Double Indemnity (2 page)

“Did you find a note?”

“Again, no further details are available at this time. Thank you.”

To put a definitive end to the conference, Sheldon strode away, a couple of deputies trailing behind him. The news cut back to the main studio. “That was Chief of Police Dan Sheldon with a short briefing of what we already knew, that local financier and philanthropist, Mark Feldman, has been found dead in his home. Cause of death is under investigation.”

Rachel sighed and crossed her arms. “You think it was a suicide?”

“No idea. It seemed like he had everything going for him.”

In the last several years, Mark Feldman had gained popularity for restoring some of Stonebridge's crumbling, turn-of-the-century buildings with personal funds. He'd planned to save even more with the help of his eponymous nonprofit foundation. Sam suspected he was gearing up to run as the democratic candidate for mayor, which would have pitted him against Mayor White, a recently re-elected Republican with a twenty-year history in the city. Though White's policies continued to ignore the ongoing poverty and drug crisis downtown in favor of courting wealthier suburban inhabitants, he'd won a landslide victory over his latest opponent. People were afraid of change. In a few years, however, Feldman would have been the perfect challenger. Well, not anymore, Sam thought morosely. Though he hadn't personally known Feldman, he'd respected what the guy had tried to do for the city.

Sam sighed as another pundit joined the first for more conjecture. Maybe the
Gazette
would give him a call for Feldman's obit, unless they already had one written and ready to go. Feldman was as close to famous as you got in Stonebridge. He hoped he'd get to write it. He could use the money, and lately his assignments from the paper had been few and far between. Damn budget cuts.

“So what does this mean for Stonebridge?” Rachel asked.

“Well, with any luck, this won't put an end to the restoration projects. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if White had Feldman killed 'cause he was making him look bad.”

Rachel rubbed her hands up and down her smooth arms, as though she were fighting a chill. “You don't really mean that. I mean, granted, White is a douchebag, but that's taking it a little far.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sam eyed the taps. Just a half-pint would clear his headache right up. “I'm only saying it smells fishy to me.”

“That's the breeze coming in from the docks. Anyway, if you're so convinced something is going on, why don't you write about it for your blog? You talk enough, but I don't see you doing shit. When's the last time you wrote something really good?”

“I'm busy.” Sam's schedule with Manella's and occasional pieces for the
Gazette
left him little time for his pet project. He barely had time to sleep, let alone write.

“I know you are, baby.” Rachel gave his hand a pat, and her dark eyes grew soft. “You going to see Tim today?”

“Yeah. Later on.” Sam looked away. “Speaking of which, I better head out.”

“To tend the yuppie lawns.”

He grinned at her and leaned over the bar to kiss her cheek. “Touché.”

 

 

T
HE
DRIVE
from downtown to the suburbs of West Stonebridge took
around twenty minutes. Houses turned into estates and then grew fewer and farther apart, and eventually gave way to farmland and wilderness. The contrast never failed to make him a little sorry for Stonebridge, which, despite the pretty name, was a huge dump of a port city. Most of it, anyway. Out here the air got fresher, the colors brighter, the people
richer.

Sam cranked up the A/C in his truck and stopped for a coffee to wash down a couple of aspirin to kill his hangover. His first stop was the Walkers' place, an old converted farmhouse on acres of land, most of which was covered with trees. Sam had often wondered what it would be like to live with nothing but bears and bunnies for neighbors. It might get lonely, but at least the water temperature would always be just right. He parked his Ford flatbed on the gravel driveway and hopped out. Because the job was only a weekly mow and maintain, Sam hadn't bothered to ask any of the other workers to join him. And Yuri had taken the day off, Sam remembered, so he wouldn't see his partner until the next day. At least it would avoid another awkward morning after.

Emma Walker's cruiser was still parked in the drive when he pulled in, and next to it, her husband Nathan's sleek black Mercedes. Sam's pulse quickened like it always did, but the butterflies in his stomach reached swarm proportions when he noticed Nathan getting out of the driver's side.

With his black sunglasses and trendy suit, the cut of which showed off his powerful shoulders and trim waist, Nathan couldn't have looked less rustic in front of his country home. His dark hair gleamed in the morning sun.

He had a few inches on Sam, and Sam had often admired his swimmer's build on the occasions Nathan was home while Sam worked the yard. The guy could do laps for hours as Sam mowed and raked and tried not to marvel at the way he cut through the water like a hot knife through butter. An attractive man, but a very heterosexual, very married, man, Sam reminded himself as he returned Nathan's wave. He pulled something out of his trunk—a suitcase—and vanished into the house. Sam often wondered where Nathan disappeared to on all of those long trips. He could have been a government agent or some kind of contractor. Even a hit man.

“Heya, Sam.” Emma Walker appeared at the front door wearing her uniform, her red hair frizzing out around her head. She was a petite woman with pale skin and wide blue eyes. On more than one occasion, Sam had wondered if the whole country-living thing had been her idea in the first place.

“Emma,” he greeted her, slamming the door to his truck. He didn't need to unload. The Walkers had a riding mower in their barn and plenty of tools, most of them left over from the previous owners. The former occupants had maintained a functioning apple orchard, and an unpaved, winding road led from the side of the barn, past the house, and up to the groves. One of these days, Sam would get up there and see about pruning the trees.

“It's a scorcher,” said Emma. “You be sure to come in and have a drink if you need one. Nathan just got back from a trip, so he'll be working from home.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Today would probably be one of those swimming days, then. His pulse spiked at the thought.

“Well, I'm off.” She blew out a breath. “I really can't believe Mark Feldman is dead. Mess of paperwork today, and I'm sure things will be crazy down at the station. I'd rather stay home and help you in the yard, to be honest.”

“You hear anything else about it? I saw the chief's briefing.”

“Nothing until we get the autopsy results, but we won't rule anything out until then. I feel so awful for his family.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He knew more than a little about loss, but he wasn't going to bring it up right then. “Hey, I'm thinking of doing something for my blog. Maybe we can chat once the results are in?” He gave her his most winning smile.

Emma smiled back. “Yes. That would be fine. It'll be at least a few days, though.” She glanced at her watch. “I've got to go, but I meant what I said about asking Nathan if you need anything. The last thing we want is for you to pass out from heatstroke. Don't you have a hat?”

Sam watched her slim figure retreat and then grabbed Yuri's stupid Yankees cap from the cab of his truck. Better to wear it than burn to a crisp.

Mark Feldman was dead, and he couldn't have been more than fifty. Sam had met him a couple of times around town, and in each instance the man had been gracious, if a bit frayed around the edges. He'd apparently lost a lot of money in the market crash. Maybe that drove him to draw his last bath. Or maybe he'd slipped and fallen. In cases like this, sometimes you never found out.

The sweltering morning drew on, filled with smells of gasoline and freshly cut grass. At least his noise-canceling headphones muffled the sound of the riding mower. He put his foot on the brake and whipped his shirt off, then used it to mop the sweat off his brow. He couldn't imagine Nathan objecting, and no one else was around for miles.

The thought appealed to him a little more than it probably should.

He'd just finished the front yard when he looked up and was startled to find he wasn't alone. Nathan stood not ten feet away, watching him and holding what appeared to be a glass of iced tea. The towel slung over his shoulder indicated his intent to swim. Sam cut the mower engine and stood up. He hoped his sweat wasn't visible through his shorts.

“Emma told me to make sure you didn't keel over out here.” Nathan extended his tan, muscled arm. No visible tattoos. He could have been a swimsuit model.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” A long sip of the strong and lemony tea soothed Sam's throat, though Nathan's proximity was disarming. His dark eyes focused on Sam and seemed to assess him.

“So you're a Yankees fan?”

An uncomfortable moment passed, during which Sam tried to figure out what the hell Nathan meant. “Pardon my French, but fuck no.”

“It's just… your hat.”

Sam blushed and tugged the thing off his head. “This isn't mine, it's a friend's. I was wearing it because of the sun.”

“Ah, I see.” Nathan's mouth curved in a half smile as he watched Sam drain the rest of the tea. “Sox, then.”

“Of course.”

“Do you want some more?”

Sam shook his head and passed back the glass. “Nah, thanks. I'm good.” He knew he should probably get back to work, but his legs refused to move. “So what do you think about this whole Feldman thing? You think he killed himself?”

“I don't know. Maybe. What do you think?”

“It's strange. People loved him, and he was really making an impact on the city. Didn't seem like a guy on the verge of killing himself, but who knows.”

“You're a reporter, right?”

“I wouldn't exactly call myself a reporter. I write piecemeal for the
Gazette
. Oh, and I have a blog.” Sam cringed at how stupid he sounded, but Nathan cocked his head, his expression curious.

“What's it called?”

“
Under the Bridge
.” He immediately regretted saying it, and prayed Nathan would forget. He hadn't posted in months.

“Like the song.”

“Yeah. Like the song.”

“So what do you write about?”

Sam shrugged. “About things that piss me off. Mostly about what's going on around here, you know. There's been a lot of drug-related arrests lately, mostly of minorities. But no one wants to talk about racial profiling. No one wants to talk about inequality. They say there's no money to fill the potholes in Stonebridge, but yet the city builds a new road out to the goddamn mall so people can go waste their paychecks on hand soap. Meanwhile all the shops downtown close.” Sam realized he'd started a rant and, moreover, that Nathan himself was one of the people he was railing against. “Sorry. I'll shut up now and get back to work.”

“No. Don't be sorry. I agree with what you're saying.”

Sam stared back at the guy, not sure if he was joking or not. Even though Sam knew Emma well enough—she was one of the few cops who didn't seem to mind his occasional presence at the station—Nathan remained an enigma. He didn't strike Sam as someone who'd be into liberal politics, for one. But you learned something new every day. “Oh.”

Nathan's eyes crinkled a little at the edges as he shielded his face from the sun. “You're a smart guy, Sam. I think you're wasting your talent out here.”

“There's nothing wrong with what I do.”

“Of course not. I don't mean to offend. It seems from what you've said, like your interests lie elsewhere.”

“I've gotta pay the bills. And, I'll have you know, I have many talents.” Sam waggled an eyebrow, unable to stop himself. If Nathan noticed the flirting, he didn't seem to mind.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Nathan nodded. “You've got time.”

Sam scrubbed a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Time. Time was one thing Sam knew a lot about. The blazing sun made his head feel like a skillet hot enough to fry an egg. Dammit. He was going to have to put the stupid Yankees hat back on.

“I don't mean to pry, but why not move to a bigger city?”

“Can't. I've got… obligations.” And no way was he getting into some feelings show-and-tell with Nathan Walker.

“I understand,” Nathan said simply. Sam looked down to avoid the inquisitive stare and noticed Nathan wore bright red flip-flops. His toes were long. As were his legs. Nicely muscled too and richly tan. Sam had often wondered if Nathan had Italian ancestry in spite of his English last name.

“—imagined myself.”

Sam looked up when he realized Nathan had been speaking to him and he'd been daydreaming about his legs.

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded and tried to stifle a laugh. “I hear you.”

Nathan arched an eyebrow and smirked like he detected Sam's bullshit, which made Sam irritable. The heat wasn't helping. Nor was the fact that Nathan's cheeks dimpled when he smiled.
Straight guy. Married guy
.
And I like his wife.

“Ah, well. I better get back to work.” Sam thanked Nathan again for the drink. He had two more properties to tend after this and had to hustle if he wanted to get lunch in.

Just as he'd expected, Nathan was in the pool when Sam finished mowing. Arranged with native plants and sustainability in mind, the natural grounds in the backyard didn't require as much time for upkeep. Off to the side of the pool, Emma had a raised-bed kitchen garden that was already bursting with ripe tomatoes and herbs. Sam could see through the french pane windows directly into the tastefully furnished living room. He concentrated on his work and not on how the same glass reflected back Nathan's graceful strokes while he swam.