by Ann Roberts
The machine beeped once more and a woman cleared her throat. “Detective Nelson, I hope you don’t mind that I called you at home. I tried the precinct, but they said you had already left.” Molly instantly recognized Ari Adams’s seductive voice. She rushed to the machine and leaned close. “I won’t tell you how I got your home phone number. I doubt you’d approve . . . it wasn’t exactly illegal, just maybe a tad questionable . . . but I guess you already know that sometimes I push the bounds of what is ethical,” Ari said with a slight giggle. “Anyway, I know I’m rambling, but I just felt so bad about Bob Watson running off. I had no idea that he would react like that, but I still think he’s innocent. I’m really sorry that it came back on you—I’m sure David Ruskin was a total asshole. Oh, sorry about the swearing. It’s just a really appropriate description of him, don’t you think?” Molly laughed out loud, totally agreeing. How did Ari know Ruskin? Probably because of her father. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m just really sorry. Oh, and in case you don’t recognize my voice, this is Ari Adams. Bye.”
A shrill sound announced the end of Molly’s messages. She replayed Ari’s five times, twice just to make sure she caught everything and three more times to hear Ari’s voice.
Molly returned to the piano and propped Michael Thorndike’s murder file on the music stand. Her fingers drifted across the keys as she scanned the day’s notes. On the surface, the case seemed simple. Michael Thorndike was helpful enough to leave the most incriminating clue—the name of his killer. Bob Watson certainly had a motive, and a shaky alibi at best, one her partner would check out first thing in the morning.
Still, it seemed too staged. Why had Thorndike’s body been in the living room? And while it didn’t look good for Bob Watson, Ari was adamant that he couldn’t be a killer. Thinking of Ari again, she played more forcefully, creating a new melody, one that was rather good. She had no idea where she was going—it was like an unplanned night drive, but she’d done it for so long, that she just had to follow the notes. Once in a while, Molly would create something brilliant, but she never wrote anything down. How many best-selling hits had literally slipped through her fingers?
Next door, her neighbor Mrs. Lyons clicked off her TV. The eighty-three year old liked to stay up late and watch The Tonight Show. That Jay Leno wasn’t nearly as good as Johnny Carson, but he did his best. Music flowed through the walls. Mrs. Lyons didn’t mind Molly’s music and she liked the idea that a police woman lived next door. Yet she could always tell when the detective was upset, such as tonight. The music captivated her, but it had a sad, forlorn tone—all of Molly’s best compositions did.
She knew Molly would play for at least another half hour and gradually the notes would become so soft that she couldn’t hear them anymore. And then, perhaps, the detective would go to bed for a well-deserved sleep.
Chapter Four
Monday, June 18
8:00 a.m.
At eight in the morning, Molly’s day was already three hours old, having arrived early to process the paperwork for some of her other cases—people who didn’t rate as highly as Michael Thorndike, at least not in the eyes of Captain David Ruskin. The death of a civic leader was top priority, and Molly would spend as much time as necessary to catch his killer, even if it meant other homicides would go cold.
By three, she’d already clocked ten hours, a figure that would probably double before she went home. A yawn escaped her lips about the same time her stomach rumbled in protest for skipping lunch. She glanced at her watch for the third time in five minutes and crossed her legs, trying to find comfort while she waited for members the infamous Phoenix League to grace her with their presence. Molly felt like a folded trundle bed sitting on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. She stared enviously at the five leather office chairs spread around the conference table in front of her, each one complete with back support and rounded arms. She debated whether to claim the fifth one for herself. Its executive wouldn’t be returning. Michael Thorndike’s death brought the partnership down to four, as she pictured the executives bantering ideas about. A large print hung over the credenza that looked like a paint splatter, but Molly didn’t know anything about art. The rest of the room was sterile and plain. She guessed the partners kept the really good stuff in their offices.
The door clicked and the quartet paraded in. Strength in numbers, or none of them trusted each other enough to be left alone with a detective. Molly quickly assessed their well-tailored and perfectly groomed figures, her first impressions setting like cement. Three men and one woman, all roughly in their mid- forties. All white. She wasn’t surprised. None of them bothered to offer any kind of greeting, and instead they retreated behind the conference table, using it as a shield. Molly realized that their combined net worth probably could pay half of the police force for a year.
They each wore a stern expression. Only Cyril Lemond looked remotely friendly, a half-smile on his thin lips and his hands clasped in front of him on the table. Molly watched him closely, as he was the only one without a concrete alibi on the night of Thorndike’s murder, and he lived just a block from the murder site.
“Detective Nelson, how can we help you?” Lemond’s place at the center identified him as the leader. Molly scanned the other partners, their faces blank. She guessed Felix Trainor, the man at the end of the table, carried the least amount of clout. Undoubtedly, Lemond would be the mouthpiece.
Too uncomfortable and tired to play games, Molly got right to the point. “I need some specific information about Michael Thorndike’s business dealings. Since you are his partners, I thought you could shed some light on his recent projects, future projects . . .” She let her voice trail off in hopes that they understood. She was sure they did, even though they didn’t seem to want to.
Civility gushed from Lemond’s face. “And you think this might have some bearing on his death?”
Molly went for the jugular. “Mr. Lemond, most homicide victims are killed for money or love. I’ve got the love part covered, but this is the money end.” Molly made a sweeping gesture at the five thousand dollar conference table.
Lemond’s smile flickered slightly. “We’d be more than happy to cooperate with you, Detective.”
“Good.” Once again, Molly resituated her large frame and pulled out her notes. “Please tell me about Mr. Thorndike’s business ventures.”
A staged cough erupted from Felix Trainor’s corner. Lemond’s eyes signaled permission. When Trainor spoke, his voice was hesitant and careful. “Michael was exploring possibilities with the Emporium. He wanted to make it into a premier museum like the Getty Center.”
Molly was surprised. “The Emporium? I thought you all worked exclusively in Phoenix?”
“Michael saw tremendous potential,” Trainor quickly stated, eyeing his partners.
Molly made a note. Many developers had tried and failed to “realize the Emporium’s potential.” Located in downtown Scottsdale, it had worn many hats—office space, retail shops, IMAX theater, even a site for the traveling Smithsonian. Nothing seemed to stick. The Emporium was Scottsdale’s white elephant. Turning it around would have made Thorndike a hero, Molly thought to herself.
“Some of us don’t share Michael’s vision,” the female partner said, coming to life. “It was a bad investment idea, and it could have sunk us.”
Felix Trainor leaned forward. “Michael’s plan would have worked, Florence.”
Molly remembered the woman’s name, Florence Denman. Her face colored, and she glared at Trainor. He’d be in severe trouble for contradicting Lady Steel, as she was known in the business community. Judging from the obvious cosmetic surgery done to her face, steel wouldn’t have been the nickname Molly chose.
“You’re as disillusioned as Michael was, Felix,” Florence concluded. “I’m sorry he’s dead,” she announced without any sympathy, “but at least we won’t lose anymore money chasing Don Quixote’s windmills.” She snorted. “An art museum! What an idea!”
The euphemisms poured from his mouth. Spin doctoring was Lemond’s art. Molly paused, pretending to shift gears. “Was Mr. Thorndike involved in any other projects?”
The partners looked at each other and shrugged. The man to Lemond’s left who, if she remembered correctly from her notes, was Sorrel Whitlock. He looked utterly bored and Molly guessed he had the least knowledge of Thorndike’s affairs.
Again, it was Felix Trainor who spoke up. “Michael liked to focus on one thing at a time. You know, shine his light at one target, to maximize the possibility for success.”
Molly withheld a heavy sigh and wrote “pompous ass” in her notes next to his name. “So this was his only project?” Everyone nodded. Molly focused on Cyril Lemond. “How did you feel about the Emporium idea, Mr. Lemond?”
Lemond’s eyes shifted to the wall. He inhaled before meeting Molly’s gaze. “I would have to say it had potential, but Michael hadn’t thought it through yet. Now we will never know.” The last part was said with a touch of finality and Molly knew her little interview was about to end.
“Can any of you think of anyone who would want to kill Michael Thorndike?”
The room exploded in laughter.
Chapter Five
Monday, June 18
9:01 a.m.
Since Ari didn’t answer to anyone, her day started much later and much differently from Molly’s. She called Lily after her morning shower. In a shotgun delivery, Lily announced Bob had not returned, she had no idea where he was, she’d called all their friends and acquaintances, she was terribly distraught, and Molly Nelson was a class-A bitch, showing up at her house with a search warrant at seven in the morning. Ari hung up, having said nothing except hello.
Her pager went off precisely at 9:01, announcing the official end of the weekend. She had an offer on one of her listings waiting for her prompt attention. Realizing there was nothing else she could do for Bob at the moment, she fought the morning traffic to her office at Allstar Realty.
Leaving the Tucson PD had sent Ari reeling. She never planned on any life but law enforcement. Consequently, she couldn’t visualize herself in another career. She lacked the skills, interest or education for every profession suggested by friends and family. As a believer in providence, she put her future in its hands and waited, all the while living off her meager savings. Three months later she was starting to lose hope until one morning she opened the newspaper and read an article about the predicted housing boom in Phoenix. She enrolled in real estate school before finishing her coffee. Providence proved correct and after twelve years, Ari was now a seasoned veteran and associate broker at thirty-three. Like most agents, she was selfemployed and kept her own hours. For a monthly fee, Allstar provided all of the necessary office equipment and receptionists who fielded the incoming calls and paged the agents when necessary. It was a convenient setup, and Ari liked everything about her job—except the managing broker, the only person who had any authority over Ari’s professional life. Still, she could endure him on most days, since she only had to see him at office meetings.
The paperwork and follow-up calls quickly ate up the morning. When Ari finally looked at the clock, it was noon, and a brunette bombshell was sashaying toward her, hips swinging from side to side like a supermodel. Ari waved at Jane Frank, her best friend and colleague. Both men and women turned their heads at the sight of her perfectly coifed shoulder length hair and painted China doll face. It was no surprise to Ari that Jane had fended off several marriage proposals from both sexes.
Jane and Ari had dated for exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes, concluding halfway through their first date that they were totally incompatible. Although they were both certainly attractive, Ari’s Mediterranean beauty was derived from genetics while Jane’s depended on bottles, tubes and compacts. She knew every sales clerk at Neiman-Marcus and drove a Lexus, whereas Ari much preferred jeans, no makeup and her SUV. They were opposites who made great friends but could never be lovers.
Jane noticed Ari packing her files away. “Heading out a little early. Got a hot date?”
Ari blushed, thinking momentarily of Molly Nelson. “No, I’ve got some things to do,” Ari answered casually.
A knowing smile crossed Jane’s face. “I imagine you’re gonna need a lot of Pine Sol to get the blood out of those floorboards.”
“Shh!” Ari cautioned. She shut the door. “How did you know?”
“They flashed a shot of the house on TV and I saw your sign.” Jane flicked a lint ball from her Dior jacket. “C’mon, tell me all about it. You know I always wanted to be a Charlie’s Angel.” Jane extended her fingers like a gun.
Ari grinned as Jane shot down an invisible enemy. “Jane, Charlie’s Angels didn’t worry about breaking a nail.”
“No,” Jane disagreed. “I’ll bet you money Cheryl Ladd’s manicure was always perfect. That woman had style.” Jane waved a finger at Ari. “Don’t change the subject,” she ordered. “I’m in no mood for idle chit-chat when good gossip looms. Tell me about yesterday right now or I’ll go to the press and spread an ugly rumor that you’re straight.”
“Now there’s a threat,” Ari said, rolling her eyes. She dropped into a chair and barreled through the events of the last day, describing the dead body, her encounter with the sexy detective and, finally, Lily’s affair and Bob’s disappearance.
“You know who you should talk to is Bob’s partner, Russ Swanson. If Lily doesn’t know where Bob is, Russ might.”
Ari nodded. “Lily’s already called him. She got the same answer I did this morning—he’s not in.” She shifted in her chair. “How do you know Russ Swanson?”
“I have my ways,” Jane said slyly, examining her perfect manicure.
Ari wasn’t sure if Jane was telling the truth or just playing for attention, a typical Jane habit. She could shovel a load of bs, but she also had dirt on a lot of people. “Well?” Ari said impatiently, “are you going to tell me?”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “Did you know Russ is family?” Ari’s jaw dropped. “What? How do you know this?”
“He hangs out at Smiley’s all the time, at the bar. He’s a regular.”
“A lot of straight people go to Smiley’s,” Ari remarked. While it was one of the few gay owned restaurants in Phoenix, straight people appreciated the decor and the great food.
“True, but since I’ve watched him put his hand in another man’s back pocket, I think I can make the assumption.”
Ari digested this fact. She knew Russ as an acquaintance, merely as a link to Bob. They saw each other at parties sometimes, but Ari knew very little about the man except what Bob had told her: he was an exceptional businessman, very shrewd with money and could make things happen, even in the most unlikely of situations.
“Thanks for the tip,” Ari said, rising to leave. She snapped up her briefcase and headed out the door, leaving Jane standing there with her hands on her hips.
“Please be careful,” she warned. “You know, we’re really not Charlie’s Angels and they never got hurt because there had to be a show the next week.”
Ari waved good-bye and took off. Her stomach churned, a result of hunger and stress. She pulled into a hamburger drive-in, ordered and scribbled notes while she ate. Assuming Bob was innocent, why did the killer want to frame him? How did the killer lure Michael Thorndike to Bob’s parents’ house, especially on a Saturday night? And most importantly, why had Michael Thorndike dragged himself out from behind the bar and into the living room? She pictured the floor plan in her mind and saw the area behind the bar. There was something about that wall . . .
It would come eventu
ally, at least that’s what her dad always said. She had thought more about her father in the last twenty- four hours than in months. He’d retired two years before and moved to Oregon. “Fishing country,” he called it. Here she was replaying scenes from her life that up until yesterday, she had successfully blocked out of her memory. Now, pieces of her childhood were coming back, fragments she assumed were lost forever.
When her father was working a case, he would pace on the porch endlessly, sometimes talking to himself and gesturing. She would watch from her window, trying to read his lips and praying he would look up and motion for her to come down—something that never happened.
She brushed the memories away and caught Highway 51 downtown. Her father had given her one good piece of advice— he’d told her if she stayed out of trouble and on the high road, there was a ninety-five percent chance that she wouldn’t be murdered by someone she knew. Not bad advice from a homicide detective.
Michael Thorndike’s life was anywhere but the high road. From what Ari knew of him, he had countless enemies and few people would mourn his death, including his widow. But then again, her name hadn’t been written in blood ten feet from his dead body.
A few taps on the library computer yielded more than a hundred references to his name, many of them in the last twenty- four hours since the announcement of his murder. Every power broker in Phoenix was watching and commenting. Even the governor was assuring the public that justice would be served. The pressure on Molly would be enormous and she couldn’t imagine where Bob could be hiding, unseen and unnoticed. Bob’s picture was plastered all over the Internet and on the front page of the Arizona Republic. How could he stay hidden for long?
