Ten minutes later, Ann Murphy and Neil Thompson drove up. Jordan called them, too. It was Annie’s case, after all.
Jordan, Eddie, Tank, Diego, and Muggs waited in Shetland’s great room. Both Paradise Valley and Scottsdale cops interviewed each of them at length.
Because they all gave the same version, no one seemed to think they were involved in the murder. Beyond that, Ann knew they were holding something back.
DNA samples were collected.
“… for all the good it’ll do. You people couldn’t contaminate this place any more if you tried,” Neil Thompson said, mourning his crime scene.
The Shea Investigations staff had indeed been all over the house, and yes, contamination had been their intent. It was a way to cover their tracks by laying more.
Ann looked at Jordan with mild disapproval as she proceeded with her ritual summation anyway. “You all received a tip from an anonymous informant that Shetland was getting ready to run. You came here to hold him and any evidence until we had a chance to get here.” She looked at her notes. “On arrival at six a.m., you found the alarm disengaged and two security men unconscious. Two of you went around back.” She looked at Muggs and Diego. “Jordan and Tank came in through the front. Eddie went around the side of the house, found the patio doors open to the bedroom and entered there. Eddie saw an unknown man retrieving a large knife from Owen Shetland’s body.”
Jordan was suddenly overcome with nausea.
“The man fired at Eddie and also at Jordan. Eddie received a blow to the head when he struggled with the man. Jordan and Tank entered the bedroom. The man fled the premises. Anything you want to add?”
Each shook his head in turn.
Jordan was the only one to speak. “No, Ann. Nothing else. That’s how it went down.”
One of the Paradise Valley cops came into the room. “Detective Murphy? You might want to come see this.”
They followed the young officer to the bedroom where Shetland’s wall safe now stood open. His laptop was there as well as dozens of stacks of cash—the foundation’s pilfered funds, or what was left of them anyway.
Ann turned to Jordan, Eddie and the crew. “You can go. I may have more questions later, but for now …”
Tank, Diego, and Muggs left in Diego’s truck. Eddie drove Jordan in his.
They didn’t look at each other or speak.
When he pulled into her driveway, she opened the door and got out. He backed out and drove away.
After Saturday’s rain, Sunday night was clear and cool, the desert air unrivalled for clarity.
Water flowed over the waterfall feature of the Brenners’ pool with a pleasant gurgle. The neon lights sparkled beneath the cascading rushes like blue diamonds.
A crackling blaze in the fire pit held off the night chill.
Nick popped a bottle of Dom Perignon and poured four flutes. He raised his. “To Jordan and Eddie and their success in ferreting out the thief.”
Jordan sighed. “I wish we had recovered more of the money. Shetland used it to recruit for the army he was forming to defeat his mob boss.”
“The losses weren’t as great as you might think,” Nick said. “Your friend Samantha Dunhill wrote a front page article about the hardships the foundation experienced in the wake of the loss. The community responded generously.”
“You did far more than anyone else would have.” Connie reached to lay her hand on Jordan’s. “You nearly died. You, too, Mr. Marino.”
“Yes.” Jordan drained her flute. “That wasn’t part of my plan.”
“Mine either.” Eddie’s eyes met hers.
It was late when Eddie pulled the Porsche into her driveway.
They were both exhausted and agreed to let Gina field the office until noon on Monday.
Eddie reached across and took hold of her hand. “I want to stay with you tonight, talk things over, recapture what we had. I don’t like the way things have been with us since—”
“Me, either.”
“What is it, Jordan? What’s bothering you?”
“I have issues with anyone who tries to make me into what they want me to be. I’m done with Cotillion Balls and confining rules of etiquette, with being afraid of my own shadow because things happen, with having to think about what people will say. I left all that behind. I’m my own woman and answer only to myself. I care about you, Eddie, but I won’t be put in a situation where you control or manipulate me.”
“Manipulate you? Control you? You think I want to control you? Your fierce independence is one of the things I love the most about you.”
“If there’s going to be anything between us, I have to be able to believe what you tell me. Trust you. Completely.”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“I need to know what happened in Owen Shetland’s bedroom.”
“Jordan, I already told—”
“Tell me again,” she insisted.
“I wanted the bastard dead, and I’m glad he is. He tried to kill you. He would have if not for the stupidity of the man who set the bomb and the grace of God.” His warm fingers caressed the nape of her neck, soothing, calming. “I went to Vercelli and told him what Shetland had done to you and what he was planning to do to Vercelli. I asked permission to go after Shetland. Anthony Vercelli, being who he is, sent LaSalle to make Shetland pay for his betrayal.”
“LaSalle said he went to jail for you.”
“He served time for something I wouldn’t do for Vercelli. LaSalle got caught.”
“No wonder he hates you.”
He sounded sincere. “I’m not proud of my past, but I can’t change it. The best I can do is try to make up for it going forward.”
“I can’t stop thinking about the knife. Your big Bowie knife. Owen’s wounds. The blood on the rug, on your hands.”
“Sure. I had my knife last night. I carry it when I expect trouble. Always. You think I’m the only guy in town with a big knife? Not by a long shot. Guys like me and Tony LaSalle, we all carry knives. We all know how to use them.”
His pledge from the morning after they first made love replayed in her head: “I’d do just about anything for you.”
God help her, anything could very well encompass killing on her behalf. For revenge. For her. Frightening. Heady. It could include lying to Ann by omission.
He rubbed his thumb along her jawline. “Let’s take things one night at a time and see how you feel when the sun comes up.”
“How I feel?”
“I already know how I’m going to feel. I’ll still be crazy about you,” he said.
Make up your mind, Jordan. Send him away or put it behind you and take him inside.
He lowered his head and kissed her.
She kissed him back and took him by the hand.
He leaned close and whispered, “Now what’s all this about ninja fantasies?”
Jordan laughed. “Every girl has her ninja fantasy.”
“Maybe I could help make it a reality.”
She shut the front door behind them and turned the lock, suddenly serious again.
Would she ever be able to look at him without wondering if he’d been honest about what happened in Owen Shetland’s bedroom?
Eddie Marino, master of the half-truth—a little soft shoe, a little sleight of hand. Presto change-o and voilà.
Did it matter? Yes. When she lay awake thinking in the middle of the night it would matter big time. What was she going to do then about being crazy, wild in love with him?
One night at a time.
* * *
Jean Steffens and Sally J. Smith
Arizona native Sally J. Smith lives in Scottsdale with her husband. The rarest of breeds, an adult who was born in Arizona, she has been a writer since she could spell. These days she stays busy at her chosen professions of writing (novels, short stories, and articles) and freelance editing. When a free moment appears on the horizon, she’s out the door to a attend a play, a movie, a concert, or just take a lo
ng walk in the desert—if the temperature’s under a hundred. Other works include The Ghost Wore Polyester.
Jean Steffens also lives in Scottsdale with her family. She’s a mother, reader, movie fan, and the Steffens’ family chauffeur. She’s also active in church activities. Like Jordan Welsh, PI, Jean grew up in Chicago near Lake Forest. Jean’s mother, however, was nurturing—baking cookies, carpooling kids to school, kissing boo-boos—unlike Jordan’s mother, who’s allergic to the kitchen and thinks a carpool is a hot tub in a limo. Jean’s published work includes “The Night Before Christmas” in the Desert Sleuths Sisters in Crime Anthology, How Not to Survive the Holidays.
Work sessions between these two ladies generally result in a lot of laughter, noshing, and Internet surfing. Both authors are members of Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.
For more information, go to www.smithandsteffens.com.
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