by Laura Kenner
“Of course not,” Martin supplied in indignation.
She shrugged and finished rinsing her hands. “So, in retaliation, I decided that Raymond should have to prove to me he could pass the same sort of loyalty test”
Martin handed her a paper towel. “That serves him right You needed to show him how it feels to be doubted.”
She nodded. “But there was only one problem I didn’t anticipate. Raymond failed the test”
Martin stared at her. “F-failed? You mean…”
She drew a shuddering breath. “I arranged to meet Raymond last night, then didn’t show up. The private investigator sent a very beautiful woman to make a pass at him, to see if he could be persuaded to join her in a one-night stand. They took off together.”
Martin closed his eyes and sighed. “Why am I not surprised? Raymond’s my cousin, but I never really liked him. He’s been a manipulative son of a bitch all of his life. I always thought you were the best thing ever to happen to him.”
“Martin, I’m sure—”
“No. I really mean it. You brought out so many of his good qualities—attributes I never thought he possessed. I figured that with you at his side, he might actually make himself a suitable member of the human race. For a divorce lawyer, that is.”
Tears choked off Sara’s ability to respond.
Martin pulled her into an embrace. “Look, honey, if he’s not smart enough to realize how important you are to him, then don’t waste your time on him. He doesn’t deserve someone as wonderful as you.”
She pulled back, dabbing at the wet spots she’d left on the shoulder of his shirt. “Thanks. I came to the same conclusion around four o’clock this morning. It’s nice to hear it from somebody else.”
“It’s the truth.” Martin glanced at the clock hanging over the steel-doored refrigerator. “Four o’clock. God, you must be wiped. Why don’t you take off today? I can call someone in to help.”
She shook her head. “Nothing doing. The last thing I need to do is go home and mope. Hard work is the answer.” She turned to the cutting board, picked up the knife and eyed the chicken. She tried to smile, but failed. “So, do you have a good recipe for chicken hash?”
“I do.”
Sara turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Will Riggs stood in the kitchen doorway. “The bartender said I could come on back. How are you?”
Martin took a step forward, literally moving between her and their guest Sara conjured up a brief smile, thankful for Martin’s inclination to protect first, ask questions later, even if Will was a couple of inches taller than him.
Martin stood his ground, making up for stature with demeanor. “I don’t know who you are but I think Sara’s not in any mood to—”
She reached up and touched his arm. “It’s okay, Martin. This is Will Riggs, the private investigator who…helped me.” She ignored Martin’s overt, near hostile glare. “Will, this is my partner, Martin Hilliard.”
Will returned a glare, which matched Martin’s in intensity. “Bergeron’s cousin.” He pronounced the name like he would the word cockroach.
They remained in a typical testosterone standoff until Martin made the first concession by sticking out his hand. “Don’t hold being Ray’s cousin against me.” He offered a half smile. “You pick your friends—” he nodded toward Sara “—and your business partners and if you’re really lucky, you find someone who is both a partner as well as a friend. But you can’t pick your family. Raymond’s ours whether we want him or not”
Will accepted Martin’s hand, the gesture breaking the tension in the room. “I understand. I have a second cousin I’d just soon forget existed, too.” He turned to Sara. “The reason I came by was to see how you were doing.”
She crossed her arms. “Okay. Considering.”
“Get any sleep last night?”
The lingering echo of her wee-hours-of-the-morning phone call made her close her eyes for a moment “Some, until Raymond called.”
“What did he say?” Both men spoke simultaneously.
“Oh…nothing much.” She shrugged. “He tried to blame everything on me, but he lacked the conviction to make it stick. Evidently, the Blackwater Barracuda decided he couldn’t face an in-depth cross-examination alone.”
“What do you mean?” Will asked.
“Just that-—he wasn’t alone. She was with him when he called. I could hear her giggling in the background.” Sara wiped away an errant tear that dared to form in the corner of her eye. She squared her shoulders. “Do you think she was there for moral support or did he simply roll over in bed and suddenly remember he had a fiancée to pacify with a quick call?”
“Aw, Sara…” Martin stepped forward as if he wanted to put his arm around her, but he didn’t “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
“Me, too,” Will added. “I don’t know what got into Celia. She’s always followed her instructions like a professional.” He reddened visibly as he ran his hand through his hair. “But she didn’t act like a pro last night. She should never have gotten into the car with Bergeron.” Will ducked his head and paid inordinate attention to his shoes. “I know it’s small consolation, in light of everything that’s happened, but I’m firing—”
An electronic ping interrupted him. He plucked a beeper from his belt, glanced at it and looked up sheepishly. “Sorry. Uh…could I use your phone?”
Sara nodded toward a black telephone hanging on the wall.
As Will dialed, Sara thanked God for the momentary reprieve. She didn’t want to be forced to utter some useless platitude about Celia’s status as newly unemployed. She couldn’t forget the throaty giggles providing the background music to Raymond’s call.
May she choke on her laughter.
Martin picked up the cleaver and started his own angry dissection of the chicken. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he diced the raw meat into neat cubes.
Will had his back to her but she couldn’t help but hear his part of the conversation.
“Riggs…Yeah…No…Last night. Why?” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Are you sure?”
Sara looked up, instantly aware of an alarming note of concern in Will’s voice.
He turned around and glanced at her. “Well…er…yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Give me the address again.” He scribbled something in his notebook, then stuffed it back in his pocket, pausing to consult his watch. “Ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.”
He hung up the phone, then turned to Sara. His sheepish look had transformed into something much more serious. “I…uh…have to go.” He fumbled with his pager, dropping it as he tried to clip it on his belt.
They both knelt in an attempt to retrieve it, their fingers grazing as they reached simultaneously for the errant beeper. Sara watched him swallow hard and her instincts went on full alert.
“I’m sorry. I mean…I—”
“What is it, Will?”
He placed a hand under her arm and helped her stand. After a moment’s hesitation, he released a sigh. “That call…it was from a friend of mine who works in the homicide division of the Blackwater Police. He asked me to come view a crime scene.”
“A crime scene? A murder?”
Will nodded, his expression set in granite. “They need me to identify a victim’s body.”
Sara glanced down at his hands, which were tightened into fists, betraying his building emotion. The very worst fantasies danced on the edges of her imagination. “A body,” she repeated. She crossed her arms, pleating her sleeves nervously between her fingers.
He nodded, then reached out to cover her hand with his in a move that she couldn’t help but take as conciliatory. “I’m sorry, Sara.”
Her stomach twisted and her knees grew watery. “Raymond?” she whispered.
“No.” He sighed. “Celia.”
Sara pressed her hand against her mouth. “Oh, my God…”
&nbs
p; “I have to go now.” He turned toward the doorway but Sara shifted so she blocked his path.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.” He turned to Martin. “Tell her she’s not coming.”
Martin paused with the cleaver in his hand. “Don’t look at me.” He used the blade to scrape the pieces of cubed chicken into a bowl. “I can’t stop her. Never could.”
Sara reached for her purse. “I said I’m going. If it is your associate, then she died while she was working on a case that involves me. And Raymond.” A horrible thought passed through her mind. She sagged against the counter to support herself. “Oh, no…”
“Sara?” Will grabbed her by the arms. “Are you okay? You aren’t going to faint or anything, are you?”
“Last night…the threats. I thought it was just heat-of-anger type of stuff…that he’d calm down, eventually. But it was confusing, with her in the room with him. I honestly thought he was yelling mostly at me.” Sara looked up, wishing, hoping, praying that Will would dismiss her worst thoughts with a careless wave of his hand.
He didn’t.
She drew a deep breath. “Will…what if he was screaming at her, instead?”
THEY DROVE IN SILENCE. Will forced himself to concentrate on the rigors of traffic rather than the look of pale concentration on Sara’s face.
Trainor, his contact in the homicide division, said the body had been discovered a couple of hours earlier in an upscale Fair Oaks hotel room, only a few miles west of Sara’s Main Street restaurant. Will appreciated the call, but prayed his friend was wrong, that the female victim only bore a passing resemblance to Celia Strauss. After all, Trainor had only met her once, so there was ample room for mistaken identity—Will hoped.
Traffic complicated what should have been an easy drive, snarling his nerves with the same efficiency that tangled the commuters into a crawl.
As they sat still in the gridlock, Sara finally spoke. “If it…If the body is the woman you hired to be with Raymond last night, then will he be a suspect?”
Will shrugged. “You’re the one who heard them argue. Did he sound as if he might have become violent?”
She stared out the side window. “He yelled. Everybody sounds violent when they yell.”
“No, they don’t. You yelled at me over the phone when you found out who and what I am.”
“That was different. I’m not a violent person.”
“Then you think Bergeron is a violent person?”
She released an exasperated huff of breath. “You’re twisting my words. I never said that.”
“Either he is a violent sort of man who might kill with enough provocation, or he isn’t. Make up your mind.” Will hit his horn, causing the car in front of him to inch up. He pulled around the stopped vehicle and turned into a side street that led to the hotel parking lot.
Sara gripped the door handle for support as he wheeled sharply into a parking place. “Why are you doing this?”
He drew a deep breath before turning to face what he expected would be her expression of tearful confusion and dismay. But to his surprise, the look in her eyes said she already knew the answer. “Because these are the sorts of questions the police are going to ask you…if that body is Celia’s.”
If the body is Celia’s…
Those words haunted their wordless trip into the hotel lobby. Will spotted a plainclothes detective who gave him directions to the room where Trainor was working. In deference to the high-class hotel, there were no overt signs of an investigation, but he knew one was being conducted, nonetheless. Trainor usually worked the upscale cases where a dirty business like murder was whispered rather than shouted about. He specialized in quiet questions designed to solicit the same clues and information as a regular investigation but without ruffling corporate feathers in the process.
They didn’t speak until the elevator reached the fifth floor. An officer stood guard by the elevator and stopped them before they could step off. Will pulled his P.I.’s license from his wallet and showed it to the man. They were allowed onto the floor and given directions to the room.
After following a right-angled turn in the hallway, they could see a quiet bustle of people hovering around the last room on the left. Will stopped, knowing what his next duty was. He placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder, stopping her before she could take another step forward. “You wait here.”
“But—”
“Sara, it’s a crime scene. It could be rough.”
She gulped, then nodded.
Will girded his strength and stalked down the hallway, hoping he looked like the consummate professional he wasn’t If he had wanted to hang around dead bodies, he would have become a cop.
But he didn’t
He liked what he did—Investigations that were for the most part, bloodless. It wasn’t that he was squeamish. An investigator usually dug into the everyday garbage of mankind, rooting around for clues and information, and he usually surfaced none the worse for wear. You could shower off the stench and live a normal life. But Will believed that constant exposure to blood crimes left a stain on the soul that no amount of showering could remove.
He drew a deep breath, then stepped into the doorway of the room, expecting to see a horrible sight. Or maybe some overturned furniture. Anything that might indicate a level of violence that culminated in the death of a person.
But the room was strangely neat—that is, if you considered a gurney complete with a filled black body bag, as intrinsically neat. A man wearing a blue jumpsuit marked “M.E.” stood next to the gurney. He looked up from the notes he was scribbling.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Detective Trainor. Is he—”
“Will. Good, you’re here.” Steve Trainor stepped out of the bathroom and dodged a forensics person, dusting the door frame.
Will glanced at the body bag. “What happened?”
Steve shrugged. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out Too many unanswered questions. I’m hoping you can answer the ’who’ it happened to. Her purse, all her IDs were gone and the room was registered to an ‘E. S. Gardner’ and paid for with cash. You ready to take a look?”
“Yeah.” Will swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he repeated.
Steve nodded to the technician who unzipped the bag open enough for Will to see the puffy face hidden within.
It took him a while to reconcile his memory of Celia’s cold beauty with the face of the dead woman. But little by little, he started recognizing her features. It wasn’t that death hadn’t been kind to her; violence was what had robbed her of her beauty.
Will took a deep breath, trying to steady all the parts of him that were on shaky ground. “I’m positive it’s her. It’s Celia Strauss.”
Steve nodded. “I thought so, but I had to be sure.” He turned to the technician. “Why don’t you take five?” The man nodded and exited.
Will waited until the man was out of earshot. “How did she die?”
The detective pointed to the bed. “At first, we thought maybe it was a case of a sex game gone out of control.”
Will glanced at the bed, spotting the remainders of several silk scarves tied to the head-and footboards. The sheets had been removed from the bed, but a white bedspread had been tossed over the striped mattress ticking. The edges of a red stain peeped out from one side of the quilted material.
A sudden image of Celia flashed into Will’s mind. She was laughing and crooking her finger with a classic come-hither smile. He cleared his throat, wishing it was just as easy to clear his mind. “She was into that kind of sex…from what I’ve heard.”
Steve jammed his hands into his pockets. “Do you know that by rumor? Or from personal experience?”
Will bristled at the insinuation. “She offered. Once. I declined. You didn’t answer my question—how’d she die?”
“Gunshot wound to the chest. The M.E. says the bullet probably nicked the aorta and she bled to death. According to the a
ngle of entry, the killer was probably standing about where you are.”
Will moved self-consciously from the spot.
Steve shook his head. “Don’t worry. Forensics is through in here.”
“Have you found the weapon, yet?”
“Didn’t expect to. It was a clean kill. She was an easy target, all trussed up like a goose…in heat” Steve reddened a little. “You see everything in this job.” He nodded toward the brass headboard. “She was still…attached to the frame when her body was discovered.”
Will struggled to banish that particularly unsavory image from his mind. He shifted his attention as well as his posture away from the bed. “Who found her?”
“Typical story. The maid used her passkey so she could clean up the room.” The cop peeled off the thin plastic gloves he was wearing. “Listen, if we’re going to play Twenty Questions, then it’s my turn. When was the last time you saw the lately lamented Ms. Strauss?”
“Last night At a bar.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“With Celia, it was hard to tell the difference.”
Steve nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told. Had she been working on any cases for you?”
“Same old stuff. The bait-and-mate cases.”
“She was your usual lure?”
Will nodded. “It was cost-efficient. Celia appealed to a wide variety of men so I didn’t have to keep hiring and training female operatives. All the guys liked her.”
Steve glanced at the silk scarves that fluttered in the slight breeze that stirred in the room. “All of ’em but one.” Trainor pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and consulted it. “There’s one more thing. Before she was shot, someone tried to strangle her. There were bruises around her neck.” He gave Will a sidelong glance. “Seeing how she seemed to have a predilection for, shall we say, the unusual, do you know if she was a gasper?”
Will shrugged. “Not that I’d heard but with Celia, there’s no telling. Are you certain you have the order of injury right? Attempted strangulation, then shot? Not the other way around?”