by Terry Odell
“No. It was a cocktail party. Lots of people in fancy clothes, violins, snooty waiters passing trays of tiny bits of food. Lots of booze. Maybe I had too much. For five hundred dollars, I wanted my money’s worth. Or Daddy’s money’s worth.”
“But what about the project?” Graham urged. “I’m sure you’d remember if your father was involved, wouldn’t you?”
She took a sip of her tea, a bite of her sandwich, then another sip of tea. He worked on his cobbler, waiting for her to fill the silence.
“Okay, there was this big model in the middle of the room and maybe I did take a look,” she said. “Golf course and a big recreation complex. Tennis courts, buildings. Trees and paths. And residences. It was hard to say what everything was by looking at the model. Lots of tiny buildings and pretend trees. The real thing probably wouldn’t have looked like that anyway.” Her tone took on an air of indignation. “And, as I believe I said before, Daddy usually left those things to others. I’m not surprised he turned it over to Gravely and left.”
“Were there brochures? Any kind of literature? As a donor or investor, wouldn’t you be on mailing lists?”
“All I ever got was requests for more money. I trashed them.”
“What about Mr. Gravely? What do you know about him?”
“Hand shaker. Big smile. Full of BS. Otherwise, nothing.” She tilted her wrist and touched her watch.
He checked his. He still had almost fifteen minutes. Time to push. “What would happen if your father didn’t come home?”
Kimberly’s attention dropped to her plate. She poked at the lettuce and orange wedge garnish. “Why wouldn’t he come home?”
“I don’t know. A problem with this project? With Mr. Gravely? With another project?”
“You think he ran away?”
“I don’t think anything. You called us, remember?” He scraped the last bits of cobbler from his plate and pushed it aside. “You’ve already said he traveled a lot. What made you think this wasn’t an ordinary business trip?”
Her face reddened and she kept her eyes lowered. Her voice was flat. “I needed money. He didn’t answer my e-mail, he didn’t call and I had to have the money. I thought if he heard from the cops, he’d get in touch and he’d give me the money.”
“For Billy’s birthday present?”
She shook her head. “No. But he loves Billy. Really.” Her voice had risen and she took a shaky breath. “Al—he’s my husband—has a problem. He owes some people some money. Not the kind of people you want to owe money, if you get my drift. I’m afraid of what they might do if he can’t pay them. I’d take a second job, but by the time I factor in the after-school care for Billy, it wouldn’t pay.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He’s in sales and marketing. But he’s in between positions now. He picks up an odd job here and there, so he has to be free. That’s why he can’t be home for Billy.”
She honestly seemed to believe it. Al was probably at the track, if Graham could trust Doris. In this case, he thought he could. Kimberly had finished her meal. He picked up the check. He’d never asked if he had an expense allowance in CID. No big deal. He could buy this woman lunch.
Not until he was halfway back to Orlando did he wonder if he had bought lunch for a witness or a suspect.
Graham parked his unit and raced across the station parking lot. Clarke passed him and gave him the usual smirk. What was Clarke doing at Central? Maybe Schaeffer really was pitting them against each other.
Schaeffer wasn’t in his office, and Graham breathed a little easier. Maybe he’d been gone all afternoon and hadn’t noticed the lack of Graham’s paperwork. He hurried to the computer he’d used earlier, breathing a sigh of relief when it was available. Scrolling through the directories, he cursed, softly at first, then louder. “Shit!”
“What’s the matter? It’s Harrigan, right?”
He turned to the voice from a nearby desk. The man’s long, dark hair and three-day stubble told Graham he was working undercover.
“Crispin,” the man said.
“Damn computer ate my file,” Harrigan said.
“You remember to save it?”
“Of course.” Or had he? “It’s not here.” He cursed again. He’d spent an hour making sure his first report was perfect and then forgot to e-mail it to Schaeffer or print it.
“Can’t help you, but you can try the folks in IT. They might ferret it out,” Crispin said.
Graham studied the man’s expression. If this was a practical joke for the new guy, Crispin hid it well. “How long will that take?”
“Depends on the workload. Not more than a couple of days, usually.”
“I don’t have a couple of days.” He fumbled through his notes and spent the next hour recreating his report, adding what he’d learned from Kimberly. Hearing Crispin’s fingers clattering across the keyboard at breakneck speed, Graham swore he’d sign up for the next keyboarding class no matter what.
He hurried to the room housing the communal printer and picked up the pages, then started for Schaeffer’s office. Crispin’s voice stopped him.
“You left your files open.”
“What?”
“If you leave your desk, even for a pit stop, anyone can access your files. Make sure you’re either logged out or lock your screen if you’re not around. Requires your password to get back in.”
“Thanks.” Had he logged out before he’d left for Kimberly’s? He couldn’t be sure. He’d never needed to lock a program with his laptop in the cruiser.
Crispin glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure nobody was eavesdropping, and lowered his voice. “There are a lot of practical jokers around here. They’ll send love letter e-mails in your name. One guy set up a macro so every time someone typed the word ‘the’, the computer added ‘asshole.’“
From the man’s tone, Graham had a good idea Crispin had been on the receiving end of that one. “Got it. Thanks again.”
“No sweat. Welcome to CID, where paperwork is king and nothing is sacred.”
Graham hurried to Schaeffer’s office, where the lieutenant was now sitting at his desk. Gritting his teeth at the way Schaeffer took a long look at his watch, Graham handed him his report.
Schaeffer glanced through the pages. “I see you’ve already been to Ocala.”
Graham straightened to full attention. “Yes, sir. I forgot to send it before I left, so I added my findings and brought you a hard copy.”
“Keep on top of the paperwork, or it will bury you.” Schaeffer’s eyes pierced. “I’m assuming this is the last late report I’m going to get from you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Colleen sat at her kitchen table and stared at her computer screen until her eyes burned, knowing there must be something there that would lead her to Jeffrey. The daughter wanted money. Doris wanted to stay out of a nursing home.
Megan’s grandmother had never met Jeffrey, but had confirmed Doris used to live in the guest house. Jeffrey’s financial information revealed he had an active bank account and had been using credit cards. That was normal enough.
At the sound of tires in the drive, Colleen rubbed her eyes and walked to the living room window.
A steady stream of cars had pulled in and out of the driveway most of the afternoon, spewing people carrying trays of food and bunches of flowers. No black BMWs, however. She was glad Doris had such a strong support base, but Colleen wished she had an excuse to get into the house to search the file cabinets. Maybe later tonight, when everyone was gone. Assuming they’d leave. A green Chevy had been parked in front of the house for three hours, and sounds of laughter floated down from the open window.
A hollow growl from her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten anything since the bagel this morning. Four-thirty seemed early for dinner, so she put a bag of popcorn in the microwave before going back to the folder of papers she’d taken from Jeffrey’s office.
Birds, binoculars and cameras seemed t
o dominate the personal mail she’d seen at the house. She’d left the catalogs, magazines and newsletters, but she had some personal correspondence left to study. She was separating and sorting the pages when a popping sound sent her heart to her throat. She froze. Holding her breath, she realized the sound came from the microwave.
Would the damned attacks never end? It was popcorn. Stupid popcorn. Why did everything send her straight to the Bradfords’? PTSD, the shrink had said. No way. That was something combat soldiers had to deal with, not something that could happen to her. Not after one lousy incident.
Yesterday, outside Doris’ house, the noise from inside—television noise, no doubt from some cop show—had dropped her like a rock. And Harrigan had been there, his voice bringing her down to earth, his blue eyes showing worry. Her insides ached and it wasn’t from skipping lunch.
She remembered the quick, painful moment in Ricky Ferguson’s storage shed when she was fifteen. How afterward, she’d been convinced she was damned to an eternity in Hell. Guys had come on to her after that, but she’d refused them, built a wall around herself, waiting for some kind of a sign the time was right. And then she’d been shot and almost died.
Bits of the wall were crumbling. For Harrigan? She pushed the thoughts away.
She sat at the counter, head bowed into her hands for several more minutes, knowing her knees would buckle if she stood. Last night replayed in her head and she saw the jackass she’d been. Harrigan had brought her to the gym because she needed physical release. If he’d wanted sex, he would have made his moves in her apartment, not taken her to a gym and let her throw him around.
She allowed herself a brief smile. He hadn’t let her do anything. She’d tossed him fair and square.
That he’d figured out she was a cop didn’t bother her. She’d given him enough clues. Something inside must have wanted him to know. And she’d made the first move last night. She’d kissed him, and he’d been the gentleman and pulled away, and then, as her brothers would have said, she’d gone all huffy female on him and stomped out of the place.
Graham must think she was a total idiot and probably never wanted to see her again. He hadn’t seen her to the door, or even called.
But why should he? She was the jerk. Smart move. He started getting too close and she created an excuse to push him away. Would he want to come back? Would she ask? Could she ask? What could he see in her?
She ripped open the bag of popcorn, now cold and resembling salty, scorched Styrofoam. Her stomach lurched, and she threw the bag into the trash.
She went to the living room. Harrigan’s handkerchief sat on the coffee table, still covered in soot. She’d have to return it. She picked it up and carried it to the kitchen sink, washed it, rinsed it and squeezed it dry until she was afraid she’d destroy the fabric. She hoisted the ironing board from the laundry closet out to the kitchen and flipped the legs open.
As she moved the iron over the small cotton square, Harrigan’s face hovered in front of her. She stared at the phone, trying to decide if she should call, what she could say.
The phone rang and she jumped, nearly sending the iron to the floor.
When she recognized Graham’s voice, she knew her mouth was moving but she couldn’t get the sounds out.
“Are you there? Are you all right? Are you still not speaking to me?” he asked.
“Yes. No. I’m … Damn. Why don’t you come over and get your damn handkerchief?” She couldn’t have sounded more rude if she’d tried.
There was a brief silence and she was afraid he’d hung up.
“I can do that. Want to grab some dinner?” His voice was smooth. “If you like Thai, Thai Passion’s not far from your place. We can celebrate my first full day in CID. And commiserate over my first screw-up at the same time.”
She managed a more polite tone. “Sure.”
“Give me time to get home and change. I’d rather not go in uniform. Forty-five minutes okay?”
She hung up, feeling like an idiot. Had she been able to utter a single word of more than one syllable? Oh, yes. Handkerchief. Brilliant. But she felt her chest tighten and her face get hot. Now all she had to do was figure out how to apologize.
She considered the jeans she was wearing. She ought to change. But into what? She went into the bedroom and stared at all the bags, still scattered on the closet floor where she’d kicked them. Pulling out one garment after another, she realized she had no clue what kind of a place this restaurant was. Or why she gave a damn. What was wrong with jeans? She dug out Tracy’s cell phone number. The new Colleen could call a girlfriend when she needed help with girl stuff.
“Hey, Tracy, it’s Colleen,” she said when she heard her friend’s voice come on the line. “I need advice.” She heard talking and music in the background. “Got a minute?”
“Sure. We’re still getting dressed. First show is at six. What do you need?”
“Do you know anything about a restaurant called Thai Passion?”
“Yeah, it’s in the Fountains shopping center down on Sand Lake. Why? You craving Thai? Wait! Don’t tell me. Your deputy is taking you to dinner! Cool! You have to wear the green dress. The place isn’t formal, but it’s got a quiet elegance. Around here, because of all the tourists, anything goes, but you’ve got to wear the green. Oh, it’ll be perfect. Absolutely perfect. What are you going to do with your hair?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet. Why?”
“You have to wear it up. Or a braid—you can do a French braid, can’t you?”
“Yeah, that was my standard work do. But why not leave it down? I thought guys liked long flowing hair.” Why was she thinking about what guys liked? She’d never cared before.
“That’s the point. He’ll be looking at your hair all night, itching to get it free and loose so he can run his fingers through it.”
“Hey, we’re going to dinner. I have no intention of letting his fingers run through my hair. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“All the better. He’ll call back and keep hoping. Trust me. Braid it.”
Colleen sighed. “Life was easier when I wore a uniform.” She heard Tracy’s name being shouted. Something about a wig.
“Gotta go,” Tracy said. “I’ll expect a call tomorrow.”
Colleen exhaled. Where had the time gone? She’d better hurry. It had been a while since she’d given a damn about what she looked like. Her breath caught when she realized she did give a damn.
After a quick shower, she brushed her teeth and stared into the mirror. Too pale, and the dark circles under her eyes didn’t help. She pulled open the drawer and dug around for her meager stash of makeup. A little foundation helped. A dusting of blush helped a little more. Mascara so her eyelashes were visible and a quick brush of shadow on her lids. That was as good as it would get.
She went into the bedroom and pulled the green dress from the bag.
Relax. No sweat. You’re getting dressed. You do this every day. Deep breath.
She took a full thirty seconds to inhale and exhale slowly and deeply, centering herself. With only the slightest shaking, she pulled on a pair of thigh-highs. Underwear. What bag had that ended up in? Tossing things on the bed, she dug out the bikini panties and matching bra Tracy had insisted on.
“You’re not trying to squeeze them inside a bullet proof vest,” Tracy had said. “Quit hiding them.” Those people at Maidenform knew what they were doing. She had cleavage on display. Too much? What kind of a signal would she be sending? No time to worry.
She stepped into the dress. The sleek fabric slithered over her hips, stopping an inch above her knees. Tracy had said things about flow and drape. All Colleen had cared about was that it was comfortable and the label said “machine wash, tumble dry.” She arranged the loose folds of the cowl neckline and inspected her reflection in the mirror. She smiled. It gave the illusion of being cut much lower than it was. Graham would have to work to get much of a peek and she’d know it. Of cours
e, he was six inches taller than she was and—stop it. Get dressed. She was making this far too complicated.
The new cream-colored pumps had heels that would take three inches off the height difference. She walked around the apartment until she didn’t wobble. It had been a long, long time since she’d worn shoes like these.
Fifteen minutes to go. She closed her eyes, took another centering breath and began braiding her hair, trying to let her fingers do what they had done so many times before. After one false start, the muscle memory took over and she was done.
Jewelry? Pearl stud earrings, the silver watch her grandmother had given her as a graduation gift. Purse? She stuffed her wallet and keys in a small knit bag. That was it. No more. Now she was done. The doorbell rang. Fighting the huge grin that kept taking over her face, she went to the door.
Harrigan stood there, dressed in dark slacks, polished black loafers and a charcoal-gray sport coat over a deep blue shirt. His eyes had darkened two shades to match. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding. He stood there, staring at her. Her face flamed. What was wrong? He was probably expecting her to be wearing something skimpy, tight, and low-cut. She pictured him with skimpy, tight, low-cut women.
She found her voice, although its huskiness took her by surprise. “I’m sorry. This was all I had to wear.”
Finally, his eyes seemed to focus. “You look perfect.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but snapped it shut. Better to accept his apology than reopen last night’s fiasco. “No problem. Can we drop it?”
“I didn’t think I’d get off that easy. You seemed awfully upset last night.” He extended a gold gift bag from behind his back.
She reached for the bag, not trying to disguise her delight. Of course, he might have put anything into the Godiva bag, but she was counting on it being chocolate.
Her fingers touched his as she took the bag and an electric jolt flowed through her. She started digging through the tissue and pulled out the gold box with its brown elastic binding.