Tomb With a View

16

The first thing I did was tuck those bogus credit cards back where I’d found them. The second thing?

That was a no-brainer.

Murder or no murder, investigation or not, I was out of my league and I knew it. As soon as I got back downstairs, I called law enforcement.

It says something about those magic words stolen identities and the credit cards to go with them that the good guys arrived way sooner than should have been humanly possible. But then, I had a feeling some poor schlub flying from Chicago to Cleveland was bumped off the plane that morning.

Just so FBI Special Agent Scott Baskins could have that seat.

Surprised? Come on! I would have sooner shopped for my entire fall wardrobe at the local Goodwill than call Quinn, and Scott was the only other cop type I knew.

He arrived in a dark-colored Crown Victoria and brought along a team from the local office. They were all clean-cut, grim-faced guys wearing navy blue suits, white shirts, and striped ties. I felt like I’d stepped into an alternative universe adaptation of The Stepford Wives.

“Pepper, it’s good to see you again.” Scott had a hand out to shake mine as soon as he was through the front door of the memorial. The gesture was friendly enough to make it clear that I was the one who’d contacted him and set the investigation in motion, but not so friendly that his fellow G-men would ever have suspected that after I was shot back in Chicago, Scott sent showy bouquets of flowers in all my favorite colors. Though we’d spoken on the phone a couple times since and talked about getting together, his busy schedule always prevented it and I didn’t mind so much since I had been busy in my own way with Quinn at the time. I hadn’t seen Scott since he was working undercover as a street person while he investigated the goings-on at the Windy City clinic, which snatched the homeless off the streets and used them as guinea pigs in psychic experiments. He made a better impression in his suit and tie than he ever had in his beat-up Army jacket and dirty sneakers.

He wasn’t flashy by any means, but Scott wasn’t a bad-looking guy. A little older than me, and a hair taller, he had eyes that were as brown and as warm as a teddy bear. Aside from that cordial first hello, he was as serious as a heart attack, but then, I suppose that went along with his job description. He walked around the memorial long enough to get the lay of the land and directed the other agents and a couple techie types upstairs to the ballroom so they could begin their work. That taken care of and one hand gently at the small of my back, he ushered me into the memorial office, where Ella and Jim were already waiting.

The office was small, there weren’t enough chairs, and it was cramped. Scott didn’t let little things like that distract him. He explained what he and the other agents would be doing, carefully outlined the cemetery’s role in the process (which in case I need to point it out was pretty much “stay out of the way”), and had me go over everything I’d already told him on the phone. I did, starting from the day Ella asked me to help Marjorie plan the commemoration. Except for mentioning my chats with President Garfield, I didn’t leave out a thing. I told him I was suspicious of Marjorie and all the spending she’d been doing. I admitted I was curious about her murder and that I’d talked to a few people concerning it.

In addition to using a digital recorder, Scott took notes as I spoke. He was efficient and very official, and he had an awfully big gun in a holster on his belt. I admit, I was pretty impressed by it all, not to mention just the teeniest bit intimidated; I told him about Jack, too, and about how I knew for a fact he’d turned that sign upstairs around once. I did not, however, elaborate on the circumstances.

“You think this Jack McArthur has something to do with the counterfeiting? Or the murder?” Scott asked.

Since I was being honest, I had to shrug. “I can’t say for sure. I only know he lied about a whole bunch of stuff. He said he’s from Hammond, Indiana, and that he teaches at Lafayette High School, but there’s no school like that in Hammond, Indiana. He turned the sign around that one day, and he had a credit card with a dead man’s name on it.”

Scott consulted the notes he’d taken when we talked on the phone earlier. “And you saw the credit card with Ryan Kubilik’s name on it when this Jackson McArthur took you out to dinner.”

I wondered if it was some kind of federal crime to order a twelve-ounce filet and vanilla bean crème brûlée when it’s being paid for via a stolen credit card. I gulped and nodded.

When Scott hooked his arm through mine and turned me away so Ella and Jim couldn’t hear, I thought he was going to read me my rights. Instead, the smallest of smiles brightened his expression and he leaned close to say, “Which means you go out to dinner with guys who are visiting from out of town, right? Like me?”

Even before I had a chance to answer (and just for the record, I was all set to say yes), the office door swung open and Quinn Harrison walked in.

Scott and I were facing the door, standing next to each other with our arms entwined, and Quinn’s as-green-and-as-cold-as-emeralds gaze sized up the situation.

Scott’s teddy-bear-warm eyes scrutinized right back. How they both made up their minds about each other so quickly, I don’t know. Maybe it was a cop thing, like radar or mind reading or something. All I know is that when Scott disentangled himself from me so he could shake Quinn’s hand, the gesture was cold, formal, and just the slightest bit confrontational—on both their parts.

Scott swung around to include Ella and Jim when he explained, “I asked Detective Harrison from the Cleveland Homicide Unit to join us. I thought it would be best if we cooperated with the local police. Just in case there’s any connection between their murder case and our counterfeit credit cards.”

Even though Scott wasn’t holding on to me any longer, it didn’t keep Quinn from glancing over at the place where his hand had recently been on my arm. “Connections, sure. They’re important.” He breezed past us, but the office being as tiny as it is, he could only go as far as the desk.

Jim and Ella were sitting in the only two chairs in the room, and as if they’d choreographed the move, they stood at the same time. They sidled around us and out the door, and Jim mumbled something about how if Agent Baskins needed them, they’d be outside. It was a nice cover. I think that with both a hard-charging federal agent and a big-headed cop in the room, Jim and Ella figured it was going to be tough to get their share of the oxygen.

I wasn’t worried. A redhead always gets her share. Of everything. I was also so not in the mood for ego games. Scott and Quinn circled each other like cavemen trying to get the last juiciest bits of the saber-toothed tiger, and only too eager to escape the testosterone overdrive, I strolled behind the desk. “So what are your plans?” I asked.

“We’re going to—”

“We’ve already—”

They answered at the same time, and both shot looks at me like it was somehow my fault.

“We’re going to—” Scott said.

“We’ve already—” Quinn’s words overlapped his.

I rolled my eyes. It was the only appropriate response. While I was at it, I sat down. If they were going to keep this up, we might be locked together in the office for who knew how long, and I might as well be comfortable.

Obviously, a dose of common sense was in order, and no one could bring that to a situation like a woman.

I looked at Scott. “Will you take away the phony credit cards?”

It wasn’t my imagination. When he realized I’d picked him to speak first, his chin came up just a fraction of an inch and he slid Quinn a quick, sidelong look. “Too soon for that. The other agents are having a quick look around up in the ballroom right now. They’re going to leave things exactly the way they found them, and we’re going to stake out the memorial and wait to see who shows up for those credit cards. We’re going to need your help, Pepper. You said that while you were looking into Ms. Klinker’s murder—”

“You were looking into the murder? Oh, great!” Disgusted, Quinn threw his hands in the air, spun around, walked to the door, then rocketed back again. “How many times have I told you—”

“Pepper’s given us some useful information.” This was from Scott, and when he said it, I sat up and gave Quinn a look that clearly said, I told you so. “If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t have known about the identity thefts or the credit cards. It may have nothing to do with your case—”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Quinn crossed his arms over his chest. His shirt had so much starch in it, I swear I heard it crackle. Or maybe that was just his prickly personality making itself known. “Pepper should know better. Just like she should know to keep her nose out of police business.”

“You two obviously know each other.” It was the understatement of the year, but I guess I couldn’t blame Scott. He was the kind of guy who liked all his ducks in a row. He glanced from Quinn to me and back again to Quinn. “You’ve worked with Pepper before?”

Quinn’s smirk said it all, so he really didn’t need to add, “I guess you could call it that.”

Three cheers for Scott. Even if he read into the subtext of that one, he pretended like he didn’t. Then again, maybe he was just a literal guy. “Then obviously, you know how helpful she can be. She certainly was invaluable back in Chicago when we made the case against that doctor who was defrauding the health insurers and killing his patients.”

“Is that what you were doing in Chicago?” Needless to say, Quinn was looking at me when he asked this. “All you bothered to tell me was that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Because I knew this is exactly how you’d react.” I leveled him with a look. Or at least I tried. Quinn is hardly the leveling kind. “I have every right to ask questions—”

“About Marjorie Klinker’s murder? That’s what you’ve been up to, right? Investigating? Have you told Agent Baskins here that sometimes dead people help you out?”

“Of course they do.” Scott all but came right out and said, No duh! “The way victims live their lives, who they knew, who they talked to, who they associated with . . . you know that’s all important to an investigation, Detective Harrison. Pepper knows that, too. I’m sure that’s why she finds out as much about the dead person as she can.”

The smile Quinn shot my way was brittle. “Not exactly what I meant.”

I hopped to my feet and slapped the desk, just for good measure. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as smacking that self-righteous smirk off Quinn’s face, but for now, it would have to do. “What difference does any of that make?” I asked no one in particular. “All that matters now is what you’re going to do”—I looked at Scott—“about the credit cards. And what you’re going to do”—I glanced at Quinn—“about the murder.”

“Well, the first thing I’m going to do is—”

They did it again, answered in unison, and this time, they used the same words. I swear, I heard a growl, I just wasn’t sure which one of them it came from.

I was only too happy to play favorites. I looked at Scott, giving him the go-ahead to answer first.

“I’ve got my stuff in the car and I’m going to get it and change. I’m going to play tourist, and so are some of the other guys from the local office. You are going to be our official tour guide, Pepper, and you’re going to let us know if anyone comes in who looks familiar. Like that Jack guy.”

“Jack?” Quinn had missed that part of the conversation. Now, his eyebrows rose and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s Jack?”

“Just some history teacher she went to dinner with.” Scott threw off the comment so casually, I had no doubt it was designed to drive Quinn crazy. “We’ll start hanging around today, and we’re going to stay around until somebody comes to pick up those credit cards.” A smile lit his expression. “I’m afraid it’s going to be pretty hard to get rid of me, Pepper.”

“Well, that’s not such a bad thing, is it?” Oh yes, I said this in the perkiest of perky voices. The better to send Quinn up a wall. I knew it worked, too, when a muscle at the side of his jaw twitched. “And what are you going to do while the feds are doing all the real work, Detective Harrison?” I asked him.

There was that twitch again. But never let it be said that Quinn isn’t cool under fire. “The first thing I’m going to do,” he said, “is talk to you about your investigation.” He twisted the last word so that it was as much of a mockery as he thought my detecting skills were. “Maybe you and your dead people can tell me—”

“Oh, I doubt that.” I laughed. “It’s just like you always say, I waste my time when I investigate. There’s no way I’ve learned anything that could be the least bit useful to you. Now . . .” I went to the door, opened it, and put my hand on Scott’s sleeve to escort him out. “I’ll show you where you can get changed,” I said.

“And this building, it closes at four, right?” He grinned. “Which means you’re free for dinner tonight?”

We were already on our way out of the office, but I’m pretty sure Quinn heard me say, “I’d like that very much.” I didn’t bother to turn around to see what he thought of my response.

By Thursday of that week, we were still waiting for something to happen, but I wasn’t complaining. That meant Scott was still in town, and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday evenings, I went out with him. OK, so he wasn’t a ball of fire, at least not when he wasn’t on the job. But he was polite and interesting, and occasionally, even funny. He took me to one really nice restaurant in my own Little Italy neighborhood one night, to an Indians game the next, and on Wednesday, to a dive bar I never would have had the nerve to walk into on my own that turned out to be a whole lot of fun, even if the country music on the jukebox was so loud we could barely hear each other talk. Every place we went, Scott paid for everything—and with a credit card that actually had his name on it.

I should know, because one time when he left to use the men’s room, I checked.

Other than the fact that I was having a good time, I felt safe with Scott around. I mean, come on, the guy had been trained by the government. I had three glorious days of not worrying about my stalker, at least not until I got home each night, double-checked my windows and my door locks, pulled the miniblinds shut, and closed my curtains.

There were no more messages scrawled on my windshield or anywhere else, no more gifts of flowers or cheap chocolates, and I breathed a sigh of relief and convinced myself that Mr. Doughboy had seen me and Scott together and that he’d gotten a glimpse of that really big gun Scott carried at all times. It had scared him away. Yeah, that’s what happened. And I would never see hide nor hair of my stalker again.

Denial is a wonderful thing.

I actually might have enjoyed the euphoria that went along with it, if not for the fact that the longer we waited for something to happen at the memorial, the more on edge everyone got. There were only so many times the dozen or so federal agents who were hanging around the place could go upstairs to the balcony and downstairs to the crypt, only so many questions they could ask, and only so long I could treat them like they were tourists I’d never seen before and I was telling them all about the president and his memorial for the first time.

This undercover stakeout stuff is not for sissies.

Every time I was upstairs, I checked to make sure that sign was turned over, just like it had been the last time Jack was in the memorial. Still, nothing happened.

I guess the feds were used to this sort of waiting game. They took turns, sometimes waiting in the cars parked in various and sundry places around the cemetery where they could see but not be seen, and sometimes playing the role of memorial visitors. A couple days into it, and I already knew how each one took his coffee, what they mostly ordered for lunch (tuna salad on white toast, go figure), and that Scott had somehow made it clear to them that while he was fully prepared to cooperate with the local authorities, Quinn and his detectives—who had also made the memorial their home-away-from-home in the hopes that the two cases were going to tie in and wrap up together—were to be treated pretty much like enemy combatants. If this was what cooperation looked like, I was glad a private investigator worked alone.

Needless to say, with all this going on, the president was grumpier than ever.

I was down in the crypt with no one undercover (or otherwise) around, and he cornered me. “I told you I cannot abide commotion, and this is the way you honor my request? There are more people here than ever disturbing my peace. I have a cabinet meeting this afternoon and—”

I heard the front door open, and since all the agents and the various detectives were in place, I knew it was an actual visitor. I was all set to excuse myself so I could play tour guide for real when Jeremiah Stone popped up out of nowhere.

As always, he tapped the pile of papers he was carrying. “Mr. President . . .”

“Will you sign those things already?” I wailed, and before the president could remind me that I was out of line talking to him like that, I hightailed it out of there.

I got upstairs just in time to see a familiar man head up the winding staircase toward the second floor. I signaled Scott, who was in the rotunda with a sketchbook and a pencil, pretending to be an artist drawing the statue of the president.

“Him.” I mouthed the word, pointing up the stairs.

Scott nodded his understanding and ducked into the office, the better to send out a message to all those agents wearing earbuds that made them look like they were listening to their iPods. They were to wait for the signal, then close in.

I guess it was that whole criminal justice mumbojumbo thing at work again, because though I didn’t think Quinn was anywhere nearby, he caught on that something was up. He’d been in the rotunda, too, looking at a display of historic photographs and he oh so casually positioned himself at the bottom of the staircase, his gun out and behind his back.

“You’re not going to get in the way, are you?” he asked me.

I batted my eyelashes in a way that was completely unworthy of me, but necessary in a situation like this. “Scott doesn’t think I get in the way.”

“Scott . . .” Quinn tossed a look toward the office, where Scott was on the phone, quietly giving instructions to the units outside. “Scott is a jackass.”

“He happens to be very nice.”

“And you know this how?” Quinn tipped his head, listening for any sounds from upstairs, and when there weren’t any, he gave me that probing look of his, the one that had brought many a bad guy to his knees.

I was impervious. “We’ve been out.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Is it any of your business?”

“We got the go!” Scott said, racing out of the office and taking the steps two at a time.

Quinn hurried up after him.

And me?

I stayed right there on the first floor. Not that I was worried about getting in the way. That would be the day. And not that I wasn’t dying to find out what was going on up there, either. But I wasn’t about to get between Quinn and Scott in the middle of a bust—not when they both had guns in their hands. In fact, I ducked into the office, which meant I had a ringside seat when they came back down, escorting a man whose hands were handcuffed behind his back. It was the pudgy Eastern European guy with the beard, the one who’d been in the memorial the last time Jack was there.

I didn’t see Scott that evening. But then, I think he was busy grilling the pudgy guy. The next morning while I was restocking the memorial brochures in the plastic holder outside the rotunda, he showed up. He was so focused on his case, he didn’t even bother with small talk.

“I spent most of last night with your friend, Detective Harrison,” he said.

I was going to say that I’d done the same thing on a whole bunch of nights, but something told me Scott and Quinn weren’t doing what Quinn and I used to do, so there didn’t seem to be much point.

I sized him up and decided maybe we weren’t talking about the case after all. Until I knew for sure, I put my game face on. “You don’t look all that happy about it,” I said, ever observant.

“Harrison . . .” He tossed off the name along with what was almost an eye roll. “Harrison is a jackass.”

I nudged the brochures one final time to straighten them, then turned to give Scott my full attention. “Can’t argue with you there,” I said, but surprise, surprise—no sooner had the words left my mouth than I felt guilty. Let’s face it, there was a time I liked Quinn. A whole lot. “He used to be . . .” I couldn’t exactly say Quinn was nice, but then, it was hard to say exactly what he was or exactly what we were to each other. It was hard to put my finger on the adjectives that would describe him or our relationship and not include words like hot, sexy, or so good in bed, he made my toes curl. I stuck with the tried and true. “He used to be very nice.”

“And you know this how?” Scott crossed his arms over his chest, and the coat of his navy suit rode up and exposed his gun. I don’t think he meant the motion to be intimidating, but he had the whole federal agent mojo going on.

I may not have been impervious, but I could pretend with the best of them. My voice was smooth and my expression was blank when I tossed off that most noncommittal of phrases, “We used to date.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Is it any of your business?”

He didn’t expect me to be so honest. Or so assertive. He caved, but then, I’d seen him in action (no, not when we collared our perp up in the ballroom, on those three dates!). Scott had the whole ubercop personality down pat. That included not wanting to get too personal, and talking about emotions . . . well, that was way too personal.

Since he didn’t want to go there, and I wasn’t feeling much like sharing the intimate details of my life with a man I barely knew, I asked the question that had been bugging me all night. “The guy you arrested—”

“Viktor Patankin.”

“Patankin. Is he the one who killed Marjorie?” Obviously more comfortable now that we were talking murder and mayhem, Scott cocked his head, inviting me to go into the office with him. He didn’t say another word until we were inside and out of sight and hearing range of anyone who might wander into the memorial. “Patankin claims he’s just the middleman.”

“For the counterfeited credit cards.”

His nod said it all.

“Which doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect in the murder. Marjorie had a phony credit card, remember. She was using it to buy her Garfield junk. Even though she wasn’t supposed to be up there, she must have found the cards up in the ballroom and scooped one up for her own use. That’s why she told Ray she had a get-rich-quick scheme.” I had filled Scott in on all these details when he arrived in Cleveland. I’d even turned over the credit card Ray had stolen from Marjorie’s and given to me, so he knew exactly what I was talking about.

“She wasn’t making it up. She had that card. And she could have gotten her hands on lots more of them. That’s why she told Ray she was wrong about the get-rich-quick scheme, right?” Scott didn’t contradict me, so I went right on. “But then she saw that she was getting nowhere with Ray and she decided to keep the credit card secret to herself. But if Patankin found out she took the card and that she knew about the cache of them upstairs, he would have been plenty pissed. He could have killed her. That would explain everything.”

It really wouldn’t. I knew it even as the words left my mouth.

It wouldn’t explain the personal Garfield item Nick discussed selling to Ted Studebaker.

It wouldn’t explain crazy Gloria Henninger, the neighbor who wanted to see Marjorie dead.

It wouldn’t explain Jack and what he was doing hanging around the memorial and how he was connected to Patankin and that sign up in the stairway.

But it would be a start.

Or not.

The or not part plonked down on me like a ton of bricks when Scott shook his head. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that things are that easy. Patankin told us he was out of the country when Ms. Klinker was killed. Your friend . . .” He tiptoed back into personal territory for a nanosecond, but drawn by the siren song of his case, he shook himself back to reality. “Detective Harrison spent the better part of last night verifying Patankin’s alibi for the day of the murder. He said he was in Toronto picking up another shipment of counterfeit cards. We’re still checking into that part of the story, but Harrison talked to Customs this morning and they confirm the rest of it. Patankin really was in Canada. He couldn’t have killed Ms. Klinker.”

“Then who—?”

Scott was carrying a leather portfolio. He flipped it open, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and handed me a sketch of a man.

“It’s Jack,” I said, looking at Scott in wonder. “How did you—”

“Patankin is a citizen of Uzbekistan and he’s not thrilled about the prospect of going back there. He’s decided to cooperate and he’s singing like a bird. Oh, how I love when that happens!” He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “He swears he’s just the middleman, and this guy . . .” Scott tapped a finger to Jack’s nose. “He’s the mastermind of the counterfeiting operation.”

“Jack?” I studied the drawing again. There was no mistaking the face; Patankin had described Jack to a tee. The hair was right. The eyes were perfect. His mouth was just the way I remembered it. Except that when I remembered it, I remembered him kissing me.

“Nice-looking guy.” As if he could read my mind, Scott tossed out, “I can see why you were attracted to him.”

“Who says I was?”

“You didn’t need to.”

“It doesn’t really count if he’s a bad guy.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

I’d suspected that Jack was up to no good, so none of this was much of a surprise. It was kind of shocking, though, to hear he was some kind of Dr. Evil. I did my best to stay focused. “Did this Patankin guy tell you where to find Jack?” I asked.

“Jack . . .” Scott pulled out another paper from the portfolio. This one featured a small color photo of Jack in one corner and an official-looking insignia in the other. I read the printing beneath the symbol. “Interpol?”

Scott’s nod was barely perceptible. “One of our agents recognized him from the sketch. That’s how we caught on to who he really is. Your friend Jack has quite a reputation.” He pointed to the information below Jack’s photo. “His real name is Jonathan Bryce-Conway. He’s a Brit, and he’s wanted in just about every country you can name.”

“Jack?” OK, I was repeating myself, and it was annoying, but it wasn’t exactly easy to wrap my brain around Scott’s information. “I knew he was up to something,” I said, “but—”

“When it comes to crime, he’s one of the superstars. I can’t wait to get my hands on this guy.”

“But you’ve got Patankin. And the credit cards. How are you—”

Scott didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The way his eyes glittered told me everything I needed to know.

“Jack doesn’t know you arrested Patankin. And you were careful to make sure the media didn’t find out. You’re not going to tell anyone now, right?”

He nodded.

“Which means you’re hoping Jack shows back up here, either looking for Patankin or those credit cards. And when he does—”

Like I said, Scott is pretty low-key. Except when it comes to his job. Just the prospect of arresting Jack practically made him salivate.