Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “Have a seat. May I get you something to drink? Beer?”

  “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Iced tea? Coffee? What do cops drink on the job?” My attempt at humor went unanswered.

  He faced me with eyes as cool as the ocean in February. “It’s not an official call either.”

  Now I was confused. “Okay, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Hank sat on the sofa with one leg crossed over his knee. He wore his leather jacket over a pale blue polo shirt and black jeans that fit like a glove on his long legs. I perched on a chair beside him, wary since his frown indicated this was not going to be any more pleasant than our last encounter.

  He pulled a slip of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to me. “Is that your handwriting?”

  I studied the paper, my cheeks growing hot. It was a copy of that damned note we’d thrown into Rick’s car. I should have known the truth would come out. They must have gotten my fingerprints off it. Was he here to arrest me? Where were Torres and Callahan? They wouldn’t want to miss this treat.

  Drawing a deep breath, I attempted a smile. It froze on my lips. “I think you know it is.”

  Maybe he didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t recall the foolish notes I left for him when we were together. I’d slide them under his door, slip them through the cracked window of his car, tuck them into his jacket pocket. They were cute notes with happy faces when he pleased me or sad faces when he broke a date because of work.

  No happy face tonight. This was more like a frowning face in black eyebrow pencil instead of the cheery cherry lip liner I once used.

  His chiseled face solidified into a sculpture captured in granite. Well, granite except for the nerve that twitched in his clenched jaw.

  “Bobbi Brookings thinks you—or whoever left the note—is out to get her. She’s afraid that Rick’s killer might have targeted her too.”

  “It wasn’t meant in that sense,” I protested, attempting a shrug. “Yes, Delia and I did it, but it was a joke.”

  “Uh-huh. And it was left with a sharp object? That was a joke too?”

  His best interrogator voice. Coming at me like a striking whip. I had watched him use it on people when questioning them. My body stiffened. “Yes, it was supposed to be funny.”

  “Not a good idea, wouldn’t you say?”

  Not a good idea at all if the Bimbo thought the note was meant for her. Given our confrontations, she might have a reason to think I was after her.

  “I didn’t mean it.” I lifted the piece of paper and re-read it.

  “The Grim Reaper is chasing you,” it said. It had seemed like such a fun joke, and the words still tempted me to smile.

  I bit my lower lip to keep a straight face. “It was meant as a harmless prank.”

  “You understand that some people might see it as a death threat.”

  I jerked my gaze up to his. The glacial look in his eyes made me shiver. I might be caught in the middle of a snowstorm for all the warmth I saw there.

  “Threatening a life is hardly harmless.” His monotone voice was cold, frigid vibrations emanating from it. Jack Webb on Dragnet, lecturing a suspect.

  “We’d been drinking all afternoon. Rick obviously didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  Surprise flared in his eyes. “He knew about this?”

  “Of course! We threw it in his car. It was meant for him...” The instant I made the statement, I recognized my error.

  Hank snatched the note from my hand. “It was meant for him? Not her?”

  Realization hit us both at the same instant. The note as a threat against the girl was one thing. That damn note was a direct threat I’d made a week before Rick died. It was evidence. Or it could have been. His visit might get it tossed out in court and we both knew it.

  He slapped his forehead, muttering obscenities.

  “I’m sorry, Hank.”

  “You knew what this and that glass meant the other day, didn’t you?” he said through clenched teeth, waving the note at me.

  “Did you get fingerprints?”

  “Of course not. If we had, I wouldn’t have come. I wanted to make you stop this silly nonsense before you got into trouble. You fought with her in the church, didn’t you?”

  “She threw things at me! That note was a joke that had nothing to do with her. And it doesn’t prove I killed Rick.”

  Before I could protest further, the phone rang. We both started, and I let out a little laugh. He was as jumpy as I was. I made no move to answer and waved a hand of dismissal.

  “I screen all my calls so if you ever need to reach me, talk so I know it’s you. Whoever it is won’t leave a message. They never do. It happens all the time.” The phone stopped ringing and as predicted, there was no message.

  Hank blew out a deep breath. He’d been watching me, but I couldn’t read what was in those indecipherable eyes. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “Is that why you came?”

  He crumbled the note and jammed it into his pocket. His fingers balled into fists, but I had the feeling his anger was not aimed at me. “To be honest, I’m not certain why I’m here. This is such a fucked up mess and it keeps getting worse.”

  “I won’t tell anyone you were here.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m probably on my way out anyway.” His voice sounded sad, almost defeated, very unlike Hank. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I’d once found endearing. “I screwed it up from the beginning.”

  Sympathy softened my voice to a near whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  The hardness in his eyes had thawed. “I should have gone to his sister first. I shouldn’t have talked to you at Geneva. I shouldn’t be here now, and I’ve destroyed a possible piece of evidence.” With a deep sigh, he shoved himself up from the sofa.

  I approached him and put my hand on his arm. “You’re only in trouble if I did it. But you haven’t screwed up anything, because I didn’t do it.”

  He looked down at me and I sensed something behind his steady gaze. His eyes drifted to my fingers and he reached over to touch them. “The note wasn’t the only reason I came tonight.”

  My breath caught. If there was any remaining ice within him, it melted with the electric shot of heat that surged between us.

  His finger played over my hand, heating my skin. “I wanted to apologize for what I said the other day. That was cruel.”

  An apology from Hank? My heart fluttered like a bird taking flight.

  “Do you hate me?” I asked, squeezing his arm, hoping that what I saw in his eyes was the truth, not the bitter words he’d spouted two days ago.

  His head tilted toward me, his voice low and intimate. “I think you know the answer to that. You don’t fuck up an investigation for someone you hate, Kimmie.”

  The nickname said it all. My insides felt like it was Fourth of July—a virtual fireworks shower! A smile slid across my face, threatening to grow so large, my whole face might burst.

  “Unless you’re trying to railroad them,” I teased. I flipped my hand over and caught his fingers, clutching them. He squeezed back, and heat shot through me. Our entwined fingers dropped to the side, linked together like teenagers. I tried to slow my quickened breath to no avail.

  “I should get going,” he said, but he made no attempt to drop my hand.

  I ventured another squeeze of his hand. “Are you still angry about Sam?”

  “That’s another reason I came by. I wanted to let you know you were right. I haven’t seen him this excited in a long time. I’m not sure the two of you will come up with anything, but it’s given him new purpose. I didn’t know he could still move so fast. Even my sister thinks it’s good for him, and she’s never been one of your fans.”

  I rolled my eyes. Did anyone’s sister like me? “So now what?”

  “Talk to your attorney about the note and tell Torres and Callahan. Sooner or later, they’re going to find out the truth.”

  “You knew I wrot
e it?”

  “I had a hunch about the handwriting. It seemed like something you two might do. But I thought it was meant for the girl.”

  Relief swept through me. He knew how Delia and I could behave at times. Or misbehave. Perhaps I should tell him about the joking conversation and Toby’s threats. Before I could proceed, he released my hand.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “Iron lady.”

  “How about the family?”

  I wrinkled my nose. That was another story. I’d spent the day with them. “The press is making things difficult. Paula keeps calling. My sister and brother had to change phone numbers.”

  “Damn media,” he said with a knowing smile.

  “Tell me about it. I took Lindy to lunch at Margo’s yesterday and today there’s a picture of me on the Internet. Like I’m not allowed to live a regular life.”

  “It has to be rough on your mom.”

  Hank adored my mother, and the feeling was mutual. “They’re going on vacation. Stevie owns a time share in Puerto Vallarta, so he’s getting them booked in starting Wednesday. Mom’s threatening to post a blog online protesting my innocence. Hopefully, being away from the steady barrage of press will calm her down. Plus she won’t have easy access to the Internet.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “She’s always been your biggest fan. I better go.”

  I followed him down the stairs and caught his arm as he reached for the doorknob. “Hank, when this is over, can I make you dinner?”

  His pouty lips drew into a smile, and his cheeks dimpled, sending a raging buzz through me. “You learned to cook?”

  My lips felt dry and I licked them, fighting to keep my breathing even. “No, but since I’m not working, I could learn. I can’t afford to take anyone out.”

  He chuckled and a long finger stroked my cheek. “Play your cards right, Kimmie, and I might be convinced to take you out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday, 10:00 a.m.

  Sam met me as I came up the parking garage escalator at Walter’s Century City office building. I needed a phone number to reach Walter so we could track down Delia. Sam waited in the lobby to make phone calls while I took the elevator to the top floor.

  Walter’s tall, elegant secretary greeted me at the door. She was in her early 50s and radiated efficiency—June Cleaver in a DKNY suit. She hugged me like an old friend, though I didn’t know her well. I seldom visited Walter’s office and we socialized only once at a Christmas party. Delia and I spent a champagne-fueled evening advising her about a cheating husband.

  Now I knew how she felt. “It’s good to see you, Bertie.”

  “Bernie,” she corrected, but her smile didn’t lessen.

  “Sorry. My mind is shot these days,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “I understand.” She patted me on the arm. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to get in touch with Walter and Delia.”

  A startled look crossed her face. “I have Mr. Lindsay’s information, but I’m not sure about Mrs. Lindsay. She’s not with him.”

  A queasiness pricked my stomach. “What do you mean? They went to South America.”

  She nodded in acquiescence. “I made the arrangements, but she refused to go on the jungle expedition at the last minute. I’ve never heard Mr. Lindsay so angry.”

  Delia’s change of mind surprised me, though I never pictured her in the jungle. She had called it a cruise. She would spend days on deck, sipping champagne served by sexy stewards while Walter hunted in the jungle.

  “Where are they?”

  “He’s hunting. I’m not certain where she went. She wanted to make her own arrangements. I may have a phone number.”

  She led me toward an inner door into Walter’s corner office. The view took my breath away, offering an unobstructed vision of the Pacific Ocean. Walter’s desk was bare on top except for a crystal clock and two picture frames. One was of me and Delia at their wedding, the other of Delia, Walter, and me at the Christmas party where we discussed Bernie’s husband.

  I picked up the first picture. “Boy, did I look young.”

  “You always look young, Miss delaGarza. Mr. Lindsay says that all the time.”

  I felt like I had aged ten years in the past month.

  The woman clucked in disappointment. “I can’t find her number. Let me give you a number for Mr. Lindsay. He can tell you how to reach her.”

  “But they both left two weeks ago on Friday, right?”

  “At midnight. I booked the seats myself.”

  Alibi confirmed. I could take them off my suspect list. Knowing Delia, she arrived in Brazil, decided against the jungle trip and booked a spa or her own cruise.

  We returned to the outer office where Bernie scribbled on a note pad, ripped off a sheet and handed it to me. “That’s his number along with the codes, too, for the long distance operator. His cell phone isn’t working down there.”

  No wonder I hadn’t heard from Delia. Perhaps she hadn’t received my messages.

  ****

  The door at Well’s Fine Wines carried a closed sign, but I led Sam around back. A beer truck stood in the alley outside an open door. I stepped through the door into the dim back hall. An eerie silence overwhelmed me as I walked along the familiar slate tile to the front.

  My heart began to thump as I glimpsed the tasting area where I had last seen Rick. If it was the location of a violent, bloody scene, all traces were gone. A burly man in green overalls stacked beer along one wall, while Darryl watched. Rick’s clerk was a slender man of about thirty with thinning light brown hair. In his acting roles he played the best friend or neighbor, the sort of nondescript character no one ever noticed.

  A look of surprise crossed his face when he saw me, but he walked over to clasp my hand. “Kimberly, I wanted to talk to you at the service, but people kept getting between us.”

  “How have you been, Darryl? This is Sam Patterson. He’s doing investigative work on Rick’s death.”

  Darryl pumped Sam’s hand with enthusiasm. “Someone needs to do something. Those cops barely questioned me. All they wanted to know about was...” He stopped, eyes sliding to me, and his face blanched.

  “Me?” I asked.

  His thin shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Sure seemed that way.”

  “Is there some place we can talk?” Sam asked.

  “Rick’s...I mean, the office.”

  We followed him into Rick’s cramped office. I could sense things were out of place, although the room was cleaner than I’d ever seen it. Rick’s papers were in a neat stack on his oak desk, but the phone and pen holder were not in their normal positions. The silver framed picture of me was gone, replaced by a picture of Bobbi in a crystal frame.

  Sam’s questions were simple, but I sensed from the moment we sat down that Darryl was uncomfortable. When the beer delivery man came in to get paperwork signed, Sam tapped my arm and tilted his head toward the door.

  “Didn’t you have some personal things you needed to pick up?”

  This would provide my opportunity to search for Rick’s Filofax and old Blackberry. I excused myself and closed the office door. I shivered as I returned to the tasting area, thinking of Rick living his last few minutes there. How much time passed between when I left and the killer attacked him?

  My eyes scanned the room and I drew a quick, pleased breath. The boxes I returned rested beside a work table. I located the one with his belongings from my office and dug through it. The contents were a jumbled mess of pictures, books and clothing, but I didn’t know if that was my doing or the police search. I hadn’t packed it, mainly tossing in stuff. I moved carefully, knowing this was the box where I put the gun. Was it loaded? I was liable to shoot myself if I wasn’t careful. I spied his black Filofax planner as I neared the bottom. I reached for it, but a voice startled me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jennifer stood in the archway, eyes hostile, hand on h
er narrow hip. She wore jeans, a cotton shirt, and leather vest. Color flamed in her thin cheeks and her blues eyes were icy as January in the Rockies. She was like fire and ice. Fiery hatred and icy anger. “You have no business being here.”

  I jerked up but held my ground. “I own a portion of the store. According to Carl—”

  “I wouldn’t trust that sneak.” Her voice dripped with venom. “Now get out of that box and get the hell out of here.”

  “I need his Filofax to contact our old friends.”

  “I’ve contacted everyone.”

  The store phone rang, startling us both and she turned away to answer it. “Don’t touch anything.”

  I glanced at the box, trying to figure out how to get the planner, and spied the Blackberry. When Jennifer turned to check something for the caller, I leaned over, slid my fingers into the box and grasped the old cell phone. I slipped it into a pocket and was reaching for the planner when she hung up.

  “I told you to get out of there.”

  I held up empty hands. “I’m out. What happened to the gun?”

  “Gun?” She blinked with surprise and stretched forward to peer into the box.

  “I put his gun in there, but I didn’t see it. Did the police keep it?”

  Her hard gaze swung to me. “Rick never owned a gun.”

  “He bought it for me. For protection.”

  “You’re the only person he needed protection from.”

  Footsteps came from behind her and Sam and Darryl stepped into view.

  Jennifer pounced on the unsuspecting clerk. “Why the hell did you let her in?”

  Sam gestured with his head for me to leave and I didn’t argue. Jennifer would soon learn if she wanted to be involved with the shop, she would have to deal with me. And my attorney, Adrienne, loved property battles.

  As we left the premises with her angry rants still falling on Darryl’s ears, I turned to Sam. “I swiped his Blackberry, but she stopped me before I could take his planner. Did Darryl give you a client list?”

  Sam’s grimace said it all. What had they been discussing for so long? “You own half the place, right?”

  “Yes, but Jennifer won’t give me a key without a fight and I doubt Darryl will let us in. Poor guy. I’ll call him later and apologize. I hope she doesn’t fire him.”