“That’s Billy Star,” I said.
“Did you get an audio on this exchange?”
“No. Wasn’t close enough. And he’s obviously no blond chick so I don’t think Jennifer would be too concerned with that.”
Dylan flipped once more through the pictures. “Here,” he said, pointing to the one of the boardroom gathering. It had taken some roof climbing, fancy angling and a fifty dollar bribe to get that shot through the window, but I was nothing if not resourceful. “That’s the same guy sitting to the left of Weatherby.”
“Good eye.” I smiled like a mama cat watching her kitten nab its first mouse.
No, not a mama cat. Definitely feline, though. Hell, as I sat there with Dylan, I could almost hear myself purring.
“Man, he even looks angry here in the boardroom,” Dylan said. “Controlled but pissed-off. That guy’s got some serious attitude with ol’ Ned.”
“Billy Star works at Weatherby Industries. Top floor. His office is right next door to Ned’s.”
“Not after this, I take it.” Dylan flipped again to the picture of an angry Star giving Ned the one finger salute.
“That’s what I would have thought too. But this gentlemanly exchange happened yesterday, Thursday. And I saw Billy strolling back in to Weatherby Industries again this morning.”
“Wonder what they were fighting about?” Dylan mused, echoing my very thoughts.
I was curious, too. Damn curious. Mentally I began building scenarios and checking off possibilities. Were they fighting about business? Old money? New money? Maybe the blond bombshell Mrs. Weatherby suspected her husband of boinking was playing honey in the middle — hottie in the middle? — with these two. But then I thought Mrs. Weatherby was being paranoid, didn’t I? Didn’t I? The only way I’d know for sure would be to check it out. The winged money Jennifer Weatherby had given me, coupled with that she had promised, tweeted their chastisement as they flew above my head.
“We’ll never know what they’re fighting about, because that’s not what we’re being paid to find out.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it drive you nuts, Dix? The not knowing stuff like this. Isn’t that why you got into the business in the first place?”
I got into this business because after twenty years of working in an office with chauvinistic men, they still treated me like the new kid on the block. No, the new girl on the block. I got into the business because I was tired of watching newbies come in and get promoted over me just because they had dicks. I’d had enough of not being taken seriously because of the way I looked. I knew I could do better. Damn right well knew it.
I shrugged the tension from my shoulders. “Yeah, a little. It comes with the territory — insatiable curiosity. The need to know more than you need to know.”
“What’s your intuition saying about this Billy Star guy? How do you read him?”
That’s another thing I liked about Dylan, he didn’t laugh off female intuition the way some guys did. I let my head roll back into the seat and closed my eyes, not just because they were tired, but sitting this close to Dylan … sometimes I just needed the pretense of privacy myself.
“He’s a hothead. That I’ll give him, but….”
As I pondered how best to sum up my feelings about Billy Star, Dylan must have figured I’d drifted off, because the next think I knew, I felt his hand on my arm and his low-voiced whisper in my ear.
“Dix? You asleep?”
The tingle that went down my spine crawled around me, gripped me. I felt my nipples tighten under my t-shirt.
Holy frig!
It had been a long time since the touch of a man had made me react like that. And that had ended badly. In heartache and anger and many nights cursing myself as much as I cursed him. And damn it, as much as I hated to admit it, a night or two wondering where he’d gotten to. I was the one who always searched the faces at the airports, and glanced back over my shoulder at the movies when I heard a certain laugh. And, I reminded myself, the one who’d sworn never again.
“I’m awake.” I sat up straight.
“Ned Weatherby just went inside.”
“Did he pick a rose from the garden?”
“Yeah, but Jennifer didn’t knock on the window. Ned just— “
Dylan’s words were cut off by the panic-stricken scream of Ned Weatherby,
“Help! Somebody help!”
My eyes saucered as I looked at Ned Weatherby running down his neat stone-paved driveway. His face was contorted with shock. Blood reddened his shirt. He still held the rose in his hands — the thorns cutting into it, his blood dripping down from it.
“My wife … somebody’s killed my wife. Somebody help!”
Even as we jumped from the car and ran, I was on my cell dialing 911.
“77 Ashfield Drive. Yes, Ashfield Drive, and hurry. I think there’s been a murder.”
I hung up quickly before the emergency dispatcher could ask me a million questions I didn’t have the answers to. Yet.
Yes, I’d be speaking to the police. I had no doubt about that. I had to tell them what I knew, about Jennifer’s visit to my office a few short days ago. But for now, I had to get into that house before they did. See for myself. And it was more than insatiable curiosity; this was personal. This was my client.
Dylan and I ran up the driveway together, but he reached Ned first. Reading my intent, he turned Ned around so that his back was to me as I dashed into the house through the open front door.
The Weatherby home was impressive. Even in my heart-thumping state, I couldn’t help but take in that fact. Great high ceilings, marble flooring in the foyer. The house was huge, and from where I stood, there must have been four or five different doorways or hallways before me. It was like a maze. But I didn’t need a map to tell me which way to find Jennifer Weatherby, I just followed the trail of blood. The trail that started right at my feet.
Already I could hear the sirens, and from just outside the door, the sounds of Dylan gently grilling Ned about what he’d seen.
Quickly I followed along the foyer and through a set of open double doors.
And oh shit, there she was. Jennifer Weatherby lay face down on the floor of what appeared to be a study. A fire burned in the fireplace, incongruously cheery. Two glasses of wine — one full, the other half full — sat on an occasional table between two tall wingback chairs. The plain white pantsuit she wore was soaked through with blood — two dark bullet holes torn in the fabric. One tan sandal remained on her foot, while the other lay askew on the hardwood floor.
I rushed to her and bent to check for a pulse. But before my fingers even touched her neck, I knew what I’d find. No pulse. No life. Just the cold feel of death on my hands. And Jennifer’s blood.
“Oh Jennifer,” I whispered. I knew I’d get no response, but I had to say it. “I’m so sorry.”
Her words rang in my ears. The words I’d so easily dismissed as she’d said them when leaving my office. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, she’s threatened me. Several times she’s called the house telling me she wants me out of the way.”
Guilt lumped itself into an indigestible ball in my stomach. Dammit, I should have done something.
Oh, sure, I’d warned her it sounded like a matter for the police, but when she shrugged it off, I hadn’t pressed it. Mainly because I was convinced Jennifer Weatherby was just being paranoid. And now she lay dead before me. All because I hadn’t taken her seriously.
I stood up, a new determination burning in my gut. I would find that mysterious blond mistress no matter how long I had to tail Ned Weatherby. No matter what it took. Because Jennifer’s other words rang through my mind also.
“It’s a matter for you, Dix. I have faith in you.”