by Elaine Viets
“And everyone else was wrong, too?” Phil asked.
“You’d be surprised,” Helen said. “I found a slew of studies that show the official cause of death is wrong about one-third of the time.”
“A slew?” Phil said. Thumbs was kneading his leg with his big paws.
“Highly technical detective term meaning ‘a whole bunch,’ ” Helen said.
“Nice work,” Phil said. “Except, who did kill Zach?”
“His former good buddy Mike,” Helen said. “With his job, he has access to weed killer and the time to slowly poison him. XD, who still saw Zach after Mike was eighty-sixed from the bar, could have kept slipping small doses in his beer.”
“Possible,” Phil said. “But how do we prove it?”
“We’re back to nothing again, aren’t we?” Helen said, and sighed.
At least she’d quit pacing. A phone call from Valerie at eleven thirty that night confirmed the news Helen had been waiting for: That was Mort’s DNA in the Jaguar. Lexie Deener literally had Mort’s blood on her hands. She’d left her prints in the car and on the cat medallion. She was formally charged with the murder of Mort Barrymore.
Helen had escaped a libel suit.
Helen and Phil celebrated in bed, then fell asleep, but this time they left the phone on.
Nancie’s call woke up the pair of PIs at two fifteen in the morning. “I’m leaving the North Broward jail,” she said. “Trish has been released.”
“Huh? What?” Phil said.
“Trish has been released from jail,” Nancie said.
“So quick?” Phil said.
“Impossibly quick. The Peerless Point cops were falling all over themselves to get her out of jail,” Nancie said. She couldn’t resist a touch of bluster. “They know I’m coming after them. Meet me in my office at three o’clock.”
“Three a.m. today? Right now?” Phil asked, still sleep stupid.
“If I wanted to talk to you in the afternoon, I would have waited till morning to call,” Nancie said, her voice crisp as starched cotton. She hung up before he could say anything else.
Helen threw on a clean shirt and jeans and slipped into her sandals. She didn’t bother with makeup. Phil put on the same shirt and pants he’d tossed on a chair the night before, and they stumbled outside. The night air wrapped around them like a warm, moist blanket. The Coronado looked eerie and abandoned in the moonless night.
“The place feels so dark and empty without Margery,” Helen said, and yawned. “At least I’m free to help you work on her case now that I’ve been fired. I won’t have to wash cats in the morning. You drive. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep on Federal Highway.”
“The Jeep doesn’t have air-conditioning,” Phil said.
“I’m too tired to care,” she said.
Helen snoozed for most of the drive. She was awakened by a police siren at a no-tell motel near Port Everglades and stayed awake until Phil parked at Nancie’s law office.
Inside, the office smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Helen and Phil poured themselves cups and sat across from Trish.
Jail and the strain since her husband’s murder had taken its toll on Trish. Helen caught a glimpse of how their client would look in old age. At this hour, her pale, papery skin was crisscrossed with fine lines and her blond hair was frizzed and straggly. She’d lost so much weight, her wrist bones looked like knobs. Trish’s navy pantsuit emphasized the dark circles under her eyes.
Nancie, who had superhuman powers, was alert and ready for battle, but even she showed signs of wear. Her suit was wrinkled and her dark hair was limp and flat.
Helen and Phil sat like a pair of pups expecting to be congratulated for their good work. Instead, Nancie swatted them both.
“Helen, you had a narrow escape today,” the lawyer said.
Helen kept her head bowed, but Phil jumped to her defense. “Helen took a risk, but she was right,” he said. “She jump-started the process. There’s no way Trish would be free so fast if Helen hadn’t accused the killer in front of witnesses. We’re lucky the press was there. Valerie was a big help.”
“What good is being free if I don’t have my baby?” Trish wailed. “She’s my reason for living.”
The cat! Helen and Phil had forgotten about Justine. Helen tried not to look at Phil. How could they have forgotten that blasted cat?
“We could ask the prosecutor to make a deal so Lexie tells us where she stashed the cat,” Phil said.
“You’re supposed to find her,” Trish sobbed. “That’s why I’m paying you.”
Nancie interrupted Trish’s tears with a harsh dose of reality. “Not a chance, Phil,” she said. “Justine may be Trish’s baby, but to the law, she’s a cat.”
Trish’s howls ascended the scale and made the hair stand up on Helen’s neck. She’s crying as if she really did lose a child, she thought. Helen tried to be sympathetic, but Trish didn’t cry that much over Mort.
“The prosecutor is not going to make a deal on a murder case to find a missing cat,” Nancie said. “Animals and humans are still not equal under the law.”
“And that’s the problem,” Trish wept. She reached for the tissues beside her chair with shaking hands and blotted her tear-reddened eyes.
“Did you ask Lexie where Justine is?” Phil said.
“Me?” Nancie said. “Why would she talk to me? She’s not my client.”
“Her lawyer, then,” Phil said. “You could make sure she’s not charged with animal abuse.”
Trish’s crying rose to a frantic, hysterical shriek. “My baby’s out there all alone, with no food or water. Locked away someplace, frightened and hungry.”
“Sh, Trish,” Nancie said. “You have to concentrate if we’re going to help Justine.
“I talked with Ms. Deener’s lawyer, Phil. He assures me that his client does not have your cat. She swore up and down that she didn’t kidnap Justine.”
“And you believe that?” Helen asked. “A half-million dollars’ ransom would restore her lost fortune.”
“I could give her a reward if she helped find Justine,” Trish said, sniffling into a tissue.
“I don’t think she can,” Nancie said. “Her lawyer told me he mentioned the catnapping to her and she seemed surprised. Ms. Deener told him there’s no way she’d kidnap a cat when she was on a road trip—it would be too difficult to keep. As a criminal lawyer, he says he’s used to dealing with liars. He believes his client is telling the truth about the cat.”
Helen heard that lawyerly quibble “about the cat.” Did Lexie tell her lawyer she’d murdered Mort—or was she lying about that, too?
“I was sure when we found the killer we’d have the catnapper,” Nancie said, “but now I think the killer and the kidnapper are two different people. We’ll know for sure tomorrow. Isn’t that when the kidnapper is supposed to call you?”
Helen and Phil nodded like a pair of bobble-head dolls. Helen tried to hide another yawn.
“Today, actually,” Phil said. “The special phone number’s all set up and we’re monitoring it. We have the kidnapper’s cash in our office safe, marked with SmartWater and ready to go. The kidnapper will probably call right before the exchange, so we won’t have time to check out the setup or bring in additional operatives.”
“Are you sure the kidnapper can’t see that the money is marked?” Trish asked. “I want my Justine and I won’t take any risks with her life. I don’t care about the money. My baby comes first.”
What’s it like to be so rich you don’t care about half a million bucks? Helen wondered. If someone kidnapped Thumbs, would I pony up that much cash? She felt uneasy that she even had to ask herself that question.
“It’s safe, I promise,” Phil said.
“You’ll call as soon as you hear from the kidnapper, won’t you?” Trish asked.
“We’ll call as soon as we can,” Phil said. “If we have to be someplace in a hurry, we may call you after it’s over and we have your cat safe and sound.”
That provoked a fresh round of tears.
“Trish!” Nancie said sharply. “I know you’re tired and emotional, but this isn’t helping you or Justine.”
“You’re right,” Trish said. “I have to pull myself together. Now that Mort’s gone, she only has me.”
“What if we brought in the police for backup?” Phil asked.
“The police! After the way they treated me? Those bunglers?” Trish spat out the words. “The kidnapper will see them and kill my baby. They couldn’t even find the right killer. You did that. I’d still be in jail if it wasn’t for you. I don’t trust anyone in Peerless Point.”
“After the way they treated Trish, can you blame her?” Nancie asked.
“Trish, are you able to drive home now? I need to discuss another case with Helen and Phil.”
“Arthur, my fiancé, will take me home,” Trish said. “I called him from your car, remember? He’s probably waiting in your parking lot now.”
Nancie walked Trish outside to Arthur’s waiting arms. Helen dozed off during the short time the lawyer was gone.
“Helen!” Nancie said, and she snapped to attention. “What have you and Phil found out about Margery?”
“I met with Zach’s buddy, XD, at a bar,” Phil said. “He believes Zach killed himself because he was in love with Margery and she gave him the boot.”
“Do you think XD would sign a statement and testify to Zach’s state of mind if Margery’s case goes to trial?” Nancie asked.
“Another beer or two and maybe a burger and I think he’ll say yes,” Phil said.
“I still don’t think Zach killed himself,” Helen said. “I did some research about arsenic, and Zach’s symptoms—his feeling off, the skin rashes, weakness and hair loss—point to slow, long-term arsenic poisoning. Someone was feeding him small doses and slowly killing him. If he’d taken one large shot of rat poison, like Phil said, he’d have had a much more violent end.”
“Right now, we need XD’s information about Zach’s possible suicide,” Nancie said. “It will muddy the water nicely if we have to go to trial. Helen, you keep working on the murder theory.
“Phil, I want you to investigate Mike the ex-con and this XD character and see if you can get a statement from XD about his belief that Zach committed suicide. Skip the burger. Spring for a steak.
“And, whatever you do, don’t screw up the cat ransom tomorrow.”
“Today,” Phil corrected.
CHAPTER 27
Tuesday
Cats are magical creatures, Helen thought, as she sipped her coffee on the couch in Phil’s apartment. Her own cat, Thumbs, was curled up next to her, purring. Cats can’t talk or walk through walls, though they seem to have those powers. But they are calming.
Since nine o’clock this morning, I’ve downed four cups of coffee, waiting for the catnapper’s call. Phil’s worked himself into a sweaty, twitching mess of caffeine nerves.
We both know we have to recover that kidnapped kitten. Our reputation—the future of our agency—is wrapped up in Justine’s small gray paws.
I’m scared, too. Phil may be the only man in the world for me, but he can’t help me wait out this crisis. All we can do is worry together. Thumbs and his rumbly purr ward off the gnawing anxiety.
Thumbs weighs only fifteen pounds. He has no pedigree. By any breed standard, his soft, six-toed paws are deformed. Yet he rules our household through the force of his personality. Phil and I run on his schedule: his breakfast is served at seven a.m., his dinner is at seven p.m., his litter box is cleaned, his ears are scratched and he scores an occasional shrimp treat.
He’s smart enough to be content with that. Thumbs knows the secret of serenity. He gives it, too. He has an uncanny knack for coolly sidestepping mayhem. His first owner was murdered. I swiped him from his second owner and used the cat’s DNA to send that person to prison. Thumbs has stayed with me ever since. He adopted Phil, and now he’s sitting with me during this crisis, watching me with those shrewd golden-green eyes outlined with dark feline mascara. His sturdy body is a patchwork of stripes and pure white fur. He’s a creature of many parts.
Helen was scratching the thick fur along the cat’s shoulders when she heard the special ring tone for the kidnapper’s line. She checked the clock: ten forty-five. Helen jumped.
Phil pounced on the phone and hit the Speaker and Record buttons.
“Mrs. Barrymore.” The voice was cold, mechanical, computer generated.
“This is Mrs. Barrymore’s assistant,” Phil said. He and Helen had rehearsed this opening a dozen times.
“Where. Is. Mrs. Barrymore?” the inhuman voice demanded, flat and uninflected.
“If you really have Justine, you know where Mrs. Barrymore is,” Phil said. Nancie and the BSO had agreed to withhold the news of her release for twenty-four hours, and Valerie was cooperating, with the promise of another hot scoop.
“If. This. Is. A. Trick. Justine. Will. Go. To. A. Kill. Shelter,” the eerie voice said. “We. Know. What. Will. Happen. Next.”
“Mrs. Barrymore wants her cat back,” Phil said. Helen saw sweat beading on his forehead. “I’ll follow your instructions. I have five hundred thousand dollars in twenties in a duffel bag ready for the transfer.” The cash-stuffed bag was waiting by his front door.
Helen held her breath. So far, so good. She reached for her keys and purse, ready to go.
“Do you know the Dive Bar?” the voice asked, each word a separate sentence.
“The one on A1A near Oakland Park Boulevard?” Phil asked.
“That’s the one. On the Northeast Thirty-third Street side of the building there is a mural.”
“The seascape?” Phil said.
“Yes. There’s a planter under the mural. Leave the bag under the naked lady.”
Naked lady? Helen wondered, but Phil simply nodded. “I know the spot,” he said.
“The cat will be returned in the same spot at noon in its carrier. Someone will be watching you. If you try to follow, you’ll never see the cat again.”
Helen’s heart was thumping so loudly, she could hardly track the slow, mechanical voice.
“How about proof of life?” Phil said. “Can you e-mail me a photo of Justine?”
“You want proof of life?” the voice intoned. “How about this?”
Helen heard a small, indignant “Yerp!” The cat sounded more annoyed than injured. They’d have to take it on faith that was Justine.
“You think I’m a fool?” the voice said, each word slow and pronounced the same. “E-mails can be traced. For your stupidity, I’ve cut five minutes off your time. Drop off the money at exactly eleven o’clock. And hope the drawbridge doesn’t go up, or the cat goes to the kill shelter.”
The phone disconnected, and Helen and Phil were out the door and running for their cars. He had the duffel bag of marked money in his hand.
“I’ll make the drop-off,” he said. “You go ahead and park in one of the spots across from the mural. Wait for the kidnapper to pick up the money. I’ll drive away, park in the next block and jog back. We’ll follow the catnapper’s car in your Igloo. Whoever picks up the money will have a hard time making a left onto A1A, so they’ll probably go right. Hurry!”
They started their cars and raced through midmorning traffic, recklessly passing slower cars. Helen prayed they didn’t hit any pedestrians crossing at the lights. They both shot through yellow lights and crossed their fingers they weren’t caught by the dreaded traffic cameras. The Dive Bar was on A1A near the edge of the concrete condo canyon known as Galt Ocean Mile.
At precisely ten fifty-nine, tense and breathless, Helen turned left into Northeast Thirty-third Street and slid into an angled spot with a clear view of the Dive Bar’s seascape mural.
Phil’s Jeep slammed onto the side street shortly after her. He drove past the Igloo, while Helen watched the area. Northeast Thirty-third was a sliver of Old Florida, a stretch of sidewalk cafés, wine bars and upscale shops shad
ed by spreading trees and manicured hedges.
The Dive Bar was no dive, but a sea-themed saloon with sidewalk tables. Chalk signs advertised local bands and daily specials. Helen’s stomach growled when she caught the perfume of broiling burgers. The outside mural was a bold blue design with swirling waves, colorful fish and bright coral, but she didn’t see any naked woman on the wall.
Phil parked the Jeep next to the mural, jumped out with the bag and left it in the planter. Now she saw the lady—what looked like waves were actually the discreet outlines of a nude woman. Phil drove away.
Helen held her breath. Once Phil’s Jeep was gone, she waited, hoping no casual pedestrian noticed the dark nylon bag in the planter. How could she tell a passing shopper from the real catnapper? Would the kidnapper’s bag person be a man or a woman? She didn’t know.
Two women, chatting and carrying shopping bags, passed the spot, oblivious. Helen relaxed a little, until she saw a sixtyish woman with spiky black hair, gold lamé shorts and matching tennis shoes walking a Chihuahua with a gold bow. The little dog stopped at every bush and tree, each time inching closer to the money bag.
The spindly four-pound dog must be all kidneys, Helen thought. She held her breath as they neared the planter.
Would this woman pick up the kidnapper’s money? Was she the catnapper?
The pair trotted past the planter without a second glance.
Eleven-oh-four. Where is the kidnapper? Helen was uneasy. A half-million dollars was sitting in a planter. Shoppers, diners and tourists were strolling along the crowded sidewalk. Someone could spot the bulging bag at any moment. The wrong person could walk off with Justine’s ransom money. They’d lose that poor cat and their agency.
Where was Phil? If the kidnapper grabbed the money, Helen would have to take off and follow the car. She glanced in the rearview mirror and thought she might have seen her PI partner loping along the sidewalk across the way, but she didn’t dare turn around and lose sight of the money bag.
A man in brown work khakis stopped beside the planter, directly in front of the spot where the bag nestled, and lit a cigarette. He blew out long dragon streams of smoke and surveyed the busy street scene.
