I laughed, glad we were alone in the elevator. I was pretty sure a stroller-pushing mommy would have been horrified by our conversation.
“Don’t repeat that,” she said. “I already get enough grief from the other girls on my pitiful social life. Speaking of Liv and Jane, how come they didn’t join us?”
“I haven’t called them yet,” I admitted as we exited the elevator and turned toward Sephora. “I know they’ll both freak out, and it isn’t exactly something I want to shout from the rooftops.”
“Did you give your thirty-day notice at your condo?”
My shoulders slumped. “Not until Harold gives me a completion date. After yesterday, I’m half tempted to call and tell him to work around the clock.”
Becky was eyeing the fragrance row. “You can stay with me.”
I gave her arm a squeeze. “I know, thanks. But I’m not going to let a silly prank rule my life. I went out this morning and bought metal protective bars and industrial locks for the windows and the sliding door. Installed them myself without breaking a nail.”
Becky laughed. “Practicing to be a homeowner already, eh?”
“I think I was more motivated by the memory of my dresser drawer and that stupid skeleton.”
I detoured over to the display of new lip glosses from Stila. Unable to decide between a sweet watermelon shade and a deeper, bright fuchsia, I bought them both.
We spent the next two hours meandering through the designer shops and upscale department stores—Coach, Tiffany’s, Nordstrom. Of course, I punished myself by going to visit the couture section. A mannequin was wearing the adorable, painterly circled, silk sundress with the scalloped hemline. I stood there admiring it as one might admire a Matisse or a Rembrandt. Debt sucks.
Unlike me, Becky was free to purchase three new dresses and four pairs of shoes. I felt a pinch of envy, but that was nothing new. Unless I took a stealthy detour to the clearance section, I was done shopping. Odd that I felt just fine telling Becky all about some guy raiding my panty drawer, but I couldn’t bring myself to let her know that I couldn’t afford full retail. We’d been friends for more than a decade, but admitting my shopping secret to my best friend would make it too real.
Eventually, after we loaded the packages in my car, we were seated alfresco at the Brios. Becky ordered a gin and tonic, while I opted for a San Benedetto iced tea. This was one of the few restaurants that carried the Italian import, and since I was driving, I went nonalcoholic. Reading the stack of fifteen-year-old police blotters I’d printed out promised to be mind numbing enough.
“What do you think about Tony?” Becky asked as she ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass.
“Tony the man or Tony the guy they just brought in as a new partner?”
Becky frowned. “Can you believe they just decided to open a new division and brought in an outsider?”
“I’m sorry.” This was the first chance I’d had to tell her that since learning about Caprelli joining the firm. “I know it sucks for you.”
Becky blew out a breath and twisted her more-red-than-brown auburn hair into a knot at the base of her neck. “Caprelli is a rainmaker. He’ll bring in business and make the partnership shares bigger.”
“You bring in business,” I countered.
“Criminal cases can generate hefty retainers. Contracts, while lucrative, don’t usually command hundred-thousand-dollar retainers.”
I felt my eyes grow huge. “That’s what he charges?”
Becky nodded, then lifted her menu as the waiter arrived. She ordered the pasta special, while I, still hearing my mother’s unflattering comment about my four-pound weight gain, went for a large salad. Twenty-nine, and my mother was able to remote control my diet. Pathetic.
“He was a big deal in the New York DA’s office,” Becky said. “Then after his wife died, he went to work for the largest criminal defense firm.”
I ripped a hunk of warm bread from the basket but passed on the herbed oil dip. “Think he’s still in mourning?”
“I can’t tell. I’d respect it if he is, but if he isn’t, did you catch those dimples?”
“I dreamed about them,” I joked. “But he’s got a kid.”
Becky waved her fork for a few seconds. “That could be a plus. Skip the whole pregnancy thing but still have a family with the added bonus of no ex-wife to fight over alimony, custody, and visitation every six months.”
“That’s a little cold.”
“It’s practical,” Becky insisted. “Marrying a widower is way less complicated than playing stepmother to a child whose parents are divorced. How many stepmothers do you know who are loved and cherished by their stepkids?”
“Jonathan,” I answered quietly.
Becky groaned. “Yes, my point exactly. Your stepfather never had to compete with your biological father.”
“Whoever he might be.”
“My point exactly. It would be the same kind of deal with a guy like Tony.”
“Have you met the daughter?”
“She was in yesterday.”
“And?” I prompted, my interest genuinely piqued.
“She’s polite. A little on the shy side. About as beautiful as a kid can be. She’ll break a lot of hearts growing up. Then marry an equally pretty man and have a bunch of pretty children.”
“Aren’t you rushing ahead a bit? Isn’t she, like, ten?”
“Yep, but I have a good eye for this sort of thing.”
“Being such an expert on children, of course.”
“At least I didn’t waste two years on lying Patrick.”
“Touché.”
“Is he still trying to weasel his way back into your life?”
I nodded.
“Wearing you down?”
I waited to swallow my mouthful of salad and then said, “Nope.”
“Really?” Becky pressed.
“He sends me flowers every week and he’s called a couple of times.”
Smacking her hands on the armrests of her chair, Becky frowned at me. “He’s getting to you. I can see it in your eyes.”
“He wasn’t all bad.”
“No, he was all liar. C’mon, Finley, you have to be strong on this one. Past behavior is always the best indicator of future behavior. And his sucked.”
“I know,” I admitted, folding my napkin and placing it to the right of my half-eaten meal. “I just hate being single.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be single, either. One crook of your little finger and Liam would come running.”
“With Beer Barbie right behind him.”
“You don’t know that,” Becky said for the millionth time. “Maybe they’re just happily divorced people.”
“Divorced with benefits.”
A mischievous grin curved Becky’s lips. “So offer him a better benefit package.”
I WAS HAPPILY STUFFING the third handful of Lucky Charms into my mouth as I picked up a document on the Palm Beach robberies. So much for any plans for getting rid of my four bonus pounds. On the plus side, with my fancy new locks and metal bars jammed in the tracks of all the windows, I felt completely safe and secure.
I’d changed into a pair of cotton ladies’ boxers with cute pink hearts on them and a matching spaghetti strap top. To complete my ensemble, I pulled on a pair of aloe socks I’d bought online. Cracked heels were the kryptonite of cute sandals, and besides, I just liked the soft feel.
To go with my Lucky Charms, I made a fresh pot of strong coffee and settled into my bed, with all the throw pillows behind me for support.
Reading the crime beat is about as interesting as reading the ingredient list on a bottle of cough syrup, but I couldn’t think of any other way to find out if the skeleton and the robbery at my parents’ house were somehow connected. Popping a marshmallow clover into my mouth, I focused on the oldest cases first. Most of the things listed were a line or two, giving me little more than s
tuff like “A break-in occurred in the such-and-such block of S. Ocean.” Quickly, I printed out a map of Palm Beach, went into my kitchen junk drawer, and retrieved a set of Sharpies. Using a different color for each year, I started marking the locations of the robberies.
Information on the first few years didn’t yield much, but slowly a pattern started to emerge. After 1994, all the robberies took place within a five-mile radius of my cottage. Maybe the cluster meant something, but without specifics about mode of entry, items taken, dates, times, et cetera, it was tough to find anything tying the robberies together.
About three hours into my task, I came across an article written in May 1996. The credited reporter’s name was Justin Kearney. Aided by an unnamed law-enforcement informant, he claimed the robberies were linked by the way the robbers had entered the homes and that there was strong evidence to indicate inside help.
Glancing at my bedside clock, I decided ten thirty wasn’t too late to phone the only person I knew who knew everything. The question was, could I call Liam without caving and asking him to come over?
“McGarrity.”
“How do I get my hands on the actual police reports for robberies on Palm Beach from January 1993 through May of 1996?”
“Hi, Liam, is this a bad time?” he mocked.
“Is it?”
“No. Why do you need the reports?”
I heard an annoying female giggle in the background. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. Was it Beer Barbie Ashley, or did he have some other woman? “So how do I get the reports?”
More silly girly giggles. “Give me an hour or two and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks,” I said and pretty much slammed the receiver back on its cradle.
Knowing that he was spending an hour or two having sex with God-knew-who really screwed with my confidence. On the bright side, at least we were both getting screwed. Only I wasn’t enjoying mine at all.
I did discover that in a two-hour-and-seventeen-minute span you could consume an entire box of Lucky Charms and a half carton of cookie dough Häagen-Dazs. Oh, and three pots of coffee. It was almost 1:00 a.m., and I was on such a sugar and caffeine high that it would be hours before I could even consider falling asleep. Like some sort of sick stopwatch, every fifteen minutes my mind conjured a vivid image of Liam sweating up the sheets.
I hated him and I hated myself. I hated him more. A soft knock at my door startled me. Seeing Liam through the peephole flat out shocked me.
Removing the chain, I yanked the door open and tilted my head back so I wouldn’t break eye contact. “What are you doing here?”
From behind his back, he pulled an eight-inch stack of file folders. “Police reports?”
“How did you…forget it,” I said, taking the files and standing there in awkward silence. “Was there something else?”
“I used to be a cop, remember? I thought you might want my help deciphering some of that stuff.”
“You thought wrong, but thanks,” I said breezily as I derived great pleasure in closing the door on his handsome face. I slipped the chain in place, then listened for the unmistakable belch from the motor of his Mustang.
Silence.
Looking out the peephole, I saw him leaning against the doorjamb. I winced, knowing it would only be a matter of seconds before I crumbled and let him inside. I winced because obviously he knew I’d let him in too.
Resigned, I opened the door and led him into the living room. As I placed the folders in the center of my coffee table, Liam cozied up right next to me. I turned and gave him my best back-off glare.
He was impervious. Sitting, he grabbed me around the waist and planted me next to him. My top had ridden up slightly, so his large, callused hands made contact with my flushed, traitorous skin. He was still wearing jeans and one of his signature Tommy Bahamas shirts, making me feel ridiculously under-dressed.
“Let me go put on some clothes and makeup.”
His grip tightened. “You’re fine as you are.”
Not a compliment, not criticism. Pent-up desire was eating my brain like some sort of parasite. “I don’t feel very professional like this,” I insisted, twisting away from him and practically hurdling the coffee table and ottoman to get to my bedroom.
In record time—twenty-two minutes—I switched to shorts and a baby doll top over one of my new bras and thong. With so little time, I had to do the blush on cheeks and lids with a little mascara and some lip-gloss thing. Almost by habit, I squirted some Lulu Guinness on, then picked up my laptop and marked-up map on the way back to the living room.
“Very colorful,” he commented as he looked at my map.
I explained the color scheme, then asked, “Are these in chronological order?” as I pointed to the folders.
“Yep. When do you want to start?”
“January of ’93.”
Liam grabbed a folder. “January second at nine in the morning a call came in from the housekeeper at 101 El Marisol.”
“Wait!” I grabbed the folder from him and scanned the two-page report. “That was my mother’s and Jonathan’s house. He died in April of that year.”
“Sorry about your stepfather, but I thought that might get your heart started. The housekeeper showed up at her regularly scheduled time and found one of the east-facing doors—that would be the beachside—open. Since none of the Tanners were in residence, she checked the house and found jewelry, a coin collection, and several small statues missing.”
“Part of the headless collection,” I said. “My mother has always had a thing for headless bronzes and ceramics,” I explained.
“There’s a detailed list on the second page.”
I had vague memories of some of the jewelry and several very specific childhood memories of watching Jonathan add pricey and rare coins to his beloved collection. Turning the second page over, I didn’t find what I was looking for. Either the housekeeper hadn’t thought to include it or it wasn’t one of the items taken by the robbers.
“The medallion you took off the skeleton isn’t on the list,” Liam said. “I already looked. The info on how they got in is pretty interesting, though.”
“They broke in the back cabana door,” I said after I read the report.
“Yeah, the only door not connected to the state-of-the-art alarm system,” Liam said dryly. “They were either lucky as hell—which I don’t believe—or had some insider information. That makes more sense. Who knew that door wasn’t armed?”
“My mother, me, Lisa, Jonathan, Trinnie—she was the housekeeper. The pool guy, I can’t remember his name, but sometimes he came in to leave a note or something. I was a kid, so I don’t really know. I do know Trinnie was like family. I can’t imagine her fronting for a ring of thieves.”
“Know where she is now?”
“Sure, she’s in an assisted-living facility in Tequesta.”
“Think she’ll talk to us?” Liam asked.
“Absolutely, but I don’t think you’ll like her answers.”
“Why?”
“Alzheimer’s. She worked for us from the time I was three. I visit her once a month, but she doesn’t have a clue who I am.”
“Guess we move on to the particulars of the next robbery.”
Liam and I pored over the files. As time went on, the thieves grew bolder and better. Sometime in 1995 they graduated to safe cracking, landing themselves cash as well as the high-end merchandise, jewelry, and art they’d been carting off.
“That really screams inside job,” Liam commented, his tone more serious. “They didn’t ransack the houses, they knew right where to go to find the safes. And the choice of what to steal is the connection.”
“How?”
He moved close enough that his warm breath tickled my bare arm. “You’ve got this stack,” he said, patting the smaller pile. “Standard stuff, TVs, small electronics, the kind of stuff that can be fenced in a nanosecond.”
“Okay.”
“Then there’s t
hese.” He hit the larger pile. “They took stuff that would require a specialized fence but would bring top dollar.”
“And fit in a backpack,” I offered.
“Statues fit in a backpack?” he asked.
“The ones taken from my parents’ house would. They were originals, but I don’t think any of them were more than five or six inches high.”
“Okay,” Liam said, stroking the dark stubble on his chin.
I tried not to think about the stubble that was sexy as hell. This was no time for my brain to take a detour. “So we should eliminate the robberies where run-of-the-mill stuff was taken and concentrate on the specialized stuff.”
“Right.”
It wasn’t until I got to one in May 1996 that a tingle danced along my spine. “Seems the thief made a mistake on this one. Left a partial print on the handle of a safe they drilled.”
“Gotta love felons, eventually they screw themselves.”
My excitement tempered. “They never matched the print to anyone.”
“Until yesterday.”
My head whipped around and I said, “What?”
“You’re going to get a call from Sergeant Jennings in the morning. This print matched the one on your windowsill.”
“And you were keeping this a secret why?”
“I wasn’t keeping it a secret. When I was getting copies of the files I overheard one of the Palm Beach cops on the phone with Jennings. He was confirming a print match to a May 1996 robbery. I think it’s time for you to back off. Let the cops find the guy who broke in with a skeleton and left with your panties.”
“How did you know that? I didn’t even tell the cops.”
“Becky was worried you weren’t taking the situation seriously.”
“So she called you?”
“She thought it might be a good idea for me to keep an eye on you.”
“She thought wrong.” Of course my conviction faltered as I imagined Liam on my bed. “So the person who broke into a Palm Beach house also did the skeleton thing in my closet and took my panties?”
“Yep. Only the cops don’t know his name. He’s still a John Doe, and he’s still close. Close enough to have read the Post article about the skeleton in your new house.” Liam hooked his finger under my chin and forced me to look at him. Deep lines of concern were etched into the corners of his eyes. “When I find John Doe, I’m willing to bet he’ll be able to identify the skeleton.”
3 Fat Chance Page 13
