“She said it after she found out Sarah died, and what her relationship to Leroy was. Whatever was going on, maybe she figured things had gone too far. Why do you suppose she brought him all the way back here?”
“Remorse?” Peter said. “That, or the game was always supposed to end here, and this was where her exit strategy was set up.”
“What exit strategy?”
“Dunno. If she had a full tank and a siphon, all she’d have to do is drive outside town and set it on fire. Then she picks up a car she has stashed, or someone meets her.”
“Or she does it out off I-275, then hoofs it to the airport and rents a car. Which is better, since that’s in Kentucky.”
“True. Or she drives back to Grandpa’s in Illinois and thanks him for loaning it to her.”
“We don’t have the plate number. Do we send out a BOLO with Kat Dennings’ picture on it?”
“We’d never hear the end of it. But just in case, let’s ask dispatch to alert us if any RVs explode.”
“Who do you think her boss is?”
“Better question is, where did they find her? She has to have some skills to pull the whole thing off.”
“Online dominatrix?”
“Are you volunteering to research that option?”
“I’m always willing to take one for the team. You know that.”
“Uh huh. I’ll hand it off to Cynth. She’s less likely to get distracted.”
Brent sighed. “You sure know how to take all the fun out of this job.”
“Six hours with Leroy Eberschlag wasn’t you’re idea of a good time?”
“Only when he looked like he was going to wet his pants. We never did get into what kind of punishments and rewards she gave him.”
“Some things are better left to the imagination.”
“I imagine you’re right. Someone set up a scheme so nutty, when Leroy returns, he tells us a story so ridiculous, anyone in their right mind wouldn’t believe it. Meanwhile, the only tracks we can find place him in Cincinnati on the crucial dates. If he was pretending to be kidnapped, why would he use a phone?”
“He wouldn’t. Every four year old knows phones can be traced.”
“Wouldn’t our real killer know that? Maybe Leroy created the too-obvious frame job to fake us out.”
“Six hours in there, and we couldn’t shake his story,” Peter reminded him.
“He’s had a month to rehearse it.”
Peter shook his head. “You’d have to be a total psychopath to fake the reaction he had when we told him about the pings. Leroy’s a wuss. If he was lying, we would have broken him in half an hour.”
“He’s been faking this author schtick for a couple years now. I imagine he’s learned to think fast,” Brent said.
“I think we’d do better to look at people who we already know have been lying to us.”
“The knitting club?”
“Maybe their third time in interview will be the charm, but let’s do it tomorrow.”
“The trouble is, anyone could have been behind it. It’s the big question we have to answer,” Brent said.
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Who put Sarah in the gun barrel?”
Stealthy movements invaded Lia’s dreams. She drifted into consciousness, rolling onto her side and peering into the dark. A figure moved in and out of the shaft of moonlight slipping between the curtains. Disembodied hands moved deftly down, unbuttoning a shirt.
“Hey there, Kentucky Boy.”
“Hey yourself. I was trying not to wake you.”
“And miss the striptease? I don’t think so.”
“And here my best G-string is in the laundry.”
“I’ll live. Drop those slacks and crawl in here.”
“If you insist.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off one shoe, tossing it in the air with a rakish flair. It fell to the floor with a thump that roused all three dogs from their sleep on the far side of the bed. Viola crawled across the covers to Peter and sniffed him suspiciously, as if he’d been with another dog, then settled her head on his thigh for a pet.
“Aw, look, you woke up the children.”
Peter looked down at Viola and sighed. “You sure know how to spoil the mood.”
Viola craned her head up and flicked her tongue across his nose. He stroked her with the feather-light touch she preferred, then stood up and opened the bedroom door. “Okay, kids, Mom and Dad need some alone time.”
Viola cocked her head as if he’d been speaking Mongolian and Honey dropped her muzzle, pretending to be asleep. Chewy snugged his nose under Lia’s hand, hoping for a scratch.
“OUT!” Peter pointed into the hall and the dogs made a dash for the living room. Viola lingered in the doorway, looking hurt. “You, too, Princess.”
Lia felt a tug on her heart as Viola slunk away. “You’re such a guy. You could at least give them treats if you’re going to toss them out of a warm bed.”
“Man sleep on bed. Dog sleep on floor. Man speak. Dog listen. Ugh.” Peter punctuated this pronouncement with a thump on his chest.
“Yeah, that will work.”
“You could at least let me pretend I’m in charge. Think of my poor battered male ego here.”
“Uh huh. You’ve been reading John Grey again, haven’t you?”
Peter dropped his other shoe on the floor, then stood up and stepped out of his slacks. He shook them out and hung them over the back of a chair whose only purpose was holding Peter’s clothes when he spent the night. His shirt came next. He draped it around the back of the chair like a hanger, then followed by laying his undershirt, briefs, and socks across the seat. Lia shook her head.
“Such a boy scout.”
Peter slid under the covers and over her, caging Lia’s face between his forearms. “Eagle scout.” He bent down to kiss her.
“Mmmm.” Lia put a restraining hand on his chest.
“What?”
“I know it’s been a long day for you, but I can’t stand it. I won’t be able to think about anything else until you tell me where Leroy has been all this time.”
“Well, damn.” He flopped over on his back. Lia placed her head on his shoulder and he curved his arm around her. She traced a finger down his chest. “Please? Pretty, pretty, pretty please, with butter and maple syrup on top? And sprinkled with pecans?”
“Does that come with sexual favors?”
“That depends on the quality of your intel.” She kissed his neck. “They’ve been running video clips from the funeral on television all night. The mysterious return of Lucas Cross, AKA Leroy Eberschlag, is all over the internet. Sleeping with a detective has to have some benefits. Gimme.”
He tapped her lips with his index finger, which she nipped. “And what happens when you see Bailey at the park tomorrow, and she says having a friend sleeping with a detective should have benefits?”
“Oh. I didn’t know you wanted to sleep.” Lia rolled over on her other side and proceeded to snore.
Peter goosed her, pulling her back over when she yelped. “Pinky swear you won’t tell anyone until I say it’s okay?” He held out his hand with the little finger crooked.
Lia crooked her little finger around his and wiggled it. “Pinky swear. Sure you don’t want to do a blood oath?”
“This is good enough.” He gave her the short version of Leroy’s story.
“That’s crazy. I can’t believe he thinks you’d buy it.”
Peter scratched his head with his free hand. “That’s the thing. It feels like he’s telling the truth. Everything about his body language says he was being totally honest.”
“He was kept prisoner in the desert by a dominatrix who made him write, and she punished him when it wasn’t good enough? What was the punishment?”
“We didn’t nail down that detail. We were more concerned with a description of the RV.”
“But that’s the best part!”
“Guy’s twisted up. I think he’s got Stockholm syndrome.”
“He’s in love with his kidnapper?”
“From what he said, she’s really hot.”
Lia scoffed. “Men will take any kind of abuse from a female, as long as she’s hot. What about the phone call?”
“He denies having the phone and doesn’t know who made it.”
“What about his keeper? Could she have done it?”
“Possibly. I would say probably, except that would mean he was lying about being out west. Why would he do that?”
“Sarah said he was a total bullshitter and that’s why he was so good at pretending to be an author. Maybe he faked you out.”
“There’s a difference between the guy who tells stories at a bar and a psychopath who can fool people he’s known all his life. Chances are, if he was a psychopath, he wouldn’t have a reputation for being a bullshitter.”
“So you think he was set up.”
“It’s stupidly elaborate, but it makes a bizarre kind of sense.”
“But why? Who would want to kill Sarah? Everyone loved her.”
“People kill for passion, self-protection, and greed. When you have something that’s plotted out in advance, I always vote for greed. In this case, I’ll be damned if I can figure out how someone else benefitted by killing her. Even Leroy’s supposed motive is thin.”
“Cui bono? Isn’t that Latin legalese for ‘who benefits’? That’s what Terry says.”
Peter tapped the dent in her chin. “You really want to talk about this now?”
Lia leaned her head on Peter’s shoulder and drew a finger down his chest, into the expanse of dark curls. She drew circles with her finger, forging trails across his forested pecs.
“You know it tickles when you do that.”
“Uh huh. Don’t let it distract you. So what changed when Sarah died?”
Peter looked up at the ceiling. “Let’s see. Bang Bang Books automatically dissolved and they have to re-form their business. They could bring in new partners or change the distribution of profits.
“Duane is widowed. If anyone has the hots for him, he’s available. I don’t think Duane is behind it. Not only is he incapable because of his back, the contract on the house they were buying is void and he can’t swing the loan without Sarah’s income. He’s stuck with a condo he hates and a financial mess. If he was behind it, he would have waited until the mortgage insurance kicked in after the closing.”
“Won’t he inherit her share of the business?” Lia said.
“The way I understand it, her share is what’s divided up after they funnel most of it out to charity, and with the LLC dissolving, there is no more share for Sarah, except what remains from the dissolution of the LLC. Peter stared at the ceiling, thinking. “He’s probably entitled to a share of the copyrights, and that could turn into something eventually.
“SCOOP lost their biggest supporter. I had the impression that if someone wanted Bang Bang Books to stop donating money to animal rescue organizations, they’d have to get Sarah out of the way first.
“Then there’s creative control. In a group like that, you can have a lot of ego. The bigger the money gets, the higher the stakes, the tenser the situation gets. Cracks form. Jealousy and competition sneak in. Look at Yoko Ono and the Beatles. Mike Love and Brian Wilson. Diana Ross and the Supremes,” Peter concluded.
“This is like a band, isn’t it?”
“Without the drugs.”
“True,” Lia said.
“You’ve been around the ladies a lot. Did you ever get the sense anyone felt they were being dismissed? Maybe not anyone in the group, but around them?”
“There’s Citrine, but I don’t think she could pull something like this off, and I suspect her connection with Leroy is really thin. Killing Sarah wouldn’t make sense. If Citrine went after anyone, it would be Debby.”
“What about Leroy?”
“They didn’t seem to take him seriously. Half the group thinks he’s behind everything, the rest thinks he doesn’t have the brains to pull it off. I haven’t talked to anyone since he got back, so I don’t know if that’s changed.”
“It’s possible Leroy made the whole kidnapping bit up to give himself an alibi while he ran around attacking the women,” Peter said.
“But without Sarah, I don’t know if the group can hang together. She was the glue. He would know that.”
“Someone attacked Carol and Cecilie first. He could have gotten desperate after he failed with them and with time running out on his little sabbatical, he needed to take advantage of the next opportunity he had. That’s if he did it to get the LLC to open up before his next launch.”
“Is that your current theory?”
“It’s the one that makes sense.”
“And how does the crazed dominatrix-slash-fan fit in?” Lia asked.
“The guy has to have a story that explains why he was kidnapped and held so long and no one asked for ransom. The stalker is the best fit,” Peter said.
“So you think it was Leroy.”
“He tells a believable story, but the more I think about it, the more I like him for Sarah’s murder. I think it’s time to get into Bang Bang Books’s finances.”
Lia rolled over, on top of Peter. “And I think it’s time to get into something else.”
15
Tuesday, July 12
“Lia know about your new girlfriend, Dourson?” Hodgkins asked. He and Jarvis blocked the door to the bullpen.
“Maybe someone should tell her,” Jarvis said. “You know, because there are diseases and things.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She’s sitting at your desk. Said she’d only talk to you. Davis is keeping her company, but she’s not biting. Guess she doesn’t go for metro-idiots.”
“You mean faggots,” Jarvis said.
“That too,” Hodgkins agreed, grinning.
Peter stifled his irritation and pushed between them. The woman sitting at his desk must have taken her wardrobe tips from Cynth. The baggy smock and cropped dojo pants couldn’t disguise the brick bombshell body hiding underneath.
Lustrous black hair bundled on top of her head, held in place with a pair of short chopsticks, which he didn’t know was a thing until he met Lia. Sunglasses hid her eyes. She wore no make up. Peter thought she didn’t realize her mouth looked so much more vulnerable and tender without the siren-red lipstick he suspected she usually wore.
She held her knees together while her hands worried a soda can in her lap in a way that suggested she liked to scratch labels off of beer bottles when she was nervous. Closer inspection revealed fretful crinkles in her forehead. Brent sat on the corner of his desk, likely chattering away about nothing to keep her comfortable.
“And here he is,” Brent said, nodding to Peter.
She looked up, her face stiffening. With resolve? Defiance? She doesn’t want to be here. Well, most people don’t.
Peter nodded pleasantly. “I guess we need an interview room.”
“We do, indeed. Shall we?” Brent cocked his head at the moused-up vamp. A smile of acquiescence flicked across her face. She slung a hobo bag the size of Montana over one shoulder and gripped her diet Pepsi as if her life depended on it. “Let’s,” she said in a voice like velvet and smoke.
The woman followed Brent back while Peter took up the rear, cataloguing a dozen different impressions. He found the contrast between the assured voice and the obvious nerves intriguing. Her feet were pampered and her carriage graceful. A dancer? She does something physical. The canvas gladiator sandals were both casual and sexy.
Peter closed the door to the interview room and turned to face her. She sat at the table, head tilted down, worrying her lips. Used to chewing off her lipstick.
“Kat is it?”
“Linda, actually. Linda Lyle.” She lifted her head and removed the sunglasses to reveal eyes as smoky and soft as her voice. “So he told you?”
“Who told us what, Linda?” Brent asked.
“Leroy. That I kidnapped him and held him prisoner for four weeks in the desert. I wanted you to know there was no way he could have killed that woman.”
“What brought you here, Linda?” Peter asked.
“Look, I stay on the right side of the law …”
“Seriously?” Brent mocked.
Peter waved him off. “Let her explain.”
“I have a fantasy business, based in LA. I’m a dominatrix. No sex. It’s not prostitution. I do scenarios.”
Peter tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow.
“You wouldn’t believe what hot shots will pay me to beat them and make them clean my house. I’ve got the cleanest grout west of the Mayo Clinic.”
“Everyone has to make a living,” Brent drawled.
“How did you get into that?” Peter asked.
“Went to Hollywood and didn’t know Kat Dennings was around. I looked too much like her to ever make it as an actress, but I got solicited to do look-alike gigs for singing telegrams. Then someone asked me if I did fantasy scenarios. The dominatrix gig paid the best money.”
“I’ll bet,” Brent said.
“Is he going to continue sneering at me? I make an honest living and I came in on my own. I was out of here, free and clear, and I came back.”
Peter raised his eyebrows and looked at Brent.
“My apologies,” Brent said. “Please proceed.”
“Back in April, I got an email offering me $100,000 for a four week gig. I copied off all the email communication, the contract, and bank info for you.” She laid a thumb drive on the table. “I want you to know this was a straight up business contract.”
“Do you often conduct business by email?”
“That’s most of it. Email and bank transfers. These bank transfers came from the Caymans.”
“That didn’t worry you?”
She shook her head. “Most of my clients want to keep our business private. They don’t want records of payments where they can be traced. I can’t blame them, can you?”
“So tracing the payments would be a dead end,” Peter said.
Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery Page 16