3 Fat Chance

by Rhonda Pollero

  He was at least thirty yards away from me, and what was I going to do? Run to the wall, rappel over it, and run the other ten or so yards, then shimmy up the tree to confront him in an eyelet dress and Jimmy Choo sandals? Not an option.

  What I did have was the privacy of the car’s tinted windows and a camera on my iPhone. My heart was pounding as I pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window, then stealthily stuck my hand out and snapped several pictures. I did this while whimpering, “Ow, ow, ow!” because I’d pulled the stitches in my left arm.

  I put the window back up and pushed my sunglasses up to see if I’d gotten anything usable. All three shots were clear and great, except the telephoto lens completely obstructed the guy’s face. I cursed softly. If I sat there too long, he was sure to grow suspicious.

  I couldn’t confront him; that would be stupid. I couldn’t get a decent picture, so I decided to steer to the end of the round drive and wait the bastard out.

  Adjusting the rearview mirror, I found him still in the tree, camera pointed at the car. Using the pad of my thumb, I switched to the keypad and dialed 911.

  “What is your emergency?”

  “There’s a man in a palm tree taking pictures of me.” For some unknown reason, I was whispering as I kept my eyes glued on the tree hugger.

  “Is he trespassing?” the operator asked.

  “Yes. He’s in a tree on the southwest corner of the parking lot for La Mirada.”

  “Your name please?”

  “Finley Tanner,” I said, feeling my heart plummet as the guy began to slide down the tree. “He’s getting away!”

  “Your location, ma’am?”

  “I’m one parking lot over. You have to hurry!”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “Heavyset. Hispanic, maybe. Wearing dark blue coveralls and a white baseball cap.”

  “What kind of coveralls?”

  I rolled my eyes. “What does it matter?”

  “Is there a possibility that he’s part of a maintenance crew?”

  “Yeah, ’cause it’s so much easier to prune with a camera than a machete.”

  He had completely disappeared. “You know what? Forget it,” I said, tossing the phone in my lap. I decided to turn right to see if I could catch sight of him. A bold move, but then again, I was protected by a couple of tons of luxury automobile.

  Just as I turned, I saw a streak of blue climb over the wall on the far end of La Mirada. I pressed the accelerator and the car lurched forward. Just as I was about to pass the second wall, an older silver sedan darted out of the side street, missing my front bumper by less than an inch. I didn’t get a good look at the driver, but I saw enough to know he was wearing a baseball cap.

  I drove dangerously close to him, trying to read the license plate. “K-F damn!” He ran the red light at the intersection of Military Trail and Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard, and I had to make a snap decision. I laid on my horn and blew through the intersection.

  The crappy silver sedan sped up, weaving in and out of the congested traffic, widening the gap as I drove more conservatively. I was blowing through yellow lights and he still managed to get ten car lengths in front of me. Of course, he’d managed that by driving a few blocks with two wheels on the sidewalk. The farther west we traveled, the traffic thinned, and I tried desperately to make up some of the gap.

  I reached down for my phone, then really tested my multitasking skills. I was dialing Liam’s number, trying to keep sight of the sedan, and negotiating traffic and stoplights. Adrenaline surged through my system, and my pulse was pounding in my ears.

  “McGarrity,” he answered.

  “I’m chasing him!”

  “Finley? Who are you chasing?”

  “A guy in a silver sedan who was taking pictures of me a few seconds ago. He might be the same guy from the surveillance tape. He’s got on a baseball cap and—”

  “Have you lost your freaking mind?” he practically barked through the phone. “Stop it. Now. Let it go.”

  “But I only got part of his license plate.”

  “And that’s a start. Geez, Finley, what would you do if you caught up with the guy? Or did you go to SWAT school yesterday?”

  “I’m not trying to catch up to him, just get close enough to read the rest of his license plate. Damn,” I said more to myself than to Liam. “I don’t see his car anymore.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Where are you?”

  “Near Lion Country Safari, I think.”

  “Turn around and go to your office. Now. I’ll meet you there.”

  “DID YOU TAKE A really big stupid pill?” Liam asked when he jerked open the car door a second after I parked at Dane, Lieberman.

  I glared at him from behind my glasses. “Easy for you to say. Your life isn’t going to hell in a handcart thanks to some nut-job stalker.”

  He grabbed my tote and wrapped his arm around me, holding me close to him as we walked the dozen steps to the front door. “Let go of me,” I hissed. The minute we were inside, I twisted out of his grasp. In doing so, my sunglasses went flying, crash-landing hard enough to pop one of the lenses. “Well, that’s just great. What’s with the manhandling?”

  “It’s called preventing a clear shot.”

  The blood stilled in my veins. “He had a camera, not a gun.”

  “This time,” Liam said as he herded me up to my office and practically shoved me into my chair. Bracketing his hands on both armrests, he got right in my face. “Do. Not. Leave. This. Office. Until. I. Come. Back. Clear?”

  His warm breath fell on my face, but I hardly noticed because of the intense way he was glaring at me. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before. Angry, assertive to the point of, well, scaring me a little. “Okay,” I said, glad my voice didn’t betray me.

  “If you so much as put one of your little polished toes over that threshold, I will personally nail the door closed until five o’clock.”

  Flattening my palm against his chest, I felt his heart pounding against his sternum. “Message received,” I said, giving him a little shove. “Don’t bully me.”

  Liam raked his hands through his hair, sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d exercise some common sense now and then.”

  Anger surged through me. “Bite me, McGarrity. I was using common sense. Getting a license plate number would allow me to identify the guy in the baseball cap. If I can identify him, the police could arrest him or something. For your information, I called the police. They blew me off. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing,” he snapped. “That’s what professionals are for.”

  “He was leaving,” I argued.

  Liam stepped away from me and leaned against the wall. His head fell back with a thud, followed by another. “So the cops can go to where you saw him in the tree. It’s called a canvass. They ring every doorbell until they find someone who saw the guy or his car or some other evidence that allows them to track this guy.”

  “Sorry,” I said without an ounce of sincerity. “I don’t recall reading that in my How To Be A Victim manual. Oh, wait! There isn’t one, so I’m kinda winging it, because I don’t want to be a victim.”

  “Then let me help.”

  Those four words magically melted my anger and nearly brought me to the verge of tears. I don’t even know why. Normally I loathe feeling vulnerable and avoid it like a service station restroom. Oh, God! Please, please don’t let me get emotionally invested in this man.

  “So help already,” I told him. I wanted Liam to help me track down Carlos Lopez, the violent kid Abby Andrews had mentioned yesterday, but I had a strong suspicion that now wasn’t the best time to tell Liam I’d made a four-hundred mile round trip to meet one of Melinda’s former foster children. As casually as possible I said, “I found out the name of the male foster kid in the newspaper photo whose name Melinda couldn’t recall—Carlos Lopez. Can you find out if he has a record?”

&
nbsp; Liam looked at me with a question in his eyes but didn’t say anything. He nodded and walked away.

  In my day away from the office, emails had backed up into the hundreds. Most things I was able to dispatch with a minimum amount of effort, though distraction cut into my speed. It wasn’t until I got to the last few that my interest refocused.

  The first was from my friend from Washington—Gretchen, at Medicaid. We became long-distance friends because one of my responsibilities in estates and trusts was to pay any outstanding debts of the deceased. If there were sufficient assets, I always made sure any Medicaid subrogation was paid. A couple of times, I’d found hidden assets, allowing Gretchen to recoup large payments. This was the first time I’d asked for anything in return, and she’d come through in spades.

  She provided me a hyperlink and a password that would allow me access and save me weeks of cutting through governmental red tape.

  I wrote back to her, thanking her profusely. I could think of about four statutes we were breaking by using this little shortcut, but hey, I had a determined killer after me, so breaking a few arcane rules didn’t seem so terrible on balance.

  The second was from Melinda and included an attached list of her foster care children, along with a brief note mentioning the fact that she’d seen the news and hoped I hadn’t been badly injured in the car accident. I reread it, evaluating it for subtext.

  My absolute belief that Melinda couldn’t have a role in the dangerous train wreck that was my life was starting to erode.

  Someone has done their homework on you. Liam’s words echoed in my head. While I wasn’t too happy with the possibility that Melinda wanted me dead, there was no way I could ignore the reality that Panty Thief might be getting his information from her. That unpleasant thought was buttressed by the resistance I’d sensed when we’d talked and in the detached tone of her email.

  I twisted my hair up, then rummaged through my drawer for a clip. Pouring a fresh cup of coffee, I decided to work on Melinda’s list first. It was a selfish decision. Reviewing insurance billings was about as appealing as watching tile being regrouted.

  I compared Melinda’s list, which did contain Carlos Lopez’s name, against the files I’d gotten from DCF and found a few differences. Jill Burkett wasn’t on Melinda’s list and there was no Dan or Don or anything even close on Melinda’s list. All her faults aside, Abby had seemed to be completely forthcoming, so I believed that a Dan or Don had lived at the beach house.

  “So why the discrepancies?”

  Maybe a review of the Medicare billings would break the tie. Gretchen’s hyperlink and password worked without a hitch. In no time, I was typing Melinda’s name as the guardian of record into the search criteria. A new webpage loaded. Melinda Redmond’s name was on the top of the page, as was the address on Chilian Avenue. The rest of the text was divided into seven unequal columns across—patient name, date of treatment, physician, diagnostic code, billed charges, payments received, adjustments in billed charges.

  I groaned. There had to be a couple of hundred separate entries. This was going to take some time. Then again, I had nothing but. Well, until my class started at six. I shuddered, remembering the crash that had kept me from the first night of school.

  I winced, also remembering that I hadn’t called BMW to report that the less-than-a-week-old 330Ci was a total loss. I placed the call, listening to 95.5 while I held for the lease manager.

  “Hal Griffin.”

  “Hi Grif,” I greeted. We’d done enough business for me to know his preferred nickname. “It’s Finley.”

  “Hi. How’s the new car working out?”

  “Well…” I told him about the crash, finishing with, “So, the wreckage will stay in police impound until they find the person responsible.”

  “At least you weren’t badly injured,” he said politely.

  “May I make an appointment to come in for a replacement?”

  “Um, er, I’ll speak to the general manager and get back to you on that.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Not for me, but this is the third leased vehicle you’ve totaled.”

  “My insurance will cover the damage.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Grif said.

  I thanked him, though I’m not sure why, and hung up the phone. At best, I’d have the use of my mother’s car for two weeks. Assuming she didn’t get wind of the fact that I was using it without her permission; she might do something vindictive, like reporting it stolen. In a preemptive strike, I took the cowardly path of least resistance—I sent an email to my sister about the crash and included the photograph that had run in the Palm Beach Post so she’d have a visual of the severity of the accident.

  I was careful not to share the fact that it was a result of tampering. I knew she’d tell my mother the news—they were close like that. I also knew that she’d mention I’d commandeered the Mercedes until I could arrange for a new car. The minute I hit the Send button, I knew I’d started a ticking clock. Lisa probably wouldn’t read the email until late tonight, so I had a small window before my mother found out I’d broken her hands-off-my-car rule.

  She’d probably throw an aneurysm if she knew I was staying in her penthouse. I gulped down a hefty amount of lukewarm coffee and decided not to think about that right now.

  Time to start weeding through a decade and a half of Medicaid billings.

  When my phone rang, I was secretly glad to postpone the task. “Finley Tanner.”

  “I’m selling the business and going to work at McDonald’s,” Liv said, her voice tight.

  “Before you start asking if I’d like fries with that, Liv, care to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Do you live in a cave?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Some reporter for one of those tabloid rags found an old picture of Terri Semple and ran it alongside her engagement portrait.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a visual thing. Pull the Intruder up on your computer,” Liv said.

  A few clicks and I was looking at the front page of the national rag. Of course the dominant photo was of Paris Hilton being, well, Paris Hilton. Then, along the right side, were smaller insets with other titillating—if inane—teasers. The top one was a photograph of a singer caught not wearing her underwear, again. The other was a side-by-side of Terri Semple with the tagline “Two-faced?”

  I zoomed in on the pictures and was intrigued, in a sick way, by the differences. “Wow, how much plastic surgery has she had done?”

  “Cut her some slack,” Liv snapped. “She was seventeen when one picture was taken. She’s in her early thirties now. Of course she looks different.”

  “Don’t bite my head off,” I asked gently. “Why is this your problem?”

  “She’s my client, Finley. She’s very private, and after that rag hit the stands, she’s now threatening to call off the wedding and fly to some remote island for a quickie wedding by some tribal officiate.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Finley?” Liv warned.

  “Sorry. But c’mon, she’s marrying the last Gilmore standing. I’m kinda hard-pressed to feel for her.” An image of Abby’s trailer flashed in my mind.

  “She’s coming over in an hour to further trim the guest list.”

  “So slip her a Xanax or something. You can handle her, Liv. Oh, thanks for sending me Dr. Adair. That was nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome. Jane and I stopped by your apartment, but it was dark.”

  “I’m staying at my mom’s place.”

  “And you think Terri needs a Xanax? You and your mother under one roof?”

  “Keep the meds, my mother is in Atlanta.”

  “How are you feeling?” Liv asked.

  Scared witless. “Great. Adair said you handled his snotty daughter, so do the same thing with Terri.”

  “His daughter wanted bling and flash. Terri wants privacy. I don’t think I’ll be able to calm her down by commissi
oning a pink Swarovski crystal tiara.”

  “You’ll think of something,” I insisted. “What about a bait and switch? Leave the current plans in place but do a whole new plan at a different location to throw off the gossipmongers?”

  “Terri has her heart set on Bethesda-by-the-Sea.”

  “Then tell her to chill.”

  “Maybe if I ply her with candy…”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t ask. All I know is she’s never without her stash. That’s another problem. I have to find some way to wean her off the candy before the wedding. A bride with sticky red fingers and lips could potentially ruin the pristine white wedding gown the designer has been working on for almost eight months.”

  “Be glad it’s candy,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I spoke with a woman who was in foster care with her. Terri has had worse habits than jonesing for candy in her past.”

  “Please,” Liv began pleadingly. “Please tell me the person you spoke with wasn’t Abby Andrews Young.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “She’s the one who sold the story and the photo to the Intruder. Some reporter called Terri for comment last night, so she called me at midnight to see if the PR company I hired could kill the story. Which of course they couldn’t. Salacious sells.”

  “Oh, God, Liv. I’m so, so sorry. How can I fix this?”

  “You had no way of knowing. I’ll figure something out.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t,” Liv said. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Compared to having a killer stalking you, Terri’s crisis pales badly. Do you have a phone number for that Abby woman?”

  “Yeah,” I said, clicking over to another document. “Why?”

  “If she was willing to sell her story to the tabloid, I can probably convince Terri to buy her silence when we meet in the morning.”