by Karen Leabo
Michael didn’t rise to that bait.
“Not last night … not at three o’clock in the morning, either.”
Michael nearly rose out of his chair. “What were you doing calling me at three o’clock in the morning?”
“Checking up on you,” Joe said affably. “If you got a new squeeze, just tell me. I won’t be monopolizing your time.”
“Jeez, Joe, you sound like a jealous fishwife. Knock it off. You want me to apologize for not giving you my itinerary, or what?”
“So who is she?”
Michael could see he wasn’t going to sidestep this one easily. He and Joe had worked together a long time. He couldn’t lie to his friend, and he couldn’t dismiss him with a curt “None of your business,” either.
“I was protecting our suspect,” he said, looking up at Joe with narrowed eyes, daring him to challenge the explanation. “In case it slipped your attention, she was almost murdered yesterday. Twice. And since the great police department can’t spare even one man to keep an eye on her, I did it myself.”
“Holy …” Joe let out a low whistle. “I knew you had a thing for this babe, but—”
“I do not have a ‘thing’ for her. I just don’t want her killed before we find out what the truth is.”
“A few days ago you knew the truth. She was guilty and that was that. I never knew you to be swayed by a pair of legs before.”
That was when Michael realized Joe was deliberately trying to get a rise out of him. “My opinion has changed because of newly revealed evidence,” Michael said, keeping his voice calm and deliberate—and hoping desperately that what Joe accused him of wasn’t true.
“Oh, speaking of new evidence …” Joe returned to his own desk and came back with another message slip. Suddenly he was all business again. Apparently he’d tired of getting his laughs at Michael’s expense. “The lady from the bank called just a few minutes ago. Amazingly, she does remember Bernard Neff from when he opened his account.”
“How can that be?” Michael asked, his mind back on the case. “It was over six months ago. Like Wendy said, the bank employee must have opened a hundred accounts since then.”
“According to the bank services lady, this guy was memorable,” Joe said.
“Oxygen tank?” Michael asked hopefully. “Arthritis? Gold tooth?”
Joe was shaking his head. “The customer in question was in his early thirties and very good-looking.”
Michael’s heart sank. Here, finally, was evidence that directly contradicted Wendy’s story.
“I hate to bring this up, but does Ms. Thayer have a boyfriend?”
Michael nodded. “Ex-boyfriend, according to her. Recent breakup.” He hated to even consider the possibility, but Wendy’s boyfriend dumping her had occurred at a coincidentally convenient time. If he was the burglar, he might have set her up to take the fall.
Michael supposed he was ethically obligated to track down James Batliner and make him sweat. And if the idiot was innocent, if he’d had nothing to do with the art deco heist, Michael still intended to make him uncomfortable. Just for the hell of it.
NINE
Michael detested James Batliner on sight. Wendy’s ex-boyfriend was an account executive with a large ad agency, and he was everything Michael was not, and nothing Michael wanted to be—blond, blue-eyed, movie-star handsome, and dressed as if he’d just walked off the pages of GQ. And he was stupid. Not obviously so, Michael conceded. But he must have been, to dump Wendy.
“The first I heard about Wendy’s troubles is when I read about it in the paper yesterday,” James said, shaking his head sadly. The two men were in an over-decorated conference room at James’s office. Rather than being embarrassed or worried that a cop wanted to question him, he seemed to enjoy the drama.
“You were close to her over the last few months, closer than anyone else, probably,” Michael remarked. “Did you notice any behavior that seemed … peculiar? Unexplained late-night absences, secretiveness?” He focused his questions on Wendy rather than implying that he thought James might have something to do with the burglaries or the jewel-and-art heist. He didn’t want to put his new quarry on the defensive too early.
“Well … nothing obvious. She did start spending money like crazy.”
“Spending money?” Michael repeated. “On what?”
“The new office, for one thing. Hiring new employees. New company van. And advertising. I did the ads for her.”
“I’ll bet she got a good deal too,” Michael murmured as he made notes, figuring Wendy was too savvy to pay full price for anything.
This information about the shopping was nothing new to Michael. Wendy had already explained about her expansion plans and how she was carrying them out. He was relieved James didn’t mention anything about trips to Rio or new Cadillacs.
“I got her the best cable TV deal you can imagine. Anyway, other than that, I can’t think of anything unusual in her behavior.” James paused, pulling on his earlobe, his forehead crinkling with what might pass for deep thought. “Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me that Wendy has run afoul of the law. It’s in her genes, I guess.”
Michael looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You know, her father.”
Wendy’s father was deceased. She’d told him so herself.
“Ah, I can see I’ve surprised you. Wendy doesn’t mention her father to everyone. Or she tells people he died. But he’s been in and out of jail since Wendy was a kid. Last I heard, it was ten-to-twenty in Leavenworth for wire fraud.”
Michael made a show of writing this information down, hoping to hide his roiling emotions. It wasn’t that he was horribly shocked that Wendy’s father was a habitual criminal, if what James had told him was true. It was that she hadn’t trusted him with the information. She’d lied to him. Even after all they’d been through, she hadn’t come clean.
“Kinda makes you wonder what else she’s misled you about,” James said. “Don’t you think?”
Though Michael was thinking that very thing himself, it took all of his self-control not to wipe that stupid, smug grin off James’s face with, say, a chair.
He settled for the next best thing. “Let me ask you one more thing, Mr. Batliner. Can you account for your whereabouts on these evenings?” He handed James a preprinted list of the dates of the home break-ins and the museum heist. “Wendy had an accomplice who meets your description,” he added almost casually. And James did resemble the “Bernard Neff” described by the new-accounts woman at the bank.
James blinked a couple of times, then looked up. Michael enjoyed the expression of consternation on his face. “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with Wendy’s crime spree?”
“I’m just asking a question.”
“I resent the implication.”
“Resent all you want. I’d still like an answer.”
James’s face turned red, and he tugged at his perfectly knotted silk tie. “These dates go back almost six months. It will take me some time to check over my calendar.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, then. That enough time?”
James nodded sharply. “That should do.”
Michael was relieved to be back out in the sunshine, away from the rigid, oppressively corporate world of James’s ad agency. What had Wendy ever seen in that guy, besides money and good looks? And how, Michael caught himself thinking, did he himself compare in her eyes?
Stupid to let it enter his mind, he thought as he climbed into his loaner car from the motor pool, an aging Chevy Lumina with almost two hundred thousand miles. He and Wendy were a done deal. Except … he had a few more questions for her. He’d also like to know if she was safe, if she was taking precautions. She’d willingly walked away from his efforts to protect her, but his gut still clenched at the thought of any danger befalling her.
Michael pulled his cellular out of his pocket and dialed her work number.
“Born to Shop, this is Jillian, may I help you?”
“Yes. I need to speak to Wendy, please.”
“Is this Michael Taggert?” Jillian asked suspiciously.
“Yeah,” He refrained from adding, What about it?
“Wendy told me you’re a cop,” Jillian huffed. “Really, how could you arrest her? You police are just so incompetent! What a totally ridiculous notion—”
“Is she there?” Michael asked, breaking into Jillian’s tirade. “If she’s there, she’s not safe.”
“We’re keeping the door locked.”
That was a small relief. A lock might slow down a hit man long enough so they could call 9-1-1. “Then she is there.”
A pause. “She’s not taking phone calls.”
“She has to talk to me,” he said, pulling rank. “She’s out on bail, and a condition of that bail is that she make herself available for police questioning.”
Another pause, longer this time. The next voice he heard was Wendy’s. “H-hi, Michael.”
He wasn’t prepared for what the sound of her voice did to him. His heart accelerated, his ears started ringing, and he suddenly remembered what her voice had sounded like in the throes of passion.
“Michael?” she said again when he didn’t respond.
“Wendy.” His own voice sounded rough. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay. You’re not mad, are you?”
Mad didn’t begin to describe the way he’d felt when he’d come out of the shower to find Wendy gone. Furious was closer. Betrayed. Pole-axed. Broad-sided.
He pulled to the side of the road, afraid he’d have a wreck if he tried to drive in Dallas traffic when he was so distracted. “Let me just put it this way,” he said. It was easier to clothe his myriad feelings in anger rather than try to sort out how he really felt about Wendy. “If you give me even the slightest reason, I’ll go to the judge and get your bail revoked.”
“Okay, you’re mad.” At least she had the good grace to sound remorseful. “That’s established. But I had to—I couldn’t face—I just had to get back to work, and I knew you’d try to stop me.”
“Damn straight. Do you have any idea—”
“Of course I know the danger I’m in,” she said. “But I can’t let these stupid criminal charges and these horrible people destroy my business.”
Michael hadn’t been about to remind her of the danger. He’d been about to ask her if she had any idea how he’d felt when he’d come out of the shower to find himself alone. As if he’d been kicked in the gut by a bucking bronco. But apparently Wendy’s business was more important than a mere personal involvement.
Ah, hell, he was thinking like a teenager who’d been stood up for the prom. She was right. Her physical safety was the crucial thing.
“You realize,” he said, “that by hanging out at your office, you’re putting other people besides yourself in jeopardy.”
“I know. And I told Jillian she could take the day off, but she wouldn’t. There’s a cop who regularly patrols this area. I explained the situation to him and he’s keeping an especially close eye on the office today. I’m being as careful as I know how to be.”
Michael took a deep breath. He’d still feel better if she were under lock and key, but he supposed she was taking reasonable precautions. He didn’t believe Mr. Neff or his associates would bust through the front door to kill her. They couldn’t afford to get caught.
“Fine. I still need to ask you some questions. Is now a good time?” He didn’t really care if it was convenient or not. He was coming over.
“Any time,” she said, her tone cool. “I’ll be here.”
Wendy paced the office nervously while she waited for Michael to get there. She was having second thoughts about how she’d left him that morning. She’d told herself it was the only way she could take back control of her life. But now her actions struck her as a tad mean-spirited.
Michael had given her the most incredible night of sexual pleasure imaginable. The next morning he hadn’t turned cold and distant, the way some men did when they wanted to make it clear they weren’t involved. Instead he’d talked about taking her out for a nice breakfast. But something inside her had balked at the idea.
Was that when he would tell her that, nice as it was, their brief dalliance was over? In a public place where she couldn’t cry or make a scene?
She’d left him to emerge from the shower to find himself all alone because she hadn’t wanted him to say the words severing the personal angle of their relationship. She’d wanted to do the severing.
Well, she’d done it, all right. On the phone he’d sounded as if he wanted to hang her on a clothesline and let crows peck at her. If there’d been any chance for a lasting—
But there wasn’t, she reminded herself. Aside from the impropriety of their dalliance, they could hardly carry on a meaningful relationship when he was in Washington and she was in Dallas.
Still, the FBI might reject Michael’s application. And at some point she would be free of these criminal charges. Then, maybe, just maybe …
Oh, why was she doing this to herself? Who was to say she was anything more than a quick, convenient tumble for him? He’d said that he’d never compromised himself with a suspect, but did she really know that was true? Her father had been a lawman, and look how dishonest he was.
She flopped into a chair, miserable. Michael was a good man, a conscientious cop, and nothing like her father. She believed him. He’d been more than fair with her, and she’d treated him abominably.
“You got a thing for this cop?” Jillian asked.
“No!” Wendy answered too quickly.
“You’re awfully worked up.” Jillian smiled. “Lord knows he’s handsome enough. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“He said he wanted to question me.” Wendy picked up a paper clip from the desk and started mangling it. “That means he has some new information. I’m nervous, that’s all.” It was partly true.
He arrived sooner than she would have liked, before she was ready. The glass door was locked. Michael tapped on it, and Jillian grabbed her purse and scurried to the front with the key.
“I’m going to the Taco Plaza for lunch,” she announced. “I’ll bring you back something.” She gave Michael a hard look as she let him inside, then slipped out.
“I’ve got a coupon for Taco Plaza,” Wendy called after her, but Jillian was already locking the door behind her.
Wendy wished her office manager had stayed. She didn’t want to face Michael alone. He looked as dark and forbidding as he had the first time she’d seen him, when he’d approached her at the bank with the handcuffs.
She opened her mouth, about to issue some kind of greeting, when the phone rang. She held up one finger, indicating she’d be only a minute, and picked up the phone on Jillian’s desk.
“Born to Shop, this is Wendy.”
It was the caterer working on the mayor’s party.
“Yes, that’s right, we’ve upped the guest list to 210. And Mrs. Munn has changed her mind about the shrimp canapés. She wants liver pâté instead. Oh, by the way, Sellman’s Meat Market has the best … you already knew that. Okay. I’ll confirm everything with you tomorrow.”
“Still working on the mayor’s party?” Michael asked, swiveling a chair around and straddling it.
She nodded. “Mrs. Munn is standing behind me a hundred percent. A lot of my other clients are on the guest list. If they see that the Munns still trust me, maybe they will too. I have to make sure I don’t mess anything up, either. I still have to make last-minute arrangements with the florist, the valet-parking attendants, security …” She realized she was rambling.
She sank into Jillian’s chair. “So, let’s have it. What do you need to know?”
“It’s about James Batliner.”
Wendy’s heart sank. She didn’t owe James anything, but she’d been hoping to shield him from the investigation. His employer was so uptight, he might suffer repercussions if her legal troubles spilled over onto him. “What abou
t him?”
“Did his behavior change in the past six months? Any unexplained absences, sudden show of wealth, secretive behavior?”
“You think James might be Mr. Neff?” Wendy laughed. That was ludicrous.
“I think he might be Mr. Neff’s accomplice. A man meeting your lover-boy’s description opened Mr. Neff’s bank account.”
She sobered immediately. Was it possible? She tried to give Michael’s question serious consideration. “He did have a pretty flashy lifestyle,” she said. “Drove a Porsche, wore Italian suits, that kind of thing. But his family has money. Lots of it. There’s no way his salary could support his habits, but I always assumed he had a trust fund or something.”
“Did he have access to your computer?”
She nodded. “He liked to play games on it. Sometimes he would start some space war game and play it till three or four in the morning.”
“So he used your computer for long periods of time without your monitoring him?”
“Well, yeah. But my work files were password protected, and I never told him my password. There was no reason to.”
“Wendy, I know your password. You should never use something as easy as your birthday.”
She stared at him in stunned silence. “How did you—”
“It doesn’t matter. Anyone could have broken into your files. Which means there are lots of potential suspects now.”
Wendy shook her head vehemently. “Not my staff. Not them. Don’t you dare question them.” They were so good, so loyal. All of them had stood behind her when they’d found out about the accusations against her. They’d all volunteered to testify on her behalf as character witnesses.
“If not your staff or James, then who? If we don’t come up with a viable alternative, the jury will convict you. Whoever engineered those burglaries got the security codes from your computer or your organizer, no doubt about it. Help me figure out who it is, or my hands are tied.”
Wendy took a deep breath. She’d met with Nathaniel that morning, and he’d told her that her case looked grim. His private investigator hadn’t turned up anything the police hadn’t already found. If she didn’t come up with the real guilty party, she was going to jail.
