“A case could be made that you were involved, and they cut you out,” Sebastian said.
Now Dex wanted to help. “Or you got greedy and wanted to run the operation, which is why he shifted the asbestos cases to you—any number of scenarios.”
“Revenge is as good a reason for murder as any,” Hunter added matter-of-factly.
“I never had that kind of cash. It’s so obvious they set me up.” I consciously kept my nostrils still, cleared my throat to underscore my point, and yanked the marker from Sebastian. I couldn’t look at it anymore.
“Whoever they is, they are still out there.” Hunter looked past me at Dexter.
“Look at the worst-case scenario,” Sebastian said. You and Donnettelli hated each other. Add money in the mix—”
I held my hands up, and Sebastian stopped speaking. I could see it from the other end of the table. Hell, somebody on Alpha Centauri could see it. I scooted my chair back, stood, and paced. I thought back to Laurel, to other dockets, case-code types—the civil cases involving asbestos. The rewritten Orders.
“My research.” Sebastian untied a brown portfolio and lifted out a manila file. “I found a way to get good oil, if you agree.”
I snagged a couch pillow and clutched it against my chest. Resting my chin on it I said, “Agree?” I studied Sebastian. I wasn’t ready to exchange my designer wardrobe for a Crayola-colored jumpsuit. “To what?” The crinkles above Sebastian’s brow, told me there was trouble brewing.
“You could consider testifying and going into protective custody.” Sebastian paused and seemed to be looking for his next words on his male teammates’ faces.
This couldn’t be good. “I’ll contact the Securities and Exchange Commission now. I discovered financial manipulation after the bank records and the newspaper appeared and my car blew up. The SEC will—”
Sebastian interrupted me. “—ask questions after you’re behind bars and watch how this plays.” He frowned.
Hunter stood in front of me. “There’s a hell’uva great case against you. You jumped off the Courthouse bandwagon when things began to fall apart—that’s what they’ll say.”
Sebastian appeared to agree, and Dexter was rubbing his eyes.
“The three of you want me to ignore my integrity and evidence that could free me?” I bit the inside of my cheek.
Sebastian shook his head. “Before you crack a fruity, we need to strategize, plan, have a serious chinwag—”
“Before you get all Down Under on me, just remember I’m an honest, innocent, cowboy-boot-wearing, Levi-clad American with rights.”
“Look, Judge—” Sebastian closed the file and folded his arms. “You know that if the SEC takes you, the Feds get interested, your bond will be revoked.”
I stood. “Hiding facts from the Feds smells like federal time, even if I’m found not guilty of murder—I’m gone. Plus—it’s wrong. I have a legal duty to report it.” I grabbed my bag, and flashed Hunter and Dexter each their own familiar stay-away glare. With the toe of my boot, I pushed my chair in at the table. “True as ever: ‘these boots are made for walking.’” And I walked.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Out on the sidewalk, I dialed the salon and told Trisha to have whoever was in between appointments come pick me up. Pronto.
Twenty minutes later and several blocks from Sebastian’s office my sparkly blue BMW pulled into the Taco Bell lot and parked a few feet in front of me. Carlye jumped out of the driver’s side and flailed her arms, as if it were possible not to see her. Several cars honked at her.
“Well, I guess I still have it. It’s a gift. Once you’re a people person, you never lose it.” Carlye flashed a glorious grin, dropped the keys into my open hand, wiggled her hips, and waved to the passersby.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“I appreciate you letting me drive this fine vehicle. I didn’t believe it when I was ordered to pick you up. Why you walking, anyway?”
Carlye’s lack of diplomacy was never disputed. I opened the door and slid into the front seat next to wide-smiling Dinkie-Do.
“Hey,” he said. “I joined in for the smooth ride and to see if I could help.” Dinkie-Do batted his lashes.
Carlye arranged herself in the backseat and slammed the door. “Well, are you going ta spill? Something big must’ve happened for you to be walking. We can’t have you running the streets. You’re not like us. You can’t take care of yourself.”
I turned sideways and scowled. “Excuse me? I didn’t get where I am—where I was—without hard work.” Avoiding specifics was fine with me.
“Yeah, I hear those paper cuts can hurt.” Carlye glanced over at Dinkie-Do, who shrugged, but remained wisely silent.
Paper cuts, my big-toed Aunt Anna. But I used my nice voice for my friends. It wasn’t their fault I was headed due south on Shit Creek. “I need to get back to the salon.” I had to refocus on finding an insider-information plot.
“Alla this ain’t right,” Carlye said. “Why is Margo working next door?”
I nosed out of the Taco Bell driveway onto Grand River, and both passengers whimpered. Loudly. You’d think I’d sat on their puppy. “Now what?”
“It’s Taco Bell,” Dinkie-Do said. He cocked his head and gave me a big clownish grin.
“Yeah, TB,” Carlye said.
Now they agreed? “You’re hungry?” It was almost one. I should’ve guessed.
“It’s un-American to pull into a Taco Bell and not order something.” Carlye over-blinked. It was her tell.
Dinkie-Do bobbed his big black hair with its new brighter-blue stripe. I backed up into the drive-thru, and a few minutes later we had a dozen hard-shell Taco Supremes, Mexican pizzas, burritos, slush drinks, extra napkins, and sauce packets galore. I pulled over, hit the top-down button, and gave the ‘no mess, no smell, no crumbs, I-am-not-maid-service instructions’ I’d given my kids. I had to admit Taco Bell was instant food comfort. It settled me down. For the moment.
“Thank you, Mommy,” they sang in unison.
I groaned. “Stop. You two getting along is suspect; tell me what’s wrong at the salon.” I gunned the engine, squealed away from the parking lot, and (I hoped) my horrible afternoon.
“Well, it’s like this—” Carlye paused to wash down a taco with her strawberry slush. “Rosa was talking with Trisha two separate times, and I couldn’t hear anything over the blow dryers, but she looked upset.”
Dinkie-Do interrupted. “So we—”
“You came along for the ride.” Carlye’s voice was opera sharp.
Without unbuckling, Dinkie-Do spun toward the back seat so fast he almost hit me in the cheek. “I talked you into going with me to talk with Trisha, uh-huh.”
“Little Tango.” Carlye bit into her burrito. “After Rosa left, we talked with Trisha.”
Watching Carlye, I almost hit the curb. I had to quit looking at her in my rearview mirror. “Your point please?”
“She sounded like a long-legged leprechaun and muttered something about some tools catting around the café to make us the Muppet. And she sent Margo to help Rosa.” Carlye slurped the bottom of her drink and tossed the cup into a paper bag.
“Between bad rap and Irish slang, we’re not sure of the specifics except in any translation it equals problem.” Dinkie-Do neatly rolled his empty taco papers, wiped each finger on a napkin and tossed the paper into his bag. He snapped his fingers and rested his head on his right hand. “That’s all we know.” He beamed. “Thanks for lunch. It was delish.”
Driving one-handed, eating tacos over a lap of napkins while listening to this strange turn of events had me thinking back to the meeting I’d just escaped. And within minutes we were safely back at the salon.
I thanked and dropped off Carlye and Dinkie-Do and told them I’d be in the salon soon. I’d noticed my sister’s vehicle in the lo
t and decided to figure out where she’d landed and curtail the chaos and Animal Kingdom she usually brought with her. Like me, caffeine would be her first stop, so I headed toward the café. Within seconds, my mirror image approached clutching a super-sized cappuccino and the messenger-bag that held her furry pal.
“No dogs allowed,” I said firmly. I put my arms around my sister, Nella, and pointed her toward the back door. She planted her face nose-to-nose in mine, like when we were kids. She tried to mesmerize me with big hopeful-sister eyes.
“No issue.” Nella always minimized my concerns. “I stopped in to tell you that I’m going to back to Europe to meet our parents and talk them into returning for you. Thought you might want to know.”
I agreed with her, silently. My parents, my family, should be here instead of hiding between European ports. I just had bigger sharks to harpoon. My smile said thank you. But, I knew there was more to her story because a call or text would’ve sufficed. I waited.
“I was hoping you could babysit Starfire.”
I found my voice real fast. “No way, sister. Bon Voyage.”
Nella looked forlorn.
Oooh. “Look,” I said. “I’m a hot minute from having bond revoked. Think about it, I can’t leave Jimmy Jack and Starfire alone without extra insurance on my boots.” I hugged her. “Besides, I’m not painting your pooch’s nails.”
Nella patted my arm understandingly, returned my hug, and left with the promise of sending postcards. I grinned.
Now I finally had a minute to check on the café. Before I could say banana-cream croissant—Rosa and Margo nearly bulldozed me. I spun halfway left and right to spy the whole room. Everything appeared in order. “What’s this about, and why aren’t you making coffee?”
“The pair of suits, taking notes.” Rosa mumbled through one side of her mouth. Subtle.
“It’s a coffee shop. Meeting place. So what?” Relief.
Rosa mouthed words just loud enough for me to make them out: “They’re not meeting. They’re not greeting. They’re memorizing this place and you.”
“Reporters?” I shrugged. “Sadly, I’m a hot topic.”
In unison the young women grimaced.
“Do they speak?”
“Coffee. Croissants. Phone calls.”
“See the earpiece.” Rosa lifted a finger and tugged at her right earring. “Been here on their dime, all the time, since your Elvis blew.”
My life was becoming Hitchcock-worthy.
Two close-cut, clean-shaven men didn’t appear to notice me. Were they trying too hard not to notice me? They were wearing standard issue: navy-blue suits, white shirts with blue ties. Lawyers, law enforcement, CIA, FBI, legislator—my brain ran through a long list of Brooks Brothers’ jobs. And I clicked into my earlier meeting—SEC.
“Update me.” I tried hard not to display concern. Hmm.
Full of information to ponder, I headed over to the salon. I needed respite from my life and hair had always been able to give my brain a vacation from anything difficult in life. I’d hoped the rest of my day would be smoother. I wanted it to go smoother. I loved smoother. But no. It was an entire afternoon of the opposite of smoother. The wax pot exploded and spewed hot goop over cupboards, wall, mirror, chairs, and floor. Carlye got a little burn and had a meltdown of her own. Dinkie-Do encouraged her a bit too optimistically, and when I left, that over-loud discussion was still going on, complete with competing head-bobs so vigorous, I feared for their vertebrae.
The unsmooth didn’t end there. I was safely in my car when I remembered I was all out of coffee-bean ice cream. Going home without restocking was unacceptable. Nothing would stop me from stopping by Target on my way home.
Once in their parking lot, I grabbed my debit card, left my bag and phone locked in the car, and ran inside for frozen therapy. I whirred the cart toward the backwall freezer section in the almost empty store, filled it with every available ice cream carton labeled coffee, and made for the open cashier lane. At full speed I smacked right into Wade Mazour.
The clang of the crash ping-ponged inside my skull. Damn. It took the better part of a minute to recognize the young woman with him. It was Laurel’s law clerk Zena Royale.
“Judge Kikkra,” Wade said. “I know Judges aren’t likely to get speeding citations, but if you don’t slow down, you could be banned from late-night Target shopping.” Wade laughed. “I’d hate to see all that ice cream melt.”
How did I explain coffee-ice-cream stress-eating? “Nice bumping into you both.” Damn, did I say that? “How are you doing?”
“Enjoying our ice cream, just like you.” He held up an enormous container of Neapolitan. “Target sells the hard-to-find original with real pistachios and cherries. I’m a regular.” Wade grinned, and Zena tried to hide her irritation. Evidently, she had places to be, cold stuff to eat.
“Happy to know you’re not depleting that stock,” Wade said.
“Coffee’s my thing.” We strolled to the cashier, paid, and they not only walked me to my car, but Wade loaded the bags of ice cream into my trunk. I thanked him and hoped they didn’t see me palm a pint.
I always kept a spoon in my bag, and the carton was finished before I got home. My mug of joe was made in the kitchen and emptied again by the top step.
When my sugared, caffeinated feet plodded across the bedroom threshold, I’d planned on a few hours of review. What I didn’t plan on was falling asleep in my clothes and waking up surprised that sunlight was streaming in.
Time for amends—okay some atonement—mostly reality-revisions. I sat on the edge of the bed and sent my three unruly bodyguards a we-need-to-talk text. I needed assurance in triplicate that I was in charge, I had a voice, and we were all aimed in the same direction. This would work best if it seemed like their idea—a daunting-but-worthy task.
I believed in preparation and feeling good all under, especially when seething emotions weren’t easily hidden. I sprayed Michael, donned my favorite black thong, and zipped soft leather Prada boots over my straight-leg black designer jeans. The feel and smell of fashion were first-rate medicine.
An oversized lace tee over a black string tank completed my clothing, but I wasn’t done until I teased, styled, and sprayed my hair repeatedly to ensure my every-day-is-wedding-hairspray-day look. I confirmed my makeup and descended the stairs to settle my life. I had to make the men understand my position.
When I turned into my kitchen the scents of flowers, bacon, eggs, and coffee transcended the next vision: Dexter and Dinkie-Do fussed over a bright-yellow, white, and royal-blue daisy tablecloth offset with red dishes and bowls of fresh-cut fruit and flowers. Side-by-side in-tune with their feminine sides, the sight warmed my inner girl.
Hunter and Sebastian were sharing the morning newspaper at the kitchen table. A low hum of Elvis, songs from his early years, sounded in the background. I heard Sebastian call out appreciation for Dinkie-Do’s culinary expertise then he explained that that in Australia, if a guy was called Dinkie-di, it meant he was genuine.
Dinkie-Do thanked Sebastian then wandered into the cooking area toward a frosted treat in the cinnamon-roll family.
Dexter had read my mind. “We four need to get back in sync.”
I opened my mouth and got as far as, “In sync means I’m in control,” when Dex planted his brawny body in front of me.
“And you need to listen.” Dex pounded gorilla fists on his chest.
Damn. I wasn’t prepared to swing through trees with him.
He dug up his Tarzan voice. “Force me to make you listen. Bond be recalled. You in protective custody. Locked up in cell.” He looked serious. “We’re all on the same side, the only side. Your side.”
“You three may have had a pre-morning meeting,” I said, “but whether I’m with you in spirit or in person, I remain in control of my destiny—”
From the co
rner of my eye, I saw Hunter. He didn’t look away from the paper, but he straightened and stuck his chest out, and I puckered hard to keep from laughing.
I judicial-eyed the men. “I agree; we’re all on the same side.”
“As long as you heard me.” Dex folded his arms.
There was my choice: I could wear the latest Catherine Malandrino designer jumpsuit or inmate classic wear. “Well played, Ape-Man.”
He flashed me the briefest look of genuine gratitude, and I sat at the kitchen table.
I poured coffee, and Jimmy Jack jumped onto my lap. Deep, very deep inside, I warmed. Life was damn complex. But the men understood: I was in control. I was sure they understood.
Chapter Fifty-Three
About eleven that morning, Hunter and I found Noel seated at the private corner table of the café awaiting our arrival. I didn’t know how to peg Judge Donnettelli’s Court Reporter Noel Lemmon. He was nice enough, but he was a weird bird. I’d never forgotten the words of my favorite law professor: Money makes people funny. And there was plenty of money floating around among these murders.
Noel lounged with his legs crossed, bouncing an agitated foot clad in an expensive running shoe. A thick shadow of facial hair was visible, something I’d never seen on his Courthouse face.
He raised both his hands—surrender style. “You got me. I killed the bastard. And I’m glad he’s dead. Can I go now?” Surly seemed to emanate from his core. Something had changed since the day Carlye had cut his hair, and we all got skunked.
“We’ll be brief. We’re sorry about Peter.” I motioned to a plate of scones. “Try one.”
His navy-blue-and-white running suit explained his fit exterior. In his mid-forties, I guessed, he’d never married, but was rumored to juggle many relationships.
“I’m investigating this whole ordeal,” Hunter said. “Did the police talk to you about Donnettelli or Peter?”
Noel snapped, “Ask them.” He broke off a corner of a cherry scone, pushed it between taut lips and chewed open-mouthed like the cartoon of an insolent thug.
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