Knock 'Em Dead. Rhonda Pollero
“Excuse me?”
“Dom Perignon. Apparently they had a little too much to drink in the limo.”
“Does Miss Spencer often drink too much and have blackouts?”
Uneasiness settled in the pit of my stomach. “I didn’t say that she had a blackout. I just said that she and her date had a little more to drink than she’s accustomed to and they weren’t driving, so unless there’s a new law against dating while intoxicated—FYI, if there is, you’re going to need a much bigger police force—neither Jane nor her date did anything wrong.”
“If that were true, Mr. Martinez would still be breathing, now, wouldn’t he?”
Whoever said money can’t buy happiness was both poor and wrong.
Three
Liv was waiting for me outside the police station. “What are you doing here?” I squinted against the harsh sunlight as I looked beyond her. “Where are Becky and Jane?”
“Hold that question,” Liv said pointedly. The area was full of people to-ing and fro-ing. And staring. We made quite a pair. She started walking and I fell into step as she shifted several pieces of crisp paper from one hand to the other, then moved her fabulous tortoise Coach sunglasses from securing her pale brown hair down to shield her stunning violet eyes. Not tacky contact-lens violet—my original assumption—but genetically perfect, exotic violet. Liv is probably one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. The kind you want to hate on sight, but truth be told, she’s so nice you just can’t help but like her.
It was a struggle for me to keep up with her long strides. Liv is five-seven to my five-three; plus, she’s got on killer Anne Klein sandals, adding three and a half inches to her statuesque frame. Her casual couture sundress and spanking new Coach signature soft duffel made me feel even more self-conscious as my flip-flops slapped and echoed along the stone walkway.
I quelled the urge to smack the two lowlifes giving me the once-over as they shuffled past. As if I didn’t know I was out in public in my robe probably looking a lot like something a dog chewed on and spit out.
“Becky called.” With her thumb, Liv clicked the silver keypad to open the doors of her champagne-colored Mercedes. “She needs you to notarize this.”
She passed the pages to me as she rounded the back of the Mercedes.
I flipped through the papers as I slid into the passenger seat. The tan leather burned the back of my thighs and the air inside the car was hot and thick. I left my door open until Liv got in and turned on the engine. I suffered the blast of superheated air knowing cool was coming. “Why do you need a financial power of attorney?”
“They’re charging Jane with voluntary manslaughter,” Liv said in a frustrated rush, adjusting her air vent. “Can you believe it? Our Jane?” She glanced my way. “What’s the difference between manslaughter and murder?”
I blinked and opened the glove compartment, hunting around until I found the extra pair of sunglasses I knew Liv always kept on hand. She was more than just a fashionable business owner.
“Intent and/or premeditation,” I answered. “And no, I can’t believe it. Jane couldn’t have killed Paolo. Not even in the heat of passion, no pun intended. The charge doesn’t make sense, unless they’re planning on upping it to murder after they gather all the evidence.”
“Oh, speaking of evidence, they’re also charging her with littering.”
“Excuse me?” I said, turning to look at Liv’s profile as she started the car. Another blast of hot air whooshed out of the vents, then immediately began to cool the interior.
“Littering,” Liv repeated, jamming the car into gear. “Someone in the state attorney’s office decided they’d include that because they still haven’t found the penis.”
Placing the pages on my lap, I pressed my fingers into my temples. Insufficient caffeine and knowing my dear friend was under arrest were making my head throb. “So why the power of attorney for Jane’s assets?”
“She needs a good criminal lawyer and Becky said bail might be as high as a hundred thousand dollars.”
I felt my stomach plummet. “Jane has that kind of money?” The mental image of my friend in some dank, nasty holding cell gave me a shiver. She must be scared out of her mind. Anyone with half a brain would be under the circumstances. She was my friend, I loved her, and knew she wasn’t guilty of anything other than poor judgment in taking a strange man home with her. I fumbled with the seat belt. Jane wouldn’t hurt a fly. Especially one with a zipper.
“Not enough, but she’s got some savings and a credit line. When the bank opens in the morning, I’m going to get her cash and pull every penny possible out of Concierge Plus.” Liv leaned over and cranked up the air as she glanced over her shoulder, then pulled out in the inch or so of space left between the two beaten and mangled pickups parallel parked in front and in back of her. Damn, she was good.
“Can you do that?” I asked over the sound of the pickup honking behind us, as if Liv would care that she’d cut the guy off. In Palm Beach, she who has the best car wins. “I mean, not Jane’s money, the POA covers that. But Concierge Plus? You’ve got a partner and I’m sure Jean-Claude won’t let you bleed all the operating capital.”
Liv shot me a quick look. “Forget him. I’ll deal with Jean-Claude. Becky gave me a list of lawyers’ names and said either you or one of the bigwigs at Dane-Lieberman should contact them. It’s the last page.”
Like I had the clout to get any of the senior partners to do my bidding on a Sunday afternoon. I hurriedly checked the attorneys listed and whistled. “These are heavy hitters.” I flicked my fingernail at one name. “This guy gets fifty grand up front. Why can’t Becky represent Jane?”
“I asked the same thing. She said she’s a contacts attorney and unless Jane and Paolo agreed, in writing, that he’d be breathing and have all his body parts at the end of the date, she doesn’t feel qualified to do it.”
Valid argument. If you’re having a heart attack, you don’t go to a pediatrician.
Liv’s cell phone gave a muted chime from inside her purse. I started to reach into the back footwell to retrieve her bag when she yelled, “Don’t!”
“Why?”
“Go ahead and check the ID. Unless it’s Becky, let it go to voice mail. I’ve already blown off calls from nervous clients. Not to mention two from Shaylyn and Zack.” I glanced at the blue LED as the phone vibrated against my palm. I recognized the 561 local area code and read out the telephone number.
Liv muttered a curse. “Ignore them.”
“Them?”
“Shaylyn Kidwell and Zack Davis.”
“Who are?”
“The owners of Fantasy Dates. I’m guessing they need to fire me before they sue me.”
“They can’t sue you,” I said, trying—and failing—to sound positive. “Okay, anyone can sue anyone, but suing and winning are two different things. Besides, you should sue them. They’re the ones who hooked Jane up with a guy who had a serious enemy. Serious enough to slice off his genitals.”
Liv shook her head as she shivered. “And took the penis. What kind of nut job—sorry, poor word choice—would do that?”
“Someone either seriously disturbed in general, or someone who had a real issue with Paolo.”
Liv stopped at the traffic light a block from my apartment complex. “Great. Nothing like knowing there’s a deranged, penis-lobbing psycho roaming the streets with Paolo’s privates in his pocket.”