Ann Roberts - Paid in Full

by Ann Roberts

  Jane knew the conversation was practically over. She rose and dressed quickly, not worrying about which item of clothing went on first.

  “So, you kissed her and nothing happened,” Jane summarized, slamming her locker shut.

  “Well, I thought the kiss was great, but right after it was over she bolted out the door.” Ari paused, remembering the look of panic on Molly’s face. “Maybe I’m not her type,” Ari concluded. “I kissed her and she just ran out. She didn’t do anything.”

  “Did you? Did you try to stop her?”

  Ari smirked. She hated it when Jane used logic, which occurred as often as a Halley’s Comet sighting.

  “As hard as it may be for you to believe this, Ari, you might have to be the aggressor. It’s very possible she’s intimidated by you.” A few women strolled by in various states of undress. Jane’s eyes followed a shapely brunette to the showers.

  Ari shook her head. “Why would anyone be intimidated by me?”

  Jane’s head spun back to Ari. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ari, you’re perfect. Perfect looking, perfect personality, perfect home, and you rarely do anything stupid.” When Ari started to protest, Jane held up a hand. “Answer one question. Do you, or do you not, arrange your spices in alphabetical order?” Ari fidgeted. “I rest my case. You are totally anal, and everything you do is just so . . .” Jane searched for the word.

  “Boring,” Ari stated.

  “No, that’s not what I was going to say. You’re just so right.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Ari hoisted her gym bag over her shoulder and walked toward the exit. The summer heat assaulted her the minute she opened the door. It was almost criminal to be this hot at nine in the morning, she thought.

  Jane fell in step, choosing her words carefully. “Honey, it’s nothing you do intentionally. It’s just who you are, and the fact is, some people are uncomfortable.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Ari argued with little enthusiasm.

  Jane smiled smugly. She’d made her point. “Are you coming to the office today?”

  “No, I’m going home to change, and then I thought I’d visit with Russ Swanson. I’ll call you later,” Ari said, closing the truck door.

  However, her plans quickly changed when the secretary informed her that Mr. Swanson was with a detective. Ari could only imagine who that was, and she had every intention of staying out of Molly’s way, at least in the professional sense. Most likely, she wouldn’t have much luck romantically either. Molly had responded to Ari’s pass with total disinterest, almost revulsion. Or had it been something else? Maybe she wasn’t ready for a relationship, or Jane’s theory might be correct, and Ari would have to take charge.

  She checked her watch. It was nine o’clock, and the Speedy Copy would be open. If she couldn’t speak with Russ Swanson, she’d talk to Kristen Duke, the person who saw Bob before Michael Thorndike’s murder. Bob had said that he was training her for management, and since the Tempe store was the largest and most important in the chain, it was possible that he had checked in with her.

  Ari headed for Tempe, Phoenix’s neighboring college town and home to Arizona State University. The two cities were separated by the Salt River, a laughable name considering the puddle of water it usually contained. She crossed the historic Mill Avenue Bridge and puttered along the main drag, stopping at the eight traffic lights that lined the one mile stretch. Filled with coffee shops, boutiques and antique stores, many of which were still housed in the original brick buildings from the 1920s, Mill Avenue was the heart of Tempe. Historic clashed with nouveau, old timers melded with the punkers and the upper echelon endured the taunts of the street people.

  Nestled between a Fifties-type diner and a hat shop, Speedy Copy enjoyed a prime location just across the street from the university. Obtaining the lease ten years ago was the smartest move Bob Watson ever made. Now it was his flagship store and accounted for over one-third of his total monthly business. Inside it was easy to see why he prospered. The store was filled with students, most of whom were feeding the self-serve machines with change. Ari could hear the money piling up.

  At the counter a businessman in a blue pin-striped suit argued with a young woman whose name tag identified her as Kristen. The man suddenly stormed away, and Kristen shrugged her shoulders. She’d probably just seen her twenty-first birthday, dressed in tight black pants and a sheer black top that didn’t cover her pierced belly button. Five studs lined each ear and her big doe eyes were heavily defined with black mascara. She was going for the goth look as evidenced by her two-toned hair, bleached blond except for the dark brown roots. For a split second Ari thought that she recognized Kristen from a fashion advertisement.

  “May I help you?” she asked, her lips barely parting to form the words.

  Ari pulled a flyer from her briefcase and set it on the counter. At the sight of the crime scene, Kristen balked. “What the hell? Are you a reporter?” She shoved the flyer back at Ari, color rising to her cheeks.

  “No, I’m Bob’s real estate agent, Ari Adams.” Ari stuck her hand out and Kristen shook it, still rather suspicious. “I happened to be in the area, and I need some more of these made. Could you do that for me?” Ari held the flyer out, and Kristen took it reluctantly.

  “How many do you need?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the paper.

  “Well, hopefully only another hundred,” Ari answered, trying to steer the conversation. “Now that we’re past that terrible mess, I’m hoping it will sell quickly.” Kristen scribbled instructions on a form, oblivious to Ari’s attempt at conversation. She tried again. “Of course, Bob is the main suspect, and he’s still missing.”

  Kristen’s hand froze on the pad, and she met Ari’s gaze with a worried look. “But Bob was with me, at least for part of the time.” She stopped abruptly. “I mean, I told the police! Why are they still focusing on him?” Her voice carried, and at the mention of the word police, people started to stare.

  “Hey, is there some place we could talk?” Ari asked gently, noticing that the counter was filling with customers ready to place orders or pay for their copies.

  Kristen leaned toward a steroid-filled employee named Zeus and announced she was taking her break. Ari followed her to a nearby coffee bar in silence. Crowded with college students, it took another fifteen minutes to find an outside table and retrieve their order. After several hits of her mocha latte, Kristen said, “I can’t believe they still suspect Bob. There is no way that he is capable of murder. He couldn’t harm anyone. He’s too nice a guy.”

  “Kristen, has he contacted you?”

  She immediately shook her head. “The last time I saw Bob was Saturday night. We worked until eight thirty and then I went home to watch a movie with my roommate. You don’t know how shocked I was to hear about all of this.” She fished a cigarette and a match from her purse, her hands shaking as she brought it to her lips.

  “How long have you worked for Bob?”

  She struck the match on her shoe and lit her smoke. “About a year. Best damn job I’ve ever had and the only time a boss has ever treated me right.” Ari noticed the brash demeanor returned immediately after a shot of nicotine. She stirred some creamer into her coffee, waiting for Kristen to continue. Kristen’s sparkling green eyes bore down on her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Bob’s friend when you came into the store?”

  The question caught Ari off guard, and Kristen’s eyes narrowed at her surprised reaction. Ari opted for a half-truth, not wanting to overplay her hand. She really had no business being here and questioning a material witness in the investigation, a fact Molly would quickly remind her of, if given the chance. “I didn’t know you knew who I was,” she said.

  Kristen paused, assessing her response. She tapped the ash and glanced at her. “Bob’s told me a lot about you. He said you used to date, back when you were straight.”

  “I didn’t realize Bob made a hab
it of discussing my sexual preference with his employees,” she retorted.

  “It’s no big deal, at least not with people my age. The whole gay thing is, like, totally cool.” Ari smiled both at her optimism and her naïveté. “Not that I’ve tried it myself,” she quickly added.

  “So, why was Bob at the store on a Saturday night?” Ari asked.

  “He’s training me to be the manager. It’s a big responsibility,” she said with pride. “I’ve basically become Bob’s right hand. I help him with lots of stuff and not just that one store. Maybe someday I’ll be a vice president, or something.” She sat up a little straighter at the notion.

  “That’s great,” Ari said. “Let’s talk about that night. Did Bob leave the store at any time? Did he go out?” She shook her head. “What about phone calls? Did anyone call him while you were there?” She shook her head again. “Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior during the evening, or did anything out of the ordinary happen?” Before she could automatically answer negatively, Ari reached out to touch her hand. “Kristen, listen to me, I know you’ve been asked these questions already, but I need you to really think. You may remember something that could help Bob.”

  At the mention of his name, she inhaled and leaned back. She sat still for a minute, taking several drags on her cigarette while Ari watched the smoke shroud her head. She tapped her finger on the plastic tabletop. “I do remember that Bob got a fax. I didn’t see it because I was on the phone with this customer who was really stressed about leaving some important copying. I just remember looking over my shoulder and seeing Bob at the fax machine. Then I went back to my conversation with the guy.”

  “Did Bob seem upset?”

  Kristen thought for a moment and shrugged. “Well, he started pacing and went back into the office. That’s all I remember. I was really wrapped up with the guy on the phone. Kristen paused and took another drag. “Do you think that’s important?”

  “Probably not,” Ari hedged. What bothered her, and what she wouldn’t tell Kristen, was Bob’s response to the fax. Pacing for Bob only meant one thing—he was agitated.

  “What happened to the fax?”

  She frowned. “By the time I got off the phone, he must have put it in his briefcase or shredded it, or whatever,” she offered, the bored tone returning.

  “Working at a copy shop must not be a really fun way to spend a Saturday night,” Ari commented absently.

  “It’s cool,” was Kristen’s reply.

  “You must be really devoted to your job. I mean, you’re young and attractive, I would have thought you’d have a lot of dates on Saturday.”

  Her hesitation was brief and noticeable. She avoided Ari’s gaze until the cigarette butt was squashed and swirled. “I’ve dated a lot of guys, but it wasn’t until I got to college that I met a real man.”

  “I see. Did you ever meet Michael Thorndike? Did he ever come into the store?”

  Kristen shook her head one last time, a blank expression on her face. She glanced at Ari’s watch and stood up. “I’ve got to get back. I hope you can help Bob. He’s a great guy.” She left without saying good-bye and Ari was pretty sure she knew why.

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday, June 19

  8:32 a.m.

  Morning traffic snaked down Central Avenue as every lawyer, CPA, government employee and corporate executive rushed, or rather inched, toward the beginning of the work day. The KPAZ news patrol confirmed what Molly knew: The pollution reading for the day was high. She sneezed again and reached in her jacket pocket for a tissue.

  “Allergies?” Andre asked, his eyes on the road. Molly grunted, unable to talk or breathe at the moment. “I never had any,” Andre continued, “until I moved here.” He maneuvered the Chevy Cavalier into the parking garage for One Renaissance Square Tower.

  “Yeah, well it’s all you damn Midwesterners. Brought all your Bermuda grass and plants and pretty soon you can’t tell this is a desert!” she snapped between blows.

  “Hey, don’t blame me, I’m from Philly!” Andre retorted. He pulled into a space by the elevators and turned to Molly. He was accustomed to her moods, and she could make Howard Stern cower in fear, but she was a damn good detective. He knew what the other guys said—half of them made jokes about her lesbianism and the other half wanted to bed her. For some reason, Captain Ruskin had targeted Molly for special abuse, assigning her to one messy case after another. As her partner, Andre endured his wrath by default, but he wouldn’t transfer, not because of pride, but because Molly was teaching him more about police work than anyone else ever had. The Michael Thorndike case was wearing him down, but it was killing Molly. She was pulling double shifts, and judging from her appearance, she wasn’t sleeping well. Andre had also heard rumors from other gay officers that Molly was drinking excessively at the bars. He watched as she took a deep breath, clearing her sinuses.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said.

  For the second time in as many days, they took the elevator to the fifth floor, home of the Speedy Copy corporate offices. On their previous visit, they had waved their search warrant and rummaged through Bob Watson’s office, finding very little except voluminous files that would take days to comprehend. Molly wanted a second pass while they waited for their scheduled interview with Russ Swanson, a man who seemed busier than the president and almost as unreachable.

  No one said a word as they headed for Bob’s corner office, but everyone’s eyes looked up, having witnessed the spectacle from the day before when Bob Watson lost his right to privacy. Yesterday Russ Swanson had not been in, his door closed, but today it was open, Swanson bending over his desk, talking into a phone headset and writing on a tablet. She motioned Andre to start searching Bob’s office again, while she stopped in the doorway and eavesdropped.

  Russ gave a slight laugh before interrupting. “Look, let’s get this straight, we both have needs that must be met . . . yeah, I’m sure we can work together . . .” He listened and grunted affirmatively, doodling on his writing tablet. “No one is talking about anything illegal, Kent,” he interjected, “the law is on our side. Well, you think about it. I know you’re a smart businessman, and you’ll do the right thing . . . Okay, ’bye.”

  Molly knocked on the open door and stepped into his office just as he was dialing another number. “Mr. Swanson, I’m Detective Nelson. I believe we have an appointment?” Swanson reluctantly removed his headset and came around the desk. The man who shook her hand was handsome and tall, possessing a strong jaw and angular face with a trimmed goatee that created a professorial look. Only his long blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail clashed with the rest of the Brooks Brothers image.

  “Detective, thank you for accommodating my schedule. I’m sure you’re very busy and I want to assist you and Robert in any way I can.” Molly instantly noticed the change in his tone. He was working for sincere, but it came out condescending. “Please sit down. If you don’t mind, I just need to speak with my secretary for a moment, and I’ll be right back.” He flashed a smile that matched the tone and hurried out, providing Molly with an opportunity to survey his office.

  The floor plan was an exact duplicate of Watson’s office, but the similarities ended there. One of the challenges during the initial search had been Watson’s lack of organization. Papers littered his desk haphazardly, some covered with coffee stains, piles of folders and samples were scattered around the room, and while it was certainly convenient for the search, it bothered Molly that his only file cabinet had been unlocked, one of the drawers open. Security and neatness were not his strengths, two qualities that she naturally associated with methodical murderers. If anyone was methodical, it was Russ Swanson. She’d noticed a keypad entry on his office door, perhaps to protect the glass cases full of antiques that lined the walls. Watson’s office had no similar technology and hadn’t been locked at all. Swanson’s desk was immaculate, free of clutter, with two phone messages centered on his blotter. Molly stood and stretche
d, letting her eyes fall to the desk, one from Lily Watson and the other from Cyril Lemond—how interesting.

  A minute later, Swanson breezed back in, closing the door behind him. He glanced at his watch as he lowered himself into his chair. “So sorry to keep you waiting, Detective. Now, how can I help?”

  “First, Mr. Swanson, I need to know if you’ve been in contact with Bob Watson in the last seventy-two hours.”

  “No, I have not,” he answered, pursing his lips. “The last time I spoke with Robert was Saturday morning. Actually, if you asked the secretary, she would probably call it a fight, considering most of the building probably heard us.”

  Molly quickly noted that Swanson was the first person to call him “Robert.” “What was the problem, if you don’t mind discussing it?”

  Swanson tugged at the cuffs of his expensive dress shirt. Molly added the word fastidious to her notes. “Robert and I tended to argue about the same things constantly,” he said, as if reading a prepared speech. “It all comes down to the fact that I’m more aggressive than he is, more of a risk taker.”

  Thinking of his previous telephone conversation, Molly thought to ask, “Does that include breaking the law?”

  He cracked a smile. “Of course not, Detective.”

  “What about bending the law to suit your purposes?”

  Swanson leaned back in his chair, craning his neck. “That’s a gray area. I’m a businessman, and my goal is to make a lot of money. I’m also a pragmatist. I know that some laws actually hinder progress. So in answer to your question, yes, sometimes I must interpret what the laws say and make a judgment call.”

  “So you’ve never done anything illegal to close a deal?” Molly asked.

  “If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?” Swanson replied.

  Molly’s blood boiled. She heard this type of rationalization from killers and rapists all the time. Everybody made an excuse to justify themselves. In her mind, right was right and wrong was wrong. She didn’t see much difference between Russ Swanson and the murderer she’d put away last month. “So the end justifies the means, right?” she summarized, swallowing her true opinion.