Claws for Alarm (12 page)

I
skidded to a stop in front of the police station. Thankfully, there was an empty spot right in front. I shut off the car, pocketed the keys, and stomped toward the station, where I took the short flight of stone steps two at a time. I burst right through the plate glass doors and into the small lobby, where a large counter protected by what I assumed was bulletproof glass loomed in front of me. I walked straight up to it and saw a desk with a few filing cabinets in the room beyond. A stern-faced, gray-haired woman wearing a crisp blue uniform sat behind the desk, her attention focused on her computer monitor. I looked over to the side and saw a sign:
RING FOR ASSISTANCE
. I pressed the buzzer and heard a loud
bzzt
on the other side of the glass. The woman glanced up, frowned, then slowly rose and lumbered over to the window.

“Yes?” she asked through the microphone. “Can I help you?”

“I'd like to see Detective Samms. It's urgent.”

Her gaze was so chilly, I was surprised I didn't get frostbite. “I'm not sure if he's even in.”

I glanced toward the small waiting area, which boasted a hardwood bench. “Then I'll wait, if I may. If he should be back there, could you tell him Nora Charles needs to see him? It's urgent.”

Her lip curled at one end. “It always is, sweetie.”

“Thanks.” I returned her frosty gaze with one of my own. “You might also tell him I plan on waiting here for him
all night
if necessary.”

I no sooner settled myself on the uncomfortable bench than Samms himself swung through the plate glass door. He glanced my way, started to walk toward the door, paused, did a double take, then retraced his steps back to where I sat. He folded his arms across his chest and scowled down at me.

“Well, well, to what do I owe this honor? Did your secret decoder ring break? Or maybe you've found you've missed me, after all these years?”

“In your dreams.” I jumped up and poked my finger against his broad chest. “I have to talk to you. Right now. It's important.”

He stared at me for a minute, then nodded toward the door. “Follow me.” He motioned to the woman at the desk, and she hit a buzzer. A few moments later I trailed behind him down a narrow hallway to a frosted plate glass door at the end.
HOMICIDE—DETECTIVE LEROY SAMMS
was etched on it in black letters. He opened the door and ushered me inside. Smack in the center of the room was a large metal desk, its top covered with papers and files. In front of the desk were two worn-looking leather chairs, and behind the
desk, a leather captain's chair, equally worn. Off to one side were two file cabinets. The drawer of one stood partially open, and I could see it jam-packed with manila file folders. A Bunn coffeemaker with a half-f pot sat on a small table underneath a large window. He waved me into one of the worn chairs, then slid into the one behind the desk, leaned back, and steepled his fingers underneath his chin.

“So, tell me. To what do I owe the pleasure of your charming company tonight? What do you have to tell me that's so important?”

Never one to beat around the bush, I met his stare straight on and said, “You spoke with Julia Canton tonight, didn't you? Don't deny it—” I held up my hand as he started to speak. “I know you did. I know she called you.”

He leaned back in his chair, propped one foot up against the desk's edge. “Well, sure she did. Why would I deny it?”

His admission took me by surprise, and my jaw dropped. “You—you're admitting it?”

He actually had the temerity to look amused. “Why shouldn't I? Has a new law been passed I'm not aware of? Is it now a crime to receive phone calls from concerned citizens?” He shot me a look I felt sure he usually reserved for crazy people. “Or are you going to deny you were at the Wilson Galleries earlier, asking her and Wilson to find you a very rare Engeldrumm,
Ms. Abigail St. Clair
?”

I swallowed over the giant lump rising very fast in my throat. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He took his foot down and leaned across the desk, hands folded in front of him. “So what have you got to say for yourself?”

I shifted from side to side in the chair, curled my fingers around its arms. “I can explain.”

“Like you can explain calling here about fifteen minutes ago and hanging up when I answered?”

I gave myself a mental slap upside the head. Of course he'd have known it was me—every police station was equipped with caller ID. “I can explain that, too.”

“Okay. I'm waiting, Nora, and I warn you, it had better be good.”

I flashed him a dark look as I answered, “Fine, I'll tell you. On Friday I received a phone call from Mrs. Pitt.”

“Why would Giselle Pitt call you?”

“Giselle didn't. This was the original Mrs. Pitt, Althea. She thinks the police should do some further checking on Giselle's alibi for the night of Pitt's death.”

“She does, does she? And what, she thinks you have some pull here? That you can arrange it?”

“She knows I'm concerned about Lacey, and, unlike some people, she doesn't want to see an innocent person go to prison,” I shot back.

He fixed me with a level stare, and we sat in silence for a few minutes; the only sound was Samms, drumming his fingers on his desktop. At length he stopped and steepled his hands in front of him. “So she called you over to discuss the ineptitude of the police department . . . and then what? Why did you go to the gallery and pose as Abigail St. Clair? Don't tell me it's because you've suddenly become a patron of the arts.”

“No, of course not. Pitt promised his son a valuable painting to help alleviate his financial troubles, then reneged on
the deal at the last minute. I went to the gallery because Althea thought Julia was the one who sold Pitt the painting he was going to give their son.” I let out a breath. “I wanted to find out if it were possible the gallery somehow sold him a forgery.”

Samms leaned back, picked up a pencil from a tin cup on the desk, and scissored it between his fingers. He did this for a short time, and just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, he said, “Is this what you did as an investigative reporter? Take a button and sew a vest around it?” He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You've got no proof the gallery sold Pitt a forgery, let alone Julia knowing anything about it. All you've got is conjecture. You're assuming a situation that may or may not be true.”

“I think there's a good chance it is true,” I burst out. “You know, you were a lot more on the ball when you were on the college paper than you are now. Granted, there's no concrete proof—yet—but if one of those paintings was forged, and if Pitt discovered it somehow, he'd have been very upset. He might have taken steps to confront whoever he thought responsible, and that person might have wanted to silence him . . . permanently.”

Samms's eyes narrowed into slits. “And you think this person is Julia Canton?”

“I don't know if it is or isn't, but if one doesn't let oneself be blinded by her stunning good looks, it makes sense. She works at the gallery. She argued with the deceased a few days before his death. I'm certain she was involved somehow in the sale of the paintings.” I paused for a breath. “Do I have to go on?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You don't. Like I said, all
you've got is a theory and no proof.” He got up, walked around the desk, and eased one hip against its edge as he looked down at me. “Look, I appreciate the fact you'd like to see your sister cleared of a murder charge, but fingering another innocent person—”

I jumped up with such vehemence I felt my breasts jiggle underneath the thin fabric of my shirt. “I may not have proof she's guilty, but there's nothing that proves she's innocent, either.”

Both his bushy eyebrows bounced at either my jiggling breasts or my comment—I wasn't sure which. “So you're a lawyer now, too? Okay, then. I appreciate where you're coming from, but poking your nose into matters that don't concern you isn't going to help. You've got nothing that'll stand up in court.” He blew out an exasperated sigh. “God, if this isn't just like old times, you so stubborn—”

“Why did you become a detective?” I asked sharply, cutting him and his dissertation of my virtues off.

He stared at me. “What?”

“Why did you become a detective? You had a lot of promise as a reporter. What changed your mind?”

“The usual reason people change direction in life.” His lips thinned. “I had a lot of pressure from my family—my father, in particular—to follow in his footsteps.”

“Ah.” I did remember Samms talking about his father, a former San Francisco homicide detective. “That's too bad,” I said. “You were good at your job.”

“Yeah, well . . . sometimes life throws us a curve ball.” His gaze met mine and held it. “Ever wonder about what your life might have been like if you'd made a different choice?”

Now that was a loaded question. I shook my head. “No. I've found it does no good to rehash the past. It's much safer to live in the present.”

“Maybe so.” He ran his hand through his thick mass of hair. “And speaking of the present, I told you I didn't think your sister was guilty of the crime,” he continued. “But if you don't rein it in, you're going to do her more harm than good.”

I raised a hand to rub at my own throbbing temples. “There's something you're not telling me, isn't there? There's more here than meets the eye, and for some reason you don't want to share it.”

“I have nothing else to say to you, Nora. You're just going to have to put your faith in me for a bit longer.” His tone softened as he leaned toward me. “Please. Don't do anything stupid, anything you'll regret.”

His nearness was disconcerting; even though he didn't touch me, I started to tingle, like I'd touched electricity. It took me back, for an instant, to a night, long, long ago, a night when . . . Abruptly I pushed back my chair, stood up, and smoothed down my skirt. “The only thing I regret at the moment is thinking you'd be of some help. I thought you were someone who cared about justice, who wouldn't want to see someone put in prison for a crime they didn't commit. I guess I was wrong about you. Good evening, Detective Samms.”

I walked out of his office, my head held high, feeling the heat of his steely gaze sear my back as I went. I hurried down the corridor, past the reception desk, and I'd just stuck out my hand to push through the plate glass door when I realized my gold bangle was missing. I nibbled at my lower lip. I'd been fiddling with the catch while Samms and I sparred. I must have loosened it enough for it to fall off my wrist when
I got up. I hesitated. As much as I didn't want to look at Samms again, that bracelet was the last thing my mother had given me, and I wasn't about to leave here without it. I turned and walked back into the reception area. There was a different woman minding the desk now, and she didn't bat an eye when I explained what I wanted, just buzzed me through with a sympathetic smile. As I approached Samms's office, I noticed the door was closed. I'd just raised my hand to knock when I heard his voice from behind the door.

“Julia? It's Lee.”

Feeling like I'd just been doused with a bucket of ice water, I rubbed my suddenly clammy hands down the sides of my slacks. Lee, huh? So much for impartiality. I pressed my ear closer to the door, eager to catch every word I could.

“Yes, she was here. I think I managed to put her off the scent, though—what's that? You found the
terma
? Are you certain?” There was a moment of silence and then, “Billings Warehouse at ten. Got it. I'll meet you there.”

I heard the sound of a chair scraping back, and I turned and walked swiftly in the direction I'd come from. Fortunately, the receptionist was busy on the phone and hardly acknowledged my halfhearted wave. I hurried over to my SUV, climbed in, and leaned my head against the seat rest, struggling to process recent events.

It was pretty obvious now why Samms was reluctant to follow my lead. There was some connection between him and Julia, but what? Of course there was the obvious assumption that they were lovers, but was that all there was to it? Or could there be something more? I'd seen a lot of dirty cops when I was in Chicago. Heck, I'd even been on stakeouts with some of them. But I had difficulty picturing
Samms as a cop, let alone a dirty one. Of course, it had been a long time since we'd seen each other, but . . . a person didn't change
that
much. There was also the possibility Samms was onto her, that he'd been onto her all along, and perhaps meeting her at this warehouse tonight was a trap. That might explain his insistence I keep my distance. He could want to keep me out of any possible cross fire.

There was only one way for me to find out the truth, and that was for me to go to the Billings Warehouse and see for myself just what was happening. Worst case scenario, I could always contact Daniel and get the feds involved.