While Farley pretty much spent his life right where he was now: behind a big cherry wood desk piled high with papers and a computer, before going home to his wife every day at five o’clock.
He blinked at me through wire rimmed glasses. Rachel had told him I was here, and I couldn’t imagine that she was someone who regularly pulled his leg with inaccurate information, but he seemed surprised to see me. “Gina?”
“Hi, Farley,” I said. “Do you mind?”
I gestured to one of the two visitors chairs in front of the desk.
“No. Of course not. Sit down.”
I did, after moving a pile of papers off the chair and onto the floor. Farley watched me sit and then kept watching.
“I stopped by to tell you about David’s funeral,” I said when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to speak first. “I wasn’t sure you were in contact with anyone who had that information.”
He shook his head.
“Kenny and Krystal and I went to the funeral home yesterday afternoon. The service is tomorrow.” I repeated the specifics I had told Rachel.
“So soon,” Farley said.
Was it? David had been dead three days. The police were finished with him, or so I assumed, since they’d released the body to Boling & Howard. I didn’t feel like I was rushing to get him in the ground. Anselm Howard had asked whether we’d like to try to have the funeral this week, or wait until after the weekend, and it was the one thing we’d all agreed on: we wanted to do it sooner rather than later. Why wait?
“The reception is at the house afterwards. Three to five.”
Farley nodded, but didn’t say he’d be there. I wondered whether he would be, or whether he and everyone else thought I’d murdered David, so they were shunning me. I might be sitting there all alone, with a catered spread for fifty, while everyone David had known gave me the cold shoulder.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea who would have wanted David dead?”
Farley looked startled. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. And then he took his glasses off and polished them on a cloth he had lying on the desk. I have no idea why he didn’t just start wearing contacts—David did—instead of the glasses that made him look like an old fart.
Then again, it wasn’t just the glasses making Farley look like an old fart; it was everything else, as well.
“Was anything going on here at work?” I pressed. “A disgruntled client? Someone who lost money and blamed David? Did David diddle someone’s wife?”
Farley looked nauseous. “Gina...”
“Someone must have had a reason to want to get rid of him.”
“You,” Farley said.
“Other than me.”
Farley shrugged. Either he couldn’t think of anyone, or he wasn’t going to share his thoughts with me.
“What happens to the business now?” I wanted to know.
Farley’s voice was calm. “David’s interest in the business reverts back to the business.”
I already knew that, but I wanted to see his reaction. “So you get it?”
He nodded.
“How nice for you.”
Farley’s pale face flushed. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Gina.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not bothering to sound it, “but it is nice for you.”
Farley put his glasses back on his face and leaned forward across the table. “David was my oldest and best friend. I would never have murdered him for his share of the business!”
It was tempting to ask what would have made Farley murder his oldest and best friend, if not the controlling interest in the business, but I knew he hadn’t meant it that way. Before I could say anything, however, Farley continued. “The business probably won’t last long without David. I’m not a rainmaker. I handle the investments. Without someone to bring in new clients, we’ll die within a couple of years, most likely.”
“That’s sad.”
Farley shrugged. “It’s life. Of course, I might be able to find someone else, but it won’t be the same. It won’t be a partner.”
No, it wouldn’t. He’d have to hire his rainmaker: someone who could go out and press the flesh and bring in the cash, the way David had done. Farley didn’t have it in him. And he was right, as I had been all along: he was better off with David alive.
He tilted his head to look at me, vaguely birdlike. The light from above hit the lenses of the glasses and made them opaque. “You’re not meddling in the investigation, are you, Gina?”
“Of course not,” I said. All I’d done was order a hamburger to go from the restaurant that makes the best hamburgers in Nashville yesterday. It could have happened to anyone. And for my snooping through David’s mail in the penthouse... well, that had nothing to do with his murder, but everything to do with my divorce.
“Did you happen to know that David had a second set of bank accounts and an IRA he never told me about?”
Farley blinked. “I’m afraid I have no idea what David told you about and what he didn’t, Gina.”
Oh, smooth. And it was all the confirmation I was going to get. I got to my feet. “It was good to talk to you. I hope to see you and Martha at the service tomorrow. And at the house afterwards.”
Farley got to his feet, as well. “It was good to see you too, Gina. Take care of yourself.”
He didn’t offer to walk me out. And I noticed he still didn’t commit to attending either the funeral service or the reception.
* * *
RACHEL WAS NOWHERE to be found when I walked out of Farley’s office, so I found my own way to the front door. Her Toyota wasn’t in the lot, either, so instead of reiterating my hope that I’d see her tomorrow, I just got in my car and started driving.
I had to get home to scan Diana the statements for David’s hidden accounts, so she could start working on them. And I suppose I could have done it from the office. There was plenty of office equipment there: scanners and fax machines and computers. But it felt safer to do it from home, even if it would take longer. And I figured once I got there, I wasn’t going to want to leave again immediately, so instead of going directly home, I drove clear across town again, over to Charlotte Avenue and the Body Shop. Might as well take care of that while I was out. My car could use an oil change, anyway.
I don’t usually use quick lubes for my oil changes. David had a mechanic he liked to use, who charged a lot more, but who was experienced in dealing with foreign cars. So it was a while since I’d been through a quick lube.
The Body Shop looked much like I expected it to. It was a long building with a half dozen bays. Inside, men were busy changing tires and using blow torches. Two of the bays were dedicated to quickie oil changes. I pulled in behind an older model Chevrolet that was waiting in line, and looked around.
There were five cars ahead of me. And a dark blue truck parked in the corner of the lot, out of the way of the line of cars, with a couple of others.
As the line crept slowly forward, I determined that Nick was here, and that he worked in the bay on the right. As the line split into two closer to the building, I positioned myself in that line, and waited. Eventually, the car in front of me drove into the bay, and I moved up into first position. And that’s when Nick noticed me.
He was standing there talking to the driver of the Volvo in front of me. Probably a woman, because he was smiling and leaning on the top of the window. And then he looked up, and froze. The smile slid right off his face.
After a second he pulled it together, and went back to talking. And he went to work doing whatever he was supposed to do, under the car and under the hood, but he kept shooting glances in my direction. I couldn’t be entirely certain it was my presence that had rattled him, but there wasn’t anything going on behind me that might account for the frequent looks.
When the Volvo got the go ahead to leave and maneuvered slowly out of the bay and into the sunshine on the other end of the building, I prepared to move forward. But then Nick walked away, towar
d the little office and waiting room beside the next bay. I hesitated with my foot on the brake.
He disappeared inside. A minute passed. I could sense restlessness in the drivers behind me. The guy in the Lexus directly behind mine was frantically texting on his phone.
After a minute, a man came back out of the office and began waving me inside the bay. It wasn’t Nick.
I rolled down my window. “What happened to the other guy?”
“Lunch break,” the new guy said. He was older than Nick, approaching my age, with a bald head and a beer gut under the overalls. His name patch said Bud. “Whatcha need done?”
“Um... oil change?”
“Full service or basic?”
“Oh. Um...” Full service sounded like it would take longer, and so give me more time to ask questions. But if Nick wasn’t here, I should probably just cut my losses and get home. “Basic.”
“Turn the car off and pop the hood,” Bud said.
I did, and as he started tinkering with things, I looked out the rearview mirror. And saw Nick skulking across the parking lot to his truck. As I watched, he got in, reversed out of the parking space, and headed out of the lot. The last I saw of him, was when he took off down Charlotte Avenue in a cloud of exhaust. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think he might have given me the finger.
The insult added to the injury came after the oil change was complete and Bud had processed my credit card. He handed it back through the window with a clipboard and a pen for me to sign the receipt. And when I had, he said, “No offense, lady. I don’t know you from Adam.”
Or Eve, as the case may be. “But?”
“But ain’t you a little too old to be chasing after Nick?”
I blinked. The sheer audaciousness of the question took my breath away. Not only that he asked it, which was rude in and of itself. But that he called me old, not to mention that he thought I was chasing after Nick. Romantically, I assume.
I sputtered, but before I could speak, Bud continued. “I mean, you’re not bad-looking, for an older broad. I’d throw you a bang.”
“Big of you,” I said, my voice half-choked. As if I would ever—ever!—have anything to do with someone like this. Ever! “But—”
“But Nick’s taken. And no offense, lady, he ain’t gonna throw over that sweet little piece of tail he’s got for you.”
“I thought Nick’s piece of tail dumped him for someone else,” I said.
Bud shrugged. “That’s off. The old dude died.”
The old dude, as in my husband.
“That’s too bad.”
“Not for Nick,” Bud said.
Famous last words.
“Thank you,” I told Bud.
“Sure.” He winked. “You let me know about that bang, y’hear?”
When pigs fly.
I forced a smile. “I’ll do that.”
And then I drove away from there as if the bats of hell were on my tailpipe. Bud, I’m sure, was laughing.
Chapter 9
ALL I WANTED by the time I got home was to open a bottle of wine and crawl into bed. After I sent the various bank statements to Diana, naturally.
However, such was not to be. When I came up the driveway, I saw I had company. A nondescript gray car was parked at the bottom of the steps. It might have belonged to anyone, except for the couple of extra antennae sprouting from the roof. I wasn’t surprised when the driver’s side door opened and Jaime Mendoza stepped out.
I was surprised at the way he greeted me. “Where have you been?” accompanied by a scowl.
“Running errands,” I said, reaching into the backseat for the paperwork for Diana. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed. “Where?”
I wanted to ask him what business it was of his where I’d been, but I didn’t dare. He was the police. He could make anything I did his business, and probably would, if I annoyed him. So I rattled off the list of places I’d visited so far today. “The gym, the funeral home, David’s apartment, the funeral home, David’s office, the Body Shop on Charlotte Avenue...”
Mendoza’s scowl deepened. “We need to talk.”
“I thought we were talking,” I said.
“Inside.”
Fine. “Would you like to come inside, Detective?”
“Yes,” Jaime Mendoza said, “I would.”
“Follow me, please.” I closed the car door with a tilt of my hip—my hands being full—and led the way up the stairs to the front door. Mendoza followed, so close on my heels I could practically feel his hot breath on my neck. It was ridiculous. What did he think I was going to do, make a break for it? In the shoes I was wearing, I’d make it fifteen feet down the driveway before he caught up. And then he’d probably tackle me to the ground, and that would hurt, not to mention ruin my outfit. So no, I wouldn’t run.
Yet he stood there, close enough to smell, while I juggled papers and inserted the key in the lock.
He smelled good. Not strongly—probably not aftershave or a spray-on fragrance—but clean and fresh. Shampoo and soap, at a guess, with an undertone of spice.
David had been partial to Nautica. I wasn’t. This was nice, though.
The door unlocked, and I shifted the papers over to the other arm and pushed it open. “Come in.”
I left Mendoza to close the door, and headed into the dining room, where I dropped the statements on the table for later. No sooner had I stepped away than Mendoza picked up the top sheet and perused it. After a second, he glanced at me.
“David was hiding assets,” I said, shrugging out of my jacket. “I found the statements this morning. I’m sending them to Diana.”
He didn’t comment, just put the piece of paper back down on top of the pile before plunging his hand into his jacket pocket. He was wearing another designer suit today: a nice charcoal with thin, black stripes that emphasized broad shoulders and narrow hips. The shirt underneath was fuchsia. A lot of men wouldn’t be able to pull off the combination, at least not without looking ridiculous, but Mendoza looked great.
“Here.” He pulled out his own folded piece of paper and handed it to me.
I unfolded it. And felt my breath catch and my capacity for speech leave me yet again. “What—?”
“Restraining order,” Mendoza said.
“I can read.” I didn’t need him to translate for me. I hadn’t actually questioned what I was holding. It was more that I was wondering why I was holding it. “Someone filed a restraining order against me?”
“Jacquie Demetros,” Mendoza said.
I took a breath. And then another. And finally managed, “Why?”
“She said you were stalking her.”
The unfairness practically choked me. She had seduced my husband and ruined my marriage and perhaps left me destitute, and now she had the nerve to complain that I was bothering her? “I’m not stalking her! I’ve never even spoken to her.”
“She said you park outside her apartment building for hours,” Mendoza said. “And that you follow her when she goes out.”
Oh, for... “I’ve never parked outside her place for hours. Ever. Yesterday I hadn’t even been there five minutes when Nick showed up and they left.”
Mendoza sighed. “And naturally you followed.”
I tossed my head. It didn’t work the same when I had no hair to toss. “For your information, I lost them after two blocks. They went through a yellow light, and I got stuck on red. By the time I could move again, they were gone.”
Mendoza’s brows arched. Clearly he didn’t believe me. “She said you followed her into Rotier’s.”
“I was hungry,” I said. “I wanted a hamburger to take home, because I didn’t feel like cooking. I had no idea that’s where they were until I got inside.”
He looked at me. Down and up again. “You don’t look like someone who eats hamburgers.”
“I don’t usually. I’m getting older, and I’m trying to stay healthy.” And keep my figure. “But I did an extra thirty minutes on the
elliptical this morning to atone.”
“So it was a total coincidence that you happened to be there at the same time as Ms. Demetros.”
“Yes.” I did my best to look like I was telling the truth.
He tilted his head. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“I can’t help that,” I said.
He took a deep breath. It expanded an already nice chest under the gray jacket. “Mrs. Kelly.”
I returned my attention to his face. Nothing wrong with that, either. In fact, every part of him was a pleasure to look at. “Detective Mendoza.”
“You’ll have to leave Ms. Demetros alone from now on. No sitting outside her apartment with binoculars. No following her around.”
“She was sleeping with my husband,” I said. “I had a right to know what he’d left me for.”
Mendoza didn’t disagree with that. “If you come within a hundred feet of her,” he said instead, “I’ll have to arrest you.”
I stuck my bottom lip out. “Fine. How far is a hundred feet?”
“From here to the backyard,” Mendoza said. “Farther than across the street from her apartment building. And you can’t go inside the same establishment that she goes into. No more to-go orders from Rotier’s.”
Fine. “What am I supposed to do if she shows up at David’s funeral tomorrow? Leave?”
He blinked. “You think she will?”
“She was his girlfriend,” I said. “I think she might.”
Mendoza thought about it. “If she shows up here, or at your husband’s funeral, then she’s breaching the restraining order. Not you. As long as you don’t go near her, you should be fine.”
Good to know. “But if she shows up tomorrow, I can’t pull her hair out by the roots, right?”
Ditching David Page 9
