Casey Daniels - Dead Man Talking

“And his parents confirmed the story?”

Yeah, I was pushing a little. That might have been why Fitzpatrick gave me a long, careful look. “Because of his condition, the elder Mr. Lamar wasn’t sure if Jeff had been there or not. As for Jeff’s mom, she’d had a stroke a year or so before. She was weak and spent a lot of time in bed. At the time Jeff says he was there, she was sound asleep. So you see, nobody can say if that part of Jeff’s story was true or not.”

Somebody could, and I was going to ask him about it the next time he popped into my life.

“You’re wasting your time if you think all these questions are going to get you anywhere.” Fitzpatrick’s comment brought me out of my thoughts. “The evidence against Jeff was too solid. He was guilty, and if Helen believes otherwise, too bad for her. She’s living a fairy tale. So are you if you listen to her. There wasn’t anyone who would have framed Jeff. Not anyone with anything much to gain from it.”

“You got his job.”

The look Fitzpatrick tossed me was so fierce, I took a step back. He slammed one finger into the button that stopped the treadmill so that he could glare at me more effectively. “Are you implying-”

“Nothing. I’m implying nothing. What I’m doing is looking for the truth.”

“It was more than twenty years ago. What difference does it make?” He poked the button one more time. The treadmill started up again, and Fitzpatrick started with it, walking each cautious step while he kept an eagle eye on me. “Why would anyone care anymore?”

That same afternoon before we wrapped up work for the day, Greer made a long, impassioned (and needless to say, boring) speech about long shadows, sunsets, and creating a moody atmosphere. Consequently, she’d scheduled filming to start later the next day. I would have rejoiced and planned on sleeping in late if not for the fact that I realized that the topsy-turvy schedule meant more work for me. Because of the terms of their probations, my team still had to report to the cemetery at the regular time, and Sammi, in particular, had a curfew. There were papers in the file that I was required to sign saying that if she stayed past a certain time, I was responsible for getting her home.

Which didn’t mean I couldn’t fudge things. Just a little.

Instead of our usual starting hour, I told my team to be at Monroe Street at ten, and with time on my hands and in need of a computer, I stopped at Garden View first thing in the morning. It was a good thing I did. Otherwise I wouldn’t have found the vase of flowers on my desk.

It wasn’t a showy bouquet, and yellows and creams really aren’t my colors, but the summery daisies, a couple white roses, and the poof of baby’s breath was charming in its own grocery-store-bought flowers kind of way. You were the best thing about that TV show , the card said. I hated even thinking that Quinn had watched the stupid show. I liked the idea that he was nice enough to send flowers because of it, though. I called to tell him both.

“You watched.” I didn’t need to identify myself, so it was the first thing I said after he’d answered with a brusque, “Harrison, Homicide.”

“I watched…?” I heard the click of computer keys while he did whatever it was he was doing when his phone rang. “The TV show? Yeah, sure I watched. I told you I was going to. I wasn’t home. I had to TiVo it. You were-”

“The best thing about the show.” I grinned into my phone. “That’s sweet, really.” And it really was, because of all the things Quinn is, sweet isn’t one of them.

“You were the best thing about the show.” He must have finished with his computer because I heard his chair squeak when he leaned back in it. “The whole thing was pretty hokey.”

“But I still rate flowers.”

“Uh, yeah.”

It was one of those tactful statements. Noncommital in a way only Quinn can be. I guess that’s why I thought of the incident the spring before when I made the mistake of thinking a huge bouquet of flowers that had been delivered to the office was from him when they were really from an FBI agent I’d met when I was in Chicago. History couldn’t be repeating itself.

Could it?

I grabbed the hand-written card again. There was no indication who’d sent the flowers or where they’d come from.

“You didn’t send flowers.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a secret admirer.” Quinn is the only guy I know who can say this sort of thing and not sound the least little bit jealous.

It would have been kind of nice if he did.

And I was getting way off track. Still holding the gift card, I flipped it over, but there was nothing written on the other side. I tossed the card on my desk.

“Your secret admirer taking you to dinner tonight?”

I was tempted to tell him that as a matter of fact, I did have a date that night, because this bouquet of flowers was even more spectacular than the bouquet Agent Baskins had sent, and I was so curious to find out who this secret admirer of mine was, I couldn’t resist.

But that seemed a little petty, even to me.

“I can’t. Not tonight,” I told him, opting for the truth. “We’re filming tonight. And today…” I sat down at my desk and flicked on my computer. “I need to go look at shrubs.” I didn’t appreciate the chuckle I heard on the other end of the phone, so I was instantly defensive. “What?”

“Just can’t imagine you buying shrubs. Ever. Can’t even imagine you’d know what to look for if you went to look for shrubs. But you know, there’s a cop over in Robbery who’s got this cousin who owns a nursery in Rocky River. I hear he’s got good prices, and he might be able to help you out.”

“Can’t. I’m going to Kent to look at shrubs.” I’d already brought up the MapQuest program, and I checked out the map on my computer screen that showed me the way to the town about forty miles away. “There has to be a nursery in Kent, right?”

“You’re going to Kent to look at shrubs and you don’t know if there’s a nursery in Kent?”

“Yeah, something like that.” I looked at the map again. According to the turn-by-turn directions that accompanied it, it would take me exactly forty-eight minutes to get to Kent State University-and Darcy Coleman. That meant I was right on the money when I told my teammates we’d meet at the cemetery at ten, because they were coming with me.

“We’ll do dinner another time,” I told Quinn.

“Sure.” He wasn’t happy about it.

“You’re not the only one with a busy schedule,” I reminded him.

“Point taken,” he said, and though on the surface it was conciliatory enough, he somehow made it sound like an ultimatum. “When you’re not busy with your secret admirer-”

“I’ll call. I promise.”

“This week?”

“Are you going to be chasing murderers this week?”

“That’s the thing with murderers. They never work around my schedule.”

It looked like we had a lot more in common than Quinn could ever imagine.

The Garden of Eden Nursery was tucked between a taco joint and a bar in the area of Kent the locals charitably call downtown, when what they mean is the strip of businesses (largely restaurants, bars, T-shirt shops, and tattoo parlors) where the college kids party when they’re supposed to be studying. The nursery was run by an elderly man named Walter who looked a little uncertain when I walked in with my team in tow but brightened right up when he heard the word shrubs . Shrubs, it turned out, were Walter’s be-all and end-all. Within the first couple minutes of our arrival, I knew more about broad-leaved plants, conifers, and subshrubs than I’d ever hoped to know.