Running From the Law

by Lisa Scottoline

  Fiske shook his head. “A mistake is more likely with a numbered plate, dear. Not a vanity plate.”

  “Oh, you just never liked those vanity plates. You put up such a fuss.” She shaved her cigarette ash to a fragile cone on the thick edge of the ashtray.

  I took a breath, then stated the obvious as tactfully as possible. “Kate, one letter wrong is your license plate. And of course it wasn’t you.”

  Kate laughed abruptly, emitting a hiccup of smoke. “What are you saying, that—”

  “Of course it wasn’t Kate’s car,” Fiske snapped.

  Paul’s head swiveled in Fiske’s direction. I wished I could see his expression. “Rita wasn’t suggesting that it was Mom’s car, Dad.”

  Of course I was. “Of course I wasn’t.”

  “I confess I don’t have much in the way of an alibi,” Kate said, seemingly amused. “When I told the policeman I was gardening all afternoon, he looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.”

  Fiske smiled. “He doesn’t know the time you spend on that damn garden. Or the money.” His tone was light, and if he suspected her, it didn’t show.

  “That reminds me,” Kate said. “I did go to Waterloo Gardens that day, for a new hose. A soaker. I spent seventy-five dollars, but I didn’t save the receipt, nor can I remember which clerk helped me. Will I get off the hook anyway?”

  I met Kate’s cool gaze through the screen of cigarette smoke. “Absolutely not. Anybody who spends that much money on a hose should be locked up. Go directly to jail and most certainly do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  The three of them laughed, relieved, and it got us past my bad manners in calling the Queen a killer.

  “It had better be a nice hose,” Fiske said. “A very nice hose.”

  “The mother of all hoses,” Paul added.

  Kate stubbed out her cigarette and set the ashtray on the tall end table. “Don’t blame me, fellas. You know you can’t get out of Waterloo for less than fifty dollars. I have to go back tomorrow to replace the geraniums the reporters trampled. Are they still out there?” she asked Paul.

  He looked out the window. “The geraniums or the reporters?”

  Kate smiled. “The reporters.”

  “Of course.” Paul yanked at the curtain, but it was sewn open like in hotels. “The reporters will never leave and the geraniums will never come back.”

  Kate shook her head. “The police traipse through the house, the reporters destroy the gardens. The telephone rings off the hook all the time, and we’re in every newspaper in town. When do we get our life back?”

  Fiske glanced at her guiltily. “I’m sorry, dear. About all of this.”

  “Oh, phoo,” she said, looking away. “It’s not your doing.”

  I got up to go, and Paul stepped out of the sunlight and looked at me directly. His eyes looked slightly sunken behind his glasses; he hadn’t been sleeping well. “You going home?”

  Home? So he still hadn’t told his parents. “No. I want to stop by the hospital. Then I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Like what? Maybe I can help. I’ve been thinking about it, about different approaches you might take. Logical ways of investigating the crime.”

  I picked up my handbag and briefcase, acutely aware that Fiske and Kate were watching this exchange. “I’ve got it under control, Paul.”

  “But, Rita, it’s like forensic architecture. I look at the evidence, the clues, and try to find out what caused the problem. The leak, the crack, whatever. It’s all deductive reasoning. Remember the underground garage? I can help you.”

  Fuck you. “I appreciate that, but—”

  “I think Rita knows what she’s doing, son,” Fiske interrupted. I gathered he was trying to be supportive, but it left me wondering why he wanted me working alone.

  “I’m not suggesting she doesn’t,” Paul said. “But I’ve cleared my calendar to help her find out who’s behind this. Aren’t two heads better than one?”

  Not when I want to knock yours off. “I don’t think so. If I need help, we have investigators at the firm.”

  “Then maybe I can start my own investigation and we can compare notes.”

  Did he want to help me so he could control what I found out? Lead me away from the clues? “Paul, I don’t think we need some sort of parallel investigation.”

  “I think Paul is on to something, Rita,” Kate said. “It sounds sensible to me. Paul may be able to help you. At the very least, you know he can be trusted.”

  Say what? “I have to go now.”

  “Then it’s settled,” he said. “We’ll talk tonight.”

  Tonight? I fingered the note in my blazer pocket, from Tobin. He had pressed it into my hand after the hearing, as I fought the gauntlet of the press:

  You were awesome! Dinner at Sonoma at 7?

  Yours in saturated fat,

  Jake

  I flashed on the scene outside the courthouse after the hearing. The media had bar-raged me with questions, many about the mystery motorcycle rider. I’d practiced my “no comment” to the right and to the left, and had almost made it to my car when Stan Julicher had popped out of the crowd, his face tinged with righteous anger, like some avenging angel. “You know and I know the judge did it,” he’d said.

  “You’re wrong, Julicher,” I’d answered.

  “Shame on you,” he’d shot back, and I’d slipped into my car, feeling uneasy.

  “I’ll be home at six, okay?” Paul was saying.

  “Actually, make it seven.” By then I should be having dinner with another man and you can sit on the front porch and hold your goddamn breath. I’d already had the locks changed. “And by the way, Paul, maybe you could bring home that sketchbook we were looking at yesterday.”

  “Sketchbook?” Fiske said. “Are you sketching again, son?”

  Paul shook his head quickly. “I threw it away, Rita. I didn’t know you’d want it. Seven o’clock then?” He smiled.

  They all did, except me.

  My father was snoozing peacefully in his new hospital room. They’d moved him from intensive care and into a private room at my insistence. I’d thought he’d need the privacy to rest, but I could see now he didn’t, since Sal, Cam, and Herman were playing cards on the table spanning his rounded belly. No money was visible to the naked eye, so I knew Herman would have the tote running in his head.

  For a split second I wanted in on the game, but then I remembered I was working. I had to build the case for the defense and I needed the help of the only people in the world I could really trust. I let them finish the hand and explained the steps I wanted to take in my investigation. Then I opened the floor for questions. I should’ve known better.

  “Why do I gotta wear this?” Sal whined. He held up a pair of gray wool pants and a navy Burberry blazer. “Why can’t I just wear normal clothes?”

  “Uncle Sal, I spent a fortune on those clothes. I’m dressing you better than you ever dressed in your life. You can even keep the outfit when we’re done.”

  “I don’t have no place to wear stuff this fancy.”

  “Then throw it away. Burn it. Use it to wrap pork chops.”

  “I don’t like the shoes. They look funny.”

  “Cole-Haans with a tassel? What’s not to like?”

  “I like Herman’s outfit better. He got the boots.”

  Herman, sitting next to him, shook his head. “You think I wanna wear cowboy boots? Look like those goyim in the Texas hats? I’m doin’ it for Rita. Because she asked me.”

  “They’re not cowboy boots, Herman,” I said. “They’re just black boots.”

  “So can I trade Herman for the boots?” Sal pleaded. “I got nothin’ against black boots.”

  “I’m even wearing the leather jacket, all for Rita,” Herman continued, rivaling any Catholic for martyrdom. “Why can’t you just go along like me, Sal?”

  Cam laughed. “Herman, how long you known Sal Morrone? Forty, fifty years?”

  “
Only thirty.”

  “Okay, thirty. So you know Sal has to find something to complain about.”

  Uncle Sal ignored them. “Maybe I can switch with Cam?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “But I’ll be hot in the jacket.”

  “It’ll be air-conditioned.”

  Sal pointed to the brown work boots I bought for Cam. “Maybe I could just wear Cam’s shoes? I like them things.”

  No kidding. He was already wearing the same shoes.

  “Sal,” Cam said, “what is it with you? It’s like we’re gonna be in a play or somethin’. I need my shoes, I gotta dress my part. I gotta act my part.”

  “A star is born,” Herman said.

  Sal put the blazer down. “I got an idea. Can’t Herman do Cam’s job and Cam do Herman’s job and we switch all the jobs around?”

  Cam shook his head. “He’s confusing me.”

  “He’s confusing himself,” Herman corrected. “He’s a confusing person. A confusing person to be around.”

  I rubbed my forehead. Halloween wasn’t turning out the way I’d hoped. Remind me never to have a kid. Or an old man. “Look, Uncle Sal. Everybody has to go along with the plan. No trades, no switching!”

  “Okay, okay. You don’t have to holler.”

  “She wasn’t hollering,” Cam said.

  Yes, I was. “Now go get dressed. We have to get going.”

  “Get dressed? Where?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “In the bathroom? Here?” Sal looked nervously at the door, he always looked nervous. I must have been crazy to think I could count on him. No one had ever relied on Sal for anything. I had no idea what he did all day, except play cards and watch old movies on television. My father had always taken care of everything.

  “You can do this, Sal. You and me,” I said, not believing a word of it.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. I know.”

  Sal picked up the blazer and disappeared into the bathroom with the clothes. I decided to wait to tell him about the accent he’d have to fake. Growing up is hard enough to do, and best done in stages.

  19

  The only sound in the empty showroom was the discreet hum of the air-conditioning, and the occasional squirt of a spray bottle from a man in a coarse blue jumpsuit, cleaning the windshields. Late-afternoon sun poured through mullioned windows that bordered the room. Reproductions of Chippendale end tables flanked the entrance, which opened on to five spanking-new, factory-delivered Jaguars of various colors. Each car gleamed under its own set of track lights, like babies in a multiracial nursery.

  “But nobody told me about this,” said the confused salesman. His navy blazer roughly matched Sal’s and his loafers were almost identically tasseled. Am I good or am I good? “I should have been told.”

  “We sent the fax yesterday,” I said authoritatively. “It would have mentioned me, Miss Jamesway.” I had my hair knotted back and my glasses on, in case he recognized me from the newspapers. “And your name is Mr.—”

  “Henry.”

  “Well, Henry—”

  “No, Mr. Henry,” he corrected. “I don’t recall any fax.”

  “That’s odd. The home office said they’d take care of it.”

  “The home office? You mean Detroit or Mahwah?”

  “Mahwah.” It was more fun to say.

  “Then it would have come directly from Jim Farnsworth, the CEO.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Jim said his assistant would send it.”

  “But we didn’t get it.” Mr. Henry patted his dark hair, which was combed and slightly perfumed, like a groomed Scottish terrier.

  “No matter. We’re here now. We don’t want to keep Mr. Livemore waiting, do we?” I nodded at Uncle Sal, who was standing beside a sparkling Rose Bronze Van den Plas XJ12. His arms were folded imperiously over his skinny chest and he frowned at the Cream interior of the car in as British a manner as possible, as per my instructions. I’d ordered him to keep quiet because his English accent had proved to be a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Batman.

  “Mr. Livemore? I don’t recall that name.”

  “That’s because he rarely leaves Coventry. He’s the operations manager at Brown’s Lane, and he hates to travel.”

  “Operations manager, you say? He’s rather old for the job, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but experience tells, don’t you know. We really should get on with it. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “But it’s not procedure. We have our procedures, our channels of authority here—”

  I leaned close to him and whispered, “It’s my job on the line. Cut me a break, will you? I’d do the same for you.”

  His brushy black mustache twitched, his blue eyes were as bright as the XJS in front of us. Sapphire, they called the color, with an Oatmeal interior. Six cylinders and $66,200 of gorgeous. But since I was pretending to help build these beauties, I did not drool on the showroom floor. “I don’t like this at all, Miss Jamesway,” he said.

  “Please? I need this job. I’m a single mother, trying to make a living.”

  He softened. “Oh, all right. Where do you work, Miss Jamesway? England or the U.S.?”

  “I go back and forth.” Between truth and falsehood. “Now, as I said, Mr. Livemore has been very concerned about the paint quality on the black models in recent years. Have you had any complaints about the black paint?”

  “Exterior enamels? Not that I recall. Most of our customers are very satisfied, very loyal.”

  “Have you had complaints from your customers about chipping? Particularly around the doors? In the black models?”

  He thought a minute. “No.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sal run his finger along the polished side of a Kingfisher Blue XJ12 Coupe. His greasy fingertip made a streak like a slug’s trail on the car’s virgin surface. “Mr. Livemore would like to locate the owners of black Jaguars in the area. He wants to contact these customers to see if they are as satisfied as Jaguar wants them to be. Do you have such a list?”

  He blinked. “Not per se, no. We have a list of the cars sold in a year, but not by color. We sell many black cars, as you know. It’s one of our most popular colors after British Racing Green.”

  Over my shoulder, Sal was opening and closing the long door of a Flamenco Red XJS Convertible with a Coffee interior. The ca-chunk sound echoed harshly, the only rugs in the room were squares under each Pirelli. Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk. The convertible door closed fluidly each time, but Sal grimaced like an Uberfieldmarshal.

  The salesman caught Sal’s expression. “He’s very thorough, isn’t he?”

  “It’s his job to be very thorough,” I said, wanting to wring Sal’s stringy neck.

  “Maybe I should call my manager. He’s at the dentist, but he has a beeper.”

  “No, you wouldn’t want to bother your boss. You know what Mr. Livemore would do to me if I called him at his dentist?” I glanced at Sal, who was climbing into the driver’s seat of the low-slung convertible. His puny frame vanished into the cushy leather seat. “Let’s just get on with it, can we? Before Mr. Livemore starts testing the ashtrays.”

  “But the ashtrays are fine!”

  “How about the electrical system?” The automatic windows on Fiske’s car stuck constantly and the door locks were possessed.

  “The electrics have improved since the quality controls we’ve instituted with Ford.”

  “Yeah. Right. This is me now, not Autoweek,” I said, and he winced. “Look, I know how popular black is. That’s why they’re so concerned, back in England, that the paint on the black models is chipping and flaking.”

  “Flaking, too?” His face went white. Glacier White, to be exact.

  “Mr. Henry, just so I understand the scope of the problem, I would guess there are hundreds of black Jaguars sold by this dealership.”

  “Hundreds? Thousands would be more like it, including the leases.” His hands fluttered
to the knot on his rep tie. “Chipping, really? You would think I would have heard about it.”

  “It occurs on very few models, but Mr. Livemore wants us to stay on top of the situation. Uphold the quality of the marque. Don’t you agree?”

  “By all means.”

  “And you’re the only Jaguar dealer in the greater Philadelphia area, is that right? There’s one in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and none in Delaware?” I’d let my fingers do the walking.

  “Yes,” he answered, distracted by Sal, who had found the convertible’s pristine shoulder harness and was snapping it back and forth. It retracted with a high-quality craakkk and the salesman flinched each time, like it was a rifle shot.

  “Do you think I could see your list of cars sold or leased in the past, oh, three years?” Then I would have a list of everybody with a black Jag in the area. Maybe one of them had reason to frame Fiske. “I can pick off the black cars myself.”

  “That would take an enormous amount of time. It’s a huge number.”

  “I have an assistant. In Mahwah. Mr. Farnsworth’s assistant.”

  Mr. Henry shook his head slowly. “Maybe I should call my manager.” He walked toward a desk located behind a glass partition before I could stop him.

  Shit. “Mr. Livemore!” I called to Sal. “Perhaps you should come along. We may be phoning the manager.”

  Sal turned in the car seat, his eyes barely clearing the headrest, then began to climb out of the car.

  “Come quickly, Mr. Livemore!” I said, panicky. I flashed on a scene of me manacled before the ethics committee of the Pennsylvania bar and hurried to Mr. Henry’s desk, where he was reaching for the telephone.

  “I’m shocked!” shouted a British voice from behind me. It was Sal. His face was Signal Red and his scowl was deep as the pile on a floor mat. “That’s what I am, shocked! Put down that phone!”

  Mr. Henry froze and the receiver clattered onto the cradle.

  “How dare you!” Sal thundered. He stood taller and straighter, his scrawny shoulders squared off in their shoulder pads. Even his accent had sharpened up, he sounded like Pierce Brosnan as Remington Steele. I was dumbfounded. So was Mr. Henry.