An Arm and a Leg (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Frankie’s daily counting ritual had lengthened until it stole nearly three hours out of her morning. That should probably bother her more than it did. But life was, after all, made up of a series of tradeoffs. And the subsequent sense of temporary peace, albeit mingled with guilt and shame, seemed worth the ever-increasing cost to her self-esteem.

Between bites of breakfast, she reviewed her list of possible suspects in Tim’s death, scribbling notes on a piece of notebook paper. On the first line she wrote
the two men who broke in to Tim’s apartment
. She added
one with a pockmarked face, and one with a baby face.
Motive: Unknown.

She considered writing Mina’s name in the second slot, but why would the nurse want Tim dead? Had they been romantically involved? That didn’t seem likely. Mina’s demeanor had been one of respect and admiration, not of a jilted lover. And Frankie was certain it had been two men in that pickup. If one of them had been a woman, she’d have had to put her hair up into a cap. Mina’s hair was too thick, long, and heavy to manage that.

As for the other hospital employees, Mina said Tim was loved and respected by everyone with whom he worked. Everyone but Bellamy. Frankie jotted down the doctor’s name as second on her list. Next to it, she wrote the words
Motive: jealous hack.

In third place she wrote
Guy in the Camaro, Motive: unfinished business?

She wrote Flatte’s name in fourth place. But although he was a pompous narcissist, she could see no motive for Tim’s attorney to kill him. Flatte might be compelled to murder someone he perceived as a threat to his social or financial status, but Tim certainly hadn’t fit that bill. She scribbled a question mark next to Flatte’s name.

As number five, she wrote:
Relatives of Esther Emory.
Although none were listed in the medical records, that didn’t rule out their existence. She’d heard Tim complain on more than one occasion about errors in the records. But she’d only begin the process of ferreting them out if none of the other leads showed promise.

As suspect number six, Frankie listed Nick Rollins. She knew of no reason for him to kill Tim, but he worked in the area where the murder took place. But then, so did all of Eagle Nest. She jabbed her pen against the paper and scratched three question marks next to the deputy’s name so forcefully the paper tore.

Her landline rang. Hoping it was Mina, she grabbed the telephone.

“Good morning, Miss O’Neil. Jeremy Flatte returning your call.”

“Oh. Good morning, Counselor.”

“Ouch,” Flatte said.

“Sorry, I’m expecting another call. But I do appreciate your getting back to me.”

“I won’t take up more than a minute or two. I wondered if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

Surely Flatte had sensed her negative reaction to him during their first meeting. But maybe his ego buffered the input, and he figured he’d misread her vibes.

“This could be a working dinner if you like,” Flatte added. “Can I pick you up at seven?”

“A working dinner sounds good. I do have a couple of things I’d like to run past you, but at your usual hourly rate.”

Flatte chuckled. “If you insist. I’ll see you then.”

Frankie hung up the phone, wondering how she was going to pay for the attorney’s time. Her mind flashed on the pile of gold coins in Tim’s safe deposit box. The things were probably worth many thousands of dollars in today’s market. But she couldn’t see herself doing anything with the coins until she discovered where they’d come from.

“Man oh man, Tim. You left quite a mess.”

Her brother’s droll voice floated into Frankie’s ears:
Hence the letter of apology.

Frankie jumped when her cell rang, interrupting her thoughts. The caller identification listed a familiar number, though she couldn’t place it.

“Miss O’Neil?” the male voice at the other end of the line said.

“Speaking.”

“This is Hector Cordero.”

“Oh yes, Mister Cordero. Thank you for getting back to me. I found your phone number in Tim’s address book, and it looks like he had an appointment with you just before he died. I was hoping you could tell me what that was about.”

The line went silent for a few seconds. When Hector’s voice came back on, it was softer, nearly a whisper.

“I asked him to meet me, yes. I had some medical questions and he offered to come by my work station.”

“At seven in the morning on the day he was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“And did he keep that appointment?”

“Yes. But Miss O’Neil, I cannot talk now, I’m at work. My wife called me with your message because she thought it might be important.”

“I was hoping we could meet somewhere for coffee.”

“I would be glad to meet with you. I may not be able to answer your questions, but my wife would love to meet the sister of the man who helped us so much. Please join us for dinner tomorrow evening. We always eat at six, but you’re welcome to come earlier.”

“I’d like that.” Frankie jotted down the address and hung up.

If Hector Cordero had been one of the men in the green pickup, she might be walking into a trap. She didn’t really think he’d hurt her in front of his family, but it was a chance she’d have to take. And he could be an important domino. She added Hector’s name as number seven on her list of suspects.

****

Larry had settled into his usual spot in Frankie’s tree just as a late model sports car pulled into her driveway. Some guy wearing a western shirt with pearl snaps, a black leather vest, designer jeans and ostrich boots climbed out of the car, walked up to Frankie’s door and rang the bell. Although he didn’t recognize the guy, Larry could smell his money. He drove a BMW convertible with its top down in spite of the cool autumn evening, and looked like he’d dressed to impress someone. Dressed to kill.

Frankie came to the door wearing denim jeans stuffed into brown leather, high-heeled boots, a gold colored jacket zipped up against the cold air, and a thick, fluffy scarf the color of her hair wrapped a couple of times around her neck. Larry’s breath caught in his throat. And he knew all too well how the vision was affecting the butt-nugget standing there ogling her.

“I hope you’re up for steak,” Rich Boy said.

Larry strained to hear Frankie’s answer but was too far away to understand her murmured response.

“Good. I’d like to try out that new steakhouse on Jefferson.” The guy bent his elbow and held out his arm for Frankie to hold on to. Larry squelched a chuckle when she ignored it and headed toward the Beemer.

The sports car pulled out of the drive and sped off. For the next couple of hours, Larry tortured himself with images of Frankie and Rich Boy. He pictured the couple at dinner, gazing into each other’s eyes. He could hear Frankie laughing at the dip-wad’s jokes, a lock of her hair falling over her right eye as it often did. And he could see Rich Boy’s eyes flashing on high beam as he weighed his chances of getting Frankie into the sack.

Larry began to hum an old song about a bad moon being on the rise. Yup, this was shaping up to be one of those bad moon nights, sure enough.

****

While waiting for the garden salad prelude to the pan-seared rib eye steaks, Flatte sipped Petite Sirah and Frankie drank iced tea.

“How well did you know Tim?”

“I actually saw him in person only the two times he came to my office to set up his trust. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times after that. Why?”

“Just trying to fill in some gaps. I’m talking to anyone with whom he came into contact the last weeks of his life in hopes they can shed some light on his death.”

Flatte puffed out his lips, the expression on his face quizzical, as if she’d spoken in Urdu. “Don’t you think you should let the police take care of that? That’s what they get paid to do.”

“You may be right, but so far the police haven’t found any leads.”

“But who would want to kill Tim? He seemed like a great guy.”

“You said we could call this a working dinner. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Of course.” Flatte leaned forward in his chair.

“Am I correct in assuming that anything I tell you will be held in confidence?”

“I’m your brother’s attorney, and you are the executrix to his estate. Attorney client privilege about anything concerning his trust, within certain legal parameters, is a given. What can I do you for?” The words were followed by a smirk and a surprisingly lecherous grin.

Frankie ignored the double entendre and mentally kicked herself for not bringing her own car. But, she reminded herself, she could always call a cab. She just hoped the cab driver would take a credit card. “What if I found evidence of Tim’s involvement in something questionable? How would I go about setting it right?”

A puzzled look flitted across Flatte’s face. “Can you be more specific?”

“What if I found a stash of gold coins in his safe deposit box?”

Flatte nodded his head. “Good for your brother. Lots of people are investing in gold right now. And other than an in-floor safe, a safe deposit box is about as secure a place to store them as any.”

“But Tim’s bank records don’t reflect any large purchases. And he hadn’t started earning enough money yet to buy one gold coin, let alone a box full.”

Flatte shrugged. “Tim struck me as a shrewd money manager. I’m sure there’s a reasonable answer, you just haven’t found it yet. But that reminds me, you remember I said there were a couple of things that needed attention? You’ll need to send a statement of Tim’s assets to the IRS. Although his estate is not large enough to require you to pay estate tax, you’ll be required to pay taxes on any interest accrued from the time of his death.”

“But that’s just it. He didn’t have a savings account or a retirement fund. Just the gold coins.”

“Then you’ll need to document where he got them, along with their current value. Nothing the IRS would like more than to bust someone for evading taxes.”

“I’ll need your help in getting his transaction records from the gold company.” Frankie handed Flatte a paper upon which she’d written the gold merchant’s phone number.

“No problem, I’ll get my assistant to draw up the necessary documents in the next day or so. You said a couple of questions?”

Frankie nodded. “I also found some patient medical information on his laptop.”

“And that struck you as strange in what way?” Flatte’s voice assumed a patronizing tone. “Tim was a doctor. Doctors work with patient records every day.”

“But do they make copies and take them home?”

The attorney held his hands out palms up. “There are several perfectly reasonable explanations for why Tim might keep track of some of the patients with whom he worked.”

“Like what?”

“Like research for a paper he wanted to write, for one.”

Frankie considered the attorney’s comment. Maybe he was right about everything. Maybe Tim had done really well at something like day trading in the stock market and invested his profit in gold as a hedge against inflation. And as for the medical records, Frankie didn’t know what comprised legal or illegal, ethical or unethical activities in medical circles. Maybe he’d done nothing wrong at all.

But none of her rationalized explanations explained either Tim’s letter, or Mina’s reaction to the spreadsheet. Suddenly, Frankie wished dinner would be over so she could get home and call the nurse.

****

By the time Frankie and Rich Boy returned, Larry had worked himself up into an emotional lather. His facial muscles felt tight, and his belly seethed. He strained to hear the conversation between the two as they stood on the porch. What would he do if Beauty invited the guy into her house for a long goodbye?

“Thanks for dinner and the consultation,” Frankie was saying.

“I did intend to pay for your dinner as well,” Rich Boy said. “But I respect independence in a woman.” Butt-nugget leaned toward Frankie, his intention to kiss her obvious.

Larry’s pulse rate picked up speed. His vision blurred and blood rushed to his extremities. The primal urge to kill anyone perceived to be a rival for the favors of his woman beat rhythmically in the veins at his temples. Poised to spring on the guy, Larry held himself in check to see how Frankie would respond to his advances. He smiled to himself when she stepped back to put distance between the two of them and unlocked her door.

“I’ll contact your office in the next few days to finish up.”

“How about a cup of coffee?” Rich Boy took a step forward.

“Sorry, but I have several things to do yet, and I have an early morning.” Frankie stepped through her door. She turned and said, “Please let me know as soon as you’ve contacted the gold company.” She closed the door.

Evidently the guy rarely got turned down, because he stood on the porch, seemingly unsure of what to do next. Finally, he returned to his car, started the engine, and did something to make the roof glide back up into place.

Larry swung down from the tree and hot-footed it to his own vehicle. For the first time, he saw it as it must look to other people. To him, it had been an acceptable means of getting around, even with its dented fenders, cracked windshield, broken tail light, and nearly bald tires. But to people like Rich Boy it would be a joke. And he would be a joke for driving it.

His throat tight and blood pounding, Larry turned on the ignition and pulled onto the street behind Rich Boy.

Chapter Twenty-Four

As soon as Flatte drove away, Frankie checked her answering machine. The single flash sent her sprinting to the phone.

“Hey, Frankie. This is Mina. I’m sorry I haven’t called earlier, but I wanted to double check a couple of things before getting back to you. You remember I said something about Tim’s spreadsheet seemed off? Well I found a couple of—”

A doorbell rang in the background, and the nurse’s voice grew distant as she turned her head away from the phone. “Just a minute,” she yelled. The phone made jostling sounds as it was repositioned, and Mina’s voice became clear again. “I’ll try your cell. Call me as soon as you get this, no matter how late it is.”