by Jeanne Adams
“You’re gonna want to step back, Jameson,” Tibbet said blandly, although his body language was tense, that of a fighter.
“Yeah, and you’re going to want to notify your department rep because we’ll be filing a complaint tomorrow.”
“Noted. Now step back before you compromise the scene.”
Paul looked down. His feet were touching the edge of the scorched grass just outside the tape.
“Tomorrow, Tibbet.”
“Your office, Mister Jameson.”
Paul nodded. He pushed through the bystanders who looked at him with avid curiosity. It made him feel vaguely sick to look at the car, think about Torie, and imagine the explosion. To combat the feeling, he hurried to Torie’s room, slipping the key card into the slot, and waiting for the green.
Pushing open the door, he stopped dead.
“Tibbet!” Paul called as he hurried back toward the curb. The burned-out hulk of the sedan was being loaded onto a flatbed tow truck and wrapped in a tarp. The tarp made it look like a huge package or present sitting on the back of the truck. Two techs were directing the process, muttering about preserving evidence and chain of custody.
“Tibbet,” Paul huffed a bit as he reached the taciturn cop. “You’re going to want to come with me.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Torie’s room.”
Tibbet’s eyes sharpened their focus, and he motioned for Paul to lead the way. They pushed through the fast-dispersing onlookers to climb the stairs to Torie’s suite.
“I opened the door, so I guess I should tell you my prints are on it. That’s her blood. She said she threw her things into the room before the cops showed up when the car blew.”
“Yeah, duly noted.”
Paul pushed the door open and stood aside to let Tibbet get the full effect.
“Damn,” the cop breathed the word. “Someone hates this girl, bad.”
“Ya think?” It was all Paul could manage through the haze of anger and fear for Torie which threatened to blind him.
Paint sprayed over the walls spelling, “You Lose!” The mattress was tossed off the bed, and Torie’s belongings were scattered over the floor, smashed and broken. The suitcases were torn asunder, zippers dangling, the aluminum rods from the handles twisted and bent. A colorful shirt was shredded, and the scraps of it flung about the room like confetti. In the small kitchen, meager supplies were smeared on the counters, and part of a loaf of bread had been tossed randomly around the room. One piece had impaled itself on a lamp finial, giving the toppled light fixture a Dali-esque quality.
“So tell me again why you were back here?” Tibbet finally broke the silence.
“I put her in another hotel. Came back for her gear.”
“Ah. Well, I guess you’ll be buying her some stuff instead.” He pulled a cell phone from his belt, and using it like a walkie-talkie, called the damage in. “Looks like we got us a secondary crime scene, gents.”
There was a crackle of static and some generalized cursing before an affirmative and request for location came back through. Tibbet relayed and closed the phone.
“Give me a number where I can reach you, Jameson. Then go buy the lady something for the morning. I think the Target over off Snyder, on Mifflin, is still open.”
Evidently, through some mysterious process of evidence and elimination, he and the detective had gone from adversaries to allies.
“Thanks,” Paul said, rattling off his cell number. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock, my office.”
Taking the detective’s advice, Paul agonized over what to get at the Target. He had no idea. Deodorant, yes, but socks or hose? And what size? Resigned to making bad choices all the way around, Paul picked jeans in several moderate sizes, grabbed both socks and hose, chose four blouses in various colors and sizes, and compromised on shoes by getting a pair of slip on sandals in a medium. It was the best he could do for now.
“What the hell do I know about women’s sizes?” he muttered, plunking everything on the counter in a heap. When the teenaged checkout girl kept looking at him as she rung things up, he got more and more frustrated.
“Uh, sir? Uh, did you want the shoes too?” The girl pointed to the cart.
“What? Yes.” He tossed those up on the belt and whipped out his credit card. By the time he got to his car and from there to the hotel, he was completely irritated.
Slipping into the hotel room, he called out. “Torie?”
In the main part of the room, lights blazing and television on, Torie lay sprawled on top of one of the beds. Momentarily frightened, Paul hurried over to check for a pulse. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, however, he noted the rise and fall of her chest. The motion rustled the wrinkled cotton blouse, exposing creamy skin where the shirt had ridden up.
“Don’t go there, Jameson,” he warned himself. “That is so off-limits.”
To combat the images in his head, he turned down the covers on the other bed, flattening the pillows and turning down the blasting heat. Torie must have been cold when she came in, but the room had reached roasting levels now.
He turned on the bathroom light, but pulled the door closed. That would give her some ambient light if she woke in the night.
“Hey,” he called softly, rubbing a hand down Torie’s arm in an attempt to rouse her. “Torie, let’s get you in bed. Come on, Torie, wake up, just a little.”
Other than moaning as she turned over, coming precariously close to the edge of the bed, she didn’t flicker an eyelid. The colorful skirt rode up her legs, showcasing long toned calf muscles. Her feet were bare, her toenails a coppery red.
“Damn.” Paul looked away, focused on the late night comedian cracking jokes on TV. “Damn, damn, damn. Get a grip, dude,” he warned himself.
With the utmost care, he slid one arm under her legs and the other behind her shoulders. Bracing his legs, he lifted her, pivoting to deposit her gently in the other bed. While not heavy, Torie was definitely no feather either. Solidly built, elegantly muscular, she was an armful of sexy, lean woman.
“I am not thinking about that now,” he told himself out loud.
“Dev?” she muttered, clutching at the pillows, shifting against the sheets. “Oh, Dev…Good…”
His blood pressure rose at the soft moan of another man’s name. Served him right, though, for thinking about her in any way other than as a client, or as Todd’s former fiancée.
The mere thought of Todd brought him back to reality with a thud. Blocking everything else from his mind, he pulled the covers over Torie, turned off the lights and television, and left as quickly as he could manage.
He would have Martha call her first thing in the morning to wake her and tell her what had happened at the Extended Suites. He would keep his distance. He would not think about her as a woman. Or even feel sorry for her. After all, she could have killed his best friend.
“No.” He stated it in the darkness of the car as the truth of it rang in his mind. He’d dealt with his share of criminals, and there was no way Torie could have killed Todd. No way she could have shot him and hauled his body into the church. Rumor had it that Todd’s body had been staged in some way, and he couldn’t bring himself to believe Torie would do that, either, not to Todd and not in the church they’d both loved.
He went to bed with the same resounding negative foremost in his mind. She wouldn’t, and couldn’t, have done it.
“Melvin, you’re certainly cheery this morning.” Martha greeted one of the other attorneys as she moved behind her desk to tuck her purse into the drawer. She was an early arrival at the office, but Paul had essentially never left. He watched the interaction from his desk.
“Why, yes, I am. I had dinner with the nicest woman last night. I’m quite taken with her,” the man replied with a patronizing tone. “I’ve put some files here for Paul. If you’d let him know that my father would like to see him when he gets in? Wonderful.”
Paul came out of the office.
“What time would he like to see me, Melvin?”
“Oh, hi, Paul.” Melvin smiled at him, but didn’t offer a handshake. They’d had an unspoken truce since Melvin Sr. had hired Paul out of the same university as his son. They’d despised one another in law school, but managed a cordial distance now that they were older. Unfortunately, the truce was strained more and more frequently as Paul, not the purported heir to the firm, got the plum clients. To say that Melvin now despised him was much more accurate. Paul had ceased to care about Melvin.
“Around ten, I think.”
“Martha, if you’ll go in my office, I need to give you some notes. Melvin, thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course.” Melvin’s smile was condescending, as if he were the one doing the summoning. Or was the one in charge.
Shaking his head, Paul closed the door on Melvin’s departing back. Didn’t the little prick realize that his father had turned him into a glorified errand boy?
Dismissing the unctuous twit, Paul began rattling off information to Martha.
“After you left, I sent Ms. Hagen to the hotel by private car, the usual service,” he said before she asked. “Discrete as always. However, when they got there, someone was waiting. They shot up the car.”
Aghast, Martha squeaked, “Someone, shot at them?” Hand to her throat, Martha was aflutter and upset. “Gracious, are they all right? Do I need to send flowers? What—”
“First thing is to call Ms. Hagen at the Hilton. The room’s in my name. Tell her to order room service and get a cab over here.”
“A cab, sir? Is that wise?”
“Yes, actually. I think it would be harder to track a cab, don’t you?”
“I…well, I guess. We do use the same service over and over. It might be easier to trace.”
“Exactly my thought. Also, if you would, tell Torie I couldn’t get into her suite at the Extended Suites, so I got her some clothes. They’re in the Target bags I left for her.”
Martha’s eyes widened. “You went to Target?”
“Nothing else was open. Believe me, I didn’t want to tell her that her room had become a crime scene, too, okay?”
“Oh, no,” Martha’s face fell. “That poor girl. More trouble?”
“I thought you didn’t like her.” He waited a beat, but Martha didn’t respond. “And yeah, someone trashed the room, right under the noses of the cops too. While they were investigating the shots fired and the burned car, someone spray-painted the walls in Torie’s room, tossed the furniture around, ripped all her things to shreds.”
With her hand to her throat again, all Martha could manage was another, “Gracious.”
“That’s one word. I’ve a few stronger ones. You’ll need to move the meeting with Melvin Sr.” He grimaced at Martha’s immediate negative response. “Can’t be helped, Martha. Torie will be here at ten, and so will the cops. I’ve got to review things before they get here.”
Scribbling quickly, Martha noted the time, the changes, and added some other squiggles on her pad. “And if Melvin Sr. really needs you?”
“Explain the situation.”
Martha rolled her eyes, and Paul felt serious sympathy. Neither Melvin Sr. nor his troll of a secretary, were known for their patience or equanimity when a summons was issued from The Big Office one floor up, then denied by an underling. Paul was actually the only one who got away with it, but only because he billed more hours for more money than virtually anyone in the firm other than Melvin Sr. himself. Together, they’d doubled the direct-line financial profits of the firm within the last five years.
On Paul’s part, it was all thanks to Todd.
The phone rang and Martha picked it up. “Mister Jameson’s office.” She listened for a moment, her eyes widening. “Just a moment, please.”
“Oh, my gosh,” she gushed. “It’s Carl Appleton.”
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Chapter Six
“The actor?” Paul asked, astonished.
“Yes.” Martha still looked shell-shocked. Paul held out a hand for the phone.
“Mister Appleton? This is Paul Jameson. How may I help you?”
“I just got word that Todd Peterson was killed. I was out of the country and didn’t get the news. I am just devastated.” In Appleton’s rich baritone, the words somehow managed to sound sincere rather than theatrical. “Is there a memorial fund, or is anything being done of that sort?”
“We’re just beginning work on something, yes,” Paul began, filling in what little he’d worked out in the few moments he’d had to think about it since Todd’s death. He promised Appleton a call, getting his private line, when there was more information available.
Martha sat, practically twitching with excitement. “Oh, my. Did Mister Appleton know Mister Peterson?”
“They served on some charity committee together, evidently. Played golf, too. Appleton wants to be part of whatever fund we set up for Todd.”
“How wonderful.”
“It will be,” Paul agreed, but sorrow took that moment to hit him again at the loss of his friend. Todd had had so much to give. He had been so full of life.
“I know, Mister Jameson,” Martha said, rising to pat his shoulder before she left. “We’ll all miss him.” She hesitated, as if to say something else, but didn’t. “I’ll get right on this with Mister Pratt Sr., and call Ms. Hagen. If I may suggest it, sir…”
“What?”
“You might want to let her detour to the mall or at least to a clothing store before she comes to the office.”
Thinking of the tops and jeans he’d randomly selected, Paul nodded. “Good idea. I’ll contact the cops and tell them ten forty-five.”
“Eleven at the earliest, sir.” Martha said firmly. “She’ll need a bit of time.”
Thinking of his sisters, Paul nodded. “Right. Eleven. Thanks.”
As she closed the door, Paul pulled the detective’s card from his wallet and dialed.
“Tibbet,” the man answered with impatient irritation.
“Detective, this is Paul Jameson. I need to move our meeting to at least eleven.”
“Why?”
“Ms. Hagen has nothing to wear.”
Tibbet barked out a laugh. “Are you serious?”
“In this case, yes. Remember? House fire, no stuff. Suitcase in the Extended Suites destroyed? No stuff. Women have to have some stuff. Hell, in that situation even I’d have to have some stuff.”
Tibbet was briefly silent, then laughed again. “Yeah, even a guy would need to regroup. You think it’s safe to let her do that, though? This guy’s escalating already, so…” Tibbet let the sentence hang.
“I’ve got it covered. Private duty. Unobtrusive.”
“Good. I’d say I’d help, but the budget sucks, you know? Anyway, I’ll be there around eleven-fifteen. If she’s not there yet, we’ll go over some things.”
“Is she still a suspect?”
“Don’t know yet. Lab’s not back in.”
Hanging up, Paul shuffled through the papers on his desk. Ten folders, neatly aligned, contained all the info he and Todd had planned to discuss. He scooped them together and pulled out the fat legal-size folder with all of Todd’s estate planning.
“Martha?” He waited for her to answer his hail before asking, “Is Myra available for a few minutes?”
“I’ll see, Mister Jameson.”
He wanted Myra, the firm’s foremost estate planning specialist, to go over all of the estate issues with him one more time. He didn’t want to be without answers if the police asked specific questions.
By the time he was done with Myra, it was eleven. There was no sign of Torie or Tibbet.
Which meant he had time for more coffee. He felt like he’d already drunk a gallon of it, but with so little sleep, the punch of caffeine was a necessary evil.
He was filling his mug when Martha found him.
“Detective Tibbet is here, Mister Jameson.”
“Of course, I’ll b
e right there. Would you check on Ms. Hagen’s progress?”
“I will, yes. I’ll just follow you with Detective Tibbet’s coffee, then see if she’s on her way.”
“Thanks.” They rounded the corner and he greeted Tibbet. “And I believe Missus Prinz has coffee for you? Yes. Great, let’s go into my office.”
He sat down behind the desk, keeping the professional distance. What he wanted to do was grab Tibbet’s annoying little notebook and read it. Or stuff it down the man’s throat.
“So, Detective, what can you tell me about all of this?”
“Not much, Mister Jameson. Wheels turn slow, if you know what I mean. Nothing’s back on the car yet. They’re still running prints from the hotel room, but I don’t know if they’ll find anything. Hotel rooms are full of prints, especially if the maid service sucks.”
“Did you get the notice of our complaint?”
“Yep. I guess you filed it first thing.”
“As promised,” Paul said. Reconsidering his tactics and his thoughts about allies, he decided to try for a more friendly approach. “I know the other part isn’t on you, but I hope that whoever snagged the notes and let that shit leak gets at least a hand smack for blowing information to the press.”
Tibbet’s smile was sour. “Me, too.”
“So, how can I help you? How can we figure out who the hell wants my client dead.”
“Shots fired doesn’t equal a hit.”
“No, but if the same person’s responsible for all the stuff going on with the guys in Ms. Hagen’s life, he’s escalated.”
“Or she.”
“You think it’s a woman?” Paul was surprised. It made his theories spin a whole new direction. “But, I thought you said the body, Todd…”
“I didn’t say anything, Mister Jameson. I’m just not ruling out anyone at this point. With each day, this whole thing gets more complex, if you know what I mean.”
“Do I,” Paul muttered as he looked at the notes he’d scribbled while talking with Myra.
“Now why don’t you tell me where you were when the lady was fired on?”
Paul felt Tibbet’s look all the way to his toes. The camaraderie was still there, but he was making sure to cross his Ts and keep his case tight. “Here, making calls, trying to get a bodyguard hired. I’ve got a guy with her this morning, but he can’t stay more than today. Other commitments. I’ve also got to find her some place safe to live other than a hotel.”