"Finding the body is close enough in my book."
Mike couldn't resist. “Then change your reading matter. She's a lawyer, not a murderer."
"'Pears to me, she's a little hard on the men she dumps. I'd watch my back, if I was you.” Bauer bent over and erupted with a belly laugh. Always obsequious, the Tweedles added their raucous guffaws to the sheriff's.
Folding his arms across his chest, Mike waited for the three men to grow tired of their asinine behavior. Heaven knew he had.
Pissed at their fumbling efforts, Mike threw up his hands in disgust. “Are you going to investigate or not? There's a dead man at our feet. Shall I call in a state investigator?"
Bauer straightened up, nearly choking with rage. “If and when I need help, I'll ask for it. Right now, it's cut and dried.” He rubbed his hands together. “I'm gonna arrest your girlfriend. Should take me ‘bout five minutes."
Mike clenched his jaw and eyeballed Bauer. “You wouldn't know a genuine clue if it bit you on the ass and gave you a business card."
"Whoa, boy!” the sheriff shouted, but stepped back. “I can see my deputies are gonna have to teach you some respect."
Tweedle-dumb, who Mike was convinced had only an IQ point or two more than his twin, spoke up. “Yeah. That ain't no way—"
"Shut up, Dwayne,” Bauer barked. Tweedle-dumb shrugged and backed down.
"Well, Sheriff?"
"Well, what?"
"Have you called the M.E.? I shouldn't have to remind you, this is a murder scene. You've screwed around so long the real murderer's had time enough to escape."
A canny smile spread across Bauer's face. “I already got my murderer. And she ain't going nowhere—'cept to my jail.” He guffawed, bent over and slapped his knee. “And I don't think she's going to find the accommodations to her liking."
Mike turned away in disgust. “Have at it, Bauer. I'm washing my hands of you and your Keystone Kops investigation."
"I know you think you're smarter ‘cause you went to an Ivy League school and all, but I've been doing this since before your daddy crawled between your momma's legs."
Twenty-eight
Breathless and knees trembling, Gwyneth led Detective McKenzie upstairs. “My room is right here.” She opened the door and walked across the threshold.
McKenzie followed Gwyneth inside. “I have to stay with you, sorry."
Gwyneth nodded. “It's all right. I know you have a job to do.” Reaching behind her back, she wriggled the zipper of her gown.
"Need some help?” the detective offered.
Gwyneth shook her head. “Thanks. I can get it.” Sliding the zipper down, she let the dress fall to the floor. The lacy undies she'd donned earlier in the evening, hoping that Mike would be pleased, suddenly seemed tawdry.
The detective held out her hand for the dress, but to Gwyneth's relief, averted her gaze. “I need the rest, too.” McKenzie placed the blood-streaked dress into a brown-paper evidence bag and started labeling it.
Gwyneth's mouth dropped open. She swallowed hard, desperate for some moisture. “S-sure. I—uh...” She walked over to an armoire, opened the door and pulled out the lingerie drawer. Big, white cotton panties seemed more appropriate for going to jail—not that she'd brought any with her. Not that she even owned a pair of the monstrosities her mother used to wear. She pulled out the most decorous panties and bra she'd brought. “Do I have to change right in front of you?"
"Sorry."
Turning her back to McKenzie, Gwyneth quickly slipped out of her underwear, letting them drop to the floor, then just as quickly redressed, pulling on a pair of khaki slacks. As she slipped her arms into a cream-colored silk blouse, she told the detective, “I just wish the sheriff were more interested in finding the real killer than in blaming me."
A wry grin quirked one corner of McKenzie's mouth. “The sheriff hates intelligent women. Maybe if you were a little more—"
"Blonde?” Gwyneth suggested. “Meek and mild? Not likely."
"I didn't think so.” The detective shrugged.
Buttoning her blouse, Gwyneth snorted. “I guess that works both ways. He didn't seem to be one of your fans either."
McKenzie gave a short bark of laughter. “You're very perceptive."
Hands on hips, Gwyneth narrowed her gaze at the other woman. “On the other hand, it could be that he's the bad cop, and you're the good cop."
"You really do know how it works,” McKenzie acknowledged.
"I worked in the DA's office for a couple of years."
"That's a big switch, from prosecuting the bad guys to defending them."
"The way I see it, I'm still going after the bad guys. Most of my clients are abused women. I help them get their freedom."
"Can't be much money in that."
Gwyneth shrugged. “There isn't."
"Nice. You must be a trust-fund brat."
"'Fraid so.” Gwyneth smoothed the slacks over her hips, then looked down at her hands. Blood. She didn't remember touching Richard. Maybe she had after all. “May I wash?"
Detective McKenzie crossed the room and grabbed Gwyneth's hands. “Wait. There's DNA evidence here. I have to take a sample."
She gritted her teeth while the detective bent over and pulled an evidence kit from her briefcase. McKenzie swabbed the bloody specks from her hands, then scraped under her nails.
"I scratched him,” Gwyneth explained, “when he came at me out front."
"You do remember that anything you say can be used against you, don't you?"
"But I did scratch him, defending myself. I didn't kill him."
* * * *
On his way back to the house, Mike met Marina running toward him.
"You've got to do something. The sheriff arrested Gwyneth, and he's going to take her to jail."
Mike lengthened his stride into a discreet jog. He had to see Gwyn before they took her away.
He found her standing in the hall with a female officer, who didn't look much happier than Gwyn. He looked at the officer's name tag: Detective McKenzie. “Any relation to Robson McKenzie?"
"Just my big brother. You know ‘im or run afoul of the law?"
Mike grinned. “Once, when I was a kid, I spent an entire summer here. I bloodied his nose for making fun of my accent. But that didn't keep him from showing me the best places to fish."
Gwyn heaved an exasperated sigh. “I hate to interfere with old home week, but—"
"May we have a moment, Detective McKenzie?"
"Sure, I'm in no hurry."
"Thank you.” Mike pulled Gwyn into his arms. She felt so slight. He wondered if she were strong enough to withstand the rigors of Powatchee County's jail. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest. “It's going to be all right."
"Will you call Uncle Wil?"
"I will. I'll bail you out."
"The charge is murder, Mike. I doubt they'll grant bail."
"My father has contacts. He'll help.” Under normal circumstances, Mike wouldn't ask his father for spit, but for Gwyn, he'd swallow his pride and beg if he had to. Surely the old man wouldn't refuse.
"You'd ask him? For me?"
Gazing into the bluest eyes he'd ever seen—eyes filled with tears—he admitted, “I'll do anything for you. Don't you know that by now?"
Her eyes never left his, but her bottom lip trembled. “Thank you.” One hand splayed down his chest, and the other slid behind his neck, tweaking a wave of hair. “You need a haircut."
"I need a lot of things.” He grinned down at her. “But a haircut isn't even on the list."
Her pupils dilated as she pressed against him. “I know what's on your mind,” she whispered.
Mike's heart slammed in his chest. Passion fought with fear—fear won. He feared for her safety and that she would be railroaded. What if he couldn't find Klein's killer?
Dammit. Pull yourself together, man. He'd have to solve the murder himself since the sheriff was so damned determined to pin it on Gwyn.
"Thanks.” He turned back to Gwyneth. “I'll be there as soon as I've talked to my father,” he assured her. Then he turned to McKenzie. “Jail still in the same place?"
McKenzie raised an eyebrow. “You know where it is?"
"Oh yeah. Spent one very long night there."
"I just bet you did."
Taking a deep breath, he tried to keep his tone light. “Counselor, I know I can depend on your good behavior until I get there."
"It's not my first day at school, Mike. It's jail.” Her body trembled in his arms; his woman was clearly reluctant to leave him.
"And you mean to tell me you've never been jailed for contempt of court? They do that all the time on TV."
A glimmer of a smile played about her lips. “I'm not a wild-eyed defense attorney."
"I know. I just wish I'd seen you in action. I bet you're glorious."
"I am.” Gwyn's attempt to keep it light failed. She sniffed and rested her head on his shoulder. “Just hurry."
Mike took her head tenderly between his hands and kissed her. Lord, she had the softest lips. “I love you,” he whispered.
"Detective McKenzie.” Sheriff Bauer stomped into the foyer, his face red and angry. “What the hell are you doin', lettin’ these two lollygag around? Get your skinny ass down to the jail and take this murderer with you."
That did it. Mike whirled around and punched Bauer in the nose and followed with one in the gut for good measure.
Doubled over, coughing and spitting, Bauer screamed, “You're under arrest too, Carlton."
One of the Tweedle twins, Mike wasn't sure which, whacked him over the head with his come-along. As he lost consciousness, he heard Gwyn crying and McKenzie's wry, “Cell for two, anyone?"
* * * *
Gwyneth sank to her knees beside Mike. “He needs a doctor!” she yelled, while she surveyed the guests who'd gathered like a group of vultures to watch the excitement. Surely one of them carried a little black bag.
She touched his cheek, her fingers barely grazing his tanned skin. Oh, God, what if that idiot deputy had hit Mike too hard?
"On your way, McKenzie,” the sheriff growled, “before Florence Nightingale here starts givin’ mouth-to-mouth."
"Miss Wells,” the detective prompted, tapping Gwyneth on her shoulder, “we have to go."
She looked up at the detective, pleading, “But I—he needs me.” She'd never forgive herself if ... No, she wouldn't allow negative thoughts to confuse the situation. Mike just had a concussion—like she'd had after being attacked. He'd be all right. He had to be.
Slowly she stood up, looking around for help. “Please, can't someone help him?"
A woman with a head full of wild, curly hair pushed her way through the guests gathered around Mike. “I'm a doctor. I'll have a look at him."
A flash of jealousy swept through Gwyneth as the doctor knelt on the floor beside Mike. The doctor's pretty face, not Gwyn's, would be the first thing he would see when he regained consciousness. Then just as rapidly, remorse set it. How could she be so trivial when Mike was still unconscious?
"Thank you, Doctor—"
"Morgan.” The doctor paused long enough to give Gwyneth a smile. “His pulse is strong. I think he'll be all right."
"Good,” shouted Bauer. “Now haul his butt outta here and down to the jail."
The good doctor jumped to her feet, her face red with anger. “Sheriff, this man's not going to jail. He's going to the hospital."
Detective McKenzie leaned forward and whispered in Gwyneth's ear, “See? He's in good hands."
Her heart full of mixed emotions, Gwyneth allowed the detective to lead her outside. In the distance, she heard George Carlton's gruff voice. “Hold on, Sheriff Bauer. Let's go in my study. We need to have a little talk."
Gwyneth glanced at the crowd of guests. Quickly they'd turned their backs, and here she was alone and alarmed—unless she counted Detective McKenzie and that despicable sheriff.
She'd come to depend on Mike so quickly. How could that have happened? She stiffened her spine. She'd just manage without him or his father's high-handed manipulations. She didn't need an old CIA agent—or whatever the hell he was—smoothing the way for her. She was innocent. Dammit.
* * * *
"Ugh,” Mike groaned. An elephant had to be sitting on his head. Nothing else could cause that much pain. He tried opening his eyes, but they felt better shut. Besides, everyone had halos, and he knew damn well he wasn't in Heaven.
Gwyn. He forced himself to open his eyes and tried to sit up.
"Lie still,” a woman's soft voice ordered him.
"Can't. Things to do. People to see.” He sank back to the floor. Sitting up wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
"No, you don't,” she insisted.
"Michael, please do as Doctor Morgan says.” His mother's voice invaded his consciousness. “Your father's calling Gwyneth's uncle as we speak."
"And I'm under arrest.” He looked around for Bauer and his henchmen.
"If I remember correctly, that's why you were arrested the first time,” his mother reminded him. “You really must learn to control your temper."
"Whatever.” He rubbed the back of his head where he found a lump the size of a California Condor egg. “Wasn't really arrested. Just detained until I cooled off."
"Anyway, your father has placated that detestable man, Sheriff Bauer, and you're no longer under arrest."
"Nothing like power and influence to placate the sheriff.” Mike sat up and wished he hadn't. Damned room spun like a Tilt-a-Whirl. “I've got to find Klein's killer."
"Let the authorities handle it, son."
"Yeah, right. Leave it to Bauer, and I'll be visiting Gwyn on weekends.” He struggled to his feet, accepting Rocky's hand. The crazed amusement park ride intensified, but it cleared after a minute. “I'll make a couple of calls. Then I'm going after Gwyn."
Rocky placed a hand on his shoulder. “You're not in any condition to drive. I'll go with you. You can make your calls from the car."
"Good enough."
"Mr. Carlton, you've had a concussion,” the pretty doctor warned. “You need to go to the ER."
"Not this time. Don't worry. I've got a hard head."
* * * *
While Rocky drove, Mike rang Sid's home number, hoping like hell the young detective-wannabe hadn't gone clubbing.
After a single ring, Sid answered, “Yeah, make it quick. I'm on my way out."
"Sorry to ruin your night. I need you to hop on the first plane to DC. I'll have someone pick you up at the airport."
"Just like that? Hop on a plane? That takes cash."
"I'll give you my credit card number."
"No need. I know it already."
"Figures. We'll discuss that later. Just get down here. Bring your best toys. I need a lot of help."
"Great!” Sid's tone was full of excitement. “At last, a chance to do some real detective work. What are we dealing with? Breaking and entering? Jewel heist?"
"For a start, I need access to AFIS. There's been a murder, and they've arrested Gwyneth."
"You're shittin’ me, right?"
"Wrong. Gotta go. I on my way to bail her out—if I can."
His eyes on the road, Rocky asked, “Who's Sid?"
"My assistant. He performs magic with computers and wants to be a real P.I.,” Mike drawled.
"All that glamour, huh?"
"Sure. Lots of glamour to go around.” Mike gingerly touched the back of his head again. No, this wasn't his first concussion—just the first in Gwyn's honor. Somehow, he doubted it would be the last.
Twenty-nine
Reggie Gruhn held his cellular out from his ear. His boss and uncle, Gianni Damico, was in fine voice. “What the fuck are you doing?"
> He cringed, wondering if his uncle would ever learn from Don Corleone's sotto voce style.
"Have you found where that bitch of a lawyer stashed my wife or not?"
"W-well, to tell the truth, things are rather bollixed up, if you know what I mean."
"Hell, no, I don't care about bollixes. I want results. And if you can't give me what I want, then I'll send someone who can."
Reggie took a deep breath, then blurted it out. “There's been a murder."
"You killed her?” Damico's voice thundered through the mobile phone. “You idiot!"
"N-no."
Again, Reggie held the phone away from his ear as his boss of bosses ranted. “That's just great. Now I'll never know where Sylvia is. What about Klein? Has he worked that girlfriend?"
"That's just it. Klein's dead. Someone put a bit of a vent in his back—right between the old shoulder blades."
Silence.
Not that he wasn't grateful for a little silence. But that meant Uncle Gianni was thinking, and in Reggie's experience, thinking wasn't boss-uncle's strong point. Oh, for the subtlety of a Michael Corleone—now there was a real Don. Gianni Damico was more like Sonny Corleone—big on muscle and a bit dainty on cerebral capacity.
"So, who did it?” His uncle's desperate tone rasped through the line like a rat hitting an electrical fence
"You'll like this, really you will. Miss Wells has been put in nick."
"In nick?"
"She's in Old Bill's hands."
"Old Bill—who's that?"
"Old Bill means jail.” You twit. If he only had the nerve to say what he really thought. Then again, better not. His shoulders twitched with a sudden dose of reality. Boss-uncle would have someone venting Reggie's head with one of those lead suppositories his thugs were so fond of using.
"Dammit. Why didn't you say so? Speak American. Did she do it?"
"Don't know, but she found the body and—"
"I get the picture."
"I thought I might help the authorities with their investigation."
"Yeah? And why would you do that?"
Bugger, but the man was stupid. “You'll see,” Reggie promised.
The Man For The Job Page 18