Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  A WHITELEY PRESS BOOK

  Nook Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Becton

  http://www.jwbecton.com

  10 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

  ISBN-13: 9780983782322

  ISBN-10: 0-9837823-2-6

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real people, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For

  Robert B. Whiteley

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  I was driving back to the office with a to-go cup of iced coffee in my hand when I heard the announcement on the radio: I had been abducted.

  Shocked, I released my grip on the plastic cup, and fortunately, it dropped back into the holder in the center console. Coffee shot out of a gap in the plastic lid and splattered on the digital face of the radio. Ignoring the waste of perfectly good caffeine, I reached past the drips and turned up the volume to make sure I heard right.

  “A WMER alert: Julia Jackson, former officer with the Mercer Police Department and current fraud investigator with the Georgia Department of Insurance, has been taken at gunpoint from the downtown office of Southeastern Insurance. They were seen leaving in a black Nissan Altima. If you spot this vehicle, do not approach. The abductor is armed and dangerous. Please contact the police immediately.”

  I blinked, trying to absorb the information while the radio station switched from news to a sickeningly cheery commercial for an auto-glass repair company.

  What was going on?

  As far as I knew, I wasn’t in any trouble. I was fairly certain that I had made the coffee run of my own free will. Although caffeine is a harsh mistress, I didn’t think it could be accused of kidnapping.

  To reassure myself, I looked quickly at the passenger seat in case I had missed an armed gunman. Nope. No one in the back seat either.

  That was a relief.

  But had someone really been abducted from Southeastern, or was this some kind of sick joke? And how could the radio station drop a bombshell like that and then go straight back to regular programming?

  Apparently, life—and its requisite advertising—went on whether or not I’d been abducted.

  And I most definitely had not been abducted.

  Yes, that was me being described on the radio: Julia Jackson, former police officer (I’d been laid off during a city-wide budget crunch three years ago) and current employee of the Georgia Department of Insurance in the fraud unit. As a sworn law enforcement officer, I investigate major fraud cases statewide.

  Usually, I work out of the small DOI satellite office in my hometown of Mercer, or I’m on the road checking out fraud complaints across Middle Georgia. But today I was working in the main office of Southeastern Insurance, also in Mercer, regarding claims against a commercial liability policy for a local municipal wastewater treatment facility.

  Clearly, I needed to get back to Southeastern, but it was not such a hot idea for the supposed victim to go wandering onto the crime scene where someone else might have been taken at gunpoint, especially when I knew the press was already involved. If they recognized me, the situation would become even more confusing, and given that I was already perplexed, I wanted to limit the possibility of further complications. So I pulled into the parking lot of Busy B’s Stop ’n’ Shoppe and groped for my purse, which had landed on the floor beside the passenger seat.

  I fished out my cell phone, scrolled through my contact list, and dialed Tripp Carver, a detective with the MPD violent crimes unit.

  I turned down the radio, which had moved on to a commercial for one of Southeastern’s rival insurance companies, and waited. Tripp answered on the third ring. “Jules?” His voice was a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  I could picture him in all his tall, dark-haired glory. His eyes normally had a languid quality, but now I imagined that they showed concern. “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “What’s—?”

  “Are you okay? Is anyone with you?”

  I looked around one more time out of sheer paranoia and checked my mirrors to make sure no one was behind the SUV wielding a weapon. No one. “I’m just fine. I’m alone. I wasn’t abducted.”

  “What?” He sounded flummoxed. And really, I couldn’t blame him. The situation wasn’t any clearer to me. But I had a good excuse: I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking straight. Like I said, it wasn’t every day that this kind of thing happened to me.

  “It wasn’t me,” I finally offered.

  The line went silent for a moment, as if Tripp were trying to absorb that fact. “Are you sure?”

  A nervous laugh burst from me. “Yes, I’m sure. I just went out to get coffee.”

  “What the hell is going on then?” Now, Tripp sounded flummoxed and annoyed. I could imagine him loosening his tie and then running his fingers through his hair as he tried to unravel what had taken place.

  I leaned against the leather-covered headrest and rubbed my forehead. “I was hoping you would tell me. I just heard on the radio that I’d been taken at gunpoint from the Southeastern building downtown.”

  I heard him curse under his breath, and then there were some jostling sounds as he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said something to someone. I couldn’t make it out, but I figured he was telling them about this new development. Then more jostling sounds, and his voice came sharply to me. “Where are you now?”

  I told him, and he said he’d be right there. Just before he hung up, I heard a car door slam and a siren whine to life, and I knew he really was on the way. Sometimes with Tripp, one couldn’t be certain. He had a penchant for dropping in and out of people’s lives, especially if those people happened to be of the female persuasion.

  But that was neither here nor there.

  I ended the call, wiped the streaks of coffee off the radio, and sipped my drink—probably not the best thing to do: I was already jittery. Seemingly of their own accord, my legs began jigging up and down as I waited. The whole car was probably vibrating on its axles.

  I put the coffee down, took deep breaths, and tried to concentrate on calming myself. A few minutes passed before my legs relaxed and my mind began to function again.

  I thought back over the day. Nothing extraordinary had happened. I’d been late getting up, and I had to rush out of the house to make the Monday morning meeting at the DOI.

  The DOI field office was small, with only five employees—me, another fraud investigator, an attorney from the legal unit, a senior field agent/manager, and an administrative assistant—so these weekly meetings were mercifully short. I’d been assigned a new local case involving a suspected arson with the intent to defraud, and then I’d been set free.

  Around 9:30, I made the short trip to the Southeastern building a few blocks over. I’d started my investigation of that company on Friday, and even though the DOI field office was so close, I was working on site. It was best to be in the building with the files and the people
, I’d found, so I requested a workspace, and the company had grudgingly allowed me to have a small office among the temps and part-timers on the first floor by the door to the lobby, as if they hoped my proximity to the exit would induce my speedy departure. The accommodations might not be much, but so far everyone had proven cooperative and helpful; this, however, was only the second day of my investigation. Sometimes, seemingly cooperative and helpful people threw up roadblocks.

  Once in my shoebox-sized office, I found the copies of the paperwork I had requested stacked on my desk, and now I had the task of combing through all the information necessary to begin the interview portion of the investigation.

  After spending the morning reading and sorting documents, I’d gone to a downtown café for lunch and then straight to the arson site I’d been assigned at the DOI meeting that morning.

  Shortly after I returned to Southeastern, my eyelids had started to droop—nothing like the vagaries of commercial insurance to cure insomnia—so I decided that a nice long trip to Beanfield’s Bakery uptown would wake me up. Plus, it would kill forty-five minutes, and I really needed a break.

  I had closed my to-be-scanned folder and popped my head into the office space next door, a large room divided into depressing little cubicles. It was almost empty at this time of day. Most of the part-timers had already gone home, leaving just three summer interns who were hired to do a range of menial jobs—filing, making photocopies, stuffing envelopes, and answering phones—but as far as I could tell they mostly made dates via text message and chatted on their cell phones.

  “I’m going to Beanfield’s Bakery for coffee,” I said to the room at large. “Anyone want a latte?”

  A little bribery never hurt to ensure cooperation, right?

  Three heads—one male and two female—popped over cubicle walls, and soon Amber Willis, a student from Asbury, the local women’s college, had jotted down orders and was collecting cash. She wanted nothing for herself.

  “You sure you don’t want something?” I asked.

  “No, I’m trying to cut out caffeine. I saw a TV doctor say that it’s bad for the skin or something.”

  I grimaced. Well, if that was the case, I was doomed to look like a piece of weathered leather by next year. I drank enough caffeine to tan the hide off a cow. But at thirty-two, my skin still appeared youthful. Heck, I was still youthful. My brown hair was unfettered by streaks of gray, my years on the force made my body lean and muscular, and the miles I rode on my bike every weekend kept it that way.

  Amber and the other interns, of course, were very young, so they did not have to worry about gray streaks in their hair or about losing their youthful appearances, even if they swam in caffeine every day.

  “TV doctors,” I’d scoffed, “what do they know anyway? Next year, they’ll announce that caffeine’s the fountain of youth.”

  “Coffee’s never been my thing.” Amber looked at me with wide brown eyes and grinned. “But I’ll take a bear claw.”

  I grinned back, glad she wasn’t completely vice free. “One bear claw coming up. But you know what they say about sugar…”

  “Ouch,” she said, handing me the completed list of orders and a wad of cash. “Okay, I’ll agree that caffeine is the new fountain of youth if you’ll agree that all donuts are sugar free.”

  “Works for me,” I said. “By the way, does someone have time to scan a few papers for me?”

  The other interns suddenly disappeared back behind their cubicle walls and turned conveniently deaf, but Amber nodded. “Sure, I needed something to do. Slow day so far.”

  “They’re in the top folder on my desk. When you’re done, would you put the hard copies back and email the digitals to me? The address is in the file.” As I’d turned to go, I’d added, “Thanks. Your bear claw is on me.”

  I remembered Amber’s smile at those words. It was quick and easy, and it lit her face completely. Such a little thing—a free pastry—to make someone so happy.

  I had exited the office space through the heavy oak door that led to the lobby, and I hadn’t noticed anything suspicious there. In fact, the entry was empty when I went through it, and it remained that way almost all the time. Obviously designed more for show than function, the lobby had no receptionist or security guard—just a company directory and three enormous raised flowerbeds filled with ornate plants. It was impressively laid out, but it would be easy for someone to slip in or out of the main entrance unnoticed.

  I could recall nothing notable about what I’d seen in the parking lot either. Everything had seemed calm, normal.

  I’m willing to admit that law enforcement skills did not come naturally to me; they were hard earned, but most of my abilities have stuck with me through the years, and the healthy paranoia of a cop falls into that category. I wouldn’t have missed an armed gunman in the parking lot.

  At least I hoped not.

  But I had been looking around in my purse for the Explorer’s keys, so I was a bit distracted.

  Looking back on my day was making my head start to throb, and the hot summer sun was heating the interior of the SUV beyond comfortable. I lowered the windows, and a hot breeze came through, brushing my skin but doing nothing to cool my heated body and feverish thoughts.

  What if I’d missed something while I was rooting around in my purse? I should have known better. A responsible person, especially a law enforcement officer, has her keys ready so that she can stay aware of her surroundings at all times. But I hadn’t. And as a result, I had no clue what might have happened. And what I might have prevented.

  Had someone actually been taken? If the radio report could be believed, someone was in danger. But who? And why?

  I heard sirens approaching, and I didn’t have to think anymore. I just watched as the black and white pulled beside my car and Tripp got out. I hadn’t seen him in several months, but he hadn’t changed. Same penchant for wearing rumpled dark suits and expensive ties. He flashed me a mega-watt smile through the window. Yup, same old Tripp: handsome and aware of it. I opened my door, and he pulled me into his arms and hugged me tight.

  I let myself melt into him. Tripp was as comfortable as a beat-up pair of tennis shoes, and he always had been. Unfortunately, a beat-up pair of shoes wasn’t always the best for your feet. I knew that for certain.

  “Christ, Carver, can you let her go so we can find out what the devil happened?” That was Jimmy Starnes, Tripp’s partner. I couldn’t see him because my face was still pressed against Tripp’s shoulder, but I knew his voice, rough as a rutted gravel road, as though he’d smoked two packs a day for sixty-five years. The problem was that he was only in his mid-forties. I had to give him credit for efficiency.

  Tripp didn’t appear to have heard Starnes. He hugged me tighter.

  He wasn’t in cop mode now. He was just my friend Tripp, who had been worried about me. “Jules, I was going nuts at the crime scene. I thought you were going to turn up dead.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” I said, thinking how nice it was to know that one of my past relationships hadn’t been irrevocably ruined. At least he didn’t want me to turn up dead. That was probably more than I could say for some of my dates in college.

  I smiled up at him and managed to step out of his embrace.

  “Glad you’re okay, Jackson,” Starnes rasped from beside Tripp.

  I turned and got my first real glimpse of Starnes since he and Tripp had arrived. As usual, he was playing the archetypal good old boy, beer gut and all. He wore a light-colored, neatly pressed suit, but I imagined that underneath his work attire, his boxers were stained and full of holes. A gruesome thought.

  Starnes gave me one of those masculine chin thrusts that was supposed to convey a greeting.

  I returned my version of a chin thrust and then glanced at Tripp. He appeared to have returned to police mode. He flipped open his notebook, brushing pages with his fingertips until he found a blank sheet, and when he looked up, his expression told me that he was ready to
hear my story.

  Tripp was a good cop. He’d been a couple of years ahead of me at the academy, and he’d moved to the violent crimes unit before I’d even been eligible to take the detective’s exam. Of course, then I’d gotten laid off and ended up with the DOI. It had all worked out just fine.

  “Let’s figure out what the hell happened,” he said, pulling a pencil from his pocket.

  I told the two of them about my day, about the trip to the potential arson site, my coffee run, and hearing the announcement on the radio. Tripp and Starnes nodded and took notes. It was standard stuff. What time did I leave? Where did I go? Why was I going there? Who was there? Did I have any extra donuts?

  When they seemed to have asked everything they could think of—twice—I asked how they learned of my supposed abduction.

  “The 911 call came in from Sandra Browning. She was on the fifth floor in the office of a guy named—” Tripp flipped his notebook back a few pages. “Ron Raleigh. Said they saw it from the window. Police were dispatched to the location, and apparently they were the ones who first identified you as the victim.”

  I nodded. I knew Sandra, of course. She was the administrative assistant to the president of Southeastern. As such, she knew everything that went on in the building. It did not surprise me to know that she had witnessed the crime. She witnessed everything.

  I only knew Ron by sight and had been in his office for a few moments to request files. He was an inspector, one of those detail-oriented nitpickers who was sent out to make sure commercial properties adhered to safety codes before Southeastern wrote policies for them.

  I gave this information to Tripp and Starnes, and when I finished, they both looked at me expectantly. I knew they wanted more details. Unfortunately, I didn’t know much else. “Ron keeps a Rubik’s Cube on his desk,” I offered lamely.

  “Okay.” Starnes drew the word out. Clearly, he wasn’t satisfied. “You don’t know anything else about Sandra Browning and Rubik’s Ron?” He rubbed a hand across his distended belly in a preening gesture. I was sure he felt proud of himself for coming up with a nickname.