by Lakota Grace
“He'd been liquidating assets to pay attorney's fees. I told him not to because he had these legacy certificates of deposit that paid a decent interest rate. But he did anyway. Said he had no choice.”
“How so?”
“Big international lawsuit,” the accountant said. “The chemical company made fertilizers here in the states. Legal beagles blocked him with environmental concerns. So he moved operations to India. Now the Indian government is suing because of dangerous conditions at the plant there.”
“So Robbyn—”
“That floozy better enjoy the time she has left in the McMansion. Her days there are numbered.”
Rory got the name of the attorney so he could check the progress of the Mumbai lawsuit. But he wanted to delve further. When they made the death notification for Andy Fisher, the old man’s reaction to his adopted son’s request for money had been striking. The old man was protecting assets somewhere.
“Did Henry have offshore bank accounts?”
The advisor considered it. “You know, I’ve often wondered. Henry always had this secretive air when we met to prepare his taxes. He’d bring me the company receipts in a shoebox, playing the ignorant rube. But when I referred to other investments, he got this look in his eye.”
“So there might be something more he wasn’t willing to part with— or pay tax on?”
The accountant adjusted the drape of her crepe blouse. “Henry always said I’d be well taken care of if anything happened to him. You find other money sources, you let me know.”
After asking for copies of everything she had and getting her word she’d send them over, Rory took his leave. He was sitting in his car making notes on the meeting when his cell phone rang. It was Robbyn.
She was back to being breathless.
“Rory, you said to call if I thought of something—”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I did. I have a great idea. Our local television station wants to interview me. Make a plea to the community, a silent witness to get information on who did this awful thing to Henry. You've got a budget for that, don't you? I told them you did.”
“Well, I don't know if—”
“Oh, don't be a spoilsport. I've never been on TV before. It’ll be fun.”
She hung up before Rory could protest further.
Robbyn seemed more attracted to being a reality TV celebrity than in finding her husband's killer. Rory shook his head. Glad he’d never taken the plunge into matrimony.
The phone rang again, and he grabbed it. “Robbyn, I don't think—”
“This is Chas Doon, you idiot. You on a first name basis with a suspect in this murder case? What kinda game you playing, Stevens?”
Rory fought hard to keep his temper in check.
“She wants to do a television plea. Seems like a possible route to take.”
“Shut her down,” Chas ordered. “If there are witnesses, they’ll contact us directly without the vortex weirdos and Sedona psychics chiming in. Look, don't screw this up. If you do, you're back on the street writing traffic tickets. You do remember those good old days?”
“I understand you perfectly. We'll get it done. No problem.”
Rory listened in horror at the appeasing words coming out of his mouth.
“Well, don’t forget it,” Chas said. “What else you got? Did you check out the slug?”
“Forensics told me there was too much damage for ID.”
“Too bad.”
“But I went back out to the house and found another.”
“Why didn’t you spot it the first time through? That’s basic, Stevens. You take a flashlight and shine it parallel to the wall.”
Rory held the phone away from his ear as Chas droned on.
“You should go out and re-interview the neighbors,” Chas directed. “Jog their memories.”
“I plan to do that.”
Then Rory realized he was speaking to an empty line. Chas Doon had hung up.
Rory unclenched his jaw with an effort. He was turning into every bootlicking employee that he'd always hated. Was this job worth it? Maybe Peg Quincy was right. But look at her. Scrambling to make ends meet. That wasn't the answer, either.
He glanced at the clock. Only fifteen minutes to go until he could legitimately walk out the door. Maybe he'd stop at PJs, grab a beer and a sandwich before he headed home to his lonely house in Prescott.
Rory pulled an authorization sheet from the stack and wrote Peg's name at the top of it, acknowledging the hours Peg had written in careful pencil on the slip he had wedged in his wallet. He walked the voucher up to the office clerk.
Only five minutes more until quitting time…
Hook Up
~ 22 ~
Silver
Silver surveyed the after-work gathering at PJs, a sports bar in the Village of Oak Creek. She'd chosen this place over the coffee shop, hoping to avoid another chance encounter with Robbyn. The money she'd received for the revolver was hers, hard earned, and she didn't intend to share it.
The crowd, mostly men, threw back shots with an angry intensity while lined three deep at a long wood-framed bar. The bartender kept a watchful eye on the door and had the appropriate draft ready in a frosty mug when a regular walked in. Eight large wall TVs provided a kaleidoscope of sports events, and bar chairs crowded two-up tables in the center of the room.
Silver was in the mood for a hookup and assessed the possibilities as she entered. The men were a mixture of blue-collar laborers and salesmen just off the job. She shuddered. Not another salesman!
The last one swore he was single and living with his mother when an untanned ring mark clearly decorated his left hand. Not that Silver wasn't beyond a story or two herself, but she’d learned over the years to trust her intuition regarding casual meet-ups. Safety first.
She paused, evaluating a prospect. Tall, bulky, sleeve tat on one arm, wrist to shoulder. His eyes met hers with a question mark. She gave her chin a slight, negative turn. Not tonight, big boy. In the mood for something quieter. Less of a wrestling match.
Then she spotted him. There by himself in the corner was the cop she'd encountered at Bell Rock.
He must be a regular. Although he was clearly Law, the PJs population ignored him. A loner, then. That fit her own mood for this evening.
She drifted closer. Fielded a compliment from a guy in a painter's outfit with a toss of her silver hair and a touch on his arm. Moved on. Reached her intended target.
“Mind if I?”
His face lighted up when he recognized her, and she immediately put up a familiar barrier.
Don’t get ideas. This invitation is simply physical. Maybe even a half-night stand, if I can manage it. I'm a traveling girl.
Silver shook her head just enough to jingle the bangle earrings she had borrowed from Robbyn's dresser. She gave Rory a wide cheerleader smile, moving easily into the role of wholesome-girl-next-door. Tonight, I can play any part you want, mister.
She shifted the daypack off her shoulder and placed it carefully onto the floor near the chair he pulled out for her.
“What you having?” he invited.
“How about a Chablis?”
Actually, she'd rather have a Grand Cru Montrachet. One of her older marks had introduced her to good wine. But this was a sports bar. She doubted they even knew what that was. No, house Chablis was the proper choice here, although it reminded her of weak vinegar left too long in the sun.
“You look pensive, Rory. What's up?”
Always slip in their first name and an impressive word. Pensive. That was a good college-educated one.
Communication was Silver’s profession. Even though she had barely graduated high school with a GED, she worked to increase her vocabulary, taking note each time she heard a new term.
The waiter brought her wine, and she sipped it. Silver could make a glass last an evening, but she hoped it wouldn't take that long. Even so, she needed her wits with this Rory person. She’d learned
they could be smarter than they looked.
Rory sighed. “You're right. A lot on my mind tonight.”
Silver touched his hand lightly.
“A boss problem?” She took a moment to look deeply into his face. Nice eyes, she observed. Kind of a hazel with speckly flakes of brown.
His expression tightened.
“You got that one right. My partner Chas Doon expects me to have the case solved when he gets back—no, before he gets back.”
“He sounds like a real asshole.”
Silver peppered her remark with a calculated amount of indignation-for-a-friend.
“Yup, but he's my boss. What can you do?” He grabbed a handful of peanuts and popped them into his mouth.
Silver took a single one from the dish he offered and played with her wine glass stem.
“You're not drinking,” Rory pointed out.
“Stomach upset. Maybe I should switch to something carbonated.”
“Cola, okay?”
He gestured to the waiter. “A coke for the lady, and I'll have another scotch and soda. Keep them coming.”
Silver gave Rory her best ingénue look.
“What case? It sounds exciting!”
Silver listened, carefully attentive, as Rory told her the details of the Henry Fisher murder. Some were new to her like the slug dug out of the wall. Darn! She'd hoped they wouldn't find another one. She gave him another wide-eyed look.
“Any suspects?”
“Other than the wife? Nothing on the horizon. But we're doing a TV spot asking for Silent Witnesses to call.”
Silver had her doubts whether that would be successful. Usually, it brought forth the nuts and crazies. She'd even called in once herself for a thief who wanted the spotlight shining in another direction. For a price, of course.
“What are you going to do next?” she asked Rory.
“Start kicking the tires, I guess.” He sounded tired. “I've got an appointment with Fisher’s attorney. The old man had a big lawsuit in progress, not in his favor. But there’s a hint the guy might be rich. Possible overseas assets, all untraceable, according to his bookkeeper.”
Silver brightened with this new information. No wonder the old man didn't mind giving that wad of currency to her. Lots more where that came from. But at the same time he was telling Robbyn they had no money. Not playing fair with the wife. Silver didn't agree with that. Married people were supposed to be honest with each other.
“Really?” she said, her eyes wide. “Untraceable? What if somebody had the passwords or account numbers or something?”
“And a death certificate? Could be possible.”
Maybe Silver had given up on Robbyn too soon. If there was real money to be had, perhaps she could wangle a trip to the Caymans. She'd yearned to visit the Caribbean. There had to be a password somewhere, just waiting to be discovered.
“Why are you so interested?” Rory looked at her sharply.
“Idle curiosity, I suppose. Haven’t you ever wanted to travel?”
Silver sensed his sudden alertness and changed the topic of conversation to questions about him, always a reliable distraction.
“What do you do when you're not sheriffing?”
“I'm on the rescue squad. Up to now, it's been underwater recovery, but I'm hoping to expand into search-and-rescue.”
“I bet you're good at everything you do.” She gave him the admiring-look, one of her Top Ten Best.
Rory’s ears turned red. He was embarrassed at compliments! Useful information. She filed it away.
He gulped the last of his drink and waved a finger circle in the air. “Make the next one a double.”
The attentive waiter brought it, and Rory took a big slug.
Slow down, cowboy. I want you awake enough to ...
Maybe it was time to make her move.
“Rory, I wasn’t going to even bring this up, but I'm—I’m homeless!”
That got his attention.
“Well, not really. I'm moving into my new condo tomorrow, but I gave up my motel room for tonight, thinking my apartment would be ready, and it's not. What a mess!”
Silver squeezed out a small tear and looked at him around the hanky she had grabbed from her daypack.
Rory gestured broadly. “Not a problem. You can stay at my house. I have lots of room.”
“Oh, I couldn't possibly.”
“No arguing. It's settled.”
His words started to slur, and he tilted alarmingly as he slid from the barstool.
Silver put his arm around her shoulder.
“Let's do this together.”
Rory blinked. “Good idea.”
He leaned heavily into her, and they paced unsteadily into the chill night air.
“My car, over there.” He pointed toward a bulky shadow across the parking lot.
The Hummer. Silver shivered with anticipation. She’d never driven one of those before. She wriggled her fingers in front of his face.
“Keys. No way I'm going to let you drive with what you've had to drink.”
He looked at her with surprise. He fumbled in his pocket, produced the keys and punched the unlock button on the fob.
“Here you go,” he said cheerily.
He pointed the key ring toward her hand, but it fell to the pavement. He stumbled to the passenger side and flopped in the seat. Silver slammed the door behind him. The guy was totally wasted.
Silver scooped up the keys and slid behind the wheel. “And I need to know where we're going,” she said.
“Prescott,” he announced, giving her the street address. “Wake me up when we get there.” He rolled his jacket into a makeshift pillow and slumped against the window.
Silver punched the location into her smartphone.
“Google, Navigate,” she ordered.
“Directions will start when you reach Highway 179,” the disembodied voice announced.
Silver turned the Hummer onto the road with an aplomb born of living with the unexpected. Adventures always lead to interesting places.
Forty-five minutes later she pulled into the driveway of an old Queen Anne Victorian in Prescott’s historic district. The gabled roof with its collection of gingerbread loomed in the late night moonlight.
She poked Rory in the arm. “We're here.”
He shook his head. “Who're you?”
“Silver. Remember, at the bar?”
There was no sign of recognition.
“Never mind. Let's go inside.”
Her brain shifted to her second objective, a warm place to sleep. And if the man wasn't in the mood tonight, there was always morning. Her burnished hair looked amazing in early sunlight.
Silver turned off the engine and got out of the car. She was hungry and that wasn't going to ease either. The restaurants were closed and his refrigerator would be a barren cavern. She'd seen this condition too many times before.
At the front door, she turned to the man. “Which key?”
He peered intently at the key ring and pointed. She propped him up against the doorjamb and kept him upright with one shoulder while she unlocked the door and two deadbolts. Definitely a cop's house.
Moving inside the house she paused for a minute and scanned the walls. No blinking alarm. She listened. No scratch of dog claws on the highly polished hardwood floors.
She let out her breath and retrieved the semi-comatose man outside leaning against the house. She shuffled him inside the house and closed the door.
“Bedroom?” Her voice was curt and to the point. He'd expended the little patience she had left.
He pointed with one unsteady finger to a hall in front of them, and they shuffled across the room. Once inside the master bedroom, he moved under his own speed to drop onto the bed, boots still on, snoring loudly.
Silver put her hands on her hips in exasperation. She contemplated the dead-to-the-world man in front of her. Her foster-mother would have taken off the boots and gently put a coverlet on the sleeping man. Silv
er wasn't her foster-mother, so she left him there. She'd find her way back to Sedona tomorrow. But tonight she was tired, and the king bed in front of her beckoned.
Silver returned to the Hummer for her daypack. In the backseat was Rory’s copy of the murder book. She grabbed that, too. Closing the car door, she punched the car’s lock-and-alarm button. Nice car. Wouldn't want a thief to walk off with it.
Returning to the house, she dropped the keys on an entry table and walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty, other than a six-pack of craft ale. Just as she’d feared.
Wait, there was a dried-up chunk of cheddar behind the ale. She separated an edge of mold with her fingernail and dropped it into the trash. Nibbling on the rest, she explored.
Off the kitchen was a utility room. And beyond that the back door. Useful to know. She peered out into the backyard. There was a detached garage. Even from here she could see the piles of stuff crowding the windows. Nothing of value there.
Off the utility room, a former pantry was piled with scuba gear. Silver picked up a mask. Dampish marsh weed dribbled from one corner. Disgusted, she dropped it to the floor.
Returning to the front part of the house, she rechecked her sleeping companion. Still out to the world. Silver took a detour through the bathroom. There she found a container of hydrocodone in the medicine cabinet. “For pain,” it read. She counted the pills. Still, 29 left out of 30. Masochist.
She pocketed two and returned the vial to the exact same place it had been on the medicine cabinet shelf.
After using the toilet, she riffled through the reading material next to it. A Wired, the Atlantic, three well-thumbed porn magazines. His girlfriend not giving him enough? She could fix that.
Returning to the hall, Silver moved quietly into a second bedroom that served as an office. Closing the curtains, she switched on a small desk lamp. The room was lined with bookshelves, filled ceiling to floor with leather-bound editions. Silver saw several of her favorites: Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Eliot. Rory didn’t seem the reading type, though. Maybe the books belonged to his dead uncle?
Time to investigate the murder book. Silver returned to the living room and opened the notebook. She scanned through what they had thus far on Henry Fisher's death. Not much that Robbyn hadn’t shared with her. Good. She was still in the clear. She closed the book, switched off the light and returned to the master bedroom.