Imperfect Contract

by Brickman, Gregg E.

  "I had him in here yesterday morning to ask him about your prowlers."

  "And?" I reached for Ray's cup and took a sip. The black coffee was room temperature and bitter, but it helped the dryness in my throat.

  "He denies being in your area. In fact, he denies knowing where you live."

  "Where did he say he was?" I took another sip of Ray's coffee and made a face.

  "He didn't. He told me it was none of my business. Unless I was prepared to charge him with something, he didn't think he'd hang around and answer my questions."

  "Non-productive."

  "Except I did learn a bit more about his personality and that, maybe, he has something to hide." He stroked his beard and mustache.

  "Like what?"

  "What I can't figure is why he needs money from his mother if he's dealing drugs."

  "Just the point I was trying to make yesterday when you blew me off." I leaned forward in the chair. "Did you ask him?"

  "No. We want to see what goes down on the drug side of this case. I didn't want to tip him off."

  "Maybe he always asks his mother for money and doesn't want to change the pattern, doesn't want her to know he's dealing."

  "Could be, but I think he's in debt and not seeing any drug income at the moment." Ray stretched and put his hands behind his head.

  If nothing else, it gave me an excellent view of his chest muscles, bringing back memories of the six-pack below. I've always enjoyed looking at a well-developed male chest.

  I said, "He must have left here and gone to the hospital to see his dad."

  "Probably. I called him at home and asked him to stop by. A couple of his friends waited for him while we talked."

  "Let me guess. Tall skinny dudes?"

  "Right."

  "The same ones were with him at the hospital yesterday. They've been in a couple of times. Rough young men."

  "I agree.

  "When he was here, did you happen to ask him why he bullies his mother?"

  "As a matter of fact, I did." Ray flipped open a small tablet. It kept his current case notes in bound, pocket-sized pads. He started a new one for each investigation. He used to keep a stack in his car. I wondered if he still did.

  "What did he say?"

  Ray looked at pages toward the end of the little notebook. He'd been busier on this case than I realized. He hadn't been sharing much information with me, but again, why should he?

  "He said if his mother wanted to put up with it, what business was it of mine."

  "Tough kid."

  "He's not a kid. He's twenty-eight friggin' years old. Give me a break."

  Oops, I'd stepped into it. The twitches of his cheek muscles pulled at the edges of his goatee. "Damn, Ray. He's too old, but he dresses like a kid. He acts like a kid. You know, looks like shit, smells like shit, tastes like shit, must be shit."

  "This time I think the dude stepped in it."

  I smiled.

  So did Ray.

  "Listen," he glanced at his watch, "it's almost three. Want to grab a bite? I'm starved."

  "Sure, why not?"

  Ray stood and slipped on his jacket while I watched with interest. His matching suit pants hung loosely on his narrow hips, accenting his long muscular torso and broad shoulders. He smiled in a crooked, annoying way. I knew that he knew, but so what, a girl can look, too.

  He rested his hand on my back and guided me out of the building to where he had parked the S2000. He held the door for me to slide into the low passenger seat. "You look really good."

  "Thanks. You do, too." I fastened my seat belt and stared straight ahead, wondering if I was complicating my life.

  We didn't talk as he drove the short distance to Patty's Pub. I laid my head back against the headrest and stared at the clear sky. It was a nice day for a ride in a convertible. The Honda's engine roared as Ray put it through its paces. I noticed it was a hot little car, not as hot as the Viper, but impressive nonetheless. I thought I'd like to drive it sometime.

  20

  Patty's opened at three o'clock and catered to shift workers—for the most part cops, but also emergency nurses, paramedics, and a smattering of locals who liked to hang out with them. It was a dimmed joint with a long shiny mahogany bar, several tables with Irish memorabilia embedded in thick polyurethane, and a couple of semi-private booths in the back—near the kitchen door. A thick, glossy finish covered the rough-hewn floor. As the night progressed, peanut shells littered the floor, but it began each evening shiny-clean. There was a single pool table near the front window. The cops kept it busy into the wee hours.

  The fare consisted of thick burgers, grilled chicken sandwiches, wings, fries, and corned beef and cabbage on special occasions. There was no printed menu. Regulars knew the selections, and for strangers, there was a blackboard behind the bar.

  Ray escorted me to one of the booths and waited, southern gentleman style, while I slid into the booth. He seemed to hesitate—maybe he wanted to slide in next to me—then chose the facing bench instead. He ordered a burger, and I asked for chicken.

  I was on edge. I expected to sit at the bar and have a quick bite.

  He took my hand. "Sophi, I've been thinking," he said, his soft, bass drawl soothing to my ears. "Do you think—"

  "No," I pulled my hand free. "I don't want to be abrupt, but I don't want to put my heart in harm's way again." I stared into his deep blue eyes. "I'm glad we're getting along and can work together, but that's all I want."

  For a fleeting moment, he looked annoyed. Then he smiled and said, "I was saying, do you think I could make a burger as good as Patty's on my grill?"

  I gulped and blushed, then took a moment to regroup. I'd stepped into that one. "Sure, why not. Just make sure you get it hot enough." I touched his hand, then pulled mine back to my lap. "What's your lineup of possibles in the Hutchinson case?" I thought of the mental list I made earlier in the day. "Did Barry have enemies I'm not aware of?"

  "Huh?" He looked confused. "Oh, yeah. I'm just finishing, but we went through his client list for last year. He was busy, closed a lot of deals. He also pissed off people, but no one's mad enough to consider murder."

  "He screwed up my friend Vanessa's finances, told her partial truths, twisted things around. Then Amelia finished her off. Now Van has to buy a house she can't afford." I paused while Patty set our drinks and food in front of us.

  "She's not the only one making those allegations." Ray took a bite of his burger then wiped his beard. "I'm surprised his clients haven't reported him to the Florida Real Estate Commission."

  "You checked?"

  "Of course. They've never received a complaint."

  "Maybe his customers weren't savvy enough to know how to file a grievance." I tasted my sandwich. It was good, moist with a hint of rosemary and garlic.

  "Good point, although most of his customers appeared on the ball. The consensus is Hutchinson wasn't attentive to detail and required a lot of follow-up on the part of the clients. No one seemed unhappy with the outcome, just with the time it took him to do the job. He pushed the deadlines on the contracts. Last minute."

  "With Vanessa it was worse. She believes he lied to her, trying to force her into a deal. Then he sent her to a mortgage broker who didn't follow through, and he gave her a contract with big holes. That sort of thing."

  "It may be more Vanessa's interpretation than actual fact, but it is more extreme than his other customers reported." He took another bite of the burger and wiped his mouth. "I didn't find a viable suspect in the lot of them."

  "Who are your suspects?" I washed down a mouthful of chicken with my Coke. "I figure Jamel, the wife, maybe Wiley. The girlfriend?"

  "Not the girlfriend. No reason."

  "I agree. That leaves the three of them? Have you talked to Wiley? There seems to be a lot of friction between Amelia and him."

  "I'll talk to him later tonight or tomorrow morning." He toyed with his iced tea. "Wiley doesn't fit though. He had more to gain by buyi
ng Hutchinson's agency or beating him out. Killing him would give the agency a bad name, and he'd have nothing to buy. From what Amelia Hutchinson said, Wiley is willing to take over her outstanding contracts and give her a job. Why resort to murder?"

  I shrugged. "He was there yesterday, right before Hutchinson died."

  "You're convinced someone disconnected him from his life support?"

  "It wasn't an accident." I set my sandwich down and leaned across the table. "He wasn't strong enough to cough off his vent tube, and it was clean. I asked the nurse who found him. Someone had to remove it. Maybe a weaning accident, but Vanessa was his therapist, and she's careful."

  "That's rich. His most dissatisfied client's responsible for his life support on the day it gets disconnected. What were you people thinking?" He shook his head, then paused a moment, appearing thoughtful. "Why don't you poke at Vanessa and see what happens? Be casual."

  I frowned at him. "I don't want to rat on my friends."

  "We need to clear her of suspicion, and you can help with that if you're willing."

  What Ray said was right. Connie and I had tried to warn her, but she'd insisted on caring for Hutchinson. "Okay, I'll give it a try."

  I helped Ray make a list of other people to interview at the hospital. Samantha, the nurse who found him and started the code. Connie, his nurse for the day. Vanessa, his therapist. Dr. Kravitz, who ran the code. Dr. Jennifer Staiger, his neurologist. Amelia. Jamel and his friends. And Wiley. As an afterthought, we added the hospital's risk manager, the nurse manager, the head of respiratory therapy, and me. Life was getting interesting.

  Ray dropped me off next to my Mini Cooper in the police station parking lot. I extricated myself from the S2000—sliding, turning, and standing in the same motion, causing a cramping pain in my right hip—and waved before he said or did anything. I climbed into my red car and zoomed off across the parking lot. I gave him the satisfaction of a parting beep-beep as I turned the corner.

  21

  Early the next morning, my little alarm clock dog rattled my bones with his barking. He wanted out—fast.

  I called Vanessa, arranging to meet her for lunch and an afternoon of shopping. It would be the perfect opportunity to get her talking about the hospital. Ray and I agreed I'd tell Vanessa I was helping him. She knew he'd been around and would suspect as much. I'd be upfront and honest, and she'd be more inclined to talk.

  We met at the fish tank in the mall. By the time Vanessa arrived, I'd been watching the one-eyed puffer swim around for ten minutes. I was surprised to see him. Glad, too. It felt good, so I named him Karma. It seemed to fit. Karma's continued usefulness—at least as entertainment for the shoppers—seemed permanent and hopeful. We purchased grilled chicken sandwiches from Chick-fil-A and coffee from Barney's, keeping our tank-view table.

  Unlike the several varieties of saltwater fish that propel themselves by swishing their tails, the puffer moved by waving his top and bottom fins as well as the fin on the end of his tail. Karma moved with the aid of translucent propellers. Fascinating. When he got in the rocks, he changed the direction of the propellers and backed out. His wide, round head and tapering body suggested a living, miniature submarine.

  I'd pulled on a pair of stretch jeans and a tee shirt, then added a pair of sandals, tiny gold earrings, and minimal make-up. Vanessa, who looked like she'd lost weight, shone in a taupe-colored stretch pantsuit and matching long-sleeved blouse. Even her sandals matched. Today, she'd pulled her blond hair back with a huge butterfly clip.

  "You always look like you stepped off the cover of Vogue," I said.

  She sipped her coffee and smiled. "You think shopping with me will make you grow taller, then you'll be able to wear the same stuff I do."

  I sat extra-straight, trying to make the best of every inch of me. "Very true. But alas, I suffer from terminal shortness. I push the limits of good fashion sense with my long skirts. If I gain weight, I'll look like a tent."

  She laughed. We'd covered this territory before. She wished she couldn't eat soup off the heads of most males, and I wished I could reach the top shelf in my kitchen.

  "Hear anything from Craig?" I asked. She seldom heard from him anymore except for an occasional telephone call in the middle of the night. If he'd started harassing her again, it would explain her weight loss.

  "I haven't heard a peep from him in a month. It has me worried. Maybe he's coming here. At least when his home number flashes on my caller ID, I'm sure he's up north."

  "Maybe he tired of the game or found someone else to torment?"

  "I wouldn't wish anyone else the grief."

  I popped the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth and chewed, savoring the flavor while thinking about how to proceed. "Speaking of grief, when is the closing on your townhouse?"

  "In a couple of weeks, I guess. The mortgage rate will be high, about two points above the going rate. My new mortgage broker, Carl, is more helpful. He said I can refinance in a couple of years. I think Carl might even help me. Then again, he might be saying that to see if he can get into my pants."

  "Oh, is he interesting or just horny?"

  "Interesting."

  "You going to go out if he asks?"

  "He offered. I refused."

  "Why? You need to get out."

  "And you don't?" She knew I hadn't dated much since Ray. She had the habit of encouraging me to warm up to this therapist or that doctor.

  It wasn't for lack of opportunity that I didn't date. I had settled in and felt content with my lifestyle. That's what I told myself anyway.

  She continued, "I'm concentrating on my real estate deal. I can't see becoming involved with anyone right now."

  I decided not to pursue the comments about our uneventful social lives and picked up the thread that might lead to more detail about the home purchase. "You're resigned to buying the townhouse."

  "I am, but I think that bastard, Hutchinson, and the bitch, Amelia, did me wrong."

  "Before we continue this conversation, I need to tell you something."

  "What, you're seeing Ray again? I saw you with him in the back of Patty's yesterday, deep in conversation."

  "We were talking about the Hutchinson case. I'm involved in it with him."

  She didn't flinch, a good sign. "You looked like you had more than Barry Hutchinson on your mind."

  "I can't seem to move on. I know he's poison. He'll just hurt me again. It always bothered me that he split when I got out of the hospital. Poor timing. Now I find out he had another girlfriend. Not that he didn't have the right."

  "He talked about it?" She cocked a brow.

  "Yes."

  "Give it some thought, honey. Guys like him don't come knocking on your door every day."

  "I do think about it." I stared at the tank, hoping to see our fish, but Karma must have stalled on the other side rather than continuing to go around and around. He appeared from behind the big coral rocks on the left, taking a short cut. "What were you going to say about Barry and Amelia?"

  "I wasn't going to say anything."

  "Sorry. Thought you were." I looked at her.

  "When I first started doing business with them, Amelia told me about her trouble with Barry. She knew I worked at the hospital, and I guess she felt close to me." Vanessa played with her drink, then glanced over her shoulder at the tank.

  "She covered some of that territory with me after the doctors transferred Barry to fifth floor."

  "I think her story changed. I think she wanted people to believe she loved him."

  "Oh?" I made waving motions with my right hand. "Tell me more."

  "One day at her office, she said she planned to file for a divorce. Said she'd move on when she got her half of everything. They hadn't gotten along for a long, long time, and she was tired of it." Vanessa paused, looking thoughtful. "I wasn't unhappy with the agency then, and I wanted to be helpful. I told her about the trouble with Craig and the good counselors I found. She wasn't interested. She sai
d Barry refused marriage counseling, and she'd had enough."

  "That's about what she told me." I kept the details to myself.

  "I've been dealing with them for a long time. One day, for instance, I went into the agency without knocking and without calling ahead. The reception area was empty. I heard Amelia and Barry in the back yelling at each other. She was using real hard language, calling him a cheating mother-effer and worse things. She screamed that the fact the woman was white insulted her worse than anything else."

  "Did he say anything?" I leaned forward in my chair, intent on every word.

  "At first, just muttering. Then he started yelling that she hadn't been a wife to him in a long time and what right did she have to question who he slept with."

  "He didn't deny it?"

  "No, he agreed with her. He said his girlfriend showed him consideration, and he had every intention of leaving Amelia to live with her."

  "Heavy stuff. What did she say?"

  "She said, 'How can you say that? I've been sleeping with you, like a wife.'" Vanessa raised her left hand, puppet style. "'Now?' he yelled, 'what about all those other years?'" She held up her right hand, making mouth movements with her fingers. "Amelia said 'I worried about catching something. I thought you were sleeping around.'" Left hand. "'I wasn't, but now I am. So, why are you sleeping with me now?'" Vanessa paused, a look of perverse satisfaction on her face.

  "Then what happened?" I prodded.

  "I heard a crash, then Barry yelled, 'Don't break up the place.'"

  "Whoa, really?"

  "Yes. Then another crash followed by a thump. Amelia said, 'I'm going to kill you, you bastard.' Then there was another thump and a thud. I wasn't sure what happened, but I slipped out the door. I took a ride and returned about thirty minutes later."

  "What did you do?"