Long before graduation, we’d made a pact to attend Columbia College, a small art school in downtown Chicago. Despite Cissy’s threats to disown me if I didn’t attend a Texas university and rush her beloved Pi Phi, I followed my heart and moved to the shores of Lake Michigan. I settled in quickly, despite the weather and the tiny off-campus apartment Molly and I rented. My course load was heavy on graphic arts and basic computer, while Molly studied fashion. Somewhere along the way, she met Sebastian, with his nose ring and ponytail. He’d filled her head with talk of Hemingway’s Paris and reminded her that the greatest couturiers hailed from the land of Gitanes and Gauloises (aka, the brands of stinky cigs he’d pretentiously smoked). Little more than halfway through our studies, she packed up, bid me “adieu,” and flew the coop.
Though I got a few postcards from her initially, after six months, I didn’t hear a peep. She never returned to Chicago, and I concentrated on my own life, without her in it. A handful of years later, after guilt and homesickness drove me home, I heard from the friend of a friend that Molly had resurfaced in Big D, alone and with a child in tow. Word had it she was serving cocktails in order to support them both. I’d thought of looking her up, but was so busy starting my web design business—and enduring Mother’s schemes to marry me off—that I never even cracked the Yellow Pages to track her down. We hadn’t spoken in almost a decade.
Until this.
I phoned the private line—the “pink phone,” as I’d always called it—and woke my mother in two rings.
She lived there alone with a handful of staff. Sixteen rooms and guest quarters, but she couldn’t bear to sell the place. I’d been raised in that house. Daddy had died there. And Mother said it was too full of memories to let go.
I could hear the rustle of sheets as she breathed a soft, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“Andrea, for heaven’s sake.” I could picture her pushing the pink silk shade off her eyes and into the blond puff of hair. “My first good night’s sleep in . . . God, I don’t know how long . . . and you’ve just ruined it.”
“Good morning, Mother.” I was pulling on my jeans as I spoke, the receiver caught between my jaw and shoulder. “I need your help,” I told her, echoing Molly’s own words.
“At this hour? Whatever for?”
“A friend’s been accused of murder.”
“Stop teasing, Andrea.”
“It’s Molly O’Brien.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath. “The Hockaday scholarship girl? The one who had a child out of wedlock?”
My mother was nothing if not quick. “She needs a lawyer, a criminal lawyer, so could you call the firm and see if they can send someone over to the Far North Dallas substation to get her out?”
“Why couldn’t you have listened to me, darling? Have you ever heard of a Pi Phi getting arrested?”
“Oh, please, not again.” It was like a broken record. “It’s too early for a lecture.”
She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” I said to show her that the Little Miss Manners classes she’d enrolled me in when I was five had not been for naught.
I got off the phone and finished zipping my jeans. I drew my nightshirt over my head, knocking my glasses askew in the process. Found a bra in my top dresser drawer and unearthed a paint-flecked sweatshirt from the closet.
After slipping my feet into a pair of driving moccasins, I headed for the bathroom, lingering just long enough to squint at my predawn self in the mirror. At least my skin hadn’t broken out overnight, though my shoulder-length hair was seriously flattened on one side. Since no amount of brushing could fluff it up, I settled for a ponytail. I pushed my glasses onto my crown and splashed cold water on my face, drying off with a thick terry towel.
A fast gargle with Listerine, then I went in search of my purse, which had a way of getting lost despite the fact that there were few places for it to hide in my nine-hundred-square-foot condominium. It was a far cry from Mother’s house on Beverly Drive, but I felt comfortable here. I was only five feet five and a hundred twenty pounds. I didn’t need a lot of room. Besides, I’d been waited on hand and foot since I was born, and I rather liked taking care of myself, even if it meant my spoons were stainless steel instead of silver.
Outside, the stars still clung to the sky like thumbtacks, the moon close to full. It was colder than I’d anticipated, and I nearly went back for a coat.
A cat darted out from beneath a nearby car as I approached my Jeep Wrangler, but otherwise all was still.
The two-storied townhouses and condos that surrounded mine crouched in staggered shadows against the navy backdrop. Most of the windows were dark. Yellow bug lights gleamed on every porch.
I drove off in a sputter of engine, making it to the Far North Dallas substation in a record seven minutes.
My cell phone rang as I pulled into the parking lot, thick with blue and white Ford Tauruses and Crown Victorias. I angled the Jeep into a space, cut the motor, and picked up.
“Andrea?”
“Mother,” I sighed, unable to keep the relief from my voice. “You did get a hold of someone at the firm?” The woman could throw a catered affair for five hundred in the blink of an eye. I had to believe she could summon a lawyer on short notice.
“I called J.D. directly,” she informed me, sounding pleased with herself despite the circumstances. J.D. was J.D. Abramawitz of Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt—aka, ARGH—one of the top law firms in Texas. “He said he’d send a man to the police station to meet you. Though, God knows, I don’t understand why you feel the need to bail out that scholarship girl.”
“She used to be my best friend.”
“If only you’d spend time at the Junior League . . .”
“I’ve got to go.”
I put away the phone and locked the Jeep even though it was parked in a lot full of cop cars. These days, nothing was guaranteed.
I had only been to the police station once before when I’d had my car broken into and my stereo ripped off. It wasn’t anything like what you saw on television. Not the Far North Dallas substation, anyhow. The area was relatively crime-free, or at least as close as you could get these days, and seemingly worlds apart from neighborhoods to the south, east, and west, where daily drug busts and homicides made the nightly news with frightening regularity.
Chairs lined one wall, but all were empty. Above them hung posters with safety tips. UNLOAD YOUR FIREARM BEFORE CLEANING, one warned, and another, DON’T SHARE NEEDLES. Whatever happened to the good old days of LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS THE STREET?
My mocs made noisy slaps on the linoleum as I approached the crop-haired desk clerk, interrupting her perusal of People magazine.
I could see movement through the glass doors to my right, the back of a woman’s dark head, and I wondered if that was Molly. There didn’t seem to be much else going on this early in the morning.
“Can I help you?”
I tried to look poised and in control, not like a thirty-year-old web designer whose clients were mostly penniless nonprofits. “I’m here to see Molly O’Brien,” I said, hoping I sounded authoritative. “She was brought in about an hour ago.”
“Ah, the waitress who offed her boss,” she said, perking up.
“Allegedly offed her boss,” I quickly corrected, realizing now who Bud was. But that was about all I knew.
“You her lawyer?” she asked and gave me the once-over, wrinkling her nose so that I was tempted to give the sleeve of my sweatshirt a sniff. It had a nice smudge of cobalt blue on the front from some recent work in oils, but was otherwise clean.
“I’m a relative,” I told her. “Has she been formally charged?”
“She’s still being questioned.”
“Can I see her?”
She hesitated, squinting at me before giving a nod, apparently deciding I was harmless enough. Then she pushed a clipboard at me. “Sign in.”
When
I had, she slipped me a plastic visitor’s badge.
“Through the doors there.” She pointed a nail-bitten finger.
“Thanks,” I said, but she’d already gone back to her People.
I clipped the badge to my sweatshirt, then pressed my purse against my belly, which was making awful noises. Whether from hunger or anxiety, I wasn’t sure.
I hesitated at the doors, peering through them at the three people in a room crammed with desks. A female with a gray pageboy and a barrel-chested male fixed their attention on the woman whose back was to me. I could discern more than dark hair now: slim shoulders slightly slumped, hands gesticulating and then falling unseen into her lap.
The door buzzed as I pushed it open. It dropped closed behind me with a click.
“Molly?” I said.
Voices quieted at my entrance.
The detectives looked up.
The dark-haired woman turned around.
The face was not quite as I remembered. Even pale and drained, there was less flesh to the cheeks. The baby fat was gone, replaced by well-defined cheeks and jawbone. She had grown into features that had always been pretty and now bordered on knockout.
I swallowed, feeling suddenly gawky and thirteen again in my ponytail and sweatshirt.
“Andy?”
Green eyes brightened as recognition dawned, and the tight line of lips fell open to release a squeal of pleasure. A flush colored bloodless features.
“You’re here!”
Her chair scratched the floor as she flew out of it and toward me. She flung her arms around me and held on so tightly I nearly lost my breath.
“Thank you,” she said, again and again.
But I hadn’t done anything yet. Merely shown up. Maybe, to her, that was enough.
“Are you okay?” I asked when I managed to pry her to an arm’s length away. I studied her closely; saw the telltale puffiness around her eyes.
“I’m holding up.” She bit her lip and fresh tears welled at her lashes.
“The lawyer’s on his way over. It’s all arranged.” I rubbed her arms, oddly protective of this woman whom I hadn’t seen in years. She sorely needed a friend now, just as she had back at Hockaday. As had I. “Don’t say another word till he arrives.”
She nodded.
“It’ll be all right,” I said instinctively and patted her hand, wondering how many times she’d heard the same fairy tale before only to have it proved a lie.
I heard the noise of a clearing throat, and I looked up and over Molly’s shoulder. The gray-haired cop and her broad-bellied sidekick stood and watched us. Both had their arms crossed. Neither appeared as overjoyed as Molly to see me. “You shouldn’t be here, ma’am.”
“But I’m family,” I announced to them, deciding that “her long-lost friend, the artist” was pretty lame. “And you are?”
The detective with the pageboy stepped closer. “Detective Lydia Taylor.” She flicked a hand toward the Pillsbury Doughboy. “My partner, John Lord.”
Lord and Taylor?
I nearly made a joke about frequenting their shoe department, but figured it wasn’t wise since they were armed.
“Nice to meet you,” popped out of my mouth instead. Habit.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Detective Taylor drawled, not appearing that in the least. “I hate to interrupt your little reunion, but Ms. O’Brien was about to give us a statement.”
“If you don’t mind”—I summoned the nerve to cut her off—“I think she’ll just hold off saying anything else until she has counsel present.”
The detectives exchanged glances, and I waited for one or the other to say something, but neither did. I was rather proud of myself. Heck, I didn’t read Erle Stanley Gardner for nothing.
“And if it’s all right with you, could I have a minute alone with my, uh, sister?” I asked, directing my plea at Taylor, who seemed to be in the driver’s seat. Her partner hadn’t yet uttered more than a grunt. “Please?”
With a sigh, she gestured toward an empty desk well within earshot. Once Molly and I had seated ourselves, I leaned close to her and whispered, “Tell me everything.” I wanted to know exactly what I’d gotten myself into.
First, she made me promise to take care of her boy, and I swore that I would. She gave me directions to her place and made sure I wrote them down. Then she snapped a tissue from a box on the desk and began to shred it. “I don’t know where to start.”
I thought of the Game of Life and how often she and I had played it on the rug in my room at the house on Beverly when Mother had let her spend the night. Then I quietly urged her, “Start at Go.”
She stopped fiddling with the tissue, drew in a deep breath, and met my eyes. “I stayed late to help him close.”
“Bud,” I said, and she nodded.
“Bud Hartman,” she clarified, her voice so low I strained to hear. “He owns Jugs.” A flush spread upward from her collar, and I realized why. The place was well known in North Dallas, what with all the controversy it stirred up. I’d always thought of it as a hangout for macho men who believed they were better than their counterparts who hit the strip clubs.
“He’s a pig,” she ground out, then hastily added, “I mean, he was a pig.”
“Did he harass you?”
“You could say that.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Bud hit on anything that moved. He was like an octopus, you know? All arms. You had to be quick on your feet, or look out.” Her mouth quivered and her chin dropped. She stared down at her shoes. “Guess I didn’t dance fast enough this time.”
I saw the tear that splattered on the linoleum near her sneaker, and I knew I’d better forge ahead before she completely choked up. “Tell me what happened after everyone else left the restaurant. Do you usually close up with Bud?”
“No, it wasn’t my turn, but Julie said she was feeling sick during the shift and took off early.”
“Julie?”
“Julie Costello. She used to be a cheerleader for the Cowboys, but got busted for fraternizing with the players. She and Bud had a thing going, though he wasn’t what I’d call faithful. I doubt she was either.”
Molly paused, chewed her lip, then continued slowly.
“I put the cash from the day’s take into the bank bag, just like we’re supposed to, and I left it on Bud’s desk. He liked to make out the deposit slip himself, so I didn’t total it up except in my head. There must’ve been four or five thousand, at least. All those protestors just seem to make the place more popular.” She toyed with the tissue. “Like I said, I took the bag to his office and set it on the desk, then I went to the lockers to change. He’d shut off most of the lights, so it was pretty dark. I didn’t know where he was until I’d finished dressing and turned to go. He was there, Andy. Watching me.”
Her pupils widened like a cat’s, and I noted the twitch of muscles at her jaw. “All I wanted was to get home to my kid, but apparently he had other plans.” The slim hands clenched the Kleenex so hard her knuckles blanched. “He came after me, Andy. I was scared shitless.” She swallowed, and her neck quivered. “He had me pinned against the kitchen counter, and he started kissing me.” She stared off somewhere past my shoulder, seeing things that I couldn’t. “I got hold of a knife.” Her voice got lower, softer, quicker. “I lashed out at him.”
“Did you cut him?” I asked, reaching for her hands and holding them. They were trembling.
“Maybe . . . yes.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I must have, I guess. I’m not sure about anything anymore. I ran out of there so fast. I heard him call after me, so I figured he was pissed as hell. But he was alive.”
“You didn’t kill him?”
She didn’t hesitate. “No.”
The door banged open, and I raised my head to catch a lanky young man shooting into the room.
He stopped and pushed his preppy glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose. “I’m Brian Malone,” he announced, slightly breathless and flushed. He smoothed a pa
lm over tousled brown hair and shifted his briefcase to his left hand, approaching the detectives with his right hand extended.
When neither Lord nor Taylor met him halfway, he dropped his arm to his side and began to work at the buttons on a rumpled blue blazer. He didn’t look old enough to buy beer without getting carded. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but he was too fresh-faced to be more than twenty-nine, thirty tops.
“I’m from Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt,” he said and squared his shoulders with Napoleonic flair.
The detectives appeared bored rather than impressed.
So he stammered, “I’m here to represent, uh”—he pulled a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket and squinted—“Polly O’Brien.”
Molly stared at me with round eyes.
I tried to keep my mouth from falling open.
This was the shark that J.D. had sent to get Molly off the hook for murder?
Chapter 3
I stood helplessly as the detectives led Molly away.
They were taking her down to the basement to book her for murder. She peered tearfully over her shoulder before she disappeared from my sight. A tremor shot through me. Goose bumps rippled over my skin.
I turned on Brian Malone and hissed, “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
I wanted to challenge the statement, to curse his law firm for putting him on the case instead of an older man, someone who appeared to have actually spent some time in a courtroom, much less a police station, but I pressed my lips into a tight line and said nothing. No doubt his credentials were impeccable, or he wouldn’t be driving the carpool at ARGH, much less handling criminal trials.
Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 2
