by Curry, Edna
Paul took the envelope, staring down at it, nonplused.
Hands on hips, the man stared belligerently, as though daring Paul to make something of his decision.
Paul looked at Lacey, who merely shrugged, then tipped her head in a signal to leave. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and followed her outside. Two men in rough work clothes lounged against the factory wall, smoking cigarettes. Ignoring the men, they walked back toward her car.
Paul's mouth twisted in a wry grin. He said, “Well, I guess John worked there, all right.”
She returned his grin. “Past tense is right. But we got what we came for.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean? We got nothing, just thrown out!”
Footsteps sounded behind them and a large hand covered Lacey's mouth. As she opened her mouth to scream and attempt to bite him, the man jerked her into the alley and slammed her head against the factory's wall.
Pain exploded in her head as she twisted and attempted to knee him or break away. Dimly, she heard Paul's swearing growl and saw a second man hitting Paul and pulling him into the alley.
The man holding her seemed to know which moves she'd make in her struggle to free herself and held her fast. Trapped in a hammerlock and barely able to breathe, she could only watch as the other man fought with Paul.
“Where the hell is the money you promised to pay last week?” the man growled as he landed a fist to the side of Paul's face. “This is just a taste of what's coming if we don't get it.” Paul ducked and returned the blow.
Wincing at each blow the other man landed on Paul, she saw that Paul knew how to fight. The struggle had shifted, and the other man was taking more blows than Paul was.
Lacey felt the man relax his hold as his attention shifted to his partner, and she bit down on his hand. With a curse, he suddenly threw her aside, obviously thinking her unimportant in the struggle. She fell to her knees in the hard dirt of the alley while the man rushed to help his partner.
Lacey's gasped at the sight of both of them beating up on Paul, and she rose to her feet. Frantically looking until she found her purse back near the sidewalk, she opened it with shaking fingers.
Pulling out her gun, she leveled it at them and yelled, “Hold it, or I'll shoot!”
All three of them stopped fighting and stared at the gun in her hand, incredulous surprise written on their faces. Then the two men turned and ran down the alley.
Lacey hesitated, then lowered her gun, letting them go.
Paul started after them, his face livid with anger. Then, apparently thinking better of pursuing them, he stopped and came back to Lacey who was putting her gun back into her purse. “Are you okay?” he asked, breathing hard.
“I've felt better,” Lacey admitted, rubbing her mouth to rid herself of the taste of the man's dirty hand. She put up a hand to smooth back her hair, and winced at the bruise along her temple. “How about you? Did he hurt you?” She touched his bruised cheek with a cautious finger.
“Nah.” His mouth twisted and he gave a rueful laugh as he looked at his hands. “I've had skinned knuckles before. No problem. Let's get out of here. I don't feel too welcome.”
She nodded. “You drive. I'm feeling a bit shaky.”
“Okay.” Paul got behind the wheel and they started back the way they'd come.
Lacey reached into the cooler in the back seat and took out two sodas. She handed one to Paul, then popped the other open and took a swig. “Do you have any idea what that was all about?”
Paul tipped back the soda and handed her the empty can. He sped up and swung onto the freeway. “Hard to say. He said he wanted the money he was owed.”
“Well, at least they weren't the ones who murdered John.”
“I guess not, because they weren't surprised to see him alive.” After a moment he asked, “What did you mean when you said that we got what we came for?”
“The pay envelope, Paul.”
“That's worthless. I can't cash my brother's paycheck.”
She put out a hand for it. “Not the money, Paul, the information. It should have his full name and address on it.”
“Oh.” Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he dug in his pocket, drew the envelope out and handed it to her. He glanced at her as she opened it. “Well?”
She sent him a triumphant smile. “I was right. The stub has lots of information. The company and John's name, address, year to date pay, amount of taxes withheld, and so on.”
“Now we know where he lived.”
“Exactly.” She handed the pay envelope back to him, then took a Twin Cities street map from her glove box and located the address. “It's not too far from here. Let's check it out.” She gave him directions as he drove.
They left the industrial area and headed back to the residential areas. Following her instructions, he drove to a large, red brick apartment building and parked at the curb.
The spring sun felt warm on her face as they stepped out. Green grass in need of mowing covered the boulevard, and a row of yellow daffodils was budding against the foundation of the building. They went inside the fairly new building, and looked for John's name on the row of mailboxes in the hall. “Here it is, number two fourteen.”
“What now?” Paul asked. “This isn't going to help. I don't have a key.”
“If necessary, I have my lock-picking tools,” she said, patting her purse with a grin. “But, we have you. Just pretend you're John. If there's a manager on duty, tell him you lost your key. He should give you another one.”
She walked on down the carpeted hall, wrinkling her nose at the stuffy atmosphere. She found a door marked, 'manager.' Putting a hand on his arm, she looked encouragingly at him. “Go ahead, Paul.”
Paul's stomach knotted. After the way he'd been treated at the factory, what would the manager have to say? What kind of trouble had John been in to cause someone to want to murder him? “This feels weird.”
“You want to prove he's the dead guy, don't you?” she whispered. “Come on, knock.”
Paul shrugged and obeyed. A gruff voice called, “Come in,” and they walked inside.
The room wasn't an office, but the living room of an apartment. It was sparsely furnished in dull, depressing tones. A worn, dark brown sofa dominated the room, and the beige carpet badly needed vacuuming. A fat, elderly man sat at a battered wooden desk, with an open ledger in front of him. “Hello,” Paul said tentatively.
The man peered at them from behind thick lenses. “Oh, it's you, John. Been fighting again, eh? Did you bring the rent?”
“Oh, that,” Paul mumbled with a sinking feeling. Now what? “No, I lost my key. Can I get another one?”
The manager frowned. “Not 'til I get the rent. You're too far behind.”
Lacey poked an elbow into Paul's side. “Give him your paycheck, darling. You can just sign it over to him,” she said with a smile.
“Oh...well,” he hesitated. He glanced at the manager. “Would that be okay?”
“Sure.” His face lit up and he held out the ballpoint pen he'd been using. “I got a pen right here.”
Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out the check and tore off the stub. Stepping to the desk, he turned the check over and endorsed it with John's name, then handed it over.
“Harumph,” the man said, looking at it. “You're still short twenty bucks. See that you pay on time after this.” He reached in a drawer and handed Paul a key.
“Yes, sir.”
They walked out. He'd barely closed the door before Lacey let out a giggle. “That was great. 'Yes, sir.'“ she imitated.
Paul frowned at her as they walked up the dusty stairs. “It's not one bit funny,” he said. “I don't think it was even legal. The damn check will probably bounce on him.”
“No, it won't. The factory looked legitimate enough. The bank probably won't even look at your signature. Besides, Paul, think of it this way. John owed the money for rent, and you paid it with John's money.” Her voice softened. �
��You settled a debt for him when he can't.”
He nodded. “I suppose.”
The stale odors of food cooking drifted from an apartment as they walked down the hall and found John's apartment. Lacey took her gloves out of her purse and slipped them on.
Paul unlocked it. Inside, the rooms were sparsely furnished, but reasonably neat. Dark blue draperies covered the large picture window, making the room seem dreary. Paul pulled the cord to open them, letting the bright spring sunshine in. Then he slid up a side window to let in some fresh air.
A light film of dust covered the surface of the coffee table in front of the blue flowered sofa. Newspapers lay on the end table and a bookcase full of paperbacks stood against one wall beside a large, roll-top desk.
“Let's clean up that blood,” Lacey said. Leading the way to the small bathroom, she found a clean wash cloth and some antiseptic.
“Ladies first.” He washed his hands, then took the washcloth from her and gently cleaned the bruise on her temple. “You're lucky it wasn't worse. Does it hurt?”
She shook her head.
“You'll probably have a headache later.” He allowed her to bathe his bruised face and apply antiseptic to his skinned knuckles, then they went back to the living room.
Paul wandered around. It felt strange snooping through his dead brother's things. What would it have been like if they'd known each other, and he could have visited John here? Would they have been friends? Would John have liked him?
Lacey rolled up the top of the desk and began flipping through the contents.
A strange feeling of de ja vu settled over Paul. “Lacey,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah?” she mumbled, opening some bills.
“This apartment is almost like mine.”
“Really?” She glanced around, her eyes narrowing. It was. Except that Paul's apartment was decorated in shades of brown instead of blue. But they both had similar furniture and roll-top desks.
He scanned the titles of the books in the bookcase. “We even have some of the same mystery novels. And some other books written by the same authors. That's weird.”
“Not really, Paul. I've heard that identical twins often have the same tastes.”
“But we were raised separately.”
She nodded. “Even then.” She opened a bill and said, “Look at this. Lots of Visa charges made at the racetrack. John apparently liked to bet on the horses. And at various casinos. Especially the one in Wisconsin, only thirty miles from where his body was found!”
“Is that significant? Lots of Twin-City people drive out there to gamble.”
“True. But I don't like coincidences, Paul. I've found they're usually important.”
“How?”
She shrugged and looked away. “I don't know, yet. But these aren't small amounts, Paul.”
Frowning, he said, “John's paycheck showed he was working steadily and making good money. He could afford a little gambling for fun.”
“These amounts look like more than fun, Paul.” She held out the Visa bill. “Here, see for yourself.”
Chapter 7
Paul took the Visa bill, feeling like a voyeur. “Lacey, are you sure we should be doing this?”
Lifting a shoulder, Lacey said, “Somebody will have to. You're John's next of kin, aren't you?”
“I suppose. We haven't proved he's my brother, yet.”
“We will. You've heard of DNA testing?”
“Oh. Of course.” He read the bill in his hand, his eyes widening at the amounts John had charged. “Hey, some of these withdrawals are bigger than his paycheck. He must have been addicted to gambling.”
“Probably,” Lacey said, digging through more desk drawers. “And that might be why he was killed.”
Paul stared at her, thoughts whirling in his mind. “But, don't you need cash to gamble at those places?”
“Sure. That's why he used his Visa at the ATMs to get the cash. The casinos don't care where you get it, just that it's cash so they're not out. If you're in trouble for getting the cash, too bad for you.”
“You mean, he might have resorted to something illegal, to get gambling money.”
“It's happened a time or two.” She smoothed back her hair, sending him a wry glance.
Paul nodded. Spying a blinking light on John's answering machine, he went to it and punched the button to play the messages. The first one was from his mother saying, “John, it's mom, returning your call. Call me when you get home.” So, John still had his mother. God, he hoped he wouldn't have to be the one to tell her John was dead.
Lacey moved to stand beside him, listening. There were two messages from creditors demanding money, then two from his boss demanding to know why he hadn't shown up for work, and one from a girlfriend, wondering why he hadn't shown up for a date. The last one was from his mother again, saying they were leaving on a two-week Caribbean cruise and she'd call when they returned.
“Well, not much help, there,” Paul said. “I suppose if his parents are on a cruise, there's no way to contact them.”
“Oh, I'm sure there is,” she said over her shoulder as she returned to John's desk. “Cruise ships have radio contact with shore. The police will know how to do that.”
“Of course. When they figure out that it's not me who's dead. And who John's parents are.”
“There's probably something here that has their name or address on it. Maybe he kept an address book?”
“Nah. Men don't usually do that.”
“Real men, you mean? As in he-man truckers, not like a woman?”
Her voice had taken on a bitter tone. Damn it, now he'd made her mad. Suddenly it mattered very much that Lacey like him.
Softening his tone, he said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that in a disparaging way. You said twins were a lot alike. I don't keep an address book, though I'm fairly neat about other things. I mean, I keep my business records filed neatly so I can find what I want, and so on.”
She relented and nodded. “Yes. John's apartment is fairly neat, too.”
He turned away and wandered back to the bookcase. He pulled out a photo album and took it back to sit on the sofa and page through it.
John's life had been remarkably similar to his. One set of parents, no siblings, but a comfortable home and plenty of toys. “Here were lots of pictures of John as a small boy, with and without his adopted parents.” He paused as an odd thought struck him. He looked at Lacey. “They are his adopted parents, wouldn't you think, Lacey?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they couldn't be my birth parents, could they? They wouldn't have thought twins were too much to handle and kept only one baby and given up the other?”
Lacey's voice was soft, comforting. “That wouldn't make any sense, Paul. I'm sure you both were given up for adoption for very good reasons.”
Paul nodded and turned back to the pictures, trying to keep emotion out of his voice. “Here's John on his tricycle, then with his first two wheeler.”
Lacey came over to look at the pictures with him. There were pictures of birthday parties with a colorfully decorated cake and a table full of smiling children wearing party hats. Then pictures of John with various other teens and finally some with girls. But there didn't seem to be any of one special girl.
So maybe his brother hadn't found his Miss Right, either, anymore than he had.
The photos assured him they'd found the right person's apartment, not that he'd needed any proof after fooling the waitress, John's boss, and the landlord.
“Let's watch the news and see if Ben has turned up anything new.” She picked up the remote control, snapped on the television and sat down beside Paul on the sofa. Only advertisements filled the screen.
She was pleased at the disgusted look which had registered on Paul's face when he'd said that John might be addicted to gambling. He didn't approve, which meant it wasn't something he was likely to do himself. So he wasn't exactly like his twin. She was beginning to like Paul
more with each discovery. She'd better watch herself, she was getting maudlin over the guy.
She reminded herself that she didn't get involved with her clients. Abruptly she turned and said, “I'm going to call home to see if I have any messages on my machine.”
Digging her phone card out of her purse, she dialed her house, then punched in the code for messages. Sheriff Ben's voice said, “I don't know what you're up to, Lacey girl, but both of those drinking glasses you gave me had the dead guy's prints on them. So you were in Paul Menns' apartment, and took them from there, right? You know you shouldn't have done that. Call me.”
Lacey's mouth dropped as she listened. What did he mean, they both had the dead guy's prints on them? They both should have had Paul's prints on them. One glass had been from when he'd drunk milk in her kitchen and the other one she'd taken from the bathroom in his apartment. How had the dead guy's prints gotten on them?
Then she remembered that identical twins had the same fingerprints, and a smile spread over her face. She had the proof she needed that Paul and the dead guy were identical twins.
The next message was Ben again, but this time he sounded angry. “Where are you, Lacey? What the hell's going on? Paul Menns' dental charts don't match the dead body's, and you knew they wouldn't, didn't you? You'd better call me, Lacey.”
“Oh, oh. Now he's mad,” Lacey said.
“What's the matter?” Paul asked from the kitchen. He took a couple of sodas from the refrigerator and came back to hand one to her.
She took it, smiling. “The sheriff has proof that the dead guy isn't you.” She repeated the message to Paul, then flushed as she realized she hadn't told him she'd given Ben his fingerprints. Well, she had, now.
His brows dipped and he stared at her. “You gave the sheriff my fingerprints? Why the devil did you do that?”
She felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. Why hadn't she watched her tongue? “I'm sorry, Paul. I had to know if you and Paul Menns were the same man.”
His voice lowered to a growl. “Then why didn't you tell me you did that?”
Shrugging, she glanced at him, then away. “I wasn't quite sure you'd want me giving Ben your prints. In case you had a police record of any kind, he'd find it, you know?”
