Die Buying (10 page)

She hesitated. “Did you take me home last night?”

I nodded, letting her dodge my question. “Yes. I didn’t think you should be driving.”

She laughed without humor. “I doubt I could’ve found my car in the condition I was in. I had to take a taxi over here this morning. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t get like that too often,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I think the last time was my twentieth college reunion, and that wasn’t yesterday.”

“You’d had a tough day.”

“Yes, well.” She shifted the large tote on her shoulder, and I wondered what was in it. Had she removed something from the store? I had no reason to think that, but the idea nagged at me. Six or eight shoppers passed by as I thought, their steps slowing as they stared at Diamanté’s windows, perhaps hoping to spot another body.

“You mentioned last night that Jackson Porter was in the habit of buying stuff for a woman who wasn’t his wife.”

“I did?” She looked aghast. “I’m not normally so indiscreet. I keep customers’ purchases confidential. Please don’t mention it to anyone.”

I didn’t make her any promises. “Can you tell me who?”

She squirmed and her fingers played with the zipper on the tote. Finally, she said, “Velma Maldonado.”

“Do the police know about Ms. Maldonado?”

“They have copies of all my records.” She didn’t sound happy about it.

Ah, but a receipt would only say that Porter had bought a dress or other item, not who he bought it
for
. Finola had a slippery way with words; I’d have to remember that. I tingled at the idea that I had uncovered a piece of information the police might not have.

“Look,” Finola said, “I’ve got an appointment with my insurance adjustor. I’ve got to go. See you around, okay?” And she hurried off toward the Dillard’s, clutching the tote tightly against her side.

Leaning forward, I put the Segway in motion, pondering Finola’s presence. In all probability it was completely innocent: she wanted to look at the window and see what kind of damage she was dealing with, or she needed inventory records or something and didn’t think there’d be any harm in slipping past the police tape to pick them up. Still—

A man stepped directly into my path, and I braked to avoid hitting him. When I saw it was Detective Helland, I wished my reflexes hadn’t been so quick. His thick blond hair glinted in a shaft of sunlight, and his eyes seemed a warmer shade of gray than earlier. I stared at him stonily, not dismounting, but not running him down, either.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hung between us. They sounded sincere. I felt myself thaw an infinitesimal bit.

“The lab examined the crime scene photos on your camera. They’re not the same as the ones on the Internet.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to make this any easier for me, are you?” The corner of his mouth slanted up ruefully.

I just stared at him, inviting him to continue.

“The kid in the security office—he told me you used to be a military cop?”

Joel needed to learn to keep his mouth shut. “So?”

“Thank you for your service. Twelve years is a long time to give your country.” His gray eyes, fringed with dark lashes, met mine.

I almost reared back in astonishment. His thanks seemed heartfelt. “I loved it,” I blurted, then clamped my lips closed. I didn’t want to share anything about myself with the arrogant detective.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

I had no good reason to refuse. “Okay.” I parked the Segway by the wall and walked beside him to the food court. My head just topped his shoulder. A few moments later, cups of coffee in hand, we strolled to the huge picture window that looked out on the south parking lot and the fields beyond. The food court noises of patrons talking, grills hissing, and chairs scraping back drifted around us. The view from the window was restful, green and bucolic, including a couple of cows grazing placidly by a small stream.

“Porter was going to turn that into a golf course,” I said, gesturing with my coffee cup. “I’d guess he made a few enemies with that plan.” I slanted a look at Detective Helland.

“More than a few,” he admitted. “If you’re asking about suspects, there’s no shortage of those.”

I decided to take advantage of his more forthcoming mood. “What about his wife? She came by this morning.”

Helland blew on his coffee. “According to Porter’s lawyer, she and the son are to split the inheritance and a healthy chunk of life insurance, but she’s got an alibi. Rock solid.”

Hm. In my experience alibis weren’t “rock solid” unless the suspect had been in prison or on life support during the pertinent time. “What was it?”

He ignored my question, as I figured he might. Propping his shoulders against the window, he looked down his aquiline nose at me. “How come you’re a mall cop? Why didn’t you sign on with a police department when you separated from the military? PTSD?”

I could ignore questions as well as he could. “Did you know Jackson Porter bought a cocktail dress for his girlfriend on Saturday? Her name is Velma Maldonado.”

A faint crease appeared between his brows and was gone. He didn’t gratify me by pulling out a notebook to write down the name, but I knew he’d memorized it. “If you read the paper this morning, you know we’ve got a ‘person of interest’ that we’re focusing on.”

“Gatchel.”

He nodded.

“Even if he and Porter were involved in some sort of political shenanigans or bribery, why would he take the risk of lugging Porter’s body into the display window?”

“Good question. What can you tell me about the guard who was on duty Sunday night, Billy Wedzel? Is he a stand-up guy?”

“Have you talked to him?” At his nod, I said, “Well, then, you know. I suspect he spends more time in the office playing computer solitaire or watching movies than patrolling, but I don’t know that for a fact.” Although I’d found a DVD of
Reservoir Dogs
in the computer drive one morning. “So it’s entirely possible he didn’t see or hear anything useful Sunday night. And I wouldn’t be surprised if—” I cut myself off. I couldn’t accuse Weasel of theft without a shred of proof.

“—if he might be helping himself to merchandise on occasion?” Helland sounded as though I’d confirmed his suspicions. “He’s got a sheet.”

“He does?” That surprised me. How the hell had he gotten a job as a mall security officer if he’d been arrested before? His buddy Woskowicz. “Any convictions?”

Helland shook his head. “Weaseled out of all of them.”

Maybe that’s where his nickname came from. I pondered this news while Helland drained his coffee. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. It was a mug shot of a man in his early twenties, white, with limp brown hair and a defeated look in his eyes.

“We haven’t located Robbie Porter yet, the victim’s son. We understand he hangs out here on occasion, maybe dealing.”

“Is that what he was arrested for?”

“Cocaine.”

Great. As if escaped reptiles and a murder weren’t enough, now I had a resident drug dealer to contend with. I studied the photo again, but I was sure I’d never seen him.

“Can you keep an eye out for him, maybe ask around?” He gestured to the food stands and the shops beyond. “I don’t have enough manpower to put someone on this full-time, but since you’re here all day . . .”

I suddenly saw the motive behind his new approachability. “So, I help you locate a suspect and feed you info about Porter’s purchasing history, and you give me nada?”

He had the audacity to smile, showing straight, white teeth. “That’s the way it works in a police investigation. Citizens give information to the police, not vice versa.”

“Sounds like the Gestapo,” I observed. I plucked the photo of Robbie Porter from his hand.

“Don’t try to apprehend him if you spot him,” Helland cautioned. “Just give me a call.”

Not trusting myself to respond to that blatantly insulting remark, I bit out, “Thanks for the coffee,” and strode away, being careful to keep my steps even and not limp. Several of the food court owners and workers waved or said “hi” as I passed, and I acknowledged them on autopilot, more determined than ever to show the supercilious Detective Helland with his “we’re the police, you’re just lowly citizens” attitude that an ex-military cop could detect as well as he could. Better.

I actually found
myself wishing for Grandpa Atherton as I did my last patrol of the day, keeping an eye out for Robbie Porter. I figured Grandpa might have some good ideas about how to locate the young drug dealer. I wondered what he knew about facial recognition software and whether or not we could use it with our cameras to scan for Robbie Porter’s face. Probably not, given the lousy picture quality. I called Grandpa’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer. Presumably, he was following Earl Gatchel around. After doing my turnover briefing and logging out, I hit the Y on the way home for a good swim, pleased to have the pool entirely to myself.

Fubar greeted me on the front sidewalk when I arrived home. No dead rodents in evidence. I stroked his rust-colored head as he butted my calf. “What’s the great hunter been up to today?” I asked, unlocking my door and stepping over the mail to enter the hallway.

Without answering, he dashed past me and ran for his food bowl, as if expecting steak tartare to have appeared since he last checked it. Disappointed with his kibble, he gave me a long-suffering look.

Picking up the mail, I tossed catalogs and grocery store flyers into the trash can I kept near the door for that purpose, and found myself left with a utility bill and an envelope whose return address was the Fredericksburg Police Department. Hardly daring to hope that they were responding favorably to my application, I took the letter into the kitchen and pulled a pomegranate-flavored water from the fridge. Only after I’d twisted off the cap and taken a long swallow did I slit the envelope with a paring knife.

I quit reading and crumpled the page into a ball, which I fired across the room. Fubar promptly pounced on it, batting it between his paws. “Kill it, Fubar. Tear it up,” I encouraged him in a lackluster voice. He disappeared beneath the table with it and came out a moment later, a tiny scrap of paper decorating a whisker.

“Good kitty.” I sank down onto the floor and patted my leg, thinking that cuddling with my cat might make me feel a little better after rejection number nineteen. Fubar galloped past me as if a pack of Rottweilers were in pursuit and pushed through the cat door. “You can be replaced,” I called after his disappearing tail. This was why people had dogs, I told myself, pushing awkwardly to my feet.

I decided to distract myself from my disappointment by making a cheese soufflé for dinner. The recipe required enough concentration that I couldn’t dwell on how another police department had decided against hiring me. Separating yolks from egg whites and whisking melted butter and flour together helped me push down the disappointment. I put the Broadway cast recording of
A Little Night Music
in my stereo and sang along. Just as I eased the soufflé into the preheated oven, the phone rang.

Caller ID told me it was my folks. I sighed and picked up the phone.

“Sweetheart! Have we got a wonderful surprise for you.”

Dad. And his surprises were frequently less than wonderful. Downright embarrassing or awful at times. Like the pink Versace dress he’d bought for me to wear to the Oscars with him the year before I joined the air force. I was only seventeen, but the plunging neckline, skintight fit, and ruffly mermaid flare made me look like a cross between Britney Spears and Ariel before she got her legs. I was pretty sure “Versace” was Italian for “bimbo.” Of course, there was the time he brought a fleet of limos to my fifth-grade class and took us all to the zoo, which he’d reserved just for our use that day. That’d been embarrassing, but in a good way.

“I need to spend about six months in the D.C. area for my new project, so your mom and I have rented a little place in Alexandria”—probably something the size of Mount Vernon with a staff—“to live in this spring. We’ll be able to see so much more of you. I don’t understand why you never make it out to California,” he said, and I could hear the pout in his voice.

“I have a job,” I said, taking the phone out onto my tiny back patio. Twilight hazed the sky, and a pair of cardinals argued near the boxwood hedge that separated my ten-by-ten patch of lawn from the neighbor’s. I shivered in the chilly air. “I can’t just pick up and leave whenever you and Mom throw a party or host a charity event or something.”

“You don’t have to work.”

“Yes, I do.” For my sanity. To feel like I was making a contribution to the world. To not turn into a vapid party girl with nothing to think about other than what trendy night spot to be seen in or how to end up on someone’s bestdressed list. My father and I had had this conversation roughly six hundred twenty-seven times; I knew what came next: “Honey, if money’s an issue—”