Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3)

Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3) Page 6

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I regularly check with the prosecutor’s office, and I will be sent notification once the date for the hearing is set.”

“You’ll need to go.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, sir.”

“What about the new trial?” he asked. He tapped the papers with his knuckles and said, “I was curious to know why his attorney thinks he has grounds.”

“I’m afraid he does have grounds,” she said. “The brief that was filed accused the prosecutor of withholding vital information. My grandmother had a heart condition, and the physician who treated her came forward after he read about her death. That information wasn’t handed over to Skarrett’s attorney.”

“But you haven’t heard yet if, in fact, there will be a new trial?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Now let’s get back to you,” he said.

She couldn’t be cooperative a second longer. “Sir, may I ask why you’re so interested in my background?”

“You’re being evaluated,” he reminded her. “Two weeks after Skarrett was convicted, Jill Delaney was killed in an automobile accident.”

“Yes.”

Avery had forgotten much of her childhood, but she remembered that phone call clearly. She had just celebrated Carrie’s birthday, a belated event since Avery had been in the hospital on the actual date, and was helping the housekeeper put the vegetables on the table before they all sat down to dinner. Avery had placed the mashed potatoes next to Uncle Tony’s plate when Aunt Carrie answered the phone. A funeral director was calling to tell her that Jilly had been cremated in a fiery car crash, but there were enough of her remains left to put in an urn. He wanted to know what Carrie wanted done with the ashes and the personal effects, which included a charred driver’s license. Avery was standing in front of the bay window staring out at some frantic hummingbirds when she overheard Carrie tell the man to throw them in the nearest Dumpster. She could recall every second of that moment.

Carter drew her attention back to their discussion when he suddenly switched subjects.

“You did your undergraduate work at Santa Clara University, graduated with honors with a major in psychology and a minor in political science and another minor in history. You then went to Stanford and received a master’s in criminal justice.” Having said that, he closed her file. “In your personal statement you said you made up your mind to become an FBI agent when you were twelve years old. Why?”

She knew he’d already read her answer. It was there in the personal statement she’d made when she’d applied to the Bureau. “An FBI agent named John Cross saved my life. If he hadn’t been watching out for me . . . if Skarrett had taken me from school, my life would have been over.”

Carter nodded. “And you believed you could make a difference working for the Bureau.”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you become a field agent?”

“Bureaucracy,” she said. “I ended up in my current position. I was going to put in another six months and then request a transfer.”

His assistant interrupted. “Mr. Carter, they’re waiting for you.”

The panic grabbed her again. “Sir, Mike Andrews really should handle the press conference. Any credit should go to him and his team.”

“Look, none of us likes doing this,” he snapped. “But this was such a high-profile case, and frankly, most people would appreciate receiving some recognition.”

“My coworkers and I would rather have raises . . . and windows, sir. We’d like windows too. Are you aware that our offices are located behind the mechanical room?”

“Space is at a premium,” he said. “And when did you get the idea we were negotiating?”

Her back stiffened. “Sir, in an evaluation—”

He cut her off. “You told me you acted alone when you called Andrews.”

“Yes, that’s correct, but the others were . . . integral. Yes, sir, they were integral in helping me go through those files for names.”

One eyelid dropped. “You do realize that lying won’t get you a raise, don’t you?”

“Sir, Mel and Lou and Margo and I are a team. They did help. They just weren’t as convinced as I was . . .”

The buzzer sounded on his intercom. Carter impatiently hit the button and said, “I’ll be right there.”

Then he reached for his suit jacket and put it on, frowning at her all the while.

“Relax, Delaney,” he finally said. “You’re off the hook. I’m not going to make you do the press conference.”

Her relief made her weak. “Thank you, sir.”

She stood when he walked around the desk, the wadded panty hose hidden under the jacket draped over her arm. Carter stopped at the door and then turned back with the frown still creasing his brow.

“Don’t ever use my name again without my permission, Delaney.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

Chapter 2

MARRIAGE ISN’T FOR THE SQUEAMISH. BOTH HUSBAND AND wife must be willing to let their inner children play dirty if they want their marriage to survive and flourish. They must let their inner children roll around in the mud. Mistakes will be inevitable, of course, but a shower of love and forgiveness will cleanse the union, and the healing will then begin.

What a crock. Carolyn Delaney Salvetti sat in wide-eyed disbelief as she listened to the garbage the marriage counselor pontificated from his self-help, self-published manual, aptly and ludicrously titled Let Your Inner Child Get Dirty. Was the moron talking about marriage or mud wrestling? Carrie didn’t know, and at the moment she didn’t particularly care.

Without being too obvious about it, she pushed the sleeve of her silk blouse up over her wrist and glanced down at her Cartier watch. Ten minutes to go. God, could she last that long?

She took a deep breath, let go of her sleeve, and leaned back in the plush chair, nodding ever so sagely so her husband and the moron would think she was paying attention.

Marriage isn’t for the squeamish, he repeated in his slow, nasal, baritone drawl. His voice was like a loofah made of steel wool, irritating every nerve in her body.

The counselor was a pompous, fat, flatulent fraud who insisted on being called Dr. Pierce because he felt his full name, Dr. Pierce Ebricht, was too formal for such an intimate discussion. After all, he was supposed to be helping them bare their guts. After the first session, Carrie had dubbed him Dr. Prick. Her husband, Tony, had chosen him because he was “in” at the moment. The counselor, with his drive-through-window degree, was the newest guru whom everyone who was anyone flocked to for marriage rejuvenation. Dr. Pierce was the Dr. Phil for the rich and famous, but unlike Dr. Phil, the prick was a complete buffoon.

But then, so was Tony. He sat beside Carrie, his sweaty palms held together as though in prayer, looking so earnest and engaged, like a wooden Howdy Doody the counselor manually manipulated, nodding in quick agreement whenever Dr. Prick paused from reading his bible to look up expectantly.

Chewing on her lip was the only way she could keep from laughing . . . or screaming. Oh, how she wanted to scream. She didn’t dare, though. She had made a bargain with her faithless sleazebag of a husband, and if she didn’t behave and pretend that she was really trying to save their Titanic marriage, she would be paying alimony for the rest of her life. It was a chilling possibility.

The odds were against her. Tony came from a long line of centenarians. His uncle Enzo was still chugging wine out on his postage-stamp piece of land on the good side of Napa at the ripe old age of eighty-six and didn’t seem to be slowing down at all. His only concession to living healthy was, at the age of eighty-five, to quit smoking his unfiltered Camels—a three-pack-a-day habit—and increase the amount of garlic he put on everything he ate, including his morning wheat toast. If Tony turned out to be as healthy and fit as Enzo was, by the time Carrie croaked, she would be drained dry financially, and there would be nothing left in the coffers to leave to the only person she had ever loved, her niece, Avery. If, on the other hand, she cooperated with Tony and attended all ten sessions with Dr. Prick, and the marriage still ended—a foregone conclusion, in her opinion—then, Tony promised, he would give up his interest in the business and not ask for a dime in alimony.

Carrie wasn’t a fool. Cynical to the bone, she wasn’t about to accept the word of a man she considered a habitual liar and a thief. There was a hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars missing from one of their business accounts. She couldn’t prove that Tony had helped himself to the money, but she knew he had taken it, most likely to buy expensive trinkets for his mistress. The bastard. And so, to ensure he couldn’t change his mind and come after her for alimony, she had made him put his promise in writing, then had called in her assistant to witness her husband signing the document. The paper was now safely locked away in her safe-deposit box at First Commerce Bank.

How had they come to this? she wondered. Tony used to be a loving and thoughtful man.

Carrie remembered the night she’d awakened in excruciating pain. She was sure her agony was due to food poisoning—they had eaten dinner at a new Thai restaurant all of her friends had been raving about. She refused to go to the hospital, and Tony was beside himself with worry. He finally picked her up, carried her to the car, and drove her to the hospital. He saved her life that night. After treatment in the emergency room, she was admitted, and Tony sat in a chair the rest of the night watching over her. He charmed the hospital staff into putting up with her complaints and demands, and filled the room with gerbera daisies, her favorite flowers.

Tony was so charismatic then. He still was, damn it, which was probably why all the young wanna-be starlets flocked around him. Was the temptation too much to resist? After all, she was getting older, and the years were beginning to show. Was that the reason he’d decided to be unfaithful?

Surreptitiously checking her watch again, she suppressed a heartfelt sigh. In just five minutes the last session would be over and she wouldn’t have to pretend to be nice to Dr. Prick. Then, like it or not, she was going away for a little rejuvenation of her own. Her Prada workout clothes were stuffed into her Gucci bags, along with her state-of-the-art laptop computer, three battery packs, and two cell phones with chargers. The luggage waited in the trunk of the limo that would take her from Dr. Prick’s office to the airport.

The forced vacation was the first time she would be away from her company, Star Catcher, in over eight years, and she was filled with trepidation. She had a good staff, and she knew they could handle any problems that came up while she was away, but she was admittedly a control freak and couldn’t stand the idea of letting anyone else make decisions, if only for fourteen days. According to Avery, Carrie was a Type A personality. She couldn’t abide being idle or bored. She hadn’t even taken time off for a honeymoon when she’d married Tony. The short weekend in Baja had felt like a year away from her fledgling company, which was damned ironic considering she had allegedly been in the throes of love at the time.

The gold embossed reservation from the posh Utopia Spa had arrived three weeks ago—just after their second session with Dr. Prick, and Carrie, after taking one look at the invitation, had been certain that Tony was behind the scheme to get her out of L.A. Her husband had feigned surprise, but she hadn’t been fooled. He’d been urging her to take some time off for months now and use the hiatus to work on their struggling marriage.

No matter how she nagged him to admit it, Tony wouldn’t ’fess up. He insisted he hadn’t made the reservation or paid the outrageous fee, and because he was even more stubborn than she was, she finally gave up trying to pry the truth out of him.

The reservation was accompanied by an elaborate brochure displaying the luxurious facility and outlining the treatments available at Utopia. There was also a letter attached with a list of testimonials from famous men and women who were regular clients.

She had heard of the spa—everyone in Hollywood knew about it—but she hadn’t known how obviously popular it was with the rich and famous. Because the cost was so exorbitant, she hadn’t ever considered it.

Carrie was torn. How important was it for her to go? Where one was seated at the “in at the moment” restaurants in L.A. was of paramount importance because one was seen and noticed, but a spa? It was so elegantly quiet and hush-hush, who would ever know besides the people attending that she had been there? Would the owner ask her to give a testimonial? God, wouldn’t that be wonderful? If her name went on the list of the rich and famous, what an incredible boost that would be for her company. In her line of work, the only reason for doing anything these days was with the singular goal of impressing others and making them squirm with envy. Only the high rollers who didn’t need to work got work in Hollywood.

What guarantee did she have that her name would go on that list, though? Carrie did the math, figured out to the penny how much each day would cost, and decided to stay home. She wasn’t about to let Tony spend so much of her money. She would call the spa in the morning and request a refund. No way in hell was she going to fork over that much. She must have shouted those very words to Tony at least five times before he began to read aloud the names of those who regularly attended the rejuvenation spa and sang Utopia’s praises. She stopped shouting when she heard the name Barbara Rolands. Everyone referred to the aging actress with three Oscars under her belt as the best face-lift on the coast. Barbara had disappeared for three weeks just last year, and when she next made a public appearance at a trendy fund-raiser, she looked incredible. Had she had the work done at the spa?

Carrie snatched the papers out of Tony’s hands. She read the names of the personnel on call to attend to the client’s every need. Two world-renowned plastic surgeons topped the list.

Would she be getting evaluated by the same physicians who had worked on some of the most influential men and women of the century? God only knew she could use some freshening up. Not a face-lift—she wasn’t even forty-five yet—but the bags under her eyes were getting more and more pronounced, and she really did need to do something about that. Lack of sleep, long hours of work, and twenty cups of strong coffee every day without ever taking time to work out had definitely taken their toll.

According to the letter, she would fly from L.A. to Denver, then go by smaller plane to Aspen. Utopia was located in the mountains, fifteen minutes away from the closest ski resort. She would arrive in the shank of the evening, and the following morning she would be evaluated by the physicians there. Liposuction, she noticed, was offered as one of the choices available. The procedure was listed just below full body massage.