Part 22 (2/2)
He had me there. Everything fit perfectly-at least in my head it did-except for the motive. There didn't seem to be any reason for anyone to want Davey Mendoza dead. ”We'll have to work on that,” I admitted. ”What about opportunity? I know they were all at the party together, but maybe Mendoza wasn't the only one who left early.”
”Maybe not. Why don't you ask Hendrix about that when you see him tonight?” Jawarski teased.
I called his bluff. ”Good idea. I'll do that.”
His expression sobered immediately. ”I don't want you talking to Hendrix about this case again, Abby. I don't want you talking to Ingersol or Escott, either. Or to Ginger Ames. From here on out, you leave this investigation to the department.”
”Come on, Jawarski. I'm the best person you've got working on this case, and you know it.”
”I won't deny that you've gathered some information that may turn out to be valuable, but you haven't brought one sc.r.a.p of proof. There's nothing here I can use.”
Chapter 35.
”Abby, call K Hendrix.”
I found the note taped to my front door when I got home from Jawarski's office. It was only a few minutes after seven, but Divinity's windows were dark and the parking lot empty. Jawarski and I had gone round and round over the evidence- or lack thereof-for hours. Much as I hated to admit it, there really wasn't a single shred of evidence to support my theory, but I still believed I was on the right track.
The storm had rolled into the valley while I was at the police station, and as I unlocked the front door, thick flakes drifted from the sky. The snow was falling so fast it had already covered my footsteps in the parking lot.
I ripped the note from the door and crumpled it in my fist. The sky itself could have been falling, but I still wouldn't have been in the mood to talk to Kerry Hendrix. I checked my watch, saw that I had an hour until practice, and groaned aloud. Maybe I'd get lucky, and the coach would cancel because of the storm. It couldn't hurt to wish.
I fed Max a couple of Beggin' Strips and filled his dish with kibble, then found a can of c.o.ke in the fridge and carried it into the living room. My conversation with Jawarski had left me exhausted and disheartened, and the only thing I wanted to do was watch a little mindless, empty entertainment and go to bed early.
I pulled my emergency stash of toffee from the end table and munched a couple of pieces. Half a can of c.o.ke later, I felt revived enough to face the world again-at least for a couple of minutes. Yes, Aunt Grace's toffee is that good.
Since I couldn't put it off any longer, I steeled myself for the miserable experience of talking to Coach Hendrix, smoothed out Karen's note, and dialed the number. As I punched in the last four, I became dimly aware of something niggling at the back of my mind. A moment of deja vu, maybe. That strange, unsettling feeling that you've been somewhere and done something before. The phone rang twice before I realized that the moment was more than deja vu.
I stabbed at the Off b.u.t.ton and shot up from the couch, almost tripping over Max as I raced to my bedroom. I threw open the closet and tore through the laundry hamper, trying to find the jeans I'd been wearing the day Elena gave me the phone number Hobbs had used when he was alive. I found three sweaters, four pairs of panties, socks, towels, and the black pants I'd worn to Richie and Dylan's dinner party, but the jeans weren't there.
Frustrated, I searched the bathroom, the floor of my closet, and finally lifted the bed skirt so I could check under there. When I spotted a denim leg, I yanked the jeans out from under the bed and shoved my hand into the pocket. There, deep in the bottom of the pocket, I found a crumpled piece of paper. Hands shaking, I smoothed it out and compared the numbers. The first time through, I thought I'd dreamed the match. After the second, the air left my lungs in a whoosh, and I sat back against the headboard.
So there it was. Proof that Lou Hobbs had used Kerry Hendrix's phone. I dialed Jawarski's number, got his voice mail, and left a message. I thought about walking back to the police station, but with the snow coming down so fast and thick, Jawarski was probably out dealing with fender benders and slide-offs. I'd have to wait until morning to tell him.
I called Kerry, got his voice mail, and left a message.
I tucked the number and message away into a dresser drawer, changed into clothes for practice, and put milk on the stove to heat. If I had to go out in the storm again, I wanted something warm and soothing to take with me.
The temptation to curl up with a good book was almost painfully strong, but every instinct I had was screaming that Kerry was involved in Lou Hobbs's death, and I didn't want to do anything that might make him more suspicious.
I tossed Max a rawhide bone and was just pouring the cocoa into a travel mug when someone knocked on the door. ”It's about time,” I said as I threw open the door. ”Do you know how many times I've tried calling you?”
”You've called me?” Marshall looked both surprised and pleased.
”Oh. Sorry. No, I thought you were someone else.” I stood there uncertainly for a minute, unsure whether to invite him in or turn him away.
”You're worried about why I'm here. Well, don't be. I'm not here for . . . you and me. I need to talk to you about Ginger.”
My hesitation vanished immediately. I stepped aside to let him enter. ”I have practice in about forty minutes, but I have a few minutes. I was just making homemade cocoa. Would you like some?”
He nodded and blew on his hands to warm them. ”I'd love some, thanks.”
”Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back.”
”I can come in there if you want. I don't mind the kitchen.”
”Whichever you want,” I called back. ”It won't take long.”
He came to the door and watched me while I poured the milk and measured the cocoa. ”Ginger's in trouble,” he said softly, ”and I need some advice. She's gotten herself involved with the wrong people, and they've pulled her into a scheme that's going to send her to prison if she gets caught.”
I glanced over my shoulder. ”Selling fake antiques?”
Marshall's face fell. ”You know?”
”I figured it out.”
”Have you . . . have you told anyone else?”
”Have I told the police?” I nodded. ”Jawarski and I both witnessed a delivery, so it's safe to say the police are aware of what she's doing. I don't know how they'll catch her, or when, but they will. If you want to help her, convince her to turn herself in and testify against the others. That might get her a lesser sentence.”
Marshall sank into one of the chairs at my chipped old table and buried his face in his hands. ”I had no idea what she was doing until tonight,” he said when he could speak again.
I wasn't sure I believed that, but I pretended to.
”Ginger's not a strong woman, you know. She never has been. She's easily persuaded.” He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a thin laugh. ”She was an easy mark for those guys back in high school, and nothing's changed.”
”Why did she decide to come back to Paradise?”
”Kerry talked her into coming back. He could always get her to do anything he wanted. Dwayne had taken these antiquing cla.s.ses, and Kerry got the bright idea about having him fake some antiques to make some quick cash. They needed someone to front the business for them.”
”But why Ginger? I'm sure she wasn't the only woman who would have gone along with Kerry's scheme.”
Marshall lifted one shoulder. ”I don't know why they wanted her, but I know why she agreed. She's had a rough time the past few years: a couple of divorces and a bankruptcy, and she lost her job just a few weeks before Kerry called her. She was feeling desperate.”
”Out of curiosity, what kind of car does Ginger drive?”
”A black Tahoe. Why?”
”With a broken light on the side?”
A confused scowl creased Marshall's face. ”I don't know. Is it important?”
”Not right now. Don't worry about it.” I thought about that while I stirred the cocoa into the milk and watched it dissolve. ”I understand being desperate,” I said, ”but if you want me to feel sorry for her, forget it.”
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