3 Fat Chance

by Rhonda Pollero

  “It would really, really mean a lot to me.” I figured it might be a good idea to bring out the only card I had in my deck. “I know if Jonathan were alive, he’d appreciate you helping me, since he was instrumental in helping you by providing a home where you could foster your kids.”

  “I’ll get to it as soon as possible,” she said, though I sensed less hostility. “I’ve got another call waiting,” she said. “Bye, Finley.”

  Another call my ass. There’d been no telltale click from call waiting. I rubbed my forehead, wondering why she’d lied to me. “Maybe she was tired of being bullied,” I said as I stared at the list on my computer screen.

  Reluctantly, I added her name to the list. Minimal past relationship aside, I had to admit Liam was right. I didn’t know how I knew it, but I knew Melinda was hiding something.

  But why?

  And for how long?

  The first day of school is exciting if you’re five.

  If you’re twenty-nine, it’s just humiliating.

  eleven

  GLANCING DOWN AT MY Not-a-Rolex watch, I had just enough time to make a quick phone call before an unexpected lunch with Tony. I’d discovered the sticky summons on my monitor when I’d arrived.

  My office. 12:30. Bring your research. Tony

  Quick went out the window when I reached the first level of automated phone system Hell. DCF had nothing on Dante when they designed the decidedly user-friendly information line listed in the front of the state services directory. After selecting my language of choice—English, though I had to admit Creole sounded more interesting—I navigated through eight more levels of options until I could finally ask to speak to a human being.

  “Department of Children and Families, Mrs. Podbeilski speaking. How may I help you?”

  I introduced myself, making sure to drop in the fact that I was calling from the small but prestigious law firm of Dane, Lieberman. Then I asked, “What’s the best way to get a list of children fostered by the same mother starting roughly seventeen years ago to about six months ago?”

  “You file a request.”

  That seemed far too easy. “I need the children’s names.”

  “Assuming you have a valid cause—suspicion of abuse, negligence, that sort of thing—we can release limited information.”

  “How limited?” I asked.

  “We can’t give you medical records or Social Security numbers, just confirmation of dates and placements when the children are under our care and custody.”

  “No subpoena?”

  “Not for the confirmations. If you wanted unrestricted access to the files, well then, yes, you’d serve the main office with a subpoena. A hearing would be set and a judge would determine if the request for access would violate the privacy rights of any minors involved.”

  Unrestricted access would have been my choice, but just getting the list would have to do for now. “How long does it take to process a request for the limited information?”

  “Seven to fourteen days.”

  My shoulders slumped under the cloak of disappointment. “Is there any way to expedite the process?”

  “For an additional hundred-dollar fee, yes.”

  “How soon could I get the information?”

  “If you pay for overnight delivery, we could have it to you tomorrow. I can send you a pdf of the form by email. Fill it out and provide a major credit card number.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “No, thank you.” I placed the receiver back on its cradle.

  After five minutes, I started impatiently hitting the Send/Receive icon on my email. Nothing. Damn.

  My cell rang. More accurately, it played the Wicked Witch’s theme from The Wizard of Oz—da-da-da-da-da-da-da, a special ringtone I’d created for my mother.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Am I so insignificant in your life that I had to read about your latest escapade in the morning paper?”

  Since I hadn’t seen the paper, I quickly opened a new internet page and Googled my name. A two-line report of the break-in at my complex was listed, including my last name. “Sorry.”

  “Really, Finley. In the last few months you’ve made quite a habit of drawing attention to yourself.”

  “Do you think I called Rent-A-Robber? Someone broke in. And I’m fine, by the way.”

  “Do not take that tone with me,” my mother warned. “I’ve decided to go up to Atlanta to visit your sister. We still have a lot to do for the wedding, and of course now I’ll have to find a way to explain to the Huntington St. Johns why the maid of honor is constantly cavorting with unsavory criminals.”

  “Just tell them I couldn’t find any savory ones.”

  “Your sarcasm is unwarranted. Oh.” She paused, and I heard the jingle of bracelets; she must have been switching hands or something. “I also received a troubling call from Melinda Redmond this morning. Why are you hounding her?”

  “I took her to lunch and asked her for some information. Hardly on the same scale as Abu Ghraib.”

  “Well, I want you to stop it immediately.”

  “It’s nice to want,” I sighed.

  “Your sister doesn’t talk to me like this, Finley.”

  Ironically, my sister didn’t talk to my mother all that much. She was far too busy working and planning her upcoming nuptials to David Huntington St. John IV. David the fourth—also a doctor—was a male version of my perfect sister. In eight short weeks, they’d have their perfect wedding. Then maybe some perfect children followed by finding a cure for cancer or eradicating world hunger or something.

  “I’m sorry,” I said on autopilot. “When are you leaving?”

  “This afternoon. I should be gone a week or two, so please water my plants.”

  I swallowed a groan. Plant duty was expensive. My mother’s collection of prized orchids hated me. I assumed they’d started formulating plans for a mass suicide the instant my mother had dragged out her luggage. My brown thumb and I were no match for her plants, so I’d have to swing by my mom’s place, photograph them, and order replacements to swap out before she returned. I have no idea if my mother was any the wiser, but I suspected she knew, and relished the fact that as a plant-sitter, I sucked.

  After ending the call, I clicked the Send/Receive icon once more, to no avail. Since Tony was in the mood to offer some free advice on what to do next, I gathered all my robbery records and headed up to the top floor.

  The weight of my tote bag bit into my shoulder and had me listing to one side in order to compensate during the short elevator ride. As I stepped onto the floor, the executive secretary looked up without so much as a smile, then tapped one of the intercom buttons on her phone. Tony’s voice came over the speaker.

  “Miss Tanner is here.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. I’d worked in the same building with the woman for seven years, and she had yet to call me by my first name.

  “Send her in.”

  “You may go in,” she said, then returned to her keyboard.

  The cut flowers on the center table of the executive office smelled fresh and wonderful. Not as fresh and wonderful as Tony, but definitely a close second.

  His relaxed smile was a nice change after my mother’s phone call.

  “I’m assuming those are the police reports on the Palm Beach robberies?” he asked rhetorically as one of the interns slipped in and silently delivered two chef salads and Diet Cokes. He left as quietly as he’d arrived.

  I didn’t know whether to be impressed or irritated. Had Tony ordered Diet Coke because, like my mother, he’d noticed the few extra pounds I’d put on? Did my clothes look too tight? How humiliating was that?

  “Yes. I’ve followed your directive. I did all of this on personal time. You’re welcome to check my time sheets. My billable hours are current and up from this time last year.” It’s never too early to start posturing for my next raise.

  He leaned back in
his chair, grabbing one of the cans in the process. A lock of brown hair slipped forward and caught in his lashes. Almost absently, he smoothed it back, then flipped the tab on his soda. “I trust you.”

  It was a simple statement, but my gut reaction was fairly complicated. As nice as it was to chat about work, I couldn’t help wondering how he felt about me. He was definitely sending out vibes, but nothing about his posture changed. No body language to help me read the man. Nothing. Nada.

  Frustrating. I’m not stupid enough to make a move on a guy I barely know. That didn’t mean I couldn’t fantasize about it. Especially since he seemed quite content to let those liquid chocolate eyes of his roam over my face and upper body. Subtle but not invisible.

  The air between us seemed taut, and I felt anticipation begin to pool in my stomach. As the minutes clicked off in silence, I found it harder and harder to think of him as my boss. I was definitely sizing him up as potential date material.

  He broke the tension when he sat up straight and looked at my tote bag. “I should have sent one of the file people to get those police reports,” he said apologetically. Moving out from behind his desk, he relieved me of my tote and set it in one of two burgundy chairs opposite his desk.

  “It wasn’t a problem.”

  Tony retook his seat, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head. The action caused his polished cotton, monogrammed shirt to pull tight against his chest and arms. A little thrill slithered along my spine. Dimples and a great body. And great cologne and—Oh my God! A Rolex Cellini Prince watch was strapped to his left wrist. He had the 18k Everose gold model with the rayon flammé de la gloire Arabic numerals on a black leather band with a gold clasp. It was a new model based on rectangular designs first produced in the 1920s. Top of the line, sleek, expensive, and impressive as hell to a Rolex wanna-own like me.

  He cleared his throat, bringing me out of my fog of envy. “Sorry,” I said. “Nice watch.”

  “Thanks, it was a gift.”

  That was all he was going to give me? Not the who, the why, or the what for? Crap, no wonder he’d hired Liam on sight. They shared the same not-giving-out-any-personal-info attitude.

  I pulled out all the work I’d done over the weekend, completely comfortable not telling him that Liam had helped, and put it on his desk. After bringing him up to speed on the pattern of the robberies, I said, “So my next step is to see if I can find some link between the locations of the robberies. Lawn services, pool maintenance workers, meter readers, whatever. Something besides geography ties these robberies together.”

  “I agree,” he said. “Excellent work.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Liam called this morning. Told me all about the fake skeleton and the, um, theft. What kind of precautions are you taking?”

  My smile faded. “New security bars. I’m moving in about a month, and my new house will have an alarm system.”

  “Add video cameras and manned monitoring.”

  “That’s not in my budget,” I admitted with a laugh I hoped would cover my embarrassment. “Speaking of which, I have to sign loan papers at the bank. I was planning on doing it during my lunch.”

  Tony shook his head and chuckled. “You did a lot of work over the weekend, Finley. You can take the salad and the soda to go. I didn’t mean to cheat you out of your lunch hour.”

  Apparently, no one had told him my definition of lunch was closer to two hours. And that didn’t include banking. “Thank you.” I was still tempted to jump over the desk and kiss him. With tongue. I was totally loving my new boss. Fearful that I was reading him wrong, I contained myself as I gathered my salad and drink. “Thank you for lunch.”

  Swiveling his executive leather chair around, he grabbed the pile of papers from the credenza, stuffed them in my tote, and turned back to me. “I got this about an hour ago,” he said, handing me two crisp pages.

  Before I read the first word, I knew I was looking at an autopsy report. I’d seen hundreds of them during my tenure in estates and trusts, but this was only my second private autopsy. There was a big X over the C2-3 spine.

  “My skeleton died from a compression fracture of the neck?” I asked. “Isn’t that a relatively common injury people suffer diving into shallow water?”

  Tony nodded. “Very good. It’s also an effective way to asphyxiate someone without leaving the telltale broken hyoid bone.” He rose and came around the desk and went behind me. I felt his palm flatten against the back of my head, fingers splayed. His other hand rested on my shoulder. “The killer would have to fold the person, probably to a seated position, and then apply pressure to the back of the skull,” he said as he gently pressed my head forward until my chin touched my chest. “Enough pressure would literally cut off the windpipe, and the victim’s death could look like, well, an accident.”

  For a few nanoseconds after he released me, I still felt the heat of his touch. Not with the same intensity I felt Liam’s, but my body definitely reacted to him. Great, nothing like getting all hormonal over two of the least appropriate men possible.

  “So, she was definitely murdered?”

  Tony shook his head. “The pathologist will only go so far as to commit to probable. There are more findings,” he said. “The victim was Caucasian, between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. The partial mummification allowed him to take tissue samples that prove the body was kept in a low-humidity environment, as well as frozen for a period. The county ME missed the partial remains of her stomach contents.”

  I gulped back the urge to gag.

  “At or near the time of her death, she’d eaten licorice. The red rope kind. Hair follicle tests confirm she was a recreational drug user. Cocaine.”

  “How can this not be classified a murder?”

  “With this fact pattern? If it were my case, I’d argue that the person died accidentally and any other injuries or irregularities occurred postmortem. At most, any defendant might be charged with misdemeanor illegal handling and disposal of a dead body. That’s a fine and brief probation.”

  “Why a climate-controlled environment and a freezer?” I asked, thinking aloud.

  “Assuming it was murder, it might indicate nothing more sinister than the killer moving the body around to avoid detection. Most killers don’t like to be caught.”

  “So why stuff her in my closet?”

  Tony took a sip from the open can of soda on his desk. “I called the permits department, and two weeks ago a demo permit was issued for your beach house.”

  “That can’t be right. My contractor—” Okay, that was a stretch, but it sounded better than having a convicted felon working for me. “He applied for the demo permit this morning.”

  “The name on the first application was Marc Feldman.”

  “My mother’s property manager,” I explained. “Depending on who you ask, he either intentionally ran the place into the ground or saved it from destructive tenants.”

  “I’ve lived here long enough to know that beachfront property is pricey and hard to come by.”

  “It was a delayed inheritance,” I explained. I had no idea why my mother had suddenly decided to fulfill Jonathan’s wishes, and I didn’t dare question her motives. I only knew that in her mind, she was doing me the grandmother of all favors. I was sure she had convinced herself that making the practically condemned home my problem was but another responsibility-building exercise that coincidentally solved a problem for her.

  “Finley?”

  “Sorry,” I said, coming back into the present. “Did the second autopsy provide anything that helps to identify the girl?”

  “Three healed forearm fractures. All spiral.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a second to focus my limited recall of a How to Recognize Abuse seminar I’d attended four or five years ago. “That’s the twisting kind, right?”

  “Most common type of fracture seen in the arms of physically abused children.”

  “The kind that might end up in
foster care,” I murmured.

  “This, if true, ties your skeleton directly to your house.”

  I let out a frustrated breath. “DCF won’t release medical histories on the kids fostered in my house.”

  “So bypass DCF and try Medicaid.”

  “Because?”

  “There has to be a record of a medical examination when the girl went into the system. Being a minor without financial means, that examination would be processed through Medicaid. But that’s not the next step. It would take decades to go through Medicaid records for the last fifteen-plus years. First you need to narrow the search to females Melinda fostered who fall in the age range of the second autopsy and add a couple of years on either end. An autopsy on such old remains isn’t as accurate as one done near the time of death.”

  “I’ll get on it,” I said.

  “Keep me posted. Leave the tote bag. I’ll have these files and a copy of the autopsy reports brought down to your office.” Then he smiled. “You should probably head to the bank.”

  Checking my watch, I realized he was right. “Okay.”

  “Have your alarm company contact my secretary. Since you’ll be doing a lot of work for me, Dane, Lieberman will cover any additional security costs.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “Not nice, practical,” he said with a shrug. “Since the firm is covering the cost of continuing ed courses for criminal litigation, it’s just prudent to protect the investment we’re making in you.”

  Put like that, it didn’t sound nice, just pragmatic. So what? Bottom line: Tony was worried about me—kinda—and I was getting beefed-up security. Given my experience over the weekend, that was fine by me.

  “TO SIGNING AWAY YOUR soul,” Jane said as she lifted her glass of champagne.

  My hand was still cramped from signing dozens of documents, but I was really touched that my friends had arranged for a surprise you’re-carrying-major-debt lunch at Saito’s Japanese Restaurant in City Place. They made exceptional sushi, as well as various yummy things from the hibachi grill. Even if they served dirt, I still would be grinning from ear to ear at the thoughtfulness of my three best friends.