Justice for All. Joanna Wayne
area to provide a side show as well.
Callie gave him the results of the lab report and Bernie’s reaction on the drive over. By the time the waitress showed them to a table in the back corner of the deck, possibilities were already streaming though his mind.
“So what’s your take on this?” Callie asked, once they’d put in their drink order and had been given a menu.
“I think your hunch could be right. Ephedra doesn’t seem the kind of drug a man like Bernie would mess around with, not with all the serious drugs he has at his disposal. Besides, kingpins like Bernie are rarely big-time users. They need to keep their minds clear to run the business.”
Which meant it was very possible someone at Mary Hancock’s party slipped the stimulant into his food or drink. If it was the Avenger, and if he was in fact at the party last night, this might be the best lead Max had had since the killing spree started.
“There are a lot more common and probably more effective substances a killer could have used,” Callie said. “What would make him choose something like ephedra?”
“Any number of reasons. Availability, personal experience, or he may have gotten the idea from the media attention surrounding the death of the high school student.”
“That makes sense,” Callie admitted.
“If you hadn’t been there and Bernie had died of the presenting symptoms, would his death have been classified a heart attack?”
“Quite possibly.”
The waitress returned with Max’s coffee and Callie’s raspberry iced tea. Max ordered a cheeseburger without even glancing at the menu. Callie decided on the fresh green salad topped with lump crab meat and avocado, dressing on the side.
Another glaring difference between them, Max noted. His taste buds were partial to the routine. Callie’s went for more sophisticated fare.
Callie rolled a finger over the condensation on her glass. “If Bernie thinks someone tried to kill him, surely he’ll go to the police.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. A guy like Bernie’s more likely to seek out his own revenge.” Just what Courage Bay and Max needed. An avenger out to get the Avenger. Sounded like a bad Hollywood script, and even thinking about it gave Max a headache.
They fell silent when the waitress brought the food. But not talking was not necessarily a good thing when he was sitting across a small table from Callie, Max acknowledged. It left him too much time to notice the delicate softness of her hands as she forked bites of salad to her full, pink lips. Too much time to admire the way her breasts pushed against the fabric of her blouse. Too much time to remember the way her body had felt pressed against his.
“What do we do, Max?”
The question flustered him for a second before he realized she wasn’t reading his mind and referring to the incriminating thoughts he was entertaining. “You’ve done your part. It’s up to me to try to make sense of it all.”
“I don’t think I have done my part.”
He didn’t like the sound of that or the look in her eyes right now. “I appreciate the heads-up on this, Callie, but don’t even think about getting involved in the investigation.”
“Why not? I was standing a few feet away from Bernie when he collapsed. And the hostess is a friend of mine.”
“If the Avenger is involved in this, and I’m not even suggesting that he is, we’re talking about a man who’s killed at least four people and tried to kill Bernie. He’s smart and he’s dangerous.”
“And needs to be stopped.”
“Right. By the cops. Not by beautiful doctors with no experience in law enforcement.”
“I wasn’t planning to start carrying a gun and beating the bushes for the killer.”
“Good. Don’t talk to Mary about this, either, or anyone else who was at the party.”
As he dipped a French fry into a pool of ketchup, it struck Max that this was the first time he’d had lunch with a woman other than the cops on his force in longer than he cared to remember. And he was sitting here giving orders and talking about murder. “I say we drop the subject,” he suggested. “It’s bad for the digestive system.”
“Okay, but I still think I could help with the investigation.”
They stopped talking until they finished eating. “So,” Callie said, dabbing the napkin to the corner of her lips, “what does the chief of police do for fun on gorgeous Saturday afternoons?”
“Does doing the laundry count as fun?”
She groaned. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Of course. That’s just the warm-up. It’s stopping at the market for TV dinners that really gets my juices pumping. And let me guess. What does the chief of staff at Courage Bay Hospital do? Loll away her hours at the yacht club? Go sailing? Shop for dresses like that sexy little number you had on last night?”
“I’m sailing with friends this afternoon, but every other Saturday I volunteer at the Keller Center. It’s a facility that provides housing and medical care for indigent women in their last trimester of pregnancy. Not really what I’d classify as fun, but extremely satisfying.”
Her involvement in the center surprised him, though he didn’t know why it should. One of the things that had driven her and his cousin apart had been the fact that she chose to work at a clinic in a low income area after completing her residency instead of accepting a very lucrative and prestigious position with a doctor in private practice in Beverly Hills.
The silence grew awkward. It was one of the few times Max envied guys who could make meaningless small talk. Start him on any murder he’d ever investigated and he could talk your ear off. Football, basketball, baseball. Hit him with any of those and he could jump right in. But ask for small talk with a woman and he’d trip right over his tongue.
The waitress stopped by and offered coffee or dessert, but Callie refused both. She was ready to go. Who could blame her? Max pulled a few bills from his money clip and slipped them under the ticket, then stood up to leave.
Callie took a phone call on the drive back and spent the entire trip discussing a cancer patient whose insurance company didn’t want to pay for an experimental drug the physician in charge wanted to use. She broke the connection as he pulled into the circular driveway in front of the hospital.
“I enjoyed lunch, Max. We should do it more often.”
“Sounds good.”
The smile she gave him ricocheted around inside him like one of those balls in a lottery draw.
“You take care,” Max said, anxious to be off and have his reawakened emotions fade back into oblivion. A chief of police didn’t need emotions. Just brains and guts.
“I hope I helped.” She hesitated as if she wanted to say more, then opened the door and climbed out. One last wave and she was gone. Max started the engine and took a deep breath, ready to feel the relief seep into his mind.
It didn’t.
At the end of the driveway he turned left and headed down to headquarters. He didn’t know if Bernie was one of the Avenger’s victims or not, but four others were. And if he didn’t find the guy and get him off the streets soon, there would be a fifth. It was only a matter of time.
BERNIE LEFT THE HOSPITAL Sunday afternoon. He didn’t need a specialist to tell him his heart was pumping. Didn’t need anyone to tell him that someone had tried to kill him Friday night, either.
Nothing surprising in that. There were lots of people who’d be glad to see him turn up dead. He just hadn’t expected them to be attending a society function in Courage Bay. He’d have to start watching his back every minute, no longer just when he was on his L.A. turf.