Jack, the clever detective, had picked up everything. “Hodges?”
“Yep.”
He frowned. “You need to be careful with him. He’s investigating you. You shouldn’t trust him.”
“Thanks so much for your concern.” She couldn’t say why his comments needled her, but they did. Jack had barely even met Will, just a brief exchange the other night.
“Nathan, you can trust,” he continued. “He’s a friend before he’s a cop. Hodges is new. This is his first murder case, and he’s probably trying to prove himself, so be cautious about what you tell him.”
Courtney glanced at the clock, and Jack caught the hint.
“Lock up behind me.” He snagged his keys off the counter and put his coffee mug in the sink. “And wait inside for your ride.”
The surgically enhanced receptionist was on the phone when Will arrived at Bella Donna that afternoon, so he ignored her and showed himself to the back. Courtney stood at her work station, arranging brushes and combs in a drawer.
“Hi.”
Her startled gaze met his in the mirror. “Hi.”
“I need your help with something. You free?”
She turned around to face him and crossed her arms. “I’ve got a client at three.”
“Can you cancel?”
“No.”
“How about getting someone to cover for you?”
She watched him for a moment. Then she glanced at her watch and sighed. “Let me see what I can do.”
She disappeared down a corridor, leaving Will standing in the middle of the salon while women in various stages of transformation watched him curiously. He turned his attention to Courtney’s work space. It was clean. Immaculate, even—not so much as a wisp of hair on the floor. Hardly any personal touches, he noticed—just a photograph tucked into the bottom corner of the mirror. Will bent closer to study it. The picture showed Courtney and Fiona, both in sweaters and jeans, kneeling beside a snowman and grinning out at the camera.
“Ready.”
He looked up. Courtney had her backpack slung over her shoulder and a shiny red purse clutched in her hand.
They left the frigid salon for the humid outdoors, and he darted his gaze around as he walked her to the Suburban. Courtney tossed her bags onto the floor and scooted in, then smoothed her skirt over her legs. Today she wore a white sundress and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The dress was very fifties housewife, but somehow those red high heels sent his mind in a different direction.
“I’m off for the day,” she announced when he got behind the wheel. “Got my last two appointments covered.”
“How’d you manage that?”
They exited the parking lot and she leaned over to play with the radio station. “I told them we had a date tonight, but you couldn’t wait for me.”
He looked at her.
“They think you’re my hot new boyfriend.” She sat back in the seat and glanced at him. “What? You expect me to tell them you’re a homicide cop? That I’m under investigation? No, thanks.”
He hung a left and maneuvered his way through the afternoon traffic. He glanced at her again, and she was grinning.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just that my boss didn’t believe me. She said you didn’t look like my type. So I told her you were really good in bed.”
Will gritted his teeth.
“She recommended some erotic massage oil, so if the mood strikes you—”
“Jesus, Courtney.”
“I’m just kidding. God. You’re so uptight. Where are we going anyway?”
“A car wash.”
She glanced around. “Okay. And you need me why, exactly?”
“I want to show you something. Meantime, flip through these.” Will reached into the back and pulled a manila file from the floor. Inside were several Xerox copies showing an array of mug shots and driver’s license photos. Placed amid the pictures was the driver’s license photo of the Zilker Park jogger and a mug shot of Alvin’s former brother-in-law, who had a rap sheet.
“Are these suspects?” She flipped through the pages.
“I can’t comment on that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, what am I looking for?”
“Just tell me if you recognize anyone. Maybe someone from the Randolph Hotel. Or anywhere else. Just someone you’ve seen around.”
Beatrice Moore, a.k.a. Beatrice Morris, was still missing in action. Her account of events in Zilker Park contradicted the jogger’s, so someone was lying. As for Alvin’s former brother-in-law, he’d done two years for aggravated burglary not so long ago. The guy had had a drug problem, but was supposedly clean now, according to his parole officer. His physical description didn’t completely match the jogger’s description or the description given by Pembry’s neighbor, but it didn’t rule him out either. Will wanted to see if Courtney recognized him.
But she skimmed right over his mug shot without comment. She reached the bottom of the stack and found the copy of Fiona’s drawing.
“My sister drew this.” She held it up, pointing to the initials at the edge of the picture, alongside the date stamp.
“That’s right.”
“Who is it?”
“We don’t know. He look familiar to you?”
She gazed down at the sketch and shook her head. “Not at all.”
Will turned into the lot of a fast-food restaurant adjacent to Bubbles Hand Car Wash and Detailing. He slipped into a space facing the service bays, where the brother of Alvin’s ex-wife stood making notes on a clipboard. He wore wraparound sunglasses, but maybe his build or his mannerisms would strike a chord with Courtney. Will pulled some mini-binoculars off of the backseat and handed them to her.
“Okay, see those three guys manning the entrance bays? Look at them closely. Tell me if you recognize anyone.”
She took the binoculars and turned to look at the men. “Which one?” she asked, adjusting the lenses.
“Just tell me if any of them look familiar. You remember one of them from the Zilker that day? Maybe you’ve seen someone at the Randolph or lurking around?”
Will waited.
“Well, the middle one. He’s wearing sunglasses, but…”
“Yeah?”
“He looks like one of those pictures you just showed me.”
“Okay. But have you seen him anywhere else? Watch the way he moves. Look at his body.”
She handed back the binoculars. “It’s not him.”
“You’re sure.”
“Totally. He’s too tall.”
Will studied her face. She seemed certain. And he should probably take her word for it. Years of interviews had taught him that the most accurate judges of height were taller-than-average single women. They could nail a man’s height in an instant because they made a habit of noticing.
But even if Courtney didn’t recognize this guy as her attacker, the man might still be involved. Maybe he’d been hired by Rachel Alvin to drive the car, and someone else carried out the actual hit. Nathan planned to follow up on this lead tomorrow by bringing the guy in.
“You think someone hired that man to kill David?” she asked.
“I can’t comment on that.”
But that was exactly what he thought. Alvin’s ex-wife had been pestering Wilkers & Riley on a daily basis since Alvin’s death. And she’d made a large withdrawal from a stock account just weeks before the murder.
It would have fit together nicely, except for the other possible victims. Even if she’d wanted her ex-husband dead, why would Rachel Alvin have Courtney killed, too? And what was the connection between Alvin’s murder and Pembry’s disappearance? And—if Courtney’s theory had merit—the death of Eve Caldwell?
This investigation was a bitch. His first homicide case, and it was a goddamn mess.
Will backed out of the space and left the parking lot.
“Thanks for yo
ur help,” he said.
“Yeah, right. This was a waste of time.”
He blew out a sigh.
“You know, you look tired. And your color’s bad.”
His color?
“Your eyes are bloodshot, too.” She seemed genuinely concerned. “I’ve got the afternoon off now. Want to go hang out somewhere? We could walk on the lake or something.”
“I can’t.”
“What about later? You could use a night off.”
Not with her, he couldn’t.
He glanced over. He’d never met a woman so confident with men. She was practically asking him out, and he felt flattered. And tempted.
But he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Why didn’t she get that?
Maybe she did, and she didn’t care. She wanted to lure him in, manipulate him into seeing the case from a different perspective.
Shit, he was thinking like Webb now. This wasn’t some femme fatale, this was Courtney. He knew she wasn’t capable of murder. But he didn’t have proof. And she was still a suspect.
She gazed at him expectantly.
“I can’t,” he said.
She glanced away.
“Now’s not a good time—”
“Forget it. I understand.” She kept her face turned away from him. “Anyway, I’ve got to meet up with Fiona later. She’s having a dress fitting.”
“She needs you at her dress fitting?”
“It’s her wedding dress. I told her I’d go.”
“Sounds fun,” he lied.
She shot him a look.
“Okay, you’re right, it sounds boring. Why can’t she do it herself?”
“She’s my sister.”
Will shook his head. He didn’t have a sister. And if he had, he still wouldn’t have gone with her to try on clothes.
He pulled up to a light and the car fell silent. He cleared his throat. “So…you going to Fiona’s then? Or back to work?”
“Just take me to Fiona’s,” she said crisply. “I’ll hang out with her.”
“I keep coming back to the money,” Devereaux said.
Will watched his partner across the conference table littered with Styrofoam cups and sandwiches. They had given up their Saturday to go over leads they’d developed. Will had just told the group about the Caldwell woman.
“Someone with bucks is behind this thing,” Devereaux continued. “And Courtney Glass only has a couple thousand dollars to her name, so it’s not her.”
“Yeah, how do you know?” Webb asked. “Maybe it wasn’t a paid hit. Maybe she went on a rampage and killed her ex along with his new girlfriend. She seems like the jealous type.”
Will clenched his teeth, wondering once again why Webb couldn’t let go of the jealous mistress angle.
Cernak turned to Will. “Courtney Glass have an alibi for the morning of the bike accident?”
Highly doubtful, as it had happened at the crack of dawn. “I’ll check,” he said.
“There are two sources of money in Alvin’s universe,” Devereaux stated. “His wife’s family and his law practice.”
Cernak frowned. “What was his last big case, again? That pharmaceutical thing?”
“Diet pills,” Will said.
“But that was what, six months ago? What else you got?”
Will flopped open his file and looked at the information he’d gleaned from Alvin’s paralegal. “He spent pretty much all of last year on the drug thing. The trial was in January. Since then, he’s done some minor stuff here and there, but mostly he’s been coasting.”
“Hitting the links,” Webb quipped, “and picking up bimbos.”
Will kept his face carefully blank. “The woman who tried the case with him seems to be coasting, too. Same with the two founding partners. According to the paralegals, the only people doing any real work over there are the support staff and the associates.”
Cernak scowled, and Will knew what he was probably thinking. It sounded more like bitching from disgruntled employees than evidence of criminal activity.
“I checked out the drug case,” Will said, shuffling through a notepad. “It was a product-liability suit over some diet pills that allegedly killed a woman. She was an investment banker, mother of two. Her family sued and got sixty million, mostly punitive damages. Firm’s chunk of that would have been twenty-four. But the plaintiff took a discounted settlement to sidestep the appeals process, so it ended up being fifty-one million total, twenty and change to the firm.”
“Why the discount?” Webb asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Appeals take forever,” Cernak put in. “The family was probably sick of waiting around, wanted less money sooner. Happens all the time.”
“Or maybe there was some weakness in their case,” Devereaux said, “something that made them think they’d lose on appeal. If you go through with an appeal, there’s the chance of reversal, right? That’s a lot of money at stake.”
Everyone looked nonplussed by the theory, but Will resolved to check into it.
“What about something tax-related?” Devereaux suggested, looking at Will. “You turn up any red flags with the IRS, either for Alvin or the firm?”
Will shook his head. “Nothing.”
Webb snorted. “Yeah, that’s ’cause half the guys over there practice tax law. If they’re doing anything illegal, the feds’ll be the last to know about it.”
“Okay, so back to the Weenie Queenie.” Devereaux tipped back in his chair. “Say she wanted to off her husband and his girlfriends. She’s got plenty of money to do it, and probably some people who could help her. Daddy still runs the business, right?”
“Right,” Will confirmed.
“So maybe he hired some thugs to help get rid of his daughter’s problem.” Devereaux looked at Webb. “You check out those bank accounts?”
“Nothing unusual,” he said.
Will pushed away the remnants of his soggy Italian sub and glanced at Cernak. The lieutenant seemed to live on takeout food and coffee, and he looked it—a mere heartbeat away from a triple bypass. The media attention this case was getting probably wasn’t helping matters. Plus—and this might be the biggest stressor of all—Devereaux had learned that the chief of police played golf with Alvin’s father-in-law. Obviously, the family was anxious for a breakthrough, and Cernak probably wanted nothing more than to make an arrest and toss this case over to the D.A.
“What about your professor? That guy Pembry?” Webb asked Devereaux. “He know Alvin or his wife?”
“Can’t find a social connection,” Devereaux said. “Although I did find an article about Alvin sitting in the guy’s study. It was a profile from a few months back. He’d torn it out of a magazine.”
“How about Rachel Alvin’s brother?” Cernak asked Devereaux. “You were checking him out?”
“Still am,” Devereaux said. “But that money withdrawal didn’t amount to anything. Turns out she used it to put a down payment on a car for her kid. But I think we should keep following the funds. This thing must be costing someone some money.”
Webb sighed. “I’ll hit the law firm again, see if I get anything new.”
“I’ll keep looking into the shooter angle,” Will said, deciding it was time to check back in with the vice squad. They were supposed to be asking around with their CIs about the possibility of a hired gun.
“Check back with Courtney Glass, too.” Cernak ordered Will. “See what she knows about Alvin’s business dealings.”
“I already asked her,” Will said.
“Yeah, well, ask again. She was sleeping with the guy; she probably knows a hell of a lot more about him than we ever will.”
Courtney glanced impatiently through the salon’s front window. Will was late. Very. If she hadn’t been wearing four-inch heels, she would have hoofed it to the bus stop by now.
“Are you sure I don’t have any messages?”
Jasmine looked up from her game of computer solitaire. “Nobody since that c
ancellation at two.”
Courtney checked her phone for the tenth time. Then she waltzed over to the mirror. She’d actually taken the trouble to freshen up for this man, and he couldn’t even get here on time. And this chauffeur thing was his idea, not hers. She undid an extra button on her blouse, just to spite him.
“Here he is,” Jasmine said.
Courtney looked through the window as Will’s hulking Suburban pulled up to the curb. The mere sight of it made her smile, but she quickly erased the expression and pushed through the salon’s front doors. Will met her halfway up the sidewalk and gave her a stern look that said she should have waited inside.
The passenger door squealed like a pig when he jerked it open.
“How old is this thing?” she asked.
“Eighteen years.”
“God, it’s a piece.” She glanced around the interior, secretly liking the rust spots on the floor beneath her feet.
“Your ride has an armadillo painted on the side of it.”
She smiled up at him. “Yes, but at least it comes on time.”
He slammed the door with another squeal, and she watched him walk around to the driver’s side. He wore tan cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and work boots today, and Courtney got the distinct impression she was about to be ambushed.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he pulled away from the curb.
“What makes you think we’re going somewhere?”
“You’re not in your detective costume. Where’d you hide your gun?”
“You’ll never know.” The side of his mouth curled up, and Courtney felt a rush of warmth. He was teasing her. She wanted to kiss him.
“So where are we going?” she repeated.
“Baseball game.”
“Baseball?”
He cleared his throat. “I got tickets to the Round Rock Express. They’re a Triple-A team—”
“I know who the Express are. You’re asking me to a game with you? Like, on a date?” She couldn’t help smiling, especially when he looked uneasy with the label.
“You sounded like you were tired of your sister’s place, so I thought maybe you needed a night out.” He shrugged. “I know I could use one.”
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