Читать книгу Knock 'Em Dead - Rhonda Pollero - Страница 14

Sam met me at the coffee shop off Clematis Street a couple blocks from my office. Not only did I get a Café Vanilla, slushy Frappicino out of it, he also handed me five hundred dollars in a crisp white envelope. As a token of my gratitude, I bought him a Chai Tea. The gesture was definitely laced in irony since I’d just spent basically my entire savings on the two drinks. I consoled myself by focusing on Sam’s donation instead of berating my piss-poor ability to manage money.

We parted ways at the street corner with our usual European-style, both cheek kisses. While I wasn’t totally comfy with it, the European beat the hell out of the country club air kisses I’d grown up with.

Okay, confession time. Not wanting to risk being caught at the office on a weekend, I’d parked at City Place just in case anyone other than maybe the janitorial staff was at Dane-Lieberman. Tucking the power of attorney under my arm, I freed my hand in order to push the strap on my slightly irregular purse higher on my bare shoulder.

It was hot. Then again, it was July and the streets were crowded with people rushing to make the matinee performance at the Kravis Center. Who knew so many people would be in such a hurry to see John Davidson?

I tried to use what little shade was available. Not because I don’t worship the sun; I do. I was simply trying to avoid unwanted tan lines from forming during my ten-minute walk.

As soon as I turned the corner to the six-story building occupied entirely by the firm, my stomach clenched. Ellen Lieberman’s beige Volvo was in the parking lot. Normally, I’d simply dismiss that since she had no life outside the office and often spent her dateless weekends writing and reviewing mind-numbing contracts. I almost envied Ellen—somehow she’d managed to put her hormones on hibernate. Either that or she had the estrogen level of a postmenopausal corpse.

No, the Volvo wasn’t the reason acid was burning through the lining of my stomach. It was spotting the H3 Hummer taking up two spaces across from the sensible silver Neon.

The banana-colored H3 Hummer was the newer, smaller model Vain Dane claimed he purchased as some sort of concession to gas prices. Right, like the sixteen miles per gallon it gets is a huge savings over the thirteen miles per gallon he was getting in the black urban assault vehicle the banana had replaced. Who needs a Hummer in South Florida anyway? The closest thing we have to a hill is Mount Dora, which isn’t a mountain or hill so much as a tourist haven just north of Orlando. There are some cute shops there, and most visitors walk away with a sticker that reads I CLIMBED MOUNT DORA firmly affixed to their bumper.

The silver Neon belonged to Margaret.

Shit, shit, and triple shit. Any hope I had of making a covert trip to my office was history. Fleetingly, I considered shimmying up the drain spout to my second-floor office. But I’m not a great shimmier. My last attempt at climbing an obstacle had resulted in a nasty bite courtesy of Boo-Boo the guard dog. So I had no option other than to waltz in the front door, head held high, palms sweating profusely. Margaret was an annoyance but having two of the active senior partners in the building bordered on terrifying. It made me long for the days when sweet old Thomas Zarnowski ran the firm. Not only did he hire me right out of college, he actually liked me. He was semiretired now, and sorely missed. At least by me. Especially after he’d crowned Vain Dane as his successor.

I knew even before I reached for the double doors with the firm’s name etched in posh gold lettering that Margaret would be at her post like some freaking God-Country-Corps Marine. The only difference being, Margaret didn’t have an M16. At least I didn’t think she did.

As expected, she was seated behind the freshly polished, crescent-shaped reception desk. In one of her frumpy suits, no less. Margaret obviously maintained her rigid if god-awful standards regarding workplace attire, even on a Sunday. The only difference between workweek Margaret and weekend Margaret was the ever-present Bluetooth absent from its usual place plugged into her right ear.

Her dull brown eyes followed me like hate-filled tractor beams as I crossed the lobby. To her credit, she made a weak attempt at a compassionate smile. “On instruction of the partners, I’ve been calling your home and your cell for hours.”

Then you must know I’ve been dodging those calls. “Sorry, it’s been a…crazy morning and I must have forgotten to turn on my cell.” I reached into my purse and switched the phone to vibrate. The last thing I needed was for it to ring while I was lying like a rug. “Yep. Turned off.”

Margaret went for the elaborate intercom panel as she lifted the receiver. “I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

I bet you will. “Could you give me five minutes?” I asked.

Margaret was about to refuse when I did an exaggerated little foot-to-foot dance and lifted my coffee higher in the air.

“I really need to hit the powder room first.”

“Five minutes,” she grudgingly agreed.

I felt her light-saber eyes shredding me all the way to the elevator. Tucking one earpiece of my can’t-tell-the-difference-unless-you’re-up-close faux Gucci sunglasses in the front of my layered T, I pressed the button and listened to the slight buzz as the compartment climbed the two floors. The arrival ding of the elevator echoed loudly in the deserted space. The scent of furniture polish, deodorizer, and industrial cleaner greeted me as I exited to the left.

The layout of my floor is a lot like a rat’s maze. The center area is a complicated labyrinth of open cubicles. The twenty or so workstations are for interns and other support staff. When the office is in full swing, the vast area is a noisy, distracting place to work. I know. My first desk at Dane-Lieberman was a postage-stamp, single-drawered built-in desk in the third cubby to the right. No privacy, no personal adornments, and absolutely no opportunities to linger over long lunches.

Eventually, I’d earned a private office. After solving the Hall case, I’d gotten a decent upgrade. Not only did I have a shiny new nameplate mounted next to my door, but I had a bigger window and a better view. Okay, so it overlooked the parking lot, but hey, it was a step up from the air conditioners outside my old office.

Out of habit, I turned on the coffeepot I kept on the credenza behind my veneered desk as soon as I sat down. My notary stamp and seal were in the top drawer. I got them and retrieved the power of attorney from my purse. It took just a few strokes of a pen, a little pressure on the stamp, and a pinch of the metal seal-embossing tool and the document was ready for Liv to present it at the bank.

I’d used four and a half of my allotted five minutes. I considered taking a roady of coffee but thought better of it. I didn’t want anything in my slightly shaky hands. Especially not coffee when I was wearing a white skirt.

I breathed deeply and evenly, something I’d learned in the only yoga class I’d managed to attend even though I’d paid for a full year of sessions. Apparently a single class wasn’t enough to convince your heart to stop pounding against your rib cage when summoned to meet with your bosses in the executive offices on the top floor.

Crap, I should have brought a pad. Vain Dane got off on people taking notes. It must have made him feel powerful.

Which he was since his ultraconservative butt had the power to fire me.

Walking past the pin-neat, unoccupied desk of Dane’s executive secretary, I slowly went down the corridor toward the impressively carved mahogany door to Dane’s office. Catching a whiff of Burberry cologne was slightly soothing. The signature scent reminded me of Jonathan Tanner. Even though he’d been gone for more than a decade, I missed him every time I smelled that cologne.

The door was ajar, but I knocked and waited to be granted entrance.

“Come,” Dane’s voice boomed from inside.

Victor Dane’s office was very posh, very masculine, and very, very self-congratulatory. The walls were lined with various diplomas, awards, and community service acknowledgments. The custom shelving held professionally framed photographs of Vain Dane with various celebrities, politicians, and dignitaries, including a nearly twenty-year-old photo of Dane dancing with the Princess of Wales at the Palm Beach Polo Club.

Dane was seated at the edge of his desk, arms folded, expression hard. Ellen Lieberman was seated in one of the leather chairs opposite Dane. She seemed more relaxed and while she wasn’t overtly friendly, I didn’t get the angry vibe from her that was practically dripping from Dane’s body language.

The wall behind Dane’s desk wasn’t a wall. It was a floor-to-ceiling window with breathtaking views of the intracoastal Palm Beach proper and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.

The silence dragged on so long that I contemplated throwing myself through said window. Not a good plan since Jane needed my help and I knew the glass was impact-resistant and hurricane-proof, so my 107-pound body would just bounce off.

Dane reached behind him, grabbed the phone, and pressed the button. “Margaret, thank you. You can go.”

To hell, I added mentally.

If Dane was the picture of coiffed and polished, Ellen was his exact opposite. He was dressed in casual but expertly tailored navy blue slacks, a gunmetal-gray golf shirt, and navy blue Bruno Magli loafers.

Conversely, Ellen looked like she was on her way to an audition to play a bulimic, red-haired version of Cass Elliot. Some sort of shapeless dress made from a bright paisley print hung from her slight shoulders. If she had a waist, it was lost inside the yards of fabric. Her naturally curly hair, complete with ignored gray streaks, was secured with a black velvet barrette at the nape of her pale neck. Black was apparently part of her accessory scheme. The straps of her sports bra were black, as were the black Oasis sandals. I knew the shoes cost almost a hundred bucks; I just couldn’t understand why anyone would pay that kind of money for something so intentionally unflattering. Well, yes, I did. They were practical and functional. Just like Ellen.

“Sit,” Dane said as he strode around to his thronelike chair and took his seat.

I did as instructed and ignored my nerves begging me to ask for a fake bacon treat in recognition of my obedience. Dane didn’t care for, nor did he share, my sense of humor or my irreverence. He was kinda like my mother, only with testicles.

Running his palm over his artificially darkened hair, for a split second the sunlight glinted off his overly buff nails. The prisms of light arced across the ceiling, disappearing as soon as he laced his fingers and rested them on his desk.

My heart rate picked up again. I’d seen this posture before. He’d assumed the same position just before he’d suspended me, without pay, for a month.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” I said.

“I’m sure you are,” Dane agreed, his tone tinged with annoyance. “Which is why we’re having this meeting.”

I glanced over at mute Ellen. To my surprise, there was a touch of compassion in her green eyes. Thank God. Her feminism could have kicked in and maybe she’d be my ally. Now I was sorry I’d mentally berated her shoes.

“Ellen and I have discussed your situation at length and have made some decisions that directly concern you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I insisted, hating that my words came out so wimpy and whiny. “My dear friend came to me for help and then the whole situation kind of snowballed out of control.”

“We know,” Ellen said. “I’ve spoken with Becky several times today.”

“But,” Dane injected quickly, “that doesn’t mean that we aren’t going to set some parameters.”

That sounded a lot like new rules for me. Ones I wasn’t going to like. “O-okay.”

Ellen crossed one unshaven leg over the other. “I made some calls at Becky’s request,” she began. “Jason Quinn is willing to meet with you at five at his Boca Raton office.”

I blinked. Jason Quinn was an über-lawyer. And his services came at an über-price. “Thank you. He’s very expensive.”

“Becky led me to believe that you and several other friends of the accused would be able to raise the necessary funds.” One of Ellen’s red brows arched questioningly. “Is there a problem?”

Accused? Hearing Jane slapped with that moniker riled my temper. I shook my head. “No. I’m on it.”

“You understand that you have to limit your involvement in this case, right?” Dane asked me.

“That might be hard. The police have already taken my statement.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m simply reminding you that as an employee, you can’t use the resources of this firm for your own purposes.”

“I wasn’t planning on using anything,” I said over the angry lump in my throat. “I’ve been focused on raising bail and finding Jane an attorney.”

“Ellen has arranged for you to meet with one of the best criminal lawyers in South Florida. And just so we’re clear, that was a favor to Becky Jameson and it will be the end of your participation in any defense mounted by the accused.”

“Jane and I are friends,” I explained, trying not to clench my jaw. “I’m not going to turn my back on her when she’s eyeball deep in sh—trouble.”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Ellen injected. “We’re simply telling you that in exchange for the introduction to Jason Quinn, we’ll need your word that you won’t go off half-cocked like you did the last time.”

“I solved the case.”

“Yes,” Dane acknowledged, though he looked as if he’d choked on the syllable. “But you also placed yourself in great danger and garnered a lot of press for this firm. Negative press. That isn’t how we do things around here, Finley. This firm exists entirely on reputation. I won’t have it impugned because you do crazy things like you did this morning.”

“I didn’t drag me off in handcuffs.” I could practically feel my blood boiling in my veins.

“The way I understand it, you wouldn’t have been handcuffed at all had you not shoved that deputy, then been mouthy and argumentative with the detectives,” Dane said. “So I will repeat. After the arraignment, the only person from this office authorized to involve herself in this case is Rebecca Jameson.”

“Because?”

“She’s a lawyer,” Dane answered, as if that explained all the great unknowns in the universe.

I got to my feet. “Are you telling me I can’t visit my friend? Support her through this?”

Ellen just sat there. Dane shook his head. “Becky said it was important for you to attend the arraignment tomorrow, so I’m giving you the day off.”

“Thank you.” I think.

“After that, I want your word that you will cooperate fully with the police and the attorneys. Other than that, I don’t want to see your name in the paper or your face on the news. Clear?”

“Crystal.” With my spine stiff, I pivoted on the ball of my Cindy Says sandals and started to leave.

“Finley?” Dane said.

“Yes?” I half turned to glance back in his direction.

“One misstep and I will fire you. No suspensions this time.”

And no compassion either. I took some of my frustration out on the elevator button, punching the Down arrow with my knuckle. It didn’t help and now my finger hurt.

I glanced down at my watch and frowned. It was a little after two and all I really wanted to do was hit the closest bar and get drunk. Not an option, since I had to call Liv, check on Jane, drive to Boca to meet the Jason Quinn, and then meet Patrick for dinner. Since getting drunk wasn’t feasible, I did the girlie thing and started to cry while I was still in the elevator. Not cry cry, more like sniff as my eyes welled with tears. Tears of anger, frustration, sleep deprivation, and an overwhelming sense of impotence.

I brushed the tears off my cheeks on my way back to my office. Margaret was gone and I knew from hearing the tail end of the conversation between Ellen and Dane as I was leaving that they were on their way out, but still, I didn’t want to walk the halls weeping like an unprofessional loser.

I had one foot in the door when I spotted Patrick placing a vase of white roses in the center of my desk. With my emotions still raw, I was definitely glad to see him. He turned and flashed me that perfect smile, and I rushed forward into the haven of his embrace. It felt good to be held.

Patrick brushed the hair off my forehead, then tenderly cupped my face in his hands. Our eyes met before he lowered his mouth to mine.

The kiss was soft and gentle. But I didn’t want soft and gentle. My day had seriously sucked and I’d earned a few minutes of wild lust.

After practically jerking Patrick around, I hopped up on my desk and pulled him into the cradle of my thighs. I expected him to get hard immediately; after all, it had been weeks since we’d last been together. When it didn’t happen immediately, I locked my arms around his neck and thrust my tongue hungrily into his mouth.

My skin warmed. Patrick didn’t. His fingers gripped my forearms but he neither pushed me away nor pulled me closer. “Fin,” he said against my mouth. “This isn’t the best place for this.”

I swallowed a groan. Once, just this once I wanted him to get off script and have some quick, spontaneous sex with me. “No one’s here,” I assured him as I made teasing circles with my fingernails up and down his back. Then I slipped my hand between us and stroked him through the fabric of his cargo shorts. The parachute-thin material and my determination made it impossible for him to do anything but respond.

Okay, so it wasn’t rip-your-clothes-off passion, but Patrick got with the program and began nuzzling my neck, nibbling and kissing his way down the side of my throat to my collarbone.

I sucked in an excited breath when his teeth tugged the straps of my tops off my shoulder. At the same time, his hand slipped up and tested the weight of my breast.

My fingers weaved into his hair, pressing him to me as heat poured into my belly, feeding my sense of urgency. A small moan gurgled in my throat when his thumb flicked across my erect nipple. With incredible one-handed dexterity, I managed to free the button at his waistband and had the pull of his zipper between my thumb and forefinger when I heard a sound.

Patrick leapt away from me before my I-need-sex-saturated brain could even process the sound. He stumbled into one of my office chairs, leaving me to face the man framed in my doorway.

Liam McGarrity was wearing jeans, a faded cotton island-print shirt, and an unapologetic grin. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your, er, thing.”

Before I got off the desk with what little dignity I had left, I straightened my clothes and waged a fruitless battle against the heated blush beginning to sear my cheeks and throat. It wasn’t until I put my feet on the floor that I realized one of my three-inch wedges had come off, leaving me no option but to hobble over to my chair like Quasimodo on his way to ring the bell.

The urge to dive under my desk was tempting but impractical. The amusement in Liam’s eyes didn’t do much to improve my mood. I fluffed my hair with my fingers in a futile effort to look less like I’d just been caught in the act. Well, the lead-up to the act.

Liam sauntered over to Patrick and extended his hand. “We met at the hospital.”

The two of them shook hands as Patrick stood. His button was still undone but his erection was history.

“Yeah, right. You’re the investigator?”

“That’s me,” Liam replied, still gripping Patrick’s hand. “How was New York?”

I was starting to feel invisible, since the two of them hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction. “Patrick flies international, not domestic.”

Liam shrugged. “Sorry. My mistake.”

“Not a problem,” Patrick said, his cheeks slightly flushed. He fished his car keys out of his pocket as he turned in my direction. “I’ve got to hit American Eagle Outfitters before they close.”

My mind went blank and it must have shown on my face.

“The hiking trip?”

“Right.” I nodded. Then my body tensed. “You can’t leave in the morning. Jane’s arraignme—”

Patrick held up his hand and offered a warm smile. “I’ve already switched my flight to six PM. I’ll be there for you and the girls.”

The fact that he called us “girls” rankled for about thirty seconds. The realization that he still planned to go on his vacation was just damned irritating. Especially since Liam was just standing there, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, obviously enjoying his role as a fly on my wall.

Patrick came to my desk and leaned over the roses to kiss my cheek. “Oh yeah. I almost forgot.” He reached into his back pocket and handed me a stack of bills.

“Thank you.”

“I could only get three,” he said.

“That’ll help,” I assured him. “We’ll pay you back.”

He tapped the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry about that now. We still on for dinner?”

“I’ve got a meeting in Boca at five.”

“Not a problem. Just call if you’re running late.”

It was really hard to stay mad at Patrick when he’d just handed me three thousand dollars, delivered roses, changed his flight, and happily took off any time pressure I might feel about our dinner.

Conversely, it was a piece of cake to transfer my pissed-off mood to Liam. “What are you doing here?” I demanded as he folded his large frame into one of my chairs.

“You told me to meet you here, remember?”

Oh, crap. “It slipped my mind.”

“I guessed as much when I walked in and your boyfriend had you bent over your desk. Those must be some magic roses.”

I pulled one from the vase and breathed in the fresh, clean scent. It was better than focusing on the fact that Liam smelled of soap and masculinity. Obviously my endorphins were still pumping. Either that or a few hours sharing a bench with prostitutes had turned me into a slut.

“How’s the wife?” I asked, slapping a sarcastic smile on my face.

“Ex-wife, and she’s great. Her salon opens next week.”

“How nice for her.”

He shot me that famous, lopsided, toe-curling grin. “Don’t you like Ashley? She’s a decent person and she likes you.”

If she’s such a freaking saint, why’d you divorce her? Why are you still sleeping with her? Why do I give a flying fig? “I hardly know her. Can we talk about Jane’s case now?”

“Your meeting.”

I got coffee for both of us, then did a thorough recap of the case. “So, I got to thinking, maybe Jane and Paolo were drugged. What if the killer slipped something in their drinks? That would explain why she doesn’t remember if they had sex or not. And why she fell asleep. And how the killer could slip in, kill Paolo without a struggle, then slip out unnoticed.”

“Interesting theory.”

My mood brightened. “So, will you help me?”

“No.”

My jubilee faded. “No?”

Liam shook his head, causing a lock of his jet-black hair to fall haphazardly across his tanned forehead.

“Why not?”

“I took a job from a new client an hour ago.”

“But you called me this morning. You said you’d help.”

“At a reduced fee. Sorry, sweetheart, but I got a better offer.”

“From who?”

“Ellen Lieberman.”

“Doing what? Following some insurance-defrauding plaintiff all over town?”

“Nope.”

“Doing background checks on corporate clients?”

“Nope.”

My blood pressure was soaring. “Walking her dog?”

Liam chuckled softly. It was a deep, resonant sound that seeped straight into my cells. “Nope.”

I grabbed my purse. I was tired of playing games with him and said as much. “Go be Ellen’s flunky. I don’t care what you’ve got to do. I’ve got to get to Boca.”

“So do I.”

“Because?”

“That’s my job.”

I froze. “What?”

“Lieberman hired me to keep you out of trouble.”

My eyes narrowed. “Since when does she care if I’m in trouble?”

“I didn’t get the impression she does, but Becky got to her. Lieberman insisted on a guarantee.”

“Like?”

Liam stroked the half day’s stubble on his chin. “Like you can’t investigate the murder.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Then why take the job?”

“I told you, I like challenges.”