Improper Influence

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Come off it, Mac. I’m not going to go back to Prescott. Not after Garrett’s crap. And even if I did, I bet the scholarship would evaporate because I’m not a team player. Forget it. Law school was a stupid idea. It’s over.”

  “Will won’t do that to you. Don’t sabotage yourself like this.”

  Naya put up a hand like a stop sign and fixed Sasha with a steely look. “I said it’s over. Let’s move on.”

  Sasha swallowed her response. A year or two earlier, she’d have dug in and argued with Naya, but instead she said, “I know you’re trying to be strong here, but the strong move would be to fight for what you want, not to give up on a dream.”

  Naya narrowed her eyes. “What’s with the touchy-feely crap? Where’d you get that from? Bodhi? Daniel? You’re getting so soft.”

  Sasha burst into laughter. “Connelly, actually.”

  Naya waited with a face like stone while she wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Apparently hanging out with a guy who cuts open dead bodies, a self-defense expert, and an ex-federal agent is making me soft.”

  Naya ducked her head and covered her mouth with a hand, but a giggle escaped.

  Sasha smiled and retrieved the reading list from the trashcan. She smoothed it flat and placed it on Naya’s desk under the vaguely heart-shaped rock that Naya used as a paperweight.

  Naya shot her a warning look, but the tension had left her face. She changed the subject.

  “Is Detective Gilbert gonna help you?”

  Sasha shrugged. “He agreed to look into it. Best I could do. Did you guys make any headway?”

  “I don’t know where your flyboy fiancé is. Bodhi said he thought Leo was going to tea. I assume he misheard him—or your guy has a very strange secret life. But, yeah, I think we found something. Let’s go find Bodhi and we’ll walk you through it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Did you hear me? Do you think your office could help him?”

  Mackenzie untangled the sweaty sheets from around her legs and combed her hair back from her face with her fingers. She ignored the question for a second time and crouched on the floor to hunt around under the bed for her shoes.

  “Mackenzie?”

  Saul walked over and stood behind her. When she rose from the disgusting hotel room carpet, her stilettos dangling from one hand, he caught her around her bare waist with his arm.

  She beat back the chill of revulsion that crept up her spine. It wasn’t his fault, after all. She hated being touched after sex. By anybody. But especially by somebody who smelled like formaldehyde.

  She exhaled and turned to face him, keeping her expression gentle. Despite her post-coital physical reaction to his touch, she really was kind of fond of him.

  “I know he’s your friend, but I really can’t help him. Personnel matters are internal. It was Sonny’s decision to fire Bodhi King—the mayor can’t interfere with something like that. And if he can’t, I can’t.”

  He pierced her with a look. His face was screwed up into a knot of panic or confusion. Maybe both.

  “But something’s going on. It doesn’t make sense. Sonny loved Bodhi. No way would he fire him just for having the bad luck to get attacked. That’s crazy.”

  “Trust me. Stay out of it. You don’t have the stomach for intra-office politics, honey.”

  He shook his head, irritated. “This isn’t just the usual dumb stuff. I think it has something to do—” he dropped his voice and scanned the room, as if someone could hear their conversation in this godforsaken suburban, business park motel, “—with the myocarditis deaths. I think Bodhi was close to finding a connection—”

  She’d heard enough. It was time for a distraction. She stretched onto her toes and covered his mouth with a kiss.

  He struggled against her lips in muffled protest.

  She backed up a step, let her shoes fall to the floor, and crossed her arms over her bare chest. She was surprised to note that his rejection, such as it was, actually stung her.

  Don’t go getting attached, she warned herself. Especially not to this one, what with the doting wife and the gaggle of young children. Way too messy.

  “I’m sorry. But this is serious. I was talking to a friend in the IT department about Bodhi’s miss-” he stopped himself.

  She tried not to smile. His discretion was cute, considering she’d figured out the password to his work computer (his wedding date) within an hour of their first tryst and had been logging into the system as him for months. He had no secrets from her. At least none that mattered.

  “Go on? You were talking to the IT folks, and what, Saul?”

  “Uh, well, there’ve been some ... irregularities with some records. And my friend told me in confidence that they’d been beta testing a secret program that would search records automatically to find connections between cases and all of a sudden the funding got pulled and all the stations were wiped clean of the program. That’s convenient timing, don’t you think?”

  His brown eyes were liquid with concern.

  She sighed.

  “I’m sure it’s just like your friend said. The funding dried up and the project got scrapped. It happens all the time, babe. Anyway, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing? Finding the connections between cases? You should be glad they didn’t pursue the program. You wouldn’t want to find yourself out of a job.” She smiled broadly at him, willing him to let this go.

  He didn’t.

  “Just like Bodhi.”

  “Saul—”

  “No, Mackenzie. You’re right. You can’t get mixed up in this. I shouldn’t have asked you to. It’s inappropriate. I’ll handle it myself.” He squared his bony shoulder and puffed out his puny chest.

  Great. From bad to worse.

  She clasped both of his hands in hers. “Listen to me. You’re a loyal friend. And a good man ...”

  A shadow of pain darted across his eyes and she knew he was thinking about his betrayal of his wife and his children, but she plowed ahead.

  “You are, Saul. You’re a good, kind, gentle man. But you don’t want to get involved in this—whatever it is. Trust me. You owe it to Mona. And your kids. Stay out of it. I’ll do some poking around and see what I can find out.”

  He opened his mouth to object.

  She pressed another kiss on him. This time, his mouth yielded to hers. She felt his shoulders relax, and he leaned in toward her. Eager and warm, his heroic thoughts giving way to his lust.

  She snuck a peek at the bracelet watch she refused to remove, even to make love. She could spare another thirty minutes to help him forget about Bodhi and the myocarditis deaths.

  She nudged him backward, toward the rumpled bed.

  Please stay out of it, Saul. I don’t want you to get hurt. And if you get in my way, I’ll have no choice but to hurt you myself.

  The thought unspooled silently through her mind as they tumbled back onto the bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The condo was quiet. Java purred softly on the couch, Connelly was cleaning up the kitchen, and Sasha kept him company at the island, updating her invoices in the accounting program on her laptop. Bodhi sat at the dining room table, a mug of tea at his elbow, and Naya’s papers spread out across the table. He was piecing together a rough timeline of wild red ginseng deliveries to Better Life Beverages.

  Connelly paused in his rhythmic pattern of rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher to refill Sasha’s wine glass.

  “Thanks.” She tilted her mouth up for a kiss. He tasted a little bit salty, a little bit sweet—a hint of the caramel sauce he’d drizzled over their dessert.

  He stroked the loose knot of hair she’d tied at the nape of her neck one-handed then returned to his dishes.

  Sasha’s ringing cell phone shattered the quiet domestic moment.

  Java opened one eye to glare in the direction of the noise.

  “Sasha McCa
ndless,” she answered on the second ring.

  “Sasha, it’s Detective Gilbert. Sorry to disturb you at home.”

  His voice held no hint of apology, but she did the dance anyway.

  “It’s no trouble, Detective.”

  The emphasis she placed on his title resonated with both Connelly and Bodhi. Both men swiveled their heads to focus on her.

  “I ran your concerns up the flagpole.”

  She grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper in the unlikely event that she’d need to take notes.

  “And?”

  “No go. Headquarters’ official stance is that the Department supports the ME’s opinion. The deaths are all natural causes, no connection, nothing amiss.”

  Something about his tone made her ask the question. “Unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, I’ve heard the Mayor’s Office is driving the bus, not the ME.”

  “I already knew that. Come on, give me something.”

  He coughed. “Rumor also has it that the Mayor’s breathing down the necks of the cops out at the Fox Chapel PD, looking over their shoulder in the Stone Fredericks homicide. I know a guy who knows a guy out there—they’re pretty annoyed.”

  “Any suspects in that case?”

  “Fox Chapel says no, dad’s clean. Someone at Grant Street hinted that there were marital problems, maybe a mistress, but the wife is still darn near catatonic with grief.”

  “Or guilt,” Sasha mused.

  “Maybe. The lead on the case seems to think it’s a pile of b.s.”

  “I guess we’ll see. Well, thanks for hearing me out about the death cluster, Detective. I won’t forget it.” She worked to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She did appreciate his help—she had precious few friends in city government. It wouldn’t do to alienate one of them.

  “No problem. Oh, yeah,” he added, like it was an afterthought, “you’re going to want to watch the ten o’clock news.”

  “I am?” she asked.

  But he’d already ended the call. She was talking to herself.

  She hit the button to hang up and looked up to see two sets of eyes staring back at her.

  “Well?” Connelly demanded.

  She shrugged.

  “He said to watch the news.”

  It was the lead story. A somber anchorman with too-orange foundation but an impressive sweep of silver hair stared into the camera and informed viewers that yet another young woman had collapsed and been pronounced dead at the scene.

  “Cherise Jordan, age twenty-two, of Homewood was found dead in her car. The Medical Examiner’s Office has ruled out foul play, and a source tells us the preliminary cause of death has been identified as myocarditis,” the silver-hair anchor intoned.

  “Son of a—” Connelly began.

  Bodhi held up a hand. “Shhh, it’s Sonny.”

  The picture cut to the exterior of the building where Bodhi had worked. Sonny Jackson strode across the square, his head down, his gait just this side of a trot. A breathless reporter jogged alongside him, her cameraman doing his best to keep the shot steady.

  “Dr. Jackson, sir, does your office have a statement on the latest dead girl?”

  He pretended not to hear her and kept moving, beelining across the cobblestone to the City-County Building.

  “Dr. Jackson, you’re the Chief Medical Examiner, what do you have to say to the people who are worried about five dead women in less than two weeks? Is it true your office suspects yet another case of myocarditis?” She yelled the question at his back as he took the wide steps to the front of the building by twos.

  Three-quarters of the way up, he paused and turned to face the camera. He cleared his throat and smoothed a hand over his hair. He squinted into the setting sun and said, “It remains our belief that these deaths are not connected. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting. I understand the Mayor’s Office has scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning to address this latest tragedy.”

  He turned and hurried into the building before the reporter could press him further.

  “There you have it, Ryan. As it has all along, Mayor Closky’s Office is taking the lead on this issue. Unfortunately, they seem to have no more answers for why Pittsburgh’s young women are dying at an alarming rate than Chief Medical Examiner Jackson has.” She didn’t bother to hide her annoyance.

  Ryan’s tight face filled the screen again. “That was filmed earlier out the City-County Building. Now, for continuing coverage, we go live to Carson Bluth, who’s live on the scene at the home of Cherise Jordan.”

  Carson smiled a toothy grin that was completely at odds with the cluster of wailing women who stood in a knot behind him. One woman, with tears running down her face, rocked a small boy, who looked to be about three, against her shoulder.

  “Ryan, I’m here in Homewood with the friends and family of Cherise Jordan. They’re obviously grief-stricken and in shock, but they’re also angry and demanding answers from the City. Neighbors have been stopping by all night to honor Ms. Jordan’s memory.” He gestured to an impromptu memorial of hand-lettered signs, stuffed animals, and candles that lined the retaining wall in front of a tidy, well-maintained row house.

  “Everyone I talked to had the same thing to say. Cherise Jordan was a devoted mother to her son, Micah, a hard working employee at her uncle’s carpet business, and a good student in the part-time medical assistant program at CCAC. She still made time to sing in her church choir and had recently started a chapter of a nonprofit organization called Girls on the Run to help local girls develop strong self-esteem and good body images. Her loved ones want to know how many more women have to die before the City will take action.”

  He cut to an interview with the sobbing woman who held Cherise’s young son. The captioning identified her as Doreen Jordan, Cherise’s mother.

  “She was always doing something. Always trying to make herself better. Burning the candle at both ends. She was a good girl, with so much life left in her.” The woman’s voice broke and she clutched her grandson tighter.

  “Burning the candle at both ends,” Bodhi muttered. He aimed the remote at the television and silenced Carson. The screen faded to black.

  No doubt Cherise reached for Champion Fuel to keep herself going. Sasha felt her throat close.

  “You okay?” Connelly asked, holding her arm.

  She nodded her head and tried to swallow. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath.

  “Sasha?” he insisted.

  She forced back her rising panic and exhaled.

  “I’m fine.”

  Bodhi interjected, “Well, I’m not. We have to do something. We have to stop this.” His voice was firm, but his face was pale.

  “Don’t worry. We’re going to,” Sasha assured him. She turned to Connelly, “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Call Hank and see if he can tell you anything about the Stone Fredericks murder investigation. He’ll know if there’ve been any developments, right?”

  “Probably. What are you going to do.”

  “Bodhi and I have a complaint to draft.”

  Connelly tilted his head and scanned her face. She could feel her jaw tightening under his scrutiny.

  “Okay.”

  He asked no more questions—just brushed her forehead with a gentle kiss and headed for the loft bedroom, already punching in the speed dial for Hank Richardson on his cell phone.

  Bodhi turned to her with a question in his eyes. “We’re filing a complaint?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Tonight, we’re drafting a complaint.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She smiled at him. “The difference is you don’t have to file a complaint to leak a complaint. In fact, if an up-and-coming investigative reporter happens to be one of your bridesmaids, you don’t even have to draft it to leak it. Come on.”

  She grabbed her phone from the island, slipped her feet into a pair of orange flip-flops, and headed out
the door and across the hall with Bodhi a step behind her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Maisy plunked down a mug of mint tea in front of Bodhi and a suspiciously watery-looking coffee in front of Sasha.

  Sasha tried to sniff the contents of the mug without attracting Maisy’s attention.

  She failed.

  Maisy threw back her cascade of long blonde curls and jabbed a deep red fingernail at Sasha.

  “I saw that. I made that exactly the way you like it. Not one, but two, K-cups.”

  Sasha took a second sniff. “Is it—flavored?”

  Maisy huffed. “You listen here, you drank all my dark roast already. Everybody else likes flavored coffees, you know.”

  Sasha wrinkled her nose but took a swig anyway to appease her friend and neighbor.

  She turned to Bodhi. “So, in addition to being a horrible barista, Maisy is an investigative journalist.”

  Sorta.

  She actually was a former weather girl, fill-in weekend anchor, and aspiring investigative journalist. But Maisy really was aspiring—she’d shed her Southern accent and picked up an entertainment agent. She had her eye on the national markets and had been working her perfectly rounded butt off to catch their attention.

  Maisy raised one impeccably groomed brow but didn’t contradict her.

  “But enough about me,” Maisy said sweetly, “let’s talk about you. And why Sasha turned up with you on my doorstep just in time to ruin a promising date. Are you single, Dr. King?” She fluttered her eyelashes playfully.

  Poor Bodhi, unfamiliar with Maisy’s hyper-sexed Scarlett O’Hara routine, blushed a deep pink.

  “Maisy, stop it. Until recently, Bodhi was a forensic pathologist with the Medical Examiner’s Office.”