“I get motivated when someone shoots my car.”
“And we both got the plate,” I added, then felt completely lame for wanting my mother to acknowledge my part in the discovery.
“I’m sure you did your best,” my mother said.
“Are you sure?” Deacon asked. “He looks like the young man but I can’t be positive. Something about the nose.”
“It’s him,” my mother insisted. “I’m very good with faces.”
“I can’t be one-hundred percent,” Deacon admitted reluctantly. “I only caught glimpses of him when he was in and out of our room.”
“Okay,” Liam said.
“So what do you do now?” my mother asked. “Does this mean you’ve found the blackmailer?”
“It would seem so,” Liam answered, though I heard some doubt in his tone. “I’ll go check it out.”
“Now?” I asked. “We’re going out now?”
“Not we,” he said. “Me.”
“It’s dangerous,” I argued. “He shot at us.”
“Which is precisely why you’re staying here. I don’t want to be responsible for your safety, too. Screws with my concentration.”
“Can’t we please call the cops?” I pleaded. “This has gotten way out of proportion. Liam could get killed for God’s sake.”
My mother sighed. “Then maybe Liam should just let sleeping dogs lie. We can pay the ransom and if the blackmailer ever comes back for more, Liam knows where to find him. Simple and it keeps the reason behind the blackmail quiet. Just what we want.”
“I have to agree,” Deacon said. “Your mother tells me she told you that I’m in a precarious position with my wife. Having evidence of an affair come to light could potentially cost me a great deal financially. Forget the scandal. Though I don’t think my investors will be pleased to see my name splashed salaciously all over the newspapers.”
“Yeah, well I’d rather see your name splashed than Liam’s blood spilled.”
Secrets can be deadly
Chapter Seven
I stumbled out of bed early. Not because I wanted to but I was drawn to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It’s my crack. Barefooted, I moved silently down the hallway. My mother’s door was closed, but obviously she’d gotten up to make coffee.
As I rounded the corner, I came to a stop mid-stride. There, standing in my kitchen was a half-dressed man with a cell phone pressed to his ear.
“Thank you. Good-bye,” he said quickly, then Deacon offered me a smile.
Then he did something creepy. His eyes looked me up and down, making me feel like I needed a shower. That wasn’t an option, but I did excuse myself and get the robe I rarely wore.
When I returned to the kitchen, he said, “Good morning. I’m sorry if I startled you.”
“Not a problem,” I lied.
“I was just bringing your mother some coffee in bed.”
“That’s very nice of you.” Even nicer if the two of you didn’t play house in my house.
The hair on his chest was white but other than that he seemed pretty toned for a guy in his sixties. I could tell since all he’d bothered to put on was a pair of boxers and a leer. I was starting not to like him.
I flattened myself against the wall as he passed me carrying two mugs. Once I heard the door open and close, I went to the pot and poured myself some nectar of the Coffee Gods. Seeing my mother’s half-naked boyfriend was not exactly how I thought my day would start.
It was almost nine, so I called Becky to check on her. She insisted she was fine. We chatted for a few minutes, then hung up. I impatiently waited until nine-thirty to call Liam.
“Hi,” he said. “What color is Becky’s car?”
The question caught me off guard. “Champagne. Why?”
“I found the shooter’s car last night. There’s a big scratch of paint transfer on the side and rear. Beige, which I’m guessing is another way of saying champagne.”
“Our shooter ran Becky off the road?”
“Looks like. But the guy is in the wind. I think he ditched the car at his apartment and switched vehicles or something. I’m going back this morning to see if he’s come back.”
“Let me come too?” I fairly pleaded. “Three is definitely a crowd.”
“I’ll come by and pick you up. But you stay in the car. Deal?”
“Of course,” I replied, though I had no intention of sticking to it.
I took a shower, dried my hair, then went into my closet to peruse my options. Hard to know what to wear to meet a gunman. Red, probably, but I didn’t wear red. It makes me look like I need a liver transplant.
I settled on a pair of ankle skinny jeans, a black draped faux wrap tank and lace-up Hinge wedge sandals. I did my make-up, then slipped a simple silver necklace over my head before finally adding silver hoops.
My mother emerged from the guest room just as I was walking down the hallway. She greeted me with a chipper ‘I-just-had-sex smile’. “Good morning.”
She was dressed in a stunning Michael Kors dress with killer pumps and a double strand of pearls at her throat. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and her make-up was flawless and her perfume was leaving a vapor trail.
“Good morning. Going out?”
An odd look flashed in her eyes. “I’m meeting with my banker this morning to pick-up the cash.”
I sighed. “This really is a mistake. You need to call the police. They can help you.”
“I don’t need any help. I just need this ordeal to be over.”
“But paying him off doesn’t mean it will be over. Why can’t you see that?”
Now her expression showed annoyance with a touch of irritation. “Why can’t you do one thing for me without being difficult?”
“I’m being practical,” I countered, my voice slightly raised.
She waved her hand and motioned for me to go toward the kitchen. “I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, but since you are being such a pain, Deacon has asked me to marry him.”
I’ve been down this road before, made a U-turn and did it a few more times. “Isn’t he already married?” I asked.
“Yes, but his divorce should be final in a month or two. But only if we are discrete. If his wife gets wind of our affair, months of settlement negotiations will go out the window. Deacon would lose a lot financially.”
“Okay.”
Her lips pursed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“And congratulations.” I gave her a stiff hug and a few air kisses. Luckily for me, Liam pulled up and I was saved.
“We can all have dinner tonight,” she suggested. Only I knew it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. “Seven-thirty at the club? I’ll make the reservations.”
After unplugging it from the charger, I put my phone in my purse and headed for the door. Liam was out of the car. He looked particularly good in his signature jeans and Tommy Bahama shirt. And the sunglasses gave him a slightly dangerous look. Desire coiled in the pit of my stomach.
“Let’s take my car, “I said as I handed him the keys.
He kissed my forehead. “I’m going to start to think you don’t like my Mustang.”
“You’d be right. The muffler is loud, there’s only paint on half of it and now it has a bullet hole.”
“But it’s a ’65. It’s a classic.”
“It’s a hot mess.”
Liam maneuvered my car around the Jag and the Bentley. I turned in my seat, looking at him in profile. “I had a thought,” I began.
“Yes?”
“What if this has nothing to do with the blackmailer?”
He glanced at me for a second. “You think some random guy picked you out of the phone book?”
“I was thinking more of the Travis Johnson case.”
“Then Tony would be the target. And why go after Becky? She has nothing to do with that. It’s a criminal matter.”
“As for Tony, maybe dark sedan guy is starting from the ground up. And Becky has worked on the Johnson fi
le. Tony had her go over the DCF foster parent agreement and she compiled all the information on the placement. That foster family was getting eleven hundred a month for Travis.”
“Any relatives who might want to see the Johnson kid rot in jail?”
“Can we swing by my office?”
“Sure. I often take detours when I’m chasing down a guy with a propensity to shoot first.” He smiled and I almost melted into the seat.
“It’s on the way. Besides, we can research Gerald Cavanaugh. We didn’t get around to that last night. And I have to pick up my mother’s computer.”
When Liam pulled into the parking lot I saw Vain Dane’s hummer in its spot. Maybe I could get some brownie points for coming in on Saturday. Vain Dane didn’t have to know it was for personal business.
I unlocked the door with my key and we went to my office. I pressed the button to turn on the coffee maker. The scent of brewing coffee reminded me of my early morning rendezvous with shirtless Deacon.
I wiggled my mouse to bring my computer to life. Liam dragged a chair over and sat next to me as I scanned the Johnson file while my machine woke from hibernation. “There was a brother,” I said as I tapped the page. “Randall Houser.” I typed the name into a basic Google search. There were maybe a dozen items listed.
“Click that one,” Liam said, pointing to the fourth entry.
It was a 1991 newspaper article from the Palm Beach Post praising the sacrifice of local hero Randall Houser. I read a few more lines. “He lost an arm in the first Gulf war.”
“Then he probably isn’t the shooter. Sorry Finley,” he said as he rubbed my back. I was enjoying the sensations inspired when he continued. “I don’t think the Johnson case is the link.”
“Randall could have hired someone.”
“Why bother? He could kill everyone here and Travis would just get another court-appointed attorney. What’s his plan? Murder all the lawyers in Palm Beach County?”
“Then explain to me what Becky has to do with all this?”
“Have the two of you had lunch in a public place lately?”
I nodded. “Day before yesterday. You think sedan guy mistook Becky for Travis’s attorney?”
“I guess it’s possible, but highly unlikely.” He sighed. “Let’s move on to Gerald Cavanaugh.”
I started with a general Google search. I had no clue there were so many Gerald Cavanaughs in the world. I narrowed my search to Geralds in Palm Beach County. Nothing.
I tried just the U.S. but there were too many entries. “Let me try the Social Security records.” I used my password and got into the database. Just over three thousand Gerald Cavanaughs. This was getting frustrating.
Liam gave me a website address. “Try searching local DMV records.”
There were seventeen. We looked at all the photos but nothing rang a bell. Without a date of birth or a Social Security number, I was out of luck. I was about to give up when I thought to try one more angle. I pulled up the Plaintiff-Defendant tables and painstakingly went state by state. I got lucky. “Rhode Island v. Cavanaugh, Gerald.” I pulled up the digest. “Convicted for fraud and theft by deceit in 1983. Did two years of a ten-year sentence.”
“Pull up Rhode Island DMV,” Liam said.
“Three Gerald Cavanaughs.”
I clicked on the first one and the photo was of a teenager. The license had been issued just a few months ago. “Not him.” The second one was a man in his mid-forties. “Possible.” He could be the holder of the email account. The third one had a huge red stamp across the photo obstructing the picture that read ‘Expired.’ “Look at the DOB,” I said. “He’s an old guy. Could be the defendant in the case, though. The years are right. But I don’t see grandpa setting up an email account for blackmail.” The last photo was of a guy in his twenties. I printed out the two possibles. “Maybe my mother or Deacon will recognize him.”
“Speaking of recognizing, time to see if Steven Buckner is back at his apartment.” Liam stood up. “Why don’t you stay here? I won’t be long.”
“No such luck. I’m coming, too.”
“You stay in the car. I’ll tie you to the seat if I have to.”
“I’ll behave.” Yeah, right.
Palm Beach Gardens was just north of West Palm Beach. It was an easy drive up A-1-A to the apartment complex where Liam had found the car. When we pulled into the lot, Liam parked at the opposite end of the row from Buckner’s crushed and dented sedan.
Liam was out of the car. “Do. Not. Move,” he threatened as he got his gun out of the glove box and tucked it onto the back of his jeans. “Lock the doors and wait for me.”
I watched as Liam went into the two-story stucco building. He took the stairs two at a time and went to the third door. I saw him fiddle with the knob and then he drew his gun and walked inside.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. At the twenty-minute mark I decided to go see what was happening. Liam might be hurt. I grabbed my cellphone, locked the car and cautiously followed in his footsteps.
The door was ajar. I couldn’t see anything but I also didn’t hear anything. All I could think was that Liam might be dead or dazed. With my emotions leading the way, I pushed open the door and found Liam standing over a dead body.
It sucks when you have to parent your parent
Chapter Eight
“Did you shoot him?” I asked.
Liam shot me a look. “He hasn’t been dead long. The blood is still wet.”
“Thanks for the detail. Did you call the police?”
“I will as soon as I look around. What happened to you staying in the car?”
“I don’t work and play well with others. What are we looking for?”
“Evidence of the blackmail.”
I felt my eyes go wide. Of course, my mother would be devastated if the police found her video. I carefully inched around the dead guy. It was definitely Steven Buckner, I recognized him from the DMV photo. Well, except for the gunshot wound right between his eyes. That was new. And disgusting.
I joined Liam in the messy bedroom. He was going through a beaten-up dresser. “Found this,” he said holding up a tiny square thing with an antenna and a larger black box.
“What is it?”
“Remote video equipment,” he explained. “It’s like a nanny cam only smaller. You can get them at spy stores and some gun shops.”
“Nice to know.”
I lifted the corner of the mattress. Nothing. Crouching down, I peered under the bed. Again nothing. I walked back into the living room/dining room combination and checked under the sofa cushions. Liam moved to the kitchen and searched the drawers and cabinets. I tried not to look at dead guy and not to think about the fact that I was in the same room as a corpse.
“This could be it,” Liam said as he opened the freezer. He was holding up a baggie with a flash drive inside.
“That’s the original?” I asked.
“Maybe, we’ll have to watch it to see.”
I went to the desk and looked at the computer and all the peripherals. I lifted the tower of DVDs and counted. “There are three missing.” I blew out a breath. “One to my mother. One to Deacon. That leaves one unaccounted for.”
“Assuming he didn’t burn himself something unrelated.”
“Where else can we look?” I asked.
“Nothing else here. We can check his car.”
Which we did to no avail. If there was a third DVD, I sure didn’t know where it went.
Liam checked his watch – a Breitling chronograph. Just one of the things I liked about him. He had a great watch. It was nearly one. “How about we grab some lunch?”
“Sure. And by the way, we have a command dinner at the country club with my mother and my soon-to-be stepfather.”
“They’re getting married?” he asked as he started the engine. “Didn’t they just meet?”
“Two months. Long enough for my mother to gauge the size of his wallet.”
“You make her sound
very mercenary.”
I shrugged. “She’s been through four husbands since Jonathan died. My mother is not real big on staying power. I think she has her divorce attorney stored in her favorites.”
“My fingerprint guy should have the results soon. He’s going in off shift for me to see if there’s been an AFIS hit.”
“But we know who the blackmailer was, don’t we? Steven Buckner had the equipment. The computer. The car.”
“So what’s his motive?”
“Money?”
“I don’t see it. The guy is a hotel butler. Not exactly the type I’d figure for a complex operation. And there’s the fact that he’s dead.”
“Maybe he was blackmailing someone else and they refused to pay.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something doesn’t smell right to me.”
*
I slipped into my Robert Rodriguez sleeveless, cutout back dress. It was white and showed off my tan quite nicely. I reapplied my make-up and then spritzed some Lulu Guinness perfume. The final touch to my evening attire was my much loved pair of Rene Caovilla crystal beaded sandals. They had a crystal broach cluster with pavée crystal metallic goatskin straps. I loved the way the pink shoes looked with their glitter soles and I also loved the price. I’d found them at the Palm Peach Episcopal church’s thrift store. They were gently worn but given that they retail for almost sixteen hundred, I was beyond thrilled to get them for a mere five-fifty. So what if I’d blown six months’ worth of shopping budget. They were the deal of a lifetime.
My mother and Deacon were in the living room having a glass of wine. My mother looked stunning in a black, one-shoulder sheath dress, her signature pearls, and a pair of Manolo Blahnik satin pumps. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.
I had my evening bag, so I switched and transferred my wallet, my cell and a lipstick to the small envelope clutch. “Do either of you recognize these two men?” I asked as I passed them the photos of the two Cavannahs.
They looked, then shook their heads.
“What does it matter?” my mother asked. “You said the blackmailer was dead.”
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