“Did you tell anyone about the fight?” I asked.
“Oh, no. No, I didn’t. I don’t want anybody thinking bad of Leonard.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “You find Leonard for me. Tell him it’s okay. Tell him everything is okay.”
“I will,” I promised.
Leona came into the room with a tea tray and plate of cookies. I extracted myself from Mrs. Sullivan’s death grip, said what I hoped was an appropriate farewell, and left.
So Mr. Sullivan and Leonard had a terrible argument. Threats had been made shortly before the murder.
I was okay with Gerald Mayhew being a suspect. But Leonard? The victim’s own grandson? A guy I knew and liked?
Things like that just shouldn’t happen.
I’ve really got my work cut out for me when I take over the world.
* * *
When I arrived at the office Manny had returned from Riverside and was working at his desk.
“Where have you been?” he asked, as I walked past.
I glanced at Inez. She’d ratted me out.
“I phoned Jarrod Parker at his job but he wasn’t in,” I said. “I thought he might be home so I drove over to see if his car was there so I could have Quality Recovery pick it up.”
The lie rolled easily off my tongue. Manny shrugged and turned back to his computer.
I shuffled papers across my desk, pretending to work, and wondering if I should call Nick and give him the info I’d gleaned about Mr. Sullivan’s murder. Maybe, in return, he’d tell me what he’d uncovered.
It was worth a try.
I phoned his office but he wasn’t in so I left a message. At that point, there was nothing to do but get to work, which seemed kind of okay, given the day I’d had so far.
I pulled up the Griffins account and downloaded the photo I’d taken of their soon-to-be-foreclosed house, and wrote up my comments on the inspection I’d done. Because I’d lied to Manny earlier about Jarrod Parker’s car, I decided to redeem myself by actually calling the repo agency and seeing if they’d had any luck finding the car.
My good intentions were shattered before I picked up the phone. Inez loomed over my desk.
“Dana, we’re ready for your safety report,” she said.
“My what?”
Inez pulled off her glasses. “Now, Dana, don’t tell me you didn’t read the safety materials the corporate office sent.”
I stole a quick glance at the stack of shrink-wrapped forms Inez had presented me with that I’d put on the floor and kicked under my desk. “Of course I read them,” I told her.
“Did you find them useful?” she asked.
So far, they made a great footrest.
“Very useful,” I said.
“We’re ready for your report,” Inez said.
I hadn’t read the material—and I had no intention of doing so.
“If you’d read Corporate’s memo carefully, Inez,” I said, “you’d have seen that, as branch safety coordinator, I’m required to conduct a safety inspection prior to giving my safety presentation.”
“Oh?” Inez peered around my desk trying to spot the safety packet.
I eased it a little farther under my desk.
“My inspection will be completed today,” I told her.
“Well, of course,” Inez said, squaring her shoulders. “If that’s what Corporate wants.”
Inez went back to her desk and I headed for Manny.
“You’ve got to do something,” I whispered, dropping into the chair beside his desk. “Inez has got me doing some stupid safety thing for Corporate.”
Manny closed his eyes for a few seconds and shook his head.
“Do it, Dana,” he said. “It’s from Corporate.”
With no one else to complain to and no hope of a reprieve, I went back to my desk, dug out the corporate office’s safety materials and flipped through them. Sure enough, there was an inspection I had to perform.
I’ve worked for this company way too long.
I found a clipboard in the stock room, clamped my inspection report to it, and set about making our office a safer work environment.
Manny and Carmen’s work areas were free of violations, and I awarded them the safety smiley-face sticker that Corporate had included with my materials. Lucas’s desk grossed me out when I found a half eaten Pop Tart in his top drawer, so I moved on. I searched my safety checklist for a hair net requirement but couldn’t find one, leaving me no choice but to give Jade a passing grade.
At Inez’s desk, I poked and peered around, shaking my head and making the most annoying tsking noise I could manage.
“You’re a real hazard, Inez,” I said. “Corporate will have to hear about this.”
“What? But, Dana—”
“Just doing my duty.” I dropped to my knees and crawled under her desk. “More than three plugs in an outlet. We can’t allow that, Inez.” I yanked the plugs, disconnecting her computer and calculator.
I was liking this job. If only it came with a gun.
I crawled out from under her desk and tapped my pen against the clipboard.
“You’re in violation of section 2.10 of the safety inspection, Inez,” I said, and pointed to her personal-sized oscillating fan. “Exposed cord. That’s another write-up. Jeez, Inez, are you trying to kill us all?”
“But, Dana, how am I supposed to work without my computer and my calculator?” she asked.
“Not my problem.” I peeled a big red sticker from the safety materials folder and slapped it on her desk. “But you can’t work here until these safety issues are corrected and have been re-inspected.”
“Very well.” Inez drew herself up and lifted her chin. “If Corporate so dictates, then it must be done.”
“Damn straight.” I snapped my clipboard and went back to my desk.
I enjoyed an Inez-free afternoon while she scoured the stores in Santa Flores for the items necessary to bring her work area up to code. I managed to look busy enough that Manny didn’t give me so much as a glance, so it seemed like a great time to take a break.
The office breakroom was adequate, with a small refrigerator, a microwave, sink, and vending machine. I got a soda, sat down at the table, and helped myself to the newspaper someone—probably Lucas—had left there.
I found a small article about Mr. Sullivan’s death on page four, with a quote from Detective Nick Travis stating the police were following up several leads but had no suspects. The article also reported that Mr. Sullivan’s funeral was scheduled for next week.
The whole thing seemed sort of low key. That bothered me. From living, breathing human being to a statistic. Sad.
Definitely worth changing when I took over the world.
Chapter 8
I called it a day, glad to be out of the office, anxious to go home, but not free to do so. My work still wasn’t done.
I drove to my parents’ house and found the garage door open and Dad at his workbench. He was still a nice looking man, even with a little gray at his temples and a few lines on his face; his couch-potato lifestyle showed around his middle.
Gerald Mayhew flashed in my mind. Could he actually get so jealous that he’d do bodily harm to Mr. Sullivan? At his age, wouldn’t he be over all that territorial stuff by now?
I sat in my car for a few minutes watching Dad puttering at his workbench and thought about him and Mom, and all the years they’d been married. If love was strong enough to keep two people together for decades, was it strong enough to commit murder for?
“What’s wrong with your mother?” Dad asked as I walked up.
“Don’t you know?” I asked.
“How would I know?” he said. “She’s not talking to me. Gave me a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner and took off for her sister’s house.”
Mom prided herself on putting together creative—though sometimes quirky—meals. If she was dishing out sandwiches, she might be more serious about moving out than I’d hoped and this wasn’t a problem that wou
ld likely blow over. I didn’t like to get involved in my parents’ personal life, but I knew I had to jump in.
“She’s upset about the TV sports package you want go get,” I said.
Dad seemed confused for a few seconds, then shrugged. “If she doesn’t want the sports package, then we wouldn’t get it. End of story.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy,” I said. “Mom wants to go out more. She’s bored sitting at home all the time.”
“She gets out,” Dad said. “She’s at her sister’s right now, isn’t she?”
“She wants to go with you,” I said. “She told me you two used to do lots of things together.”
“We do things,” Dad insisted. “Just the other day we … we, ah …. Huh. I could have sworn we did something.”
“She thinks life is passing her by,” I said.
Dad heaved a long sigh. “Talk to her, will you? She’ll listen to you.”
“I tried,” I said. “You’re going to have to do something. Take her out. Go places with her.”
Dad looked totally lost. “Go places? Where?”
Now I was almost as annoyed with Dad as my mom was.
“Where did you used to take her?” I asked. “You know, back when you were dating.”
He grinned. “I used to take her out to the orange groves after dark. We’d back in between the rows and—”
“Stop!” I put up my hand. What was it with parents? Just because you became a mature adult they thought you wanted to hear stuff like that?
After my stomach stopped rolling, I went on.
“Okay, Dad, you’ve got the idea here, I said. “Just go do things.”
I gave him a peck on the cheek and left feeling a little better about life. My parents weren’t on the road to reconciliation yet, but at least they were pointed in the right direction—which meant I wouldn’t have to find a truck for Mom to move in. I headed home.
At my apartment complex I swung into my designated spot and got out of my car. The security lights cast shadows across the parking lot. I looked around. No sign of Nick tonight—which was a good thing. Wasn’t it?
I climbed the stairs to my apartment and found Nick on the floor, leaned back against my door, tie pulled down, collar open. He was reading the newspaper and eating a chicken leg.
My heart jumped into my throat, even though I didn’t want it to.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He looked up. “You called me.”
“That was hours ago,” I said, recalling that I’d phoned him from the office earlier. “Good thing I wasn’t on fire.”
Nick picked up the grease-stained bag beside him. “I brought dinner.”
“Isn’t there some place you’re supposed to be?” I asked.
“Like where?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure I could handle another clueless man tonight.
“Home,” I said. “Your home.”
“No,” he said.
“Isn’t someone expecting you?” I asked.
Nick picked up another bag. “I brought ice cream.”
My resistance started to shake. Nick saw it.
He rattled the bag and said, “Chocolate, chocolate chip.”
I crumbled. I’m so shallow sometimes.
“You can come in,” I said. “But only because you’ve caught me at a weak moment.”
Again. I seemed to be having a lot of those lately.
I let us into my apartment. Nick headed for the fridge while I went to the bedroom. I changed into jeans and a sweater, then joined him in the kitchen.
Seven Eleven sat at Nick’s feet looking up at him with big green eyes, and meowing her little head off. It gave me pause. Was that how I looked when I gazed at Nick?
I hoped not.
We filled our plates with chicken and fixings and ate in front of the TV, then hit the ice cream.
“So, what’s up? Why did you call me?” Nick asked, as he scraped the last chocolate chip from his bowl.
I’d phoned Nick this afternoon hoping to trade info about Mr. Sullivan’s murder. I had more information than I knew what to do with—a possible affair, a jealous husband who was a security guard and owned a gun, a missing person who’d been overheard arguing with the deceased.
But now, looking across the couch at Nick, I wasn’t sure how much—if any—of this information I should share with him. For one thing, since he was the homicide detective assigned to the case he probably knew all of this and if I spilled my guts I’d end up looking like an idiot. And if he didn’t already know, my telling him might get some innocent person in trouble, or send the investigation down a dead end, wasting Nick’s time and possibly allowing the real murderer to escape. And, if Nick knew I was involved in the case, he might refuse to give me any info at all.
I’m definitely making decisions less complicated when I take over the world.
“I wanted to see how the Sullivan case is going,” I said, thinking it best not to give anything away.
Nick must have also thought it best not to give anything away because he said, “We’re continuing the investigation.”
“You sound a little vague,” I said.
“You sound like my lieutenant.”
Nick gathered the plates and went into the kitchen. I picked up our trash and followed.
“Did you find the murder weapon?” I asked, trying to sound chatty as we straightened up with kitchen.
“No.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“No.”
“Any new leads?”
“No.”
“Have you found a motive?”
“No.”
These less than informative answers didn’t suit me. I was getting nowhere. Time to try another tact.
I mentally debated the three time-honored feminine methods of gaining a man’s cooperation—whining, crying, or offering sex.
I couldn’t bring myself to whine to Nick, and I didn’t think I could work up any tears unless I poked myself in the eye. That left sex, and somehow I sensed that once we went there, the very last thing on my mind would be Mr. Sullivan’s murder investigation.
I huffed impatiently.
“Okay, look,” I said. “You’re just being annoying. What’s the big deal about me knowing what’s going on with the investigation?”
Nick stared down at me, cold and unmoved.
“Well?” I demanded, trying to appear as cold and unmoved as he.
After a few more seconds of glaring, Nick relented.
“We got fingerprints from the Sullivan house,” he said. “Family, and a building contractor. Only one of them had a criminal record. Leonard Sullivan.”
“Leonard?”
I couldn’t hide my shock. I had no idea he’d been in trouble with the law. To me, he was a nice, likable guy who had trouble keeping a job and paying his bills on time.
“What sort of criminal record?” I asked.
“Drug possession, assault, some juvenile stuff,” Nick said. “Nothing stuck. No convictions.”
“Have you spoken with Leonard?” I asked. If he had, he could tell me where to find him.
“We haven’t located him,” Nick said.
“What about the other prints?” I asked.
“A building contractor named Kirk Redmond,” Nick said. “I spoke with him this morning. He was at the Sullivan house about a week ago giving an estimate for some painting.”
Another dead end.
I thought about Gerald Mayhew.
“What about the neighbors?” I asked,
Nick shook his head, then said. “Your prints were there.”
I gasped. Of course, my fingerprints would have been found at the crime scene, but it was a little uncomfortable knowing I was part of the official investigation.
Nick touched my chin and turned my face up to his.
“Anything else you want to know, Nancy Drew?” he asked.
My universe narrowed and every thought flew out of my head. Th
is was nice. Me standing close to Nick. Him smelling good. His hand touching my chin. The kind of nice I could get used to.
But I didn’t dare.
I pulled back.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Here in Santa Flores, I mean. Where have you been since high school?”
“New York,” he said.
“Why did you come back?”
Nick gave me a lopsided grin. “I missed the place.”
He was blowing off my questions, and I didn’t like it.
“Tell me the truth,” I told him. “I want to know.”
Nick leaned back against the kitchen counter and studied my face, as if deciding whether he should share this information with me.
“I worked undercover in New York,” he finally said. “I saw ugly things, Dana. A lot of ugly things. My folks still live here. I wanted to come home.”
I didn’t think it could be that simple.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” he said.
“Who’s waiting for you at home?” I asked.
I knew this was a stretch, really none of my business. But I asked anyway.
“Nobody,” Nick said. “Nobody is waiting.”
“No wife? Fiancé?”
He shook his head.
I decided to push a little further, since he was in a cooperative mood.
“What about a girlfriend?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Nope. No girlfriend,” he said.
A little wave of relief washed over me.
“What about you?” he asked and gestured toward the back of my apartment. “Husband? Fiancé?”
“No,” I said, feeling another wave of something spread through me.
“Boyfriend?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“So does this mean I can come by and bring you ice cream again?” he asked.
My knees weakened and my heart started to beat a little faster.
“As long as it’s chocolate,” I said.
A little grin crept over Nick’s face. I hadn’t seen this one before. I couldn’t interpret it.
He headed for the entry way. I followed and opened the door.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said.
The words came out sounding softer than I’d meant for them to.
“You’re welcome.”
Fatal Debt Page 7
