[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  She hiccupped. “All right, I guess.”

  “I thought maybe you’d like to go get some dinner or something. Or lunch tomorrow. Something to take your mind off things.”

  “Oh.” She sniffed again. “That’s really nice of you, but... um... I’m waiting for someone to call. I don’t want to go anywhere just in case I miss it.”

  “Of course not,” I said quickly. Waiting for Julio to call when Detective Grimaldi let him go, most likely. “I guess it’s getting kind of late anyway. How about tomorrow? I have to go to the office in the morning, and I have an appointment in the afternoon, but I could meet for lunch in between, if you’d like.”

  Heather hesitated. I prepared myself for a rejection, thinking she was probably trying to come up with an excuse to say no. Instead she said yes, although her voice was notably unenthusiastic. “Sure. Unless something comes up.”

  “Great,” I said, trying not to take it personally. “Do you have a favorite place?”

  Anywhere except...

  “I really like Fidelio’s. Lila and Connie and I used to go there sometimes.” She sniffed.

  I grimaced, but did my best to keep my own lack of enthusiasm out of my voice. “That’s fine. I had lunch with Lila there myself last week, as a matter of fact. When do you want to meet?”

  We agreed to see each other at Fidelio’s Restaurant at noon the next day, and I hung up, feeling a little better. At least I’d done something, and I had a fairly full day scheduled tomorrow, which is always helpful. There’s nothing worse than lying in bed in the morning, alone, and having nothing to look forward to but a day full of nothing.

  * * *

  By the time I got to the office the next morning, Tim had already heard the news. When I bearded him in his den – what used to be Walker’s office, the biggest and nicest in the building – he was sitting behind his (Walker’s) desk, reading the paper and looking positively stricken.

  “Oh,” he said when I knocked on the open door, “it’s you. Come in.”

  “I see you’ve heard the news.” I sat down in one of the chairs across the desk from him. The headline read, “Priceless Work of Art Missing!” with an accompanying photograph of the O’Keeffe. It was unmistakable, with its bright pink flowers and spiky needles.

  Tim nodded. “Disgusting,” he said, folding the paper over to hide the picture.

  I agreed. “The way they worded it in the article, poor Connie Fortunato’s death seems like an unfortunate side issue to the theft. Like the painting was more important than her life. They didn’t even run a photograph of her.”

  “And they didn’t mention my name,” Tim said.

  “How is Mr. Fortunato holding up? Have you spoken to him?”

  Tim shrugged. “I guess he’s all right. After so many years, some of the gilt has rubbed off the lily, if you know what I mean.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t surprised, considering the way Connie had looked at Rafe and the way her husband had looked at me last Sunday. What was surprising, was that Tim had come right out and said it. The Fortunatos’ relationship wasn’t any of my business, or his, and under the circumstances, when Perry Fortunato had just lost his wife, putting it like that seemed beyond rude and well into callous. Not that I’d expect any less from Tim, who has all the delicacy and sensitivity of a cheese grater.

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. I think she said they’d been married for more than ten years, and of course she was getting a little long in the tooth, poor dear. Holding on for all she was worth, going the surgery route and everything, but when a woman’s pushing forty, it’s pretty much all down-hill, isn’t it, darling?” He smoothed a hand over his sleek, blond head. “Everything sags; the face, the butt, the boobs... Of course, that’s what the good Lord invented the Wonderbra for!” He winked.

  “Or, I suppose, the Wonderjock.”

  Tim’s eyes widened. “How do you know about the Wonderjock, darling?”

  “Oh, I spoke to someone who was wearing one the other day,” I said, wishing I’d engaged my brain before I’d opened my mouth. Conversations about men’s underwear really make me uncomfortable. Tim lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned closer, across the desk.

  “You’re not talking about the dishy Mr. Collier, I hope? Because if I found out that he has to wear a Wonderjock, that would just ruin all my favorite fantasies!”

  “No,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn, “I’m not talking about Rafe.”

  “Thank God,” Tim said, looking relieved. “Because, let me tell you, darling...”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, if it’s all the same to you.” I stood up. “If you don’t mind, I didn’t come in here to discuss Rafe Collier’s underwear. I actually just wanted to make sure that it would be OK for me to call Perry Fortunato to give him my condolences. He’s your client, and I don’t want to go behind your back.”

  “Sure. Call him. Tell him I’ll be in touch later.”

  I promised I would, and withdrew, back to my own tiny office. But when I dialed Perry’s number, he didn’t answer the phone, and I was forced to leave a message, condoling him on the loss of his wife and telling him to call me if there was anything I could do. It’s something one says in circumstances like these, and the words just fell out of my mouth without conscious thought, but after I’d done it, I sort of wished I hadn’t. The way he’d looked into my blouse and let his lips linger on my hand last Sunday, had made me feel uncomfortable, and I hoped he wouldn’t take my remark as an invitation to call for a kind of sympathy and consolation I wasn’t prepared to give.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Heather Price was late, and looked like she had spent a sleepless night. She was a handsome woman under normal circumstances, but today her eyes were red and swollen from crying, her face was blotchy, and she had made no effort to make herself more presentable. Her face was devoid of make-up, and her hair was flat and tucked behind her unadorned ears, while the rest of her was simply dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a green T-shirt. She looked like the ‘before’ part of a before-and-after makeover.

  “Hi,” I said when she plopped herself down across from me. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “And how!” She waved at the waiter, who glided over. “Give me a scotch. Double.”

  “And mademoiselle?” The waiter turned to me.

  “White wine, please. Thank you.” I don’t usually drink alcohol during the day, but I thought I should probably try to build a connection with Heather.

  The waiter nodded and withdrew, and Heather leaned back on her chair and breathed out. “God, I feel like crap.”

  I nodded sympathetically. She looked like crap, too, but of course I couldn’t say so. “I was sorry to hear about Connie,” I said instead. “I only met her a few times, but she seemed like a nice woman.”

  “She was a peach,” Heather agreed. “Much too good for that husband of hers.”

  From her vehemence, and her careful diction, I wondered if she might not have had a drink or two before coming here, as well. “Had you known each other long?”

  Heather shook her head. “I met her this spring. We worked on another volunteer committee together. That good-for-nothing jackass Perry wasted no time hitting on me. Oh, thanks.” She grabbed her scotch out of the waiter’s hand and downed a third of it in a single gulp. The waiter turned to me, and his expressionless face managed to convey his opinion of her quite well as he placed my glass on the table in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I said politely. “I’ll have a blackened salmon Caesar salad, please.”

  Heather surfaced for long enough to order a lunch portion of the chicken Alfredo with broccoli – comfort-food – and the waiter withdrew. I waited until he was out of ear-shot, and then I added, “So does Perry have a habit of hitting on people? I thought it was just me. Not that he hit on me, exactly; it was more a suggestion that he might if I encouraged him...”

  Heather snorted. “Perry fancies himself a ladies man. One of those dashing types
in the old movies. Instead, he’s just a nasty piece of work with a roving eye and – if you get too close – roving hands, as well.” She took another, more ladylike sip of her drink, and continued, “To do him justice, he’s been discreet about it. If he embarrassed Connie publicly, I believe she’d divorce him. Or...” Her voice caught, and then she drained most of the rest of the scotch as Connie’s death hit her anew. Her voice was raspy when she finished the thought, “she would have. If she hadn’t been killed first.”

  “I remember when Brenda Puckett died a few weeks ago, I kept doing what you’re doing. Talking about her as if she were still alive, and then realizing she wasn’t, and feeling awful.”

  Heather nodded.

  I added, “I found Brenda’s body. I don’t know if you knew that.”

  She stopped looking around for the waiter, probably to order a refill, and turned to me. “No, actually I didn’t. I remember hearing about it on the news, but I didn’t realize it was you who found her. She was horribly butchered, wasn’t she?”

  “Her throat was cut,” I said. “It wasn’t pretty. Lots of blood.”

  “Connie was strangled,” Heather said, twisting her empty glass around and around in her hands. “There was no blood, but her face was purple, and her tongue was sticking out.”

  I nodded, with a suppressed shiver. I remembered the photograph Tamara Grimaldi had shown me of Lila. “I heard the same thing happened to her that happened to Lila.”

  “I never saw Lila,” Heather said, “but I guess so. Connie was naked and tied to the bed, anyway. And dead.” She shuddered.

  I lowered my voice. “So who do you think did it?”

  I watched her closely, hoping for some clue as to what she knew or guessed – a furtive look in her eyes, a flash of fear, worry – but I didn’t see anything.

  “Hell,” she said, “how should I know? Some crazy person, obviously. Who else goes around and rapes and strangles women?”

  “It would have to be someone who knew them both. And if the murders are connected to the robberies, someone with a connection to all three of the houses.”

  This time, I saw fear in her eyes. Her voice was even, albeit with just a hint of a tremor that she couldn’t quite eradicate. “I staged both the houses that were robbed, and I’d been to Connie’s house before, but I don’t have the equipment I’d need to rape someone.”

  Her attempt at humor fell woefully flat.

  I was planning to ask her about her boyfriend, but now the waiter arrived with the food, and we got busy eating. I let the subject rest for a few minutes while we chewed. “How is your food?”

  “Great, thanks. Yours?” She sounded a little calmer, as if the carbohydrates had kicked in and mellowed her out.

  “Very good. It always is. I hear the police talked to your boyfriend yesterday. How did that go?”

  She stopped eating to stare at me. “How d’you know that?”

  I’d already figured out my answer, and since it wasn’t really a lie – just a slight truth-adjustment – I was able to get it out without looking like I was fibbing big-time. “They’ve been talking to a friend of mine, as well.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “His name’s Rafael Collier,” I said, keeping an eye on her to see if she’d give anything away. She didn’t.

  “Sorry, I don’t know him.” She shrugged lightly.

  “That’s OK. I think your boyfriend does, though.” She didn’t answer. “And of course Connie met him. So did they let your boyfriend go? Or are they still talking to him?”

  Her voice was tight. “They’re still talking to him. What about your friend?”

  “They kept him for a long time last weekend, after Lila died. I’m not sure if they’ve managed to get hold of him again, but I know they were looking for him yesterday.”

  My voice, I’m pleased to say, held just the right amount of worry.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Heather asked.

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. More of a... um...”

  “Future boyfriend?”

  “Well...”

  She smiled, leaning back in her chair. “You obviously care about him.”

  “Well...” I said again, my cheeks pinking. And that betraying flush wasn’t all pretend. I did care, at least enough that I didn’t want him to go to jail for two murders he didn’t commit. Maybe even enough that I didn’t really want him to go to jail for committing the robberies, even though I knew he was guilty. On that score, though, Detective Grimaldi had every right to lock him up and throw away the key, and she wouldn’t get any argument from me if she chose to exercise her option. The funny thing was, I didn’t think Rafe would argue the point, either. He’d do what he could to stay out of jail for as long as he could, but if he was caught, fair and square, he’d take it like a man.

  “You know,” Heather said, “someone else who worked in all three of the houses – Connie’s and the two that were robbed – was that really hot house cleaner guy.”

  “Beau Riggins? The House Boy?”

  “That’s the guy. The one who cleans in his underwear.”

  “Wonderjocks,” I said. Heather looked surprised, and I added, “He showed them to me. How do you know that he worked for all three of the houses?”

  She counted on her fingers. “He was at the funeral the other day with Connie, and she told me she’d hired him. I saw him at the Caldwell family’s house when I was staging it a couple of weeks ago, and Kieran’s clients have his business card on their refrigerator. Behind a magnet of a guy whose clothes come off, like a paper doll’s.”

  “I must have missed that,” I said. “Not to be crude or anything, but why would he rape someone?” Looking like he did, Beau probably had all the female – or male – companionship he could want.

  “He has to be a little weird to clean houses in his underwear,” Heather said.

  “Wonderjocks. And I don’t think he does all that much cleaning. He probably just bends and stretches a lot. He said his clients like to watch while he works.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Heather said.

  Personally, I’m not someone who enjoys nudity, my own or anyone else’s. I don’t even wear a bikini on the beach, but prefer to cover up in a bathing suit when I go at all. Beau’s easy sexuality had made me feel uncomfortable. But he hadn’t seemed like the type who’d tie up, rape, and strangle someone. Rather, I thought he was an exhibitionist; someone who got off on being watched, not someone who’d do nasty deeds under cover of darkness. To Beau, his job was probably the equivalent of working as a stripper or being a porn star. Totally icky professions, both, but the total opposite of whoever had killed Lila and Connie. At least that was how it seemed to me, but I’d be the first to admit I have no personal knowledge and can’t be expected to know what I’m talking about.

  “It sounds like I’ll have to give Beau a call,” I said, and looked up as someone stopped next to our table. It was the waiter. I expected him to ask if everything was OK, the way waiters do, and maybe inquire if we needed a refill on our drinks, but instead he addressed Heather.

  “Ms. Price? There is someone to see you in the lobby.”

  Heather looked surprised for a moment, and then her eyes lit up. I guessed maybe she’d left Julio a message about where she was going to be, and she thought he’d tracked her down after being released by the police. Personally, I wasn’t so optimistic. There was no reason why Julio wouldn’t just come over to the table. Unless he was wearing jeans and the maitre d’ had refused to let him pass. However, I didn’t let her see my doubt, but just smiled encouragingly. “Go ahead.”

  Heather didn’t have to be asked twice, but jumped up and hurried toward the reception area, leaving her summer jacket hanging over the back of her chair and her handbag sitting on the floor beside it. The waiter smiled apologetically as he picked them up and followed.

  She didn’t come back, but the waiter did. Eventually. “Ms. Price was compelled to leave,” he murmured as he placed
the check on the table next to me.

  “Did her boyfriend come for her?” I dug through my wallet, looking for the credit card I thought would be most likely to withstand the charge. I hadn’t expected to have to pay for Heather’s lunch as well as my own.

  The waiter shook his head, dropping his voice another notch, to where I almost couldn’t hear him over the clinking of silverware and muted conversations all around us. “The police escorted her out. A uniformed patrol officer in an official car.” He shuddered.

  “Dear me,” I said, not at all surprised. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  The waiter rolled his eyes and shrugged in an eloquent, Gallic way. “I shall return momentarily, Mademoiselle.”

  I nodded and sat back on my chair, hoping he wouldn’t return momentarily to tell me my credit card has been rejected.

  * * *

  Gary Lee and Charlene Hodges arrived at the office promptly at 3:30, but before they got there, I had found the time for a few phone calls. The first was to Tamara Grimaldi, made just after I left Fidelio’s and was walking to my car. I figured that by then she must have gotten tired of talking to Julio Melendez, but that Heather wouldn’t have had time to get there yet, and I might catch her between interviews.

  “Detective? Savannah Martin.”

  “Hello, Ms. Martin,” the detective said resignedly.

  “I just wanted to know if there was any news.”

  “You know, the general public isn’t supposed to call the police for updates on ongoing investigations.”

  “Oh.” I guessed that was probably true, although it hadn’t actually occurred to me before she mentioned it. “Sorry.”

  “It’s my fault. I’ve talked to you about too many things I shouldn’t have mentioned.”

  “I did help you catch Walker Lamont,” I reminded her. “And without me, you wouldn’t have known that there was a connection between the open house robberies and Lila’s murder.”

  “I assure you, Ms. Martin, that’s a connection we would have found sooner or later.”