Fatal Connections

Chapter 47

The Lexus was parked in an out-of-the-way corner behind a building in a nearby shopping center. The middle-aged man slumped behind the wheel wore a tailored gray suit, a dress shirt threaded with burgundy-colored pinstripes, and a burgundy tie. A hand and a shirt cuff extended from one arm of the suit jacket. The hand wore a fat gold ring embedded with a ruby red gem and the cuff sported a gold cufflink.

None of these things had protected Aaron Gallagher from the knife that had cut his throat. His body was still limp, head lolling forward. In fact, Gallagher's face resembled that of a fish dying in mid gasp. It also now matched his suit, except for the parts soaked with blood. Fortunately, I didn't have to look at the scene for long. Detectives Gordon and Sully dragged me away to grill me some more.

We returned to the coffee shop so the detectives could grab a decent cup of brew while questioning me. After explaining my presence there, I said, "Gallagher wanted to tell me something, but he wouldn't talk about it over the phone."

Detective Gordon nodded. Detective Sully simply stared at me. "Which explains why your number was in his recent calls," Gordon said. "Found his cell in his hand. Unlocked," he added, as if practicing the justification for the search.

"And why I'm here," I took pains to point out. "My question is, why was his car all the way back there?"

Detective Gordon had a sly look on his face. Detective Sully's eyebrows went up a fraction, which on her was an expression of shock.

"I'm surprised you never thought about joining the police force," Gordon said dryly.

Despite the bad timing of Gallagher's phone call and the fact that he was the Harcourts' attorney, plus the additional fact that it would be pretty stupid or psychotic to slit somebody's throat and hang around afterward reading a paperback, the detectives chose not to arrest me on the spot.

As the detectives approached their car, I asked, "Do you have any prime suspects in the Harcourt case at this point?"

Detective Gordon tossed me a look that said: Get real.

I shrugged. "Well, I'm in the clear, right?"

Detective Sully gave me her patented stare. "Yeah. For now."

Predictably, my brief confab with the detectives did not include a spirited discussion of the evidence, but it was clear that they appreciated the oddity of Gallagher's choice of parking places. Since he was supposed to be meeting me, I doubted that he intended to meet anyone else along the way. And he seemed more than a bit rushed when we last spoke, as if his decision to meet me had been last-minute, desperate even.

If I had to guess, I would say someone was with him in the car. Someone who forced him to park in that out-of-the-way spot. A nice quiet place to discreetly slit a man's throat. I wondered if the killer knew where Gallagher was headed and why. And was trying yet again to set me up. Nice try, I thought. Too bad you didn't think to plant bloodstained clothes in my car.

It was that part of the afternoon when the shadows start to get longer. Rush hour was in full swing. But my next move in the Harcourt matter was best performed at night, long after the commuters had returned to their homes and settled in. So I picked up a wrap to go for dinner and went home to bide my time.

After doing a bit of research on the office space belonging to Gallagher and Bernson, I changed into an old, somewhat snug dark tunic top and leggings and then headed for their building on Old Georgetown Road. My plan was to break into Gallagher's office to look for clues before the cops took them away.

By this time, it was dark. It was close to 2100 hours or 9:00 pm when I pulled into the parking lot. It was hardly full, but it still had a few cars left in it. I expected a few lights to be on in the building, but the pattern looked more like a chessboard. On a Friday night? I shook my head and hoped for society's sake that at least some of those offices were occupied with cleaning crews.

I left the car and approached the building, well aware that the entrance would be locked. Visible through the glass doors, a middle-aged guard sat at a desk. I tapped on the glass. When he looked at me, I motioned a request to enter, pointing at myself, then . . . in. He looked at me quizzically and then turned away. So, I rapped louder on the glass. This time he simply shook his head.

This wasn't what I'd hoped for. But I came prepared. So I tossed all pretense of shame aside and banged on the glass. He looked my way, startled. And I mugged a pleading expression, lips in a pout like a spoiled child, and batted my eyelashes. And almost made myself puke in the process. This managed to rouse the Guard Dog from his chair. He was middle-aged, but relatively fit. His hair was buzz cut, his expression skeptical.

The guard plodded to the door, because (unlike the dorms at Maryland) this place did not have an intercom between the guard desk and the door. Perhaps this was intentional, to keep the guard from dozing off. I didn't wait for him to start the conversation. In the most pathetic voice I could muster, I said, "Oh, please, please, let me in, sir. It really truly is a matter of life and death." I said this looking him in the eye and aiming my small, but perky, boobs right at him.

Either my shameless behavior or the snug shirt was doing its job. His expression softened and he cracked the door open.

"It's unusual for visitors to arrive at this time of night," he mansplained in cool, even tones. "And usually when they do, I'm told about it."

"But, but . . . here's the thing," I sputtered in a husky voice. "It's just that, you know, I'm like a good friend of Aaron Gallagher. I mean, real good friend, you know?" I gave him a suggestive look and struggled to keep smiling.

"And it's just that there's this thing I left in the office," I continued to blather. "It's kind of embarrassing . . . ."

He got one of those knowing smiles on his face, and his eyes lit up in a way that intensified my urge to puke.

"Okay," he said. "I understand."

I'll bet you do, I thought.

Guard Dog leered at me. "I assume you have a key?" He winked.

I forced a grin so hard, I thought I would dislocate my jaw. Nod, nod. The guard held the door for me, and I stepped inside, toward the bank of elevators.

"Ya gotta sign in, honey." Behind me, the guard's voice echoed in the glass-and-tile lobby.

I moved to the guard's station, where I found the sign-in sheet and signed a fake name. I also caught a glimpse of the console behind the guard's desk.

There were monitors, but not quite enough for each floor. But the images rotated. Okay, fine. I got the key. Sure. We're such good friends, he gave me a key. I hoped for the best when it came to gaining entry to the law offices. Whatever happened next couldn't be much worse than what I had already gone through.