Ann Roberts - Paid in Full

by Ann Roberts

  Ari spent three more hours scrolling through newspaper articles that detailed Michael Thorndike’s career. He was a multimillionaire, most of his fortune made from his land developments. For as often as he’d been investigated, he should have had his own parking space down at the courts building. Words like ruthless, hated and unethical kept appearing on the screen. She knew, however, that the string of wronged business associates probably would account for a low turnout at the funeral and nothing more. That shortened the list of suspects greatly.

  Ari wasn’t surprised to find an entire Web site devoted to the Phoenix League, especially its hero and star, Michael Thorndike. Convinced that the downtown area could be more than office space, Thorndike had organized a group of business entrepreneurs who shared his vision. At first, everyone scoffed. During the weekdays, high priced attorneys, government employees and curious tourists filled the sidewalks, but sunset signaled the exodus, turning the area into a ghost town. Only the shadows of the homeless and the drug dealers were visible then. The ten square city blocks were the most dangerous and feared at night. It even carried the nickname “The Deuce” since no one made the mistake of coming downtown at night twice.

  Michael Thorndike vowed to change all of that. Amidst the huge glass skyscrapers, he envisioned theaters, sports facilities, shops and more restaurants than the rest of the city combined. With their own financing and some strong-arm tactics, the Phoenix League planted the seeds of urban growth. Others jumped on the bandwagon, the masses of bulldozers appeared and the investors tripled their money in two years. During the process, the homeless and some vintage businesses were unfairly displaced in the name of progress and the greater good.

  From the fifth floor of the library, Ari gazed through the huge glass windows at the League’s results. Sandwiched between the skyscrapers, Banc One Ballpark, America West Arena, and the Herberger Theatre assured Thorndike and company of a profit as throngs of people were lured downtown for sports and culture. At the corner of Fillmore and 7th Street sat the Arizona Center, Phoenix’s only outdoor mall and the home of the Phoenix League. Staring at the chrome and copper tower, Ari gathered her printouts and headed out. She didn’t have an appointment and she didn’t have any idea what she could possibly learn from walking into Thorndike’s office, but she just wanted to be closer to what represented Michael Thorndike, a person she was sure wasn’t entirely depicted in the sanitized news accounts.

  She crossed the courtyard that divided the mall from the League’s building, passing a hotdog cart. A short, wiry black man with graying hair held out a foot long dog, complete with chili, relish and onions. Red stitching across the pocket identified the vendor as “Joe,” and his grin was short a few teeth.

  “Care for a Coney?” he offered, his toothless smile expanding.

  Ari paused, her stomach pleading with her to stop for a late afternoon snack but her feet carried her forward. “I’ll be back, Joe. Save one for me.” Joe nodded, still smiling.

  The Phoenix League’s executive suites inhabited the entire top floor. Ari’s loafers sunk into the plush carpet as she stepped out of the elevator and into a small foyer. A long hallway stood between her and the receptionist, every office’s first line of defense.

  The woman didn’t notice Ari, her view obstructed by a large, black wreath on a stand and her hands busily directing the phone traffic. Ari moved in line with the wreath, trying to stay unnoticed for as long as possible. She studied the gallery of photographs along the walls. Many were aerial shots of the buildings financed by the League interspersed with photos of the partners breaking ground and shaking hands with city officials and other business gurus.

  Michael Thorndike was definitely the most attractive of the partners, his winning smile filling the frames. The hall ended and Ari found herself in front of a mammoth cherry wood desk and the young, perky receptionist. Her ruby lips formed a complimentary smile that she undoubtedly dispensed two or three dozen times a day. It was a wordless inquiry that demanded to know, “What the hell do you want?”

  Ari worked up a plausible lie. “Hello. I’m with The New Times and we were hoping for a quote from one of Mr. Thorndike’s associates.”

  Like a robot, the brunette shook her head before Ari had punctuated her sentence. “I’m sorry that won’t be possible.” Ari instantly realized she had a better chance of catching typhoid than she did getting past this receptionist.

  Feigning disappointment, Ari looked at the wreath and noticed a framed photo situated in the middle. It was an old eight-by-ten of Michael Thorndike during his college baseball days, squatting in the batter’s box. The photo was titled “Lefty.” A chord struck in Ari’s brain. She stared at the photo until a familiar voice floated out from somewhere behind the receptionist.

  “Excuse me,” Ari murmured, already heading toward the elevator. Surprised at the ease with which her refusal was met, the receptionist narrowed her brow and watched Ari depart.

  Ari pounded on the elevator button. The familiar voice belonged to Molly Nelson who was standing in front of the receptionist’s desk, speaking to a man obviously showing her out. If the detective caught her, she would probably Mirandize her, although it would almost be worth it just to spend some more time with Molly. Ari’s eyes flicked between the detective and the elevator numbers slowly counting up to reach the top floor.

  Molly was clearly trying to exit, taking a few steps away from her host, saying all of those little closing remarks that people use to end conversations. Thank goodness, Ari thought, this businessman was a talker. She heard Molly make a final good-bye just as the elevator opened. Ari pressed against the wall, frantically jamming the button for the ground floor. When the doors finally shut, Ari caught her breath. She’d narrowly escaped Molly’s wrath, but she’d found an important clue—she just didn’t know what it was.

  Heat radiated from the concrete outside. Her body adjusted from the building’s ice cold air conditioning to the sweltering summer afternoon. She retreated to the shade of the hotdog cart as Joe grinned and plopped a Coney in front of her. She stood there chomping on the dog, waiting for the confrontation that would most likely occur when Molly came out. She wasn’t going to sprint across the mall to avoid the detective. This was a public place and she had every right to be here. In fact, she found herself excited at the prospect of talking with Molly again. A few moments later, the heavy glass doors opened and Molly trudged down the sidewalk. Her shoulders were hunched and she seemed to carry the weight of the world. She headed straight for Ari.

  “Ms. Adams, what an unexpected coincidence,” Molly said sarcastically. Her eyes shifted from Ari to the confused hotdog vendor.

  “You want a Coney Island?” Ari asked between mouthfuls. “This is great, Joe.” Joe nodded, still unsure about the tension between the two women. He’d given up trying to figure out the female sex long ago. He just did what his wife told him and everything was fine.

  Molly continued her hard stare but she didn’t say no. Ari motioned to Joe who busied himself creating an edible peace offering.

  “Why are you here?” Molly’s voice was flat.

  “I’m just shopping,” Ari offered with a shrug. She paid Joe and handed Molly the hotdog and a soda. The women moved to a bench away from the mall traffic. Ari finished her last few bites and watched Molly. Even eating, her body was rigid, her jaw tense and Ari could see the strain in her neck muscles.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes,” Molly growled, her mouth chewing the last bite. She gulped the last of her drink, pitched all the trash into a nearby garbage can and leaned over Ari. “I’m telling you for the last time to stay out of my investigation. I have enough trouble without a junior detective nipping at my heels.”

  Pride prevented Ari from being truthful. She licked her lips and flashed a killer smile. “Detective, I wasn’t interfering—”

  “Jesus!” Molly exploded, backing away from the bench. “I don’t have time for this, Ari. You think you can flirt wit
h me, and I’ll let you hang me out to dry? My job is on the line here. I saw you get on the elevator and the receptionist described you perfectly, so can we cut through the shit?” Ari looked away, ashamed and embarrassed by her behavior. Molly unconsciously balled her hands into fists, yet another sign of her tension.

  “This is all a game to you! What does your father think of his daughter snooping around like some wannabe private eye? Doesn’t he worry you’ll get hurt? I would think, if anything, he would understand the potential danger, not to mention the fact that you are seriously jeopardizing my investigation.”

  It was a slap across the face in more ways than Molly could know. Ari wanted to scream that the last time she’d spoken to her father was at her mother’s funeral, three years ago. Instead, she used all of her energy to blink away the tears. Regaining her composure, she rose slowly from the bench and started to walk away.

  Molly’s breath caught in her throat. Had she seen tears in Ari’s eyes? “Ari!” Molly called, sprinting to catch up with her. “Ari, I just don’t understand why you’re doing this,” she said in a kind voice.

  “Bob is my friend,” she answered, her pace still brisk. She had to get to her car. She could handle Molly’s bitchy attitude, but when the detective was tender and compassionate, she wanted to melt.

  Still, Molly pressed on. “I know that. But is that enough of a reason to jeopardize an investigation, to get yourself in trouble? And what if he did do it? Can you really live with yourself knowing you helped a murderer?”

  “He’s not a murderer!” Ari proclaimed, suddenly stopping and facing Molly. “He didn’t do it,” Ari emphasized. “Molly, I’ve known Bob for most of my life. We have a very special relationship, and I believe in his innocence.”

  Ari’s passion touched Molly. She placed her hands gently on Ari’s shoulders before she spoke. “Then let me do my job.”

  “I will. But I can’t see Bob go to jail for something he didn’t do.”

  “Do you know where he is, Ari?” Molly asked, her eyes probing Ari’s for the truth.

  “No,” Ari answered honestly.

  “But if you did, would you tell me?” Ari hesitated and Molly shook her head. “Then I have to think I can’t trust you.”

  “I’m sorry. But you don’t get it.”

  Molly threw up her hands and sighed. They stared at each other, unable to resolve their differences. “I guess there’s nothing else to say,” Molly concluded. She turned to walk away.

  “Molly, wait,” Ari said. Molly faced her and she could see Ari was searching for words and tears were coming down her face. Finally she asked, “Have you ever owed a debt you never thought you could repay?”

  Chapter Six

  Monday, June 18

  8:16 p.m.

  If Molly needed any other reminders of her botched confrontation with Ari, the Coney Island gave her heartburn for the rest of the day. She nursed a bottle of antacid while her partner, Andre Williams, detailed his interview with Kristen Duke, Bob Watson’s employee. Molly shifted in her desk chair, absorbing Andre’s impressions of Kristen—young, rebellious and difficult to read. Andre himself was only a handful of years older than the witness, and Molly questioned his objectivity and opinions.

  She and Williams were polar opposites. Dressed in a crisp, white shirt and pressed gray pants, he looked more like a Wall Street trader than a cop. They would never bump into each other at a store since Molly doubted Andre had ever seen the inside of a Kmart, the only place she shopped. As he talked he gestured and his college ring caught her eye. The shiny gold stood out against his chocolate brown skin. She couldn’t help but feel he was shoving the ring in her face, a reminder of her lack of a college diploma. They did have one thing in common: they were the only two minority detectives in the division. Molly thought it was less than coincidental that the black man and the lesbian had been thrown together.

  “Let me get this straight,” she reviewed, more for Andre’s benefit than her own. “Kristen Duke says she was at the Speedy Copy until eight thirty.”

  Andre glanced at his notes, not wanting to misquote in front of Molly. “Right. At which time Miss Duke left Mr. Watson there and went home to a townhouse on Hardy that she shares with two other coeds.”

  Molly quickly calculated in her head. “That still left time for Watson to get back to central Phoenix and kill Thorndike. Did you interview the roommates?”

  He frowned. “No, I didn’t see the point. They aren’t the suspects.”

  “It’s called follow-through! Interview the girls tomorrow,” Molly snapped.

  Andre nodded and scribbled a reminder. He knew better than to argue with Molly. They were partners, but she was certainly more experienced.

  “I also finished canvassing the neighbors, but no one claims to have heard anything, and no one saw anything. Most everyone seemed to be out.”

  Molly shook her head, not surprised. The murder had occurred on a Saturday night, and even if anyone had heard a shot, they would have discounted it. Such was the case of city living.

  “What about Lily Watson?” she asked.

  “She was at a charity function. Several people saw her at dinner.”

  “When was dinner?”

  Andre rifled through some pages. “Six o’clock.”

  “What about after that?”

  Andre fidgeted uncomfortably and finally met Molly’s seething stare. He suddenly longed for his former life as a patrolman. “I’ll double-check,” he said. And before she could ask, he volunteered, “I also spoke with the people at the movie theater. A guy running one of the cash registers remembered the deceased’s wife, Deborah Thorndike. He even knew that she bought a large popcorn and Diet Coke.”

  Molly sighed. “Great. Nobody killed Michael Thorndike.” She closed her eyes, trying to remain patient. She’d been a rookie, too, she reminded herself. But she certainly didn’t remember being this incompetent. When Andre didn’t resume the conversation, she barked, “Don’t you have something you could be doing?” He jumped up and darted out the door.

  Molly groaned. She’d gained little from her trip downtown. There were still no leads on Bob Watson, and Deborah Thorndike had dismissed her after five minutes, claiming she was too distraught at the moment to be questioned again. All Molly had learned was that Thorndike had been at home alone working, refusing to join his wife at the movies.

  It was a crappy day, and she’d taken out her frustrations on other people, a character flaw she desperately needed to improve. Her eyes wandered to the newspaper on the desk. Michael Thorndike’s face stared at her from the front page. She’d found it on her chair earlier in the day, and Captain Ruskin had circled Thorndike’s picture several times in red marker. The message was succinct and clear.

  Molly closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Her cell phone chirped in her pocket, and she smiled when she saw the name on Caller ID.

  “Hey,” she offered casually. “Hey yourself, sis.”

  Molly sighed. Talking with her brother Brian was one of the great pleasures in life. She kicked off her flats and put her feet on the desk. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “You made the front page again. Sounds tense.”

  She grinned at Brian’s simple statement. He never sugar- coated anything and always used as few words as possible.

  “Tense is one way to describe it,” she said, her eyes scanning the antacid wrappers that littered her desk.

  “So you’re living at work again,” Brian concluded.

  Molly knew what he was really saying. Her personal life was of constant concern to Brian, and although he never nagged, she knew her drinking bothered him immensely. He’d realized long ago that her happiness was measured in shot glasses, and when she was in a good place, she drank far less.

  “So? Are you hangin’ in there? How’s your love life?”

  She knew that if she didn’t give him something, he’d hound her, and his girlfriend Lynne would try to set her up. Lynne meant well, but Molly beli
eved there should be laws about hetero women trying to set up lesbians. She thought of Ari again for the tenth time that day. “Well,” she said, “I did meet someone interesting.”

  “Really? Spill it.”

  “She’s a witness in this case. She’s the one who found the body.”

  “Geez,” Brian exclaimed. “That must have been tough.”

  “Actually, she didn’t seem that phased by it. She’s a really strong person, and I think she’s been through a lot.” Brian chuckled. “Stop laughing,” Molly commanded. “I know what that laugh means.” Even as she said it, a smile was spreading across her face.

  “So, go after her, sis. She sounds promising.”

  “No, nothing will happen,” Molly concluded, using her standard line.

  “Why?” Brian asked. He knew his sister and her King Kong- sized inferiority complex. Molly was the living definition of low self-esteem. He’d watched her grow up and be constantly harassed by all the kids at school. She’d always turned to him for a shoulder to cry on, always choosing to hold the anger and sadness in her heart rather than knock some heads around.

  “Brian, she’s gorgeous. And I mean like a model. She’s not going to fall for a bull dyke with a badge.”

  “Again, why not?”

  Molly shook her head. “Look, Bri, first, I don’t even think she’s gay. She’s as much a femme as Lynne. And even if she is, beautiful lipstick lesbians don’t go for women the size of tanks.”

  “You’re probably right,” Brian agreed. He knew that there was no arguing with Molly when she had already made up her mind. “So she’s pretty, right?”

  “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “What color are her eyes?”

  “Dark green.”