by Jan Coffey
“Police protection.”
She shook her head. “I would have been killed if I had trusted those two officers earlier.”
“If your friend really was killed, then you’re withholding evidence and obstructing an ongoing police investigation.”
“And what if the FBI doesn’t believe me? What if they turn me over to the very men who tried to kill me while they check out my story?” She shook her head again. “No, I can’t risk that.”
“‘I can’t risk’? You use that word pretty loosely, it seems to me.”
She pulled the belt of the raincoat around her and knotted it, reaching for the door handle. “I apologize again for dragging you into this. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never met.”
His hand shot out and took hold of her elbow. “And where are you planning on going right now?”
Uncertainty etched the features of her frowning face. “My own apartment is out of the question since these people know where I live. They probably know who my friends are, too. I can check into a Bed & Breakfast, I suppose, or a motel.”
“Ms. Rand, your face has been on the front page of every local newspaper for the past two weeks.”
“But for what I need to do, I have to be in Newport. There are files in our law offices downtown that I can check. The last few cases I worked on. Judge Arnold’s appointment files and books, if the police don’t have them.”
“Why is that important?”
“Now that I think of it, there was something the matter with him. I noticed it before I left. He wouldn’t explain, either. I can’t put my finger on it, but the answer must be here. Something, maybe a case that involved both of us. I have to stay in Newport.” She glanced down at the hand on her elbow. “But none of this needs to be your concern. Thank you for the ride.”
Damn, the woman knew how to reel him in. “How much time?”
“You shouldn’t involve yourself any more than you have. An innocent person is already dead.”
“How much time?”
The green eyes showed a flicker of hope. “One day. Just enough time to gather some information to take to the FBI.”
One day. He could do that. He stared ahead at the lights of the convenience store, knowing in his gut that he was lying to himself.
“Christ,” he said, starting the car.
~~~~
They had nothing on him. Absolutely nothing.
Frankie O’Neal felt the relief flood through his aching body. Trying to keep his hand from shaking, he stretched it out toward the pack of cigarettes still sitting on the table. He took one out and stuck it between his lips, and every remnant of nervousness drained away. As Archer reached over and held a match for him, he could see the gloat hovering in the cop’s washed-out eyes. The asshole would break out in a tap dance in a minute.
Frankie took a couple of deep drags and mulled the whole thing over. His head, where the bitch had bopped him, still hurt like a motherfucker. She’d pay for that. He was going to drag her out to that warehouse in Portsmouth and she was going to fucking pay...in spades. He closed his eyes and rolled his head to one side and then to the other, stretching his thick neck muscles.
But that was for another day. Right now, finding out this asshole had nothing on him was making Frankie feel better by the minute.
“You’re one smart man, Frankie. You should have applied to the Police Academy when you were younger. We sure could use stand-up guys like you. Stand-up guys with brains, I mean.”
The asshole was actually pretty funny, Frankie thought, taking another deep drag. Too bad it was so late. He had no patience left for dicking around. He blew smoke above Archer’s balding head and looked at the uniformed toad sitting at the other end of the table working the tape recorder.
Archer flicked ashes into his paper cup. “Why don’t you start from the beginning, buddy.”
Frankie took one last drag and looked his opponent straight in the eye. “I’ll make you a deal, Captain. I answer all the questions you asked, if you’ll let me call my lawyer right now. I want him here when we’re done talking.”
“Frankie, I don’t think you are in the position to make deals.”
He crushed the cigarette on the edge of steel table and threw the butt on the floor. “Then I guess I’ll just sit back and catch some shut-eye.”
Brushing some ash off the front of his fitted black shirt, Frankie sucked in his stomach at the sight of the buttons pulling across his middle. Jake was right. He should take better care of himself.
“Come on, Frankie. You aren’t going to pull this shit now? I thought we were ready to talk. Man to man.” Archer glanced at the tape recorder. “You said you didn’t want a lawyer. Listen, if you’re trying to pull a fast one on me...”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.” Frankie gave an innocent shake of his head, winced a little, and made a cross over his heart. “On the grave of my mother.”
The scrape of Archer’s chair almost brought a smile to Frankie’s lips. Archer reached back impatiently and banged the phone on the table in front of Frankie.
Otto Wessel was no stranger to getting calls from his clients at three twenty-five in the morning. Knowing Archer’s eagle eyes were glued to his mouth, Frankie spelled out the basics, told Otto to get down to the station, and hung up on him before the lawyer got too chatty.
Archer was back in his face as soon as the receiver hit the cradle. “From the beginning, Frankie.”
He touched the lump on the back of his scalp. “Refresh my memory.”
“Come on, quit screwing around. Start with that key you had in your possession.”
“Oh, yeah. The key. I remember now. The thing that fucks your ‘breaking and entering’ charge. You were wondering how I had a key to the Van Horn mansion.” Noting with satisfaction the detective’s stony silence, Frankie continued. “The key was sent to me by Judge Arnold’s office. I’ve had it for over a month.”
Archer’s eyes were about as lively as a dead flounder’s. The rest of him didn’t look much healthier, either, sitting there. He’d suddenly developed a funny twitch in his fingers.
“Yeah, you see, Captain, I’m in the business these days...antiquing.”
“Antiquing?” Archer spat out.
“Just a little something to do with my free time. On the side, you know? With the judge’s wife dead, the furniture in the mansion had to be appraised.”
“You...Frankie O’Neal...an antique dealer?” The look of disgust on Archer’s face was truly comical.
Frankie shrugged. His head was really pounding, but he didn’t care. He was rolling now. “Don’t you think antiquing is a respectable job, Captain?”
“Okay, Mister Antique Dealer…appraiser…whatever the hell you are. So you decide to pay a house call at midnight?”
“What’s the difference? The place is empty all the time, now that the judge is locked up for snuffing that babe, the one the whole family was banging.” Frankie thought for a moment about the banging he was going to give her. He frowned. “How did I know some fucking teenager, or whoever it was, was going to clock me when I decided to make myself a cup of tea.”
“A cup of tea?”
“I’m trying to cut back on coffee.”
Archer came to his feet, and Frankie threw his weight on the back of the chair.
“They told me that antique dealers always drink tea.”
“Why all that cockamamie bullshit before?” the detective snapped back at him.
Frankie started to touch the lump on his head again, but decided against it. He folded his fingers over his belly. “You mean about the Cliff Walk? Well, I think I was still a tad hazy after the...after the severe blow to the head. That tape still running, toad boy?”
The young uniformed policeman looked up at him blankly, and then glanced at Archer.
“The truth is,” Frankie paused. “Well, you know all the talk about the old lady’s will. Now with the judge in stir and all that talk about him being guilty of God knows
what, I didn’t wanna waltz in there in broad daylight. It’d make it look like...well, you know...I don’t want nobody tagging the guy with more stuff than he’s dealing with already.” He shrugged. “I was just looking after my client’s interests. That’s all.”
Archer didn’t look anywhere near convinced, but Frankie didn’t care. It was a good story, and he could make it work once he got in touch with his contact.
The detective rubbed his hands over his face and then poured himself yet another cup of coffee. Frankie watched him.
“And what fairy tale are you gonna hand me about the gun and the blood in the car?”
“Come on, Captain. You think I don’t know what guns I have permits for, and what guns I don’t?” He grinned. “Not that I have any guns that I don’t have permits for.”
“We’re running a ballistics check on that gun right now, Frankie. We’re going to get a match on the bullets we found in the Rand apartment. Then I’m going to run a DNA check on that blood, and after that I’m going to mount your fat head on my wall!”
Frankie looked up at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling above the door. He dropped his gaze to the scratched metal tabletop. He let his eyes wander back up the pale green cinder block to the cobweb again. Then he turned his eyes on the detective’s ashen face.
“Fish.”
Archer’s eyes turned murderous. The cup of steaming coffee hung forgotten halfway to his lips.
Frankie rocked back on two legs of the chair. “Yeah, fish. Me and a buddy of mine were out in his boat off King’s Point and this big motherfucker of a fish tried jumping into that boat. I’m telling you, Archer, it was either a Great White shark or toad boy’s grandmother.”
He nodded at the policeman sitting at the far end. The cop’s knuckles were white on the edge of the table.
“Why, we had to shoot that sucker at least once or twice to discourage the son of a bitch. And good thing you told me about my trunk, Detective, because if there’s a drop of blood in there, then it probably came from that fucking bait bucket. I can’t believe I missed it when I was cleaning it last week.”
“And you think I’m going to swallow that shit?”
You can choke on it as far as I care, Frankie thought, leaning forward and straightening the creases in his pants as he rose to his feet.
“Swallow anything you want, Archer,” he said nonchalantly. “But I’ve answered your questions, and I’ll be waiting downstairs until my lawyer gets here.”
“Frankie...”
“Fish,” Frankie whispered, brushing past the detective and heading toward the door.
Once this lump on his head got better, he thought, maybe he’d really give the fucking sport a try.
Chapter 6
Leaning in the doorway to his bedroom, Owen watched her place the phone back where she had found it.
“Who were you trying to call?”
Surprised, Sarah practically jumped off the edge of the bed. She quickly recovered.
“A friend in town. But the answering machine picked up, and I didn’t think it would be too wise to leave a message.”
As she stared at the phone for a moment, he let his eyes wander over her from head to toe. Fresh out of the shower, her wet hair was neatly combed behind her ears, while the rest of her was wrapped in his oversized terry-cloth robe. Her legs, crossed at the ankles, were strong and well-shaped. From sitting, the robe had fallen open a little, and his gaze lingered on the gentle curve between her breasts. The skin was smooth and cream-colored, triggering a stir in his loins that he had to work hard at ignoring.
Sarah drew the lapels of the robe together at the neck. Owen looked up and met her eyes. A blush had spread across her cheeks, but she held his gaze with those jade colored eyes of hers. Cleaned up, with no makeup, she was even more beautiful than he’d thought.
He had to get out of the bedroom.
“Want some breakfast?”
She nodded, but Owen didn’t wait for her as he headed toward the kitchen.
After arriving at his apartment, he’d shown her to the bathroom, given her towels and the robe, and in a moment he’d heard the shower running.
Using the time to his advantage, he’d rummaged through the briefcase she left with the raincoat on the chair in the bedroom. The case was open—he’d watched her take a toiletry-and cosmetics bag out of it—and the materials he found in the bag matched the information that she’d already given him.
Round-trip airline tickets from Providence to JFK to Shannon and back, and the passport that he’d already looked at. Her wallet with a few credit cards, the license missing. A notebook with scribbled records pertaining to connecting flights, finances and what he assumed to be the place that she’d parked her car at the airport. A couple of case files that she must have been working on during her trip.
In the sturdy leather case Owen also found some newspaper clippings containing the death notices. “John Rand, deeply regretted by his sorrowing brother and two sisters, and his daughter...” Owen scanned the other for her name. “Very sadly missed by his loving daughter Sarah...”
As Owen had put the articles back in her case, his sympathy for the woman grew. “May I help?”
“Pour the coffee,” he said, dropping bread in the toaster. “You like your eggs fried or scrambled?”
“Either way, thanks.”
“Scrambled, then.”
He glanced at her back as she reached for the coffee pot and filled the two cups he’d put out. Her hand shook a little as she poured, and a wave of guilt hit him broadside.
“After you eat something, you should lie down.”
She shook her head and took the cups to the table. “The clock is already ticking. I have too much to do.”
Owen dumped the eggs into the skillet and reached for a wooden spoon. “Where are you going to start?”
“I wish there was a way I could get in touch with the judge. I know it would, at least, be a relief for him to know that I’m alive.” She came back to the counter and picked up some paper napkins, folding them and smoothing the crease as she considered her words. “I can’t believe how these people have arranged for all the evidence to point to him. He would be the last person in this world who would ever hurt me.”
Owen remembered the tone of some of the articles. The insinuations that jealousy was the motive for the murder. He glanced at the woman’s features, at the line of her neck, at the shadows of skin were the robe had opened up again. He didn’t want to think about the nature of Sarah Rand’s and Judge Arnold’s relationship right now.
“He knows he’s innocent,” she continued. “But I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling right now, thinking I’m dead…and that he is being held for my murder.”
Owen scraped the eggs onto two plates. “Going to see him would be as good as handing yourself over to the police.”
“I know.” Without asking, she pulled open a couple of drawers until she found the silverware. Carrying them to the table, she laid them down, arranging them neatly.
Owen put the plates on the table. “Look, I’ve allowed myself to dive neck-deep into this business. I’m not going to just sit back now while you take your time and do whatever you’re planning to do to get out of this jam. And I’m not going to apologize for prying into your private life, either. You owe me that.” Dropping toast on the plates, he met her gaze, daring her to stop him right there. But she said nothing and instead sat down and wrapped her hands around the cup of coffee. “It would help if we went over the facts. Everything we know from the papers about the murder. And whatever else you can add to it about the events preceding your trip.”
“This is starting to sound like one of your shows.”
“I wish it was. Then I’d know how it was going to come out.” Owen took a seat across from her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry to have involved you like this.”
“You’re forgiven. At least for now, anyway.” He stabbed at his eggs. “But let’s talk str
aight about the facts, okay?”
“I only skimmed the papers in the judge’s office.”
“The police believe a crime was committed in your apartment. There was definite evidence of foul play. Blood and bullets.”
“But they didn’t find a body.”
“That’s right. But the matching tissue and blood samples from your apartment and the judge’s boat makes them believe that your old partner has gotten rid of it.” He took a sip of his coffee. “There is no doubt that someone was killed. The only confusion is that it was someone else and not you.”
He looked up at her. Once again, her face had turned pale. “Tell me about your friend.”
“She arrived from California the day I left. She lived there.”
“Why was she coming east?”
Sarah placed her elbows on the table and buried her fingers into her scalp. “Just to visit me.”
“But you were going away.”
“She didn’t know that. I didn’t know it, until the day before she arrived. My father passed away suddenly. There was no advance warning.”
“Why didn’t you call her and tell her not to come?”
“I did. I called her from my office downtown. But she said she wanted to come anyway.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Dean, I don’t believe you need to know everything.”
“But I do! And call me Owen. Considering the way you’ve already dragged me into a life of crime, I think you could at least call me Owen.” He pushed her plate of eggs closer to her until it bumped her elbows. She snatched up a fork. “So why was this friend so intent on coming?”
She poked at her eggs. “I don’t know. That’s the way she was. Once Tori made up her mind, there was no changing it.”
“Other than you, who else knew that she was coming?”
She continued to push the eggs around on her plate. “No one, I think.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was nobody else’s business.”
“You know, your openness is truly flattering.”
“Look, I know you’re trying to help, but I really don’t think you need to—”
