Risky Alliance

by N. C. Anderson

  “I think someone walked in the paint on the newspaper,” she said. “See, there's a smudge on the carpet over here."

  “Probably the kids. You know how they can manage to smear-up and walk-in most everything."

  “I suppose,” she said, straightening. “Was that Tim I just heard yelling?"

  Jacob stepped through the doorway. “Where are you, Tim?” he called, as Sue stopped beside him.

  “Garage,” came the distant answer.

  Jacob arrived first, finding Tim digging through a plastic garbage bag with gloved hands and a long probe. “Find something?"

  “Clothing. Looks new too.” He pointed to the pile beside his feet. “A blouse, skirt, hose, and the tags are missing."

  “There's paint on the sleeve, J.T.,” Sue observed as Tim lifted it with long tongs. “That is an expensive blouse. Dottie wouldn't paint in something like that.” She looked closer when he let the blouse slide back onto the pile. “I've never known Dottie to buy anything like this since she stopped working to have children."

  “There are no tags. What makes you think it's an expensive blouse?” He snapped pictures of the items Tim held up.

  “The stitches in it, the buttons, the cut of it—what can I say? I can't prove it to you.” Since she started working for her father, she had bought more expensive clothing because he liked her dressed well to meet clients. This blouse had to be a silk blend of some sort. She looked at the skirt while Jacob told Tim about the paint smears in the den and fabric lint embedded in them. “All I can say is, you won't find this fabric in the local dime store."

  Tim handed her plastic gloves. After she had them on, he handed her a new set of long tweezers and held open a paper bag. “Use these to lift the skirt, blouse, and hose. We'll put each item in a separate bag. Wouldn't want to contaminate these any more than they already are."

  She did as he said. “I think these hose are silk.” They certainly had a different look than the ones she purchased at a dollar ninety-five. “What are the brown spots?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “Might be blood,” Tim said. “I hope for Dottie's sake, it isn't.” He sighed. “I wish the lab boys had been the ones to collect this stuff. It'll be like pulling teeth to get the boss to let them examine them.”

  Sue looked at him, caring only about his comment about Dottie. “What are you saying, Tim? You can't believe Dottie could have had anything to do with Robert's death.” She stripped off the plastic gloves and poked them into his small garbage bag.

  “I wouldn't believe it,” Tim said. “But someone else might think differently.” He closed a bag. “I wouldn't worry though. We'll probably have to get a confession from someone to make the DA even look at possible murder.”

  After changing to fresh gloves, Tim went into the house. They followed him back to the den and watched him scrape the fuzz and hair into a small bag. “Even if the boss isn't willing, my lab buddies will check all this stuff anyway,” he said, looking at Sue. “We'll know in a couple of days what the spots on the hose are, and if this lint could have come from the blouse.”

  Jacob rested his hand on Sue's shoulder. “Come on,” he said softly. “I can sort through more paperwork later. We'll go and show Dottie the pictures of the clothing. If she doesn't recognize them, perhaps you and I could go shopping?"

  She glared at Tim before turning to follow Jacob. “We will end up shopping,” she said firmly. “Those clothes can't be Dottie's."

  Obviously not concentrating on her, Tim walked out the door. “Go on ahead,” Tim mumbled, absently. “I want to look through the rest of the Delaney's garbage bags. Then I'll ask the neighbors if they saw or heard anything that day."

  * * * *

  An hour and a half later, Sue whispered, “I hated to leave Dottie like that.” She fastened her seat belt. “I told her I would come stay with her tomorrow.”

  Jacob frowned, taking his hat from his head and placing it in the empty space between the van's seats. “For how long?” He wanted her to visit a few stores and look for the quality of clothing found in the garage. “I don't want to sound selfish, but I could use your help tomorrow.” He hesitated. “You know, inspecting expensive goods."

  Why would he still want to do that? “She said the clothing wasn't hers, J.T. And she didn't know how they got in their garage."

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he sighed. “You saw the condition she was in. Dottie hardly looked at those photographs."

  “I know. I showed them to Bonnie and Dottie's mother. Both said they never saw that skirt and blouse before."

  Jacob backed the vehicle out of the driveway. “They could be protecting Dottie.” Tossing question and answers with his Babe was getting move fascinating by the minute. She had acted as his sounding board a few times in the past, but never with the bright-eyed interest she was showing now, and before they'd left Iowa.

  Sue laughed without humor. “Do you really believe that?"

  He shook his head as he steered the van into traffic. “Dottie's one of the gentlest ladies I know. Tim would have to prove foul play to get his boss to reopen the case. All he's got is the clothing and his knowledge of Robert.” Turning the corner, he added, “Dottie's the one who wouldn't leave things as they were. She insisted, and still does, that Robert would never kill himself, that someone shot him. She knew the police closed the case and deemed it suicide. If Dottie were guilty, she only had to keep quiet and no one would be the wiser.

  “But if Tim should find enough evidence to reopen the case, it could come to a point where Dottie needs defense. Information is the best protection.” When he stopped the van it was to park near the biggest mall in town. He placed the Stetson on his head, tipping it rakishly. “Let's go shopping.” He smiled. “My words were merely a possible scenario. Those clothes had to belong to someone. We need to find out who."

  Sue opened the door, striving not to show her stunned amazement, not wanting to jinx the moment. She couldn't remember a day of their marriage when he volunteered to go shopping at a grocery store—let alone a mall. Oh, he would go, but merely because he couldn't think of a way out of it.

  * * * *

  The man cursed when he tapped a message on the keyboard, issuing a command to his computer, and heard nothing come over the speakers beside the large hard-disk drive. After making three more tries using both addresses, he lost his temper, lifting his brandy snifter and throwing it against the wall. Nothing, no sound at all came through the phone-sensor relays at the Campbell and Delaney houses. He knew that the Campbells had been doing a lot of coming and going, and that they had spent most of yesterday cleaning up the debris and graffiti. He had listened to their noises; their limited conversations; the fear and confusion in their voices. Moreover, he had left some rubble of his own for them to clean. Kimba didn't know that he had checked on the job, adding a little flavor. And she would never be clever enough to understand what he had to do to make their machinations work ... or what he was doing it with. She, naively, thought once she handed him a file, his only concentration was paperwork and buyers.

  For a while this morning he had listened to the cop mutter to himself and move things around at the Delaney's. Now, nothing. The last place he wanted them snooping around where he couldn't hear was the Delaney's. He kicked at the glass on the floor. Campbell must have found the extra devices he used to boost the computer's phone entry system. He didn't like that. He didn't think Campbell could trace them back to his computer. Being smart, he wouldn't take that chance. This Campbell bastard wasn't stupid, and seemed well-versed in electronics. However, if he didn't stop screwing around with things that didn't concern him, he would end up lying next to his buddy.

  The man grinned. If he didn't mend his ways, the snooping cop might have to join his friend too.

  He didn't mind a bit of assassination—especially with regard to those who got in his way. It was just that it was a dangerous occupation and he preferred to avoid pitfalls. In his thirty-year
climb to glory, he had allowed no slip-ups. Campbell's demise would have to be unlike Delaney's. The private detective wasn't nearly as trusting, nearly as easy to manipulate, and suddenly the most serious adversary he'd had since running drug money at age thirteen.

  Cursing, using the language he had learned in the streets as a kid, he systematically yanked all the plugs from his sophisticated components, and began stacking them behind the dark paneling that lined the office closet. He opened boxes and set up a smaller, less complex computer. After a week, if no one came snooping, he would just switch the equipment again. There were other riches to come by, and he needed to listen to the persons being squeezed, listen to them squealing in pain because everything is lost. When it became time to confiscate property, he wanted no mistakes, no trace possible, no risk

  * * * *

  After watching Sue rummage through racks of clothing at Macy's Department Store for a half hour, Jacob couldn't stand it any more and had an idea. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go back to the Delaney's."

  Sue didn't argue. Her feet hurt, she was thirsty, and her tummy was grumbling. “Could we grab a burger first?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with him. “I think better when I have at least a little blood sugar left."

  He grinned as he unlocked the van. “Feel sort of weak myself,” he agreed. “We'll eat it on the run."

  Fifteen minutes later they left the nearest drive-thru line with a bag of warm food and cold drinks. Nibbling French fries, Sue thought about their little venture. “I found comparable items in the store, J.T. But I think the ones at Dottie's are designer. You know, more one-of-a-kind exclusives."

  She watched as he turned on the Delaney's street. “That would be pretty stupid though."

  “Meaning?"

  “Well, if someone killed Robert, why would they leave something so conspicuous behind? Why not clothing that could be purchased at any conglomerate chain store?"

  They were inside the house when he ventured a reply. He ushered her into the master bedroom. Opening the closet, he said, “If we're dealing with a perp, and we can't prove that yet, maybe he or she couldn't resist giving the cops a challenge. Some seem to harbor a death wish. Could also mean the perp needed to appear the well-dressed professional. It could also be that the perp wears expensive clothing and never gives it a thought, period.”

  He pointed at the clothing in the closet. “Can you find anything in here resembling the quality Tim found?"

  Carefully, she moved hangers and looked at the clothing. “Three dresses look designer,” she mumbled, fearing for Dottie as she studied each piece. “But I can't tell you who because the tags are missing."

  “The hell you say,” Jacob snapped, reaching over her head and moving hangers. “They could be plants to make Dottie look bad if Robert's death wasn't accepted as a suicide. That would be one reason for leaving the clothing in the garage. If the case remained closed, no one would think about going through the garbage, so it wouldn't matter."

  “Dottie has always worn quality clothing, J.T., but none of this looks like her style.” She took a hanger down from the pole. “Look at this thing. It's bright orange. Dottie wouldn't be caught in her backyard with this on."

  “You haven't been around her for two years, Babe. Perhaps her tastes have changed."

  “All right,” she said, “look at the dresses and blouses at the other end of this closet. Do you see any colors that startle you? As in knock-your-socks off?"

  Jacob moved to the other end, checking collars, waistbands. “Some have tags, some do not, but they aren't mixed up.” It could be, that the person planting the articles didn't have time to remove all the tags. Maybe someone interrupted before the perpetrator could finish. If Dottie were into removing tags, she would have taken them off as she bought them. “You're right, pastel seems to be her vogue."

  He turned to look at her. She was kneeling near the bathroom door. Tendrils, loosened from her French braid, curled temptingly across her shell-shaped ear. Walking over to her, he remembered what it was like to nuzzle that ear, her slender neck, her.... It was over eighteen months—more like twenty almighty-dammed months. Being this close and never touching was driving him crazy. He stopped, taking a deep breath for control as the delicate scent of her perfume reached his nostrils, heating his blood, and his pounding heart was pumping that heat straight to his gonads. He swiped the black Stetson from his head and held it in front of him.

  “Jacob, the bathroom walls are a light green and there's white paint on this tile floor.” Sue looked closer. “Looks like sneaker marks to me."

  Kneeling would have been uncomfortable, so he remained standing beside her. “I think you're right.” He took the small notebook from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Write what you found, and its location. When we get back to Abby's we'll call Tim and find out if he saw it.” He stepped back. “Don't forget to describe the clothing and your thoughts about the color angle."

  “Don't you think it was a little strange that there weren't any shoes in the trash? I mean, the hose were there.” When Sue glanced into Jacob's eyes, she could nearly feel the heat radiating from them. Standing up slowly, she stared at him. “What's happening, Jacob?” It was a stupid question. She had seen that expression of hunger a million times.

  He kept his fingers clenched and his hat where it was. “Not a damned thing,” he grumbled. “Let's get out of here."

  When she touched his arm, he pulled away as if she'd burned him, and her hand felt singed. She hadn't touched him for a long time. Even when he had kissed her in the driveway before they came back, she hadn't touched him with her hands.

  “Don't do that,” he growled. Her look of sympathy told him she understood exactly what was happening. He didn't want her damned sympathy. He wanted a hell of a lot more than that. He plastered the hat on his head, then reached out and pulled her against his chest. He ignored that her hands had come up between them, and were working to wedge them apart. “Unless, of course, you plan on alleviating the happening.” The thought of them making love, hearing the words always and forever had him setting his teeth together for control.

  Her mouth said, “I can't do this, Jacob.” But when her hands had touched the soft cotton of his shirt, felt the hard wall of his chest, and the pounding of his heart beneath, her flesh and blood didn't agree with the words. The two top snaps of his shirt were not secure, and her eyes were only inches from the dark curly hair visible in the opening. As usual, the scent of him seemed to take over her very mind.

  With his fingers balanced under her chin, he tipped her face so he could see her. If she wasn't having an internal war, he would hand his new hat to the dogs. If he kissed her, he might tip the scales in his direction. Instead, he stepped away from her. He wanted her to do the scale tipping and he wasn't going to change his mind. “Like I said, let's get out of here. The kids are probably wondering if we skipped the country."

  Every ounce of her hundred ten pounds wanted to call him back. Especially when she saw that the love in his eyes had given way to frustrated irritation. Guilt and failure—her not having proof that it wouldn't happen again was a brutal thing—for both of them. Her body said, to hell with proof, with brutality, but she obeyed her mind. The notebook he had given her, lay on the floor at her feet where it had fallen when he tugged her into his arms. She scooped it up and followed him.

  Fastening her seat belt, she asked, “Can I have those dresses after Tim looks at them?"

  Jacob checked to make sure his briefcase was still under the front seat, then started the engine. “Why?"

  “I could take them with me when I go to the stores. Most people operating the smaller boutiques know exactly what their merchandise looks like. Those dresses would be awfully hard to describe. The only alternative I can think of is pictures, but the real thing would be better.” She hated to bring it up again. “About the shoes?"

  “Maybe the owner of the clothes forgot to bring an extra pair,” he muttered. “Course, we don
't know yet if Tim found anything else.” At this moment he didn't give a rat's ass either, he just wanted to take Bandit to Abby's, then to find a cold shower, to nurse his bloodstained spirit. It bothered him most that he had allowed his body to rule his mood. “Did you happen to look at any shoes in Dottie's closet?"

  “No, I didn't have time.” Because you got sidetracked, she thought, and so did I.

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  Chapter 15

  Kimba moved to her office door and, over the heads of several milling workers, signaled Clint, who had stopped to talk when she needed him to get busy. “Where have you been?” She closed the door behind him. “I have two properties that look like jewels, and they need to be acted on quickly."

  “Sorry,” he said, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her neck. “But I've been looking for new buyers.” He kissed her raspberry-colored mouth, and then added, “I retired the cousins our friend Campbell was nosing around.” He especially hated Campbell for that. His shirttail relatives had worked out perfectly. Campbell had to pay.

  She brushed him away. “We can go to your place later,” she promised him. “Right now we have serious business to take care of. You found new people?” She perched on the edge of her huge desk. The desk taken from a dentist, along with nearly everything else he'd owned. Kimba loved the desk.

  He nodded. “Three, and they're from out of state."

  “And you can trust them implicitly?” She frowned, lifting a gold pen from the blotter and rolling it between her fingers. “Take no risks, Clint, because Keats won't be kind. He's not happy with what's been happening.” Thinking about Keat's behavior, she wondered if he might suspect her relationship with Williams. It wasn't what he said, but something illusive, something new in his actions that caused the wondering. “He's especially unhappy with the way you handled yourself in Iowa. It appears that there's an Iowa cop investigating what happened at Campbell's apartment and thinks he's found a possible link to someone from California.” She wiggled further onto the desk. “Let's hope you didn't leave anything awkward behind, Clint."