A Dose of Murder (10 page)

I pushed past him. “I have to go.”

He grabbed my arm. “Not so fast.”

Oh, no. He was going to pursue the questioning he'd started on the elevator. My heart thudded at the thought of the closed, stopped elevator.

“I'm not letting you drive after passing out.”

Hmm. Compassion.

And no further questions.

“I'm fine,” I insisted, shivering outside in the parking lot.

Jagger cursed under his breath. “Look, lady. By the way, what's your name?”

Wow. I knew his name, but he didn't know mine. Still, with the tone he used, he didn't seem truly interested.

“Pauline. Pauline Sokol.”

He held out a hand. “Jagger.”

“I kn—” Shit! He couldn't know that I knew his name. Then he'd ask too many questions. Then I'd seem interested in him. Then he'd know someone had told me about him.

He raised an eyebrow at me.

I forgot he used to be a PI. The guy had to be perceptive. More than likely, he already knew my name.

“You what?”

“Nothing. Nice to meet you, Mister Jagger.” I held out my hand.

He shook it, then, “Just Jagger.”

I pulled my hand back. “Fine. I
am
fine too, and very capable of driving myself home.” I had no intention of going home though. I'd go see if Tina was home, shoveling or doing something else I could catch her at.

“Look, Pauline. It's my fault you conked out. I'm responsible for getting you home. What if you pass out driving?”

I didn't want to remind him that the cause was claustrophobia. Too damn embarrassing. Shoot. Didn't seem I had much choice. Truthfully, I wasn't feeling myself yet. Wooziness had a habit of hanging on once one passes out, it seemed. This was news to me, since I'd never passed out before. “I'll call a cab. You must be busy. Don't you have to get back to work?” Good one. Maybe I could find out more about the enigmatic Jagger.

“Don't worry. Get in.” He motioned toward the black Suburban.

Go for it, Pauline
.

I waited a few seconds to see if he'd open the door. He was already in his seat. So, I opened the door, got in and discreetly looked around. “You live in here?”

The SUV was filled with stuff. Boxes in the backseats, stuff on the floor. Papers, bags, T-shirts. Man. Despite the amount of stuff, it did seem orderly. Not as if he threw stuff around randomly.

He turned toward me. There was no humor in his eyes. “I work out of here.”

“Wow. I work out of my car too.” Pauline! Why did I have to say that? My honesty often got me into trouble.

He turned on the engine and backed out of the space. When he took a left out of the parking lot, he slowed, looking in his rearview mirror. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“Something wrong?”

“You in any hurry?”

Was he asking me out? “I . . . I'm flexible.”

“Good.” He did a U-turn on the street adjacent to the parking lot and sped up. “Put on your seat belt.”

I looked down. I'd forgotten to put it on, and with the way he was weaving in and out of traffic, I sure needed it. It wasn't like me to ride without my seat belt. Maybe that passing-out thing had affected my brain. At this speed, my body was pushed back in the seat with my head pressed against the headrest. It felt like being on a ride in an amusement park where gravity keeps you in your seat as they spin you around. “
You
in some hurry?” I croaked out.

He ignored me and swung down Maple Avenue.

Suddenly I realized he was following someone. A green Toyota Corolla in front of us. Jagger slowed. The car took a right onto Oak Street.

Yep. We were following it. I squinted to see the driver. “Who is that?”

Jagger handled the Suburban like a pro. We weaved in and out until the Corolla turned into a Stop and Buy parking lot. Jagger slowed and turned in too. He pulled to the side of the lot and stopped.

I leaned forward, thankful to be able to move of my own accord. The Corolla had pulled up near a black Lexus. Nice company—but still a painful reminder of the next car payment I owed. I figured Jagger wasn't going to tell me what the heck we were doing there. I only hoped it didn't involve shooting. There was that bulge. . . .

Before I could ask any more questions that I assumed he wouldn't answer, I watched the door of the Corolla open.

Out stepped Eddy Roden!

“Eddy?” snuck out of my mouth.

Jagger turned, stared, then looked back at Eddy.

What the heck was going on?

Eddy walked up to the Lexus. The door opened. I sat motionless and silent, which I'm sure Jagger appreciated. I held my breath in my throat, waiting.

A red leather boot stepped out followed by a black-panted leg. The rest of the woman, covered in a black mink jacket, followed her leg. Even at this distance I could tell it was real mink and not faux fur. Goldie would look fabulous in that jacket—only it would have to be several sizes smaller.

The woman leaned forward to talk to Eddy and her matching mink hat tilted to one side.

“Oh . . . my . . . God.”

I looked at Jagger. His eyes met mine.

“Tina,” we said in unison.

Then my eyes widened. Jagger's eyes pierced into me, obviously in question.

“How do you know her?” I asked, heading off his interrogation, which I felt certain would follow. Even though I'd said I went to school with her and Eddy, that was a long time ago. And, truth be told, I wouldn't recognize her if she barreled over me on the street. If it weren't for my seeing her the first day of my surveillance, she could have been any large woman in Hope Valley, for all I knew.

Jagger turned back, once again ignoring my question. Eddy gave Tina a manila envelope. She handed him a small white one. I turned to Jagger, who now had on his sunglasses, which he occasionally adjusted. Odd, since puffy gray clouds had the sun hidden. My gray eyes are sensitive to light, but even I wouldn't need sunglasses right now.

I contemplated that a second.

Eddy and Tina got back into their respective cars and drove off. Jagger took off his glasses and put then into the holder above his visor. He cranked up the engine and drove to the end of the parking lot. He looked at me as if nothing had happened. “Where to?”

Did I really want Jagger to know where I lived? Then again, he was an ex-PI, so he could find out if he wanted to. Damn, between him and Nick, I felt a bit as if my privacy had been invaded.

Something told me both
already
knew where I lived.

Jagger, in fact, did know how to find my home without directions from me, and as he pulled up in front, I dashed out of the black Suburban before he could say anything. He wouldn't answer any of my questions, so I figured I'd get inside and have Miles take me to get my car.

When I shut the car door, I heard Jagger say something. It sounded like either
you feel better
or
you look wetter
. Either way, I didn't want to hang around inside
his
car.

Too many male pheromones in that Suburban.

I ran up to our door and dug into my purse for my keys. After searching around for several minutes, I leaned on the doorbell. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Jagger watching, a half smile on his face.

I inhaled and nearly dropped my purse.

The pheromones were seeping out of the Suburban.

Suddenly a sleepy Miles opened the door. “What the fuck, Pauline?”

I pushed past him, ran to the window. The Suburban's brake lights sparkled as Jagger slowed, then pulled out of the parking lot.

Thank God he left.

I sank into the white beanbag chair. Spanky ran up and jumped into my lap. I hugged him and looked up at a confused Miles. “Couldn't find my keys.”

“Stop carrying everything you own in that satchel. Your car break down?”

“I only wish. Nothing that simple though.” I looked at him. “Oops. Forget you got called in last night to work. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“No problem-o.” He flopped on the couch, his navy silk robe revealing hairy slender legs. Goldie had it all over Miles in the legs department. Maybe that's why he was the transvestite.

I told Miles about my day and had to repeat several times that he should close his mouth. It wasn't all that shocking, and I repeatedly apologized for waking him since he was working nights.

He looked at me. “Maybe that's not the right job for you. I should call my friend Hammy. He owns a furniture store—”

I rubbed Spanky's ear. “I could never work with inanimate objects. I'm a people person.”

“But there's weird stuff going on. I thought you'd just follow someone, take their picture and
boom
. Get paid.”

I jumped when he said
boom
. Good thing I'd left off the part about realizing that Jagger was packing.

“I don't want this guy coming back and doing . . . something.”

“Miles, dear”—I sighed heavily—“if you saw this guy you wouldn't mind him doing something to
you
.”

Miles shook his head.

“Okay. I'll call but I already know Jagger is well-known.” I got up and looked under the pillows for the phone. “Will you take me to get my car?”

He looked at the brass clock on the salmon-colored marble mantel. “Shit. I have a date for a late lunch in twenty minutes. Tony in Physical Therapy. Just a friend, in my book.”

Miles hadn't been out in a long time. I couldn't ask him to miss his date.

“No problem. Maybe Goldie can take me.” I noticed Miles's eyes perk up at the mention of his old friend.

He jumped up and headed toward the stairs. “Let me know if he's coming here.” With that he was gone.

I leaned against the wall. Miles was acting strangely. Was he still interested in Goldie? I wouldn't blame him if he was, but didn't want him hurt if it was all one-sided. He was like a brother to me.

My real brothers would cringe at that thought, but Miles was a living doll.

I headed into the kitchen and pressed the phone's
PAGE
button. From upstairs I heard Miles shout, “In my room.”

“Throw it down.” I walked to the stairs. He stood there in his silken tiger boxer shorts.
Damn, what a waste of a good male
, was my first thought. Then I reminded myself that Miles was Miles and his choice of partners was part of his makeup, and I wouldn't want him any other way. He threw down the phone.

I held the receiver and realized that I didn't know Goldie's cell phone number. He'd said he was out on a case so calling the office to find him would more than likely be a waste. Then again, Adele so far proved to be a whiz at finding addresses and other tasty info on suspects so she might have his cell number. I didn't want to ask Miles, since I really didn't know the extent of his connection with Goldie.

I punched in the office number and heard Adele's “Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Company.”

“Adele, it's me.”

A pause. “Me who?”

A bit deflated, I told myself I hadn't been working there long enough, and in fact this was the first time I'd spoken to her on the phone. “Pauline.” If she said, “Pauline who?” I might break down into tears, with the kind of day I'd had so far.

“Hey,
chéri
. What's up? You finished with your case?”

“Should I be?” I asked frantically. Did Fabio have a time limit and not pay after a certain amount of time had passed?

She giggled. “Takes as long as it takes. What do you need? Address? Workplace?”

“I have all that on Tina. What I need is”—
info on one Jagger
. But that's not why I called. “Do you have Goldie's cell phone number?”

“Sure. But he's in his office. Want a patch through?”

Yes. No. Yes. But first, who
is
this Jagger?

“Thanks.” I couldn't ask her about Jagger. Something inside said I really didn't
want
to know and more than likely wouldn't ever see him again. No way would he come to where I lived. So, let sleeping dogs lie, as my mother would say.

“Tell me every detail you know about Jagger.” I grabbed Goldie's arm and pulled him into my condo. “Every detail.”

Goldie looked at me and smiled. “So, you met
him
.”

It wasn't a question, but came out as if Jagger were some genius sage. He knew Jagger all right.

Spanky ran in from the hallway and jumped at Goldie with all of his five pounds. Goldie snatched him up, rubbed his tummy and set him down. I picked Spanky up so he wouldn't jump at Goldie's calves anymore. He could put a run in Goldie's hose. They were silvery with sparkles in them and matched his skirt and jacket. On his right lapel was a porcelain woman's face with purple feathery plumes sticking out of the top like a hat. Dangly purple orbs hung from Goldie's ears. He'd pulled his hair back in a sophisticated bun.

Damn it, but he looked good.

“You gonna offer Goldie a coffee or something?” He looked around.

Miles. He must be looking for Miles.

“Sorry. Where are my manners?” I set Spanky down and motioned toward the kitchen. “Come in, please. My roomy is out.”

Goldie followed me through the swinging doors and stopped. He'd been here before, I could tell. Slowly he walked to the bay window and paused, looked out at the English garden Miles prided himself on where it lay, snow covered, in the tiny patch of land we were alloted with our condo. After a moment he came to the counter, sat on one of the wicker stools and leaned an elbow on the white granite counter. “Miles does have a flair for decorating.”

I wanted to laugh, thinking it was some gay joke, but then I looked at Goldie and didn't, thank goodness. There was a sadness in his green eyes that made me want to walk over and hug him. Instead, I took a bag of coffee out of the fridge and scooped some grinds into the filter of the Mr. Coffee. “Miles is not seeing anyone regularly.” I filled the machine with water and turned around.