Kickout Clause (Savannah Martin Mystery)

by Bennett, Jenna

  And that reminded me, I had to call Shelby to tell her that my attempt to follow Bradley had come to nothing. I hadn’t called her last night, since I figured Bradley would be home and I didn’t want her to have to explain away my phone call.

  But I could also tell her that starting today, I’d have help figuring out what was going on. And that reminded me... “I have to call Rafe.” He’d want to know about this. “And Grimaldi.”

  “Go ahead and call the detective,” Spicer said. “I’m gonna have another look around, but so far it looks like your office and the petty cash took the brunt of it.”

  It did. I watched him walk off while I stood in the middle of the reception area and dialed Tamara Grimaldi.

  This time she didn’t even bother with a greeting. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone vandalized my office,” I said, and to my—and Truman’s—consternation, saying it out loud made me burst into tears. The young man beat a hasty retreat, following his partner down the hall.

  Grimaldi waited a few seconds for me to get myself back under control, and then she said, “Tell me what happened.”

  I did, up to and including the missing petty cash and the photograph of Rafe and myself torn to pieces.

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but that sounds personal.”

  She was right: I didn’t want to hear it. “Spicer thought maybe whoever broke in here was frustrated by the lack of profit and took it out on my office.”

  “And that’s possible. But the thing with the picture... that sounds personal.”

  It did. Much as I didn’t want to admit it, it did.

  “What have you been up lately?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Nothing!”

  Her voice didn’t change. “No trouble in paradise? No secret admirers coming out of the woodwork?”

  “I had coffee with my ex-husband’s current wife yesterday. The one he cheated on me with. She met Rafe, but it didn’t seem as if she developed a sudden illicit passion for him, that would cause her to break into my office and shred our picture.” And that brief meeting with Bradley surely hadn’t caused him to do anything that stupid, even if he had realized I was trying to follow him, and I didn’t think he had.

  But since Shelby and Bradley’s marital problems weren’t any of Detective Grimaldi’s business, I didn’t mention that little incident.

  “Anything work related? Have you stolen a listing from anyone recently? Beaten anyone out in the real estate game?”

  “Mrs. Jenkins’s house is in limbo.” I explained about the two offers and the kickout clause. “They’re supposed to get back to me at the end of business today with their decision. Even if they’re angry with me—or if the other potential buyers are—wrecking my office wouldn’t make any difference as to who gets the house. The two are unrelated.”

  “No conflict in the office? You didn’t use anyone’s stapler or their last manila envelope? Nothing underhanded going on that you have knowledge of, like that net deal of Mrs. Puckett’s last year?”

  “Nothing I know of.” If I had known that someone was bending the law, I would have told Tim Briggs, our broker, and he would have handled it. But I hadn’t, so no one had any reason to wish me ill.

  “Did Spicer call for backup?”

  I told her that a crime scene tech was on his way. “Do we have to close the office?”

  “It’s not my field,” Grimaldi said, since there was no dead body involved in this one, “but I doubt it. They’ll probably fingerprint the petty cash drawer, and the back door, and the security pad, but if nothing else looks like it’s been touched, there’s no sense in wasting time and manpower on it. Unless something is missing?”

  “The only thing I noticed was petty cash,” I said. “My office is such a mess that I couldn’t tell whether everything was there that was supposed to be or not, but I didn’t notice anything in particular that was supposed to be there and wasn’t. If you know what I mean.”

  “Then I suggest you take the morning off. The tech will stay out of everyone else’s way, but he’ll have to go over everything in your office. It’ll take a few hours, at least.”

  “Will you let me know what he finds out?”

  “Someone will. But I’ll try to keep an eye on things, as well.”

  I thanked her and hung up. And then I dialed Tim’s number and told him what was going on.

  Timothy Briggs has been our broker since the founder of the company, Walker Lamont, went to prison in August. Walker was the L in LB&A—Lamont, Briggs and Associates.

  Tim and I have always had a semi-adversarial relationship, as opposed to me and Walker, who always got along well, right up until the moment he apologized for having to kill me. I went to see him in prison once, and he was nice to me then, too.

  As for Tim, our relationship has gotten better recently. I helped him evade a murder rap last month, and also saved him from being shot by the real killer, so he owes me. And he has a crush on Rafe, which alternately amuses and annoys me.

  At any rate, I called him and told him what was going on. He instructed me to deal with it since I was there and I was used to dealing with the police, and then he said that Brittany was on her way and that he’d be in later.

  “Of course,” I said, reflecting that he was probably still jumpy about the police after his recent debacle. He had been guilty of disposing of a body, even if it wasn’t one he had killed, so they could have thrown the book at him. I guess maybe he was afraid they’d change their minds and haul him off to prison if he didn’t watch out.

  I informed Spicer and Truman about what Tim and Grimaldi had said, and then I dialed Rafe’s cell phone and got his voicemail. He was probably in the middle of some sort of class or other, and it was just as well, since there was nothing he could do here, and since he might worry. I left a message telling him we’d had a breakin at the office overnight, and that the police were here and CSI was on their way, but that it looked like petty cash was the only casualty. In other words, I lied, or adjusted the truth enough that I wouldn’t have to mention what had happened to my own office. There was nothing at all he could do about it, and no matter how I looked at the event, and twisted and turned the angles, I couldn’t come up with any reason why anyone would target me specifically. I hadn’t annoyed anyone recently. And unless Rafe had another ex-girlfriend hidden in the woodwork—which he swore to me he didn’t—I couldn’t imagine who might want to destroy my stuff. The last woman he’d slept with—Carmen Arroyo—was still in prison, and no threat to me.

  And at any rate, whoever had been here had either been very lucky in that whoever had been last out the door last night had forgotten to set the alarm... or the intruder had had the code.

  The crime tech arrived about fifteen minutes later, and got busy fingerprinting the back door and keypad. Spicer and Truman, meanwhile, canvassed the area around the parking lot, opening dumpsters and kicking at trash, just in case they lucked out and found whatever the burglar had used to force the door open.

  “Some sort of crowbar or wrecking bar,” Truman told me. “Have you seen anything like that sitting around?”

  I hadn’t. Not specifically. “But a lot of the agents here work with renovators, so there are lots of tools floating around. I’m sure anyone who works here had access to a crowbar. Although they wouldn’t need one. If they work here, they have a key.”

  “Maybe they were trying to make it look like a burglary when it wasn’t,” Truman said.

  Maybe. “But why would they turn off the alarm? Only people who work here, or have worked here, have the code.”

  “Maybe they weren’t thinking straight,” Truman said.

  Maybe not. But if I’d been standing there with a crowbar in my hand, that I had used to open the door because I wanted it to look like I had broken in, I would have used that same crowbar to smash the alarm system to smithereens before I gave myself away by using the super secret code.

  At any r
ate, they didn’t find any crowbar, or anything else that might have been used to open the door. Whoever our unknown intruder was, he or she must have taken the implement away with him after use.

  Just as the tech left the door and keypad and got ready to start on the front desk, Brittany arrived, and blinked at the activity. I told her what had happened while the crime tech dusted her desk for fingerprints, and then I left Brittany to hold down the fort while I took myself off. I had no desire to watch the crime tech sift through the remnants of my office.

  I went to Brew-ha-ha instead, got myself a cup of coffee, and called Shelby.

  She picked up on the first ring, so she must have been expecting the call. “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing,” I said with a grimace. “He caught me.”

  “He did?!”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think he realized I was there to follow him. But after he saw me, I couldn’t follow him, since he’d be suspicious if he saw me again.”

  Shelby murmured something. I hoped it was agreement, and not a pointed comment on my stupidity.

  “But tonight I’ve got help,” I said.

  She brightened, or her voice did. “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Just that it’s a friend of friend. But it’s someone Bradley has never seen before, so even if he notices this person, he won’t think anything of it.”

  “That’s good,” Shelby said.

  When she didn’t say anything else, like ‘Thank you, Savannah,’—I continued. “How were things last night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he come home from work? At the usual time? He left the office before five.”

  “He got home at five thirty,” Shelby said.

  Ah. Either my presence had rattled him sufficiently that he hadn’t gone to visit his girlfriend after all yesterday, or it hadn’t been their day to meet.

  “What about later? Did he go out again?”

  “No,” Shelby said. “We stayed in.”

  Unless she was lying—and I wouldn’t put it past her—it hadn’t been either of them who vandalized my office. Not that I could imagine either the pregnant-to-bursting Shelby or the uptight Bradley wielding a crowbar at the back door to the office. Besides, what would be the point? While I wouldn’t put lying past her, there didn’t seem to be any reason why she would lie about this.

  “Did Bradley go to work today?”

  He had. Or at least he had left the townhouse to go somewhere, dressed in his usual suit and tie, and Shelby assumed he was going to work. She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t said, not specifically, but since going to work was what he did—or was supposed to do—every day, he had probably gone to work today too.

  “I’ve got a few hours free,” I told her. “I’ll drive up there and take a look. I’ll let you know if I see anything interesting.”

  Shelby thanked me, and I put the car in gear and rolled out of the parking lot and in the direction of Germantown and of Ferncliff & Morton.

  I was on my way down the street in front of the F&M building, like yesterday, when my phone rang.

  “What the hell happened?” Rafe wanted to know.

  I forgave him for the lack of greeting because his voice was tight with concern. Not with anger, as I would have assumed before I knew him as well as I do now. Or at least not anger with me. “Not sure. When I got there, the lock was busted and the back door was open.”

  “You didn’t go inside, did you?”

  “I called Grimaldi and she told me to wait for backup. She sent Spicer and Truman over. They called for a crime tech. He’s there now, looking for fingerprints.”

  There was a beat. “Where are you?”

  I thought back over what I’d said, and realized I’d used ‘there’ instead of ‘here,’ thus tipping him off to the fact that I wasn’t at LB&A any longer. “My office took a little damage. It’s going to take the crime tech a few hours to finish. Grimaldi suggested I make myself scarce. So I’m in Germantown to keep an eye on Bradley for an hour or two.”

  There was another beat. I guess maybe he wasn’t sure which subject to tackle first. “Tammy told you to leave?”

  My boyfriend is the only person in the world who gets away with calling Tamara Grimaldi Tammy. Her own mother doesn’t even call her Tammy, or so she’s told me. Rafe does, and there’s nothing she can do to stop him.

  “Brittany got there,” I said. “She’s manning the front desk. And you know how small my office is. There isn’t enough room inside for both me and the crime tech.”

  “What happened to your office?”

  I crossed my fingers. Not an easy task while driving with one hand and juggling the phone with the other. “Nothing big. Just some paperwork on the floor and things right that.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, but when he spoke again it was about something else, so I assumed I’d gotten away with something. “What’s Bradley up to?”

  “Nothing, as far as I can tell.” The lights had been on in his office again, and his car was parked in the back lot, just like yesterday. I rolled past, down to the next cross street, preparatory to staking out the same spot at the curb I’d occupied then. “What about you?”

  “Between classes,” Rafe said. “I got your call.”

  “I figured you would.” And I’d figured he’d worry. “I’m sure it’s not a big deal. These things happen.”

  “I got Manny on tap for this afternoon. He’ll follow Bradley home—or wherever he’s going—and hang around awhile.”

  “That sounds great,” I said. “I won’t sit here long. Just until my office is clear and I can get back in. We should hear something about Mrs. J’s house by five this afternoon.”

  “Sounds good,” Rafe said. “I gotta go. Another class is about to start.”

  Of course. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He hung up, and I settled in to watch the rear of Ferncliff & Morton.

  I wish I could report that something exiting happened, but it didn’t. The same young business-suited guy I’d seen yesterday arrived—a new hire, taking it easy this morning, I guess.

  Nobody left, not until lunch. I’m sure a few people came and went through the front door—clients, the mailman, the Fedex or UPS guy—but I couldn’t be in two places at once, so I didn’t see them. It crossed my mind that maybe I ought to be out there instead of here... but then I might miss Bradley leaving.

  Except he didn’t leave. Eleven o’clock rolled around, and then eleven thirty. Diana Morton left, clad in a polka-dotted dress and blue jacket. She got into her car and drove away, I assumed to what was either a business lunch or a personal ditto.

  A few minutes later, Nathan Ferncliff did the same thing, minus the polka-dotted dress. Maybe the two of them were carrying on. I’d never seen any sign of it, but then it was almost three years since I divorced Bradley. Things change.

  The new guy didn’t come out again, nor did Carolyn. She was there, because I saw her car parked in the lot, but I guess the people who were left inside ate at their desks, or in the little lunch room. Bradley was one of them, because he didn’t exit the building. Maybe that was how he had lost so much weight: by working through lunch every day.

  Or maybe he’d gone out through the front door and had walked somewhere to eat lunch. At any rate, his car stayed in the lot.

  By twelve thirty I was getting antsy—and desperate for a bathroom. Shouldn’t have had that cup of coffee.

  There was nothing going on at Ferncliff & Morton that I could see. Bradley hadn’t stirred. Nathan came back, but Diana didn’t, so I guess the two of them weren’t carrying on. Or if they were, they were being more than discreet about it. Carolyn finally left, on foot; I guess maybe she was on her way to the Germantown Café or somewhere like that to eat.

  She cut across the parking lot and the alley, and then straight through the lot adjacent to the building I was parked in front of. I crouched down in my seat when she reached the sidewalk, but she didn�
�t glance my way, just continued straight across the street to the other sidewalk before turning right. I watched in the mirror as she disappeared around the corner on her sensible two inch heels.

  By now my bladder was screaming for relief, and I figured my office was probably my own again. I gave the back of Ferncliff & Morton one last look before putting the car in gear and rolling away from the curb.

  I was halfway to the office when my phone rang. The caller ID said MNPD—Metro Nashville Police Department—which usually means Tamara Grimaldi’s office phone, but because of today’s events, I thought there was a chance it might be someone else instead. “This is Savannah. How may I help you?”

  “It’s me,” Grimaldi said. “Are you sitting down?”

  Uh-oh. “In a manner of speaking. I’m in the car.”

  “Do you want me to call you back?”

  “No,” I said. “If you don’t tell me whatever it is you were going to tell me now, I’ll just worry about it until you do. So just spit it out.”

  “We don’t know anything for certain. The fingerprinting was inconclusive. But I played a hunch and made a call to the department of corrections.”

  “OK.” I maneuvered carefully through the intersection of Spring and First. Up ahead, I could see my building, on the corner of Fifth and East Main, outlined against the sky.

  “Your former boss got leave to go to his mother’s funeral yesterday. He isn’t back yet.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer, obviously recognizing my exclamation not as a request for information so much as disbelief.

  “Someone let Walker out of prison? He killed two people!”

  “More than that,” Grimaldi said.

  “It’s only been seven months. How could he get out?”

  “They gave him a 24-hour furlough,” Grimaldi said, “to go to his mother’s funeral. Under guard.”

  “I thought his mother was dead.”

  Which sounded stupid, I realize. What I’d meant to say was that I thought she’d been dead longer than this.

  “She is,” Grimaldi said. “Four years.”

  “So how could he—? Never mind. He planned it. Somehow.”