Sole Witness (7 page)

“I do so. But it might be in my dad’s name. The
check’s from him.”

Ohhh. Daddy’s money. Why didn’t he say that from the
beginning? Maybe he had. She hadn’t been listening. Amber unfolded the check
and keyed in Rich Daddy’s name. Bingo.

Before writing the account number on a sticky note,
she pasted on an I’m-concentrated-on-helping-you expression and paged through
the account.

Yikes. Who keeps a six-figure balance in a
no-interest checking account?

Daddy sure had money. What did he spend it on? Hm,
pending transactions. Country club, golf, steakhouse. Last statement… there.
Plane tickets to God-knows-where, yacht rental.  Surprised he didn’t own his
own yacht. Maybe he did, and rented another for his bouncing baby boy.

Amber finished scribbling the number before she
yakked all over Mr. College Is My Life. Her daddy hadn’t given her checks for
two grand. She hadn’t had a bank account or a father. She’d paid her dues, all
right. The world owed her.

She was about to hand over the sticky note when the
front door opened and a tall, skinny blonde bounced through the door. Lori
Summers, Barbie doll extraordinaire. Unbelievable.

Snatching back the paper, Amber ducked her head
behind her monitor. How did she track her down? What was she, half-Barbie,
half-bloodhound?

“What are you doing?” asked the kid as he
‘scratched’ the inside of his nose.

Jesus. “Hiding, obviously.”

He twisted in his seat to look. Little Miss Model
sauntered straight to the new teller, of course. Why would she waste her time
with the two sorority dingbats when there was male blood behind the counter?

“Why are you hiding?” he whispered, glancing around
the room like he ought to duck for cover himself.

“I stole her boyfriend,” Amber hissed. “Shh.”

He turned back toward the desk and eyed her
appreciatively.

Without once glancing her way, Lori Summers
retrieved some bills from the new guy, slipped them in her designer purse, and
waltzed back out the door.

So she didn’t know. Not yet.

“Here’s your info.” Amber shoved the paper across
her desk along with his sweaty license and crumpled check. “Give these to
anybody up there and they’ll cash it for you.”

“Hey, thanks.” He backed away from her desk and
loped to the counter.

God that was close. For the first time in her life,
a stab of fear had sliced through her calm exterior. Amber was never caught
doing anything. It was all part of her charm. Lori Summers wasn’t going to ruin
that streak.

Now that the bank was empty again, Mr. Horny New Guy
beelined for her desk and flopped in the customer seat.

“So,” he began. “Did you hear about T2’s death?”

Amber dug her lipstick out of her purse. “Yeah,” she
answered while coating her mouth with an extra layer of shine. “It’s a shame
isn’t it. Who was your girlfriend?”

He grinned. “You didn’t recognize her?”

Please. She’d know that witch a mile off. “Looked
like Lori Summers,” Amber offered with a delicate shrug.

“What a hottie.”

Amber’s phone rang, saving her from having to
comment on that observation. Waving him away, she picked up the phone and
tucked it on her shoulder. Her hoop earrings clicked against the receiver.

“Thanks for calling Isla Concha. This is Amber
Tompkins.”

“Hi, Amber,” came the breathy male voice. George
Culver always sounded like a dirty prank caller, not the bank manager of the
branch across town.

“Hi, George,” she answered absently, calling up his
name and finances on her screen. A far cry from Mr. Rich’s daddy. “What can I
do for you?”

“I’m calling to ask about Saturday. You never gave
me a direct answer.”

Get a clue, moron. No answer means no date. “Oh, I’m
so sorry. I keep forgetting to check my calendar. I’ll totally understand if
you make other plans.”

Static crackled as George’s petulant huff filled the
line. “I don’t want anybody else, Amber. I want you.”

A little subtlety wouldn’t hurt. Make a woman feel
desired, not stalked. “I know, honey. I’ll get back to you soon.”

“When?” he whined. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday already.”

Amber clicked to the recent transactions screen.
Pizza, renaissance fair, more pizza. “Soon. I promise. Now I gotta go. I
interrupted a customer just to take your call.”

“You did? Oh, Amber.” The pleasure pulsed from his
voice. “You shouldn’t have done that. It’s not professional.”

“I’ll let you go now, Georgie. Talk to you later.”

“Amber, I–”

Amber hung up. What she needed was Caller I.D. She
backed out of George’s account and stared at the blank entry screen. God, the
days here were so long. She’d probably memorized the account info for everyone
on the planet.

What about people no longer on the planet? Amber
smirked and keyed in Tommy’s name. Nothing. She tried the band name. Still
nothing. Damn him for using some other bank. That would’ve been a fun one.

Wait.

Amber hit escape and her fingers flew across the
keyboard. Bingo. 

Wow. Lori Summers was doing even better than Mr.
Nose Picker’s rich daddy, although she was smart enough to have most of it in
savings.

What were her recent transactions? Beauty parlor. No
doubt a tax on Miss Model’s time to keep up perfect hair. And the most recent
charge... Who the hell spends $4.97 at the grocery store? Amber never escaped
for less than twenty bucks. Bitch.

Where did someone with a healthy six fig’s live?
Amber paged back to the main screen. Cypress Circle.

Of course.

Those houses were spaced widely enough to give the
illusion of privacy, old enough to boast ‘Old Florida’ charm, and apparently
flashy enough for man-stealing supermodels.

Some people. Amber narrowed her eyes at the screen.

She oughtta go by and give Lori something to think
about. No. Even better. She oughtta go by and give Lori a reason to
stop
thinking. Permanently.

Amber grabbed a pen, printed the address in big
block letters, ripped the sticky-note off the pad and stuck it inside her
purse. When she got out to her car, she’d stick it on her gun. And when she got
to Cypress Circle, she’d stick it to Lori.

For good.

*          *          *

Tonda Carver was leaning on his desk when Davis left
the Sergeant’s office and returned to his station. Davis sidestepped Carver’s
distended belly and sank into his swivel chair.

“Well?” she asked. “You know why I’m here.”

“He’s less than thrilled about the status of the
case.”

Indignation colored her voice. “It hasn’t even been
twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, well, chop-chop. He wanted a briefing on the
Crimestoppers line. I had to give him that bad news, too.”

“He’s been around the block. He knows 99% of callers
are crazy-cakes. What’s he expect to get, a quick buzz from the murderer
himself? Or herself?”

Davis watched in fascination as Carver leaned
backward, shifting her belly with her hands. “What are you doing?”

“Baby’s kicking me. I’d kick him back just to show
him how it feels, but the best I can do is rock the boat once in awhile.”

“You’re a weird one, Carver.”

“Ha. Wait till you have kids. Then we’ll talk.”

Ice twisted in Davis’s gut.

If Carver wanted to see him with kids, she’d be
waiting until hell froze over.

He’d come close, once. Real close. But he hadn’t
known about it until after the fact, when Juliana’s doctor had called. She’d
missed her post-abortion checkup. The phone had clattered from Davis’s hand. If
he’d been a violent man, he’d have clobbered her with it.

Instead, he read the writing on the wall.

“Nah,” he said aloud. “Kids aren’t in the cards for
me.”

“No kids right now, dingdong,” Carver said with an
affectionate grin. “You got no wife. You oughtta try it sometime.”

Davis shook his head. 

When he’d joined the Police Academy instead of his
father’s law firm, the expression on Juliana’s face had screamed her
disapproval. A few months later, when Juliana refused to ruin her figure for a
cop
’s
baby, Davis didn’t bother to contest the divorce. He wished he wasn’t always
right.

“Been there, done that,” he told Carver with a
cynical smile. “How ’bout you? You’re a good one to talk.”

Carver’s shoulder jerked, and Davis regretted the
question.

Being a cop’s wife was hard, even for women who
weren’t Juliana. It had to be just as tough to be a cop’s husband. If it
weren’t, she’d be married. A good woman like Carver deserved to be married. She
hadn’t mentioned a painful past, but he was a cop. Cops were paid to read
between the lines.

“Let’s talk shop,” Carver said with a forced smile.

Davis nodded. He felt like a jerk. “Any news while I
was gone?”

She smiled with relief and fetched a folder from her
desk. “Forensics.”

 “What’s the word?”

“Incomplete.” She fiddled with a lemon drop. “But a
few choice details.”

“Caliber?”

“9mm.” The candy popped into her mouth and the words
came out garbled.

“Range?”

Carver tossed the wrapper in the trashcan. “Two to
three feet.”

“So, even if the perp’s arm was straight in front of
him, adding another, say, three feet… The furthest away he could be is six
feet. Definitely someone Turner knew.”

“We figured as much from the crotch shot, Sherlock.”

“Perps are smart. They watch Law & Order and
CSI. They know how to make things look like what they’re not. Take the wallet,
for example. That could be another attempt at misdirection.”

Carver inclined her head, her unruly poodle-curls
obscuring her face. “True.”

He sat up straight. “Want to do some detecting,
Detective?”

“Ready when you are.” She got to her feet and
followed him out of the station.

Davis drove to the recording studio in silence.
Carver frowned to herself, as preoccupied with mulling over the case as he was.
He helped her under the tape and opened the door. Shadowed movement flickered
in the darkened corner of the studio.

He motioned to Carver and withdrew his weapon.
“Police!” he called out, stepping to one side. “Come out where I can see you.”

A black-clad form blurred past him, almost bowling
Carver over. Davis leapt and knocked him to the ground, landing on his back and
twisting his arms behind him.

“Who are you?”

“Mrrgle Blempgorf.”

“What?” Davis snapped on the cuffs and rolled off
him, letting the kid lift his face from the concrete and spit a stream of dirty
spit to the ground.

“I said, I’m backup vocals for Tommy. Can you take
these things off?”

Carver stuck her toe in his ribs. “Not until you
tell us why you went all Speedy Gonzalez. Wanted out of the band, did you?
Enough to kill T2?”

“No!” The kid rolled over, fear in his eyes.

“Then what are you doing here?” Davis asked.

“Forget it, Hamilton. Killers always return to the
scene of the crime. We’ve got our murderer.” Carver gave him another nudge with
her boot.

“No, I swear. I just… I left something here. I
needed it.”

Davis ran his hands down the kid’s sides and felt
something crinkle in the side pocket of his cargo pants. A second later, they
had their answer.

“Weed? You trespassed into a crime scene for weed?”

The kid scowled. “I’m in the band. I can come
whenever I want.”

“Wrong. Not when the peripherals say, ‘Crime scene.
Do not enter. Police only.’”

“And not when you’re coming to get illegal
contraband,” put in Carver with another jab to the ribs.

“All right! Keep it. Forget it. Take the cuffs off.
I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Davis asked. “What do you want him to
do, Carver?”

“I don’t know,” she mused. “Anything we want to
know?”

“Sure, I’ve got it.” Davis hauled the kid to a
sitting position. “Who killed Tommy?”

“Man, I don’t know! Could be anybody, according to
him.”

What did that mean? “Have you been talking to him
since he died?”

“No way. I mean, that dude was paranoid. He thought
everybody was gonna get him. Ain’t you never listened to his songs?”

Davis glanced at Carver for corroboration. She
raised one shoulder and gave a little nod.

“Okay, but who have you seen hanging around him?”

“Come on, man. I seen everybody hanging around him.
He’s the rock star of rap around here. He’s got more women than Hef.”