Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “No talking until that soup is finished plus half the sandwich.” He nodded at my tray.

  I managed to consume most of the soup and half the sandwich, though I didn’t taste either. When I couldn’t eat another bite, I lifted my hands like a second grader finishing her vegetables. “All done, Dad.”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “Not quite the fare you dined on with Miles Brookings, I’m sure.”

  “Jealous?” I teased.

  His face grew somber, tightening into hard lines. “I’m not even going to ask why you would put yourself at risk that way.”

  It hit me that he took it for granted I’d gone out with Miles to get information on the case, not because I was interested in the man. But that was why I did it, wasn’t it?

  “Sam thinks he was setting me up. The interesting thing is Miles thinks I did it. Besides you and Sam, he’s the only person who knows I put that glass in the car. He saw me do it.”

  His head whipped toward me. “Then why did he call…”

  We exchanged startled glances. Oh, hell, I’d given away that Miles was trying to remove suspicion from his daughter.

  “Maybe he is trying to put the blame on me. Paula thinks that’s what I was doing to her with Betty, though I’m not sure why.”

  He avoided my eyes, and I could sense the wheels turning in his head. “According to Mrs. Gardner, someone called her last night, pretending to be Betty Arguello, saying she had information. When Mrs. Gardner arrived, the girl claimed she never made the call.” His fierce eyes challenged me. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t do it,” I protested.

  “We’re checking phone records.”

  “You ought to check mine.” Enough of this suspicion crap. I whipped out my cell phone and tapped in the buttons for my home phone, hitting keys until I called up the angry, anonymous message. “Sam and I were going to call you with this once we’d finished dinner.”

  He listened without looking surprised and nodded.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Did you give that to Torres or Callahan?”

  “Sam thought they might figure I did it or had someone do it.”

  He eyed me warily. “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  His blue eyes bored into me. “There are a lot of games going on, and you and your friend excel at games. Let’s see. If you were devious, you would first hire a well-known criminal lawyer and then get someone close to the police force to help you. You’d give him enough false leads to send him in another direction and hope he pleads your case to the police force.”

  His words were like a slap and I drew back. “You son of a bitch! Do you think I’m playing with Sam? That doesn’t say much for his abilities. He’s too damn smart to be fooled by a scam.”

  “Even smart men do foolish things and make idiotic mistakes for a beautiful woman.”

  “Are you saying your dad has a crush on me?” I wanted to smile, but the thought of Sam sprawled out on the brick floor, bleeding, stopped me. “Sam’s too dedicated for that. And if you don’t realize it, you’re underestimating him.”

  Keeping his eyes on me, Hank got to his feet. “I’m going to call Callahan and have your phone records checked.”

  It was a game of chicken, and I refused to falter. For once I was in the right. “Did you have Callahan check the license plate Sam gave him for the SUV that followed us?”

  His placid stillness nearly unnerved me. “It belongs to a network news producer who is in Israel at the moment. They’re getting in touch with him to see if anyone might be driving his car. Interesting that it’s a network producer, isn’t it? And that he’s out of the country?”

  “Network…” A horrible suspicion hit me and I felt a sudden chill. “Maybe…you should…check Brad Singer.”

  “The anchor at your station?”

  I didn’t want to get Brad in trouble, but I recalled his angry hands on me, and his words, “We belong together.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Saturday, 6:30 p.m.

  After parking in a lot near the Mira Loma pier I walked onto the wooden structure ten minutes early. This whole thing felt like a spy movie, but I resisted the comparison. No time for movies tonight. Too much at stake to be silly.

  Delia’s borrowed money remained in a bag in the trunk of my car. I hated carrying around that much cash. The trip from the bank to my car had been bad enough. Besides with my current luck, I’d accidentally drop it into the ocean.

  Families dotted the pier, their fishing rods strung into the water, even though thick clouds shrouded the horizon. I strolled to the end. Was Toby already around? He might not be happy I didn’t have the money with me, but I wanted to hear that recording first. I needed to know it was real.

  Was I being stupid? What if he had made a copy? Would he come back later and demand more? No. Once the killer was caught, he couldn’t. He had to know I might even go after him.

  I paced the end of the pier, watching for Toby’s approach. Except for the wail of a siren in the distance, the evening was quiet. Checking my watch, I was surprised to see that it was already 7:15. Toby was late to the meeting he’d demanded. Had he gotten a better offer and taken the recording to police? I called his phone, but got only voicemail.

  I resumed pacing, but after an hour and a half, I knew he wasn’t coming. The sun was totally gone and the crowd had thinned while the fog thickened. I tried his number again but still got no answer. What had held him up? Had he changed his mind? Could I return Delia’s money?

  Slowly I walked back along the pier toward the parking lot, uncertain of my next move. I stopped to call Delia, but got voicemail. Could she already be on a plane coming home? The possibility filled my head with pleasant thoughts about what we could do to prove my innocence. By the time I reached the parking lot, lights were coming on. The lot was nearly empty and I jerked to a stop. The row where I’d parked was empty.

  What the fuck?

  This couldn’t be happening. Where was my car with its bag containing a quarter of a million dollars?

  Oh, hell. Who knew that money was in the trunk? I hadn’t told a soul. Was that why Toby had not met me? Had he watched me arrive without anything that resembled the money, and then taken my car out of spite? I started to call Felipe to ask if he’d heard from Toby, but then stopped. He would wonder why I wanted to reach the ex-bartender.

  What about the person following me? Had he stolen my car? If police were following me, why hadn’t they stopped him? For that matter, where was Senor Zapato when you needed him?

  Now what? The fog had grown thick and a fine mist dampened my bare arms. I couldn’t call the station and ask for help as I might have in the past. Sam remained in the hospital, where I’d spent the previous night on a cot in the hall outside his room. He’d been coherent when I left him several hours ago, but he couldn’t come get me.

  As I made another pass through the parking lot, my gaze stopped on a small gray sedan near the end. The front bumper was caved in.

  Oh hell! Could it be the car that followed me from the Mira Loma Police station the day I was fingerprinted? Was the person who had been lurking in the shadows somewhere nearby?

  I wasn’t taking any chances. I fumbled for my phone in my purse and called Mira Loma Police. I paced the parking lot as I waited, fearing the person who owned that gray vehicle, but he never showed. When police arrived, I realized I couldn’t make any claim about it. At least I copied down the license number.

  The interview with police was quick and easy, though I didn’t tell them about the money in the car. Better to wait until the car was found. The two young officers recognized me and took the report with a respectful attitude that I’d never received from Callahan and Torres. They even drove me home.

  The thought of being alone didn’t hit me fully until I walked inside. I locked the door and turned on the alarm system and did a slow check of the premises. What had Sam done with that damn gun? I cou
ld sure as hell use it right now.

  Part of me wanted to sit in a tub full of hot bubbles and relax, but I knew I couldn’t. Maybe I should call a cab and spend the night at the hospital again. As I debated my next step, the doorbell rang. Could it be Toby?

  The sight of Hank through the peephole surprised me and set my pulse racing. Had he come to arrest me? Was Torres with him? I couldn’t imagine Torres letting someone else handle the job.

  I pulled open the door, prepared for anything. Hank wore a light windbreaker, his shoulders hunched against the soft rain that was now falling.

  “I hear your car was stolen,” he said.

  “Gee, good news travels fast in this town. So this is an official call?”

  “I was visiting Dad at the hospital and when I called to check in, the duty officer told me. Dad insisted I come over. He was worried, so I’m doing it as a favor to him.”

  “I see.” Naturally Sam would do that, which was precisely why I had not called him. But I was thankful for Hank’s presence and Sam’s thoughtfulness. It didn’t matter why he was here; I was pleased I didn’t have to be alone.

  “Are you okay?” Hank asked, concern furrowing his brow.

  “Sure. Come in before the rain gets worse.” Suddenly, I wished I had taken the time to put on makeup or at least comb my hair. I’d done my incognito thing for Toby, not wanting to be recognized at the beach, and I still wore black jeans and a T-shirt.

  I led Hank to the second floor and offered him a drink. To my surprise, he accepted, asking for scotch. Finding the expensive bottle I drank with Sam, I retrieved ice and poured us both a drink. After handing him the glass I walked over to pull the drapes. Outside, light rain tapped the windows. In the past I had always left the drapes open, but closing them had become a nightly ritual. The thought of someone watching me had become an obsession.

  He sipped his drink thoughtfully before seating himself on the sofa. “We ran the phone records.”

  “And?”

  “The calls to Paula Gardner were made from a pay phone in Pasadena Thursday afternoon. Since you were doing girly things in Beverly Hills, that clears you of setting her up.”

  “I see.” I didn’t like the fact that everyone seemed to think they needed to check up on me. “And the calls to me?”

  He took another sip of scotch, his eyes never leaving me. “You want to tell me about Brad Singer?”

  I drew a deep breath. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

  His own intake of breath was equally sharp. “That wasn’t my question. You gave me that name yesterday. Has he been following you?”

  Shock raced through me and I gasped audibly, jerking my head up. “Did you check?”

  Hank studied me, but I couldn’t read what was in his face. Or maybe he was trying to read mine. “For the past two weeks, he has steadily called your home and cell phone numbers from the station. At least, the calls came from his extension. His private cell called you over and over, quick calls that were a minute long, which means he was hanging up when you answered or your machine picked up.”

  That explained the strange calls I’d been getting. I put down my scotch, fearing I might spill it as I fought to absorb what he was telling me. “You’re saying it’s been Brad all along?”

  His gaze was steady. “And you’re saying you didn’t know anything about it?”

  My forehead tingled as I realized what he was implying. “Do you think I set that up?”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not!” I wasn’t certain if I should be furious or frightened. I felt faint suddenly and I put my hands to my forehead and inhaled sharp breaths.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. “It makes sense. Brad kept telling me I needed someone to protect me. But…how could he follow me? He’s been at work. He was working the night that car followed me from Geneva.”

  Hank shook his head. “Singer’s work has become so slipshod he was suspended on Thursday. He’d been calling in sick, being late to assignments, and the night you interrupted me at Geneva, he never went back to work after dinner.”

  I recalled Reba’s cool attitude toward Brad at the ballgame.

  “You told Sam you saw a green car and an SUV following you,” Hank continued. “Singer is staying at the condo belonging to the owner of the SUV, and he’s been renting a green Ford Fusion.”

  “And…the gray car?” In a way I liked that idea that he had been lingering in the parking lot. Or had he stolen my car and left his, thinking it meant I would have to see him? Maybe he wouldn’t open the trunk.

  Hank shook his head. “No luck on that.”

  I rose on shaky legs and walked over to my purse and pulled out the small notebook I’d made a practice of carrying since Sam came into my life. I ripped out the page with the license plate number.

  “This car was in the parking lot where my car was taken. I noticed it because it had a dent in the front. The Monday I was questioned at your police department, a gray car followed me. It got bashed when it tried to make a lane change behind me.”

  Hank took the note, studied it, and slipped it into his pocket. “You had no idea Singer was following you?”

  Perhaps it was time to come clean, even if it got Brad into trouble. He had tried to frighten me about the cars and phone calls. How far would he have gone to get me to allow him to take care of me?

  I licked my lips and launched into my story of the night Miles brought me home. I didn’t admit he’d kissed me, only that Brad saw him bring me home and grew angry.

  “He must have been following us that night,” I concluded.

  “How did you get rid of him?”

  “Senor Zapato did it.”

  “Who?” His head jerked back in surprise.

  “He works for Benito Dominguez, the old Mexican mobster. For some reason his bodyguard was watching me. I don’t know why. They call him Senor Shoe because he likes to kick people.”

  He wrote down the information and got to his feet. “I should be going. Whoever stole the car couldn’t get a key to your house, could they? Please tell me you aren’t one of those people who keeps a key under the wheel.”

  “It was removed when my car went into the shop after Lindy’s accident.”

  He shook his head, but for the first time since he arrived, I saw a hint of humor enter his eyes. “Don’t replace it, and don’t put a key to your house in the flower pot outside.”

  My hand shot up in a smart salute. “Aye, aye, Chief.”

  He ran a hand through his black, rumpled hair. It looked like he’d been doing that a lot in the past hour. “You need to take your safety more seriously.”

  After the past couple of weeks, I agreed. Given what had happened to Lindy, and the Brad issue…and that nasty voice on my phone.

  “Did you check on that threatening call?”

  He nodded. “It came from Ken Gardner’s cell. Apparently he was unhappy that police questioned him about Wells. He’s threatening a lawsuit.” He started for the stairs and panic propelled me to my feet. I didn’t want to be alone.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked. “You were nice enough to feed me dinner last night. I was about to make myself an omelet. Have you eaten?” I didn’t even know if I had eggs.

  To my surprise and delight, he stopped and smiled. “It might be fun to see you in the kitchen in an apron.”

  “Don’t expect an apron, cop, though I may run upstairs and change. This shirt is damp.”

  I hopped up the stairs, changed into a jersey sweater with a v-neck that was low enough to show skin and tight enough to show my curves. A long silk skirt with a slit to my knee was both tempting and yet demure. I gave my eyes and lips a light touch-up. No need scaring him.

  When I came back down, he was taking eggs out of the refrigerator.

  “I can do that,” I said.

  “I’ll do it. You need to taste my deluxe cheese omelet.” He examined my refrigherator and pulled out a chunk of cheddar c
heese.

  “Okay, how about I open a bottle of wine? I know a lot about wines.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  What a stupid thing for me to say, but I felt giddy as a teen on her first date. All tense and on edge. Excited, yet fearful. What did I want from him? What did I expect? What did I hope for?

  Two nights ago I’d dined in a fancy restaurant with one of the most powerful men in the city. Even though he had shaken me up, he couldn’t get my heart to pound or my nerves to scream like the man across the kitchen. There might be two yards between us, but I could feel Hank’s presence, smell the sandalwood soap on his skin. I’d once licked his arm, telling him I wanted to devour that scent. It still smelled good enough to lick. With a shiver I walked toward the living room.

  “How about some music? Still like jazz?” I called.

  “You know it.”

  With the soft sounds of Stan Getz in the background, I focused on opening the wine and setting the table. We worked in silence, lost in our own thoughts. I kept thinking I should tell him about Toby, but I didn’t want to compromise him. At least that was what I told myself. The truth was I didn’t want to see what his reaction might be.

  We changed the subject for dinner, though I could scarcely recall what we discussed—politics, gossip, common friends, anything but the act that had brought us back into each other’s lives. When we finished, I stacked the dishes in the dishwasher while he went into the living room and poured brandy.

  As I walked over to join him on the sofa, it struck me how wonderful it would be if this could be a simple meeting between old friends. The thought brought sadness and a sudden chill to my bones. I sipped brandy, waiting to get warm. The ringing of the phone jarred us both, but I made no move to answer. It rang two more times before stopping.

  “I’ll have Singer picked up,” he said with a grimace. Despite all the joking, our dilemma returned, quickly constructing a thick wall between us.

  I put my brandy on the coffee table, rubbing my cold hands together. “This is so screwed up. They’re going to arrest me, aren’t they?” It was the first time we’d mentioned the case in two hours. I didn’t want to drive him away, but I had to know.