3 Panthers Play for Keeps (19 page)

“She was there, waiting. Watching. Scared
.”
Now that I got it, too, Spot opened up.
“She was waiting there. Waiting to pounce. But she’s gone
.”

Chapter Forty

“Pru?”

I looked up at Creighton. I didn’t know what he could see on my face, but I did know that I had to fake something fast. “What is it?”

“Spot is responding as he would to recent markings by a large predator.” It was true, all except for the slight ambivalence I’d inserted.
She’s gone
, Spot had said. Now that I knew what he meant, his message was crystal clear. “Some animal, possibly whatever killed Mariela, was here.”

Creighton shook his head. The rain had faded back to mist again, but his hair had darkened, gathering into little spikes of wet. “I don’t know, Pru. Despite what Albert and his buddies are playing at, we have no proof that she was killed anywhere near here.”

I looked up at that, wiping my own wet locks from my face. “What aren’t you telling me, Jim?”

For a moment, he eyed me, tight-lipped and appraising. I could almost see the decision being made. “We know she was moved, Pru. You know that already. I have people on that, but now that we have another homicide—”

“Another?”

He looked confused. “I thought you knew. Laurel wasn’t…” He paused.

I had no time for niceties. “Yes, I know she was killed. That someone tried to make it look like a mauling. But you said ‘another.’” He was silent. “Jim?”

“That’s not an official ruling, Pru. Not yet.” He ran his hand over his face, and I could see what this was costing him. Two deaths by any means—two women, one of whom he knew—it was a lot. “But I’m working on the assumption that there was a connection. That Laurel was following up on something.”

That was it. He felt guilty. “What can I do, Jim?”

A hint of a smile. He had played me, a little, but right now I didn’t mind. He held out my phone.

“You can make a call for me, Pru,” he said. “Your Mr. Benazi is a bit of an elusive character. See if he wants to get together for lunch or a cocktail.”

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. “You want me to set him up?”

“I want you to talk with him.” Creighton eyed me, and I could almost see the gears moving behind those blue eyes. He thought I was weighing loyalties, considering his decidedly irregular request.

I was, but not the way he thought. “I won’t wear a wire.” I licked my lips, which were suddenly dry. I couldn’t explain what I suspected of Benazi’s sensitivity. I could let Creighton know I was afraid. “I don’t know if he’s involved with any of this, Jim. But he’s not someone I want to mess with.”

He got it. “I wouldn’t ask you to,” he said. “In fact, I was considering calling him in. Just for informational purposes. But he’s not directly connected, at least not by anything substantial just yet. And if his residence is over in New York, and I have to reach across state lines, well…”

I nodded. It would mean a delay, as well as paperwork. And I could easily see someone as slick as Benazi managing to evade even the most polite invitation from an officer of the law. Meanwhile, Spot was getting agitated. Probably picking up the conflict between us.

“I’m not going to lie to him.” It wasn’t just respect for the older man. It was also respect for his potential for danger.

“You don’t have to.” Creighton knew he had me if I was arguing terms. “Look, Pru, things are more complicated than they seem, and, well, I could use your help right now. Just make a date. Who knows? Meet him in a public place, and I may just wander on by.”

“Like you did here, today?” I still didn’t know what had delayed him, and Spot’s growing restlessness brought me back to the hunt.

“Maybe.” He wasn’t giving me anything but the phone. “Make the call, Pru.”

I took it, in the process signaling Spot to be still.

“Hi, Bill?” The voice mail message was anonymous, the voice confirming the number warm and female. “Pru Marlowe here. We need to meet.” It wasn’t smooth, and it wasn’t what I would have said if Creighton hadn’t been watching me. However, it was done.

“Voice mail,” I said, with a firm command of the obvious. “I’ll let you know if he calls back.”

“A public place.” He reiterated. “And let me know before you go meet him?”

“Of course, Jim.” I kept my eyes on his baby blues, but my thoughts went to the dog at my side.
“And you’re coming, too
.”

As I formed the words, I realized I had another challenge on my hands—and maybe another opportunity.

“Jim, have there been any provisions made for Spot here?” I didn’t know what legal bearing the dog could have on the case. None, I hoped.

He clearly hadn’t considered any, and stood for close to a minute before shaking his head. “Doesn’t the service group have people who can take a dog in?”

I shook my head. They did, of course. That wasn’t what I was interested in. “There’s no point, Jim. Spot here is nearly fully trained, and to re-house him when he’s only going to go to his new gig would set him back.” Mentally, I apologized to the canine for the slur. “What I’d like to do is see if I can keep working with him—only at the Haigens. I mean, if he’s going to live there anyway.”

It sounded true. It wasn’t. What I wanted was an in. If what I feared were true, I’d do everything in my power to keep Spot from landing there permanently.

Creighton eyed me, sensing something, and I held my breath. To say any more would be out of character.

“You’ve been working with them anyway, right?” He asked finally. I nodded. “Well, you’ll have to get their permission. And Pru? You’re working with their dog. Nothing else.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because Mariela worked there…”

His eyes narrowed.

“Where were you anyway, Jim?” Going on the attack was good strategy. Besides, I wanted more. “You were late getting here, and that’s not like you.”

“That’s none of your business, Pru Marlowe.” He looked from me to Spot and back again. “Now, don’t you have a dog to train or something?”

Chapter Forty-one

I did have other clients, and rather than dump Spot I rushed through the rest of my rounds. The shepherd mix sat quietly while I checked in on the fish tank at the local Chinese restaurant. The tail rot was receding, and I promised Mrs. Han that I’d look into restocking her gouramis. Spot was equally calm when I left him tied to a tree outside the Paul place. Princess Ida, the Pauls’ Siamese, was most intrigued by his scent, and I was taken aback by the flirtatious nature of her thoughts, not to mention her vocalizations, as I trimmed her claws.

By the time I got back out, the rain had stopped, and I took Spot for a walk around the block. I was hungry by then, and figured he must be, too. I’d been considering how to broach the subject with the Haigens, and had pretty much decided that showing up with the dog might be the way to go. It would make me look less professional, but it could be explained away by Laurel’s death—and the ensuing crisis of Spot’s care. Besides, it’s a lot harder to refuse a dog who has already been delivered.

I’m no good on an empty stomach, though, and I needed something solid to chase the remainder of that hangover from my system. Going home was not an option. Wallis would undoubtedly love to interrogate Spot, but that would take hours. Besides, I didn’t have anything appropriate for Spot to eat, and I was pretty sure Wallis would draw the line at sharing last night’s chicken.

Laurel’s house was the default option, and as I drove, I realized I was eager to return there. Now that I had a bit of distance on what had happened, I wanted to see if I could find out why. Creighton, after all, didn’t have all the resources that I did. And I thought there might be more than kibble left behind in the shrink’s showroom house.

Spot began whining softly as I turned into the drive. The crunch of the gravel under my tires made me aware again of how quiet this dog usually was. “Spot, do you ever let loose?” We were alone; the house was dark. “I mean, do you even want me to call you Spot?”

He turned to me, his large eyes liquid.
“Protect you
.” I got that loud and clear, but I left him in the car anyway as I went out to forage. The house was dark under the still cloudy sky, but I’d assumed that Creighton would have left an officer on guard. It might, after all, be a crime scene. When nobody answered the door, I realized with relief that whatever had happened had probably happened elsewhere, and that I had to consider other options. No matter what Spot might think, I wasn’t quite a helpless female. And as I wandered around to the back, I worked my knife out of my jeans. I was thinking of it as a tool; its blade is sturdy enough to shimmy most locks. Still, despite the absence of Creighton’s techs, I couldn’t help wondering where Laurel had been attacked, and the blade’s weight, slight but balanced, put a little more strut in my step.

It also made quick work of the porch door. In fact, the only delay had been a momentary hesitation: a woman like Laurel Kroft, used to the city, might well have installed an alarm system, living alone in a big, old house like this. But the techies and the troopers I’d seen here before were unlikely to have bothered with it. Worst case, I told myself, I’d set it off. In which case, I could simply wait it out and tell whomever that I’d come back for the dog’s provisions. It was simple and had the added benefit of being mostly true. Assuming that most of the local force also knew I had a thing with Creighton wouldn’t hurt. I’d get yelled at, but I’ve been through worse.

I wiped my feet carefully before entering: if nobody knew I’d been here, I didn’t want to make it muddily obvious. Once in, I found Spot’s kibble easily enough. Everyone keeps their pet food in the same place: the low cabinets by the sink. Maybe that’s natural when we stock the twenty-pound bags, but I think it’s something else as well. It’s as if we all expect our pet to get the food himself. I left it on the counter, though. If we were interrupted, that was my excuse, lame as it may be, and went to explore the rest of the house.

Bedroom first. I’ll confess to a strange jolt of something as I looked through the top drawers of the dead woman’s bureau. It wasn’t her lacy underthings—I always considered La Perla overpriced—it was that this is where women hide their secrets. Still, when nothing more telling than a torn negligee came to light, I was happy to shove the drawer shut. Creighton had chosen me, the thought popped into my head. The rest was—like the woman—history.

The second bedroom—this house was as big as mine—had been turned into a home office, and I felt better about rummaging here. Partly, that was because someone else already had. Jefferson, I figured, or at least members of his crew, considering the smudges of print dust that marred the glossy cream windowsills. Vacant spaces showed where something had been taken. I was betting on a laptop, from the size. But Laurel was old school enough to have made printouts, and I was hoping that something in these would click for me.

I had no excuse for being in here, if anyone came in, and so at first I just stood there—one eye on the door, the other on the papers as I started casually rifling through them. The first few were obvious—spreadsheets of accounts and billing. I could see how she afforded this beautiful place, with those rates. Granted, most of the bills seemed to be going to corporate rather than private clients. The next few were household expenses and the like. Dull stuff, the kind of financial planning I’m too lazy—or just too scared—to do. Why tally up what you spend unless you know all the bills can be covered by month’s end?

Five minutes later, I hadn’t found out anything more incriminating than that she was addicted to eye cream. The pricey kind. This was turning into postmortem voyeurism, and I knew I should get out of there. On the odd chance that anyone was watching the house, I was spending way too long. Not to mention that Spot had spent most of the day in my car, and my own belly was rumbling now. Still, I might not have a chance like this again. I needed to see what was inside the desk.

Promising myself I would be quick, I pulled out the chair to sit and heard the slight crackle of paper. There was no way anyone would be able to tell I’d looked through the files on top of the desk, they had been left in such a mess. The drawers, however, proved to be a disappointment. The top had the usual pens and rubber bands, but the sides were largely empty. Any checkbooks or address books—assuming Laurel kept these in paper form—had been taken. The bottom drawer, deep enough to hold files, only held the paperwork on the house, including the bills for what were indeed pricey renovations and what looked like tax files that would put mine to shame for both intricacy and order.

I poked around some more. It wasn’t likely that the good doctor had been done in by one of her patients. Most of them, according to what paperwork I had found, were in the old folks’ home. If there were any others, their files weren’t here. Creighton probably had them, I told myself. Still, my skin was tingling slightly as I pushed the chair back. I was ready to go, that was probably all that was getting to me. As I did, I heard that slight crackle again. The chair, I saw as I ducked down, had rolled over a stray page. I retrieved it and sat down again to read.

“Dear Valued Donor. Thank you for your recent donation
.”
The heading—probably the top third of the folded page—had been torn off. Still, the page in my hand was clearly a letter, the kind that serves as a tax receipt.
“The Vision Institute of New England appreciates the generosity of your recent gift, valued at…
”
Here the form letter ended and some poor slob had typed in $48,833. The uneven spacing might have been an error, but I saw it as a protest by some underpaid clerk.
“Such beneficence helps us see our way to a brighter future
.”

Money. People who have it don’t want to hear about it. That’s why they use words like “generosity” and “beneficence.” “Thanks for the cash” would be considered crass.

At any rate, it was no concern of mine who received the late doctor’s bountiful gifts. Unless there was some strange payback going on, between this eye charity and Laurel Kroft’s work, or some kind of a tax dodge, I couldn’t see it being evidence of anything. I could see why Creighton’s minions had overlooked this page. I was about to follow his lead and toss it onto the pile on the desk when something about it caught me: the amount.

Maybe it was the typing, that uneven spacing. It wasn’t that I doubted Laurel Kroft made the kind of money to give nearly fifty K away. It was a lot, but I remember what city salaries were like. Hell, I now knew that the new floor downstairs had cost as much. Plus, Laurel had always seemed like the type who would donate in such large amounts—earnest, liberal, a little showy. Confident enough of her place in the world that she probably wouldn’t even want to squirrel any extra funds away for herself.

But something about it made me stop, and in a moment, I had it. If you’re writing a check for charity, you write it in whole numbers, right? This letter implied a different kind of donation. In its irregularity, if not its size, it reminded me of when I’d dragged a bunch of my mother’s stuff to the Salvation Army. The hospital bed had been a rental, but the stool for the shower, the walker. The clothes. I’d still had my old hatchback then and I’d filled it to the brim with stuff I no longer wanted to look at. My receipt had said $186.38, though how they’d figured out those last few cents were beyond me.

In this case, I knew how the total had been arrived at. It was simple. What I was looking at was the Kelley Blue Book value of a 2011 Mercedes Benz SUV. Assuming, of course, that it had been in good condition, and had been packed with all the trimmings.