The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  The question didn't fit with the previous ones. Cossi eyed her thoughtfully and paused to think before he answered. Why? It wasn't a hard question. It was a yes or no answer.

  "Yes," he said, finally. "Rochelle and I set up the office the year we both began. Brad came next, then Brittany."

  "It's a small space. An easy place for everyday habits to become irritating. Tempers tend to flare when people have to share limited resources."

  His expression hardened and anger glinted in his eyes. "Are you accusing me of Brit's murder?"

  Was she? Until he reacted with such heat she hadn't actually thought of it. She shrugged, but didn't confirm or deny.

  Lorne Cossi chose to take her shrug as acknowledgement. His temper flared hotter. "Brittany Day was a lazy bitch who used her body and her family connections to smooth her path. She was entitled and manipulative. Worse, from my point of view, she wasn't even all that good as a mathematician."

  "Then why was she here?" Christy wasn't sure she believed Cossi, though he sounded genuinely annoyed.

  He flung himself away, turning toward the window. "Jesus Christ! Don't you get it?" he said. "She was sleeping with our fearless leader, the good Dr. Peiling. Why else?"

  Chapter 6

  "He gave me the creeps," Christy said as Quinn was chauffeuring her from the EBU campus to the closest Skytrain station. He'd wanted to drive her back to Burnaby, then return to meet with Rochelle Dasovic, but Christy had told him she was fine using public transit. The walk from the nearest station to the townhouse would do her good and give her time to think.

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel as she told him more about Lorne Cossi. "I shouldn't have left you alone with him."

  Christy shook her head. "How could you know? He looked so non-threatening when he came into the office."

  He had looked like a damned smug male on the prowl. Quinn gritted his teeth and tried to remember that Christy valued her independence. "Bradley Neale doesn't like him. I got an earful while we walked over to the lab."

  "I'm not surprised. I bet Cossi bullies him. Bradley is probably putting up with it because he has to, and because he knows that Cossi will leave eventually."

  "Stupid way to live."

  "I suppose," Christy said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw her shrug. He glanced over at her, risking a quick look despite the bumper-to-bumper traffic. She was staring straight ahead, her expression that blank mask he'd seen her use when dealing with the Jamieson trustees. He didn't consider the way Bradley Neale dealt with Lorne Cossi the same as how Christy had handled her life as the wife of the Jamieson heir, but maybe she did. Which meant that he'd hurt her. Inadvertently, sure, but that didn't mean his words hadn't stung.

  He reached over and covered her hand with his. He squeezed gently and she turned her hand so she could clasp his. The action told him she was okay, that she understood what he'd meant, even if his delivery stank. The gesture was so quiet, so intimate, that his heart did a little flip. A red light halted the heavy Broadway traffic. He turned his head so he could see her face, then he smiled at her. She smiled back. The expression lit up her eyes and eased the tension from her face. Suddenly all was right with his world.

  The light changed and they crawled forward again. "Do you think Cossi was sleeping with Brittany?" he asked.

  "Oh, yeah," Christy said. "He had that whole conceited predator thing going. Yeah, he was sleeping with her, but I don't think she was the one who did the seducing."

  "He came on to her."

  "Absolutely. I'm not sure what to think about his accusation that she was also sleeping with Peiling, though. When we talked to Peiling, I got the impression that there was something more than he was telling us, but that Brittany was his mistress? I'm not sure that was it."

  "I agree. Peiling was covering up something," Quinn said.

  The Skytrain station loomed one set of lights ahead. Christy flipped off her seatbelt, leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Drop me at the corner. I'll cross with the lights."

  He nodded.

  "See you at home." The light turned red. Quinn stopped. Christy hopped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Then she sprinted across the street to the station. He drove around the block and headed back to EBU.

  His first stop was the third-floor TA office where he hoped to find Lorne Cossi still at his desk. The door was locked and Cossi nowhere in evidence, which annoyed him. He'd wanted to let Cossi know that Christy was not only off limits, but also not without allies.

  He had an hour and a half to kill before he met with Rochelle Dasovic, so he headed to the campus library and settled down in front of a computer to do some research on Dr. Jacob Peiling. He was particularly interested in the man's scientific publications, so he dug into the university's scholarly databases to see what he could find.

  It was a profitable interlude. He discovered that Peiling had worked hard to gain status and respect, publishing paper after paper in his first few years at the university. His work had been well received, and although he was not in the forefront of his field, he was considered capable enough to be offered tenure. Once his academic position was secure, the flood of academic literature stopped. He continued to publish, but now he usually loaned his name to papers written by the students working under him, rather than producing his own work.

  Quinn also discovered that Peiling was married, had three children and was on the boards of several local charities. Putting all the data together, his research pointed to a man who had worked hard to further his career. Once he'd reached a position he was satisfied with, though, Peiling had stopped pushing, and instead had chosen to make the best of what he'd already achieved. Would a man like that risk everything by having an affair with one of his students? Quinn's gut told him no, but it also told him that Peiling had been keeping something back. If not an extra-marital affair, then what?

  He considered this as he walked across campus, but he came to no conclusion. The TA office was locked when he reached it, so he propped up the wall with his shoulder and worked his smartphone. Creative waiting was a skill he'd mastered long ago.

  It was four thirty when Rochelle Dasovic breezed down the hallway. Her steps hesitated when she saw him waiting there, but that momentary pause was the only indication she had reservations about the meeting. As he straightened, she lifted her chin and, head high, marched forward. She unlocked the door, pushing it wide, and Quinn followed her in.

  "Thanks for seeing me," he said, as she set her shoulder bag onto her desk.

  She nodded jerkily. "You wanted to talk about Brittany." She bent over her bag, removing her laptop. Her long dark hair flowed forward, hiding her features.

  "We knew her through Aaron DeBolt," Quinn said. He let the simple statement hang, wondering what kind of reaction DeBolt's name would generate in this world so very different from his own.

  "Oh, Aaron!" Rochelle tossed back her hair so it flowed over her shoulders.

  It was a coquettish movement, at odds with her no-nonsense style and clothing choices. Quinn had a sense of a woman who wished she was alluring to a wealthy playboy like DeBolt, but knew she wasn't. Pity stirred. Then he reminded himself that she was better off well away from DeBolt and everything he was.

  "Brittany loved Aaron, but he just used her." Rochelle said. Her lip rose in a sneer. "She freely gave him what everyone else had to pay for."

  Shock shivered through Quinn. There was jealousy in Rochelle's voice, and a meanness in her words he had not expected. He frowned at her, but she paid no attention as she unloaded her bag. Her heavy fall of hair slipped back over her shoulder to hide her features and disguise her expression.

  "Are you saying that Brittany sold... er... sex?" He couldn't quite disguise the dubious note in his voice. There was nothing in her background to indicate that she had ever had the need or desire to resort to taking payment for sex.

  Rochelle looked up impatiently. Her lips were pursed, her jaw tight. "Yes."

&nbs
p; Quinn scrutinized her. There was anger in her expression now and it put him on firmer ground. There was something between the two women. He just had to find out what. "That's a pretty heavy accusation. Do you have any facts to support it?"

  "What are you, the police?"

  "No." He watched her redden, her skin stained pink from her collarbone all the way up to her cheekbones. Embarrassment? But why? Because she'd identified a colleague as a hooker, or at best a call girl? Or because she'd fabricated the allegation and had no information to back it up?

  She looked away, letting her gaze drift around the room as she gestured with one hand. "Look at this place. It's tiny. We each can hear whatever the others say. There are no secrets here."

  Possibly true, but... "So what did you hear that made you think Brittany was selling her body?"

  Rochelle shrugged. She was still flushed and she couldn't meet his gaze. "It was late one afternoon. There were only the two of us here. Brittany's phone rang and I saw her glance my way, then turn so her back was to me."

  Quinn could visualize the scene as she described it. The beautiful Brittany hunching over her phone, speaking softly as she tried to keep her conversation private, while Rochelle, full of irrational resentment, listened avidly.

  "She thought I had my earbuds in, but I didn't. I'd taken them out a few minutes before because they were hurting my ears. I heard her say that she wouldn't go to his place. That he had to come to her, because she didn't like waking up in a man's bed." Rochelle's face was now scarlet. "Then she said, 'It will cost you. Yes, that's the price.'" Shuddering, Rochelle added, "I was shocked. I didn't expect it of Brittany."

  "Why?"

  "Because she was gorgeous." The words were a simple statement of fact. Quinn guessed that Brittany had the looks Rochelle always wanted, and to Rochelle's mind, Brittany had misused them. "And because she was rich. She didn't need the money and she certainly didn't need to worry about finding men."

  Quinn knew all about the heirs of very wealthy people who had no money to speak of. Frank Jamieson had been one and he'd gone to extreme measures to get his hands on ready cash. Aaron DeBolt was another. Perhaps Brittany Day suffered from the same complaint. "DeBolt did a lot of drugs. Maybe Brittany was into them too and needed more cash than she could lay her hands on in order to keep up with him."

  Rochelle's shoulders shifted again and she stared out the window past the parking lot to the gleam of ocean beyond. "Maybe. Lorne thought so. And he should know."

  An interesting way to phrase that thought. Quinn said nothing and waited for her to elaborate.

  Rochelle sat down at her desk. She flipped open her laptop, hesitated, then turned in her seat to face Quinn. "I don't like to admit this, but she went to the bathroom one day and left her phone here. A text came in while she was gone and, well, I read it."

  "What did it say?" Quinn asked. He kept his expression interested and his tone neutral. Rochelle Dasovic had been snooping and she was feeling guilty. He wanted to pry as much as he could out of her before she decided that she was doing more damage to herself than to Brittany by telling him what she'd found.

  "It was part of a whole dirty conversation. I couldn't tell who the other person was, but he—I think it was a he—was telling her what he would do to her body the next time they were together. I think he liked rough sex. And from her replies, I think Brittany liked it too."

  "What happened when she came back to the office?"

  "She saw me paging through the conversation." Rochelle's lips thinned. "She got really mad and started shouting. She became so abusive I had to leave." She set her jaw, as if she was shutting a door. She clearly wasn't going any further on that subject.

  "How was Brittany as a student?"

  "If you mean, how much did she contribute to the program, not much. She did her turn at the lab from time to time, but usually she got Brad to take her place. He's such a sap. He had the hots for her so bad he'd do anything she asked." She glanced at Quinn, then away. "Now, I'm sorry, I've got some calculations I need to work on."

  "Thanks for your time," he said.

  She nodded and settled in to her work. She didn't turn around as he left the office.

  On his way back to his car, Quinn thought about Rochelle Dasovic. Unless he missed his mark she was envious of Brittany's looks, her money, and her way with men. That envy had hardened into a nasty jealousy that influenced her interactions with Brittany and colored her perception of the other woman to the point that they'd fought, at least verbally. The question was, had her jealousy gone from dislike and open hostility to the kind of passionate anger that lead to violence?

  Chapter 7

  Christy made it back to Burnaby with time enough time to stop in at the townhouse and drop off her purse before she had to pick Noelle up from school. Unfortunately she'd forgotten that Natalie DeBolt was lunching with Ellen.

  At her house. In her kitchen. In her space.

  She was rudely reminded of Natalie's continued presence as she climbed the steps to the front door.

  She's still in there.

  Crouched in a corner of the small porch was Stormy the Cat. His body was tense and his tail lashed. He looked ready to launch himself at anything that moved. She wondered aloud if Frank was goading the cat to attack Natalie when she finally emerged from the townhouse.

  No, I'm not. Frank sounded testy. Irritated that she would even think such a thing of him.

  Like the cat she hovered on the porch, debating whether or not to go inside. She didn't have to drop her purse before picking up Noelle. She could just tromp back down the stairs and continue on to the school. She'd be a bit early, but that was okay. It would show Mrs. Morton, Noelle's prickly teacher—who still wasn't convinced that Christy was the proper person to have the care and responsibility of a child—that she was diligent and conscientious.

  Yeah, she liked that idea. Flaunt her good behavior at the same time as she avoided an encounter with one of the people she liked least in the world. She turned to head back down the steps.

  The cat bounded to its feet. Where are you going, Chris? Never mind, it doesn't matter. I'll come with you.

  Not exactly what she had in mind, but... She knelt down, opened her large, hobo-style purse and said, "Hop in."

  Stormy, who didn't like confined spaces, considered this for a moment. Then, apparently encouraged by Frank, he slowly, with picky deliberation, stepped into the bag.

  It was their mutual downfall. Christy was straightening, the purse full of cat tucked under one arm, when the door opened and Natalie DeBolt emerged. She was wearing killer heels and a flirty dress with a tight bodice that boasted a plunging neckline that exposed the tops of her breasts. A short skirt hugged a firm butt and exposed long legs. It wasn't the kind of dress Christy would have chosen for an at-home lunch with a friend, but she and Natalie rarely agreed on any subject, so she told herself not to be judgmental. Ellen followed Natalie onto the porch. Her pantsuit was a miracle of tailored elegance, from the crisply pressed slacks to the slim-fitting jacket that mimicked the cut of a man's suit. Another example of an outfit Christy wouldn't have chosen.

  Frank swore and the cat's head disappeared inside the purse. Natalie blinked, looking confused as if she wasn't sure she'd seen what she just saw.

  Ellen's mouth tightened. "That cat!"

  "Hello, Natalie," Christy said. She didn't add a polite nice to see you again because it wasn't. "Ellen, I was just on my way to pick up Noelle. I'll be back in about half an hour." She'd take Noelle and whatever friends she wanted to bring along to the park. Anything to avoid time spent with Natalie DeBolt.

  "Darling!" Natalie said effusively, with unexpected delight. "We do not see enough of you!" She leaned toward Christy, at the last minute trading her usual air kiss for an actual embrace and kiss on Christy's cheek.

  Christy stiffened and inside the purse, Stormy growled.

  Natalie pulled away to perform the same hug and cheek kiss with Ellen. "I must run, darling.
Thank you so much for lunch and showing me this quaint little house. So cute!"

  Ellen embraced her back. "Are you sure you can't stay longer, Natalie? I feel adrift out here in the suburbs."

  The fashionable sneer in Ellen's voice rubbed Christy the wrong way. "Don't worry, Ellen. Your condo will be cleaned soon, then you'll be able to return to it." She smiled the empty smile she'd perfected over the years as the wife of the Jamieson heir. Okay, she was being mean and shouldn't have said what she'd said, but she couldn't resist. If Ellen didn't like it here on Burnaby Mountain, she could always move out.

  Ellen shot her a cool glance. "I will never live in that dwelling again. Besides," she added, almost as an afterthought, "I've been traumatized. I need family around me."

  "Of course you do, darling! Have I told you how brave I think you are? Poor Brittany. Such a sweet thing. So refreshingly innocent."

  Brittany Day? The grad student into drugs and wild sex with multiple partners she had been learning about at EBU today? "Are you talking about the Brittany Day who was Aaron's girlfriend, Natalie?" Christy asked.

  Natalie's expression twisted into distress. She nodded. "Yes. She was with Aaron—thank God!—the day poor Frank... Well, anyway, she was able to reassure the police that Aaron was with her that night and not out harming Frank as he's been accused of. I don't know what will happen now. I am so afraid that Aaron will be wrongly convicted because she's gone."

  In a minute the damned woman would start to cry. Revulsion flooded Christy and urged her to get going. Then the cat's head popped out of her bag. She could feel outrage in every tense muscle and clutched the purse more tightly. As she held the cat still, intent on keeping it from leaping out of the purse, Frank's fury vibrated through the animal's body.

  Her bastard of a son helped murder me and she dares—DARES—to deny it in my house? In front of me? To my aunt? To my wife?!

  The cat's legs began to churn and he hissed. Christy held on more tightly, afraid Stormy would burst from the bag and attack Natalie the way he'd attacked Aaron just a few weeks ago during her search to prove that Frank had been murdered.