3 Fat Chance

by Rhonda Pollero

  Keep your friends close but run from your enemies.

  ten

  MY ALARM SOUNDED IN a distant fog, and it wasn’t until I lifted my head that I realized I was lifting it off Liam’s lap. His eyelids were half-open as he looked down at me with those sparkling blue eyes. Not a bad way to start a day.

  “Sorry,” I said, sitting up and stretching. “When did I fall asleep?”

  “Sometime around Christmas of ’96.”

  “Wiseass.” I slapped his thigh as I got off the sofa and went to make coffee. My brain was no match for Liam without a serious hit of caffeine.

  When I heard my alarm go silent, I turned and found him coming out of my bedroom.

  Who knew it could be more awkward waking up with a guy you hadn’t slept with?

  “Coffee will be ready in three minutes and seventeen seconds.”

  He chuckled. “No time. I’ve got a thing.”

  Again with the thing. Direct hit to my warming libido. “Have fun.”

  “Lock up after me,” he said, pausing at the entry to my kitchen.

  His broad shoulders nearly filled the space as he lingered, waiting for something. A hug? A kiss? A go cup of java? So what did I do? Something cool and sophisticated? Of course not. I waved. I freaking waved like an inept teenager. Lord, but that man brought out the very worst in me.

  I did wait until he was out the door; I locked it and replaced the chain before letting out an embarrassed groan.

  Four hours of sleep hadn’t left me feeling perky, and a shower did little to wash the lethargy from my body. Wrapped in a towel, I bent down and picked my clothes off the floor. Before depositing them in my near-capacity laundry hamper, I lifted them to my face and drank in the scent of him. It was male and appealing and…“Get over it!” I hissed at myself.

  I downed a second cup of coffee, then went to my closet and, realizing time was getting away from me, grabbed a belted Kenneth Cole print skirt I’d found online for under fifty bucks and a plain white cotton top from Target. Okay, I’m not normally a Target shopper, but it was cute and I’d cut the tags out in hopes of forgetting my foray into discount shopping for the masses. I know, I’m a snob, but I have an aversion to buying clothing in the same place I can grab a gallon of milk. Not that I ever grab a gallon of milk, but if I did…well, I didn’t want it in the same bag as my clothing.

  I chose a pair of Stuart Weitzman satin platform sandals. They were not really my color—deep emerald green—but they worked with the splashes of green in the skirt and they were first quality. They were a gift from my mother. She loves emerald green. I have a whole shelf in the top of my closet with emerald green sweaters, belts, nightgowns—you name it, she’s given it to me. I suppose pink isn’t in her vocabulary. Then again, we have completely different coloring. She’s a brunette with a medium complexion. I, on the other hand, am a fair-skinned blonde. Other than our eye color—somewhere between blue and aqua—no one would ever peg me as her daughter. Which, come to think of, I’m okay with.

  If I ever happen across Mr. Finley or Mr. Anderson, I suppose one of them will be a fair-skinned blonde. Had to come from somewhere.

  I abused concealer trying to hide my dark circles, then carefully applied my makeup. A pair of gold hoops and I was good to go. Almost. I had to transfer my essentials, lipstick, wallet, and cell phone to a small Coach bag that went with my outfit—I was tired, not incapable of accessorizing properly. Grabbing up its matching tote, I jammed the police reports and my colorfully annotated map inside. I was about to leave when I spun around, wiggled the mouse on my computer, and hastily emailed my working document from the newspaper archives to my work account.

  In just over an hour since the alarm sounded, I was filling my travel mug and then out the door. I dumped the tote in the backseat, put the travel mug in its holder, and muttered a curse as I went back into my apartment for my sunglasses.

  Even making record time, I still managed to pull into the parking lot at Dane, Lieberman at 9:05. I considered anything before 9:30 on time. Margaret, the self-appointed gatekeeper of punctuality Hell, considered on time to be 8:59. I braced myself for the Margaret glare as I struggled to balance everything and open the door.

  I smelled him a split second before Tony reached over me and grabbed the door. I loved the smell of Gucci Pour Homme II. The olivewood base made it one of the sexiest men’s scents to come down the pike in a long while. It smelled expensive and masculine.

  “Thanks,” I gushed without turning around. “I’d make a pretty lousy Sherpa, huh?”

  “What do you have there?” With his longer legs, he was even with me on the third step.

  “Stuff on the robberies. I promise I’m not sidetracked, just going to work on my lunch hour.” I was having a morning glare-off with Margaret.

  “Your classes start tomorrow. I hope you’ll show the same commitment to the learning experience that you’ve shown to the skeletal remains.”

  I could practically see Margaret’s gotta-know-everything antennae poke up from the back of her head. “Here are your messages, Mr. Caprelli,” she said as if Sandra Dee was stuck inside her saggy, fifty-five-year-old body. She slid a small, neat pile of pink squares across her desktop.

  “Tony,” he corrected as he lifted the strap of my tote off my shoulder. “This weighs a ton.”

  “Good, I can claim I worked out this morning.”

  Margaret snorted, but she tried to cover it with a little cough.

  “Do I have any messages?” I asked, quelling the childish urge to flick her in the Bluetooth.

  “Yes. A Sergeant Jennings called. He asked that you return his call as soon as possible.”

  I didn’t rate a pink square, neat or otherwise. “Thank you.”

  Tony escorted me to the elevator and went so far as to carry my tote to my office. “That wasn’t necessary,” I insisted, taking the tote and placing it next to my desk with a thud.

  “Want to tell me why a cop is looking for you?”

  I told him about the break-in, conveniently leaving out the panty part and Liam’s involvement.

  Tony’s expression was impossible to read. Other than a slight pinch between his brows, I couldn’t tell if he was sympathetic or irritated. “Is Jennings the officer handling the break-in?”

  I nodded. “I’m sure it’s just routine follow-up.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” he said, then left.

  I wasn’t completely sure what he meant by “loop”—only that it somehow sounded ominous. And distracting enough to keep me from checking him out in his tailored black suit. I consoled myself with the knowledge that the day was young.

  Following my routine, I made coffee, checked my interoffice mail and my voice mail, and reached for my phone to return Jennings’s call.

  I was put through immediately. “Thanks for getting back to me,” he said, his tone a bit perturbed.

  “I had a couple of things here that took priority,” I explained. Besides, I already knew what he was going to tell me.

  “We matched the prints to a cold case in Palm Beach.”

  “One of a series of robberies?”

  “Yes, how’d you know that?”

  Not sure if Liam had gotten the files legally, I hedged, “It was a break-in, so logically, the prints would match a robber. And the crime-scene tech told me the John Doe in your computer system was from 1996.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll keep you posted if anything breaks.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up. Jennings didn’t sound too optimistic.

  Before I tackled unpacking the police reports, I retrieved my cell phone and pulled up the text I’d discreetly sent myself during lunch with Melinda.

  I opened a new document on my computer and began typing the names of the foster children Melinda had given me. I was on the first name when the intercom buzzed.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a Sam Carter here to see you,” Margaret complained. “He isn’t on your appointment sheet, but—”


  “Send him up, please,” I interrupted.

  Scooting my chair back from the desk, I walked slowly to the double elevators. Sam hadn’t been to my new office, and, positive Margaret had probably greeted him like an invading cockroach, I wanted to be there when he stepped onto the second floor.

  After a brief wait, the elevator dinged and the circular light next to elevator one illuminated. The doors slid open slowly, then Sam stepped out and smiled when he saw me waiting.

  In one hand, he was carrying a legal-sized leather-zipped portfolio. His man purse was clipped to his trim waist. In the other hand, he balanced a molded cardboard tray with two venti drinks from Starbucks. The gift of coffee was always welcomed and appreciated.

  “Hi,” I greeted, placing a quickie kiss on his mouth. “Want me to carry anything?”

  “Nope, I’m balanced,” he answered. “So,” he lowered his voice. “I heard from Mrs. Hemshaw that you had a busy weekend. The police were there. And Liam spent the night? You have to tell me everything.”

  “Hush!” I placed a finger to my lips, then turned and led him to my office.

  Sam stood in the doorway; his expression amounted to one big disapproving frown. “How can you work in such bland surroundings?”

  Looking around, I realized that there wasn’t any art on the walls, and I wasn’t one for cluttering my desk with photos. I used to have one of Patrick and me on vacation in the Caymans, but that went the way of the cactus. There was a paralegal on the opposite side of the building who had turned her office into a paisley palace; Mary Beth was one of those crafty people who, when not wielding a hot glue gun, was hosting home parties. She’d done me a favor on the Evans murder, but so far, I’d been able to dodge her invitations. Sitting in her house with a bunch of other women playing word games wasn’t my idea of a good time.

  Home parties aside, she was the queen of organization, making sure coworkers’ birthdays were remembered and baking stuff for the staff lounge. She’d even decorated her office at her own expense.

  “Forget it,” I told Sam firmly. “I don’t decorate what I don’t own. If Dane, Lieberman wants to spring for a new coat of paint, they can have at it. Your job is the new house.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Sam took the empty chair across from me and unzipped his portfolio. “Harold and I worked out a three-stage plan,” he began, placing papers in neat piles.

  “How much?”

  He put his hands on his hips and tossed me a warning glare. “We’re well below budget. Will it kill you to let me do my presentation?”

  I leaned back in my vented leather chair and happily sipped my steaming vanilla latte. “Present away.”

  “Phase one is demolition,” he said, passing me a neatly typed list on his business stationery.

  Renting Harold and a Dumpster was going to run me about thirty grand. Dollar signs swirled in my head, and my grip on the coffee cup tightened. “Okay.”

  “Phase two is construction. That includes electrical, plumbing, and adding the pool and spa.”

  The number of one hundred six thousand dollars burned my tired eyes. “Could we consider using candles?”

  “Trust me, Finley, that’s cheap. Then there’s the actual finishing and decorating. This includes cabinetry, painting, furnishing and window treatments.”

  “One hundred seventy-five thousand?” I choked out. “Is the paint liquid gold?”

  Sam let out an irritated little grunt. “You liked the design when I showed it to you on my computer.”

  “I was laying out three hundred grand when I looked at the 3-D version.”

  “There are some areas where we could cut corners, but in my professional opinion, that would be a mistake.”

  “And carrying that size loan isn’t?”

  “Interest rates are low. Besides, Jane says a home equity loan this size will actually be forty dollars less than your rent payment is at the condo.”

  Hearing that calmed me a little. “Okay. So what’s the time line?”

  Sam smiled and wiggled his brows. His brown eyes sparkled with an excitement that was infectious. “The demo will be finished by this afternoon. Thirty days to move in, give or take.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. There might be a few things that take longer—like the pool—but so long as you don’t mind living there while some of the finishing work is being done, you can plan on moving in by the end of next month.” Sam clapped his hands. “Can you believe it?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I swallowed a squeal of sheer delight. “No. I’m so thrilled.”

  Sam’s smile dwindled. “It isn’t going to be the same when you leave.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “But we can have sleepovers. I didn’t miss the fact that the guest bedroom has some remarkable similarities to your bedroom.”

  He sighed heavily. “I knew you’d want to make me feel welcome, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He pulled out three contracts, which I read and happily signed. That done, he put everything back in the portfolio, rested his elbows on the edge of my desk, and rested his chin on his folded hands. “Now dish.”

  “You’ll be disappointed,” I warned. “It was a platonic, accidental sleepover.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Talk about a wasted opportunity. Geez, Finley, you had that magnificent male specimen all to yourself and you went platonic? I think you need to see a doctor.”

  Sitting up straighter, I said, “My apartment was broken into. The creep hung a fake skeleton in my closet and stole my panties. Forgive me if I wasn’t in the mood for a come-back-and-bite-me roll in the hay.”

  “I think two years with Patrick screwed with your perspective on screwing. Sex doesn’t have to lead to happily ever after. It can just be good old recreational fun.”

  “Liam does work for this firm. Probably a lot more now that we’re adding a criminal division. The last thing I want to do is run into a guy I used to sleep with on a regular basis on my way to grab my lunch from the employee fridge.”

  “You don’t pack a lunch,” Sam volleyed back. “I’m not saying fall in love with the guy.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “All I’m saying is worse things could happen to you than hooking up with Liam McGarrity.”

  “Hooking up with Tony Caprelli,” I muttered, wondering where that thought came from.

  “You met someone? Tell, tell!”

  I explained all about Tony’s joining the firm. By the time I finished, Sam was shaking his head. “Sleeping with the boss is a guaranteed recipe for disaster.”

  I nodded agreement. “But you haven’t seen his dimples,” I added wistfully.

  “You’ve got a loan. You can’t afford to get fired. Oh, Jane told me to tell you to meet her at Bank of America on Okeechobee at eleven to sign the papers and get the checks you’ll use to pay the draws on the remodel.”

  “Then it will feel real.” Real scary.

  “Be brave,” he offered as he came around my desk and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. “Gotta run. I’m meeting Harold at the house in a little while.”

  I stood and came around the desk. “You and Harold are getting pretty chummy.”

  “He’s a decent guy. Married to a real piece of work.”

  “You met Mrs. Harold?”

  “She helped with the demo. I can tell you,” he continued as we walked to the elevators, “you wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley. She’s one scary chick. And I’m using that term in the broadest possible sense. Her biceps are bigger than her breasts and she’s got linebacker shoulders. Solid as a rock and about as friendly. Maybe she wouldn’t be so mannish if she didn’t shave her head. Naw, she’d still look butch.”

  “Thanks,” I said as he stepped into the elevator.

  “How about drinks tomorrow night?”

  I scowled. “Can’t, first day of school, remember?”

  He was chuckling as the doors slid shut.

  Ba
ck in my office, I returned to the chore of compiling the partial list of Melinda’s foster kids. Bridget Tomey, Terri Semple, Megan Landry, Carly Branson, Abby Matthews. I typed in the initials C.L. and wondered if Melinda might have remembered the name of the young man in the photo by now. As I dialed, I prayed she was over the snit brought on by Liam.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Melinda, this is Finley.”

  “Yes?” I felt the chill freeze the phone line.

  It felt weird to talk to her twice in three days given the fact that I really didn’t know her that well. It was more like I knew of her. “I was wondering if you remembered the name of the young Hispanic kid in the photo. C.L.?”

  I heard her let out an annoyed breath. “No.”

  “Could you contact DCF? I assume they keep a list of your foster children.”

  “Is that really necessary?” she asked. “Besides, DCF isn’t the most organized governmental agency. It could be a taxing process to get them to go through their records.”

  “It would really be a big help.”

  “That isn’t my understanding,” she replied quickly. “A team of detectives came to see me right after our lunch and I told them there was no skeleton in the house when I lived there. They didn’t seem all that worked up about your discovery.”

  “I think there’s going to be an independent autopsy.” That I’ll probably end up paying for.

  “What for?” she snapped.

  “Just checking to make sure the ME didn’t miss anything. As you’ve pointed out, the authorities aren’t taking this very seriously.”

  “So why are you?”

  “She was buried in my house,” I said, growing a little miffed myself. “I’d at least like to know her identity. Will you help me? Please?”

  “I’ll think about it. I’m helping Terri with her wedding, so my life is a little busy right now.”