To Trust a Cop Page 9

  “I’m sorry.” Of course that was true. She’d confirmed that herself this afternoon.

  “As soon as the police release my home, I’ll need to have it thoroughly cleaned. I’m sure you understand I don’t want my children to see any signs of their father’s blood,” Pat said.

  “Certainly,” Merlene murmured.

  “But since Rick was seen in Ocala earlier in the week, I don’t know what that house looks like. I’m wondering if he...” Pat trailed off, swallowing a sob. “I want you to check it out, make sure everything is okay, that there’s nothing the kids shouldn’t see.”

  “Of course, Pat. I’ll leave as soon as I get a key.”

  “You’ve been a tremendous help at this terrible time, Merlene,” Pat said in a flat voice. “When it’s all over, I promise to make the trouble worth your while.”

  After disconnecting, Merlene ached for her client. What a tragedy. And she admired Pat’s clear thinking, doubting she’d be able to make logical decisions the day after her husband had been murdered. When you have kids to think of, you do what you have to do, she supposed.

  As expected, Dr. Johnson’s murder was the lead news story on every channel. Merlene thumbed a remote from her couch, hoping one of the local stations would provide new information. Cody hadn’t told her squat.

  She’d already analyzed what little she knew and concluded the murder had not been an aborted robbery. No way. Doc Johnson had opened his door to his visitors. She remembered hearing voices, people having a conversation. No one had even sounded angry.

  On the screen, a uniformed spokesperson gave the official police response. Graphics on the bottom read, “Media Relations Specialist.”

  “What can you tell us about this brutal murder?” a female reporter asked.

  “At present, the investigation is still ongoing,” the uniformed man said.

  “Do you have a motive?”

  “The investigation still ongoing,” he repeated. “We are asking the public to please call in with any tips.”

  And that was it from the official media relations guy. Nothing but the usual vague nonsense. None of the stations had anything more than video shots of the Johnson home with official vehicles parked in the front yard. One channel speculated about a disgruntled patient, since the murdered man had been a physician.

  The media didn’t even know about the insurance fraud yet. But they would, and soon.

  Merlene sifted what she knew through her investigator’s brain one more time. Since Cody alleged the doctor had been involved with Nurse Linda Cole in some sort of fraud, maybe his partners had gotten wind of the heat. The cops had been closing in on them.

  So what if someone had spotted her surveillance activity and got nervous? Could Pat’s jealous suspicions have inadvertently caused her husband’s murder? Oh, God, what a horrible thought. Merlene closed her eyes. That meant she had helped bring about a man’s death.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the muted screen. She was indulging in blatant speculation like the vultures on TV. The only thing she was certain of was that Johnson’s murder must be connected to Cody’s investigation. It’d help if she knew more details about his case.

  She relaxed into the plush green cushions of her sofa and punched off the remote, wishing she’d stop obsessing about Detective Cody Warren. Fortunately, she wouldn’t see him for a few days. As soon as FedEx delivered a key, she’d leave for Ocala to check out the ranch for her client.

  Yawning, she stretched out her legs and nestled her head against the arm of the couch. She’d barely slept in the past twenty-four hours. Her eyes drifted shut and her thoughts again drifted to the murder scene and how kind Cody had been under horrible circumstances.

  * * *

  SHE JOLTED AWAKE to her phone’s piercing ring. Gooseflesh dotted her arms as she reluctantly abandoned her dream and the erotic sensation of Cody’s tongue flicking across her naked breast. A shiver of longing swept through her.

  Propping herself on one elbow, she tried to focus. Light streamed in through her front window. Morning. What was she doing on the couch? She reached for the phone but dropped the receiver with a thud on the table. She grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

  No response.

  “Hello?” she repeated. “Who is this?”

  No answer...then a dial tone. She checked the caller ID display and squinted at “Unavailable.”

  “Great,” she muttered, and slid the receiver back onto its base. Maybe dropping the phone had somehow severed the connection and whoever called would try again. Maybe her client had forgotten something. Or changed her mind, no doubt a grieving widow’s prerogative.

  She sat up and rubbed her temples. Waking to that shrill noise had caused a headache and ruined such a pleasant dream. More than pleasant. She nestled back into the cushions and closed her eyes. Maybe she could fall back asleep and pick up where they’d left off.

  The phone rang again. Sitting up, Merlene stared at the white contraption. “Unavailable” again appeared in the caller ID screen. Definitely not Pat. With her hand hovering above the receiver, she decided at the last second to allow her machine to pick up.

  No one responded to her recorded greeting.

  Probably kids playing games, she decided. Not that she’d ever done anything so foolish, but then she’d never gotten the chance to behave like a kid.

  The phone rang for the third time while Merlene showered. Again an unavailable number. Again no one left a message.

  She briefly wondered if the hang-ups were kids after all. Could the phone calls be more sinister? Should she be worried about the repercussions of the video she’d made? Ridiculous. No one even knew who she was. Only the police knew about the video. Shaking her head, she decided Johnson’s murder had turbocharged her overactive imagination.

  Still waiting for delivery of the key to Pat Johnson’s Ocala ranch, Merlene used the rest of the morning to study. She had enough trouble understanding Introduction to Language Development without phone games, so she turned off the ringer and allowed her ancient but perfectly serviceable machine to take messages.

  * * *

  CODY GLARED ACROSS a battered wooden table at the flushed face of Sean Feldman. At least forty pounds overweight, Feldman had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to compensate for the lack of air-conditioning in the tiny interrogation room.

  “One more chance, Feldman,” Cody said. “Where is your brother?”

  “And I’m going to repeat, Detective, that I don’t know where Neville is. I haven’t seen him or spoken to him in two days.”

  Feldman had willingly come in for questioning and denied any involvement in Doc Johnson’s murder. Cody believed him.

  “Tell me again about your last conversation with Neville.”

  “All I know is my brother had an appointment with Johnson the night the good doctor was killed.”

  “What was the meeting about?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Neville when you find him.” Feldman mopped a white cotton handkerchief across his damp face. “Hey, can’t we get some air in here? I’m dying.”

  Cody sat back. He could push the attorney only so far, but could Neville have really acted on his own? Not likely. Of the two brothers, Sean was definitely the mastermind.

  Jake, his partner, stuck his head in the room and motioned Cody outside.

  Feldman waved at the door. “Go on. Your partner has some news for you. And while you’re out there, turn on the air. If I have a heart attack...”

  Cody closed the door to block out Feldman’s voice and joined Jake in the hall.

  “City of Hialeah found the shooter’s car abandoned in the parking lot of Westland Mall,” his partner said, stroking his mustache. “It’s clean. No prints, not a single link to the Feldmans.”

  Cody nodded. “What we
expected.”

  “Something else.” Jake handed Cody a pink business card. “Vanessa Cooper from Channel Eight somehow got wind of the video. She’s digging hard to find out anything she can, including the identity of the videographer.”

  Cody swore. “Any idea where the leak is?”

  Jake shrugged. “It’ll take time to find out. But you’d better prepare Mrs. Saunders. They may not have her name yet, but the existence of her video will be on the noon news.”

  Lieutenant Montoya joined them carrying a white plastic cup of cafecito. The tiny container looked especially small in the big man’s fingers. “What’s happening with Feldman?”

  “He’s giving me nothing,” Cody admitted.

  His boss nodded. “Of course not. So why did the Saunders woman withhold her video for twelve hours? We lost valuable time because of that delay.”

  “She said she forgot about it,” Cody said.

  “Not f-ing likely,” Jake said.

  Cody shot his partner a look but had to agree.

  “Damn suspicious,” Montoya said. “I think the woman knows more than she’s saying. Didn’t she have a key to the Johnson house?”

  “Yes,” Cody said.

  “God, I hate private cops,” Montoya said. “Nothing but a giant pain in the ass.”

  Cody silently agreed Merlene could be that.

  “You and Steadman are on special assignment back to Homicide because of your familiarity with this case. Keep me informed of your progress,” Montoya said. He moved toward his office but turned back.

  “And keep an eye on Mrs. Saunders. I don’t trust her.”

  Cody couldn’t reach Merlene. He tried all morning but talked to nothing but a recording device.

  Around two in the afternoon he got a call from D. J. Cooke.

  “Cody. Good to talk to you,” D.J. said.

  “Been a long time, D.J.,” Cody said.

  “How’s tricks?”

  How’s tricks? The old-fashioned words stirred unsettling memories. His father had used that expression. “I’m good,” Cody said. “How about yourself?”

  “Well, I been better, Cody. I’m damned concerned about our mutual friend.”

  “Merlene?”

  “I can’t get ahold of purty Miss Merl and wondered if you knew anything.”

  Pretty Miss Merl. Cody liked that. “Yeah, I left a message myself. I don’t think she’s home, and she’s not answering her cell.”

  “But that’s just it. She’s supposed to be. She’s waiting for a package. I don’t like it.”

  Cody sat up. “I’ll check it out.”

  * * *

  MERLENE ANSWERED HER door wearing faded blue cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt that made her eyes more blue than gray. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he demanded.

  Merlene opened the door wide, stretching cotton fabric across her nipples. “It’s good to see you, too, Detective Warren.”

  Relief that she was okay and sassy as ever fought with irritation over her careless attitude. As he followed her into the living room, the relief won. Faded denim had never looked so good.

  “Kids were playing games with the phone,” she said, “so I turned off the bell.” She raised a large book from the dining room table. “I was trying to study.”

  “D.J. tried to call and got worried.”

  Lifting one rounded hip against the table edge, she said, “D.J. called you?”

  Cody nodded. “I couldn’t get through, either.”

  She hugged the textbook close to her chest. “Were you worried?”

  Hell, yes, he was worried, but he wasn’t falling into that trap. Let a woman know you care and they turn it into a lethal weapon every time.

  “Can we sit down, Merlene? I need to talk to you.”

  Motioning him to the couch, she sat, her eyes wide. “Have you arrested the guy in the video?”

  He sat beside her. “Not yet.”

  “Cody, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I’m going crazy trying to figure it out.”

  He grinned as he relaxed against the leather cushion. “I suppose I ought to get some satisfaction out of that.”

  Her mouth popped open. “You’re pleased that I’m going nuts. Thanks a lot.”

  Watching her expression, Cody decided it was time for Merlene to know the whole story. Yeah, maybe Montoya didn’t trust her, but his boss never trusted private investigators. Usually Cody found her easy to read, and he could make up his own mind from her reaction.

  “If you’ll be quiet, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  She ran her thumb and index finger across her lips to mimic a zipper, then raised both eyebrows.

  Cody smothered another grin. “All right. Pay attention.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “We knew that Dr. Johnson had hooked up with a sleazy ambulance chaser named Sean Feldman we’ve been after for years. Sean’s brother, Neville, the ex-con I told you about, hustles patients from minor fender benders, slips and falls—all kinds of accidents, some bogus, some not—and sends them to Johnson. The good doctor diagnoses life-threatening, very expensive medical problems and/or permanent disability. Sean Feldman files suit on behalf of unhurt patients, then insurance companies dangle major bucks to make it all go away.”

  “Wow,” Merlene said, looking as if she’d burst with excitement. “The patients don’t get all the money, do they?”

  “Very little of it,” Cody said.

  “So what part did Linda Cole play?”

  “Her job was to process the fraudulent insurance forms.”

  “Then Johnson wasn’t cheating on his wife.”

  Cody shrugged. “Probably not with Linda. We were close to making arrests when the doc disappeared.”

  “When he went to Ocala.”

  Cody nodded. “But the trip was a smoke screen. Dr. Johnson got wind of the coming bust and made a deal with federal prosecutors. He agreed to testify against the Feldman brothers for a promise of a reduced sentence. I didn’t know that until this morning.”

  Merlene drew her legs under her. “That’s why you were called off the case.”

  “Right. The feds needed time to put their case together.”

  “So you think the brothers decided to get rid of Doc Johnson before he could talk.”

  “Bull’s-eye. The driver in your video is Neville Feldman, the attorney’s brother. But now he’s off the radar. We found the car, but so far it’s told us nothing.”

  “Have you talked to his brother, the lawyer?”

  “For several hours.” Cody ran a hand through his hair, recalling Sean Feldman’s arrogance during a long, miserable interview.

  “Sean has an airtight alibi the night of the shooting. He claims ignorance about Johnson’s murder and hasn’t talked to Brother Neville in several days. He also claims that Neville had an appointment with Johnson the night of his murder.”

  “That could be,” she said. “I remember thinking that someone let them in, but landscaping hid the entrance.”

  “Too bad.”

  “So who was the guy with Neville in the video?”

  “We don’t know, and Sean isn’t saying. I brought some pictures of Neville’s known associates for you to look at.”

  Her lips curved into a half smile. “Like mug shots?”

  Cody nodded. “Yeah, a mug shot lineup.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m not sure I could identify anybody.” Her smile deepened. “Well, I’m just your regular star witness, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah,” Cody said, “You’re my star witness. But there’s more.”

  “What?” She raised her brows, wrinkling her forehead.

  “Ch
annel Eight broke the story of your video on the noon news, and they’re digging to find out who you are.”

  Her eyes widened, her surprise as genuine as it had been when he relayed the insurance scam. Cody believed her.

  “But how could that happen?” she asked.

  He nodded at her phone. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  “Of course not.” She narrowed her eyes. “The answer is your department has a leak. It’s just a matter of time before they get my name.”

  “Possible.”

  Merlene moved toward the phone. “Maybe Channel Eight already left a message.”

  Cody listened to two messages from D.J., one from himself and a half dozen hang-ups.

  “Well, they haven’t found me so far,” she said, clearing her ancient machine with some difficulty.

  “Why don’t you have voice mail?”

  She shrugged. “Why spend money I don’t have to?”

  “You’ve never had hang-ups like that before?”

  “No,” she said, twirling a ribbon of hair around her thumb. “Do you think the calls have something to do with the case?”

  Who knew anymore? Cody glared at the phone. This case had more twists than a woman’s mind, and he’d never been able to successfully navigate a maze.

  No one should know Merlene’s name this early in the game—barely twenty-four hours since her video came to light. He’d been careful not to tell Sean Feldman.

  “Do you think the hang-ups are related to the Johnson murder?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “I don’t see how,” he answered. One thing for sure. He wanted Neville Feldman behind bars before Merlene’s identity got broadcast for John Q. Public to feast upon and tear apart.

  “Let me see your photographs,” she said.

  Cody pulled the photos from his briefcase and spread them across the dining room table, grimacing at the group—variations on unshaven, flinty-eyed, tattooed lowlifes. As Merlene sat down to examine them, the doorbell rang.

  “Finally,” she muttered.

  “Hold it.” Cody moved quickly toward the front window, peeked through the blinds, then nodded for her to answer the door.