Body Heat

by Susan Fox

  “I asked. She says she was so upset about the flood that she forgot all about them until this morning, when she wanted to wear a special brooch to church.”

  “Still, things were pretty crazy last night. She could be confused. Or maybe she or her husband hid them away somewhere before they left?”

  “Mr. Trotter is positive her jewelry was in its usual place when they left: an inlaid jewelry box on top of the dresser in the bedroom.”

  “I’ll come in right away.” Maura pulled underwear from a drawer, pants and a shirt from her closet.

  “Thanks. The police are on their way, too. Mr. Trotter called them. Should I call Louise?”

  “No. We can handle this.”

  Maura had showered sometime in the small hours of morning, so now she just flung on clothes. She didn’t even bother to pin up her hair, only ran a brush—the brush Jesse had used last night, but she wasn’t going to think about that—through it and yanked it back with a clip. Ouch. No, that made her headache worse. She released the clip and gulped a couple of aspirin and a glass of cold water.

  Then she raced out to her car and pushed the edge of the speed limit. Scenarios ran through her head. First, in hopes this was a big mistake, she’d search the Trotters’ room and phone the inn herself. If the jewelry really was missing, could Jesse have forgotten to lock the apartment door? But most Cherry Lane residents left their doors unlocked during the day, and if any of the seniors or staff had wanted to steal Mrs. Trotter’s jewelry, they’d have done it before.

  What about the rental company that delivered the dehumidifiers? Maura’d been with the delivery man the whole time, hadn’t she? And Jesse’d been the one to set up the machines in the living room, bedroom, and bathroom, and get them running.

  By the time she turned the corner to drive down the lane of cherry trees, she’d returned to her original thought: this had to be a mistake.

  A police car was parked in front of the building.

  Maura rushed inside. Ming-mei, at the reception desk, said, “I’m so glad you’re here! This is terrible, just terrible!”

  A group of seniors clustered around, and several of them began to talk at once.

  Maura took a deep breath, wishing her head would stop pounding. To the seniors, she said, “We’ll get this sorted out. Why don’t you get on with your day?” And to Ming-mei, “Let’s go talk in my office.”

  “The police asked me to send you up to the Trotters’ apartment.”

  “All right, I’ll go talk to them.”

  “They asked who was on duty last night, and I said you were here working late and Nedda diFazio was on the desk. They had me call her, too, and she should be here soon. Should we let the Board of Directors know?”

  “No, not yet.” Oh, great. Just after impressing the Board at the last meeting, now she might have to report that a theft had occurred while she was in charge. “We’ll wait until we find out what really happened.”

  As Maura turned to go to the Trotters’ apartment, Nedda rushed through the front door. “There’s been a theft?” She was more animated than Maura had ever seen her.

  “We don’t know that yet,” Maura said.

  “The police want to see you, too, Nedda,” Ming-mei said.

  “Of course they do,” the woman said. “I see what goes on in this place.” She shot Maura a nasty look.

  In silence, the two of them paced down the hallway and took the elevator to the second floor. The door to 203 was closed, and Maura knocked.

  A brown-skinned young woman in police uniform opened it.

  When Maura introduced herself and Nedda, the officer opened the door wider. “I’m Constable Singh. Come in.”

  The apartment was hot and humid, as Jesse had warned, and the fanlike noise of the dehumidifiers aggravated Maura’s headache. The Trotters sat side by side on their couch, holding hands. A beefy, fair-haired male police officer sat in a chair opposite them, holding a notepad and pen.

  Constable Singh introduced Maura and Nedda. “This is Constable Meyer.”

  Maura nodded. “Thanks for coming. But I have to ask, Mr. and Mrs. Trotter, are you absolutely sure you didn’t hide your jewelry, or take it with you last night?”

  “We’ve checked that, ma’am,” Constable Singh said. “I searched the apartment and phoned the inn to have them check the room. The jewelry box is still on the dresser, but it’s empty and—”

  “I know who did it,” Nedda broke in eagerly.

  They all turned to gape at her.

  Meyer turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “Go on.”

  “It was that shady character who’s been working in the garden. Jesse Blue.” She shot a triumphant look at Maura.

  Maura shook her head firmly. “No, that’s not possible. Jesse would never steal.”

  “He’s a criminal! He almost killed someone, and that’s way worse than stealing!”

  “You read his file!” Maura stared accusingly at the woman. “HR files are confidential and they’re kept in locked cabinets.”

  She shrugged. “I went into Louise Michaels’s office looking for something, and there was a stack of files out. If they were supposed to be confidential, she shouldn’t have left them there.”

  Maura’d always known the woman had a nasty personality, but she’d never guessed she was such a snoop. “They were labeled.”

  “How’m I to know how you people label your files? I’m just the receptionist.”

  Seething, Maura turned back to the two police officers and tried to keep her voice calm. “Mr. Blue came to us to do community service. It was arranged by Ms. Michaels, the HR manager. She’s on maternity leave and I’m filling in for her.”

  “The man’s an attempted murderer?” Constable Singh asked disbelievingly.

  “No, of course not. Mr. Blue did assault a man, but his reasons were good enough that the court didn’t send him to jail. He’s not a violent man, and he’s been a hard worker, responsible, and excellent with the seniors.”

  “Excellent with the seniors,” Nedda parroted in a snarky voice. “Sucking up to them, so he can rob them blind.”

  Infuriated, Maura snapped, “That’s not true!”

  “Ladies,” Constable Meyer broke in, “thank you for this information. We’ll need to get statements from both of you. We’ll start with Ms. diFazio. Got an empty office we can use?”

  “Ms. Michaels’s,” Maura said.

  To the Trotters, Meyer said, “I have everything I need from you, except for that jewelry schedule on your insurance policy. But don’t get it out of the dresser until we dust it for prints. Best thing for you now is to go downstairs and try to relax.”

  They all left the apartment. For Maura, it was a relief to get out of the noisy, humid place, but she was still seething over Nedda’s false accusation. Surely, when the police interviewed her, they’d realize she was just a bitter, spiteful woman, making up a story.

  Maura went with Nedda and the police to Louise’s office and made sure the desk and credenza were bare of files and the cabinets and drawers were still locked. “I’ll be in my office when you’re ready for me,” she told the officers.

  First, though, she got the Trotters settled in the lounge, where they were immediately the center of attention. It was unavoidable, but Maura hated knowing that Nedda’s lie would soon be spread among the residents.

  In her office, she rested her head in her hands and was rubbing her fingers into her aching temples when Constable Singh stepped through the door, followed by Constable Meyer.

  “Headache?” the woman asked sympathetically.

  “Yes. This has upset me.” And that was no lie, even though the original source of her headache had been a night’s worth of tears and guilt. She stood. “Shall we go to Ms. Michaels’s office?”

  “Here will do fine,” the male officer said, plopping down in the chair Maura and Jesse had occupied last night.

  Battling a flush, she said, “Fine,” as Constable Singh took the other chair.
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br />   Both pulled out notebooks and pens as Maura seated herself again.

  “Let’s start at five last night,” the male officer said, “and you tell us what you were doing.”

  Maura told them about the flood, regretting that her story established that she and Jesse were the only people, other than the Trotters, who had been in the apartment bedroom. “I know I didn’t take the jewelry,” she said, “and I’m sure Jesse didn’t. There has to be some other explanation.”

  The two officers exchanged glances, then Constable Singh asked, “What’s the Trotters’ financial position?”

  “They’re not wealthy. Few of our residents are. Are you suggesting they’d fake a theft and claim the insurance money?” She shook her head. “She loves that jewelry, loves wearing it, showing it off, telling about when her husband gave her each piece. Besides, they were too upset about the flood to plan anything like that.”

  “Uh-huh,” the male officer said noncommittally. Then, “Tell me about Jesse Blue, and Ms. diFazio’s allegation that he attempted murder.”

  Ms. diFazio is a nasty snoop. Pressing her lips together to hold the words back, Maura unlocked her filing cabinet and handed over Jesse’s file. “This is what it says on paper.” She went on to tell him about Consuela’s situation. “You can speak to his lawyer, Barry Adamson. As for Jesse’s time here, he’s been skilled, conscientious, he puts in more than the required hours, and he really is great with the seniors. Ask them, they’ll tell you.”

  “Uh-huh.” He glanced at the file, then up at her. “Ms. diFazio says you’re defending him because you’re having an affair with him.”

  “What?” Her heart lodged in her throat and her mind raced. What did that nasty woman know? Nothing. She couldn’t. Should Maura admit it? It would make both her and Jesse look bad. It might not actually violate the terms of his community service, but she wasn’t positive. As for her, likely the Board would find out and she’d lose the promotion.

  “You seem surprised,” Constable Singh commented.

  “I am.” She shouldn’t lie to the police. Only an hour ago she’d vowed not to break the rules.

  Okay, then she’d go by the letter of the law. The male officer had asked a question. Trying not to blush frantically, she repeated his words back, “No, I am not having an affair with Jesse Blue.” They’d had sex a couple of times, and now . . . now, he hated her, and maybe she deserved that hate. They’d been becoming friends, and now even that was gone. She was definitely not having an affair with him. It was the absolute truth. Surely Jesse would say the same thing, even if he was mad at her.

  “But I have come to know him,” she went on, “during the week he’s been here, and I don’t believe he’s a thief.”

  “Uh-huh.” Constable Meyer made a note.

  That was so aggravating, that bland “uh-huh.”

  “You say he came to your office after he finished work, to report in. Was that your routine?”

  “Pretty much. Since he started work, I tried to be around when he finished.” She’d loved their talks, the growing friendship and intimacy. Trying not to flush, she said, “It’s my responsibility to record his hours and keep track of his progress.”

  “So, he reported in. That took what, a couple minutes?”

  “A bit longer.” She’d answered the question. She wouldn’t add that they’d had sex, but should she mention the repairs for seniors idea they’d discussed? It would make the two of them look awfully chummy, considering their relative positions and the fact that they’d only met a week ago.

  “Then you both left. Together?”

  “No. He left, and I tidied up a few things before leaving. His bike wasn’t in the parking lot when I went out.” No, it had been racing to her apartment.

  “What did you do then?”

  “Drove straight home, and didn’t leave until this morning, when Ming-mei called me about the robbery.” Again, she was telling the truth.

  “Anyone to corroborate that you were home alone?”

  She couldn’t tell them Jesse’d been there, not after denying they were having an affair. Avoiding a direct answer, she said, “I live alone, but what’s this about? You consider me a suspect? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Ma’am, everyone’s a suspect. We’re gonna need your prints, compare to what we find on the jewelry box.”

  “Fine.” They’d be printing Jesse, too. But she knew he was innocent.

  Innocent people didn’t get convicted. Or at least they weren’t supposed to. But as Jesse had shown her, when he’d told her Consuela’s story, the justice system didn’t always work.

  Jesse awoke with a pounding head and a mouth that tasted like camel dung. Not that he’d ever tasted camel dung, but it couldn’t be any worse than the inside of his mouth.

  Dimly, he realized that the pounding wasn’t just in his head. Someone was knocking on his door.

  Maura? Come to her senses?

  Fat chance of that.

  He hauled himself out of bed, wincing at the sunshine outside his window. Should’ve pulled the blinds when he came in at dawn, but he’d been too shit-faced to do anything but fall into bed. In yesterday’s grubby work clothes, he now realized.

  Heading for the door, determined to silence that fucking hammering, he kicked something and his keys skittered across the floor. He froze for a moment. He hadn’t ridden home, had he? No, he vaguely recalled one of his pals flagging down a cab for him.

  Hadn’t locked his door, though, he realized as he flung it open. “Would ya stop that damned—” He swallowed the last word at the sight of two cops, one male and one female.

  “Jesse Blue?” the woman asked.

  The distaste in her narrowed eyes told her he looked like crap, and a sexy smile wasn’t going to work on her. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “I’m Constable Meyer,” the guy said, “and this is Constable Singh. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  Shit, what had he done last night? “About what?”

  “It’s in connection with a robbery.”

  “Huh? Who got robbed?” Or had he been robbed, with his door unlocked all morning? He glanced into the little kitchen, but everything looked normal.

  “A couple who live at Cherry Lane. Mr. and Mrs. Trotter.”

  “The Trotters?” He tried to make his hungover brain work. “Oh, hell.” He’d been in their apartment, alone. If something had gone missing . . . “I didn’t take anything.” He hadn’t even given in to the temptation to use their shower to clean up.

  “We’re not saying you did. But you were in their apartment yesterday.”

  “Yeah, fixing the pipes.”

  “So let’s talk.”

  “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  The two officers glanced at each other, then the woman, Singh, said, “It’s noon on a Sunday. I bet your lawyer has better things to do than sit around while we ask you a couple of questions. Of course, if you need him to look after you . . .”

  A couple of questions. That didn’t sound so bad, and he knew he hadn’t stolen anything. He could handle this without bothering Barry Adamson—or running up another legal bill. “Nah.”

  “Okay if we come in?” As Meyer asked the question, he stepped past Jesse into the kitchen.

  The woman cop followed. “Mind if we take a look around?”

  His sluggish brain processed that. “Whatever was stolen, I’m not the guy who took it.”

  “So you don’t mind?”

  Barry’d probably say they needed to get a search warrant, but that’d just make Jesse look suspicious. “Whatever. While you look, I could use a shower.”

  He couldn’t think straight, not all grubby and sweaty, with a pounding head and camel-dung mouth. In the bathroom, he swallowed a few pills and drank a couple glasses of water, brushed his teeth, then soaped a day’s worth of sweat off his body in the shower, finishing off with cold water to jolt his brain to life.

  Feeling marginally more human, he went into the bedroom. �
�Whoa,” he exclaimed on seeing Meyer, his hand inside Jesse’s underwear drawer.

  “Got a problem?” the guy asked.

  “Nah. Search away, you’re not going to find it. But toss me a pair of briefs.”

  The cop chucked underwear in his direction. “You sound pretty sure we won’t find anything. Does that mean you stashed it somewhere?”

  Jesse pulled on boxer-briefs, then clean jeans. “Means I never took it. What the hell is it, anyhow?”

  “Pull on a shirt and we’ll talk.”

  A few minutes later, the three of them sat at his small kitchen table, him on one side, the two cops across from him, both taking notes. They asked him about the flood at the Trotters’, and he went through the whole thing.

  “What rooms did the dehumidifier guy go into?” Meyer asked.

  “Just the front room. He delivered, Ms. Mahoney signed, then he left and I set up the machines.”

  “When you left, did you lock the door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With a key?”

  “No, it’s one of those knobs you press in on the inside. I never had their key.”

  “What then?”

  “Went out to tidy up in the garden, then, uh, I reported in to Ms. Mahoney.” Now, he was on less certain ground. What had she told them?

  “Ms. Mahoney.” Meyer flipped pages in his notebook. “She’s the accountant and acting HR manager.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s supervising your community service?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He shouldn’t be surprised they knew about his community service.

  “So, you say you didn’t take anything from the Trotter apartment?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Suppose you’re going to tell me you’re not sleeping with Ms. Mahoney, either.”

  “What?” The question caught him like a punch out of the blue. Maura wouldn’t have told them. She didn’t want anyone knowing. Shit. He’d figured all the cops would ask about was the Trotters’ apartment, so he’d be in the clear if he told the truth. Now, what the hell was he supposed to say? He couldn’t exactly lawyer up at this point. “Who the fuck told you that? Bet it wasn’t Ms. Mahoney.” Though some stupid bit of hope in his heart made him wish she’d owned up to it.