Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “Missy, I know this town like the back of my hand. And I need to put some miles on my baby,” he growled, squeezing the steering wheel. “Tell me more about your damn meeting.”

  “Miles Brookings and the Bimbo were there. I’m curious about him. What if he wanted to keep her from marrying Rick? Carl said he was trying to show her Rick was a jerk.” I chewed on the corner of a short, blunt nail. As soon as I got money, I was visiting Nanci’s Nail Nook, no matter what Sam said. “Maybe he hired a hit man.”

  He grunted. “Why bother? Wells was in such financial trouble that Brookings could have bought him off and sent him away.”

  “What if he did? Remember Rick came up with money to get the shop out of the hole. What if Rick took money to cover the debt, then changed his mind? What if he needed my money to pay back Brookings and marry the Bimbo?”

  Sam grinned at me. “Good questions. Let’s post them on your girly board.”

  “And let’s look closer at Carl. He made out like a bandit.”

  His mouth tightened. “The man is a crook, no doubt about that. You need to get your accounts with him audited along with the shop. That might prompt him to sell Wells’ house and make your money reappear.”

  “That would fix my money problems. If only the murder could be solved so easily. What am I missing? Could Rick have been laundering money? What if he was losing money through his gambling and used that as a way out?”

  “I thought of that too. However, I haven’t spotted any evidence. That’s why we need to figure out the initials in those books. We need to make certain those accounts belong to real people or businesses. Doing parties for the Dominguez family might bear examination. Could be the old man’s paying for some fancy soiree that never happened. That gives Wells cash and then he pays it back, minus his laundering fee, by claiming it’s for wine from the old man’s vineyards.”

  I thought of the books I kept ignoring. Now I understood why Sam found them significant. “I don’t know how money laundering works. Could they get away with that?”

  “Probably. An audit would spot it.” Sam checked the rearview mirror, the third time he’d checked it since we left Century City.

  “Are we being followed?” I started to twist around.

  “Don’t look. There’s a black GMC that’s staying with us. Is that what followed you?”

  “I have no idea. It was a big-ass SUV.”

  He checked again as he changed lanes. “I spotted it earlier and caught part of the license tag. I’ll have Hank run it.”

  “If Carl is the killer, why would he follow me?”

  “Actually, following you doesn’t make sense.”

  It didn’t to me either, but someone ran Lindy off the road. “Now what?”

  “We need to check the books to verify big customers and how much wine they bought and make certain Wells purchased what he claimed to buy. For all we know, his records indicate he paid money for stock he never got or sold wine that was non-existent or to people who were non-existent. That’s how money laundering works. If he was doing that, checking those books against his inventory is the only way you’re going to find it.”

  I groaned. “This sounds like busy work. He sold dozens of bottles every day to people. How can we check all that?”

  “Never mind day-to-day sales. We’re looking for people he might bill monthly or who spent a bundle for a party. On the other side we’re looking for a company or distributor he regularly used. If he was laundering money, someone on either end is going to be a phantom.”

  I sighed at the enormity of what he proposed. “That sounds boring.”

  His head swiveled toward me, blue eyes hard and unforgiving. “Investigating can be dull, but it’s little details that get the job done. I solved one case from days of going through a guy’s phone records.”

  “Can’t the computer do that?”

  “Maybe that’s why he kept records by hand.”

  The thought sent fresh chills down my spine. “I might give Miles Brookings a call. I was getting weird vibes about his relationship to Rick.” Pulling his card from my purse, I studied the embossed design.

  “Do you think he’ll talk to you?”

  “If I visit him wearing a short skirt,” I said with a quick smile.

  Sam glanced at my bare legs and then up. “You would stoop to using feminine wiles?”

  Thinking about Brookings’ gaze, I nodded. “Whatever it takes. Well, almost whatever.”

  He turned away. “Have you thought more about other women?”

  “Besides Betty and Paula? No, why?”

  “When I was looking at the police file, I saw a note. ‘Thanks for the weekend, love, P, or B or D.’ Something like that.”

  My skin prickled. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I was too pissed and you were in the dumps. I might as well tell you. Edwards admitted Wells had someone the whole time you were together.”

  Was there no end to Rick’s treachery? I could forgive a few months. But years? Nausea snaked up my esophagus.

  “Betty?” My voice was a hoarse rasp.

  “This woman had money. She helped when things got too bad.” He seemed to realize my distress and he touched my arm. “She could have been from before he met you. Some rich old dame who considered him her boy toy.”

  The thought didn’t help much.

  “Think. Someone whose first names start with B, P or D?”

  “Doreen Graham? She’s rich and I saw her at the service. She’s been a customer since before we met.” My insides churned with disgust. “She’s at least sixty years old.”

  “Rich? Maybe needy?” He rubbed his chin and winked at me. “Maybe I’ll pay her a visit and use my own wiles.”

  “If Delia calls again, I’ll ask her.”

  “What about her? I notice she’s off the list.”

  “She’s in South America, so her alibi checks out. Besides, we made a blood pledge years ago. No male poaching.” It remained untested. Her older dates never appealed to me, and men I dated seldom provided enough financial enticement for her trophy wife ambitions.

  My phone buzzed and I fumbled to check caller ID. I’d picked up a replacement the previous afternoon and still hadn’t figured it out. I finally hit the right button.

  “How’s our favorite killer?” Delia chirped.

  “Speak of the devil! We were talking about you. We got cut off last time.”

  “Shitty phone service. Tell me what’s happening. You discovered that louse was fucking around? Worthless piece of shit!”

  “We ought to kill him,” I joked and her loud laughter rang through the ear piece, though I could see Sam’s face tense.

  “With who?” she asked.

  “Betty, his accountant. He gave her my pendant, the one Bobbi wanted him to get back.” That thought still angered me. I clutched the phone tighter.

  “Does the Bimbo know? Maybe you ought to tell her. Anyone else?”

  “Paula Gardner?”

  “I wondered about her. She always acted so fucking smug.”

  “What do you mean?” Leave it to Delia to pick up on little things I missed.

  “I’ve seen her at the store. When I ran into Rick at a gallery opening in December, she showed up and they were sooo cozy. Then they disappeared.”

  The churning in my stomach increased. “You never told me!”

  “Would you have believed it?”

  I slumped in the seat, feeling spent. “No.”

  “Sometimes you’re blind, Kimmie.”

  “Do you think her husband found out?”

  Her laugh bubbled across the line. “He’d have killed Rick. He’s been arrested for beating up people who flirted with Paula. You should tell the cops.”

  I smiled at Sam. “I’m going to shout it to them.”

  “Should I come home? Do you need me?”

  “Enjoy yourself. Sam and I have this under control. We’re going to visit the wine shop, which I own. Think of it—an endless sup
ply of champagne.”

  “Naturally you’d land on your feet, lucky bitch! I better go.” I clicked off and pounded on Sam’s arm like a bongo drum as I told him about Ken Gardner.

  He held up a cautionary hand. “Before we go to police, let’s check it out.”

  “He’s not going to tell us anything. It’s time Torres and Callahan did some work.” I got the number for Mira Loma PD and asked to be connected to Callahan.

  “Kimberly,” Sam protested, but I put a finger to my ear and turned away.

  Callahan's response echoed Sam’s skepticism. “That name hasn’t come up.”

  “I’m giving it to you now. He was at the service.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Frustration gripped me. “Never mind. We’ll do it ourselves.”

  I hit the off button before he could reply. When were these guys going to start looking beyond me?

  “What did he say?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing. Stupid jerk.”

  “You can’t accuse people based on whim. That isn’t the way cases are built. Which brings me to something else…” He shook his head in disapproval. “Do you realize how dangerous that trip to the Dominguez house could have been if the old man was to blame?”

  My thoughts turned to Senor Zapato, who turned out to be more teddy bear than killer. “What am I supposed to do? Go through books that don’t show anything? Gardner was at the service, but Callahan said his name hadn’t come up. It should have been in the customer books.”

  “There are no names in the books, only initials. You don’t know that his wife had a relationship with Wells. This is all supposition.”

  “Maybe Rick owed him money?”

  “Can you prove that? Give me something concrete, not fuckin’ conjecture.”

  I slumped in my seat, deflated as a used balloon, and studied my bare, blunt nails. “Maybe I should stick to shopping and getting my nails done.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wednesday, 2:45 p.m.

  I stared at my board in dismay. What was it Sam had said—get the information together and you’ll see it all? I didn’t see a damn thing except colorful sticky notes. I wasn’t any closer to solving this than police who had a bull’s eye drawn around my face.

  What about the police? Maybe I needed to spend an evening with Hank. Too bad it wasn’t Sunday. I could show up at Geneva. Even if he didn’t want to talk, he might inadvertently divulge something.

  My phone buzzed and I grabbed it.

  “Am I forgiven yet?”

  My muscles tensed at the sound of Brad’s voice. I’d hung up on him the previous night when he went ballistic over my conversation with Paula. Apparently her “exclusive” set off an explosion at Channel 8. I’d calmed down Reba after fibbing that I ran into Paula and she took my words out of context.

  “Am I forgiven?” I asked. “I didn’t know Paula would use that. You and I talk regularly and you could say the same type of stuff. You could mention my fear of being followed.”

  “It would betray your trust. I couldn’t do that.”

  “That’s the difference between you and Paula.”

  “You’re forgiven,” he said with a sigh. “Am I?”

  “We-l-l-l..yes!”

  “Good, how about relaxing tonight? Can I tempt you with hot dogs and beer? I’ve got seats in the company box at Dodger Stadium.”

  The box held twelve seats and I shuddered to think about who else might be there. Visions of Vincent and Gwen leaped into my head.

  “I reserved the box as a treat for the weekend crew. Lindy will be there and that director kid. Peter, his wife, Cindy Jamison and her husband are coming.” Cindy was co-anchoring with Brad.

  “No Gwen?”

  “She’s beyond the weekend crew. Everyone knows you got a raw deal, so how about it?”

  The idea appealed to me. I hated sitting at home alone. “I’m not answering any questions about the case, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  ****

  I pulled the baseball cap down across my forehead as Brad guided me through the crowd at Dodger Stadium. He stopped to greet people who recognized him, but with large sunglasses covering my face, I hoped to remain anonymous. I knew I could be unrecognizable without makeup, so I kept it to a minimum.

  The company box brought sanctuary. It hovered above the field, so I didn’t worry about anyone spotting me. The interior consisted of two rows of seats with a wet bar along the back wall. Bags of chips, peanuts, and popcorn were laid out on the counter, along with a tub filled with ice, soft drinks, and beer.

  Tension sizzled in the box like a hot dog on a grill. The disbelief on familiar faces did not bode well and I hesitated. Suddenly Lindy let out a happy whoop and hopped to her feet.

  “Kimberly!” She nimbly vaulted over the seats. “I’m so glad you came.” She resembled an enthusiastic teenager in shorts and a T-shirt as she hugged me.

  “How are you?” I asked, checking her face. She no longer wore a bandage on her cheek or the wrap on her wrist. The only visible reminder of her accident was a tiny scar along her lower jaw.

  “I’m doing great.” Her tone rang with exuberance.

  “Holy shit, look who is being seen in public.” Reba stood and tottered toward me. She wore skin tight leggings and an oversized Dodgers jersey and three-inch high sandals. She snapped her fingers. “Someone call a photographer quick.”

  For an instant I panicked, glancing around like a hunted animal. She let loose with her familiar cackle before hugging me and whispering, “I ought to punch you for speaking to Paula.”

  Peter Murphy watched the scene with a cynical smile but he caught my hand as I walked down the steps.

  “They let you out of jail?”

  I gave him a false smile. “They haven’t built the cell that can hold me.”

  “Or her ego,” Reba teased.

  Peter watched me with a knowing grin. “When are you gonna give your station an inside scoop?”

  Brad stepped between us. “She’s here as my guest and you’re off duty, Peter.”

  “And out of line,” Lindy added, to my surprise. She stood with her arms crossed, staring him down like a mother protecting her young.

  Peter held up his hands. “Sorry, folks.”

  The show of support sent a pang of regret through me. Reba, Brad, and Lindy had been there for me, helping when I needed support. Maybe I owed them something.

  I turned to Peter. “Okay, on the record, and then we drop it okay? Let’s say that I have confidence in the Mira Loma Police to uncover the truth. If a reward will help, I’ll offer it. I have an investigator looking into the case because I want the killer caught. Rick was my…” I paused. I couldn’t say he was my friend. I wanted to see his killer caught to spare me a murder rap.

  “We can say that?” Reba asked in a hushed voice.

  “Word for word,” I said, hoping it didn’t anger Oliver. I wanted to do this for my friends.

  To my horror, Peter pulled his cell phone from his pocket and the sound of my voice filled the room. “Mind if I use this instead?”

  Our collective gasp was audible. Leave it to Peter to be so crass. But as I looked at Reba’s expectant eyes, I couldn’t refuse.

  “Sure. But no more.”

  He grabbed his jacket. “I hate to miss the game, but I better go.” He hopped up the steps, leaving us in stunned silence.

  “That fucking prick,” Lindy said. “No wonder he wanted to come.”

  Brad put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s watch the game.” The tension evaporated with Peter’s exit. Lindy insisted on sitting beside me, and with Brad on my left, I felt insulated.

  In the fifth inning, an usher appeared. “Miss delaGarza?”

  “Yes?”

  He handed me a slip of paper. All eyes were on me as I unfolded the sheet. The writing was small and masculine.

  May I buy you a drink? It was signed M. Brookings and listed a box n
umber.

  “One of my friends has invited me for a drink,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  “La-de-dah!” Reba waggled her brows at me. “You can’t take her anywhere without being bothered by her adoring public.”

  “Are you going?” Brad asked, his brow furrowed.

  I might have refused except that man knew things. This provided an opportunity to cultivate his company.

  “Maybe a quick drink.” I re-folded the note and tucked it into my purse.

  Lindy scanned the open windows of nearby boxes through a pair of binoculars. “I see! It’s Adrienne Underhill.”

  “Adrienne is a big baseball fan. I’ll be right back.” I wasn’t certain if she was the reason for my invitation, but I needed to warn her about my comments for TV8. Maybe she could soothe potential problems with Oliver. I stood and started for the door, but Brad followed.

  “I’ll walk you over.”

  He took my elbow as we stepped into the outer walkway, but I slid out of his grasp. “You’re very sweet, but I’m a big girl.”

  “Who has people following her.” As though someone might be watching, he glanced around. “I’m sorry about Peter. I didn’t know he’d do that.”

  “I did it for you, Reba, and Lindy. As for being followed, no one’s going to attack me in public.”

  He caught my hand and squeezed it. “But I worry about you.”

  Our eyes met and I read concern…and something more. I kept getting flashes of his interest, but I wasn’t prepared for it and couldn’t lead him on. Pulling away from his grasp, I smiled. “I’m fine. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  As he walked away I wondered if I was ignoring a good thing. While he could spark my interest, he didn’t ignite heat.

  And speaking of heat…

  Miles Brookings answered my knock with a wide smile. He looked damned fashionable for a ballgame. Unlike Brad in his faded jeans and Nikes, Miles wore a cashmere turtleneck and wool slacks with Bally loafers.