Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (26 page)

“Your boyfriend again?”

“It wasn’t Ken who called the other night. I told you that. It was a woman I work with.”

“Ken? Hey, that’s cute. Ken and Kali.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I picked up an embroidered pillow and tossed it at him.

Then we both waited to see if I’d stomp my foot. “Come on,” he said, standing with a stretch, “let’s get going.”

I grabbed my purse and then thought to grab a jacket as well. The evening had turned breezy, with a smell of rain in the air. Already huge, dark clouds were drifting across the sky, cutting daylight short.

“Do you think we could stop by The Mine Shaft?” I asked on the way to Tom’s truck. “We don’t have to stay long, but I’d like to see it on a busy night.”

“This about Eddie Marrero?”

“More or less.”

Tom shot me a sideways glance, and waited.

“I think George has been skimming money from the business, and that’s why he wanted to keep Eddie out,” I filled him in on what I’d found that afternoon. “If Eddie hadn’t already discovered what was going on, he was bound to sooner or later.”

Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know, murder is quite a jump from palming a couple hundred a month
...”

“It could be more.”

“Palming even a thousand a month, it’s not big time corruption, Kali. Murder is. That’s a big leap.”

It was the same argument I’d had with myself earlier. “People have been killed over a whole lot less,” I observed.

Tom nodded, his forehead creased in thought. “You told me George and Eddie had worked everything out, though.”

“Maybe they had, and then George changed his mind. Or maybe George only wanted Eddie to
think
things were resolved.”

Tom drove in silence for a moment. “Makes as much sense as anything, I guess. What are you going to do next?”

“I’m not sure. I was hoping Benson would be interested enough that I wouldn’t have to do anything.” “And he wasn’t?”

“He said he’d have someone look into it, but he wasn’t exactly boiling over with enthusiasm.”

“Maybe he’ll turn up something all the same.” “Maybe. But I’d better not count on it. If George killed Eddie, there’s
bound
to be something that ties him to it. I just have to find what it is.”

Tom kept his eyes on the road, squinting into the growing darkness. “You’ll be careful?”

“I’m always careful.”

“I’m serious, Kali. This is murder we’re talking about.”

“What are you, my keeper?”

He looked over at me, then shook his head and laughed. “You always were stubborn as a mule.”

<><><>

The Mine Shaft wasn’t my kind of establishment, but it clearly had no shortage of enthusiasts. The place was packed, the air thick with smoke and booze and sweat. We found stools at the bar and ordered beer, shouting to be heard over the din of laughter and the sharp, penetrating crack of dice.

It was a man’s bar, the kind of local hangout which attracted a regular, steady clientele, in this case mostly middle-aged and paunchy. There was a good deal of calling out to friends across the room, and an equal measure of amicable joshing. It was the sort of place you could almost call homey, if you were inclined to think of a bar in those terms. I wasn’t, but I could understand how some people might, and why George hadn’t been eager to embrace Eddie’s plans for live music and fried zucchini appetizers.

At the other end of the bar, George was listening to the animated retelling of a story with countless repetitions of “And then I says to him.” When the tale ended, both men laughed uproariously. George leaned across the bar top to add a final thought. Then he saw us, and straightened.

I gave him my best smile, but he turned away so quickly I doubt he saw it. “That’s him,” I whispered to Tom, who turned and followed my glance.

“I don’t know what he does with the money he skims,” Tom whispered back, “but he sure doesn’t spend it on clothes.”

Nor, as far as I had been able to tell, on fancy cars or a fancy lifestyle. “His wife has cancer,” I said. “He might need money for medical bills.”

Then again, some people didn’t need a reason. They simply couldn’t see the point in taking any less than what they could get away with.

We finished our beers and headed back to the truck. “You find what you were looking for?” Tom asked.

“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Sometimes it helps just to get a firsthand impression.” Although I had to admit, in this case, it hadn’t. In all honesty, I couldn’t even say that Foothill Cleaning did anything less than a first-rate job.

Then I sent all the ugly, uncomfortable thoughts packing, and focused on enjoying myself.

The Round Up was more my kind of place, lively and funky, and homey too, in a different sort of way. We drank beer, and munched on chips and guacamole while we waited for our burgers. Then we switched to French fries and onion rings, and a second pitcher of beer. At nine, the band came on and the place began to buzz with a high-keyed energy. Intermittent whoops and hollers rang out from around the room. And occasionally a long coyote-like howl.

The band was surprisingly good. Their songs ranged from foot-stomping bluegrass to soft ballads, and we danced and laughed like a couple of teenagers. Later in the evening, the crowd thinned out, and the songs became slower.

Our dancing slowed, too. I found myself draped against Tom, feet barely moving. I could feel his breath on my neck, his hands anchored against the small of my back. It was a nice sensation. Hell, more than nice. And I felt it through my entire body, like ripples in water.

It was after midnight when we left. The rain, which had been threatening earlier in the evening, was coming down now in earnest, pelting the roof as though it were being dumped from the sky by the bucketful. The hum of the heater, the regular rhythm of the wipers, the windows clouded with mist — it was the kind of night that makes you feel that time has stopped, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist

Sliding over, I rested my head against Tom’s shoulder. I had that warm, fuzzy, delectable feeling, like the weightlessness of a dream. I thought of the several foil packets of Trojans I’d slipped into my purse earlier that evening, and smiled.

The smile was short-lived, however. Tom pulled into my driveway, walked me to the door and kissed me lightly. He was gone before I had a chance to invite him in.

Talk about wounded pride. I kicked open the door, slammed it shut behind me and hurled my purse, with its damned packets of Trojans, against the floor. The warm, fuzzy feeling evaporated somewhere in the process.

In the corner of my mind, I remembered seeing something on the porch. Something I’d overlooked in my anger. I flipped on the light, and sure enough, there off to the side of the doormat was a long florist’s box. Guiltily, I thought of Ken, who had a way of surprising me sometimes. Maybe he wasn’t as aloof and insensitive as I’d begun to think. Maybe he simply had a different style.

I took the box inside and ripped open the card.

"Bon Voyage.
’’And it wasn’t signed.

I felt a flicker of disappointment. The flowers weren’t from Ken, after all. They weren’t even for me. How could a delivery get so fouled up when there were only three houses on the entire road?

Then I opened the box.

And screamed.

I ran to the bathroom and vomited. When my stomach had stopped rolling up into my throat, I rinsed my mouth and splashed water on my face and tried to think what I should do about the pulpy, bloody mess in the box.

I could try the police, although it was hardly an emergency. In any case, I would rather wait until morning when I could reach Benson directly. I could call Ken, who might or might not offer solace, and who would certainly be annoyed at being woken from a sound sleep. Or I could swallow my pride and call Tom. Which is what I did.

But Tom wasn’t in, or wasn’t answering. I cursed him anew and hugged my arms tightly across my chest.

Loretta wandered into the room and peered at me with deep brown eyes. Then she put her head in my lap, gently nuzzling me with her nose, and whimpered in commiseration. I scratched her head and whimpered back. When the phone rang, we both jumped.

After an initial silence a voice said, “Did you get my message? Better start packing, missy. Unless you’re waiting for a formal sendoff.” And then the line went dead. The words were faint and muffled, but they sent ice through my veins.

I tried Tom again, and he answered on the second ring.

“Tom. Something
awful ...”
I burbled, not at all lawyerlike, not at all ladylike. “I got this package, this . . . this . . . oh God, and then this phone call. Would you mind coming over? Please?”

He was there in less than a minute, clearly worried, but unruffled at the same time. It was the kind of stoic, take-charge attitude the situation required.

“Fish guts,” he said, inspecting the florist box and then dropping it into a large plastic sack. “Lots of them.”

I swallowed hard and tried to force a laugh. “Oh, only fish guts.” But the laugh caught in my throat and came out as a croak instead. I’d stopped shaking, but my insides felt like Jello.

“Tell me again what happened.” Tom sat down opposite me and cupped my hands in his, giving them a quick, reassuring squeeze.

I told him about finding the box and the card, and then about the phone call.

“What about the voice?”

I shook my head. “It was disguised. I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female.”

“And you didn’t hear anything as you were coming into the house?”

I shook my head again. “It has to be tied into my investigation of Eddie’s murder.”

I suppose I should have been feeling pleased. Threats were usually a sign you were on to something. But logic lost out. There was nothing at all good about the way I felt. “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” I added. “Jose must have told George about my visit this afternoon, and now George is trying to scare me off.”

“Even that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, though. You’ve already uncovered the fact that George was lining his own pockets. Scaring you off now isn’t going to change that.”

I nodded numbly. Tom had a point.

“Unless,” he said slowly, “it isn’t simply the fact that George was taking money, but what he was
doing with
it.”

That made sense, too. But what sort of trouble could he have bought himself into? And what sort of trouble was grave enough to lead a man to murder?

I shivered, thinking of the possibilities.

“You sure you don’t want to call the police?” Tom asked.

“I’m sure. There’s nothing they can do tonight except take a report. I’ll talk to Benson in the morning.”

“How about some brandy then? You look like you could use it.”

We each had a glass of brandy. And then another. Somewhere along the way we moved from the kitchen chairs to the living room couch, and from supportive hand-holding to more amorous snuggling.

At one point I nuzzled my head into the crook of his neck and asked where he’d been the first time I’d called.