Grace to the Finish

by Julie Hyzy

  “Of course she did.” He shook his head. “Every loan application requires two officers to sign off on them. There are four of us here in total, but Virginia always offered to do the lion’s share of approvals.”

  Thinking quickly, I asked, “About how many approvals would you estimate she performed every week?”

  He leaned back in his chair, staring upward and away as though replaying scenes in his head. “Not that many,” he said, squinting. “Ten? A dozen?”

  Considering the huge amounts of money that Virginia had spent, I didn’t think that ten to twelve accounts per week would fund her lavish expenses.

  Davenport blinked repeatedly, his teeth set tight as he continued to study the ceiling. I hated to pile on the bad news, but I suspected we’d only touched the tip of this particular iceberg.

  “What about corporate files?” I asked. “Did Virginia have access to your patrons’ credit histories at other branches? In other states?”

  Davenport’s expression fell as all color drained from his face. “Oh my God,” he said.

  I took that as an affirmative.

  He reached for his desk phone. “I’m sorry, Grace. I need to make a call.”

  “I’ll see myself out,” I said.

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, then winced. “I think.”

  Chapter 15

  Before heading home to change for my meeting with Joe tonight, I talked with Tooney, then called Rodriguez to tell the detectives about my discussion with Davenport. “No proof yet, of course, but judging from Davenport’s reaction, I think it’s very likely that Virginia had access to thousands of credit reports.”

  “Thanks, Grace,” Rodriguez said. “Flynn and I will follow up. You heading home now?”

  I shook my head although I knew he couldn’t see me. “Meeting a friend,” I said.

  “Oh?” he asked in a suspiciously hopeful tone. “Anyone I know?”

  “Good night, Detective.”

  He chuckled. “Try to enjoy yourself for a change.”

  The restaurant Joe had picked was an upscale, casual spot that had opened off Main Street about six weeks ago. Even better, it was a quick ten-minute walk from my house. The place had gotten rave reviews for its food, but had been dinged slightly for subpar service. The reviewer had made an effort to note that the waitstaff at most new establishments took a while to find their footing and suggested that the superior menu and meal warranted further consideration.

  Joe was waiting out front when I arrived. Wearing jeans, a tan blazer, and a striped button-down shirt with the collar open, he exuded a perfect gave-my-appearance-some-effort-but-didn’t-get-too-dressy vibe. He had his cane with him today. Even the way he leaned on it made him look jaunty.

  “You came,” he said, instantly looking apologetic for the surprise in his tone.

  “Of course.” I pointed to the manila folder he held at his side. “I take it that’s the autopsy report.”

  “It is.” His gaze was tight and questioning. “That’s why you agreed to meet, isn’t it? I’m sure it wasn’t solely for my company.”

  Subtle, but there was no doubt in his meaning. He wanted to know who I’d met for lunch at Myrtille. Awkward, because that’s exactly the same information I wanted from him.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said. “I think we have a lot to discuss.”

  Disappointment clouded his features for a scant second. A moment later, he smiled and—cane and all—held the door open for me.

  Inside, a young woman stood before an ochre wall with Rosabi, the restaurant’s name, formed out of multicolored glass bits. “Good evening,” she said. “Do you have reservations?”

  We did and the young woman smiled coyly as she confirmed Joe’s request for a quiet, private table near the back. She gave him a quick once-over. “All of our dining tables are up or down a set of stairs. Is that all right with you, or would you prefer to sit at the bar?”

  Joe’s cheeks colored. “I’m fine on stairs, thanks.”

  I didn’t know how a busy place like this could offer a private table until she led us around the welcoming wall and I saw that the restaurant took up three levels. There was a gleaming bar along the left end, shaped like an undulating river of gold. A three-member singing group was in the process of setting up across from it, and a small dance floor separated the two.

  The hostess led us past cheerful revelers to the open stairway and up to the balcony level, where patrons sitting along the rail could enjoy the music and watch the goings-on. The place was stunningly beautiful. A real gem and—assuming the food quality lived up to the hype—a real boon for Emberstowne.

  On the way up the stairs, I slowed to take another look around. With my hand on the railing, I paused to once again appreciate the sleek bar with its shiny bottles and upbeat atmosphere.

  And then I saw him.

  He saw me, too. Then quickly turned away.

  It was the man who’d been eating alone at the restaurant where I’d met Neal Davenport for lunch. The man who’d been reading his newspaper.

  There was nothing odd about running into the same stranger more than once in a week. But the baseball cap he held by his knee shocked me with recognition. This man was the same age, shape, and size of the guy who I’d caught taking photos of the Granite Building the day we’d found Virginia dead on the floor.

  Worse, I got the distinct impression this man had been watching me.

  “Grace?” Joe and the hostess waited for me at the top of the stairs.

  “Sorry, I thought I saw someone I knew,” I said as I joined them. Funny, I’d uttered almost the exact same words to Neal Davenport the other day when Joe and his date had walked in.

  “I hope this spot works for you,” the hostess said.

  “Thanks very much, this is great,” Joe answered her.

  The table was great. A booth, actually. High backs, cushy seats, and secluded in a deep corner. But that wasn’t what concerned me right now.

  “Joe,” I said the moment the hostess left us. “Did you notice the middle-aged man sitting at the end of the bar?”

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being silly,” I said. “I think he’s following me.”

  “Hang on.” He scooted out from his side of the booth, but held up an extra second. “Middle-aged, you say? Anything else?”

  “He was drinking coffee and holding a baseball cap on the top of his leg. It’s navy blue. Plain.”

  Joe nodded, grabbed his cane, then made his way to a space between tables at the balcony’s edge, taking his time to examine the area below. When he returned, he said, “I didn’t see anyone who fits that description.”

  At that moment, our waiter appeared and introduced himself as Ethan. He handed me a menu printed on parchment.

  I accepted it from him with my thanks, then held up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”

  Scooting over to the balcony, I ignored the quizzical looks customers at the nearby tables were throwing me as I searched for my quarry. The middle-aged guy was gone, his stool empty. I traced a path to the door with my gaze, but there was no sign of him.

  “Sorry,” I said to the waiter when I returned.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks.” Across from me, Joe narrowed his eyes. The waiter evidently decided to ignore our odd behavior and, learning that this was our first visit to Rosabi, launched into a welcome speech to explain the establishment’s farm-to-table approach. As much as I appreciated the information and the idea behind it, I couldn’t wait for the earnest young server to leave us alone.

  “Can I get you started with anything to drink?” he asked.

  “I’m going to need a couple of minutes, thanks.”

  “Got it,” he said with a lilt of his pen. “I’ll check back in a few.”

&
nbsp; “Was he there?” Joe asked when the kid was gone.

  I shook my head, but I was already pulling out my phone. “I need to talk to Rodriguez.”

  “Do we need to leave?” Joe asked.

  “No, hang on.” Geez, it seems as though I was saying that a lot tonight. When Rodriguez answered, I told him about the man at the bar and how I believed it was the same guy I’d seen snapping photographs outside Virginia’s crime scene. He asked me for a more detailed description, which I provided. “There’s one more thing, though,” I said. “I’ve seen him one other time. I didn’t put it together until just now.”

  “When was that?”

  “Remember I mentioned having lunch the other day at Myrtille with Neal Davenport—the banker—to ask him about Virginia?” When Joe heard the qualifier “the banker” that I’d thrown in for his benefit, an expression of surprise, or possibly relief, crossed his features.

  “I remember. He was there, too?” Rodriguez asked.

  “He was. Sitting by himself. I didn’t pay him any attention because I didn’t realize he was the same man with the camera phone until now. I’m sure that was the same guy. I think he’s following me.”

  “We’ll get right on this, but in the meantime, you be careful, Miz Wheaton.”

  “I will,” I said, glancing up at Joe again.

  “You’re out to dinner with the doctor, right?”

  “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  “Make sure he walks you to your door.”

  I gave a resigned sigh. “Let me know what you find out about this guy, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  I hung up and tucked my phone back into my purse. “Sorry about that.” I was apologizing a lot tonight, too. “There’s so much going on these days, I don’t know what’s key to the investigation and what isn’t. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, however, it’s to not take chances.”

  “Always a wise decision.” He looked as though he was about to say more when Ethan returned to our table with an eager-to-please expression on his face.

  Taking pity on the kid, and not wanting to send him away without at least a drink order again, I opted for a raspberry lemon martini, one of my favorite concoctions, especially on nights I wasn’t driving. Joe ordered a bourbon and cranberry juice.

  When we were alone again, Joe leaned forward. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You had lunch with one of Virginia’s coworkers?”

  “Her boss, actually,” I said smoothly. So, he wasn’t wasting any time tackling the awkward topic. “I met with him again this afternoon but this time at the bank so that I could chat with a few of Virginia’s colleagues.”

  “Did you learn anything of interest?” he asked.

  “Some,” I said, explaining Virginia’s access to sensitive customer data and my theory about how she may have misused it.

  “That’s more than Rodriguez and Flynn have shared with me,” he said.

  “Most of this came about today. I’m sure they have every intention of bringing you up to speed next time you talk with them.”

  He tapped the manila folder he’d placed on the tabletop. “And they’ve already shared my findings with you.”

  “I’d like to go over those findings in more depth,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, that’s why I brought this.” He glanced away for a moment, looking as though he wished he were somewhere else.

  Time for me to push past my awkwardness. “What about you?” I asked.

  He gave me a puzzled smile. “About me?”

  “Myrtille turned out to be a popular lunch spot the other day, didn’t it?” I asked with a cheerful lilt. “It’s unfortunate you and your companion changed your minds about eating there. The food was delicious.”

  “Yeah,” he said, glancing away again. “Yeah, about that.”

  I waited.

  “It’s not—that is, please don’t think—” He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. A tiny growl escaped from his throat before he faced me again. “I’m doing a terrible job at this.”

  “Here you go.” Ethan set our drinks down in front of us. “Would you like to hear tonight’s specials?”

  I smiled up at him. “I think we’d like to enjoy our drinks for a few minutes first. We’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

  “No problem,” he said. And mercifully took off.

  I raised my martini and waited for Joe to raise his bourbon. When he did, I reached across the table to clink the edge of his glass with mine. I had a sense that whatever he was about to tell me wouldn’t be easy to hear.

  “No pressure,” I said.

  “No pressure,” he repeated wryly. “Sure. Let’s start there.”

  Chapter 16

  Joe placed his drink back on the table. “Alima is my lawyer.” The tight expression on his face gave me the impression that he was wincing inwardly. “Remember when you asked if anyone had been injured in the car accident that left me with this?” He rested his hand atop the curve of his cane.

  “You were T-boned by a drunk driver,” I said.

  He nodded. “There’s more to it. A great deal more.”

  I waited.

  He picked up his drink, swirled it a bit, then took a swig. “I’m not trying to be purposely vague, but this is tough for me to talk about.”

  I could only imagine. He must have lost a loved one in the accident. His wife, probably. “Then don’t,” I said. “Let’s find something easier to discuss first.”

  He tapped the manila folder again. “Like Virginia’s murder?”

  Despite the morbid humor, I chuckled. “That’s not much better, is it?”

  He shifted his weight in the seat and leaned forward, hands on either side of his on-the-rocks glass. “Grace,” he said, “this is the first—well—date I’ve been on.” He glanced at his bare ring finger. “In a very long time.”

  I kept quiet, sensing he had more to say.

  “I have a story to tell you. It’s a long one and it doesn’t have a happy ending.” He made a face. “I’d like to be brave and tell you the whole tale, but I have to admit, I’m fearful.”

  “Fearful of what?”

  “Dumping too much on you all at once.”

  Ethan returned. “Just checking in to see if there’s anything you need.”

  Right about now I wished we would have chosen to have dinner at McDonald’s.

  Joe appeared so uncomfortable I decided to give him a little breathing room. “Why don’t you tell us your specials?”

  After Ethan completed his spiel, I sent him away with an appetizer order. The minute he was gone, I said, “I hope you like shrimp. Otherwise, this appetizer may turn out to be my entire meal.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate your patience with me, and yes, I love shrimp.”

  I took a sip of my martini.

  A couple of uncomfortable seconds later, he said, “I’d like to beg your indulgence tonight. I had every intention of being upfront with you but I’m finding it difficult to put everything into words at the moment.”

  “That’s fine.” I wanted to hear every word of the story right here, right now. But he looked so incredibly broken I couldn’t help but want to take his pain away. And besides, I understood. If Joe and I were to ever get to know each other better, I had my own story to tell. About Liza. I suppressed a shudder.

  “My lawyer is helping me get through all of it,” he said. “That’s what we planned to discuss at lunch the other day when you spotted us. She and I couldn’t have had a frank conversation with you right there. Not until I had a chance to explain what’s going on.” He frowned at his drink. “I panicked.”

  When I opened my mouth to dismiss the implied apology, he tapped his hand against the tabletop. “I should have at least come over to say h
ello. It was a mistake not to. And then I didn’t want to because I thought”—he blushed lightly—“that I’d be interrupting your lunch date.”

  “I thought you were there with a date, too,” I said.

  “Well then, at least we’re both clear on that matter now,” he said.

  We managed to stick with noncontroversial topics while we enjoyed the spicy shrimp appetizer. And when Ethan cleared the empty ramekin from our table, we put in our dinner orders as well.

  “Let’s get to work then, shall we?” Joe asked as he opened the autopsy file. He and I had gone over one other report like this about a month ago. That victim had been male, and my assistant, Frances, had been accused of his murder. This time, even though the victim was female and no one I knew was suspected of having committed the crime, I was just as interested in Joe’s results.

  Even better, the live band on the main floor began warming up. The music would help keep our conversation private.

  I leaned forward to look. Two line drawings representing Virginia’s body took up the center of the first page of the report with notes and arrows handwritten in the margins.

  “A lot of updated coroners and medical examiners have computerized these reports. We’re still in the twentieth century here in Emberstowne. But to be honest, I prefer it this way. I find I’m better able to be specific when I physically write things down.”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  “I don’t know if any of this information may help you,” he said, tilting the page toward me, “but here are a few key things I found.”

  Although Joe didn’t have more information to share than Rodriguez had, he went into more detail describing his findings and Virginia’s defensive wounds. “Preliminary tests uncovered a different blood type under her nails.”

  “And DNA?”

  He shook his head. “Too soon for results. And even when we get them, they’re only going to help us find our killer if his or her DNA is on file with the local, state, or national DNA databases.”

  “Right now, all we have is one suspect’s first name. Craig.”