My inner self believed him, and I was inclined to agree, which surprised the hell out of me considering I hardly ever agreed with anything my inner self had to say. With a start, I realized I had subconsciously judged the congressman before I even showed up today. I'd come here for confirmation of my theories and to get a few answers to lingering questions.
"Demming didn't call you, asking about me? Trying to put my name to my face? He saw me in the outer room the other day . . ."
"He may have seen you, but he never called me asking who you were."
Taking a deep breath, I tried to work my way through that information. It didn't make sense. If Chanson didn't tell him who I was, then who did?
Again, Tim's name popped into my head. I'd told Bridget about my meeting with Demming. It seemed a reasonable leap that she'd share that bit of information with her husband. And if Tim and Demming were in cahoots, it would have been a simple phone call from Tim to the developer to rat me out.
And he'd known about my working late last Friday night. Had it been him in that white car? Something Bridget said also came back to me, about Joe's cremation. Had he really wanted to be cremated, or had Tim just said that to cover up his crime?
My stomach turned just thinking about Tim being involved with all this. And some of it just didn't make sense. Like why was Demming dead?
Chanson leaned back in his chair, folded his hands under his chin. "Since you seem to think I'm evil incarnate, I'll tell you everything I know about the Sandowskis."
"Please do." Maybe some of it would make sense to me, because as of that moment I was lost, with too many questions and not enough answers.
"My investors and I made a second offer. Six point five million. I'm a businessman, Ms. Quinn. I know a good deal when I see one."
"But?"
He shrugged. I couldn't believe Mr. Perfect could pull off such a common gesture. "Still said no."
"Mrs. Sandowski said she hasn't seen you since the initial offer."
"The offer was in writing, as was the refusal."
It was enough to make my head pound. "So what did you mean when you told Demming that everything would be taken care of?"
"Just what I meant."
Wearily, I muttered, "Do I have to beg?"
Tossing his head back, he laughed. "I really like you, Nina Quinn," he said.
"I'm touched. Truly."
He smiled. "Initial paperwork is being completed for the county to seize the property."
Outrage tinged my words as I shot forward, gripping the patio table. "You can do that?"
"Eminent Domain. Ever heard of it?"
Unfortunately. I frowned.
"Anything's possible with the government, Ms. Quinn. Mrs. Sandowski will be compensated—the current market rate for that house and land."
"Which is?"
"About a million dollars."
Instead of six million. "That's crazy!"
"The county doesn't place much weight on exact location in the market analysis."
"It's got to be illegal."
"I assure you it's not."
"Does Mrs. Sandowski know?" She couldn't possibly.
"Of course. She had to have been notified."
I shook my head in frustration. "Mrs. Sandowski said nothing about it."
"The county would have sent papers to her. But I did have my secretary draw up a renewal of my offer to buy her land, mentioning Eminent Domain procedures as a possibility if she chose to stay. She could still sell to me instead of going through the courts to battle the state government."
"Why?" I asked. "Why not wait and buy the land after the eminent domain is executed?"
"Red tape," he said. "It would have been easier to buy the land ourselves as investors and then sell, or even better— donate—some of the land to the town in order to connect Liberty Avenue to Millson."
"Leaving you the rest of the land." Land worth a small fortune, land he could turn around and sell, part and parcel to the John Demmings of Freedom, Ohio.
"Exactly."
His words rang true. I saw no hint of deception in his face, and more important, my eyebrows hadn't so much as twitched. Why hadn't Mrs. Sandowski mentioned this to me? She had to have known. Why lie?
"Does that hurt?" he asked, rubbing a finger over his own forehead.
I gently touched the gash over my left eyebrow. My stitches looked hideous, like small spiders nesting. But I was grateful to be alive. Somewhat. "Not so much anymore. They itch."
"Well, don't scratch. They'll become infected."
Twenty-six
My cat clock meowed eleven times. Eleven a.m. Riley was due to meet the Skinz leader at two. I didn't dare call Kevin to tell him about the meeting because he'd only laugh and tell me I was being paranoid. But something was going down, and I planned on being there when it did.
What was Riley buying? Guns? I shuddered at the thought.
I sat atop the kitchen counter, staring at the swinging cat tail on the clock. I had called the school, and Riley was in class . . . As far as they knew. I asked to talk to Michael Novak, but he couldn't be found. Something big was going on—I could feel it in my bones, even my broken pinkie. Was Kevin blind to that fact?
The doorbell rang and I abandoned my perch to answer it.
Dave Mein stood on the porch, clutching a handful of pitiful-looking carnations. He thrust them forward. "Jesus, Bo-bina. I heard about your accident."
"Glad a train wreck could spur you into action."
It was such a beautiful day, I motioned him to the porch swing.
"Not the guilt, Bo-bina. I can't take it." He clutched his heart, gave me big puppy-dog eyes.
"Sit," I said. I set the carnations down next to me.
The swing swayed and creaked as we parked ourselves. "I should have come sooner. I know I should have." He winced as he took in my face, but I tried not to take it personally. "But I was scared I'd lose my job."
"Is this about Joe's death?"
He nodded, dragging a hand down his face, over the stubble. "There's a lot of pressure to keep things quiet. Lawsuits and shit. The town is scared spitless."
"Why?"
"The day of the . . . incident, Alan Kwellen and I made the run to the farm." The swing groaned loudly under our weight. "Old Joe had been dead for some time. An hour, maybe two. Looked like hell, his color all messed up. I honestly thought it was the cancer. Mrs. Sandowski had told us all about his illness when we arrived. We thought it was just a simple transport."
Mr. Cabrera suddenly felt the need to deweedicate his front yard of clover. I gave the old man a wave.
"Understandable. Why all the hush-hush though?"
"I screwed up. Didn't take a good look around."
"Why would you, when you thought it was natural causes?"
Thick hands rested in his lap. "Old people with terminal illnesses sometimes like to wrap it up early."
"Suicide?"
He nodded. The phone rang inside the house. "You gonna get that?" he asked.
"The machine's on."
As we swung, Dave explained that if the thermos were found and proven to contain cyanide, Dave, along with the department, could be sued.
"I take full responsibility, but it's out of my hands. I've got strict orders to keep my mouth shut, Bo-bina. Or risk losing my job."
I imagined him out of work, his three kids not having enough to eat. "I won't say anything." I remembered what Bridget has said about the analysis she and Tim had done being useless. As it stood, with the thermos missing, there would be no repercussions. "It's not likely that thermos is going to turn up."
"You don't think?"
I shook my head. If Tim was behind the incidents at his family's farm, he'd have tracked that thermos down before it could have been analyzed, made sure no one could trace it back to him.
Just to be absolutely sure, I asked, "So you don't think Chanson could be involved in a cover-up?"
"Chanson? No, not at all." He pressed a nois
y kiss to my cheek. "Thanks, Nina. And sorry I didn't come sooner."
"Better late than never, Dave."
I sighed, thinking about Tim and how I was going to deal with the information I'd been given. And could only come up with one answer.
Kevin.
I saw Dave off and wandered back inside.
I picked up the kitchen phone, punched in a familiar number. The blinking light on the answering machine teased me. Another hang-up?
"Freedom PD."
I asked to be put through to Kevin.
"He's not here, Nina. Out in the field."
"For how long?" The uneasy feeling that time was running out had settled low in my stomach.
"All day as far as I know."
"If he checks in, will you have him call me?"
"Will do."
Nagging questions twisted my insides. I called Bridget at
home. A busy signal buzzed my ear. I tried her office number but no one answered and her cell phone immediately clicked over to voice mail. I left a message asking her to get back to me.
I pushed the button on the answering machine. It was Chanson. "Ms. Quinn, I thought of something after you left and was just able to confirm it through my secretary. The second offer on the Sandowski land and the eminent domain paperwork had been sent to the Sandowski attorney." There was a question in his tone. "Perhaps Mrs. Sandowski does not know of them? In which case she needs to fire her lawyer and contact me as soon as possible if she's reconsidered selling. I hope the information helps."
Help? Help? No. It only served to confuse me more. Was Tim Mrs. Sandowski's attorney? If he was, wouldn't he want his mom to know about the eminent domain? Wouldn't that push her to accept a lucrative offer?
I jumped when the phone rang. I was on edge. My nerves were shot. Grabbing the phone on the second ring, I answered with a terse hello. I berated myself for forgetting to buy a phone with a Caller ID window. What was I paying the phone company an extra eight dollars a month for?
"Nina?"
It was a woman. A very upset woman. "Yes. Who's this?"
"Mrs. Sandowski—Timmy's mom?"
"What's wrong?" It was clear she was crying.
"I'm at the hospital."
"Oh no! What's happened?"
"Someone shot out my kitchen window," she said on a sob. "Didn't hit me, but the broken glass cut me up some."
I stood in stunned silence for a minute. "Are you okay?" I clunked my head against the wall. Obviously not, Nina, if she's in the hospital.
"I can't get hold of Timmy or Bridget," she cried. "Their home phone is busy—he's probably on the computer. I can't think of anyone else to call. Can you go there?"
I eyed the clock warily. Twenty past eleven. Plenty of time to check in on Tim and still see what Riley was up to. "I'll head there now."
"Thanks, Nina. For everything."
Humbly, I swallowed any response to that and hung up. I didn't think she'd be thanking me after my suspicions about Tim came to light.
I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door. The phone rang as I reached for the knob. I hesitated, wondering if I should answer it.
Then I saw her.
Coiled by the couch, Xena appeared to be looking at me. Staring. I swallowed. What had Riley said about toes? I looked down. My Keds were safely tied, protecting my tootsies.
I really hoped it was Pesky Pests calling to say they were on their way, but I didn't dare cross Xena's path to answer it.
The answering machine kicked on. I stood frozen in the doorway as Tam left a message.
"Nina, it's Tam. I need you to call me right away. I definitely found some odd information—even for my standards. Get back to me as soon as possible."
Xena slithered sideways. There was no way I was going back in there. I'd just have to call Tam from the car.
Twenty-seven
It took me about five minutes to realize that calling from the car was impossible. My phone had been smashed beneath the train. My leather backpack had survived the wreck relatively unscathed, but the phone would chirp no more . . .
Tam would have to wait.
The LeMans rattled as I drove like a madwoman toward the heart of downtown Cincinnati. I kept reminding myself that I had to keep an open mind about Tim. I'd found no evidence at all linking him to his father's death—or Demming's either. It was just a feeling I had. A sickening one. One I would push aside for now. Mrs. Sandowski needed me to find Tim or Bridget for her. It was the least I could do.
But I couldn't help but hope it was Bridget who answered the door when I got there, despite the fact that she's probably at work.
Taking the Vine Street exit off 75, I turned east, heading toward Bridget's house. I passed the left-hand turn for the zoo and Children's Hospital and kept going.
I pulled into the driveway in front of the old wooden garage and cut the engine. Mr. Cabrera's car shook for a minute, then quieted.
I ran as fast as my tailbone would allow up the front steps and knocked on the door of the Victorian. I crossed my arms in front of me, fighting a chill, despite the warmth in the air. I rang the bell. No answer.
After knocking for five long minutes, I walked around the back of the house, through the ankle-high grass and weeds. The patio doors were locked. I peered in the rear windows, saw the computer unmanned. No one was home.
I walked back around to the driveway, not wanting to believe what I was thinking. Tim couldn't possibly have had anything to do with what was going on. I was sure of it.
But it seemed to me I'd been sure of a lot of things lately that weren't true.
I turned to get into the LeMans when a shaft of sunlight coming out of the garage caught my eye—sunlight glinting off the rear bumper of the car inside. I'd seen it a few days ago, but hadn't thought much of it. Not until I'd almost been run off the road.
One of the garage doors was unhinged, the wood cracked. I tugged on the handle and the door lifted with a groan. It hung at an unsafe angle above my head. Dust filled the sunlit air of the stale-smelling garage. I could see a bumper and an almost flat tire partially covered by a battered tarp.
I picked my way over typical garage debris. Rakes and shovels and such.
The back of my neck felt electrically charged. I stood in front of the covered car, somehow knowing what I would find beneath the cover and yet not wanting to know for certain.
Do it, my inner voice urged.
I was too upset to defy it, so I grabbed a corner of the tarp and pulled.
It was black. The car was black. I slumped in relief, leaning on its trunk. It was a small car with tinted windows. But it was small and black, not white.
How could I have not trusted Tim? He would never try to hurt me. Or his father—or mother for that matter. I laughed at the absurdity of it. Someone else had to be behind everything. If not Chanson, then another developer. One the police would have to flush out, because I couldn't deal with this anymore.
I checked my watch. 1:04. Riley. I needed to leave.
Rushing to replace the tarp, I pulled it over the back of the car, where I was standing, and moved to cover the front. I nearly tripped in my haste. I wanted to be out of there before Tim and Bridget came home and found me snooping in their garage. How would I ever explain this?
I tossed the other end of the tarp across the windshield.
Suddenly, I froze.
I had crossed in front of the car where I saw that the front end was smashed. The grille was dented, the headlights broken.
I let out an involuntary cry and covered my mouth.
This wasn't happening.
I pinched myself and yelped, my voice echoing through the garage. Apparently, this was happening.
Looking at the right side of the car, I saw that the quickie paint job hadn't covered the damage inflicted by ramming my car. The front right fender was severely dented and scraped as well, white paint showing through the thin layer of black.
I didn't bother covering up the rest of th
e car. Backtracking out of the garage, I pushed the door shut and ran to the LeMans.
It was Tim. The whole time, it had been Tim. What a fool I had been to think otherwise, when my instincts had known all along! I reversed out of the driveway. I needed to find Riley, and then I was going straight to the police station.
A Hoe Lot of Trouble Page 21
