Dorothy Howell

by Haley Randolph 03 - Shoulder Bags; Shootings (v5)

  “I’m not going to ruin somebody’s life just to get a story—and screw myself in the process when the whole thing blows up in my face,” Ben said.

  I nodded. “The truth is all I care about, too.”

  Judging from the look on Ben’s face, I didn’t think my sidestep of the truth scored any points with him. But with the prospect of this whole Tiffany Markham murder I was dangling in front of him, he seemed willing to let it go.

  Or maybe not, I realized, when he again asked, “You’ll stay away from Doug Eisner?”

  What could I say but “yes.”

  “You swear?”

  I was in too deep to back out now.

  “I swear,” I told him.

  Ben brooded for another moment, then said, “I’ll get back to you when I have something.”

  I stood up. “Let me know if you change your mind and still want that makeover.”

  “Go away,” he said, and opened his laptop again.

  Leaving the pier on a day as gorgeous as this one was tough, but I had things to take care of before I started my shift at Holt’s that evening. I got into my car and drove out of the pier parking lot.

  I was tempted to turn left into the Third Street Promenade, a favorite shopping area of mine. After all, a Sinful handbag just might be waiting in one of the display cases there for me to claim it as its rightful owner. For a moment, I thought I heard it call to me.

  Still, I had a lot to do today.

  I hate it when I have to do the right thing.

  I’d promised Ben that I wouldn’t talk to Doug about the terrorism-espionage thing, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t talk to him about the other stuff he was doing—which I considered even more criminal.

  Anyone in my place would think the same.

  According to Mom, Doug had been yapping to everyone in sight—or, at least, at his office—about how I was stalking him and Emily, the new girlfriend, making him, I’m sure, the envy of every geek in the place. No way could I let that continue, even though I had enough problems of my own dealing with Ty and the possibility that Sarah Covington was with him in London.

  Ty settled in my mind as I merged onto the northbound freeway and darted across two lanes of traffic.

  I needed to call and thank him for the flowers he’d sent. I still didn’t feel so great about receiving them, though. I wasn’t sure if they were I-miss-you flowers or I-screwed-up flowers.

  Since I wasn’t big on suspense, I decided to find out.

  I hooked the Bluetooth on my ear and punched in Ty’s number. As the phone rang, I glanced at the clock on my dashboard trying to figure out what time it was in London. Before I finished my calculations—guess I’ll have to take a math class sooner or later—Ty’s voicemail picked up. Jeez, didn’t he ever answer his phone? I left a message thanking him for the flowers and asking him to call me.

  I considered telling him that I really missed him a lot and that I couldn’t wait for him to get home, but couldn’t quite pull it off. The thought that Sarah might be with him, listening to his messages, soured my mood big time.

  For a moment I thought about flying back to London and surprising him—or at least, I’d tell him that’s why I’d done it. I could just show up unannounced and see for myself what was going on.

  But that didn’t really sit right with me, either. I didn’t like not being able to trust Ty.

  Then I realized that showing up in London didn’t mean I didn’t trust Ty—it meant I didn’t trust Sarah.

  Then it occurred to me that I didn’t have to head for the airport to find out if my suspicions were true. All I had to do was call the Holt’s corporate office and ask to speak to Sarah.

  Wow, this was a great idea, I decided as I scrolled through my cell phone contact list. If Sarah was there, that meant I was worried for nothing. If she wasn’t there, that meant—

  Oh, crap.

  I closed the phone.

  If I called the corporate office and was told Sarah wasn’t there, would that really mean anything? Maybe she was just out of the office.

  If I pressed and learned that Sarah had gone to London, did that mean something was going on between her and Ty?

  I thought about it for a few minutes as I wove in and out of traffic, and finally I decided that all it meant was that I didn’t trust Ty.

  Not a great feeling.

  We were having enough problems with our relationship—although I wasn’t sure Ty was aware of them—without me making things worse by imagining things, bad things.

  I sat a little straighter in the seat, feeling better about myself that I was doing the right thing by believing in Ty, in our relationship. Everything would be fine between us. No, not just fine, great.

  Of course, a little reinforcement wouldn’t hurt, I decided.

  So just to prove to myself that I’d done the right thing, I picked up my cell phone once more and punched the speed-dial number for the Holt’s corporate office.

  I asked to speak with Sarah Covington.

  “She’s not available,” the receptionist told me.

  This meant nothing, I told myself. She was probably just out to lunch or something.

  “When do you expect her back?” I asked.

  “Ms. Covington is out of the country,” she said.

  Okay, still no reason to panic. The world was a really big place. She could be anywhere.

  “Would you like to leave a voicemail?” the receptionist asked.

  I knew she was giving me the runaround—that’s what people in her position did—so what could I do but channel my mom’s I’m-better-than-you-and-I-know-it attitude?

  “This is Ada Cameron’s personal assistant,” I told her. “I must speak with Sarah right away.”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. “I’ll put you through to the London office right away.”

  Oh, crap.

  I closed my phone and tossed it aside.

  CHAPTER 17

  I did a slow burn as I drove. Sarah Covington was in London.

  I hate her.

  She was in London with Ty. She’d probably waited until I left, then invented some lame excuse to go over there and be with him, just as I’d suspected. The whole thing made me so angry I could hardly see to drive.

  So what could I do but take it out on somebody else?

  I grabbed my cell phone and called Doug.

  “It’s Haley,” I barked when he answered.

  I heard him sigh wearily.

  “Haley, please, you have to stop this—”

  “Stop talking!”

  I was in transmit mode, not receive mode. I had to hand it to Doug, though. He picked up on it right away.

  I glanced at my dashboard clock and saw that it was almost noon.

  “I have to talk to you—now!” I told him.

  “Very well,” he said, and drew in a patient breath. “I suppose it would be better if we spoke in person. Let me find us a location.”

  I heard his keyboard clicking in the background.

  No way would I let him pick the spot. By the time he finished analyzing locations on the Internet, I wouldn’t see him for two days.

  Besides, I wanted to meet him on my own turf, a place where I felt strong, a place where absolutely nobody would recognize him.

  “Pasadena,” I told him. “Paseo Colorado.”

  “I’m not familiar with—”

  “The mall on Colorado Boulevard,” I said. “Meet me outside the Coach store.”

  “The what store?”

  “Coach!” I screamed and hung up.

  By the time I’d found a spot in the underground parking garage and taken the elevator up to the street level, I’d calmed down—but only a little—thanks to the great location. The open air shopping area had lots of great stores and restaurants, and it was, after all, in the heart of gorgeous Pasadena.

  Really, it’s almost impossible to be in a bad mood when you’re in Pasadena.

  But I hung on to my anger as I walked up to th
e display windows of the Coach store. I wanted to blast Doug big time, and I needed to be in the right frame of mind to do it.

  Still, the bags in the window looked great.

  I pressed closer to the glass.

  Oh my God. The new spring line had arrived.

  Yellows, pinks, blues, greens. Clutches, satchels, hobos. Wallets, mini skinnies, wristlets. I needed every one of them—with a new outfit to go with each one to properly show them off, of course. Plus I still absolutely had to have a Sinful purse.

  Jeez, I had so much to do.

  Where was Doug? I didn’t have all day to stand around here waiting for him.

  I turned and saw him walking toward me and it irritated me a bit that I still thought he was kind of good looking. Tall, dark hair, dressed in khaki pants and a pale blue, button-up shirt—the engineer’s uniform—looking calm and composed.

  If only he hadn’t been so dull, maybe we could have worked things out.

  But never mind about that now. I had to put an end to his gossiping about me at his office.

  I turned away from the fabulous array of bags in the Coach display windows so as not to lose my focus.

  “Good afternoon, Haley,” Doug said, stopping in front of me. “I think I should tell you right up front that—”

  “Stop,” I told him, and resisted the urge to put my palm in front of his face. “You don’t get to talk. You get to listen.”

  He looked like he wanted to say something, but he held back.

  “First of all, I’m not stalking you,” I said. “Just because I happened to run into you a couple of times means nothing. I’m way over you.”

  Doug said nothing.

  “Second of all, I couldn’t care less that you have a new girlfriend,” I said. “Got it?”

  Doug nodded thoughtfully. “That’s indeed gracious of you, Haley, given how crushed you were at our breakup.”

  My temper spun up again—and not even spotting a Sinful bag right now could have unwound me.

  “I wasn’t crushed! Didn’t you see what kind of handbag I had with me that night?” I demanded.

  Doug frowned. I don’t think he knew what I was getting at.

  “It was a fabulous bag and absolutely everybody there was jealous of me!” I said.

  Now I was sure Doug had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Listen,” I said. “Just stop talking about me. Okay? Very soon now you’re going to have really big problems of your own to worry about.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Doug asked.

  Jeez, what an idiot. He was probably stupid enough to sell our secrets to terrorists and not even know it.

  “I’m not threatening you,” I told him.

  “It sounds as if you are, Haley,” he said. “And I must tell you, I don’t find that attractive in a woman. To be quite honest, you’ve spoiled any chance at all for us to get back together.”

  “I don’t want us to get back together!” I told him. “And I’m not threatening you! I’m talking about your new terrorist buddies you’re selling secrets to!”

  Oh, crap. I didn’t mean to say that.

  Doug pondered my words for a moment, then said, “Spreading lies about me won’t make things better, Haley. Oh, yes, it might assuage your pain for a while, but in the long run it will only make you look and feel small.”

  Now I wished I’d told him to meet me in the parking garage. At least there I could bitch-slap him and nobody would see me—plus I wouldn’t run the risk of being denied entrance to the Coach store for being a security risk.

  “Perhaps you should get some counseling,” Doug said.

  Okay, I’d had it with him.

  “Somebody ratted you out,” I said.

  “I understand there are excellent drugs on the market to help with the emotional and mental problems you’re experiencing,” he said.

  “That whole super-cruise-digital-engine-something-or-other project you’re working on,” I said. “Your secret is out, Doug. Everybody knows what you’re doing.”

  “You shouldn’t take dinner hour talk with your father and try to use it against me, Haley. It’s disrespectful.”

  “I know this newspaper reporter—”

  “Please, Haley, stop.” Doug pushed his chin a little higher. “Because of our past relationship, I won’t say anything to your father about this.”

  “Doug, are you listening—”

  “Please, Haley, get some help,” he said and walked away.

  Either Doug was a complete moron, or he was telling the truth.

  The idea came to me as I pulled into the Holt’s parking lot. I killed the engine and sat staring at the blue Holt’s sign.

  Doug had fried my last nerve this afternoon when I’d tried very nicely—okay, not nicely at all—to get him to stop running his mouth about me. He just didn’t get it. He just refused to accept what I was saying.

  And as if that weren’t irritating enough, he’d completely blown off my warning to back out of his dealings with the terrorist group. How much plainer could I have been?

  So, it seemed to me, that could only mean that Doug really had no idea what I was talking about. He really wasn’t involved with terrorists or espionage or selling our government secrets.

  Then why had Ben Oliver been tipped off that he was?

  I sat there, watching customers coming and going from Holt’s. I couldn’t make myself get out of my car.

  Ben had told me he’d received an anonymous tip detailing Doug’s involvement, everything right down to the type of project it was. It made sense that whoever had called Ben would want to stay anonymous. Whistle-blowers didn’t want to get themselves involved and endanger their own reputations or careers.

  The whole anonymous thing was kind of sketchy. I mean, anybody could call up the newspaper and tell them anything. It didn’t mean it was true, which was why Ben was being careful to check out the facts before going ahead with the story.

  But if it wasn’t true, why would anybody make up something like that about Doug? Even if Doug was accused and eventually cleared, it was a career killer. It would always follow him. He’d have a tough time getting a job in aerospace again—or anywhere else that required a security clearance or even a background check.

  A jealous colleague, I figured. Who else would want to ruin Doug’s life?

  The thought stuck in my head as I left my car and hurried into the store. As I approached the breakroom, I saw that all the employees were heading out, starting their shift. That meant I was late.

  Crap.

  I went inside and saw that everyone was gone. Shannon had written my name on the white board with a red marker—yeah, just like fourth grade. If you got your name on the board five times in one month, you got fired.

  I punched in and walked leisurely to my locker—no reason to hurry now. I slipped my cell phone into my pocket and stowed my purse. The list on the clipboard hanging beside the time clock indicated I was assigned to the customer service booth tonight. I noted that Grace was working there, too, so if I was going to squander several hours of my life for a lousy seven bucks an hour, at least she was a cool person to do it with.

  Doug flashed in my mind again. I couldn’t stop wondering why someone would try to ruin his career—if he was really innocent, of course.

  What could Doug have done to cause a coworker to want to do this to him? How awful could it have been?

  I’d known engineers all of my life, thanks to my dad’s job, and while they could show a little professional jealousy from time to time, they didn’t usually turn on each other. They worked together on projects. They did team-building stuff. Really, one engineer couldn’t do much without the work of lots of other engineers.

  Plus, engineers were so weird—which was okay because they knew they were weird—they socialized with each other almost exclusively. They partied—which really meant that they each drank a lite beer and talked about the project they were working on—and, since they weren’t particularly athleti
c, they played ball on teams they’d organized themselves.

  So it didn’t make sense to me that suddenly, after working together for a long time on a project, one of them would make such an outlandish claim against Doug.

  But if it wasn’t a coworker, who could it have been?

  I headed for the customer service booth. I was late—really late—but I knew Grace would be cool about it, that’s the great thing about working with her.

  When I got there, she was busy at the inventory computer, probably doing a return for the customer waiting at the counter standing off to the side. About eight people were waiting in line, so I was forced to help the next person.

  A woman with short gray hair, wearing stretch pants, top, jewelry, and Crocs—all in aqua blue, for no apparent reason—stepped up to the counter holding the Holt’s sale ad in her hand. She pointed to a pair of angels swinging gardening tools.

  “Can you tell me where to find these figurines?” she asked.

  Customers think that the employees working in the customer service booth should know where everything in the entire store is located. It’s crazy. I mean, really, if something wasn’t sitting next to the time clock, why would I notice?

  I had no clue where to find the figurines.

  “Housewares,” I said.

  “I tried there,” she said. “I didn’t see them.”

  Damn.

  “Try the last row, on the bottom shelf,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said, and left.

  The next customer stepped up to the counter. A couple of seconds passed before I realized it was Detective Shuman. He had on his usual mismatched sport coat, shirt, and tie, so I figured he was still working.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “When can you take a break?”

  I glanced at the six people in line behind him, then at Grace still working at the inventory computer.

  “Now’s fine,” I said, and left the booth.

  “Someplace quiet,” Shuman said.

  I pushed through the double doors leading to the stock room. No one else was there, as usual, during the evening.

  “Did you find anything on Ed Buckley?” I asked.