Cardiac Arrest, page 21
“None of them were even close,” Summer said, disappointed. “Hold on, I’ll try the side door.”
This time, the second-to-last key slid smoothly in the lock. “Piece of cake,” Summer announced, as Dorothy came up, limping slightly. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Dorothy winced, as she rotated her ankle. “I stepped on some loose mulch, I think. Is there a light switch right inside?”
“Don’t see one.” Summer flashed the beam from Marilyn’s miniflashlight over the concrete walls. “There are emergency lights leading to the lobby. We can follow those.”
Dorothy glanced down the dimly lit hall. “The elevators are running, at least. But maybe we should use the stairs, just in case. We don’t want to tip anyone off that we’re in the building.”
Summer hesitated. “Are you okay with a bunch of stairs? Dr. A’s office is a couple of flights up.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Dorothy glanced toward the atrium-style lobby. “You’d think they’d have a security person on duty.”
“Well, if they don’t, that’s probably a good thing for us.” Summer stepped out of her pumps. “You should take your shoes off, too.”
“No, dear, these are AeroLites,” Dorothy said. “Not quite as fashionable as yours, but one can never go wrong with rubber soles.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Summer placed her hand under Dorothy’s elbow. “Let me know when you need to rest, okay? We’ll take things slow.”
As they reached the first stairwell, a blue light turned on overhead, casting a faint, creepy glow. “This reminds me of when I had to get off an airplane once, after an emergency landing,” Summer said. “No smoke this time, though.”
Dorothy paused to take a few extra breaths, gripping the railing with her other hand. “Let’s not think about fire right now.”
“Sorry.” Summer had to give Dorothy a lot of credit. The woman had guts. She hadn’t complained once so far, and it was a steep climb. “Just half a flight more, and we’re there.”
“All those stress tests Dr. A ordered must have increased my stamina,” Dorothy said, at the last step. “I do hope Marilyn isn’t in here, though, because I may take the elevator down.”
Summer paused outside the emergency door to the second floor and put a finger to her lips. “I think I hear something.” Slowly, she edged her way down the hall to another door. She was fairly sure it led to the staff kitchen.
“If we stay here, we can see anyone who leaves without the person seeing us,” Dorothy said, in a low voice. “Hopefully.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Summer decided against trying the doorknob. It would make too much noise and it was probably locked, anyway. It might be easier to sneak up on Marilyn if they went in through the glass entrance doors at the front.
“Summer, wait!” Dorothy scrambled up behind her. “This is not a good idea at all. If we startle her—”
Summer kept moving toward the front entrance. Her partner meant well, but she wasn’t the one who’d end up in the Collier County slammer if they didn’t find Dr. A’s real killer.
Even sharing an apartment with Joy would be better than sharing a cell with, like, an axe murderer.
The frosted doors were locked, but after another twirl of Marilyn’s keychain, she stepped through them into the dark waiting room and felt along the wall for the lights.
Dorothy beat her to the switch, placing her hand over Summer’s. “Leave them off.” She nodded toward a thin line of light streaming under the door that led to the back offices.
Summer made a few quick mental calculations. She could probably take the whacko if she avoided that nasty right hook. But something under all those layers of Marilyn’s laser-peeled skin made her really, really nervous.
“We should call 911,” Dorothy whispered.
“And tell the cops we’re here at the scene where I allegedly murdered Dr. A?” Summer pushed on the door with the shoes in her hand. No sense in wrecking her nails. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Against her better judgment, Dorothy trailed Summer down the linoleum-tiled hall. The stiff air-conditioning she remembered had been replaced by stagnant air with a distinct whiff of mold.
Summer pointed toward Dr. A’s office, silently confirming the source of the light under the door.
Dorothy tried to ignore the panic tightening in the direct center of her chest. How ironic would it be if she suffered an actual cardiac arrest right here in her former cardiologist’s office? “It might not be Marilyn,” she whispered. “Let’s stop and think this through.”
“Nah. Her car’s outside. We’re about to catch her red-handed.”
To Dorothy’s horror, Summer stepped straight into Dr. A’s office.
To the left of the mahogany desk, Marilyn was busy fiddling with something on the wall where a gold-framed oil painting had once hung.
Dorothy remembered the painting quite vividly, because she’d had the misfortune of staring at it many times. Commissioned from a photo, no doubt, it immortalized Dr. A as he stood proudly next to an enormous, blood-streaked marlin, hanging from a hook.
Now the alleged piece of art lay dumped, facedown, on the more recently deceased predator’s desk.
She jumped as Marilyn gave the wall a good thump with her fist. What on earth was she doing? The woman stepped back, cursing under her breath, and Dorothy realized that she’d been trying—unsuccessfully—to punch in a number code on a small keypad.
“Did you try his birthday?” Summer asked.
Marilyn whirled around and flattened herself against the wall, trying to hide the telltale outline of the office safe. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”
Dorothy gave Dr. A’s personal assistant what she hoped was a sincere-looking smile. “We happened to drive by and spotted your car in the lot. Naturally, we were concerned about your safety here at such a late hour.” Her eyes swept around the room. “Are you on your own?”
Marilyn’s face turned a disconcerting shade of honeydew. “No need for concern. I’m simply picking up a few things.” She leaned very slowly in the direction of Dr. A’s desk.
Summer pounced to intercept the jewel-encrusted letter opener half-hidden under the heavy gold picture frame. “Hey, this is kind of cool.” She twirled the opener between her fingers like a miniature baton before tossing it in the air, catching it just before it hit the floor.
Heavens. This was no time to fool around.
Marilyn seemed equally puzzled, but she quickly recovered and retrieved the painting. “Why don’t I just put this back on the wall?”
“You are so busted, Marshack.” Summer dropped onto the leather couch. “This is really comfortable.” She twisted to measure the arm with the letter opener. “Since Dr. A doesn’t need it anymore, maybe—”
“The couch is not for sale,” Marilyn said, in a haughty tone. “Everything in this entire office belongs to me.”
“Wow. You bought all this pricey stuff yourself?” Summer’s blue eyes widened.
“Every last piece. I did use Tony’s credit card, of course, but he gave me carte blanche.”
Summer nodded. “My dad and I buy things together like that.”
“Excuse me, Marilyn,” Dorothy said, “but wouldn’t all of these items be considered part of Dr. A’s estate?”
“Tony always said he would never have been successful without me,” Marilyn said. “He’d want me to have them.”
Dorothy rubbed her temples again. The woman’s delusions were mind-boggling. "Marilyn, what exactly is in that safe behind you?”
“Cash, I bet.” Summer, who had been absorbed in something on her phone, bounced off the couch to peer over Marilyn’s shoulder. “Can’t get it open, huh?”
For a moment Dorothy feared that Marilyn might bring the bloody marlin painting down over Summer’s head, but the woman hugged the frame tightly to her chest. “I assure you, that money is mine,” Marilyn said. “Tony kept it under lock and key. He didn’t want that dreadful Eduardo to find about it.”
“And why was that?” Dorothy asked. “Could Eduardo have been blackmailing Tony for some reason?”
“No.” Marilyn’s expression darkened, but she allowed Summer to take the painting from her and lean it, none too gently, against the wall. “He was blackmailing both of us.”
My. Dorothy glanced at Summer, but her partner was inexplicably checking her phone.
“Yep, because Vince Russo from Brooklyn didn’t die way back when, like everyone thought,” Summer said. “A guy named Michael Anthony Amoretto did, the night after he graduated from some rinky-dink med school in the Caribbean.” She looked back at her phone. “Hey, cool, he was eaten by a shark.”
Dorothy’s mouth dropped open, a split second before Marilyn’s. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, a bit stung. Summer had never mentioned any of that.
“I just got a text, so I didn’t know for sure until now,” Summer said. “Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I was looking stuff up online about Anthony Amoretto. All it said on Dr. A’s website was that he went to some Caribbean med school, but the place is closed now. It got demoed in a hurricane or something. Then I remembered one of Joy’s tax clients is a PI, so I asked him to double-check a few things.” She sighed. “Anthony was the dead guy’s middle name. Guess I owe Joy a big favor now.”
“Angelo at the barber shop said Vince Russo wasn’t a good student,” Dorothy said, slowly. “Maybe Vince realized he’d never get through med school on his own, once he got there—so when an opportunity arose for him to assume a more successful classmate’s identity...”
“That’s outrageous,” Marilyn said. “And simply not true.”
Summer gazed at Dr. A’s framed degrees above the couch. “Ol’ Vince must have faked his residency program, too. There’s no Santa Margarita University in the O.C.”
Dorothy sat down carefully in one of the uncomfortable chairs across from Dr. A’s desk. She and Harlan—not to mention untold numbers of other Milano seniors—had been the trusting patients of a cardiologist with no real credentials whatsoever.
She might have died, under Dr. A’s care. And poor Harlan...
“See, here’s a picture of the real Amoretto guy, in his obituary.” Summer held out her phone to Marilyn. “You knew Dr. A was a fake the whole time, didn’t you?”
Marilyn wavered for a moment or two. “Not at first,” she said, finally. “But then that awful Eduardo started coming around the office on a daily basis, demanding money. Tony couldn’t go to the police, for obvious reasons, so he gave me a portion of his earnings, for safekeeping. I added in some of my own money, too.”
“That’s crazy,” Summer said. Silently, Dorothy had to agree.
“It was our nest egg. Tony said we’d spend it someday soon, when we could be together.”
“As in, never,” Summer said. Marilyn eyed the letter opener on the arm of the couch.
Dorothy fanned herself with the Subtle Signs of Murder program from her purse. The room was growing more stifling by the minute. “What about Mia Rivera-Jones?”
“He promised he’d divorce her, a year or two after they were married.” Perspiration gathered under the sleeve of Marilyn’s silk blouse. “I told you that earlier.”
She had, indeed, during her visit with Ernie, Dorothy remembered. Marilyn’s story also matched Mia’s account of her argument with Dr. A on the morning he died. Something still wasn’t adding up, she knew—but what? The stuffiness in the air was affecting her brain.
“So if the money’s yours, why don’t you have the safe combination?” Summer asked.
Dr. A’s personal assistant dropped her head. “He must have changed it recently,” she said, in a whisper. “I have no idea why. But I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Tony. Not even for the money.”
Summer consulted her phone again, then bounded from the couch to punch in several numbers on the safe keyboard.
The lock clicked, and Marilyn’s head shot up again. “Why, you little tramp!” she cried. “He gave you the new combination, didn’t he? And then you murdered him by adding poison to that shake so you could get your hands on all of our money.”
Summer rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever watch TV? I told you, the combo was Vince’s real birthday. Guess he wasn’t bright enough to come up with something more original.”
“Fine.” Marilyn grabbed her jumbo-sized designer bag off the floor and frantically began to scoop in packets of bills from the safe. “I need you ladies to keep your mouths shut about all of this. I’ll give you each three thousand dollars.”
“No way.” Summer crossed her arms. “We want half.”
Dorothy nearly gave herself a whiplash as she spun her head in Summer’s direction. “What?”
“Just kidding.” Summer sighed. “Sort of.”
“Marilyn, no one is taking any money from that safe.” Dorothy massaged her neck. “A court will decide how much of it you may be entitled to.”
If any, she added silently.
The ensuing silence was broken by a distant, but clearly audible, ringing.
Marilyn spun from the safe door, dumping several packets of bills on the Oriental carpet. “Whose cell is that? Did one of you call the police?”
“Not me.” Summer held up her silent smartphone. “That’s a generic ringtone, anyway. Mine’s The Surfboard Rockers.”
Marilyn looked at Dorothy. “I don’t own a cell phone,” Dorothy said. How many times did she have to tell that to everyone?
The ringing began again, then suddenly stopped.
“Someone else is definitely in here.” Summer moved to the door.
“Quick, hit the lights,” Dorothy said.
“Shh!” Marilyn motioned frantically. “Maybe they’ll go away.”
Was it true that killers always returned to the scene of the crime? Dorothy wondered. She watched, trembling, as the minutes ticked slowly by on Dr. A’s antique credenza clock.
“Can we turn the lights back on now?” Summer finally stage-whispered.
“Oh, by all means.” A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the darkened office.
“Crap,” Summer muttered.
Dorothy squeezed her eyes shut. Ditto.
“Gather your things, ladies,” Detective Donovan announced. “All three of you. We’re going for a little ride downtown.”
* * *
Summer wished Detective Donovan would look up from his stupid tablet. What was he so absorbed in reading that was more important than talking to her? Even if he kept asking questions about how she and Dorothy and Marilyn had ended up in Dr. A’s office at midnight.
Every now and then he took a sip from his coffee mug and placed it down on his desk again, superslowly. Totally annoying. No wedding ring, she noticed.
The mug said, World’s #1 Son. A mama’s boy. She knew plenty of those.
Suddenly he gazed straight at her, his blue eyes glinting a little under his dark eyebrows. “So, Ms. Smythe-Sloan—”
“Can’t you just call me Summer? I keep asking you that. ‘Ms. Smythe-Sloan’ makes me kind of nervous.”
The detective smiled. “Well, we can’t have that. I don’t make you nervous, do I?”
“No,” Summer lied.
“Good.” He leaned back in his office chair, placing his hands behind his head. “So why don’t you tell me a little more about what happened in New Jersey? I think you were about to elaborate the other day at the ice cream place.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Summer pulled her agent jacket tighter. “But since you’re bringing it up again, I told you, it was all a mistake. I got stuck holding the bag. Well, the trunk of my car did. That’s it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“This alleged boyfriend of yours, he was convicted of armed robbery, correct?”
Summer stared out the window. The sun was just coming up. Detective Donovan had a crummy view of the brick courthouse and half a palm tree. “Yep. He’s in jail. But he wasn’t my boyfriend, just someone I knew from the apartment building. And all charges against me were dropped.”
“Oh, I know that.” He took another sip of coffee. “By the way, do you make a habit of ignoring your cell phone, or just my calls?”
So he was the annoying Private Number, not Marilyn trying to scare her or some random creep. Oops. Well, that made sense, she supposed. “Hey, if you don’t leave messages and block people’s return calls, that’s not my fault. You could have been some psycho.” Or a pesky creditor.
“Sorry. That’s the way the Milano PD phone system is set up.” The detective looked down at his tablet again. “Your father is Syd Sloan of L.A., is that also correct?”
“I don’t get what my dad has to do with this,” Summer said. “We’re not that close.”
“But he introduced you to Dr. Amoretto, am I right?”
Summer jerked in her plastic visitor chair. “What? No. I told you, I met the toad in a bar.”
“But your father had a business connection with the deceased. Something about financing an independent film? According to the late doctor’s email records—”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Summer broke in. “Maybe he knew Eduardo Silva, though. He was the one who wanted to get into show business. Unless...” Oh no. Had the doctor been trying to bribe her father to make Eduardo’s movie, to get the guy off his case?
“It seems Mr. Sloan was eager to find his daughter in Florida a job.”
Summer stared at him, stunned, as he reached for his mommy mug again. “You mean that slimy Dr. A offered me the medical assistant deal because my dad wanted him to?”
“Looks like it.” Detective Donovan shrugged. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
Everything was business, as far as Syd was concerned. Even with his own daughters.
This time, the second-to-last key slid smoothly in the lock. “Piece of cake,” Summer announced, as Dorothy came up, limping slightly. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Dorothy winced, as she rotated her ankle. “I stepped on some loose mulch, I think. Is there a light switch right inside?”
“Don’t see one.” Summer flashed the beam from Marilyn’s miniflashlight over the concrete walls. “There are emergency lights leading to the lobby. We can follow those.”
Dorothy glanced down the dimly lit hall. “The elevators are running, at least. But maybe we should use the stairs, just in case. We don’t want to tip anyone off that we’re in the building.”
Summer hesitated. “Are you okay with a bunch of stairs? Dr. A’s office is a couple of flights up.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Dorothy glanced toward the atrium-style lobby. “You’d think they’d have a security person on duty.”
“Well, if they don’t, that’s probably a good thing for us.” Summer stepped out of her pumps. “You should take your shoes off, too.”
“No, dear, these are AeroLites,” Dorothy said. “Not quite as fashionable as yours, but one can never go wrong with rubber soles.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Summer placed her hand under Dorothy’s elbow. “Let me know when you need to rest, okay? We’ll take things slow.”
As they reached the first stairwell, a blue light turned on overhead, casting a faint, creepy glow. “This reminds me of when I had to get off an airplane once, after an emergency landing,” Summer said. “No smoke this time, though.”
Dorothy paused to take a few extra breaths, gripping the railing with her other hand. “Let’s not think about fire right now.”
“Sorry.” Summer had to give Dorothy a lot of credit. The woman had guts. She hadn’t complained once so far, and it was a steep climb. “Just half a flight more, and we’re there.”
“All those stress tests Dr. A ordered must have increased my stamina,” Dorothy said, at the last step. “I do hope Marilyn isn’t in here, though, because I may take the elevator down.”
Summer paused outside the emergency door to the second floor and put a finger to her lips. “I think I hear something.” Slowly, she edged her way down the hall to another door. She was fairly sure it led to the staff kitchen.
“If we stay here, we can see anyone who leaves without the person seeing us,” Dorothy said, in a low voice. “Hopefully.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Summer decided against trying the doorknob. It would make too much noise and it was probably locked, anyway. It might be easier to sneak up on Marilyn if they went in through the glass entrance doors at the front.
“Summer, wait!” Dorothy scrambled up behind her. “This is not a good idea at all. If we startle her—”
Summer kept moving toward the front entrance. Her partner meant well, but she wasn’t the one who’d end up in the Collier County slammer if they didn’t find Dr. A’s real killer.
Even sharing an apartment with Joy would be better than sharing a cell with, like, an axe murderer.
The frosted doors were locked, but after another twirl of Marilyn’s keychain, she stepped through them into the dark waiting room and felt along the wall for the lights.
Dorothy beat her to the switch, placing her hand over Summer’s. “Leave them off.” She nodded toward a thin line of light streaming under the door that led to the back offices.
Summer made a few quick mental calculations. She could probably take the whacko if she avoided that nasty right hook. But something under all those layers of Marilyn’s laser-peeled skin made her really, really nervous.
“We should call 911,” Dorothy whispered.
“And tell the cops we’re here at the scene where I allegedly murdered Dr. A?” Summer pushed on the door with the shoes in her hand. No sense in wrecking her nails. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Against her better judgment, Dorothy trailed Summer down the linoleum-tiled hall. The stiff air-conditioning she remembered had been replaced by stagnant air with a distinct whiff of mold.
Summer pointed toward Dr. A’s office, silently confirming the source of the light under the door.
Dorothy tried to ignore the panic tightening in the direct center of her chest. How ironic would it be if she suffered an actual cardiac arrest right here in her former cardiologist’s office? “It might not be Marilyn,” she whispered. “Let’s stop and think this through.”
“Nah. Her car’s outside. We’re about to catch her red-handed.”
To Dorothy’s horror, Summer stepped straight into Dr. A’s office.
To the left of the mahogany desk, Marilyn was busy fiddling with something on the wall where a gold-framed oil painting had once hung.
Dorothy remembered the painting quite vividly, because she’d had the misfortune of staring at it many times. Commissioned from a photo, no doubt, it immortalized Dr. A as he stood proudly next to an enormous, blood-streaked marlin, hanging from a hook.
Now the alleged piece of art lay dumped, facedown, on the more recently deceased predator’s desk.
She jumped as Marilyn gave the wall a good thump with her fist. What on earth was she doing? The woman stepped back, cursing under her breath, and Dorothy realized that she’d been trying—unsuccessfully—to punch in a number code on a small keypad.
“Did you try his birthday?” Summer asked.
Marilyn whirled around and flattened herself against the wall, trying to hide the telltale outline of the office safe. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”
Dorothy gave Dr. A’s personal assistant what she hoped was a sincere-looking smile. “We happened to drive by and spotted your car in the lot. Naturally, we were concerned about your safety here at such a late hour.” Her eyes swept around the room. “Are you on your own?”
Marilyn’s face turned a disconcerting shade of honeydew. “No need for concern. I’m simply picking up a few things.” She leaned very slowly in the direction of Dr. A’s desk.
Summer pounced to intercept the jewel-encrusted letter opener half-hidden under the heavy gold picture frame. “Hey, this is kind of cool.” She twirled the opener between her fingers like a miniature baton before tossing it in the air, catching it just before it hit the floor.
Heavens. This was no time to fool around.
Marilyn seemed equally puzzled, but she quickly recovered and retrieved the painting. “Why don’t I just put this back on the wall?”
“You are so busted, Marshack.” Summer dropped onto the leather couch. “This is really comfortable.” She twisted to measure the arm with the letter opener. “Since Dr. A doesn’t need it anymore, maybe—”
“The couch is not for sale,” Marilyn said, in a haughty tone. “Everything in this entire office belongs to me.”
“Wow. You bought all this pricey stuff yourself?” Summer’s blue eyes widened.
“Every last piece. I did use Tony’s credit card, of course, but he gave me carte blanche.”
Summer nodded. “My dad and I buy things together like that.”
“Excuse me, Marilyn,” Dorothy said, “but wouldn’t all of these items be considered part of Dr. A’s estate?”
“Tony always said he would never have been successful without me,” Marilyn said. “He’d want me to have them.”
Dorothy rubbed her temples again. The woman’s delusions were mind-boggling. "Marilyn, what exactly is in that safe behind you?”
“Cash, I bet.” Summer, who had been absorbed in something on her phone, bounced off the couch to peer over Marilyn’s shoulder. “Can’t get it open, huh?”
For a moment Dorothy feared that Marilyn might bring the bloody marlin painting down over Summer’s head, but the woman hugged the frame tightly to her chest. “I assure you, that money is mine,” Marilyn said. “Tony kept it under lock and key. He didn’t want that dreadful Eduardo to find about it.”
“And why was that?” Dorothy asked. “Could Eduardo have been blackmailing Tony for some reason?”
“No.” Marilyn’s expression darkened, but she allowed Summer to take the painting from her and lean it, none too gently, against the wall. “He was blackmailing both of us.”
My. Dorothy glanced at Summer, but her partner was inexplicably checking her phone.
“Yep, because Vince Russo from Brooklyn didn’t die way back when, like everyone thought,” Summer said. “A guy named Michael Anthony Amoretto did, the night after he graduated from some rinky-dink med school in the Caribbean.” She looked back at her phone. “Hey, cool, he was eaten by a shark.”
Dorothy’s mouth dropped open, a split second before Marilyn’s. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, a bit stung. Summer had never mentioned any of that.
“I just got a text, so I didn’t know for sure until now,” Summer said. “Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I was looking stuff up online about Anthony Amoretto. All it said on Dr. A’s website was that he went to some Caribbean med school, but the place is closed now. It got demoed in a hurricane or something. Then I remembered one of Joy’s tax clients is a PI, so I asked him to double-check a few things.” She sighed. “Anthony was the dead guy’s middle name. Guess I owe Joy a big favor now.”
“Angelo at the barber shop said Vince Russo wasn’t a good student,” Dorothy said, slowly. “Maybe Vince realized he’d never get through med school on his own, once he got there—so when an opportunity arose for him to assume a more successful classmate’s identity...”
“That’s outrageous,” Marilyn said. “And simply not true.”
Summer gazed at Dr. A’s framed degrees above the couch. “Ol’ Vince must have faked his residency program, too. There’s no Santa Margarita University in the O.C.”
Dorothy sat down carefully in one of the uncomfortable chairs across from Dr. A’s desk. She and Harlan—not to mention untold numbers of other Milano seniors—had been the trusting patients of a cardiologist with no real credentials whatsoever.
She might have died, under Dr. A’s care. And poor Harlan...
“See, here’s a picture of the real Amoretto guy, in his obituary.” Summer held out her phone to Marilyn. “You knew Dr. A was a fake the whole time, didn’t you?”
Marilyn wavered for a moment or two. “Not at first,” she said, finally. “But then that awful Eduardo started coming around the office on a daily basis, demanding money. Tony couldn’t go to the police, for obvious reasons, so he gave me a portion of his earnings, for safekeeping. I added in some of my own money, too.”
“That’s crazy,” Summer said. Silently, Dorothy had to agree.
“It was our nest egg. Tony said we’d spend it someday soon, when we could be together.”
“As in, never,” Summer said. Marilyn eyed the letter opener on the arm of the couch.
Dorothy fanned herself with the Subtle Signs of Murder program from her purse. The room was growing more stifling by the minute. “What about Mia Rivera-Jones?”
“He promised he’d divorce her, a year or two after they were married.” Perspiration gathered under the sleeve of Marilyn’s silk blouse. “I told you that earlier.”
She had, indeed, during her visit with Ernie, Dorothy remembered. Marilyn’s story also matched Mia’s account of her argument with Dr. A on the morning he died. Something still wasn’t adding up, she knew—but what? The stuffiness in the air was affecting her brain.
“So if the money’s yours, why don’t you have the safe combination?” Summer asked.
Dr. A’s personal assistant dropped her head. “He must have changed it recently,” she said, in a whisper. “I have no idea why. But I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Tony. Not even for the money.”
Summer consulted her phone again, then bounded from the couch to punch in several numbers on the safe keyboard.
The lock clicked, and Marilyn’s head shot up again. “Why, you little tramp!” she cried. “He gave you the new combination, didn’t he? And then you murdered him by adding poison to that shake so you could get your hands on all of our money.”
Summer rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever watch TV? I told you, the combo was Vince’s real birthday. Guess he wasn’t bright enough to come up with something more original.”
“Fine.” Marilyn grabbed her jumbo-sized designer bag off the floor and frantically began to scoop in packets of bills from the safe. “I need you ladies to keep your mouths shut about all of this. I’ll give you each three thousand dollars.”
“No way.” Summer crossed her arms. “We want half.”
Dorothy nearly gave herself a whiplash as she spun her head in Summer’s direction. “What?”
“Just kidding.” Summer sighed. “Sort of.”
“Marilyn, no one is taking any money from that safe.” Dorothy massaged her neck. “A court will decide how much of it you may be entitled to.”
If any, she added silently.
The ensuing silence was broken by a distant, but clearly audible, ringing.
Marilyn spun from the safe door, dumping several packets of bills on the Oriental carpet. “Whose cell is that? Did one of you call the police?”
“Not me.” Summer held up her silent smartphone. “That’s a generic ringtone, anyway. Mine’s The Surfboard Rockers.”
Marilyn looked at Dorothy. “I don’t own a cell phone,” Dorothy said. How many times did she have to tell that to everyone?
The ringing began again, then suddenly stopped.
“Someone else is definitely in here.” Summer moved to the door.
“Quick, hit the lights,” Dorothy said.
“Shh!” Marilyn motioned frantically. “Maybe they’ll go away.”
Was it true that killers always returned to the scene of the crime? Dorothy wondered. She watched, trembling, as the minutes ticked slowly by on Dr. A’s antique credenza clock.
“Can we turn the lights back on now?” Summer finally stage-whispered.
“Oh, by all means.” A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the darkened office.
“Crap,” Summer muttered.
Dorothy squeezed her eyes shut. Ditto.
“Gather your things, ladies,” Detective Donovan announced. “All three of you. We’re going for a little ride downtown.”
* * *
Summer wished Detective Donovan would look up from his stupid tablet. What was he so absorbed in reading that was more important than talking to her? Even if he kept asking questions about how she and Dorothy and Marilyn had ended up in Dr. A’s office at midnight.
Every now and then he took a sip from his coffee mug and placed it down on his desk again, superslowly. Totally annoying. No wedding ring, she noticed.
The mug said, World’s #1 Son. A mama’s boy. She knew plenty of those.
Suddenly he gazed straight at her, his blue eyes glinting a little under his dark eyebrows. “So, Ms. Smythe-Sloan—”
“Can’t you just call me Summer? I keep asking you that. ‘Ms. Smythe-Sloan’ makes me kind of nervous.”
The detective smiled. “Well, we can’t have that. I don’t make you nervous, do I?”
“No,” Summer lied.
“Good.” He leaned back in his office chair, placing his hands behind his head. “So why don’t you tell me a little more about what happened in New Jersey? I think you were about to elaborate the other day at the ice cream place.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Summer pulled her agent jacket tighter. “But since you’re bringing it up again, I told you, it was all a mistake. I got stuck holding the bag. Well, the trunk of my car did. That’s it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“This alleged boyfriend of yours, he was convicted of armed robbery, correct?”
Summer stared out the window. The sun was just coming up. Detective Donovan had a crummy view of the brick courthouse and half a palm tree. “Yep. He’s in jail. But he wasn’t my boyfriend, just someone I knew from the apartment building. And all charges against me were dropped.”
“Oh, I know that.” He took another sip of coffee. “By the way, do you make a habit of ignoring your cell phone, or just my calls?”
So he was the annoying Private Number, not Marilyn trying to scare her or some random creep. Oops. Well, that made sense, she supposed. “Hey, if you don’t leave messages and block people’s return calls, that’s not my fault. You could have been some psycho.” Or a pesky creditor.
“Sorry. That’s the way the Milano PD phone system is set up.” The detective looked down at his tablet again. “Your father is Syd Sloan of L.A., is that also correct?”
“I don’t get what my dad has to do with this,” Summer said. “We’re not that close.”
“But he introduced you to Dr. Amoretto, am I right?”
Summer jerked in her plastic visitor chair. “What? No. I told you, I met the toad in a bar.”
“But your father had a business connection with the deceased. Something about financing an independent film? According to the late doctor’s email records—”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Summer broke in. “Maybe he knew Eduardo Silva, though. He was the one who wanted to get into show business. Unless...” Oh no. Had the doctor been trying to bribe her father to make Eduardo’s movie, to get the guy off his case?
“It seems Mr. Sloan was eager to find his daughter in Florida a job.”
Summer stared at him, stunned, as he reached for his mommy mug again. “You mean that slimy Dr. A offered me the medical assistant deal because my dad wanted him to?”
“Looks like it.” Detective Donovan shrugged. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
Everything was business, as far as Syd was concerned. Even with his own daughters.
