5 Bargain Hunting

by Rhonda Pollero

  “Hopefully it won’t be a regular thing.”

  “One thirty at the station.”

  “Okay.”

  “And bring your little tape recorder. That was a nice touch.”

  “Thanks.”

  I felt better after he left. His anger seemed to have dissipated for the most part, and thanks probably to Becky, he’d heard of my devoted night at my desk. I was reveling in the glow of a compliment when my intercom buzzed.

  “Line two for you,” Margaret said. She could have at least told me who was calling, but no, she had to be a snot.

  “Finley Tanner.”

  “So you’re finally reachable.”

  Reveling officially over. My mother’s tone dripped disapproval. “Good morning, Mom.”

  “What if the story about your seedy date goes national?” she asked without preamble.

  “Liam isn’t seedy and he was a victim in the case, not the perpetrator.”

  “But they called him a person of interest on the news. What if your sister’s new family gets wind of this?”

  “It’s not a problem, Mom.”

  “Everything with you is a problem, Finley.”

  “Sorry to be such a disappointment.”

  “Did I say that?” she asked in a huff. “I’m simply pointing out that unlike your sister, you seem intent on bringing attention to yourself. Negative attention.”

  “Then we have a lot in common.”

  “That was uncalled for. I’m only thinking of your best interests.”

  Yeah, right. Sometimes it is better to surrender than to fight on. I tried to muster some submission. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a ton of work to do. Maybe you could call and berate me later.” Okay, so I was only partially successful.

  “Obviously you don’t care about my opinion or my standing in this community. How am I supposed to explain you cavorting with criminals?”

  “Liam isn’t a criminal and we aren’t cavorting.”

  “I have eyes, Finley, and I’ve seen the two of you together. Why couldn’t you just stay with Patrick? He was such a gentleman.”

  And a bastard. “Mom, I’ve got another call,” I lied in tribute to my crappy ex-boyfriend.

  “I’m afraid we won’t be able to have brunch on Sunday.”

  If this was my punishment, I was all in. “That’s a shame.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “I just told you I have another call.”

  “Fine. Don’t care what’s happening in my life.” Click.

  I stared at the receiver for a few seconds, then placed it on the cradle. It took me only an hour to finish the abstracts, so I decided to make my life easy and do some housekeeping on the Lawson estate. In no time my printer was spitting out letters to various financial institutions so Mrs. Lawson could have complete control over the seven million little friends she was about to inherit. I also drafted letters for the disinherited, leaving spaces for the names and addresses once they were provided by Joseph. That left me with a half hour before I had to leave for the Riviera Beach Sheriff’s Office.

  I started a search on the late Stan Cain, which, thanks to all the database subscriptions at my fingertips, was a pretty easy thing to accomplish. Cain had married his college girlfriend and settled back in Palm Beach County. He had been a decorated deputy who’d achieved the rank of sergeant. The Cains had two children, just as Ashley had said.

  I stopped reading for a minute and glanced at my phone. I wanted to call Liam, but I was afraid. Afraid that Ashley was with him. It would be like her to spend the night at his side, and it was in keeping with Liam’s MO to let her. For months I’d been torn between my curiosity over Tony and my lust for Liam. Only now I was fairly sure what I was feeling was more than just lust. I used to believe that if we just slept together, it would scratch that itch and I could move on to someone less complicated. But I couldn’t ignore the jealousy factor. Or the idiot factor. As always, I was attracted to the wrong man.

  “And what do you really know about him?” I asked the air. Easy answer. Not much. Not enough and really not enough to be angsting over his relationship with his not-so-ex-wife.

  Back to Stan Cain. Getting copies of his birth certificate, marriage certificate, and work history was easy. Now I’d moved on to news articles. I found a few column inches in the Palm Beach Post regarding the accident. It wasn’t detailed, so all I could garner was that he’d had some sort of accident. I glanced at the byline. Luckily, I knew the reporter. We’d gone out a few times several years ago. He wasn’t my type, but he was very persistent. It had taken me a month to shake his incessant calls. I weighed my options. There was a chance that by making contact I’d renew his interest. But if I didn’t contact him, I’d have to go see the widow and that seemed like the worse option. Especially since I had no authority and she’d have no reason to share her pain with me.

  Justin Haller picked up the phone on the third ring.

  “Um, hi, Justin, this is Finley Tanner.”

  “Finley, it’s been awhile.” I could almost hear him grin.

  For good reason. “Yes it has. I called because, well, because I need some information on a piece you wrote about a week ago.”

  “You follow my work?”

  His “work” was mostly grunt assignments, but he thought of himself as South Florida’s version of Woodward and Bernstein. I dodged the question. “I’m working on something that is tangential to a story you did. The Stan Cain hunting accident? The deputy sheriff killed in South Carolina?”

  “Yeah. What do you need to know? And what’s in it for me?”

  “Something has to be in it for you?”

  “Sure. Like getting Tony Caprelli to return my calls. I want an interview with Liam McGarrity. Your firm does represent him, right?”

  I sighed heavily. “You know I can’t comment on clients.”

  “I know you can’t comment on privileged information, but your client list isn’t confidential. Besides, my source at the sheriff’s office already confirmed that McGarrity showed up with you and Caprelli in tow. I also know McGarrity was shot. Care to comment?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t think I can help you.”

  My stomach knotted. “C’mon, Justin.”

  “Sorry, Finney.”

  My teeth clenched. He was the only one who ever called me that and I hated it. I wasn’t big on pet names, especially from a guy I thought was a total jerk. “I’ll ask Mr. Caprelli. Good enough?”

  “For now. What do you need to know?”

  “What kind of accident did Stan Cain have?”

  “Accidentally shot himself while he was hunting in South Carolina.”

  “I read that,” I said, trying not to let my frustration bleed into my voice. “I mean, how did it happen?”

  “According to the cops in South Carolina, he was climbing into a blind when his rifle discharged. Died instantly.”

  “So it was definitely an accident?”

  “Now you sound like the widow.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  I heard papers shuffling before he said, “She was adamant that something was wrong. Said her husband always hunted with a crossbow. She didn’t even know he had a gun with him.”

  I was jotting down notes on a pad. “Was there any kind of investigation?”

  “Just cursory. Cain was hunting alone, so there were no witnesses, and rifles, unlike handguns, don’t have to be registered. The best they could do was confirm that the rifle was shipped by the manufacturer and sold at a store in Palm Beach County. Cash transaction. The receipt was made out to Cain. Like I told the widow, I couldn’t find anything hinky about the accident.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Justin. Take care.”

  “Wait!” he called into the phone. “What are you doing Saturday night?”

  “I, um, have a date.” Partially true, I had a date to meet Izzy and then we’d grab some dinner after shoe shopping.

  “Sunday?”


  “I have a standing obligation with my mother.” Again, mostly true. I usually was commanded to Sunday brunch, only not this week—but Justin the Jerk didn’t need to know that.

  “Okay,” he said, a tad defeated and totally clueless. “When will you talk to Caprelli?”

  “This afternoon,” I promised. And that was true. I’d ask Tony, but I already knew his answer. Tony never tried cases in the press and he was always discreet when it came to his clients.

  “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “Works for me.” Hope you don’t mind waiting a long, long time.

  I wrote Stan Cain’s name down, then circled it. I also wrote “accident” with a question mark. Coincidences didn’t sit well with me, so my mind began to wade into possibilities. Were José’s murder and Cain’s accident somehow connected or was I making some sort of giant leap? That was exactly the kind of question I’d discuss with Liam, only his plate was already full with the investigation into José’s death. Maybe we could discuss it after his interview with the police. Which I was going to be late for if I didn’t get moving.

  I made a travel mug of coffee to stave off hunger as I drove to Riviera Beach. I wasn’t looking forward to another round of questioning. I didn’t like seeing Liam in the hot seat. I knew all too well what that was like.

  Tony and Liam were already in the lobby when I arrived, briefcase and coffee in hand. I was glad I’d brought my own roadie; cop coffee was sludge. No wonder so many cops ate antacids. I was astonished that any of them even had stomach linings left.

  There were three other people in the lobby. One large woman sat wringing her hands and a middle-aged couple sat calm and collected. All three of them looked at me as I entered and stood next to Tony at the desk. Liam looked better, but tired. Either it was a residual drug thing still in his system or he and Ashley had spent the night chatting. It had to be chatting, I told myself. The idea of the two of them getting frisky made me a little crazy.

  A buzz sounded and the door marked NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY swung open. Wells came out and said, “This way.”

  We followed, me sandwiched between Liam and Tony. I could feel Liam’s eyes on me, but I didn’t dare return the gesture since I was afraid my eyes would give away my conflicted feelings about him. Better to be silent than stupid.

  We were shown into the same interrogation room, which was already set up with the appropriate number of chairs. Again, Liam and Tony sat across from the two-way mirror while I sat at the end of the table, taking out my recorder and a pad of paper. I’d just settled in, thinking how much more at ease everyone was without Metcalf in the room when the man himself came striding in. He had a folder in his hands that he slapped on the table before sitting in his seat.

  Metcalf’s no-name cologne was enough to make me choke. What did he do, bathe in the stuff? Like Wells, he was wearing a different suit, this one gray with a yellow shirt and matching tie. The color gave him a jaundiced cast. Conversely, Wells was wearing khaki slacks, a blue blazer, and a striped tie. He looked more like he was going to a poor man’s polo match than conducting an interview. Wells also had a softer expression. Businesslike, but without the condemnation that dripped off Metcalf’s face.

  I started my tape recorder at the same time Metcalf started the official recording. He gave the date, time, names of the people in the room, and reminded the forces that be that Liam had been read his rights and that this was a continuation of his statement in the presence of counsel. As a little dig, he added, “Also present is Mr. Caprelli’s secretary, Finley Tanner.”

  Not that there’s anything wrong with being a secretary. I actually felt sorry for them, especially the ones who worked at Dane-Lieberman. They often put in long hours, kept complex calendars, and were forced to work late at the whim of their bosses. And they had no backup.

  As much as I longed to correct him, I knew it wasn’t worth it.

  Metcalf began. “Mr. McGarrity, is it your position that when you arrived at the home of Deputy Lopez he was already deceased?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Walk me through it.”

  “We’ve already covered this.”

  Metcalf offered a humorless smile. “Humor me.”

  “I went inside, José was seated in an armchair in the family room. He’d been shot through the head. I was about to check for a pulse when I was shot by someone I can only assume was the killer.”

  “Then what?”

  Liam cursed. “I was unarmed, so I went out the back door.”

  “You were unarmed?” Metcalf challenged.

  Liam nodded.

  Metcalf got sort of a Cheshire grin on his face. “Did you touch the weapon?”

  “Yes, I picked it up off the floor for a few seconds. It fell out of my hand when the shooting started.”

  “Why not use it to protect yourself?”

  “A—the room was pretty dark, and B—I didn’t know where it fell. Plus, I didn’t see the perp. And I wasn’t about to crawl around on the floor while someone was taking potshots at me. Besides, it’s hard to exchange fire with a ghost. Leaving seemed to be the most prudent thing to do under the circumstances.”

  Metcalf opened his folder and took out a single sheet of paper. “This came in this morning. Can you explain it?”

  Liam glanced at the paper, then handed it to Tony.

  Tony then said, “He just told you he handled the gun in question. Finding his fingerprints on the weapon doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But we found only two sets of prints on the gun. McGarrity’s and Lopez’s,” Metcalf countered. “If there was a mystery shooter, why weren’t there three sets of prints on the gun?”

  “Maybe the shooter wore gloves?” Liam suggested.

  “Then we’d probably find smudges,” Metcalf claimed. “In this case, we have partials matching Deputy Lopez and a pristine set from McGarrity.”

  “Again,” Tony interjected, “Mr. McGarrity admitted he touched the gun.”

  “Then explain this,” Metcalf said as he took another sheet of paper from his file. “Deputy Lopez was killed with your gun. How do you explain that?”

  “I haven’t seen that gun in five years. I have no idea how or why it ended up at José’s place.”

  “According to this,” Metcalf said, pausing and taking yet another sheet of paper from the file, “Deputy Lopez returned the gun to you a week ago.”

  “Impossible,” Liam said. “Like I said, José and I hadn’t spoken or seen each other in years.”

  “So you’re claiming to know nothing about how the gun got from the property room to Deputy Lopez’s house with your prints still on it?”

  “I handled the barrel,” Liam said, agitation in his voice. “Other than that I never touched the gun.”

  “Is this going somewhere?” Tony asked.

  “As you can see, McGarrity’s prints are on the butt and we lifted a ten-point partial match off the trigger. That sort of positioning shows he handled the gun with his left index finger on the trigger. So, is your client going to stick to his story that he never touched the trigger?”

  Tony shoved the ballistics report back at Metcalf. “We both know you can’t time-stamp fingerprints. They very easily could have been left there years ago when the gun was in my client’s possession.”

  “Not possible,” Metcalf said. “The gun was tested for prints five years ago and it was clean. The officers on-site that night said McGarrity was wearing gloves.”

  “That was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now. I believe Sergeant Cain testified to that fact at the grand jury.”

  I wondered if Liam knew that Cain was now deceased.

  “Are you saying you never wore gloves?”

  “No, I often wore gloves. Department issue. They have special grips on them to make holding a weapon more stable.”

  “And the added bonus of leaving behind no prints.”

  “What’s your point?” Tony asked.

  “My point is, the gun was registered to you
r client. According to official reports, the gun was returned to your client by Lopez a week ago. Now suddenly that same gun is used to kill the deputy. Your client had the means, the motive, and the opportunity.”

  “You’re forgetting about the gunshot,” Tony argued. “Are you claiming that Liam shot Lopez, then turned the gun on himself?”

  Metcalf shrugged. “It’s a nothing wound. As a former officer he would know exactly where to shoot to avoid a major injury. Or he was shot by Lopez. Maybe there was a struggle for the gun.”

  “Does the autopsy report indicate Deputy Lopez was involved in a struggle before the shooting?” Tony asked.

  “Report’s not complete yet,” the previously silent Wells conceded. “That’s why it’s better for your client to come clean now before any more evidence piles up against him. Assistant State’s Attorney Garza is on his way down to take his statement. Maybe some sort of plea is appropriate. Maybe there was a struggle and the shots were fired by accident. Maybe your client got shot by accident. Maybe the bullet from Lopez’s head nicked McGarrity in the side.”

  “So what are you saying?” Liam asked. “I shot him in the head, then ran around the chair in enough time to let the bullet go through me? That’s an idiot theory.”

  Metcalf’s neck began to turn red. I knew from experience that this was not a good sign. “Then Lopez shot you, you struggled for the gun after you got shot, then returned the favor.”

  “The bullet that hit me was a through-and-through. It has to be lodged somewhere at the scene.”

  “We only recovered one slug,” Wells said. “The shot that killed Lopez was a through-and-through, too.”

  Liam raked his hands through his hair. I now recognized that as his tell. I don’t think it was nerves, more like his pissed-off-o-meter. “So we’re back to me moving faster than a bullet?”

  “Possibly. Excuse us for a minute,” Wells said, turning off the tape, then scraping the chair legs against the floor as he stood.

  Wells and Metcalf left the room.

  Liam instantly got to his feet. “I’m done with this crap,” he told Tony. “Let’s go.”

  I’d started to put my pad and tape recorder in my briefcase when the door opened. This time the detectives had a third person with them. I recognized him from television and the papers. ASA Alberto Garza was a career prosecutor with an impressive conviction rate. He was tall, maybe an inch or so shorter than Liam, with a shock of black hair and eyes so dark you couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupils began. I put him somewhere in his early fifties. I could tell by the way his suit fit that he worked out regularly, and his dark complexion was even darker due to sun exposure. This guy was definitely fit. And I sensed an inkling of something—maybe skepticism—etched in the deep lines on either side of his eyes. He smiled and it seemed genuine.