Hero For Hire

by Laura Kenner

  “The M.E. says probably not, though he won’t go on the record until he’s done a full autopsy. There were no—” Trainor pulled a pencil out of his jacket and used the eraser to turn to a different page of his notebook “‘—signs of occlusion of the veins or telltale redness of the skin.’ Also, she wouldn’t have bled this much if she was already dead.” He flipped the notebook closed. “Could this be business related? Had she been working on any unusual cases?”

  “Unusual? No, nothing out of the ordinary.” Will didn’t like the direction of Steve’s questions. He wasn’t ready yet to throw Raymond Bergeron’s name into the fray. There had to be a way to sidestep the issue and temporarily distract Steve from the inevitable question.

  But the detective kept pushing. “You said you saw her last night at a bar. Was she working on a case then?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gonna give me names?”

  “Sorry.” Will felt the blood rush through his ears; he knew the next two words would be the ones to seriously pique Steve Trainor’s professional interest. “Client confidentiality.”

  A light of challenge flared in the cop’s eyes. “So you’re going to force me to make an official req—”

  “Excuse me. Will?” Sara appeared in the hallway at the door. She looked distinctly pale.

  He wondered how much she’d heard. No matter, she was a welcome interruption. He crossed the room quickly. “I thought I told you to stay by the elevator.”

  She looked as if she would have liked to. “I remember, but…I had to know….”

  He leaned closer to her. “Pretend to get sick,” he whispered, grabbing her by the elbow.

  She took one look at the body bag and paled. Somehow, Will didn’t think she needed to pretend. She swayed against him. “Is that the body? Is it…was it her?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Yes and yes.” He turned to the detective, who was frowning at the intrusion. “I think I’d better get her out of here, Steve. She’s a little squeamish about these things.”

  Steve crossed his arms, obviously unhappy to have his Twenty Questions cut off. “You going to introduce us?”

  Will turned back to Sara. “It’ll be okay, honey,” he said just a bit louder than necessary. Sara gave him a look of shock. He continued, praying she had the presence of mind to play along. “We’ll get you outside and into the fresh air and you’ll feel better in no time.” He shot Steve a strained smile. “She’s a ride-along. Wants to see what the business is all about.”

  “And you bring her here?” Steve shook his head. “Sheesh. You got some cojones, Riggs.” He turned to Sara. “Ma’am? Don’t let him fool you into thinking it’s always like this. He spends his life sitting on a photo stakeout in alleys drinking lukewarm coffee and in the library looking up information. Being a P.I. is not like you see on television.”

  Sara stared numbly at the body bag, then turned her blank stare to Steve and back to Will again. “I…I…” Grabbing his arm, she groaned. “I—I think I’m going to be sick.” She bent over and for one tense moment, Will was afraid she just might fulfill her prophecy all over his shoes. But he suddenly felt a slight pinch. A signal?

  A second pinch, this time, a bit harder.

  He pinched her back lightly on the arm. Shielded from Steve’s view, Sara made an “okay” sign with her thumb and forefinger.

  Contact had been made and verified.

  Will thought fast “Uh…Steve…listen, I’ll call you and we can continue with the questions. Meanwhile, once I get her settled, I’ll go back to my office and pull up the information on what cases Celia had been working on.”

  “But—”

  Sara groaned again and tugged him into the hallway. “Please…now!” She made a gurping noise and pressed her hand to her mouth. They kept up the charade past the cop at the elevator who solicitously held the door for them.

  “First body?” the officer asked in genuine sympathy.

  Sara released an almost-theatrical moan and Will shrugged. “Some people just aren’t cut out for this business.” They stumbled into the elevator car.

  When the doors slid closed, Sara straightened, pulled away from him and flipped the hair out her face. Will wasn’t sure how much of her sickness was an act; she still looked rather pasty-faced.

  If he had any doubts, they were quickly dispelled.

  She balanced a fist on each hip and narrowed her gaze to an accusing squint. “What in the world was that macho P.I. shtick all about?”

  “Then you’re not sick.” He leaned back against the wall of the elevator and released his breath in a rush. “What a relief. That means it’s my turn.” He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, mentally commanding his stomach to downgrade from spin cycle to something less agitating. All theatrics aside, he’d just seen the body of someone he knew very well. Someone who had been alive just twenty-four hours earlier. Someone who had died a violent death. Someone who—

  A gentle hand touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

  Will swallowed back his revulsion, knowing he had a persona to fill, thanks to the wonders of television, which created desensitized heroes, impervious to the horrors of death.

  He opened his eyes, took one look at Sara’s pale concern and abandoned all stoic baggage that accompanied the mythical trench coat of the American P.I. “No. I’m not okay. Celia’s dead and I’m probably the one to blame.” Will couldn’t help but notice Sara didn’t remove her hand from his sleeve.

  “Why do you blame yourself, Will? You didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “How do you know she was shot?” The moment after he spoke, he regretted the slight accusatorial tone to his voice.

  If Sara noticed it, she didn’t let on. She merely shrugged. “I eavesdropped. I also heard what you said…or failed to say about Raymond.” She reached over and hit the button for the lobby. “Let me ask two questions.”

  In deference to the situation, Will refrained from saying “Shoot” Instead he nodded in agreement. “And they are?”

  “First. Do you think Raymond could have gotten so angry that he actually killed her?”

  Will didn’t need time to think. “I think it’s possible. He’s the type of person who always finds a way to place the blame on someone else. That’s what makes him a success as a lawyer—his clients are never guilty. And he isn’t, either. The guilty party wasn’t the man who was seduced into infidelity, but the woman who tempted him. So the question becomes: What type of revenge would he demand if he had to pay a stiff price for someone else’s sins?

  “A stiff p-price?”

  Will nodded. “Like losing his fiancée. It’s evident he was testing you because he wanted to take your relationship to the next plateau. Like marriage.”

  Marriage. He could see her repeat the word. In an ideal world, marriage meant lifelong commitment, but right now, they were talking about a life cut short. Will felt the muscles in his arms harden. If Bergeron had betrayed a hidden proclivity to violence, maybe Celia got caught in a booby trap that had been waiting for Sara.

  Will glanced at her. By the looks of it, she’d come to the same conclusion.

  She swallowed hard, then regained her air of forced detachment with the lifting of her chin. “I hadn’t considered that possibility.” She paused before continuing, “And second. Although you think Raymond could be the guilty one, you were protecting him. Why?”

  Why, indeed?

  There was only one simple answer.

  For you.

  But it was an admission Will wasn’t quite ready to make yet, mainly because it was presumptuous. It presumed a potential relationship between Will and Sara and it also presumed that Raymond was guilty. He had no proof to substantiate either theory. Just a reaction from his heart and one from his gut and he knew full well that the internal organ he should be using in both cases was his brain.

  He was saved from answering when the doors opened onto the lobby. Sara fell back into a modified version of her sick routine and kept i
t up as they walked through the elegant foyer. They garnered a few stares but no overt attention. Thankful for the diversion, Will used the time to concoct a suitable-sounding reason why he’d engineered their escape. A squad car sat in front of the entrance, which meant they continued their charade until they reached his car. Unfortunately, divine inspiration failed to provide a convenient excuse for his actions.

  When they reached the car, Sara braced her hand against the window, preventing him from opening the passenger door for her. Her gaze met his, questioning, pained.

  “Why, Will? Why are you protecting a man who you think is obviously guilty?”

  His heart began to hammer and a sudden cold sweat formed across the back of his neck. He reached deep inside himself, looking for the answer supplied by logic, control and experience, but finding only one—fueled by emotion and desire. It took everything he had to maintain his eye contact with her while he made his admission. He took a moment to study her face, watching how she changed from fierce to delicate in the blink of an eye.

  “Why?”

  Chapter Seven

  Will took a step away from the car, evidently disturbed by the boldness of her question. He rocked back on his heels, then crossed his arms. “Hell…you know the reason, Sara. Despite what he’s put you through, Bergeron deserves the benefit of the doubt until we have more information.”

  A shiver danced across her shoulders. It was the answer she expected, but not necessarily the one she wanted to hear.

  “After all,” he continued, “he’s your fiance as well as my client.”

  “My ex-fiancé,” she supplied automatically.

  “My ex-client” Will managed a wan smile. “But I wasn’t lying when I mentioned confidentiality to Trainor. It continues even if the business relationship comes to a screeching halt”

  Sara stared openly at him. He was impressive. His logic was irrefutable and his sense of loyalty, admirable. How could he be so calm after having just identified his associate’s body? Sara didn’t even know the woman and she was still shaking at the concept that the black bag contained someone who only a little while earlier had been alive, talking, laughing….

  Laughing…

  A sudden tremor coursed through Sara’s body. Although she would rather have blamed it on the autumn breeze, which stirred the leaves at their feet, she knew it was the lingering echo of the dead woman’s laughter that created such a reaction.

  “Are you cold? I’ll make sure to turn the heat on as soon as we get in the car.”

  “I’m all right.”

  He unlocked the door and held it open for her.

  “Where to now?” she asked as she slid into the front seat.

  “We find Bergeron before the cops figure out how involved he is.”

  Her stomach performed another flip-flopping dive. “Then you think he did it.”

  “I have no proof, but I know he’s just as involved in this case as we are.”

  Her stomach lunged with such ferocity that she began to think her “sick” ruse was only a precursor to fact. “We? As in you and me?”

  Will started the car and turned on the heater. “We’re guilty of a sin of omission rather than commission. I’m afraid Trainor won’t be too forgiving of either.”

  “But we didn’t lie.”

  “We don’t have to. It’s called withholding evidence. The best way we can make amends is to find Bergeron, get the truth out of him and get him to turn himself in.” He rubbed his hands briskly in front of the heater vents.

  “What if he didn’t do it? What if he has an alibi?”

  “Then they check it out and release him. No harm, no foul.” Will put the car in reverse and began to back out of the parking space. “Where do you suggest we start? His home or his office?”

  Sara looked at her watch. “He has Saturday hours. Let’s try his office first.”

  “Then office it is.”

  They rode in silence, each lost in their own web of thoughts. Sara looked over every now and then and could tell by the way Will’s eyebrows knitted, then released, that he was mired in a mental struggle.

  Once they arrived, she directed them into the parking deck. Will scanned the area and pulled into the first available space. “Do you see his car?”

  She shook her head. “He parks on a security level. We can’t get up there without a decal.”

  Will grunted in response.

  It was the only sound he made during the trip from the car to the elevator and all the way up to the eleventh floor. She led the way to the double glass doors and paused before entering.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She tried to smile but failed. “I don’t know what to say or how to handle this. Do we barge in there and ask him point-blank if he killed that woman?”

  “We’ll play it by ear.” He reached around her to push the door open. The gesture brought him close to her, so near that his after-shave tickled her nose. She stopped in mid-breath, refusing to inhale and let her senses be enticed by the inviting aroma.

  This wasn’t the right time….

  “Sara?”

  Nor the right place…

  “You coming?”

  She shook herself back to attention. Will was still holding the door open for her. “Uh…yeah, I’m sorry.”

  Joanie looked up, her florid face folding into a smile. “Sara…hi! And Mr. Riggs. What a surprise! Is Mr. Bergeron expecting you?”

  “No, I thought I’d just stop by and…I met Wi—Mr. Riggs in the parking lot” Lord, when had she gotten to be such a bad liar? “Is Raymond busy?”

  Joanie’s genuine smile suddenly turned plastic. “Uh…I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment.”

  Sara knew the woman well enough to realize something was amiss. “‘Not in’ as in out at a meeting or ’not in’ as in you have no idea where he is?”

  Joanie glanced over Sara’s shoulder, her plastered smile starting to weaken in places.

  “What, Joanie?” Sara looked back at Will, then gave the secretary an encouraging nod. “It’s okay. You can talk in front of Mr. Riggs.”

  Joanie’s expression melted into a frown. “I have no idea where he is,” she said with a sigh. “He’s missed three appointments and I’ve called him everywhere. His place, the health club, his beeper, his car phone…everywhere! It’s totally unlike him to simply disappear like this. Did you see him last night? Was he feeling sick or something?”

  “I didn’t…I—”

  “He looked fine when I saw him around nine,” Will supplied. Sara suppressed an overwhelming urge to elbow him in the ribs. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he continued. “If I can use his phone, I’ll call around and see if I can find him.” He took a few steps toward the door leading to Raymond’s office. “I have a couple of contacts in town who might be able to help locate him fairly easily.”

  “Well…” Joanie hesitated like a conscientious secretary should. “I’m afraid I can’t let you use his office—”

  “It’s okay, Joanie.” Sara dredged up a reassuring smile. “I’ll go in there with him.”

  The offer seemed to appease Joanie. She nodded anxiously. “Thanks.”

  Sara grabbed Will by the arm and tugged him toward Raymond’s office. She turned back to Joanie and gestured toward the phone on her desk. “Why don’t you call and cancel the rest of his appointments for today, okay?”

  Joanie sniffed and nodded again. “Good idea.” She managed a strained smile in return. “I feel better with you here. I even tried to call you earlier but Mr. Hilliard said you were out on an errand.”

  Evidently he didn’t mention we were going to view a dead body….

  Once the door clicked shut behind them, Sara walked past her accomplice to Raymond’s desk. “Okay. It was obvious you wanted a chance to look through his desk for clues or whatever. Here’s your opportunity. While you do that, I’m going to see if he’s left me any messages.”

  Sara dialed out on Raymond’s personal line, calling the res
taurant first. After learning she had no messages, urgent or otherwise, from Raymond, she gave Martin only the sketchiest of details to placate him.

  “And if he calls, don’t let him know anything’s wrong. Get a number, find out where he is and if you can, call me immediately.”

  “He’s in that much trouble?”

  She sighed. “Looks that way.”

  Martin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a word he only used when the county health inspector came around. “What if I can’t get you?”

  “Then—” she tapped Will on the arm and gestured at his pager “—call this number….”

  Will stared blankly at her.

  “Your pager number,” she mouthed. “What is it?”

  “Oh…555-4212.”

  She repeated the number to Martin.

  “Got it. But if no one answers at that number, I’m calling the cops. Understand?”

  “You do what you feel is right, Martin. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.

  Will huddled over the keyboard of Raymond’s computer. “No news?”

  “No.” She allowed herself the luxury of a small sigh before dialing her own number. A couple of words into the outgoing speech message, she punched in the code for message retrieval. The machine gave the time in a mechanical voice, then Sara heard: “Hi honey, it’s Mom. I just wanted to touch base with you and see how you’re doing. Dad’s busy—”

  Sara advanced to the next message. “9:24 a.m.”

  “This is Carl and I want to give you a chance to personally view the latest in home security systems. If you’ll call—”

  Next message. “10:31 a.m.”

  “Oh, God…Sara, I’m in so much trouble.”

  Her grip tightened on the phone. The slurred voice belonged to Raymond.

  “You sicced that bitch on me and now everything’s going to hell. I’m going to hell.” He drew in a long, gasping breath. “It’s not my fault, Sara. It’s not. It’s yours. You hired the slut.”

  He was drunk—not merely overestimate-your-abilities-and-drive-fast drunk; he’d sunk far below that to become a maudlin, rambling sot whose ravings told her much more about the real man than she ever wanted to know.