The Arrangement (27 page)

“Hey, Bogart!”

Tony turned to see Vince Connelly coming toward him. He’d been the detective at the LaDonna Jeffries’s crime scene last night, and Tony had shown up this morning specifically to track Vince down and get an update. Not that Connelly owed him one. Tony was an eyewitness, not a member of the investigative team, but it was a courtesy from one law enforcement officer to another, one agency to another.

Vince punched Tony on the arm, hard enough to hurt. He was a big guy in all ways, tall and thick with salt-and-pepper hair and an ebullient personality. He was also the county’s hotshot homicide detective, and he didn’t let anyone forget it.

Tony didn’t punch him back, although…

Vince was the rookie deputy who’d caught Tony fighting all those years ago. He’d lectured him, embarrassing him in front of all his friends, and then let him go. Twice. Big fucking man, Vince was. Tony had hated him back then the way he’d hated all authority figures. There’d been no bonding between the troubled teen and the law enforcement officer. And time hadn’t changed the hostile feelings all that much on Tony’s part.

He figured it was mutual.

Fortunately, he was essential to Vince’s case.

“Let me get some of this stinking stuff,” Vince said, kicking the vending machine, “and then, if you can fit me into your busy schedule, I’d like to show you some of the forensic evidence we’ve collected.”

“All the time you need,” Tony said. The man was a raving dickhead. Punch his arm? Tony should have laid him out right there, but he wanted to see that evidence.

Vince got his coffee, and as they walked back to his office, he sipped from the cup and greeted people by name, as if he were the office’s ambassador of goodwill. But Tony could feel the aggression rolling off the man. He was a bully, even when he smiled at people. They
had
to smile back or be on Vince’s shit list. That was the implication.

“We got something interesting,
Agent
Bogart,” Vince said as they entered his office. “How the hell did you get into the FBI?” He chuckled and went to his desk.

“Same way everyone else does,” Tony said evenly. “Let’s see what you got.”

Vince grabbed a large manila folder, from which he pulled out several clear plastic evidence bags, and spread them out on the desk.

“Recognize any of this stuff?” The bag he picked up and handed over had a small navy-blue button in it.

Tony studied it for several seconds. More than anything the color seemed significant. The button had clearly been torn from a piece of clothing. An image of Alison’s dazed expression—and her missing navy-blue cardigan sweater—flashed into his mind.

He looked up at Vince, his gut twisting. “Yeah, I do.”

R
ebecca knocked on Julia’s door, carrying a tray of coffee, juice and fresh fruit. Julia was expecting her, so Rebecca nudged the door open with her hip and backed in, carefully balancing everything.

“Incoming,” she called, noticing that Julia was still in bed in her silk pajamas, absorbed in her reflection in a hand-held mirror.

“Put the tray on the table by the chaise,” Julia directed without looking up. “Any luck with those flights I asked you to check on?”

“To Mauritius? It’s a twenty-four hour trip, you know.”

“Rebecca, I didn’t ask how long it took. I asked—”

“I know what you asked,” she stated. “I can get you connections through DeGaulle. It depends on when you want to go. This is a pleasure trip, right?”

Rebecca had never heard of the exotic island off the coast of South Africa until this morning, when Julia asked her to check on flights, and she was more than curious why her boss would want to go to the ends of the earth—or anywhere—right now.

Julia sighed. “I don’t know about pleasure. I just need to get away, and Mauritius is sublime, although probably deadly hot this time of year. Could you check on that?” She glanced up from the mirror. “There was a murder on the cliffs last night. Did you hear? The police were here asking questions. Well, not the police. It was that thug who used to sneak around with my daughter, thinking I didn’t know. He’s an FBI agent now if you can believe.”

Rebecca felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was like a leaky faucet dripping into an empty sink. Anxiety. She told herself to keep busy. She set the tray on the table and began turning cups over and arranging things. Julia was still peering at her face in the mirror and tweezing the fine hairs above her lip, one by one. Crazy woman. Why didn’t she just get the hair zapped with a laser? She could afford it.

“Bret told me about it.” Rebecca poured a cup of coffee and added artificial sweetener and nonfat creamer for Julia. God forbid she put a calorie of food in her bony body, other than pinot, of course. “He said Tony Bogart asked each of you to account for your whereabouts.”

“Yes, he did. Can you imagine? Luckily, we were all in the media room, watching the Padres, except Alison, who wasn’t feeling well. Is she up yet? I’d like the entire family to meet here in my room this morning. We need to make sure our stories match, just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” Rebecca had to set down the coffee before she spilled it. A sudden rush of giddiness had made her unsteady. Afraid she might hyperventilate, she consciously slowed her breathing. Who would have dreamed it could feel this good to witness the implosion? She also felt racking guilt and remorse, which was probably why she couldn’t stop her legs from shaking. But the thought of the Fairmonts getting sucked into a criminal trial and a big juicy scandal was just too delicious.

“I don’t trust the law—or the media—in these things,” Julia said. “They’re always out to get their betters, as my mother would say.”

Especially when the “betters” were as obnoxious about it as Julia.

“Bret’s up,” Rebecca told her. “Alison may be out taking a walk. I knocked on her door this morning, but she didn’t answer.”

“How odd.” Julia looked up from the mirror. “Walking again? That’s so not Alison. Did she leave a note?”

“I didn’t find one. It sounds like you’re worried about her. Was she okay last night?” Rebecca tried to sound concerned, but she really didn’t give a damn about any of them anymore, including Alison. Maybe she just knew too much. The Fairmonts were like wormy fruit; the rotten stuff was deep in the core where you couldn’t easily see it, but that didn’t make it any less putrid.

“Of course I’m worried,” Julia said impatiently. “People are being murdered and fingers are being pointed at my family!”

Rebecca changed the subject. “Do you want anything besides coffee?” she asked. “Orange juice? Some fruit?”

“No coffee. I’m jittery enough already. I can’t even pluck my damn facial hair.”

“You specifically
asked
for coffee.”

“I shouldn’t have. Let Bret have it. Or you drink it.”

“I’ve already had my coffee—Julia, what are you doing?”

“Trying to get these last hairs. They’re driving me crazy.”

“Let me help,” Rebecca said, rushing over to her. “Julia, stop. You’re bleeding. That’s your skin you’re plucking.”

The doorbell sounded downstairs, and Rebecca glanced at her watch, wondering who it could be. It wasn’t even nine o’clock.

She grabbed the tweezers from Julia’s fingers, knowing the woman would be furious, and headed for the bedroom doors. “I’ll get the bell,” she called back.

Rebecca got no farther than the hallway. Bret had already answered the door and now he was bounding up the stairs. He grabbed Rebecca’s hand and dragged her with him back into Julia’s bedroom.

Julia threw off the bedcovers and got out of bed. Blood oozed from what looked like small nicks above her lip.

“What’s going on?” she asked Bret.

“The police are here,” he said, “two of them. They have two warrants, one to search the house and another for Alison’s arrest. Apparently there was an eyewitness to the murder last night.”

Rebecca gaped at Bret, realizing as she saw the tense white line around his mouth that it was true. He was terrified. Julia was, too. She looked about to crumble. This was beyond anything Rebecca had imagined when she’d been secretly orchestrating the Fairmonts’ downfall. This was awesome.

Marnie heard a horn blaring and glanced in her rearview mirror. It was the guy right behind her, driving the fancy sports car. Apparently she wasn’t going fast enough, because he was waving at her and making what looked like obscene gestures.

Probably a smart-ass teenager who thought he owned the road.

“Back off!” she yelled, knowing he couldn’t hear her. He wanted her to speed up or get out of his way. No way was she going to do either in this traffic. It was the middle of summer, and she was on Pacific Coast Highway, heading south toward San Diego. Several of the nursing homes on her list were in this direction, but the PCH was jammed with beachgoers and tourists.

The blaring horn pissed her off, and she slowed down. Let him go nuts back there. A jolt shook her car, causing her seat belt to lock. The horrible sound of crackling metal told her he’d hit her. What was he doing?

Another jolt shook the car. Again? If only she’d put the gun Andrew had left her in her purse. She pulled over to the side and stopped, searching through her bag for her cell phone to call the police. The guy hadn’t hit her hard, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. If he drove on by, at least she’d be able to get his license number.

Someone was banging on her car window. She turned and saw Bret’s face looming close to the glass.

“Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?” he shouted at her. “I’ve been calling you every five minutes!”

She hit the button to roll down the window. “Are you sure? The cell hasn’t rung.” She flipped it open to check it, and then realized he was talking about
her
phone, not the one Andrew had left her. She hadn’t even turned hers on. She wasn’t expecting any calls, except from Andrew.

“Have you heard from Andrew?” she asked Bret. “Is that why you pulled me over?” Something else dawned on her as she stared at him. “How did you find me?”

“You left the phone book lying open on your writing desk. It had a bunch of rest homes circled. I figured I’d go right down the list. What the hell are you doing?”

She’d left the phone book open. God, that was idiotic, almost as stupid as not turning on her phone.

“Never mind,” Marnie said. “What do you want?”

Bret seemed to be taking a moment to catch his breath. “The sheriff’s office has a warrant for your arrest for LaDonna’s murder. They probably have an APB out for you right now. I’ll drive you down to the courthouse. Mom’s going to meet us there with an attorney.”

“No—”

“Alison, it’ll be all right. You
have
to come with me.”

Marnie’s first impulse was to bolt. She wasn’t that far from the Mexican border. She could hit the gas and speed off. Bret might have a faster car, but he didn’t have her determination or her gut fear.

She couldn’t let him take her down to the courthouse. They would discover who she really was, and God knew what would happen when that bomb exploded. She had no idea how it would affect her or Andrew, who knew nothing about this. She might never find her grandmother.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. She could see the bones through her flesh, and her knuckles were a ghastly dead white. What was she going to do?
And where the hell was Andrew?

Marnie pulled over to the curb in front of the San Diego County Courthouse, cut the engine and got out of the car. She’d refused to let Bret drive her over, but had agreed when he insisted that she meet him in front. He’d offered to park her car while she spoke with Julia and the attorney—and he’d lectured her about not taking the situation seriously.

He was acting just like a brother would in a crisis, she realized.

Bret had told her to look for Julia and the lawyer on the courthouse steps. Marnie saw people clustered around, but she didn’t see Julia, or Bret, for that matter. He was probably still parking his own car. Marnie had seen the huge parking garage as she drove up.

“Alison! Over here!”

Julia rushed down the steps with a tall, distinguished man in tow. Marnie went around the car to meet them.

“This is James Brainard.” Julia presented the attorney with a graceful wave of her arm. “He’s a brilliant criminal lawyer, and we’re so lucky he could take your case. He understands that you’re being framed by a jealous ex-boyfriend, and that this is about revenge, nothing else.”

“An ex-boyfriend who just happens to be an FBI agent,” Marnie reminded them.

Brainard extended his hand to her. His grip was solid, and she liked his demeanor. It gave the impression of gravity and concern.

“I’ve met with the prosecutor,” he told her, “and she’s agreed to a speedy arraignment. We’re already on the court docket for one o’clock, so once we have you processed, we’ll go straight to the hearing.”

“Processed?” Marnie asked.

“Booked.” He seemed slightly apologetic for having to use the vernacular. “They’ll take fingerprints and mug shots. You’ll be searched. It’s not pleasant, but it has to be done if we’re going to post a bond today and get you out of here.”

Fingerprints. Once they had Marnie’s they would discover she wasn’t Alison. She had no choice but to go along with it, however. Brainard was promising her that she would be out on bail before the day was over, and that might buy her a little time. Enough, she hoped, to reach Andrew and find her grandmother.

“Can’t you do all that?” Julia was asking the attorney.

“All what, Julia?” Brainard looked annoyed. “They don’t want my fingerprints. They want Alison’s.”

“She will get out on bail, won’t she?” the older woman persisted. “They’re not going to put her in jail?”

“It’s all right.” Marnie had to make her stop. Julia’s pleading tone was making her feel terribly claustrophobic.

Brainard spoke directly to Marnie. “The prosecutor’s going to ask that you be held without bail. That’s her job, but I’ve spoken with her and she won’t go to the mat on this. She’ll agree to bail, as long as it’s high.”

“How high?” Marnie asked.

“I don’t expect it to be under a million. They want to be sure you don’t try to flee.”

Stunned, Marnie glanced at Julia, who whispered that that was fine.

“Now for the bad news,” Brainard said.

“I thought that
was
the bad news.” Marnie listened in silence as the attorney told her a crime team had searched the house and found a gun in her nightstand.

“They claim it was recently fired, but can’t prove it was the murder weapon. They’re waiting for lab results.”

Julia gripped Marnie’s hand, squeezing much too hard. “What were you doing with a gun in your room?”

“I’ve never touched it,” Marnie explained. “Andrew left it for me because he was worried about my safety. I was nearly hit by a terra-cotta pot that someone dropped from the balcony at Sea Clouds.”

Julia gasped. “You didn’t tell me that! When did it happen?”

Marnie tried to explain, but Brainard intervened, cupping Marnie’s elbow as if he intended to take her away and never bring her back. She wished he would!

“Julia, will you excuse us?” he said. “I want to talk to my client for a minute.” When he had Marnie far enough away, he spoke in low tones. “I know you’ve never gone through this process before, but I have, many times. Let me handle everything, all right?”

“Of course.”

“The only thing I want you to do in the courtroom is plead not guilty to the charges, and look the judge in the eye when you do it.”

“All right.”

“And one last question. Have you told me everything? I don’t like surprises, Alison. I can’t be your attorney if you’re holding things back.”