Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [37]
“I want you out of here,” Brodie ordered. His voice dropped to an ominous whisper. “I want you out of here now!”
Peters uncrossed his legs and stretched. There was no sense of urgency in his movements. He stepped around Suzanne and approached the open Bible, running his finger down the page. “It might be worth your while to go looking for someone who can remember your being here on Thursday morning. Maybe there was a cleaning woman around or a neighbor who saw you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Peters shook his head. “You can call it that if you like. I call it a friendly suggestion.”
With that Peters ambled out of the room. I followed, wishing Peters’ little recording device had a remote listening capability, because I was sure all hell was going to break loose the moment we were out of earshot.
We made it into the office by one forty-five and found stacks of messages. Tom Stahl had called again. I had left the phone bill payment envelope with the outgoing mail before I left the Royal Crest that morning. I resented his calling me at the office about it, but then, I never was available at home during business hours. I gave the yellow message sheet a toss.
There was a call from Maxwell Cole. I wadded that one up and threw it in the trash along with the first one. Cole had more nerve than a bad tooth to call me for anything. Detectives don’t speak to the press. That dubious privilege belongs to the supervisors.
Captain Powell and Sergeant Watkins wanted to talk to Peters or me. We drew straws. Peters lost and took off for Powell’s fishbowl. There was one more message, one that intrigued me. It was from a woman who said she would call back around two. There was no name on the message, nor was there a number I could call.
I looked at the clock, drummed my fingers on my desk, then reached for the phone. I had made a mental note of the number on the slip of paper in Anne Corley’s back window. I called Motor Vehicles and asked them to get me some information on the Porsche.
Two o’clock was just around the corner. I hauled out a form and started working on a report. I can deal with the creeps. It’s the bureaucratic garbage I can’t stand. I dictated a brief summary of our activities for the day and put Michael Brodie’s and Benjamin Mason/Clinton Jason’s names into the FBI hopper. There was an off chance they had a record somewhere, maybe even an outstanding warrant or two. I phoned Hammond, Indiana, to see if Brodie was still under active investigation in the case Carstogi had mentioned.
My phone did not ring at two o’clock. At two-fifteen, though, I looked up to find Anne Corley being led to my desk by Arlo Hamilton, the public information officer, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Look what I found, his face seemed to say. Visitors on the fifth floor are kept to a minimum. I think Anne Corley’s looks had a whole lot to do with the visitor’s badge that was clipped on her jacket. Heads turned in her wake. If there was a grin on Hamilton’s face, I’m sure mine mirrored it. No way could I disguise the pleasure and surprise I felt at seeing her again.
“Here you are, Miss Corley,” Hamilton was saying as he led her to my desk.
“Thank you very much, Arlo,” Anne responded graciously. “I appreciate your help.”
“Think nothing of it. The pleasure was all mine.” Hamilton looked at me. “I was giving her some information for her book,” he explained. “Of course, you know all about that.”
“Yes,” I said. I did know about the book. “How’s it going?” I asked.
She smiled. “Fine. Arlo here has been a world of help.”
Anne sat down on a chair beside my desk. For a few moments Hamilton wavered, uncertain whether to go or stay. Finally he made the right choice and left. Anne was wearing a navy blue suit with an innocently ruffled blouse and a daring slit up one side of the skirt. When she crossed her legs, the skirt fell away, revealing a length of well-formed thigh. A few more heads waggled in our direction. The boots she had worn the day before had obscured two