“I’ll get you a beer.”
When I came back from the kitchen with two Coronas, Jack was sitting on the end of my sofa. I took the other end. I didn’t ask him why he wasn’t with his family on Thanksgiving, and he didn’t ask me that either. I guess we both already knew the answer.
I didn’t ask how he knew where I lived either. If he could find Jeanette’s, Ty’s and Sarah’s addresses, I guess he could find mine.
Suddenly, I got a sick feeling that Ty and Sarah’s addresses might be the same.
“So, how did your friends in low places get involved with the murder at Holt’s?” I asked, just to get the ball rolling—and to keep me from looking too deeply into his warm blue eyes, and to quit thinking about Ty.
Jack was a licensed private investigator working as a consultant for Pike Warner on discreet matters, which really meant that he dug up dirt on anyone or anything that served Pike Warner or its clients. He was bound by moral obligation—and the ironclad contract he’d been forced to sign—to keep things to himself. But Jack played by his own rules.
“The Holt’s head honcho was worried about their exposure. Lawsuits from the widow of the deceased, employees, employees’ spouses. All sorts of rodents crawl out of the bushes when there are deep pockets to gnaw on. I checked it out with the cops and who did I find?” Jack saluted me with his beer bottle. “You.”
A knot of dread tightened in my belly. My future flashed in front of me—which was really an empty black hole, because now I had no future. Pike Warner would never let me work for them again—even after my irregularities-investigation-pending problem was cleared up—if they knew I was the prime suspect in a murder investigation. Especially an investigation that involved one of their longtime, wealthy clients. Pike Warner was huge on reputation. They’d tolerate nothing that tarnished their carefully perfected image.
“I had nothing to do with Richard’s murder. All I did was find him dead in the stockroom,” I told Jack. “Damn. Next time I find a dead body somewhere, I’m just walking away. Let somebody else find it.”
Okay, that made no sense but, hopefully, it was just the Oreos, Snickers, and beer, and I hadn’t burned out some important brain cells with chocolate overload.
“That dumb-ass old fart of a detective is trying to railroad me just so he can retire with a clean desk,” I said. Then, because my suspense factor is really low, I asked, “Did you mention my name in your report to Pike Warner?”
Jack gave me a little grin. “Discretion works one way—mine.”
Wow. That was a relief.
“I’m keeping you out of it,” Jack said. “For now.”
“For now” had to last as long as it took for me to find Richard’s murderer, if I ever hoped to have my old life back. And I was getting that life back.
“I guess it has something to do with this?” Jack asked as he pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket.
The addresses I’d asked for. Jeanette’s home. Its location could prove—or disprove—my suspicion that she murdered Richard.
Of course, Ty’s address would be written on there too. And Sarah’s. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see that.
But I took the paper anyway and unfolded it. Only Jeanette’s info was listed. I figured that was because, as the store manager, she had to be on call twenty-four/ seven for any problems that arose. Ty and Sarah, further up the corporate food chain, didn’t. Plus, they wouldn’t want anyone with access to the store directory to have their info and just drop by their place.
“The other numbers were for the corporate offices?” I asked Jack, just to be sure.
He nodded. “Should have their personal info first thing Monday.”
So I’d have to wait the whole weekend to find out if Ty and Sarah were living together. Great.
I looked at Jeanette’s address and my belly did a little flip. Stevenson Ranch. It was an upscale community just west of Valencia, close to the Holt’s store. But “close” in California doesn’t mean much. Here, distance is measured in time. Traffic flow—actually, the lack of it—determines drive-time.
“Want to check it out?” Jack asked, gesturing to the paper with his beer bottle.
Why not? It beat the heck out of me sitting here alone. And I could do without the last dozen or so Oreos and Snickers bars left in the bags.
I changed into jeans and a dark sweater—which was kind of weird, with Jack waiting in the other room—and debated on which handbag would be appropriate for a covert op. I finally decided on a black Marc Jacobs satchel. If it worked well for me tonight, maybe I’d write them a letter, let them know. Maybe they could use it in their advertising.
See? I have a sense of marketing, just like Sarah Covington. And I’m doing it without a Louis Vuitton organizer.
“I’ll get the direction off MapQuest,” I said to Jack when I came back into the living room.
“Got it covered,” he told me.
We finished our beers and I dropped the bottles in the kitchen trash. Jack waited at the front door.
“Listen, Jack, I don’t expect you to do it for free,” I said, though I’d have to wait for my GSB&T credit card to arrive before I could pay him.
Jack eased a little closer. “Who said I was doing it free?”
The Barry White voice again. I got that warm shiver once more that, somehow, froze me in place.
“I’ll tell you what sort of payment I want.” He angled his body closer. “And when I want it.”
Oh my God….
CHAPTER 17
Jack and I just stood there for a few seconds, him looking sexy and hot, and me looking, I feared, like a dork.
Was he going to kiss me? Take me in his arms? Head back to my bedroom?
Every time I’d seen Jack in the office building at Pike Warner, even when he’d caught me vacuuming the floor at Holt’s, I’d sensed this heat between us. But now that the moment was here, I wasn’t so sure.
He must have sensed it—or maybe my radar was way off—because he walked out the door ahead of me. I fumbled with locking the door, and followed.
His Range Rover—I guess private investigation paid pretty well—waited in the parking lot outside my building. It was dark now, the security lights were on, and they reflected nicely off the gleaming black paint job.
We got in and I saw that he had a navigation system. Jack punched in Jeanette’s address and we took off. He was in private investigator mode now. Maybe it was for the best.
“What’s the connection with this Avery woman?” he asked.
I gave him a rundown of my suspicion about Jeanette’s involvement with Richard’s murder. He listened, but when I was finished, he didn’t say anything. I’d hoped he’d give me some feedback—that I was either nuts or on to something—but he didn’t. I’d like to have some of the info he’d garnered from his friends-in-low-places who’d divulged the official police insider stuff on the murder investigation, but he didn’t offer that either. I guess Jack didn’t trust me yet with everything he knew.
The route plotted out by the Range Rover’s navigation system took us past the Holt’s store in Santa Clarita, through the city itself, across the 5 freeway overpass, and into Stevenson Ranch, a master-planned community covering thousands of acres. We wound through the foothills, through tracts of homes, to Jeanette Avery’s house.
Jack slowed, but didn’t stop.
Hers was one of the smaller models, but still expensive, appropriate for a store manager who easily pulled down a hundred and fifty thousand annually, not including bonuses, benefits and other perks. All the motive Jeanette needed, I figured, to kill Richard, if he was after her job.
“Thirty minutes from the store to here,” Jack said, as he circled the block. “It fits.”
Plenty of time for Jeanette to kill Richard, then get back home in time to receive my call, giving her the bad news.
My belly ached a little. I thought this would make me happy, but it didn’t.
Jack made another circuit around the b
lock and I looked at Jeanette’s house again. Several cars were parked at the curb. Lights were on downstairs. I wondered if her kids and grandkids were there for Thanksgiving dinner. I wondered what they’d do next year, if Jeanette was in prison.
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” Jack said, driving out of the subdivision.
“But no evidence,” I said.
The police could find the evidence. I could call Detective Shuman, tell him what I’d learned and let him take it from there. But without something concrete, something more than suspicion, I was no better than Detective Madison when he’d decided I was a suspect. I couldn’t do that to Jeanette. I couldn’t do that to anybody—well, okay, maybe Rita—until I had something more.
But how would I get it?
“Think she could have done it?” Jack asked. “Physically, I mean.”
I thought about it for a minute. Jeanette was in her fifties, shaped like a cylinder, and probably not very strong. But it wouldn’t take much strength to swing one of those U-boat bars.
“Yeah, I think she could,” I said.
“What about—”
Jack fished his vibrating cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He listened for a while, then closed it and glanced at me.
“I’ve got some business to take care of,” he said.
Jack’s eyes burned with a new kind of passion. Intense. Like something was going down.
“Cool,” I said. “What’s up? A case you’re on?”
Jack flipped a U and headed back toward the 5 freeway. “Grab that briefcase out of the back, will you?”
I pulled it onto my lap and snapped it open. The smell of rich leather floated up. Inside was—wow, cool!—a handgun, a camera, and some file folders.
“Hasselhoff,” he said.
“David Hasselhoff? The actor?” Hey, this was getting cooler by the minute.
Jack shook his head. “Aaron Hasselhoff. Claims to be the actor’s brother. Uses the name to work his way into the lives of lonely, rich women. Then takes them for what he can, and moves on.”
“What a dick,” I said.
“Most of the women are too embarrassed to come forward, but he ran into some rich old broad in Laguna Beach who wouldn’t play his game. Now he’s claiming he fell at her house. Ruined his back. Can’t work anymore. Suing her for millions.”
“And Pike Warner is handling her case?”
Jack hesitated a minute. “I do a little freelance work, on the side. Court date’s Monday.”
I figured Jack had just been handed this case and was expected to pull off a miracle, or he’d worked it for a while with no results. Either way, time was critical and his reputation—along with that rich old woman’s millions—were on the line.
“So, what’s the deal?” I asked, pulling the Hasselhoff folder out of the briefcase.
“Just got a call from a contact that he’s at a bar down on Sunset.”
Jack’s got contacts. Wow, this is so cool.
“The address is in the folder,” he said. “Find it for me, will you?”
“You’re trying to get a picture of him dancing on a table, or something that proves he’s not injured?” I asked.
This is way better than Thanksgiving dinner at Mom’s.
“The guy’s a pro. Figures somebody is after him. He’s careful. I haven’t been able to find where he lives, or who he’s shacking up with. Nothing.”
We were on the 5 now, going south toward L.A. Not a lot of cars were on the freeway tonight; most people were still at home, I figured, too stuffed with turkey to go anywhere.
I opened the Hasselhoff folder. There was a typed report, then handwritten notes that Jack, I suppose, had made. I found the address of the bar on Sunset and read it off.
Then I checked out the guy’s photo. It looked like a posed shot of friends gathered, only everyone else had been cropped out. Hasselhoff was smiling at the camera in full color. Late thirties, I figured, with brown hair and a cheesy mustache. He looked like an ’80s porn star.
Except—
“Stop. Turn around,” I said. “You’re wasting your time.”
Jack cut his gaze to me.
“I know this guy.”
My cell phone rang, waking me from a deep sleep. I opened one eye. Still dark. Jeez, what time was it?
I squinted at the phone. Four thirty-two. In the morning? Who the hell was calling me at this hour?
The phone kept ringing.
I pushed my hair back over my shoulder and flipped open the phone. I meant to say “hello” but nothing came out.
Not that it mattered.
“Haley! Where are you, girlfriend!”
I winced and eased the phone away from my ear a bit. “Bella?”
“Get your skinny white ass down here! Now!”
Okay, obviously I’d missed something.
“What—what’s going on?” I managed to ask.
“You’re supposed to be at work!” Bella shouted.
Then everything came rushing back. It was the Friday after Thanksgiving. The biggest shopping day of the year. Holt’s would open in twenty-five minutes and I was supposed to already be there.
Except that I quit. Yesterday. I’d tendered my resignation, so to speak, by screaming at Ty Cameron in the parking lot. I guess word hadn’t gotten around the store yet.
I hoped Rita didn’t hurt anyone when she got the news and did cartwheels through the aisles.
“You got to get down here, girl!” Bella yelled. “Now!”
“Look, Bella,” I said. “Something happened. I’m not—”
“I don’t care who you’re in bed with, girl!”
I looked around at my empty bed. Just me. No Jack. He’d walked me to my door last night, then gone on his way.
“It’s not that,” I said. I liked Bella, and I wished I didn’t have to tell her like this. “It’s just that—”
“Listen up,” Bella told me. “I got four words for you: Lou Eee Va Ton. It’s here! In Holt’s!”
Lou Eee Va Ton? What was she talking about? What was Lou—
I bolted straight up in the bed.
“Louis Vuitton?” I asked, my heart suddenly racing. “Louis Vuitton? At Holt’s?”
“Right here in the store. It’s the surprise Christmas merchandise. Every kind of fancy handbag you can think of.”
“Are they—” I couldn’t say the words. I was so afraid the answer would be “no” that I could barely bring myself to speak.
I forced myself. “And they’re real?”
“Hell yeah, they’re real. None of that fake shit. This is the good stuff,” Bella told me. “You’ve got to get down here! Craig is handing them out to the employees like candy—at cost!”
“Cost?”
I sprang out of bed, caught my ankle in the covers, and hopped on one foot to the closet, dragging the quilt with me.
“Hurry!” Bella told me. “Management is getting as many as they want, but us peons can only get two. You’d better get down here before they’re all gone!”
“I’ll be right there!” I shouted into the phone, then tossed it over my shoulder.
Oh my God. Designer handbags? And Craig was letting employees buy them at cost?
That Craig, he’s a great guy. I always liked him.
I pulled khaki pants off the hanger. I had to get there.
I glanced at my clock. Twenty-five minutes until the store opens. Twenty-five minutes until those hordes of crazed, after-Thanksgiving shoppers descend on the accessories department, and the designer bags disappear like a grain field beneath a swarm of locusts.
I yanked a black T-shirt out of the closet.
This is too good to be true. Too good!
But I don’t have a second to spare. Forget taking a shower—I’ll double up on the cologne. I can dress in four minutes (my personal best is two minutes, but that was back in high school when Bobby Holland’s mom came home early). Twist my hair into a bun on the way to the car. Put on makeup as I back out o
f my garage. Drive to the store in seven minutes, six if I run the light at the corner.
Plenty of time.
I’ll get to the store ahead of the shoppers and before the other employees—
Wait. I’m not an employee.
Oh my God. I’m not an employee. I quit. Yesterday.
I slapped my hand against my forehead. “Noooo!”
Shoppers were three and four deep in a line that stretched the width of the store, then disappeared around the corner. The parking lot was jammed. It was still dark. Security lights were on. I whipped into a spot and sprinted to the front door.
The crowd undulated as everyone turned to look at me. They checked their watches. Only a few minutes until the store opened. Some of them glared at me thinking, I’m sure, that I intended to cut in front of the line.
I waved my lanyard with my Holt’s name badge—thank God I hadn’t thrown it in Ty’s face yesterday—and rushed to the door.
Rita stood inside, holding the key. She crossed her arms and looked at me, then pointedly gazed at her wristwatch.
I hate that bitch.
Taking her sweet time, and just before I was ready to rip the door off the hinges, she turned the key and opened the door. I dashed inside.
“You’re late.”
“No, I think everybody else was early,” I shot back.
“You didn’t punch out yesterday,” Rita told me. “You can’t punch in this morning until you get your time card cleared from yesterday. That means you have to—”
“I know what it means,” I snapped and took off.
Okay, I didn’t really know what it meant. Something about having a supervisor sign off on the time card. But I didn’t care about that.
I jogged past the checkout registers. They were fully manned, cashiers at the ready. Bella hooted as I ran past.
I skidded to a stop at the accessories department, frozen in humble reverence in front of the newly installed display cases, stuffed to the hilt with gorgeous, designer handbags.
Coach. Dior. Chanel. Ferragamo. Betsey Johnson. Marc Jacobs, and more. And there, in their own private case, were the Louis Vuitton bags.
I walked forward slowly and laid my palms on the glass.
Handbags and Homicide Page 16