink. “Everyone from here to Key West knows you’ve been working your tail off to establish Just the Facts as a serious news magazine.”
“So you’ve got something more than dirt to dish?”
“I have the kind of journalistic investigation piece a man in your position would kill for.”
Kill for? His gut tightened at the turn of phrase. She was either toying with him, or she was sitting on a story so damn hot it was scorching her ass. He intended to know which. “Tell me something, Patrice. What exactly is it you do for Rod Skinner that earns you a hundred grand a year?”
She smiled. “Let’s just say, after our marriage ended we entered into a more business-oriented partnership.”
He thought about this for a minute. “How does Rod make his money, Patrice? What exactly is his role in the porn film industry?”
She laughed. It was an attempt, he thought, to sound bemused. But to his ears it sounded strained. Whatever secrets she was hiding, they made her nervous.
“The answers to those questions are exactly what you
’ll be paying me for.” She folded the check he’d given her in half and tucked it into the front of her blouse. “Consider this a down payment on the information.”
“How much do you want?”
“The money I make from Rod every year only pays my tax bill. As I’m sure you can guess, my lifestyle is very expensive to maintain. And I expect to maintain it.”
Irritation nipped at him now. He didn’t give a flying fuck about her money problems. “Patrice, what did Rod have to do with Janelle’s murder?”
Her entire body went rigid, her mouth dropping slightly ajar. She knew something.
Rising from the sofa, she set her drink down on a nearby end table and moved toward the door. “One million dollars,” she said as they reached the exit. She opened the door and gestured him out. “That’s my price. Let me know when you have it. Until then, I’m done talking.”
Chapter 19
Danny waited behind cypress trees lining the McKenzie driveway. At his insistence, he’d followed Nick here, parked his truck down the street, and rode up to the house with his boss. He’d smelled a good story in the making as soon as Nick told him about Patrice’s phone call. Nick, however, wanted to speak to the woman alone. So Danny had given him his pocket digital recorder and climbed out of Nick’s car just ahead of the curve in the drive, waiting while Nick was in the house. After Nick left, Danny volunteered to hang around a bit longer and watch the place; see if Rod Skinner showed up. Ten minutes after Nick left a black BMW pulled into the drive. Danny recognized the car. Peter Arnold’s. Story kept getting more and more interesting.
After hearing a car door shut, followed by an exchange of voices and the door to the house closing, he left his cover long enough to inspect the circular drive arcing past the front of the house. Zero cover there. An elaborate fountain occupied the center circle of the drive, marble carved into mermaids and jumping dolphins. The McKenzie lady probably thought it elegant, but to him it looked tacky. More importantly, there was no way to hide behind it. The house was Georgian in design. No pillars. Nothing. And the tree line stopped short of the house. He could conceal himself in its cover enough to see the rear of the Beemer parked in front of the house, but could see neither the front of the car, nor the front door to the house. Not good. Nick was going to want a positive ID on this. That much was certain.
Gossip (Desire Never Dies) Page 8