Fine-Feathered Death (17 page)

I could search for it tomorrow, of course. But since I was still here, why not take a final foray around the office to see if I could spot it?

I stepped from the Beamer and used my key to unlock the office door once more.

In time to hear a highly human voice scream: “No!”

Followed by a massive, ugly, explosive sound that could only be a gunshot.

Gigi’s now utterly recognizable avian shriek started, too.

My heart thudded so hard that I feared it made as much commotion as the bird and the gun. I backed quickly out of the door, closing it behind me. With quivering fingers, I yanked my cell phone from my purse and pressed in 911.

And was put on hold again.

Déjà vu all over again? Not quite. Last time, an unanticipated bird had precipitated my panic.

This time that same bird was involved, but I’d distinctly heard a human voice screaming “No!” And that gunshot . . .

Okay. I admit it. I’m not the boldest lawyer in the world. Not even the pluckiest layperson. What I wanted to do was run. Continue to hold for 911. Keep my own ordinary-sized nose out of trouble.

Only . . .

I’d feared before that someone had been hurt, when I’d first heard Gigi’s screams, and I’d forced myself to investigate.

This time, I could assume with assurance that someone really had been hurt. Perhaps Corrie Montez, the only human inhabitant of the Yurick office that evening whom I knew about.

I had to find out if she was all right.

But someone who might still be inside there decidedly had a gun.

I tried 911 again. Hooray! This time I got an actual operator.

“I heard someone scream, then what sounded like a gunshot,” I exclaimed softly, not wanting anyone else who might be hanging around here to hear.

At the operator’s urging, I identified the address and myself.

She told me to stay outside and await the police officers she was preparing to send.

Fine with me.

Except . . .

Sure, call me stupid. Foolish, at least. But what if Corrie had been shot and was still alive?

How would I feel if I learned later that I could have helped her but didn’t?

If I didn’t go back inside, I would surely survive to know exactly how I’d feel, one way or the other. That was the smartest, safest course of action.

But . . .

The
buts
were beating me over the head. I had a can of pepper spray in my purse, the result of prior danger and of my pet-sitting, which often got me out alone in the dark. I reached down into my bag, felt around till I identified the familiar tube-shaped container, and pulled it out. Aimed it ahead of me. Prepared to push the button, just in case.

As if it would outblast a gun . . .

I slowly opened the office door and peered around its edge.

Saw no one.

I slipped inside, wishing Gigi wasn’t still screaming. Her shrieks could mask the sound of someone sneaking the other direction. Toward
me.

I made my way slowly through the reception area and down the hall toward Ezra’s office.

Was that where this latest shot had been discharged—like the one that had ended Ezra’s life? Or had just the sound, and not the sight, been what had set Gigi shrieking?

I had to look in if I could, to make sure my friends the macaw and the paralegal were okay. How could I do that without getting myself killed?

As I may have mentioned before, I occasionally watch cop shows and take in violent movies. An idea struck me.

But I didn’t want any bullets to do the same.

I ducked while duck-walking a few feet backward from the door. And then I screamed, “This is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

I half hoped I’d hear nothing but Gigi so I’d feel somewhat okay about bursting in.

Instead, what I heard sounded like shattering glass. A window breaking?

Damn my sense of self-preservation and any unchained torpedos! Full speed ahead.

I stood and shoved the door open.

And then it was my turn to scream in accompaniment with Gigi, who remained flapping and shrieking, inside her cage.

On the floor lay Corrie Montez, her formerly pretty violet T-shirt covered in blood. Her brown eyes were open and glazed.

Frantic, I scanned the room to ensure I wasn’t about to be attacked, too, but saw nothing else that hadn’t been there before.

Except said shattered window.

My eyes darting everywhere, I knelt and felt Corrie’s neck for a pulse.

Nothing.

I grabbed her wrist and sensed the same.

Nothing.

It was my turn to scream, “No!” Stupidly I stood and rushed toward what had once been a window.

I glanced outside and saw a dark shape dashing through the parking lot.

Unfortunately, the shape saw me, too. It didn’t stop, but I saw what looked like a hand raise—one holding a gun that glinted in the faint outside lighting.

I ducked, even as I heard another detonation of gunfire.

The little bit of glass left in the window exploded and rained down where I crouched.

I didn’t move for several long seconds.

At least.

I recognized then that I’d unconsciously picked up the sound of sirens in the distance, drawing nearer.

In a minute, I heard, though I couldn’t say from where, what sounded like a long-delayed echo.

“This is the police.”

Chapter Sixteen

I SAT IN a booth in what was once the restaurant’s bar, wishing the place was still stocked with Chivas instead of cops. Officers popped in and out as often as lounge patrons. Only two people stayed without stirring.

One was me.

I was, in fact, stirring somewhat, though I hadn’t shifted positions in probably fifteen minutes. My body still shook, although the temblors had slowed from Level 6 on the Richter Scale to spasmodic shudders every minute or so.

“No,” I said slowly and distinctly to Detective Candace Schwinglan, the supposed top cop on this case, though I anticipated Ned Noralles’s “assistance” on this one as well. For now, Schwinglan barraged me with questions. “I didn’t see anyone sneak in,” I continued. “I was sitting in my car in the parking lot, and I couldn’t see the office’s front door from there, even if I’d been sure it required an attorney’s observation. My space was too far along the side of the building.”

I kept my hands clenched on the table in front of me. My legs, in their dark blue slacks, also wedged together to still their shaking—somewhat.

“Mmm-hmm,” Schwinglan said, sounding somewhat affirmative, but I figured she just made a noise to keep the conversation going. Though she seemed smart, Candace Schwinglan wasn’t as astute an interrogator as her putative partner Ned. She seemed awfully wide awake for so late at night, but of course her thinness, emphasized by her black pantsuit, suggested that she stayed perpetually active. Or maybe she had great genes to assist in the weight department. “And you’re sure no one was in the building besides Ms. Montez and yourself?”

“No.” I sighed. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see or hear anyone, but someone could have sneaked in and hidden somewhere.”

Schwinglan leaned forward in the booth, clutching her notebook in one hand and stretching out the other, as if she had an urge to shake something more useful from me. Maybe impatience kept her thin.

A sound from the doorway startled me. I looked up to see—who else?—Detective Ned Noralles standing there. The handsome detective approached our booth and motioned the scowling Schwinglan to scoot farther into her seat. “I’m here to help again,” he said, and to her credit she didn’t tell him what to do with his help. Instead, she did as he asked and slid in.

Noralles’s suit was a lighter shade than usual, medium brown, and it was rumpled, as if he’d donned it fast to dash into the night to play assistant detective.

“I don’t suppose the cops outside nabbed the killer,” I said sorrowfully. I couldn’t tell a thing from the guy’s steadfast expression, but figured he’d be grinning if he had good news.

“No,” Noralles admitted. “But they did find the gun.”

“Really?” I perked up a bit. “I don’t suppose it was registered, and you’ve already run down the shooter’s I.D. Or that it was covered in the killer’s good, strong fingerprints.”

“You suppose right, Kendra, though the lab will check for prints anyhow. Doesn’t look likely they’ll find anything, though.”

Ah, we were on a first-name basis today, probably a good thing. He always referred to me as “Ms. Ballantyne” when we were at odds against one another—the usual state of our acquaintance.

But Ned sounded stymied, which wasn’t what I was hoping for. “Any idea who it was?” I asked, looking at Schwinglan, again at least nominally in the top cop spot on this investigation.

“Why don’t you tell me?” she countered, arching her already curved brown brows. “You were the one who was shot at.”

“Corrie, too,” I reminded her.

“Corrie, too,” she acknowledged. “But she for certain isn’t talking.”

My shuddering started all over again. “Wh-what about any other witnesses?” I queried them both quietly. “Did any neighbors happen to hear something and peer out their windows?”

“This is mostly a commercial area,” Schwinglan refreshed my emotion-ravaged recollection. “There’s a gas station with a convenience store at the end of the block and a coffee shop across from it, but the closest buildings to your offices are stores that were closed.”

“Someone driving by on Ventura Boulevard?” I proposed hopefully.

Ned’s turn to take over. “The office where Ms. Montez—and Ezra Cossner, of course—were killed is at the side of the building, which isn’t easily in view of the street.”

I nodded knowingly. “Plus,” I added, “I saw the killer head the opposite direction after shooting at me. Did any people living in the apartments behind our offices see anything?”

“We’ve got people canvassing them,” Ned said, “but so far I haven’t heard of anything useful.”

I sighed. So did both Ned and Candace—which was how I currently thought of Schwinglan, since Ned and I were now first-name chums.

And then Ned said, “I’m sure you’ve gone over this with Detective Schwinglan, but was there anything in particular you noticed about the suspect when you saw him running away?”

Almost involuntarily, I replayed the bloodcurdling occurrence in my mind: the dark, indistinct fleeing form, the burst of light ricocheting off the gun, the ear-splitting blast, the shower of exploding glass.

“Not especially,” I responded, then described aloud all the shudder-inducing details I’d seen.

“Did you notice the suspect’s clothing?” Ned asked, his voice soft yet insistent.

I pondered for a second before saying, “Not really.”

“Any facial features?”

“It was too dark to see,” I responded.

“How about the way he ran—anything special? Anything familiar?”

And then I got it. Talk about staying obtuse. “No,” I countered curtly. “What is it you’re driving at?”

“I’m not driving at anything,” Noralles prevaricated in a particularly innocent tone. I noticed him share a short glance with Schwinglan and grew certain my suspicions were true.

“I’ve told you all I know,” I said. “Now share something with me.”

“Like?”

“Like, who’s at the top of your suspect list?”

Only for an instant did Ned’s studiously blank expression suggest triumph. “Oh, we’re still working on that.”

“But you think it’s Jeff,” I blurted baldly, having an urge to reach across the table and start torturing this tormenting detective, tearing out his hair strand by dark strand.

Not that his temporary detective-in-charge, Candace, would let me get too far in fulfilling that fantasy.

“Hubbard?” Ned said snidely. “Why do you say that? Did the suspect remind you of him?”

I stood. “Don’t turn it on me, Detective. I’m just guessing here. Why do you think it could be Jeff?”

“Did I mention him?” he goaded with a grin.

“You thought he might have killed Ezra, but at least you had a teensy chance of making a case there, since Ezra and he had been arguing. But what possible motive would Jeff have had to murder Corrie?”

“You tell me,” Ned said. “But if what you come up with involves the possibility that Ms. Montez saw Jeff around your offices at the time Mr. Cossner was killed—or even witnessed the murder—well, you just might be reading my mind.”

That bright, baiting grin again. My fury intensified, and I grabbed my purse from the booth. “If you have questions I haven’t already answered, you know where to find me, Detectives.”

“Your home or Mr. Hubbard’s?” Ned asked, obviously still passionate about provoking me. He shared another knowing glance with stone-faced Candace.

“Good night,” I shouted over my shoulder.

I’d have stalked out of the offices, but I couldn’t help staying concerned about Gigi. Her screams had stopped, but I still heard a loud squawk now and then. I forced my feet to take me to the hall outside Ezra’s office. But Gigi’s voice didn’t emanate from there.

“Where’s Gigi?” I asked a guy in a shirt that identified him as a Scientific Investigation Division sort.

“Who?”

“The bird.”

The guy’s grimace told me that Gigi hadn’t scored any positive points with him. “The kitchen. I think.”

Sure enough, that’s where she was. Her large cage had been wheeled in, and she stood on her perch staring at me as I entered the room. “Hi, girl,” I said softly. “I know it’s a silly question, but are you okay?”

She shrieked and flapped her wings. I noticed a few blue feathers at the base of her cage. Too many feathers for her simply to have shed them.

“Don’t pluck yourself,” I pleaded sympathetically. When I’d thumbed through some of Polly’s bird books, I’d scanned slowly through particularly poignant parrot details. For one thing, I’d learned that emotional parrot-types sometimes pulled out their own plumes. “No more than you already have, Gigi. Please.”