Jeanne Adams - Dark and Deadly

Other than moaning as she turned over, coming precariously close to the edge of the bed, she didn’t flicker an eyelid. The colorful skirt rode up her legs, showcasing long toned calf muscles. Her feet were bare, her toenails a coppery red.

“Damn.” Paul looked away, focused on the late night comedian cracking jokes on TV. “Damn, damn, damn. Get a grip, dude,” he warned himself.

With the utmost care, he slid one arm under her legs and the other behind her shoulders. Bracing his legs, he lifted her, pivoting to deposit her gently in the other bed. While not heavy, Torie was definitely no feather either. Solidly built, elegantly muscular, she was an armful of sexy, lean woman.

“I am not thinking about that now,” he told himself out loud.

“Dev?” she muttered, clutching at the pillows, shifting against the sheets. “Oh, Dev…Good…”

His blood pressure rose at the soft moan of another man’s name. Served him right, though, for thinking about her in any way other than as a client, or as Todd’s former fiancée.

The mere thought of Todd brought him back to reality with a thud. Blocking everything else from his mind, he pulled the covers over Torie, turned off the lights and television, and left as quickly as he could manage.

He would have Martha call her first thing in the morning to wake her and tell her what had happened at the Extended Suites. He would keep his distance. He would not think about her as a woman. Or even feel sorry for her. After all, she could have killed his best friend.

“No.” He stated it in the darkness of the car as the truth of it rang in his mind. He’d dealt with his share of criminals, and there was no way Torie could have killed Todd. No way she could have shot him and hauled his body into the church. Rumor had it that Todd’s body had been staged in some way, and he couldn’t bring himself to believe Torie would do that, either, not to Todd and not in the church they’d both loved.

He went to bed with the same resounding negative foremost in his mind. She wouldn’t, and couldn’t, have done it.

“Melvin, you’re certainly cheery this morning.” Martha greeted one of the other attorneys as she moved behind her desk to tuck her purse into the drawer. She was an early arrival at the office, but Paul had essentially never left. He watched the interaction from his desk.

“Why, yes, I am. I had dinner with the nicest woman last night. I’m quite taken with her,” the man replied with a patronizing tone. “I’ve put some files here for Paul. If you’d let him know that my father would like to see him when he gets in? Wonderful.”

Paul came out of the office. “What time would he like to see me, Melvin?”

“Oh, hi, Paul.” Melvin smiled at him, but didn’t offer a handshake. They’d had an unspoken truce since Melvin Sr. had hired Paul out of the same university as his son. They’d despised one another in law school, but managed a cordial distance now that they were older. Unfortunately, the truce was strained more and more frequently as Paul, not the purported heir to the firm, got the plum clients. To say that Melvin now despised him was much more accurate. Paul had ceased to care about Melvin.

“Around ten, I think.”

“Martha, if you’ll go in my office, I need to give you some notes. Melvin, thanks for letting me know.”

“Of course.” Melvin’s smile was condescending, as if he were the one doing the summoning. Or was the one in charge.

Shaking his head, Paul closed the door on Melvin’s departing back. Didn’t the little prick realize that his father had turned him into a glorified errand boy?

Dismissing the unctuous twit, Paul began rattling off information to Martha.

“After you left, I sent Ms. Hagen to the hotel by private car, the usual service,” he said before she asked. “Discrete as always. However, when they got there, someone was waiting. They shot up the car.”

Aghast, Martha squeaked, “Someone, shot at them?” Hand to her throat, Martha was aflutter and upset. “Gracious, are they all right? Do I need to send flowers? What—”

“First thing is to call Ms. Hagen at the Hilton. The room’s in my name. Tell her to order room service and get a cab over here.”

“A cab, sir? Is that wise?”

“Yes, actually. I think it would be harder to track a cab, don’t you?”

“I…well, I guess. We do use the same service over and over. It might be easier to trace.”

“Exactly my thought. Also, if you would, tell Torie I couldn’t get into her suite at the Extended Suites, so I got her some clothes. They’re in the Target bags I left for her.”

Martha’s eyes widened. “You went to Target?”

“Nothing else was open. Believe me, I didn’t want to tell her that her room had become a crime scene, too, okay?”

“Oh, no,” Martha’s face fell. “That poor girl. More trouble?”

“I thought you didn’t like her.” He waited a beat, but Martha didn’t respond. “And yeah, someone trashed the room, right under the noses of the cops too. While they were investigating the shots fired and the burned car, someone spray-painted the walls in Torie’s room, tossed the furniture around, ripped all her things to shreds.”

With her hand to her throat again, all Martha could manage was another, “Gracious.”

“That’s one word. I’ve a few stronger ones. You’ll need to move the meeting with Melvin Sr.” He grimaced at Martha’s immediate negative response. “Can’t be helped, Martha. Torie will be here at ten, and so will the cops. I’ve got to review things before they get here.”

Scribbling quickly, Martha noted the time, the changes, and added some other squiggles on her pad. “And if Melvin Sr. really needs you?”

“Explain the situation.”

Martha rolled her eyes, and Paul felt serious sympathy. Neither Melvin Sr. nor his troll of a secretary, were known for their patience or equanimity when a summons was issued from The Big Office one floor up, then denied by an underling. Paul was actually the only one who got away with it, but only because he billed more hours for more money than virtually anyone in the firm other than Melvin Sr. himself. Together, they’d doubled the direct-line financial profits of the firm within the last five years.

On Paul’s part, it was all thanks to Todd.

The phone rang and Martha picked it up. “Mister Jameson’s office.” She listened for a moment, her eyes widening. “Just a moment, please.”

“Oh, my gosh,” she gushed. “It’s Carl Appleton.”

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Chapter Six

“The actor?” Paul asked, astonished.

“Yes.” Martha still looked shell-shocked. Paul held out a hand for the phone.

“Mister Appleton? This is Paul Jameson. How may I help you?”

“I just got word that Todd Peterson was killed. I was out of the country and didn’t get the news. I am just devastated.” In Appleton’s rich baritone, the words somehow managed to sound sincere rather than theatrical. “Is there a memorial fund, or is anything being done of that sort?”

“We’re just beginning work on something, yes,” Paul began, filling in what little he’d worked out in the few moments he’d had to think about it since Todd’s death. He promised Appleton a call, getting his private line, when there was more information available.

Martha sat, practically twitching with excitement. “Oh, my. Did Mister Appleton know Mister Peterson?”

“They served on some charity committee together, evidently. Played golf, too. Appleton wants to be part of whatever fund we set up for Todd.”

“How wonderful.”

“It will be,” Paul agreed, but sorrow took that moment to hit him again at the loss of his friend. Todd had had so much to give. He had been so full of life.