For Love of Money

by Cathy Perkins

  “Marcy? How do you know about her?” The only way he’d know about Marcy, Tim, and the Yakima office would be if he’d been following Marcy. “Holy crap. You killed her?” She fumbled with the door handle. Farther away from him sounded like a great idea. A few cars had stopped on the highway, trapped behind the wrecked 18-wheeler. There’d be people… Sirens sounded in the distance.

  Thank you, God.

  “Of course I didn’t kill her.” Frank looked back at the highway, worry wrinkling his forehead. “I can’t be here when Patrol arrives.”

  He shoved a paper through the window opening and sprinted toward a black Jeep parked on the shoulder. He roared away as a highway patrol cruiser slewed to a stop.

  Mouth open, Holly looked from the disappearing Jeep to the officer who was talking on his radio to the paper in her hand. A series of letters and numbers were written on it. Like she needed another mystery.

  A moment later, the driver’s door wrenched open. “Are you all right?”

  She looked up into the concerned eyes of a state patrolman. “No, I’m not all right. He tried to kill me!”

  “Who?” The officer’s hand dropped to his pistol. He spun, apparently checking for threats.

  “Frank Phalen.

  The officer turned back to her. “There’s no one here.”

  “Frank was right here.” She pointed at the spot the cop now occupied. She wasn’t delusional.

  He studied her bandaged face and blood-smeared nose. “Did you hit your head?”

  “The air bag punched me, but I know what I saw.”

  She looked past the officer to the collection of cars, trucks, and vans stacked up behind the jackknifed 18-wheeler. No Jeep. No Frank. “Where did he go? Didn’t you see him leave?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think you saw?” the officer began,

  Holly sighed. Some things never changed. Policemen always answered a question with a question. “He gave me this paper.”

  The officer studied the page. “What is this?”

  Like she knew? She edged back over the console, ready to climb from the car. Tiny demons jumped up and down, jabbing their pitchforks into her neck and shoulders. She winced.

  The officer stopped her. “Wait here for the EMTs. Go ahead with your story.”

  She sank back into the driver’s seat. “One minute, everything was fine. The next, a black SUV, at least I think it was an SUV”—Could it have been a Jeep?—“was right on top of me. It hit my car, twice. The last thing I remember was the front end of a big truck coming at me.”

  She swallowed and considered the possible outcomes of a truck versus BMW encounter. She glanced again at the highway and grimaced at the twinge in her neck. Most likely the truck jackknifed when the driver tried to avoid her spinning car. “Is the trucker okay?”

  “He’s fine. Now about this SUV. Did you get the license plate? Can you describe the driver?”

  Like she’d had a chance to see any of that?

  …

  A tow truck had hauled her battered car back to the highway and the worst of the traffic had cleared by the time the officers were satisfied with her statement. After a quick but thorough exam in the Beemer’s front seat, the EMT deposited Holly on the back step of the medical van. He’d finished his examination and was suggesting follow-up care when a state patrolman, the one named Nunez, returned. “I have a call for you.”

  “For me?” She’d have scrunched her forehead if it didn’t hurt so much.

  She trailed the officer to his cruiser.

  “Go ahead, put him through,” Nunez said into the car’s radio. He handed the microphone to her and showed her how to toggle the switch to talk.

  “Hello?” she asked, feeling rather foolish.

  There was a burst of static. “Are you okay?” Concern colored JC’s tone a warm shade.

  She nearly dropped the microphone.

  Wondering if every policeman on duty could hear them, she said, “I’ve been better.”

  “What happened this time?”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “What happened?” Exaggerated patience from JC.

  “A car hit me. And Frank was here.”

  “You told me on Thursday you thought you saw him.”

  “No, I mean now.”

  “Is he the one who hit you?” JC’s tone sharpened.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Go straight home and stay there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Prickles rose all over her. The guy was a tyrant, but she was not going to argue with him over a police radio. “Call first, Julius Caesar Dimitrak.”

  She dropped the microphone on the driver’s seat. The other cops didn’t know his name wasn’t Julius Caesar.

  He could have fun living that one down.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Holly slapped the paint roller against the living room wall and concentrated on covering another section. Ibuprofen had blunted the headache and sore muscles.

  She was at home because she wanted to be—because she had to finish painting the frickin’ wall before the carpet guy showed up—not because JC had told her to be there.

  She wasn’t stupid. Two unprovoked, potentially fatal car incidents in three days defied all possible coincidences. But the SUV ramming her on the way home from Yakima didn’t make sense. With all the stops she’d made on the way to the Stevens Ventures satellite office, no one could’ve followed her without her noticing, and she hadn’t been challenged at the Yakima site.

  Frank had known about the Yakima office.

  So did Tim.

  And Alex.

  For all she knew, Lee Alders had found out about the place, too.

  Any one of them could’ve seen her car parked in front of it.

  On autopilot, she smoothed paint over the wall. Did Marcy’s murderer think she knew something? Sure, she had bits and pieces, but nothing that added up to a cohesive whole. She still couldn’t expose the killer.

  So use your intellect and analytical skills.

  Who might come after her? Tim? She wasn’t sure where he stood on the Who Killed Marcy list, but was he the one creating all the “accidents” she’d had that week?

  She’d worried from the beginning about Marcy and Tim. The jerk was cheating on his wife. Thinking about leaving Nicole when she might be pregnant. And stealing from banks. Why was money so damned important to him in the first place?

  Holly reloaded the roller and decided she didn’t care why he was stealing. Her question was whether Tim suspected that she suspected him of fraud.

  And what would he do if he did?

  Would he try to kill her? All he had to do was fire her and it would cut off her access to his records. He’d never struck her as having enough intestinal fortitude to kill someone. It took a certain amount of grit to deliberately run over somebody. And since he’d skipped their meeting, he wouldn’t know about her concerns in the first place.

  Would he?

  She adjusted her grip on the roller handle and tried to focus on painting, but her mind kept churning. For a long time she painted and thought about Alex. He had a temper and liked to yell, but as far as she knew, he was all talk. He seemed to enjoy challenging her up front and personally. If he thought she was getting too close to facts he wanted covered, he’d get in her face about it.

  Unless his mama told him not to.

  She poured more paint into the pan and tackled the final wall section.

  Okay, she really wanted the villain to be Lee Alders. The bastard beat both his wife and the court system in the Nyland lawsuit. She wanted him to pay for something.

  She didn’t know what Lee would do if he thought she was a threat, but the sneak attack today sounded like something he’d orchestrate. She might’ve registered on the man’s radar since she’d stirred up Yessica over the divorce and the will. But wasn’t he still missing, with how many policemen looking for him?

  Frank was the wild card. She
remembered his verbal threats when she’d tried to break up with him. JC had warned Frank might come after her over losing his job in Seattle, but Frank’s call sounded like he thought he was still in love with her. He didn’t know about Alex or JC, so he wouldn’t have lashed out in a jealous rage.

  But what was up with that weird conversation after the wreck? He’d scared the crap out of her, but he seemed to think he was looking out for her. That had been his excuse in Seattle for following her around. Damn, why did he have to show up in Richland? Was it a coincidence or had he followed her from Seattle? And why had he run away instead of telling the police what he saw?

  She stopped, roller frozen in place. What if the assorted vehicle incidents were completely unrelated to Marcy’s death? Had she pissed off another client?

  No. Everything was tangled together. If she could pull the right thread, maybe the mess would unravel and she could see it clearly.

  Names and motives churned as she painted her way across the wall, but she didn’t have any clearer idea who’d attacked her than she did when she’d started.

  She made the last pass with the roller, then turned and surveyed the room. The creamy white walls reflected the sunlight streaming through the oversized windows and lit the interior, making the space look bigger.

  Not bad.

  Her phone chirped. She fished it from her pocket and checked the screen. Blocked number.

  No way.

  She stuffed it back into her jeans and reached for the roller. Cleanup sucked, but it was part of the process.

  The phone chirped again. The screen again announced, “blocked number.”

  Wrong number? Reporter? Sales pitch? Frank Phalen?

  Irritated—and determined to be strong—she opened the connection. “Who is this?”

  “Are you okay? Why didn’t you answer before?” JC’s rapid questions didn’t disguise his concerned tone.

  “The number was blocked.”

  A pause. “Good point. Sorry. I forgot to override it.”

  Part of her was still pissed he’d tried to give her an order, but she actually liked that he was worried, which was rather disturbing. And damn, had he really just said the word sorry?

  “How’s your head?”

  Her fingers touched her nose and the bandage from Thursday’s gash. Today’s close encounter with the air bag hadn’t helped either one. She channeled her best airhead. “There are these voices…”

  “That’s a relief. Now you have somebody else to call up and pester.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere you’re supposed to be?” she said dryly. “Like, I don’t know, catching criminals?”

  “I needed to check on you.”

  Needed to? “Check on, or check up on? Admit it, you wanted to make sure I was at home.”

  “C’mon, Holly. Be reasonable. I can’t do my job if I’m worried about you.”

  “So, is half the police force in two counties listening to this conversation?”

  She felt JC’s silent count to ten. “I tried your cell, but no one answered. Using the radio was the fastest way to get in touch with you. Nunez is a friend. He patched the call through.”

  Damn. Her cell had still been in the car after the EMT moved her to the ambulance. “Having helpful friends is nice, but why would a highway patrol officer know to contact you in the first place, when I had a wreck? I didn’t ask him to.”

  “Ah…yeah. About that. I put a code in your file.”

  “I have a file? As in, the police have a file on me?”

  “More like a flag.”

  She ground her teeth. “A flag.”

  “On your license.”

  “Let me get this straight. You coded my driver’s license with your contact information?” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or furious. “When did you plan to share that little detail?”

  “Now sounds like a great time.” From his tone, if he were standing in front of her, both of his dimples would be on display.

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Uh-huh.”

  “The state patrol turned your latest incident over to us. We’ll consolidate the cases.”

  “You really think they’re related?” She could almost see JC trying not to make a smartass remark and said, “I’m not that dense. I realize they’re probably related, but the cars were different. I seem to be the common element.”

  “I wish today’s incident was a coincidence, rather than because you disobeyed my direct order to stay out of my investigation.”

  “Excuse me? Direct order? I don’t think so. And for the last time, I am not running around asking people where they were the day Marcy was killed.”

  Someone spoke in the background and JC muffled the phone. “I have to go. I’ll come by and check on you later. If that’s okay with you,” he added in a tone that could be polite or smartass, depending on the way she interpreted it.

  “Yeah. About that. I have plans for this evening.”

  “Cancel them.”

  “I’ll be with friends. Being with them is better than being here alone if that asshole comes after me.”

  “Holly.” Exasperation morphed into cop mode. “Which asshole are you referring to?”

  “Frank Phalen.”

  There was a beat of silence. “And?”

  “You did tell me to let you know if Frank contacted me. I told you and the other officers he was at the wreck, but he sent flowers, too.”

  “When? Where?”

  “To the office yesterday, but I didn’t figure it out until today.”

  “Trust me, I intend to interview him.”

  From JC’s grim tone, she almost wished she could be there to see the confrontation. There was no question who’d win that battle.

  “Phalen might’ve sent the flowers to the office because he doesn’t know where you live. You’re not listed in the phone directory.”

  And he knew that how? She let that one pass. “JC—”

  “If he’s out there looking to make trouble, I want you to stay home.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but I’m going to Bookwalter with my friends. I’ll be safer there with people around me.”

  “How are you getting there? Your car’s totaled.” JC clearly realized he wasn’t going to win this battle.

  “They have this amazing invention called a rental car. They even bring it to you. Of course, my insurance company would only spring for an econobox.”

  “At least it isn’t as distinctive as your BMW. It’ll be harder for the next maniac to spot.”

  “Especially since it’ll be sitting in my driveway. Gwen and Laurie are picking me up.”

  “If you insist on going, wait for me over at the winery. I’ll meet you there as soon as we finish here and give you a ride home.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. You’re necessary.”

  Before she could respond to that cryptic remark, he said, “We need to finish the conversation we started Friday night.”

  Her heart stopped beating and she stood there with her mouth hanging open. A guy who actually wanted to talk?

  Wow. So hell really could freeze over.

  Chapter Forty-two

  SATURDAY NIGHT

  Holly watched the flickering flames in Bookwalter’s fire pit. Propane heaters hissed discreetly from the terrace edges. Vines climbed the latticed windbreak. The remaining leaves shifted in the faint breeze, a soft rustling counterpart to the patter of conversations and light jazz piped through the outside speakers.

  The size of their group ebbed and flowed as friends stopped to chat and then moved on. Someone on the other side of the fire pit called, “Holly, I heard you had a wreck today. What happened?”

  She remembered not to shake her head. “Ugh, let’s talk about something else.”

  Laurie elbowed her in the ribs.

  “What?” Holly would’ve poked her back if Laurie’s foot weren’t propped on a bench, making her look especially vulnerable. Her friend�
��s crutches leaned against the windbreak and a heavy cast encased her elevated ankle. “There’s a difference between bottling everything up and not talking about something because it was terrifying and you’d rather not re-experience it.”

  “Ooh. An unsolicited admission of feelings. I feel like Yoda, or was it the old guy in The Karate Kid? ‘My work here is done.’” Laurie leaned closer and whispered, “One more thing. Quit feeling guilty. It’s working for me.” Looking like a blue-haired elfin sprite, she smiled at a cute blond guy who handed her a glass of white wine and pulled a chair close beside her.

  Conversation moved to the upcoming Wine Harvest celebration, the artists’ open gallery tour, and whether the area could support the proposed water park and how to pay for it. Holly let the voices move past her, punctuated by pops from the fire and bursts of music when the wine bar door opened.

  “Since you’re giving all this up, you must really miss it,” Laurie remarked quietly.

  Holly turned to her best friend. “Miss what?”

  Laurie gave her a Well, duh? expression. “You’ve been saying since you got here you couldn’t wait to get back to Seattle.”

  “I do miss the restaurants and shopping.”

  “I meant to your job. It always sounded so impressive. Megadollar wheeling and dealing. Hanging out with the movers and shakers.”

  Holly shrugged. “I don’t miss the pressure or the hours.”

  “What about the challenge? I mean, a local practice has to be a step down by comparison.”

  “Maybe what I do here isn’t glamorous, but I enjoy getting to know the clients, helping them with their business. And I like having time for stuff like the book club. I’m having fun working on my house.”

  There were good things here. World-class vineyards. Live jazz. Friends who weren’t ready to cut her throat on the next deal.

  “Is that why I caught you staring into the fire like Little Orphan Annie? Could it possibly be you’ll miss what you found here when you leave?”

  Holly shifted in her chair. JC’s words echoed. We didn’t finish our conversation. “I thought working all the time was the reason I hadn’t found anybody special. I figured there’d be plenty of time, that eventually…”