“I haven’t seen the transcript. Tell me.”
I told the story, and she listened. When I was done, she said, “Let’s go back to when you hit the man with the pruning shears.”
“He had a gun,” I said defensively.
“The gun I took from you just now. Yes, I got that. You hit the man with the pruning shears, and just as he went down, another man grabbed you from behind.”
“Yes. I broke away from him, and he fell back and hit his head on the back steps.” Okay, so I’d grabbed his nuts and twisted. I didn’t see any reason to clutter the story with a lot of irrelevant minutia.
“And this was the man who approached you initially.”
“I thought so.”
“You don’t think so now?”
“I don’t know. After he went down, another man showed up at the fence. I don’t know where he came from. I’d been running until I was about to collapse, and suddenly they were all around me.”
“One thing you seem a little unclear on is where exactly this final confrontation took place.”
“Several blocks from my house. I’m pretty sure I could find it again.”
“No need. It was 3490 Darby Drive,” Riley said.
“Huh?”
“We had a call from the householder. He heard a commotion in his backyard, saw movement, went out just in time to see a tall young woman clobber someone with what he took to be a baseball bat but turned out to be—”
“Pruning shears,” I finished, feeling sick, seeing the image of his fixed gaze staring up into the night sky. “Was he hurt?”
“I don’t know. He declined an ambulance.”
I thought that was a bad call on his part. We turned onto my street, which was illuminated by a street light every block or so. It was now close to midnight. There were no cars on the street, and the houses were all dark — except mine. The curtains in my front window glowed with the lights of the living room.
“See anything unusual?” Riley asked me as we pulled up against the curb in front of my house.
“No.”
“You left the lights on?”
I tried to think back to the time when I passed the house at the end of my run. It had been dark by then. Had the lights been on? I couldn’t remember. “I don’t know,” I said. “Probably. It was daylight when I left the house.”
“Let’s go.”
We got out together. Riley stopped at the end of my sidewalk. “Where was the car exactly?”
“Right there.” I pointed across the street. “Directly across from the sidewalk.”
She crossed the street, and I crossed with her, my eyes scanning for evidence: traces of condensation that had dripped from the car’s air conditioner, the cigarette butt I had seen one of them toss away — anything. I didn’t even see the cigarette butt.
Officer Riley turned back toward the house, her hand going to rest on the butt of her gun. “Let’s go in.”
My front door was closed and locked, as it should be. No scars on the wood or on the lock itself suggested that anyone without a key had tried to get in. I slipped the string with my house key over my head and unlocked the door. My living room was in the same state as I had left it.
I glanced at Riley, wondering if my story was beginning to seem as fantastic to her as it was to me. If so, she gave no sign. Together we walked through the house, checking the windows as well as the condition of each room.
“Everything’s normal,” I said. The stress of anticlimax was apparent in the unsteadiness of my voice. I cleared my throat. “I don’t guess they’ve been inside.”
“No.”
“I guess it ought to make me feel better.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“They wanted something from me, and I don’t have any idea what it is.”
“Want me to wait while you pack a bag?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be all right.”
“You sure?”
I wasn’t, not by a long shot, but I nodded and said, “I’ll lock the door behind you.”
She walked out, moving with the rolling gait that had added to my first, false impression of her. I locked the door and turned, my back against it. All the lights in the house were still on after our brief walk-through, and I couldn’t see myself turning any of them off. Outside, the door of the police cruiser slammed, the sound followed a moment later by the roar of the engine. The skin on my bare arms broke out in gooseflesh.
“Oh, heck,” I said, wishing I had accepted her offer to wait. Moving quickly, I got a silk dress from my bedroom closet, a clean bra and panties from the dresser, and my travel case from the bathroom. On my way out to the garage, I snatched up my purse from the recliner in the living room.
The purse had evidently been lying open. My keys fell out of it and onto the floor along with my ChapStick, my Listerine strips, and a pocketknife. I stopped, a feeling of horror creeping over me as I looked down into my open purse. Maybe… Maybe someone had been in the house after all.
My wallet was still in there, though. I set down the travel case and pulled it out. My cash and credit cards were still inside. I closed the wallet thoughtfully, then put the stuff that had fallen out back into the purse, picked up my travel case and change of clothes again, and continued on out to the garage. I tossed everything into the passenger seat of my Beetle and swung down into it.
I’d forgotten my briefcase, I realized.
The doorbell rang as I reentered the house, and, if the ceiling had been any lower, I think I would have hit my head on it. Then a key rasped in the lock, and my adrenal gland dumped the rest of its contents into my bloodstream. I hotfooted it toward the front door, casting about for something to use for a weapon, silently cursing Riley for taking the pistol.
As I passed through the living room, I grabbed up a table lamp with a heavy brass base, yanking the plug from the wall by the cord. The shade made it awkward, but I didn’t have time to look for anything else. The front door was swinging inward, and I stepped behind it with the upside-down lamp gripped firmly in both hands.
The man who entered was wearing an orange T-shirt and drawstring pajama bottoms. I exhaled in noisy relief, and John Parker jumped and spun.
“Holy crap! You scared the bejeebers out of me,” he said.
It was one of the things I’d always liked about John. Most men would have said something a good deal stronger than bejeebers. “You didn’t do my nerves any good either,” I pointed out as I put the lamp back on its table. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to help.”
“Seems a bit late for that. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Serve and protect? I saw the cop drive off.”
“She didn’t see you lurking around out there?” My respect and admiration for Riley dipped a bit. Lurking men in automobiles were what this was about, after all.
“She?” John asked.
“The cop. Women can be cops.”
“I was just turning the corner as she pulled away.”
“I was just about to take off myself.”
“Where to? You want to come to my place?”
“I was thinking of a motel.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“I think your prostate’s had enough stimulation for one evening, don’t you?”
“You keep saying that,” he said, though I could have sworn it was the first time I’d mentioned his prostate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about a leggy brunette named Wendy Walters.”
“How…” He processed the new data quickly, as one might expect a trial lawyer to do. “She came out on the balcony, didn’t she? You saw her.”
“And her clothing wasn’t arranged so that it covered her all that well,” I said.
He took a breath. “I’m sorry, Robin. I was actually trying to help.”
My eyebrows went up.
“She called me about three o’clock, said she tried to get you, but
you weren’t in your office.”
I thought back. Probably in the employee lounge with Cynthia and Pete Larsen.
“She’d left work early, stuff going on there. I think she caught somebody going through her purse or her briefcase or something. Anyway, it got unpleasant, and she was going home.”
“Okay.”
“She lives in Shockoe Bottom, you know. She was going right by the office.”
“And so you went down, and she picked you up.”
“She wanted someone to go home with her, check out the place before she went in — like you and the cop. That’s what we did, anyway. We went down to her place on Main Street. The door was locked. She opened it on some stairs, and then she just stood there, looking up. Well, it was a bit much. ‘Can we get on with this?’ I said. ‘I’m in trial tomorrow. I’ve gotta get back to work.’ It’s the Gardner case, you know.”
I nodded.
“She just looked at me, biting her lip. Then she stepped back outside, closed the door, and locked it up again. She headed back to her car, and I followed, thinking, well, fine, at least this little excursion won’t have cost me more than half-an-hour.” He stopped. I imagined the story was about to get interesting.
I said, “So how’s that trial prep coming? You ready?”
“Actually, the case settled.”
“Lucky you.” I sat looking at him, and evidently the scrutiny made him uncomfortable.
“It was weird, really,” he said. “Her skirt rode up on her as she got back in her car, and she made no effort at all to pull it down. She kept looking at me…”
“…and she had those long legs,” I said.
“Well, I let her take us to my place.”
“Ah. The trials and tribulations of being irresistible to women.”
His eyes were distant, as if he were replaying some scene or other. Finally, he said, “Look, I know she’s your friend and all, but that Wendy is one weird chick.”
“But not so weird that it put you off.”
“I, uh.” He smiled weakly. “You can put up with a lot of weirdness from a naked woman.”
If I’d still been holding the table lamp, I would have brained him, but I’d already plugged it back in. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here?” I said instead. “Just get the hell out.” I brushed past him, heading for the den. In addition to being exhausted generally, I was suddenly exhausted with John Parker.
“What?” he called after me. “I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know. What is it?”
“I’m not naked. What do you care?” I couldn’t find my briefcase. It hadn’t been by the recliner where I tossed my purse. It wasn’t by the desk in the den either. I tried the kitchen: Sometimes the briefcase didn’t make it past the end of the counter, where I dropped it on my way in from the garage while I grabbed something to eat. No briefcase.
I thought I’d try my bedroom, but I ran into John in the kitchen doorway. “Oh, forget it,” I said. “I can go for a day without a briefcase.”
“Can I help?”
“Yes. You can lock the front door behind you on your way out.”
“You’re really going to a motel? It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here.”
“I don’t care what it looks like. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep.”
“I could stay here with you,” he said. “Sleep on the couch.”
“You can sleep on the couch if you want to. I won’t be here. I’m leaving.”
And I did. He was looking after me as the garage door lowered between us, crouching lower and lower to maintain eye contact as long as possible. I made a face and shook my head as I backed into the alley and switched the car into drive. John was a charmer, I’d give him that. Couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants to save his life, but he was a charmer.
Chapter 8
My office, when I walked into it the next morning, was a mess, but no more so than normal. On my desk were books, client files, legal pads covered with scribbled notes, and pencils, pens, and highlighters of various colors. On the credenza behind my desk was my computer, screen on, waiting for a user-name and password. No briefcase in evidence, so evidently I hadn’t left it here.
I sank into my chair and typed: rstarlin, slamdunk. My desktop came up. I clicked on the Windows Explorer icon, then on the file I’d been working on the day before when Cynthia had appeared in my doorway with her tale of woe. My billable hours begun, I sat back and thought about Wendy Walters, a subject that had occupied me much of the night.
I’d had it coming. I had to give her that. For some, ten years might be long enough to wipe the ledger clean, but I could see how for others it might not. Maybe fifty years wouldn’t have been enough. If we happened to end up in the same nursing home, she’d be wheeling her chair into the lounge, intent on seducing my eighty-year-old hottie in retaliation for Cody.
I got my purse out of the drawer to get the CD she’d given me, but it wasn’t there. I looked for my briefcase, then remembered it had gone missing. I sat back. This wasn’t good.
“Robin?” It was John’s voice.
I swiveled and, when I saw him standing awkwardly in the doorway, lifted one foot and then the other onto the corner of my desk. “John Parker,” I said. “As I live and breathe.”
“I locked up before I left.”
I nodded, my mouth pursed, and my eyes went to the corner of the desk where rested my fuchsia-colored pumps. Only half-inch heels, but they looked good with the dress. My bare legs, visible to just past the knees, had a silky sheen that I could admire even if the legs did belong to me.
“I looked around for your briefcase some more,” John said. “It’s not in any of the usual places.”
“Did you check my bedroom?”
He nodded.
“I didn’t check the bedroom,” I said.
“It’s not there. What else is missing?”
“Just the briefcase. Maybe a CD out of my purse. It fell open when I picked it up last night.”
“What kind of CD?”
“Taylor Swift.”
“You’re kidding. That’s not your kind of music.”
“Not as far as you know,” I said.
“What are you thinking? Somebody stole your briefcase and then a Taylor Swift CD out of your purse?”
“I don’t know.”
He stood there watching me, looking as if he were going to say something conciliatory, but I wasn’t ready to reconcile.
“Heard from Wendy?” I asked. “Or did you not part on a good note?”
He flinched, but it was almost imperceptible. “No, actually, we didn’t. Things fell apart pretty quickly after you saw her on the balcony. It wasn’t thirty minutes later she was driving me back downtown to get my car.”
I looked back at my shoes, nodding unhappily. “Well, she finally got me.”
“What do you mean by that? You can’t be thinking she came onto me just because you and I are together.”
“Maybe.”
“Aren’t you being a little conceited?”
“One of us is.”
He made a face. “You want me to apologize? Is that what this is about?”
I shrugged. “What’s the point of apologizing? It’s not like you could have done any different. If Wendy Walters set out to seduce you, then you were going to be seduced. Smile at you, show a little leg — it’d be like hitting you in the head with a poleax.”
He grinned, but it had a defensive look to it. I stayed on offense.
“You know, when I was fifteen, my father ran off with a twenty-two-year-old named Jasmine. Can you believe that? Jasmine.”
“I thought your father was a veterinarian.”
Talk about your non sequitur. “Veterinarians can’t be philanderers?” I said. “Jasmine was his veterinary assistant.”
“It’s just that, from the stories you told, I thought you had a good relationship with your father.”
“I did. Right up until he took off. An
d I’ve gotten over that, so don’t worry about me. You’re just one more chapter in my Men Are Weasels field guide.”
“I…” He gave up with a shrug and stepped out of the doorway. The walls were transparent, though, so I could watch him walk away.
My victory should have felt better than it did, but I’d just unloaded a dump truck of emotional baggage on him, which was hardly fair. He hadn’t promised to love and honor me until death us did part. He had only obliged me with sex when I’d wanted it. It had felt like love for a lifetime, but of course it wasn’t. Somehow it never is.
With a start, I realized that someone else had appeared in my doorway. It was Pete Larsen, the firm’s managing partner.
“Hello, Robin.”
He was staring at my legs, or maybe he was just admiring my fuchsia pumps.
“Hello, Pete.”
“Are you wearing stockings?”
We both looked at my legs. I looked back up at him. “No, Pete, I guess I’m not.”
“Stockings make for a more professional image. Especially if you’re going to keep your feet on your desk.”
Probably that wasn’t very professional either. I sighed and lowered one foot and then the other to the floor. I started to tell him that stockings had gone out of fashion a decade ago, but didn’t. Maybe Pete’s wife wore them. “It was an oversight,” I said.
He nodded, almost to himself, turned, and continued down the hall.
“Crap,” I said to myself as I picked up a pen and dragged over a legal pad. Caught again in an unladylike posture. There were men in the firm who put their feet on their desks all the time—Eric Beezer lay on his like a supine Buddha—but I suspected that keeping my feet on my desk wasn’t a good way to make partner.
For a good ten minutes I tried to focus on the work in front of me. Larry Briggs’ Homes was paying three hundred dollars an hour for my time, and already I owed them — I glanced at my watch — eek, almost a hundred and fifty bucks. I was going to have to be extraordinarily productive to make it up to them.
But I couldn’t concentrate. Wendy had seemed genuinely frightened. I had been assaulted, and the CD she’d given me had disappeared, events which, taken together, seemed to suggest something scary was going on.
Trial by Ambush (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 5
