“We don’t have that kind of time, lady,” said a tall guy in an oversized black T-shirt and baggy jeans that were belted tightly four inches below the waistband of his boxer shorts. “We gotta get this whole department packed up in the next hour. Then we move on to shoes.”
“Fine. Just don’t let anybody else see how you’re treating the merchandise.” I stepped over a pile on the floor, hopped to a narrow pathway through the mess, and continued on to my office.
Honestly, what did I care at this point? I already knew the bags were fakes. And I knew that if there was a loss to be had from the mistreatment of these bags, it would fall on Tony Simms’ shoulders. I wasn’t the buyer anymore. I wasn’t connected to the store in the least. I wasn’t going to drive to Philly to buy one of the patent leather creations at 80 off, or whatever ridiculous discount they were going to pass off to get rid of them.
To get rid of them.
Those bags weren’t going to make it to Philly.
No wonder no one cared how the bags were packed. These bags, these fakes, were part of the bigger picture, part of what would make sense of the killings. Once this evidence was destroyed, no one would be the wiser about Simms and his activities.
I had to call Detective Loncar and make him believe me. I had to get him to the store, to get him to see the merchandise, or to see that the inventory was being moved. If he could follow the truck, he would know the truth. I dumped my own bag on my desk, picked up the receiver, and dialed police headquarters.
But before I had a chance to get to Detective Loncar, I heard a noise in the office next door.
33
I set the receiver back on the cradle. If the stock team was packing up inventory, there was no reason for anyone to be in the buyer’s offices. As quietly as I could, I crossed the carpet between my desk and the doorway.
Mallory was filling a large canvas tote bag with files. She didn’t notice me at first, but when she did, the files fell to the floor. Manila folders spilled out recaps and past orders and photo sheets with selling information.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. I had been one second short of asking the same question.
“I came for my personal things.”
“You haven’t been here long enough to have personal things. You came here to steal files.”
“I’m not the one rifling through the file cabinet.”
“Samantha, you don’t know this business like I do. I’ve taken too many chances, and you’re not going to ruin this opportunity for me.”
“What opportunity? The dedication tomorrow night?”
She turned pale. “Tomorrow night? But I won’t be ready.”
“You shouldn’t go. I wouldn’t if I hadn’t been asked by Tony. I’d be as far away from there as I possibly could get.”
“Tony asked you to go? I thought you didn’t even work here anymore!”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s not about what I know, it’s about what you think you know. I’ve worked too long and too hard to get noticed around here and some nobody isn’t going to get all of the credit that I deserve. I don’t care what you have on your resume. With everything I’ve been through, I deserve the recognition, not you.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I think you’ve got the wrong idea about me, Mallory,” I said. “I just came here to get my flowers.”
I went back into my office and picked up the arrangement Dante had sent. I didn’t know if the sugar cube was still working or picking up anything she had said, but I didn’t want to take any chances. The arrangement from the cops was sitting on her desk and I wanted that one too, if only for the wireless mic.
“Stay home tomorrow night, Mallory. Please. Listen to me. Nobody’s going to notice whether or not you’re there. It’s not going to be a big deal.”
“Are you kidding? None of this would have started if it wasn’t for me and I’m damn sure going to see that it’s finished.” In her anger she took a few steps toward me, closing the gap. She shook a balled-up fist in the air as though she was claiming to never go hungry again.
I stepped backward, but the toe of my shoe caught on a piece of paper that had fallen from the files, and I slipped. I let go of the flowers as I grabbed for the desk to right myself. The vase landed on the floor, the flowers still secured in the green sponge at the base. The miniature camera fell loose, lying inches from Mallory’s foot. We both stared at it for a tense couple of seconds.
Mallory looked up, her face red in splotches that continued down her neck. “I don’t care how you got this job or what you plan to do after this, but I am going to finish you. I intend to be at that dedication, and I’m going to make sure Tony Simms knows you’re up to something.”
She picked up the camera and stormed out of the office.
I wasn’t looking forward to telling Dante I’d lost his camera, or that in doing so I may have tipped off a murderer to the fact that I was on to her, even if she wasn’t the suspect I’d been figuring out how to trap. I was mixed up. The only thing clear about my thoughts was that I was barely making sense.
Mallory. Was it possible? Had I misjudged her so much during my short time at Heist? She’d done a good job of pulling the wool over my eyes, but I mentally ticked off my checklist. She had admitted to being around Kyle and Emily the night of the murder. I’d overheard her threaten Belle DuChamp. She had done little to hide her open displeasure when I’d started to work at Heist and I didn’t know why. This couldn’t all be about a promotion or a career path. Unless …
Could it be?
There was one simple answer I hadn’t wanted to see, and that answer was yes.
Yes, Mallory knew I was doing more at Heist than replacing the murdered handbag buyer.
Yes, if Mallory had murdered Emily over the Vongole knockoff scheme, she’d be threatened when I showed up at Heist.
Yes, Mallory was going to be at the dedication. She had said it like a threat, not a fact.
And yes, it was entirely possible Mallory was the killer.
I called Dante as I sped home. I parked in the garage and pulled the door down to hide my car. Logan stood guard over his empty food bowl, yowling for dinner. I snapped open a can of gourmet cat food and spooned it into the bowl. He buried his head, and I sank down on the linoleum tile floor, legs splayed in front of me.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” The sounds of wet cat morsels being gulped down answered me.
He pulled his head up and stared at me for two long seconds. Then he walked over and head-butted my forehead. I scooped him into my arms and held him close for comfort. The phone rang. I held Logan to my chest and stood. I answered on the third ring.
“Ms. Kidd, this is Detective Loncar.” Long pause. “I know Tony Simms asked you to be at the event at the college, but I am strongly suggesting you don’t go. Do you understand?”
“You said everything was over. If everything is over, then I’m free to do what I want. Right? Your case is closed. Unless you want to admit you have the wrong person in custody and you have some questions for me. Do you have any valid questions for me?”
“Just one. Do you want to explain to me why Mallory George wants to file a restraining order against you?”
34
Good thing cats always land on their feet, because when I processed the detective’s question I knocked Logan off the counter.
“She what?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you did to her, but she was clear that she doesn’t want you to be anywhere near her or the dedication.”
“Because she’s the killer.”
“Ms. Kidd, a week ago you said Belle DuChamp was the killer. Yesterday it was Tony Simms and today it’s Mallory George. Who’s it going to be tomorrow? These accusations are borderline defamation of character.”
“The only person I haven’t said was the killer is Kyle Trent.”
“I’m sending a car over. If you leave your house, we’ll know. It is my
very strong recommendation that you stay away from I-FAD for the next forty-eight hours.”
“Why? The dedication is tomorrow, right?”
“And the dress rehearsal is tonight.” He hung up.
I looked out my window. A gold PT Cruiser drove slowly down the street. That was Mallory’s car. I remembered it from the day I drove her to the Bag Lady showroom. Considering she claimed she wanted to keep a distance spelled out in a restraining order between us, her presence in my neighborhood was suspicious. I called Dante.
“Are you close? How close? Can you come get me now? Right now? I have to be gone from my house like really, really, really fast.”
“Samantha, slow down.”
“I don’t have time to slow down. Can you come get me right now? I’ll tell you everything when you get here.”
A motorcycle pulled into my driveway. We weren’t going to talk about how fast that actually was. I scooped Logan up from under his belly and kissed him on the head. “I’ll be back, honey. I promise.” I took the stairs two at a time, grabbed Dante’s duffle bag and ran back downstairs, where I flew out the front door. I straddled the bike while buckling the helmet on. He peeled out of the lot just as I got a solid grip on his leather jacket. He circled the block, and a police cruiser passed us. I gripped tighter.
He turned his head around to me. “Are they headed for you?”
I nodded. He revved his engine and shot through the intersection. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the orange and red flames painted on the back of his leather jacket.
He sped past most cars and pulled onto a narrow drive that took us up the side of Mt. Penn. We passed basketball courts and kids playing hopscotch. Dante drove up a narrow road that felt like the Audubon. We finally slowed by a white iron gate.
“We’re here.”
I didn’t know where “here” was, but I was vaguely certain no one else who might be looking for me would know where “here” was either. Safe enough for me.
I took off the helmet, and he locked it to the back of his bike. “Follow me.”
He pulled the handles to the duffle bag out of my grip and started up the concrete stairs that wrapped around a porch that led to a wood and glass paneled door. He unlocked it and entered a room no bigger than a small hotel room.
A wooden, fold-out futon sat under a window facing a flat screen TV mounted on the opposite wall. Tall, metal bookcases that held books on their side flanked the TV, and an oblong piece of marble sat on two concrete blocks below them, holding an assortment of magazines on cars and photography. Next to the futon was a small desk with a computer and chair. Silver cups filled with colorful markers lined the back of the desk. Blues, greens, and purples in one cup, oranges, yellows, and reds in the other.
Dante dropped the bag next to a turn table and opened a small fridge. When he stood, he held a beer toward me. I took it and drank a fair amount even though I’m more of a wine girl.
“Sit.”
I collapsed on the sofa.
“Talk.”
“I, um, may have been wrong about Tony Simms being the killer.”
Dante demonstrated great patience after I made that statement, allowing me to gulp my beer, supplying me with a second one when the first ran low. In fact, it wasn’t until my cell phone started going crazy from inside the pocket of my pants that he prompted me with questions. I muted the insistent ring tone and started talking.
I recounted what had happened at Heist that morning, barely believing that less than a day had passed since Mallory had caught me–or vice versa. I ended with her reaction to seeing the camera on the floor, half-apologetically since it wasn’t my camera to lose.
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back whatever it cost when I get a chance.”
He waved my apology away with his hand. “That’s not important. You said the cops told you she filed a restraining order against you?”
“Yes. And that can only be so she can keep me away from the dedication. But there’s no way I can stay away now. She’s going to murder someone else. Maybe Tony Simms. Who knows how far she’ll go?”
“Calm down. None of this makes any sense.”
“I know.”
“No, you most likely don’t know.” He set his beer on the table and leaned back against the futon.
“What most likely don’t I know? I mean, what don’t I know most likely? I mean, what do you mean?”
“Are you going to keep freaking out, or do you need some kind of sedative?”
Mental note: chill out. “Tell me what you mean.”
“There’s no way this Mallory person can get a restraining order in a couple of hours. The cops would know that. They would also know you’ve been working with them. And they would know you’ve been saying the real killer is still out there. So if this Detective Loncar wants to talk to you so badly that he sent a car to your house, it might be because he finally has reason to listen to what you have to say.”
“Detective Loncar has already shown up on my doorstep once before, and after he forcibly accessorized my bathrobe with a set of handcuffs, he took me to the police station. When he said he was sending a car to get me, I wasn’t going to hang around for a repeat fashion intervention a la Copper.”
“The handcuffs were copper?”
“Copper, like James Cagney. You know, ‘Come and get me, Copper!’”
“You seriously learned everything you know about the police from old movies, didn’t you?”
“I resent that.” I said. I fidgeted with my hands, crossing and uncrossing my arms, sitting on my palms, trying to find a position that didn’t look or feel completely vulnerable.
I looked around the interior of the room. “What is this place? A safe house?” In addition to the door we’d entered through, there was only one other door. It was closed but not shut.
“This is where I live.” A smile crept along Dante’s face, and then blossomed into a full-blown grin. “At least when I’m not at my apartment in Philly.”
I immediately looked around for insights into Dante’s personality. While I watched, he reached out to a small metal box that sat on the table next to the futon. Inside was a stash of Atomic Fireballs. He pulled one out, bit into the plastic, and popped it into his mouth.
“Do your parents have any idea how badly they screwed you up by naming you Dante?”
“You might offer me an apology.”
“For what?”
“That ‘safe house’ crack. Just about confirmed what I thought about your knowledge.”
He was right, and I knew he was right, but I was full of pride and indignation. I stood up and marched across the room to the one interior door that had been shut.
“What’s in here?”
“Bathroom.”
I went inside and shut the door behind me. This was as good a place as any to let the steam cool down from behind my ears. I sank to the white tiled floor and started thinking.
Within five minutes, I knew I had to talk to Loncar. Someone’s life was at risk. I still didn’t know whose. It could have been mine. Or Kyle Trent’s, or Tony Simms’, or Andi Holloway’s, or any unrelated person who came into contact with Mallory.
I won’t let you ruin this for me, she’d said. After all I’ve done, I’m taking what I deserve.
I stood up and opened the door. Dante stood directly on the other side, one hand up, ready to knock.
“Can I use your phone?”
He handed me my cell phone. The number was already on the screen. I punched the connect button and waited.
“Ms. Kidd, where are you?” the detective demanded. He didn’t sound happy.
“I’m at the grocery store,” I lied.
“I want you to listen to me carefully. Mallory George wanted to file a restraining order against you. I explained that unless the two of you were lovers living in the same house, what she was seeking didn’t pertain to your ‘relationship.’ Now I want to know what you did that makes her think you’re a danger to her, and
I’d feel a lot better about this conversation if we had it in my office.”
“No disrespect, Detective, but that’s not going to happen. And I’m going to hang up every twenty-nine seconds so you can’t trace the signal on my phone.”
He sighed heavily. “Ms. Kidd, that’s not necessary.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
I snapped my phone shut. Dante reappeared in front of me. “Done so soon?”
“No, I don’t want him to trace my cell phone signal.”
“You have to stop giving me ammunition.”
I held my hand up to silence him and hit redial. “Detective Loncar? It’s Samantha Kidd.”
“Why does Mallory George want a protective order issued against you?”
I stared at the blond hardwood floorboards and traced a line between the seams with the toe of my shoe. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Give me the abridged version. Try to keep Hollywood out of it.”
Dante and Detective Loncar probably would have a great time hanging out over drinks.
“She told me she was at Heist the night Emily was murdered. I heard her threaten Belle.”
“What’s she stand to gain?”
“I don’t know for sure. She’s the assistant buyer. You’re the one who played back the recording of her threatening me. I also heard her threaten Belle DuChamp. At first I thought she just wanted a promotion, but this is too crazy. Nobody wants a job this badly. At least, not this job. Not at this level. You don’t kill to be a buyer. CEO maybe, or something like that, but not buyer. The perks just aren’t that great.”
“You don’t hear about people killing to be CEOs either. I’ve heard of a lot of motives. They pretty much boil down to love, family, money. You don’t see the connection to any of them?”
I shook my head.
“Ms. Kidd? You still with me?” the detective asked over the phone, since I hadn’t answered him out loud.
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware Page 20
