by Leslie Nagel
“Correct. And the clock is ticking. We will secure our development permit from the Planning Commission at tomorrow afternoon’s meeting. My contractor has a demolition crew scheduled to begin work first thing Saturday morning.”
“You’re not wasting any time, are you?” he asked drily.
Holland folded her arms. “These crews book weeks in advance. In addition, I have business in California that requires my personal attention.”
Marc studied her haughty face and thought about what Charley had told him.
“What about your brother, Jameson? Can’t he pick up some of the slack?”
All hint of a smile vanished as Holland’s eyes skittered away. Interesting. He let the silence stretch out. Finally she asked stiffly, “Will you clear the house for my workmen or not?”
“We’ll have everything we need by nightfall. They can enter the main structure any time after that.”
“Salvage will commence at seven a.m. sharp.” She spun and stalked off, pale blond hair in an immaculate bun, back ramrod straight in her expensive charcoal suit. Marc knew he would never be so cavalier about the death of his family home, no matter how run-down it had become.
He pulled out his cellphone. “Cooper, I want a complete background on Jameson Mulbridge, Jr. What he does for the family business, how much money he’s paid, any boards or committees he sits on. Whatever you can get without a subpoena. And I want to know what he’s doing now.”
“Like, current business deals?” Marc could hear Mitch tapping away on the laptop he carried in his squad car.
“No, I mean right now, today. I want to know where he is. Call Mulbridge Shipping in Miami and talk to his secretary.”
“What if she won’t tell me?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Officer.”
Chapter 13
Charley studied the cellphone picture, then swiped to the next one. This second shot included a much clearer view of the yellow panel truck parked in front of Mulbridge House. She read the name painted on the side: crohn brothers architectural salvage, the words cleverly incorporated into a Greek Parthenon design. Why did everybody but her have an awesome commercial vehicle with a cool logo? In the background, she made out the figures of Marc and Holland Mulbridge in conversation. Neither appeared to be enjoying the experience.
“You’re certain Detective Trenault said the workmen could start tomorrow morning?”
“Seven a.m.” Ashok Varman never paused during the act of counting the small sheaf of dollar bills Charley had produced as payment for services rendered. The wiry twelve-year-old, part of her small but growing network of neighborhood informants, stood astride a low-slung black three-speed bicycle with curved handlebars and an elongated zebra-print seat. A mostly empty canvas bag emblazoned with the words oakwood register hung over a slender gear rack mounted on the back.
Apparently satisfied, he folded the bills and tucked them in the back pocket of his neatly pressed jeans. He held out a hand for his cellphone. “I’ve got to finish my route, Miss Charley. It’s almost dinnertime.”
She surrendered the phone. “And you’re sure no one saw you?”
“Everyone saw me. They had a cop on driveway duty, but he just told me to scram. So I did. After I got my pictures.” He rolled his eyes. “The rest of them were too busy. No one pays attention to kids.”
“Their mistake.” She winked.
He responded with a smile that made his beautiful face light up like a Renaissance archangel. “Call me any time. You pay much better than a paper route.”
“Count on it.”
She absently rubbed her shoulder as the slim figure with its mop of gleaming black curls pedaled up Park Avenue and disappeared around the corner. From the look on Holland’s face in those pictures, Charley guessed that Holland had been dodging Marc’s calls, at least until a full team complete with drug dogs swarming over the estate had flushed her out. Charley smiled, imagining Holland going toe-to-toe against Detective Marcus Trenault. She knew who her money would be on, every time.
Her mood darkened as she relived in excruciating detail her conversation with Marc a few hours ago, including the way she’d essentially hung up on him. She hated lying to Marc. Just a lie of omission—not a real lie, not exactly, but not exactly the truth, either. Still, she’d felt she had no choice. Charley knew precisely how her devoted, protective, alpha male detective would react if he ever learned the full details of her encounter with Millie’s creepy nephew. Total global meltdown. Hauling Benjy in on assault charges would be the least of it. She’d be lucky if he ever again let her inside the Safety Building, much less shared details about his work.
She was no fool. Benjy Wycoff was certainly big enough to bash a man’s head in with a single blow. He’d definitely seemed violent. On the surface he made a pretty good murder suspect. Well, she’d nudged Marc in the right direction, even if she hadn’t told him every gory detail. Thanks to her, he’d bring Benjy in tomorrow and no doubt find out if he was involved.
The better question was motive. Charley had enjoyed an up-close-and-personal peek into that dysfunctional family dynamic. If there was any love lost between aunt and nephew, then she was Dr. Phil. So why would Benjy care about saving Mulbridge House? She couldn’t see him lifting a finger to help anyone but himself.
Architectural salvage, she mused as she headed inside Old Hat to begin closing up. This was serious. She’d seen what professional salvage crews could do to a structure. Those guys took out everything, right down to and including the floorboards. Once they were finished, Mulbridge House would be nothing but a shell of brick and stone, stripped in the end of every last antique capable of fetching a few dollars. Hell, they might even salvage the stones.
And if the salvagers stumbled on some old papers hidden within the walls or floor, odds were they’d just toss them out with the trash. Or hand them over to Holland, which would amount to the same thing. Charley was a fair judge of character. She felt certain Holland Mulbridge wouldn’t scruple to destroy a will that interfered with her plans for the property. The solution? Charley would simply have to get inside Mulbridge House and find Gussie’s will—if it was there to be found—before the salvage crew did.
Her cellphone began playing “Paradise” by Coldplay, her unique ringtone for Marc. She stared at the screen in dismay. Had he somehow found out the truth about this afternoon? No doubt some nosy neighbor had heard all the yelling and called the cops.
“Hello, gorgeous.” Marc’s voice, warm and low and sexy, blew straight through her as it always did.
“Hello, yourself.” She sank into her desk chair, picturing the man who belonged to that voice. The idea of any discord between them was unbearable. If she downplayed the shoulder, kept the focus on Millie and the missing will, perhaps he wouldn’t be too upset with her. As she opened her mouth to explain, he spoke again.
“I’m not going to make it for dinner. It’s pretty crazy here, and it could be hours before I can get away.”
“Oh?” He didn’t sound angry, she realized, just tired and annoyed. Maybe she’d see how much trouble she was in before she started begging forgiveness. “Allowed to tell me what’s up? Do you have something new on Calvin’s case?”
“I wish. The chief is forcing me to set aside my homicide investigation for the evening.” The annoyance was more pronounced. “Zehring decided he wants K-Man identified ASAP. Our only leads are Purple Tang members, so about five o’clock he ordered patrols to start pulling in every member and suspected member. They’re not in school at this hour, and most of their parents are home from work and available to be present during questioning. I’ve got twenty-six sullen kids and their disgruntled parents stacked up in all three conference rooms, the Council meeting room, and out in the hallway. Naturally, most of them have insisted on waiting for their attorneys.”
“Sounds like the makings of an all-nighter,” she said with genuine sympathy.
“It’ll be a waste of time,” he grumbled. �
�These damn kids’re all giving each other the hairy eyeball.”
“Warning each other not to crack under questioning?” she guessed.
“That’s my take. I’ve caught a couple of them exchanging some kind of hand signals, too. We tried separating them and confiscating their phones, but there are too many of them. They aren’t under arrest, and some of the parents are downright hostile, threatening to sue. Zehring’s got us handling the lot of them with kid gloves.”
“Don’t they care that their children are running with a gang?” Charley wondered in disgust. “Or that they might be involved in drug trafficking?”
“Not their precious babies. It’s obvious where these kids get their sense of entitlement from. Most of the adults seem more worried that the press will show up.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
He snorted a laugh. “We’ll need it. By all accounts, the only Tang who’s ever seen the K-Man is Corey Reynolds, the lieutenant of this two-bit army. Naturally, he’s the one kid we can’t lay hands on.”
“Is he on the run?”
“Good question. He’s got a car. According to his mother, Corey took off without a word yesterday morning. She assumed he was going to school, but he never showed. He’s not answering his cell, and none of his friends will admit to knowing where he is.”
“Imagine that,” she said drily. “Teenagers not cooperating with the authorities.”
“We’ve put out an APB on Reynolds’s car. He’s eighteen, a legal adult. He must know a drug arrest could land him in prison. Speaking of no-shows,” he added, “you haven’t seen Pamela Tate hanging around, by any chance?”
Charley sat forward. “I have not. Why?”
“I tried calling her to follow up on a few things from Cooper’s interview this morning,” he replied. “She’s not returning messages on either the business line or her cellphone. I sent a squad by her apartment; this morning’s newspaper is lying on the mat.”
“So, she’s on the run, too?” Charley’s mind began whirling with possibilities.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but it’s highly suspicious,” she declared. “When we discovered the Mulbridge sales records were missing, she went off the deep end, flinging wild accusations at me out of the blue. And let’s not forget that Facebook post. Maybe she’s trying to throw up a smoke screen, divert suspicion away from herself.”
“You think she was involved in Prescott’s murder?” Marc said in disbelief. “Her shock and grief appeared very genuine.”
“It seemed that way,” she allowed, “but all of it could be an act: her tears, the fainting, the erratic behavior. Or it could be fear. If she’s the one searching for the missing will, perhaps the enormity of what she’s caused has hit home.”
Marc said patiently, “And why would Pamela want to find the missing will?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Charley admitted. “But—”
Suddenly she recalled Millie’s cryptic remark about “Benjy’s friend.” Did Pamela and Benjy Wycoff know each other? Had Pamela been involved in the break-in that led to Calvin’s death? But just as with Benjy, the question here was motive. What possible reason could Pamela have to save Mulbridge House? She hesitated. She had to tread carefully, lest Marc find out the full story about her visit to Millie’s.
“Pamela knows Millie. I, um, wondered if maybe she decided to help SOAP,” she finished lamely.
“Or maybe she’s what she seems, a grief-stricken woman off her meds and lashing out at the world.” He sighed. “I’ll call you when we’re done here. If it’s not too late, I’ll swing by and take you out for a drink or late dessert.”
“Sounds…” she began, and then stopped. “Actually.” She hesitated again, gathering her resolve. “I think I’m, uh, going to turn in early.” She squirmed, guilt over lying to Marc twice in one afternoon twisting in her belly.
“Oh.” Silence. “If you’re sure? We don’t have to go out.” Another silence. “We really need to talk, Charley.”
Crap. “Sure, fine, but…I’m just not up to anything tonight. In fact”—she closed her eyes tightly—“I’ve got wicked cramps. I’m thinking a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.”
“Understood. You work too hard, babe. You should take it easier when you’re on your period. I’ll take you out for chocolate chip pancakes tomorrow morning, if you’re feeling better.”
For a man with no sisters, Marcus Trenault was startlingly matter-of-fact about feminine hygiene. Or maybe he just cared that much. Now she felt even worse.
“That sounds lovely,” she said weakly. “I’ll call you.”
“Not too early, sweetheart.” His voice was warm with concern, and she felt the knife of guilt stab a little deeper.
Chapter 14
At a few minutes after five a.m., Charley crept down the stairs to the silent kitchen. Lawrence habitually rose about five-fifteen, showering and prepping breakfast before helping her father to start his day at six. If she didn’t make her escape before then, she’d be delayed with awkward explanations she simply didn’t have time for.
She’d originally hoped to launch this mission hours ago, but a restless night for Bobby had kept the household in an uproar until nearly three. Shelved as well had been her intention to do more digging into the Mulbridge estate and Gallagher’s Island. She kept seeing that phase one label. Well, there was absolutely no possibility of asking her dad to do anything more. She blamed that wretched Facebook post. If she ever got her hands on Pamela Tate…
With her father finally resting comfortably and Lawrence heading tiredly for his own room down the hall, she’d decided on grabbing a quick catnap before heading out. Two hours ought to be plenty of time to search, she reasoned. After all, the Mulbridge library, like all the rooms in the old house, would be virtually empty at this point. How many hiding places could there be?
Yawning hugely, Charley pulled on a jacket, ski cap, and gloves over her running gear before opening the side door. She slipped a flashlight into her pocket and, careful not to make any telltale noise, stepped out into the frigid dark. Not even a hint of dawn in the east, she noted, shivering. Not that it mattered—Oakwood’s streets were well lighted. In better weather they had runners and joggers up and down Hawthorn Boulevard at all hours, but she didn’t expect to meet with anyone on this chilly February morning. Sensible folk were still snug in their beds.
She headed up the silent street at a slow jog, the metallic smell of damp asphalt stinging her nostrils. A cold mist settled over her clothing in a fine dew, frizzing tendrils of hair into a halo around her face. Not even a breath of wind stirred the bare branches above her head. The only sounds were the drip-drip of moisture hitting dead leaves and the slap of her running shoes on the sidewalk. She passed house after house, all dark. Even the neighborhood dogs were still sleeping. Dogs, she reflected, know how to live.
She moved more easily after the first few blocks, feeling loose and warm as she reached Far Hills Avenue. The four-lane divide between east and west Oakwood lay utterly deserted at this early hour.
Beyond this point the landscape changed dramatically. Instead of east Oakwood’s ordered grid of flat, broad streets, most of the west side was hilly, its winding, narrow roads following the contours of Houk Stream and the gentle hills that surrounded it. As the land sloped and undulated its way toward the watercourse, the houses grew larger and more ornate. The most valuable land, and the biggest mansions, were secreted deep along this secluded miniature valley floor. Enormous fir, oak, and sycamore trees crowded close. The twists and turns, lack of striping or sidewalks, and generally poor level of street lighting discouraged casual traffic, both foot and vehicular, a state of affairs that was, of course, just how the residents over here liked it.
As she ran, she found herself wondering if Marc was up and about yet. He was an early riser, although she knew he enjoyed a lazy morning when he could steal one. She smiled in the dark as she recalled a recent Sunday, the morning—and
the better part of the afternoon—spent chiefly in his massive four-poster, lost in each other as rain pounded the windows, cocooning them in their own private world, a place where nothing existed but the two of them. She speculated idly what it would be like to wake up beside him every morning. Then she dismissed the thought. Not ready to go there, thank you very much.
If he was awake, would he try to call her? She’d left her cellphone at home. Best to travel light on your routine B and E. But if Marc did call her cell and she didn’t answer, and if he then called the house and spoke to Lawrence, he’d know—or at least strongly suspect—that she was up to something, particularly after her prevarications of yesterday afternoon. A five a.m. run was way out of character for her, even when she wasn’t on her period, which of course she wasn’t. Liar.
She tried to imagine Marc’s reaction if he discovered what she was doing. Would he be angry?
Her steps faltered, and she slowed to a walk. What the hell was she doing? Was she honestly planning to break into an empty house to search for a probably mythical piece of paper? Not only would she be breaking the law—a sketchy judgment call for a woman dating a cop—but she was lying to that same cop. Again.
“You should have told him about Benjy,” Charley muttered. “That bastard’s dangerous.” She rubbed her sore shoulder and resolved to tell Marc everything the first chance she got.
But what about Mulbridge House? Should she go on? Or return home? She hopped lightly from foot to foot, debating, the road slick beneath her feet. A nearby streetlamp gleamed dully, its aureole of light diffused by the thickening mist that hung heavy and chill. A dog barked in the distance, a single sharp report. She could feel the minutes tick by, marking time until the Crohn Brothers launched their attack.
She badly wanted to go. Charley wasn’t an adrenaline junkie, but an adventure like this was a siren call to anyone with even a germ of imagination. Plus, she had this gut feeling that, if she could only get inside Mulbridge House, she would learn something important, perhaps even find that will. If she did, wouldn’t the end justify the means? Marc couldn’t possibly stay mad at her if she produced such a stunning result.