by Norah Wilson
~*~
“So, does she know?”
Quigg glanced up from the coroner’s report he’d been reading. Ray stood there, coffee in hand, looking like a GQ model. Only the subtle bulge under his arm marred the lines of his suit. “Dammit, Razor, could you give the rest of us a break?”
Ray grinned, loosening his tasteful, impeccable, unwrinkled, unstained tie. “Hey, blame it on Grace.”
Quigg snorted. “I’d like to, but you always looked like that, even when you were dressing yourself.”
“So, does she know?”
Back to that. Quigg played dumb. “Does who know what?”
“Does Suzannah know you hired a private dick to sit on her?”
“No, and there’s no reason why she should.”
Ray parked his butt on the side of Quigg’s desk. “Must be costing a pretty penny.”
Quigg shrugged. “Hank owed me one. And you know she wouldn’t stand for the cops sitting on her, even if the brass would approve that kind of deployment.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now, what can you tell me about Suzannah’s case? Learn anything at the fast food joint?”
“Nothing very helpful. The drinks there are self serve, from a fountain. Someone must have doctored a drink, then swapped it for Suzannah’s. Be easy enough to do. Suzannah says she got a call on her cell phone. The switch probably took place when she turned away to dig her cellular unit out.”
“The call?”
“We confirmed it came from the pay phone in the vestibule of the restaurant. Receiver was wiped clean.”
“Security cameras?”
“Pointed at the cashiers and the lineup. Nothing trained on the area where Suzannah was sitting. We’ll have to get her to view the tapes and ID everyone she recognizes. ’Course, our guy is no dimwit. He might never have entered the camera’s range. He probably nabbed an empty beverage container from one of the tables—lots of people don’t bother to dump their own garbage when they’re finished—and refilled it at the fountain with whatever she was drinking.”
Quigg’s gut tightened at the mental picture of Suzannah’s stalker following her through the self-service soda fountain, maybe just feet away... “He might not be dumb, but he’s getting impatient, taking chances. He’ll screw up.”
“No question.”
“What about the Rohypnol? Any leads there?”
“’Fraid not. Not surprisingly, nobody’s being real forthcoming about who they might have sold some roofies to. Guy at the tat parlor tells me it’s mostly adolescents who use it.”
Quigg shook his head. “Damned stuff put you in a coma if you wash it down with a couple of beers, and kids can buy it with their lunch money.” He yanked at his tie. “Have we looked at her client list?”
“Yeah.” Ray shoved a sheet at him. “As far as I can tell, there’s no one loose who has reason to fault her for her defense. And definitely no one behind bars who’s got the kind of bling to go after her from inside.”
Quigg scanned the list, stopping at the fourth name.
“Halliday?”
“Convicted, sprung and born again. He’s now a lay minister in Brockville, Ontario.”
“Denton?”
“Deceased. OD’s his second week outta prison. Guess he coulda benefitted from a community-based methadone maintenance program.”
“Rosneau?”
“Nah. He was acquitted on appeal. Remember? You were fit to be tied.”
“Yeah, I remember. But I also remember he was a pretty creepy proposition. We popped him for touching a minor for a sexual purpose.”
“Yeah, I know, but the guy never turns up again in our database. And you know pedophiles. They will re-offend.”
Jesus. Maybe Rosneau was innocent after all. Maybe Suzannah was right. Maybe he’d been doing this too long... He shook off the thought. “Okay, what about the flower shops? Still nothing?”
“Nothing,” Ray confirmed. “The particular arrangement he favors is too generic. Every blessed flower shop makes the same one. Same roses, same ferny stuff, same green glass vase. But Stevie came up with an idea that might help in future, presuming our perp continues to communicate via this live posy, dead posy routine.”
Of course. “Mark the vases to discriminate between shops.”
“It’ll have to be on the inside of the vase, of course, probably below the water line. Something real discreet. Even at that, I’m not sure this guy wouldn’t find it.”
Quigg rubbed his forehead. “What about Suzannah’s friends?”
“We’re looking at ’em. Along with dumped boyfriends, dweebs she might have blown off in high school. Hell, we’re even looking at other lawyers she might have embarrassed in the courtroom. You name it, we’re trying it.”
“There’s one avenue you haven’t tried.”
Razor shot him a look. “What’s that?”
Seeing no way to sugarcoat it, Quigg just spit it out. “Remember that barbeque you invited us to?” At Ray’s nod, he continued. “Bruce Newman made a comment to Suzannah about leaving her drink unattended. He made specific reference to Rohypnol.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, just a minute.” Ray surged to his feet. “You’re not suggesting Bruce is our stalker?”
“I’m saying Constable Newman made a direct comment to her about the possibility of getting Rohypnol slipped in her drink.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed. “A legitimate warning.”
“At a cop party?”
“Anywhere, anytime. As a matter of practice, a woman shouldn’t leave her drink unattended, period.” Ray’s hands disappear into his pockets to jangle the coins there, a sure sign of agitation. “Maybe Newman just wanted to get a rise out of her,” he said. “Just because she never disemboweled him personally on the witness stand doesn’t mean he might not want a little payback for the grief she’s caused some of the guys.”
Unlike some people, Newman knows how critical it is to be tight with the boys. The unspoken message hung between them.
Quigg sighed. “Look, for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. That’s what Suzannah thinks, too, that he was just trying to throw her off balance, make her uncomfortable.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Quigg said, “is that if a civilian had made that remark so proximate to the assault, we’d be all over him.”
Ray swore, but it was an acknowledgment of the truth of Quigg’s assertion.
“Look,” Quigg said, “I’m not asking you to investigate Newman. I’ll look into that angle myself. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”
“This won’t make you any new friends.”
“No kidding?” Quigg resisted the urge to rub at his right temple to quiet the nerve that had started jumping there.
“You know, it was one thing when the guys thought you were just doing her. There was a certain level of ... I don’t know ... approval there, a little of that give her one for me mentality.”
“Cripes, Razor.”
“But this is different. This is –”
“What if it was Grace getting menaced? Huh? Wouldn’t you pull out all the stops, do whatever you had to do?”
Ray blinked. “So it’s like that.”
Ah, hell. Quigg rubbed the tic-ticking nerve at his temple. “I don’t know how it is.”
“You’d better figure it out soon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, I like Suzannah. If you two are gonna have a happily-ever-after, great. We can double date on Fridays. The guys’ll come to accept the situation eventually, and it will all have been worth it. But,” he said, “if she chews you up and spits you out after we’ve collared her number one fan, you’re gonna be left with one helluva hard row to hoe, my friend.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Razor. Might as well save your breath.”
“’Kay. But can I ask just one more question before we leave the topic of Suzannah Phelps?”
Quigg sup
pressed a sigh. “Would it do any good to say no?”
“Not really.”
“Then fire away.”
“She got anything to do with you looking to be a desk jockey?”
Quigg scowled. “Who said anything like that?”
Ray rolled his eyes. “Gimme a friggin’ break, here. You leave a book like The Complete Preparation Guide for Police Sergeant Exam laying around, a highly-trained investigator like myself might hypothesize that you’re gonna take a run for Sinclair’s job when he finally takes that early retirement he’s been talking about.”
Trapped. That’s how he felt. Cornered.
Hell with it. It was time Ray knew, anyway. Past time. “Okay, you got me. I’m busted. Satisfied?”
“Not yet. You didn’t answer my question. How much does Suzannah figure into your decision? She want to get you off the streets? Into a higher income bracket, better social circle?”
“She doesn’t know.” But she’d come damn close to knowing last night when she’d caught him reading some study material. Even now, the thought of her knowing made him weak at the knees. This whole business of wanting to be ... what?—something more?—for her made him more vulnerable than he was ready to deal with. Besides, what if he didn’t make the grade? How humiliating would that be? No, much better she didn’t know.
“But she does factor in there somewhere?”
Quigg shifted under that damned all-seeing gaze. “What’s wrong with wanting to further my career? I got a few years on you, if you’ll remember, junior.”
“Not a thing, if you’re doing it for the right reasons.”
“I’m satisfied with my reasons.”
“Good.” Ray dug car keys out of his pocket. “By the way, you’ll make a great sergeant.”
Great. Ray was going out. Quigg was off the hook, for now.
Then Ray’s phone rang. He nabbed the receiver. “Morgan.”
Quigg went back to perusing the coroner’s report, but his concentration was fractured again when Ray swore. One look at his friend’s face and Quigg didn’t have to follow the clipped, one-sided conversation to know he’d caught something hot. Anything that called for the forensic identification team was smoking. “What’s up?” he asked, when Ray hung up, his stomach taking a queer dive at the look on his friend’s face.
“It’s Suzannah. Our guy just made a move on her.”
