Every Move She Makes, page 12
"I don't know, yet," Scolari continued, unaware of my predicament. "But why would anyone kill Patricia unless she knew something? And what could she have known that didn't come in on a gurney?" I wanted to ask him if she'd mentioned the seeds, if he knew about them, but I didn't dare. "Make it a small Pepperoni and mushrooms."
"Who's there?" Scolari asked. "Hold on." I stood just as Mathis and Zim came in through the secretary's office. "You guys interested in some pizza? I'm calling in a phone order."
"Can't," Reid said. "Gotta get back to the office."
"Sure," came Torrance's reply. Mathis shook his head. Zim said nothing.
"Small is fine," I said into the receiver.
"Get the reports. Read them. Let me know." He disconnected. I hung up, sat back, my chair squeaking. Reid, Mathis, and Zim appeared oblivious to my call. Torrance was a different story. I didn't know whether he believed the pizza thing, but at the moment, I didn't care. I was more interested in the Hilliards' presence. "Mrs. Hilliard," I said, standing. "I wasn't expecting you so soon." Her face was pale, more so than when I'd seen her earlier, and her red lipstick, the same shade as her dress, made her skin seem ethereal. It was her husband who spoke.
"My wife wants it on record that we intend to cooperate with your investigation," he said, "and with Lieutenant Torrance. I understand that he needs to speak with my wife ... about another matter. But I must ask if we can schedule for a later date. I have a board meeting in fifteen minutes. Several representatives flew in from Arkansas, and are due to leave in two hours. It will be extremely inconvenient to have to reschedule." The matter of homicide wasn't exactly convenient either, but I kept my remark to myself. I caught Dex's gaze, the almost imperceptible nod he gave to Evan Hilliard at his comment. I had to reevaluate the man. Gone was Dex's lab coat, in its place a charcoal suit. His stance on the surface casual, feet apart, hands clasped before him, reminded me more of a Secret Service agent guarding an ambassador.
I wasn't sure that I was too far off the mark. Dex had a dangerous look about him, reminded me a bit of Zim, someone who thrived on intimidation. I thought of the homicide Dex left the department over, and decided it bore looking into. "Dexter," Evan Hilliard continued, "has explained the importance of speed in such an investigation." "It can wait," I said. Only because I needed time to prepare-and think about the latest developments concerning the Hilliards and Dex. Let Torrance think I was working on the Ice Man case. What I really wanted to know was what went on between Josie and the doctor, how Scolari was involved, and why he seemed to harbor such ambivalent feelings toward Dex after all these years.
"Why don't we reschedule for, let's say, tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's fine," Hilliard said, without consulting his wife. "Thank you, Inspector." "You're welcome." Torrance accompanied them out, but returned directly. I picked up the phone and called the morgue. "Mary,"
I said when she answered. "You wouldn't happen to have those reports ready for the last year?"
"I started it, but got sidetracked. Half-done, though.
You need it soon?"
"As soon as you can get it to me."
"You got it."
Shipley wandered in, stood next to Zim and Mathis by the coffeepot. "Yo, Torrance, captain's looking for you." Torrance glanced at his watch, then me. "You gonna be here a few?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I'm not thrilled about you being left alone, after what happened down in Property." Reid sat on the edge of my desk. "I got a few minutes.
I'll wait till you get back." Torrance nodded, took off.
"Great," I said. "You might as well sign me up for the Federal Witness Protection plan. I've already got a head start on what it feels like."
"And you're gonna need it," Zim said, moving to my desk. "There's gonna be a lot of pissed off cops around here, lookin' for someone to blame."
"For what?" I asked.
"For your investigation being the cause of them getting' laid off. Or didn't you figure out that's why the Hilliards showed up here? They delivered pink slips to every cop they got workin' security. On the advice from their attorneys. Conflict of interest." "And I'm somehow responsible?" Zim picked up a clasp envelope from my desk, Patricia's autopsy photos. "You are, according to the conversation I overheard between Dex Kenngard and Torrance." I removed the envelope from his hands and placed it in my top drawer. "If you're looking for someone to blame, forget it. I had nothing to do with it."
"Except piss off one of the owners," Zim replied.
"Lay off, Zimwit," Shipley said. "It wasn't her fault."
"Like hell it wasn't."
Mathis opened the door. "Come on, Zim."
Zim hesitated. Mathis motioned for him to follow.
Zim gave one last glance at my desk drawer and took off.
"Well, you might as well take advantage of the company," Reid said, rubbing my shoulders. "Damn, you're tense." I closed my eyes, trying to forget what Zim said. Reid's massage felt wonderful. With fingers like that, maybe I would let him call me "babe." Then again, maybe not.
"I'll take one next," Shipley said.
"Forget it," Reid told him. The moment Torrance returned, Reid stopped his ministrations. "Gotta go," he said. "Pick you up around eight?"
"Eight?" I wondered how I'd get out of this dinner date with any grace.
I'd think about that later.
Reid blew me a kiss, then strode from the room.
"Well, back to the grindstone," I said, hauling my thickening briefcase onto my desk and pulling some files from it. I didn't want Torrance to ask about my earlier phone call, the pizza ruse that I was sure he saw right through. Undoubtedly the only reason he said nothing was Reid's presence, and now Shipley's. Discretion was second nature to a man like Torrance. He pulled the chair from Scolari's desk, sat. I flipped through some of the Slasher files, unable to focus on a thing with him hovering in silence beside me. Perhaps it was guilt over my call with Scolari, but I couldn't stand it any longer. Finally I put down my file and swiveled my chair around to face him. "You know, I'd probably get more work done if you weren't sitting there watching my every move. It's disconcerting, to say the least." He folded his arms, leaned back in the chair. "I need to go to my office and take care of a few things."
"Feel free." I indicated the open door.
"But I wouldn't want to miss the pizza. I can wait ten minutes if you can." Great. "If you insist." "You ordered pizza?" Shipley asked. The extra twenty pounds around his middle gave evidence to his love of food.
"Sorry," I told him. "Didn't know you'd be here. I only ordered a small." Ever conscious of the clock ticking away, I turned back to my files, wondering what Torrance would do once he confirmed the pizza wasn't coming. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I attempted to concentrate on my cases once more. But I couldn't concentrate. I heard Torrance pick up the phone, pressing buttons, silence. Voice mail? The sound of him hitting another button, ACCESS, ERASE, or SAVE, I didn't know. Didn't care. After a few minutes of that, I recalled the message I was waiting for myself The one from the lady at the Twin Palms. I picked up my own phone. My hand shook, my pulse quickened. In my head, I heard Martin's last words before his death ... I punched in my access code.
The nasal voice of Squeaky Yincaid came on, almost a relief, and I took a breath to steady my nerves. How long would it be before I erased the horror of hearing Martin's murder? "Hey, this is, uh, Squeaky? I been tryin' to get hold of your partner. Inspector Scolari? I got that info for him. He knows what I'm talkin' about. Can ya tell him I'm tryin' to get a hold of him?" Squeaky was a snitch who would sell his mother's soul for a fix of heroin. Yeah, I'll get right on that. Like I have constant contact with the guy. I erased the message, since there was nothing valuable, no contact number. It did make me think, however. Then I accessed the next message. "Hi, Inspector?" A woman's soft voice. "You talked to me this morning about Tanya in number eighteen? Well, I don't know if I should say anything, but the evening before she disappeared, I'm certain an officer came to see her. I've seen him here a couple of times before. The night that officer got shot? Down the hall? I saw him here then. He asked me questions. I remember his name, because it was Italian, like mine. Scolari." She disconnected without leaving her name or any number to contact her at. Scolaii? The phone asked me what to do with the message. I saved it, telling myself there were officers and inspectors crawling from the woodwork that fateful night. But what reason would he have to be there on the very day before the victim disappeared? And why no mention of her in his report?
"About that pizza," Torrance said, breaking into my thoughts. He stood.
Just then, Markowski strolled in, carrying a small pizza box from Giovanni's. "Delivery service," he said. "You can save the tip. I'll take a slice for my efforts, though it's probably cold by now. They wouldn't let the poor kid through the perimeter they got set up at every entrance. Lucky thing I happened to be coming in." "I totally forgot about that when I ordered," I said, taking the box from him, surprised by Scolari's choice of pizza parlors. Giovanni's wasn't exactly cheap.
Nor was I in the mood for pizza. Far from it, actually, but if Scolari had gone to the trouble of having it delivered, I could at least pretend to want it. I opened the lid, the scent of pepperoni drifting up as Rocky grabbed his slice. When he did, I noticed an edge of blue paper beneath the remainder of the pizza. A note from Scolari? I slammed the lid shut, tucked the box in my briefcase, and to Torrance said, "Okay. I got it. Let's go." He gave me a strange look, but I ignored him, hoping the cheese and oil weren't oozing from the box into my briefcase. "Go where?" "Your office. You said you needed to take care of a few things."
The hook. His hesitation was palpable. If he insisted on staying here to eat, I'd never get the note out undetected, not in an office filled with a half dozen others present. I threw the line. "It's Giovanni's." And now the sinker. "We'll never get a slice if we eat it in here." "After you." On the way to his office, he said, "I'll be honest with you, Gillespie. I didn't think you'd ordered it." "Who'd you think I was on the phone with?" I asked, attempting to sound innocent, certain I'd failed miserably.
"Scolari," he responded, unlocking his office door.
"You can use Mathis's desk." I set out my pizza box, pulled a dollar from my pocket, waved the bill. "You trust me enough to get a Coke?"
There was a machine down the hall. I fully expected him to play the gentleman. He didn't disappoint me. "We've got a fridge in the back.
I'll get you one." As he headed to the rear of the office, I took a bite, for authenticity's sake. The cheese tasted a bit stale, but the pepperoni covered it. Not up to Giovanni's usual standards, but what the heck, it was free. I took a second bite, pulled the slip of now greasy paper from beneath the slice. My throat constricted at the two words. I dropped the note. Spit out what I could of the pizza. Beige and yellow mush flew onto the box. Most had disintegrated in my mouth.
Your next The misspelled word taunted me.
Torrance returned. "Took one look at my face and rushed over. "What is it?" I shoved the note his way. I was afraid to swallow. Grabbed the can from him, popped it open. I tilted it and swished the sugary liquid in my mouth. Torrance grabbed an empty coffee cup from Mathis's desk. Held it to my mouth. The liquid spewed out, very unladylike. Not that either of us noticed. Instead, our gazes met at the very same time.
"Markowski," we said in unison. We ran from the room, took the stairs, down the hall to Homicide, pushed past a couple of uniformed officers walking the opposite direction. Bursting through the door almost shoulder to shoulder, we looked around for Rocky. Shipley sat at his desk, the phone to his ear. He glanced at us, covered the mouthpiece.
"Forget something?"
"Where's Markowski?" I asked.
"Men's room. Dropped his pizza, went for some paper towels to clean it up." He nodded at the floor by Markowski's desk. The pizza lay there, face-down on the blue-gray carpet. A perfect triangle, minus a bit of cheese, and pepperoni hanging off to one side.
We breathed a sigh of relief.
"You're going to the hospital, the pizza's going to the lab," Torrance said, using paper from the printer to scoop up the slice. "Tell Markowski to scrub his hands good, then put some gloves on before he wipes that up. And save the paper towels. Have him meet me in my office."
"Yes, Sir," Shipley said, eyeing me, then the pizza.
Torrance carried the pizza in its paper sling, then took my arm. "Let's go." I allowed him to lead me from the room, my thoughts in a jumble. If there was something in that pizza, who put it there? My mind whispered Scolari, but I shot down that thought. He wouldn't do that to me.
Couldn't.
But someone had put that note in there. If not Scolari, who?
Zim. A bluff. The pizza was fine. He was trying to scare me. Nothing more. While I conjured up any number of poisons that might be absorbed into my tongue the short time the pizza was in my mouth, Torrance dropped Rocky's slice into the box, shut the lid, bagged the note, placing both in a large file box that he emptied for the purpose. "I don't trust anyone else to take this. We'll drop it off at the lab on our way to the hospital. If something turns up, they can let the hospital know." "I'm fine," I said, but the truth was, I wasn't sure. I knew the power of suggestion. As we walked, passing the heavily armed officers who guarded the exit, and after we dropped the pizza off at the lab that adjoined the morgue, my stomach reacted by producing an overload of acid. My heart beat sharp, fast. My throat burned, my eyes watered. By the time we made it to his car, I corrected my earlier assessment. "I'm a mess." "What's wrong?" He set the file box on the ground, took me by my shoulders, his dark eyes searching mine.
"I'll call an ambulance."
"No. It's psychosomatic, I'm sure. We better go." He held me for a second longer, as though assessing the reliability of my statement. At least, that's what I thought. But for some reason, I had the strange impulse to pull myself against him, let him wrap his arms around me, have a good cry. The moment passed, but the thought didn't die, and I allowed him to open the car door for me, telling myself that if Reid were here, I'd feel the same way.
I was merely looking for a good shoulder to lean on.
Nothing more. The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. I watched the side mirror as we turned onto the freeway. A cream-colored car made the same turn. After that it was a green car. "We're being followed." I pulled my gun from my holster. Torrance checked the rearview mirror. He picked up the phone and spoke into it. I paid little attention to what he said. The green car turned off, but another one took its place. Point, counterpoint. "Take this exit," I said. "I don't want them to follow us." When Torrance didn't, I grew suspicious. I thought of all the coincidences in the case, how he was on top of every one of them. "The way I see it, only a few people overheard me order that pizza. You, Mathis, Shipley, Zim. And Bettencourt." Torrance's very presence put him at the top of my list. My heart started triple time. My palms started sweating. I was locked in the car, with this man, his vehicle moving at a speed too high for me to jump. "I was with you the entire time," he said in that implacable voice of his. It only made me suspect him more. My tongue felt dry, like I'd been in the desert for days. "And so were the others."
"You left. And so did they. Everyone except Shipley.
Someone tried to poison me." "Put down the gun, Gillespie." I looked at the weapon I held. It seemed so foreign. I moved it from my right to my left hand. I had to jump the first chance. "I don't think I will." We pulled off the freeway. I found the handle. Opened my door. He grabbed me. Twisted, forcing my grip loose. My gun fell to the floorboard. My gaze followed it, assessed the distance.
Remain calm. Get the gun.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, like a maniac, his other wrapped like steel around my wrist. Finally, wheels screeching, he stopped at the back of a building.
Double doors slid open. Two men strode out.
Run.
But I couldn't move. They forced me from the car.
"Why?" I screamed. Torrance never answered. Just watched from the car as they dragged me away. A gurney stood just inside the doors. they lifted me onto it while another man strapped me. I felt as if I were sinking in white, the gurney melting around me, paralyzing me. He was having me committed so I couldn't testify.
Nurses hovered over me as the ceiling swam by.
Something tearing, then something tight around my arms. I felt cold and wet on my chest, saw them talking, all in white, white and more white.
Then shattering pain in my temple, the smell of blood. Voices around me faded as though I were hearing them from a tunnel. Or entering one, not unlike falling asleep, aware of bits of conversation at a distance. Not really a part of it.
I'd trusted him.
The next thing I knew, I stood over a hospital bed. My brother's.
Deathly white. This was how he went. I tried to reach him. And then my father took his place. The machines at work, trying to keep him alive, doctors and nurses working quickly, efficiently. "Heart rate is slowing." Blip, blip, blip-lip-lip. "Slowing." Just no tone. I didn't want to hear the tone. Then I saw Torrance, standing at the head, his hand reaching out. What is he doing here in my father's room?
