Kiss of Death

by Meryl Sawyer

  Prospective clients assumed her breasts were silicone and her naturally high cheekbones a result of implants. Liposuction must account for her trim tummy and slim thighs. Ashley merely smiled and never mentioned Mother Nature’s gifts. Instead, she encouraged the women—and a growing number of men—to use the doctors’ services.

  She was good—invaluable really—a natural-born salesperson who could persuade anyone to go under the knife without them realizing they’d been conned. After years of automatically turning on the charm in her quest for a beauty title, this was a no-brainer. Within a year her salary quadrupled based upon the number of patients who mentioned her when they signed up for cosmetic “enhancements.”

  Kah-ching!

  Ashley knew what she wanted—a husband with a successful cosmetic surgery practice. Then she could give up the parading around and convincing ugly women that surgery could improve them. She didn’t want to pitch plastic surgery all her life. She wanted her own home; she’d been on the road since childhood. She planned to take courses in interior design and decorate her own home herself. Eventually she might open a design studio, but she wasn’t sure she wanted the headaches owning a business might bring.

  Ryan Fordham had appeared at the cosmetic group—an answer to her prayers. She’d been contemplating starting an affair with an older member of the group who had a wife who could haunt a house and charge by the room. But Ryan had immediately changed her mind. He could have had his pick of beautiful women, but he was genuinely interested in her.

  They’d gone for coffee—to discuss a “spokesperson’s role” in promoting a cosmetic surgeon’s practice. After their short conversation, for reasons Ashley could never explain, she was totally in love with Ryan Fordham. She’d never been in love before, but now she knew how her mother had felt when she’d met Ashley’s father. Ashley thanked her lucky stars that Ryan was a doctor, not an electrician. If he had been, Ashley still would have loved him just the way Ashley’s mother had loved her father. Even after her father left them, her mother never looked at another man.

  She’d known when Ryan first gazed at her that he was interested. Men were so transparent. They tried to hide what they were thinking, but she could always detect their lust. It was a skill her mother had taught her before she was eight. Judges, even those evaluating little girls, had that telltale glaze in their eyes. You smiled, batted your lashes, twitched your fanny and played them to your advantage.

  The more time she spent with Ryan, the more she loved him. He was driven to be successful, which was second only to his valiant attempts to make her happy. She’d assured him she was happy; he was the man of her dreams. Still, Ashley wanted more—for him and for herself.

  If he had any drawbacks, Ryan was weak with his ex-wife. Ashley understood. It was guilt—plain and simple. The woman had sacrificed to put him through medical school. Whitney had played the martyr to the hilt, exiting the marriage, asking for nothing except a beat-up SUV and a dog. Ashley had to be careful not to appear conniving while handling this for Ryan.

  “I do have a bit of a problem,” she confessed to Preston. Even though he wanted her just like countless other men had over the years, she needed Preston as a friend. The problem with being so beautiful was that other women were jealous. Preston was her only friend and sleeping with him would ruin their relationship. More important, she would never cheat on Ryan. Still, she realized she could use sex to manipulate Preston.

  “Enough for today,” she told him. “Let’s hit the juice bar.”

  Dr. Jox had a pricey juice bar that served fresh squeezed juices and made healthy smoothies. Ashley ordered pomegranate juice because its antioxidant properties would keep her skin flawless, while Preston asked for a wheatgrass smoothie. She signed the tab for both drinks and they went outside to one of the small tables under the canopy of a towering ficus tree.

  “What’s the problem, Ashley?”

  She told him part of the story and kept the emphasis on the ex-wife who was so jealous that she was refusing to sign papers she’d already signed once. She laid it on thick about never having had a home and always being on the road. Just when she’d found her dream home, the conniving ex was determined to ruin everything.

  “There might be a way,” Preston said when she’d finished with tears studding her long eyelashes. “What does the ex value the most?”

  Ashley hadn’t a clue. Whitney was an attractive blonde with innocent green eyes, but she was nowhere near Ashley’s league. They’d never met, but Ashley had seen photographs of Whitney in an album she’d found in the trash.

  Then it hit her. The mutt. Ryan’s ex had demanded the dog. “She’s crazy about her Golden retriever.”

  “That’s the key,” Preston assured her with a confident smile. “Use the dog as leverage.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ADAM SAT ACROSS THE DESK from Jerold “Jerry” Tobin, his uncle’s attorney and executor of Calvin Hunter’s estate. The portly, balding lawyer leaned back in his swivel chair, steepled his fingers across his chest and shook his head.

  “I’m afraid Calvin’s left us with a mess. Probate could take a year at least—maybe longer.”

  How convenient. Tobin would rack up a huge bill. Judging by the pictures lining the wall, the lawyer spent countless hours on the golf course. What better way to pay for expensive greens fees than a complicated probate?

  “There may not be a lot left for you to inherit,” the lawyer told him. “It’s hard to tell at this point just what Calvin had and what he owes. I’ve brought in a forensic accountant to go over your uncle’s files.”

  “Is there any problem with me staying in the house?”

  “No. We’re paying the woman in the caretaker’s cottage to look after the place and take care of the dog. I forget her name—”

  “Whitney Marshall.” Adam wasn’t about to forget her name—or the way she’d felt beneath him last night when he’d mistaken her for a burglar. Honest to God. What had he been thinking? He’d pawed her like some horny teenager in the back of a car.

  This morning, when her ex-husband had been shaking her, Whitney had seemed vulnerable—nothing like the spitfire who’d kicked and bitten him. What kind of a prick got rough like that? It was none of his business, he reminded himself. But his mind kept drifting to her all morning.

  “I could terminate the woman—”

  “No. Don’t do that.” He didn’t want to add to Whitney’s problems. It appeared that she had enough to deal with right now. Besides, he owed her big-time for the way he’d behaved last night. “I’ll just be there until I can find a place of my own.”

  “All right. We’ll leave the arrangement as is.”

  “Did my uncle have any business partners?” Adam asked. He didn’t add that one of them might have wanted Calvin Hunter dead.

  “No. Not that I knew about.” The lawyer studied him a moment, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason why you can’t see your uncle’s file. You’re going to inherit all his assets and liabilities.”

  “Liabilities?”

  “I just warned you about Calvin’s finances,” the attorney reminded him. “Since your uncle held several properties in joint tenancy with you—”

  “Wait a minute. What are you talking about? I don’t own anything with my uncle.”

  Tobin leaned back in his chair and stared wordlessly at him for a moment. “Didn’t your father or uncle tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “When you were a minor, your uncle signed over half the house in Torrey Pines as well as two buildings in San Diego to you. They’re held in rather complicated corporations. Your father came to this office when I prepared the documents and signed them for you since you were underage.”

  “He never told me a thing.”

  For a moment Adam was shocked, then he realized what his father had been thinking. He hadn’t wanted Adam to rely on someone else’s money. He’d always pointed out how rich kids got into trou
ble and never made anything of themselves.

  Uncle Calvin had tried to pay for his education when Adam had transferred from the University of San Diego to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. Adam had refused the offer. It wasn’t just his pride; his uncle hadn’t been around much. He barely knew the man.

  Now that he thought about it, Calvin Hunter had been proud of Adam in his own way. He’d flown to New York from God-only-knew-where in Europe when Adam graduated at the top of his class at John Jay. He’d taken them out to dinner at some swank restaurant in Manhattan. Then, as usual, Calvin Hunter had flown out of their lives.

  It had been another five years before he’d heard from Calvin again. When Adam was promoted to detective, Uncle Calvin called to congratulate him. His swift promotion had been the result of hard work, but the degree from one of the most prestigious criminal justice colleges hadn’t hurt. Uncle Calvin had reminded him of this fact when he’d called. It was almost as if going to John Jay had been his uncle’s idea.

  “I can’t say for sure how bad things are until the forensic accountant conducts an audit, but you may be responsible for any outstanding debts against the property you owned jointly with your uncle.”

  Great. Just what he needed—more bills. Being deployed overseas didn’t stop car payments or the bills he’d inherited from his father. “What about the villa on Siros and the Citation?”

  “Both were leased and your uncle was behind in the payments. Same with his house here. When he died, I brought the house payments up to date. It’s a valuable asset. I didn’t want to risk foreclosure.”

  “I was under the impression my uncle was wealthy.” Adam didn’t really know or care about his uncle’s money, but his father had always said Calvin had made numerous investments, and they’d brought him a lot of money.

  “That’s what I thought, too. I worked with your uncle for years. He had a great many valuable assets.” The attorney spread his pudgy hands wide, palms up. “This…cash flow problem seems to be a recent development.”

  “What did he do with all his money?”

  “Hard to say. We’ll know more when the accountant goes over everything.” The attorney shuffled through some papers on his desk before adding, “Do you know anyone that your uncle would have given three thousand dollars in cash on the fifth of every month?”

  “No. I have no idea.” Adam thought a moment. “Maybe he used the cash himself.”

  “I don’t think so. He withdrew cash periodically from ATMs during the month, and he charged a lot to his American Express card. This monthly withdrawal has been going on for over a year.”

  “There are plenty of people—gardeners, pool cleaners, car-detailing services—who want cash so they don’t have to report it to the government.”

  “True, but I’ve accounted for those employees. I’m thinking he was giving out a lump sum each month…for some reason.”

  Adam shifted in his chair. “Are you thinking blackmail?”

  “No, no, no,” the attorney responded just a bit too quickly. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. The forensic accountant may turn up the answer.”

  ADAM’S NEXT STOP WAS the coroner’s office. He knew the assistant coroner, Samantha Waterson, from his time on the San Diego police force. The woman didn’t miss much. She handled most of the autopsies for the coroner even though he signed all the death certificates.

  “Hey, Adam. It’s great to see you,” Samantha greeted him.

  The redhead had a smile that dominated her face and almost made you overlook the spray of freckles across her nose and the smallish brown eyes magnified by round tortoiseshell glasses. “How long’s it been?”

  “Over two years.” He’d last seen Samantha at his farewell party the night before he shipped out.

  “So how was Iraq?”

  He shrugged. No sense depressing people with the truth. His National Guard unit had been sent over for what was supposed to be two years. Their stay was extended for another eight months. Even after he’d nearly been killed, Adam had been stuck at a desk job until his tour was over.

  “I stopped in to discuss the autopsy you did on my uncle.”

  “I received your message from Iraq about Calvin Hunter. I made sure I performed the autopsy myself.”

  “The cause of death is listed as a massive coronary.”

  “That’s right. His heart was in really bad shape. Don’t worry, though. He didn’t suffer. He died instantly.”

  “Is there a medication or a poison or something that could cause such a heart attack?”

  “Is that why your e-mail requested a full toxicology report?”

  He decided to level with Samantha. When he’d been on the force, she’d always helped him. Aw, hell. She’d autopsied his cases first whenever he’d asked. “I saw my uncle in Greece about two months ago. He was worried that someone might kill him.”

  “Wow! Why?”

  “He refused to say. He thought I’d be in danger if I knew too much. Then seven weeks later he keels over of a heart attack. It makes me suspicious.”

  The more he thought about his uncle’s warning, the more sense it made. In his own way Calvin Hunter had cared about him. Maybe as he aged, he missed having children and had tried to make up for it by giving Adam part of his holdings. And warning him about the danger.

  Samantha swiveled in her chair and studied the plaques and awards lining her office wall for a moment. “I assume you read the police report.”

  “I did.” He didn’t add that a buddy on the force had faxed him the info while he was still in Iraq.

  Samantha nodded thoughtfully. “An unidentified female phoned 911 and said your uncle was having a heart attack. Paramedics arrived within minutes but no one was around. They assumed someone had been passing by.”

  Adam took a deep breath. “My uncle was dead.”

  “The 911 record says the call came from your uncle’s telephone.”

  Adam nodded, wondering who the mysterious woman could have been. “Someone was in the house with him—then disappeared. He keeled over in his office upstairs. It’s impossible for a passerby to see into that room. The whole place is set too far back from the street for someone to merely be passing by and notice anything.”

  “Your uncle definitely died of a massive coronary,” Samantha assured him. “But was it induced or natural? From what I could tell, it appeared to be natural. It’ll take four to six weeks to get the tox screens back, so I won’t be positive until then. They went out two weeks ago, so it’ll be at least another two weeks before I have anything to tell you.”

  He knew toxicology reports were processed at the Fulmer Center in Santa Barbara. They performed toxicology reports for most of Southern California’s municipalities except Los Angeles, which was large enough to have its own lab.

  Adam thanked her and left, his mind on his uncle. Calvin Hunter hadn’t outwardly shown how much he’d cared—at least not in a way a growing boy would notice—but his uncle had tried to help. Now it was his turn.

  He had no intention of sitting on his ass and waiting. His gut instinct said Calvin Hunter had been murdered—just as his uncle had feared. Adam had given his word he would investigate. Nothing was stopping him. He planned to see just what his uncle had been involved in financially. That might lead him to the killer.

  “THIS IS YOUR OFFICE,” Tyler Foley told Adam.

  “Great view,” Adam responded, still in shock. Just before he’d left for Iraq, he and Tyler had barely scraped together enough money for a rat hole of an office in a run-down warehouse that had been converted to a warren of bleak little cubes.

  Tyler grinned, the same ingratiating smile that had assured him the “good cop” role when he’d worked homicide with Adam. “I guess you didn’t believe my e-mails. I told you HiTech Security was going gangbusters.”

  “I received your messages.” Adam could have said the e-mails had been the highlight of his existence, but one thing he’d already learned was that
people didn’t have a clue about how bad things were in Iraq. Death or boredom were constant companions, depending on where you were at any given moment. A message from home was heaven-sent. Tyler’s brief accounts of the progress of their fledgling company had sent his spirits soaring. It propelled him out of the hellish confines of the present into the limitless possibilities of the future.

  “Why don’t I review our accounts’ files so that I get up to speed,” suggested Adam.

  A beat of silence, then Tyler said, “I’ll have Sherry teach you how to access the accounts on the computer.”

  Adam glanced down at the chrome-and-glass desk that was pushed up against the window of his new office. A large flat-screen monitor dominated the space. Beside it was a keyboard and a telephone with buttons for several extensions.

  “You’ve gone paperless?” he asked Tyler.

  “Just about. It’s the wave of the future. Everything’s on a disc these days. You’ll learn—”

  “Not a problem,” he assured Tyler. “I had a lot of downtime in Baghdad. One of the guys was a computer guru in his real life. He taught me a lot.”

  Tyler cracked a laugh that might have sounded a bit forced; Adam wasn’t sure. “You’re probably ahead of me. Sherry handles everything. She knows where all the bodies are buried around here.”

  Tyler left Adam to “make himself at home” in his new office. Adam sat at the desk and gazed out at the Pacific. The water was calm now and appeared to be a glistening sheet of stainless steel. He felt like a third wheel. Obviously, Tyler had done exceedingly well without him.

  Where did he fit in now?

  Did he fit in at all? Anywhere?

  Well, he might be able to help grow the business even more. A receptionist, two women in the office. They could hire more people and expand, once they decided which direction to go in.