by L. J. Parker
“Anyway,” she said, needing to back up a few steps, “what we know is that Thornton wants the land. Thornton’s son-in-law Fozzi worked for Skolnik, Skolnik worked for Strickland & Yates, and right now Strickland & Yates has a fraudulent lien on the Baylin House property that will let them take it away from Rosalie without even paying for it.”
Gorduno frowned. “Strickland has a lien?”
Cassie nodded. “They claimed Brady Irwin was about to be charged for Skolnik’s murder, and got Rosalie to sign a contract so they could lien the property.”
“Ho-ly-shit,” he gasped, and quickly got to his feet.
“What?” Rob looked as surprised as Cassie.
But Gorduno only snatched up his coffee and headed for the door. “I gotta check on something.”
Then he left.
Chapter Forty-Two
While Gorduno drove out of the motel parking lot, Rob pressed his fingers on his temples with his eyes closed. Cassie had no doubt he had real pain after sleeping in the chair, but it was his own fault.
“If Fozzi found out rigging Sydney’s car didn’t kill her, he might be crazy enough to pull something up at her parent’s place.”
Rob shook his head slowly. “Victoria PD has one of their guys at her place.”
“Oh cripes,” Cassie groaned. “That must be scaring the crap out of Mrs. Waller.”
“As far as the Waller family knows, he’s just an old friend from high school who decided to spend some time with them while Sydney’s laid up.”
Cassie moved to the chair vacated by Gorduno, and fished a blueberry muffin from the box. She peeled back the paper cup and picked off a chunk to slide into her mouth.
After she swallowed, she said, “Delona Zimmer told me her husband coached basketball before he died.” Then she took a sip of coffee.
Rob’s eyebrows flicked. “How do you know Delona Zimmer?”
“You asked me if her husband worked for Baylin House.”
He nodded, and moved his gaze to his own coffee cup.
She continued,“If you find the high school annual for 1995-96, you might find the connection between Coach Zimmer and a student named Brent Mitchell, who knew the coach had heart problems and left his car in the garage.”
“And that’s important because why?”
“Because Mitchell is Skolnik’s contact person in the Strickland office.”
Rob took a deep breath and glanced at the clock on the TV. “You don’t work at Baylin House today?”
“Not on Sunday unless Bea calls me. Why?”
“Gather what you need for the day. You may not get back until after dark tonight.”
***
Cassie didn’t waste time asking questions. She felt too grimy in yesterday’s clothes to go anywhere without a shower and change.
When she came out of the bathroom, Rob was talking on his phone.
He glanced at her and hung up. His mood was a hundred percent better than when she went in. He gave her an affirmative smile. “Feel better?”
“Yes, much. Thanks.”
He waited quietly while she gathered the laptop and paperwork into the satchel, pulled her black-hole-handbag from the closet, and then made a quick pass around to collect everything she didn’t want to leave unattended in the motel room. It wasn’t much, because she hadn’t unloaded the thing when she came back from Victoria last night.
“Now what?” she asked.
“For now, you’re with me.”
“Oh . . .sure . . .” She followed him out the door and stood while he unlocked the passenger door of the tan and white Expedition. Cassie climbed in pretending to be perfectly comfortable sitting in the bucket seat with a strobe light in front of her and a shotgun holstered between her and the driver seat.
He drove to a neighborhood south and west of town where cross streets were heavily shaded by mature cottonwood trees. They passed one corner where an arrow sign proclaimed ‘Public Dock Access’ and under it another sign, The Baileys Full Service Restaurant.
“Public dock?” Cassie asked.
“River access,” Rob answered. “Most people out here have boats to go upstream to King Lake, or down river to the bay.”
A few blocks later, he turned into a dead-end street crowded with thick trees and small houses. He drove straight into the carport of the house at the end.
“You’ll be safe here while I get cleaned up,” he said as he got out. He came around and opened Cassie’s door, then turned and unlocked the door of the house, holding it open for her to enter.
“What is this place?” Cassie stepped into a tiny living room with polished wood floors, walls covered in woven jute, and sparse furniture. There wasn’t room for much; just the sofa and a side table, a TV hanging on the wall across from it, and a low credenza under the TV. Plantation shutters covered the window with almost no light seeping through.
Rob clicked on the TV and handed the remote to Cassie. “Take a load off while I use the hot water.” He dropped his keys and phone on the side table before he opened the bedroom door and went in, and then disappeared behind another door. A couple beats later she heard the shower running.
She had not expected him to bring her to his home, though it did make sense; better than leaving Gorduno to babysit while Rob came all the way across town and back. Maybe a little rough on Cassie’s libido control, finding herself in his personal space with his personal smells . . . Caesar’s Man . . . or something like it . . . probably shower gel because, mild as it was, it was increasingly wafting throughout the house while the shower roared.
Cassie went to the door of the bedroom and peeked in. King size bed neatly made, chocolate brown cover; that was no surprise. Two doors on a narrow wall promised to be the bathroom and a closet. Barely enough room to walk between the bed and walls, but a combo floor lamp and tray on one side held a house phone and a bottle of antacids.
In the kitchen she found a 2-seat dinette; more plantation shutters on the window. A small window over the sink was uncovered and looked out on a narrow, tree-shaded yard stretching between the house and the riverbank.
Everything was spotlessly clean as though no one lived here; nothing on the counters, not even a coffee pot; nothing personal on the walls of any of the rooms. She might have thought it was some kind of police safe house, except for a couple photo frames and an envelope sitting behind glass doors in the credenza under the TV.
Cassie squatted down to study them. The envelope was stamped and postmarked, addressed to Robert Baxter in beautifully flowing script; the return address was too small to read without opening the glass door.
The larger photo frame held a studio 8x10 of a young girl who looked about five or six. The smaller 5x7 frame held a school photo of the same girl, looking early teen age, and dated in the lower right corner: 1993; thirteen years ago. A wallet-size loose photo of the same girl as a beautiful young woman in cap and gown was tucked into the corner of the 5x7. She looked enough like Rob to be his sister, but Cassie didn’t think that was the case.
He hadn’t mentioned that he had a daughter. There was a lot she did not know about him.
Cassie sat down on the sofa ready to skim through TV channels. The mid-day news was already on, showing a photo of PI Doug Skolnik standing next to the sign outside his bungalow office. She turned up the sound long enough to hear the recap of information released this morning by the CBPD Information Officer. Not exactly the same as Rob told her last night – nothing about Brady Irwin -- but close enough. The man in custody was identified as Roger Marcus, a Vietnam Veteran known in the San Miguel neighborhood as ‘Dozey’.
Cassie’s adrenaline spiked as Rob’s phone shrilled on the end table beside her. She turned, staring at it. After a short beat, it shrilled again and rumbled another inch toward the edge of the table.
She was tentatively reaching for it when half-naked and dripping wet Rob burst from the bathroom and grabbed it.
He stood with his back to her, a towel wrapped around his mid
dle, small droplets edging down furrows of muscle between his shoulders. His voice hardly registered in her brain while her attention lingered on the shape of his broad back. How delicious it would feel to run her hands down those same furrows . . . oh my!
“Are they sure it’s him?” Rob demanded of the caller. “Who made the ID?”
Cassie’s gaze slipped farther down. The calf muscle of one leg was oddly thin. There was a nasty scar extending several inches above his ankle, and it looked like part of his foot was hacked away leaving long strings of scar, but that could have been just a shadow from the shutters.
“All right, I’ll be there in a couple hours,” he said into the phone. Then he set it closed on the table, glanced back at Cassie, and quickly returned to the bathroom.
She was glad she had stopped staring at his foot before he looked at her; she was actually meeting his eyes when he glanced her way. Then she turned her face to the TV and left him some dignity to get back to the bathroom.
It was none of her business but she did wonder if he’d been surfing and battled with a shark or something.
Chapter Forty-Three
Neither of them mentioned that awkward moment when Rob came out of the bathroom again, fully dressed. He picked up the keys and phone, and dropped them in pockets.
“Let’s go get a real breakfast and put something in the refrigerator for lunch,” he told her. “You can stay here. I won’t be gone too long.”
Cassie followed him out without arguing. Obviously, he couldn’t take her along wherever he needed to go, so staying at his place was fine with her. More than fine, actually, compared to being dropped at the jail.
Breakfast was at The Baileys next to the public dock, with a trendy menu including a veggie frittata garnished with alfalfa sprouts. Rob smiled when she ordered it; he opted for sausage, eggs and hash brown potatoes.
They returned an hour later with two chicken salad bowls in a bag. Rob went directly into the bedroom. Cassie carried the lunch bag to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
There was nothing inside, clean as brand new; plenty of room to stow the bag even with the giant advertiser card stapled to the outside.
As she closed the refrigerator she stepped sideways, and crashed headlong into Rob standing there. Once again, his arms went around her to steady them both on their feet.
He laughed softly and drew his arms tighter, holding her against him while he brushed his lips against her temple. “I think I could get used to us bumping into each other like this.”
Cassie breathed in the scent of him. For a second she thought he was going to kiss her. At that moment, she actually wanted it.
Instead, he frowned at the clock on the stove, and stepped back, leaving her slumped into empty space as he walked quickly to the door. “I’ll call your cell phone if anything comes up. You’ll be okay here.”
Then he left.
Cassie locked the front door, and watched through the living room shutters while the Expedition drove away, feeling light headed like she’d just been on a wild carnival ride and didn’t have her feet under her yet.
She left the window and took several deep breaths to clear her thoughts, and then carried her satchel to the kitchen table to set up the laptop. For more than an hour she tried hard to focus on the text without thinking about the detective or the lingering scents of him in the house.
She did a few knee bends, stretches, twists, and then made her way to the bathroom. As with the kitchen, it was as clean as if nobody lived here. Even the shower was spotless, except for his damp towel hanging over the brass frame. She made sure she left it in the same condition.
Back at the kitchen table, she read again the file of notes she’d been organizing, trying to drag herself up from the haze. The chapter about Rosalie’s London birth was ready for review. The list of questions about the relationship between Rosalie and Emmet was growing – Cassie had calculated their relevant ages when they met; Rosalie was only 37, five years younger than Cassie was right now.
It was too quiet. She checked her phone once more to make sure it was turned on and charged, and laughed at herself because it was at least the third time she’d done that since Rob left.
She needed to do something that didn’t require staring into the computer screen, and it might as well be something she couldn’t do if Rob was here. She pulled the steno notebook from the satchel, picked up her phone, and dialed Margaret Goodman Frank’s number.
When the Latino woman answered, Cassie said, “Hi, this is Cassandra Crowley calling again. Please tell Margaret it’s important that I talk to her right now.”
She heard the phone contact a hard surface, heard footsteps moving away. She waited. When the footsteps came back, the Latino woman said, “Mrs. Frank is not available. May I take a message?”
“Yes, and I’ll hold while you give her this message. Tell her I need to talk to her about Mr. Thornton and his son-in-law Mr. Fozzi.”
Cassie detected a gasp on the other end. Good! If connecting those names brought a reaction from the Latino housekeeper, it ought to get Margaret’s attention too.
It took only a few seconds. “What do you want from me, Cassandra? I can’t help you!”
“I want to know what happened to the funds my father contributed to Baylin House. I already know it should have practically run the place by itself, and the only way they can be broke now is if someone is skimming it off the top. I want to know what your pal Thornton is up to, and I want to know how Fozzi is involved, and the shysters at Strickland and Yates, too. I think you’re in over your head, Margaret, and I can help you, but only if you help me.”
Cassie finally stopped and listened, expecting an argument. She had not expected to hear choking hysterical sobs. She waited nearly a full minute, listening.
“Margaret?”
“Alright!” Margaret Goodman Frank squealed in pathetic keening.
“All right what?”
Margaret sniffed, and spoke in choking starts and stops, “I don’t know . . . how much . . . David Thornton actually controls. I don’t know anything about Strickland and Yates . . . but I can tell you . . . sob . . . what Fozzi is doing. It’s probably better for my husband to get this all out in the open. He’s been so upset with me he’s moved out. And I’ve stayed locked in here because I’m too terrified of Fozzi to step outside.”
Cassie almost wavered. She could feel the pain in Margaret’s voice. “Stay where you are to be safe,” she told the whimpering woman. “I’ll find a different car that Fozzi won’t recognize and I’ll come to you.”
As soon as she ended the call, Cassie retrieved the advertiser card from the lunch bag inside the refrigerator, and verified the City Cab phone number printed on the bottom. She opened the credenza door and pulled out the greeting card to verify Rob’s address. The return address was in Seattle, but she didn’t have time to think about that right now.
She called the cab company for a ride back to her car at Treasure Isle. While she waited for the cab to arrive, she called Rob’s cell phone.
He sounded distracted. “I’m going to be tied up here for a few more hours. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, but I need to run some errands for Baylin House.”
“Cassie, I can’t--”
“I know you can’t come get me – I’ve got a cab coming. Is it all right if I call you later after I find out what’s going on over there?”
He was quiet long enough that she sensed he was working to stay calm. She needed him to not ask any questions, and that meant she couldn’t ask any of him, especially not has anybody spotted Fozzi yet? She didn’t want to open that door. So she added, “Or you call me, if you get done first. I’ll have the cell phone with me.”
He had not hung up; she could still hear background noises. She rang off anyway. She just couldn’t talk to him any more right now.
When the cab dropped Cassie in the front driveway at Treasure Isle, she was surprised not to see a police car waiting for her
. She did not doubt one was there, somewhere, likely unmarked.
Actually, it was a comforting thought.
She noticed a dark blue Ford Taurus that followed her through two turns when she left the motel. It waited discreetly at the end of the block when she parked in front of Computer House and went inside.
She purchased a small voice recorder that would fit in her purse, and had the clerk install the batteries and test the features. Then she loaded a fresh blank cassette tape, and returned to her car.
All the way to Margret’s neighborhood on the western edge of the city, Cassie maintained the speed limit, used proper signals, and made full stops at stop signs, allowing the dark blue Taurus to keep her in sight. As long as they did not get in her way or try to stop her, she would cooperate.
Chapter Forty-Four
Margaret’s house was typical upper-middleclass, more like Cassie’s parents had in Las Vegas. The Golf Estates neighborhood was enclosed by a high stone wall, guard gated, flowing curved landscape everywhere, and half-acre lots with rolling knolls and sprawling homes surrounded by stone walls, ornamental iron, and tall shrubs. She gave her name at the entrance; the guard opened the gate for her. She didn’t see the Ford Taurus again after she drove in.
Margaret’s Latino housekeeper led Cassie to a room overlooking the Fourteenth Fairway. Margaret sat alone in the room, her eyes red and swollen; her skin blotched.
Cassie sat down on the sofa; the housekeeper poured two glasses of iced tea. When Cassie pulled the voice recorder from her purse and set it on the low table between them, Margaret said, “Hortensia, please leave us alone to talk.”
The Latino woman left the room quietly. Cassie made sure Margaret was looking at the recorder before she turned it on.
“Margaret,” she said, speaking in her announcer voice for the sake of the recorder, “we both know my goal is to track down money my father donated to the Baylin House charity fund, as well as find a way to prevent Baylin House from being closed while there are people still depending on it.”
