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Chapter Twenty-three

A quiet Sunday afternoon takes a deadly turn for real estate agent Ari Adams, who discovers the corpse of a business tycoon in one of her listings. When her best friend, Bob, becomes the prime suspect, Ari’s desire to prove his innocence puts her on a collision course with Detective Molly Nelson, the gorgeous homicide detective facing the enormous pressure of finding the power broker’s killer – fast.

When Bob disappears, Ari enters a world of betrayal and deception, causing her to question Bob’s innocence. She realizes that she may need to admit that Molly’s hunt for justice will lead to Ari’s greatest secret.

As both women hunt for Bob, they are drawn to each other – unable to control the desire that surfaces when they are together. While Ari desperately craves Molly’s attention, her devotion to Bob may force her to choose between the debts of the past and the promise of a happy future – if she can stay alive that long.

Chapter One

Sunday, June 17

4:20 p.m.

When Ari opened the door, the last thing she expected to see was a corpse, but there he was, face down, spread eagle on the floor, sunlight washing over his lifeless body. She reflexively gasped and backed out of the house. A few seconds passed, and when no one jumped out and attacked her, she took a breath and re-entered. Her footfalls echoed against the bare walls, the house vacated months ago by retirees spending their golden years in Florida. She advanced to the body and froze, listening to her heart pounding and the distant hum of lawnmowers.

Ari studied the victim with emotional detachment, a skill she’d learned at the police academy. Male. Probably mid-forties, salt and pepper hair, soft hands, the fingertips of the right one drenched in blood. His gold Rolex, expensive Italian loafers and pin-striped suit attested to his wealth. Judging from the condition of the body, Ari doubted he’d been dead for long. A puddle of blood surrounded his middle, suggesting an abdominal wound.

She winced at the sight of the floor. Her clients had spent the past two months renovating the house, which included refinishing the original hardwood. She scanned the ancient plaster walls adjusting to their recent coat of paint, and her eyes drifted to the vaulted ceilings and the refurbished crown molding. A historic home, every square foot had been given a total makeover to justify the high asking price for the small amount of space.

The only thing out of place was the bar that the owner had insisted on installing in the living room. It ruined the aesthetics in Ari’s opinion, and she avoided looking at its black countertop and chrome fixtures. With ten steps, Ari stood under the archway that led to the tiny galley kitchen. The white cabinets and ceramic tile were almost too bright against the morning sunlight, but nothing was disturbed, and there wasn’t a speck of blood anywhere.

She shook her head and returned to the living room. It took a lot to surprise her, and she’d seen most everything in twelve years of real estate, but this was a new one. Unable to stand still, but hesitant to leave, she checked her watch. The young couple who were viewing the property wouldn’t arrive for another twenty minutes. Ari knew she should go back outside to her SUV and call the police. She should not snoop, but curiosity won over, and she found herself looking down the short hallway. Although the doors were open, little light emitted from the adjacent rooms, and a tingle crept up Ari’s back.



It was definitely spooky. She veered into the only bathroom and stared at the shower door. There were no shadows silhouetted against the antique frosted glass, but she felt her breath catch as she swung the door open, revealing only sparkling blue ceramic tiles. Ari crossed into the small bedroom, where eggshell-white walls and contrasting wallpaper trim greeted her. The closet door stood ajar, just as she had left it after her last showing. She remembered the client had tried to close it out of habit, but Ari had quickly pulled it open again. A closed door was a sign that sellers had something to hide.

A chainsaw roared suddenly and Ari jumped. She realized it was too clear and too close.

She carefully made her way to the master bedroom and with each step the chainsaw buzz grew louder. The sliding glass door leading to the backyard stood wide open, the sheer curtains fluttering in the slight breeze. Ari realized the noise was coming from a neighboring yard, and she wasn’t going to be the victim of a maniac wielding a power tool.

The air conditioner was losing the battle against the 105- degree heat, and the room was baking. Ari saw that someone had pried the door open with a crowbar, breaking the mechanism in half. She nearly shoved it closed to vent her anger but stopped just as her fingers touched the handle. Damn. Now she had disturbed a crime scene. A wave of guilt swept over her momentarily, but as the real estate agent, she knew her fingerprints would be everywhere so the damage was minimal.

This was probably the killer’s entrance. That realization propelled her back down the hall to the living room. Ari glanced at the front door, her escape route if necessary. She vowed to remain for only another minute. Crouching over the man, she repressed the urge to fish his wallet out of his back pocket, but she wanted further clues to his identity. Her eyes settled on the floor and a few small droplets of blood that trailed behind the bar ten feet away. She swallowed hard and stood up. Walking so as not to disturb any of the blood, Ari peered around the bar. In a split second she realized nothing was wrong and everything was wrong. The shelves were clean and the floor refinishers had actually been able to replace the old wooden planks, worn and water damaged probably from the liquids that would spill off the counter. The bar was untouched, but a bloody stain covered the freshly painted wall behind it. Perhaps this is where he died, Ari thought. He was standing behind the bar, and he fell back against the wall. She moved closer, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark space behind the bar. At first she thought it was only a blood spatter, the sunlight not illuminating the niche at all. Then she realized it was a word, a name. “Robert” was crudely scrawled right above the baseboard. The color on the wall matched the color on the floor, and her mind flashed to the victim’s blood- caked fingertips.

A strange sound broke the silence.

Ari couldn’t tell if it came from inside or outside, but her curiosity instantly vanished. She bolted upright, smashing her head against the shelves that used to hold beer steins from around the world. She cursed fiercely as she scurried past the dead man and slammed the front door. Maybe that would scare the intruder away, if someone really was there.

She sprinted to the SUV, looking left and right. Only after she’d locked herself inside the truck and pulled her revolver from the glove box did she feel safe. She must have been quite a sight. Cell phone in one hand, gun in the other. She whirled around, checking the back, but no one was there. Now seemed like a good time to call the police.

Ari made the necessary 911 call and then immediately punched in her buyer’s number to cancel the showing. An answering machine picked up, and she knew they were probably on their way. Usually real estate wasn’t this exciting, but there had been a few interesting moments, such as when she had caught a couple having sex in the hot tub of one of her vacant listings. She cracked a smile at the memory of their horrified expressions. What really stood out in her mind was the beautiful woman emerging from the steam, her breasts glistening.

She took a deep breath, her heart still galloping and her hands shaking. She returned the gun to the glove compartment, chastising herself for not retrieving it before she searched the house. Her head started to pound and she rubbed her temples. She’d forgotten what it was like to experience an adrenaline rush.

The SUV suddenly felt like a sauna. Even dogs weren’t supposed to be kept in enclosed vehicles during Phoenix summers. Rummaging through the center console, Ari found a clip in the compartment and pulled her long, black hair into a makeshift bun, noting one reason why most lesbians have short haircuts. She checked once more through all the windows before she opened the door and slid out, throwing her jacket on the seat as an offering to the June sun. She desperately craved a cold beer and a swimming pool, preferably in the company of a beautiful woman. If she couldn’t have that, she would have gladly settled for a pair of shorts and sandals. Anything to shed the Italian loafers that were pasted to her feet. The worst part of real estate was definitely the power dressing. If she could sell houses from her couch clad in sweats and a T-shirt, she would have been thrilled.

Ari strolled around the truck, stretching out her long legs and forgetting that she was a target under the sun’s magnifying glass. She surveyed the nearby homes, every yard immaculate and every house possessing curbside appeal. The neighborhood was alive on this Sunday afternoon, complete with chirping birds and pounding hammers that joined the ever present roar of the lawn- mowers. Ari began to doubt that the sound she’d heard inside was sinister. More than likely it was a neighbor working in his yard. Until today, she would have believed this area was virtually immune to the high Phoenix crime rate.

Down the road the black-and-white units approached, three of them. The coroner’s wagon and detectives couldn’t be far behind. Ari smiled when the first officer emerged from his patrol car. Ben Hastings had been a family friend for years. He had watched Ari grow up, and like many of the officers, he still saw her as “Big Jack Adams’s little girl” and perpetually sixteen years old. He lumbered up the sidewalk, his husky frame testing the seams of his uniform.

“Ari Adams, what are you doing here?” Ben asked, as he pecked her on the cheek.

“I found the victim,” she said.

Ben noticed the real estate sign in the yard with Ari’s name in big, bold letters and nodded. A sly smile crept over his face. “You didn’t disturb the crime scene, did you, Ari? You know, poke around or anything?”

“As a matter of fact, I heard a noise after I discovered him, so I got out of there fast.” He didn’t notice that she had avoided his question, but his expression sobered at the thought of an intruder.

“We’ll check it out.” He motioned for the officers, and the group fanned out around the property.

The other crime scene vehicles arrived and Ari watched the circus unfold. As a witness, she knew she couldn’t leave. Just as she opened her cell phone to try the buyers again, a white Maxima pulled up to the curb.

“Shit,” she mumbled, meandering through the throng of people and vehicles, thinking of what excuse she could give to the bewildered buyers.

“Excuse me,” someone said behind her. Ari turned and locked eyes with a woman who matched her five-eleven frame, but could have wrestled her to the ground in a second. Most of her bulk was pure muscle, but Ari could see she also carried some extra weight that added to her shapeliness. The woman’s short, blond hair curled lightly over high cheekbones and a finely chiseled face. Designer shades masked her eyes. “You’re Ari Adams?” she inquired. “I’m Detective Nelson. I need a statement.”

Ari nodded and held up a finger indicating she only would be a second as she started toward the buyers’ car. Detective Nelson firmly planted a hand on her elbow, stopping her stride. “Ms. Adams, where are you going? I need that statement now.”

Ari turned slowly and stared at her reflection through the woman’s sunglasses. The detective’s impatience was evident and deep creases lined her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, Detective, but I need to let those people know they won’t be viewing this property today.” She motioned to the couple, who were now chatting with a neighbor and undoubtedly learning all about the commotion. “Besides,” she added, “I’m sure you don’t want extra people traipsing around your crime scene.”

Molly Nelson nodded, but she wasn’t paying attention. The sight of this woman had taken her breath away. She’d just fallen on the murder case of the year, but she found herself lost in Ari Adams’s dark green eyes.

“Detective, you need to let me go,” Ari said with a broad grin. Molly glanced down and blushed. Her hand still held Ari’s elbow. She quickly withdrew it and murmured, “Sorry,” before walking away.

By the time Ari reached the buyers, they were already piling back into the Maxima, sure that the neighborhood was unsafe. She apologized, but as the car sped away, she was certain a commission had too.

She needed aspirin. The yard was flooded with people and equipment, all for the benefit of someone who no longer existed. Cops searched, techs measured, the coroner studied, but nothing could change the outcome. She cocooned herself in the SUV and gulped three aspirin. She watched the blond detective emerge from the house with the coroner, talking on her cell phone while giving instructions to Ben Hastings. It was clear to Ari that whoever was on the other end of that phone made the detective nervous. She nodded constantly, shifted her weight from foot to foot and ran her hand through her hair incessantly. The conversation ended abruptly with the detective pulling the phone from her ear and snapping it shut with one hand. She stared at the phone, and Ari watched her heave her shoulders with a huge sigh as she dropped the phone into her pocket. Ari was fascinated. Detective Nelson clearly had full command of the investigation, but there was something tentative about her, something unsure. When the detective looked in Ari’s direction, their eyes locked and oddly, Ari felt a tingle shoot down her back. Where in the world did that come from?

Detective Nelson frowned, obviously not feeling the same surge of electricity, and marched over to the SUV. “Is now a good time?” she snapped.

Ari’s gaze followed the curves of Detective Nelson’s body. She was in her mid-thirties, very well endowed and an extra blouse button had come undone, revealing more cleavage than she probably intended. The pale, white ridges rose and fell with her breathing. “Your button,” Ari whispered, with a slight motion.

The detective quickly adjusted herself, turning red in the process. “Thanks,” she mumbled. She sighed and stuck out her hand in truce. “Maybe we could start over. I’m Detective Molly Nelson.”

“Ari Adams.” The detective had removed her shades revealing crystal blue eyes that would have been beautiful were it not for the deep bags sagging underneath them. “You look like you could use some of these,” Ari offered, holding up the bottle of aspirin.

Molly gratefully swallowed the pills dry. The minute she’d pulled the vic’s wallet from his pocket and read his name, she knew her life had immediately changed. This case would make or break her career.

Molly focused on her notepad as her hormones rapidly trampled over her professionalism. Just touching Ari’s cool hand made Molly hot, and when Ari spoke, her voice had a breathy, seductive quality, whether Ari meant it to or not.

Ari Adams could have been a model instead of a real estate agent. She oozed grace, even in the way she sat in the leather seat, her long legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She formed her smile with perfect lips—legs and lips, the two features Molly always seemed to notice when she looked at a woman. She cleared her throat. “Miss Adams, could you tell me how you found the body?”

Ari retold the story, eliminating the part about her momentary snooping. Molly scribbled, continually nodding throughout the account but watching Ari carefully. Every move Ari made was deliberate. When a strand of her jet black hair fell from the makeshift bun, Ari slowly tucked it back behind her ear with her index finger, a gesture Molly found hypnotic. She tried to focus on Ari’s statement, but she couldn’t stop staring at the real estate agent. She already knew who Ari was—the daughter of a cop legend. It was hard to believe that the beauty in front of her was related to the bear of a man everyone knew as Big Jack.

“Who else has access to the house?” Molly asked automatically, hoping that she hadn’t already asked the question.

“Well, I have a key, there’s a key in the lockbox for other agents and service people, and I really couldn’t tell you how many other keys my clients have.” Molly underlined something in her notebook several times.

“So, tell me about the owners,” she said, flipping back a few pages in her notes. “A Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Watson?”

“Well, they’re very nice. The Watsons are an elderly couple who have already moved to Florida to retire. I’m really working for their son who has been given power of attorney.”

“The son,” Molly murmured. “What’s his name?”

It was like lightning striking Ari’s brain. Molly peered over her notes, conscious of Ari’s hesitation. “His name’s Bob. Bob Watson.”

Molly’s head jerked up. “Robert.”

Ari tried to hide the emotional torment that was welling inside. The idea of Bob Watson being implicated in a murder was absurd. He was an established member of the community, a business entrepreneur and one of her dearest friends from high school. They had briefly dated before she acknowledged the truth about herself. More importantly, Bob stood by her five years later after she’d been disowned by her parents for choosing an “unnatural lifestyle.”

“Ms. Adams, is something wrong?” The detective’s voice drew Ari away from the unpleasant memories.

“I’m sorry,” she said. The pounding in her head was getting worse. “It’s just I know Bob Watson, and there’s no way he could be involved in something like this.”

The detective flashed a sad smile. She heard this line all the time.

“Look,” Ari continued emphatically, “I’m telling you that the message behind the bar is deceptive. It’s not . . .”

Her words trailed off as Detective Nelson’s expression darkened. “And how would you know about that?”

Ari blushed. “Okay, you caught me. I followed the blood and saw the name on the wall.” Molly waited, knowing there was more. Ari wanted to lie, but for some reason, she found she couldn’t. “I did look through the other rooms, just to see how much damage there was.”

“And?” Molly prompted.

Ari shifted uncomfortably. “I accidentally touched the handle on the patio door.” Molly cursed under her breath, sending Ari into a shotgun explanation. “It was dumb, I know better than that, but I can guarantee you my fingerprints will be all over that house anyway.”

“And possibly over the fingerprints of the killer,” Molly interjected. Ari slumped in the seat, her poise abandoned for the moment. Molly watched Ari massage her temples, her cheeks crimson from embarrassment. An apology tried to work its way from Molly’s lips but she swallowed it down. She didn’t have anything to be sorry for. Ari deserved to be chewed out, and if it hurt her beautiful feelings, then so be it. Still, Molly found herself planted to the ground, unable to storm away as she was accustomed. She reached over and touched her arm. “You know, Ms. she observed in a kind voice.

The change in demeanor drew Ari’s gaze back to Molly’s. Ari studied the piercing blue eyes, stern but caring. She stared at Molly a little longer than was polite before smiling. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “Natural curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Molly countered, as she involuntarily smiled back at Ari. Someone called her name and the smile faded. She nodded to Ari and turned away, mortified by her own behavior. What was she doing, flirting with a civilian at a crime scene? Where was her professionalism? “Focus now, Nelson,” she whispered to herself.

Ari watched Molly stride away, the smell of musk still lingering in the truck. To clear her head, Ari hopped out and ventured a few feet onto the grass.

Ben Hastings rounded the corner and called, “You still here?” Ari grinned conspiratorially. She loved joking with Ben. He was a second father to her and the only person who understood why she had left the Tucson Police Department after one short year.

Ben fished a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the sweat from his leathery face. “So did you talk to Nelson?”

“Uh-huh. She took my statement and scolded me for snooping.”

Ben wagged a knowing finger and shook his head. He knew Ari would never change. He also noticed her blush when he mentioned Molly Nelson. She was staring at the grass, using the toe of an expensive loafer to pock the ground and avoid his eyes. Ben watched her struggle with her feelings. He loved Ari dearly. She had endured more in her thirty-two years than most people did in an entire lifetime. Everyone had abandoned her in one way or another, but he would always be there. And if anyone deserved an opportunity to find happiness, it was Ari. “Yes,” he said plainly.

“What?” Ari asked, only slightly puzzled.

“Yes, she’s your type. She’s thirty-five, born and raised here, moved away for a while, really good at her job. That’s about all I know.”

Ari’s cheeks flushed. Why did she care? She was in absolutely no position to want any woman. Her career was her life, at least that’s what her last lover had believed. She stared down at the large divot and pushed dirt back in the hole. “So who was the guy inside?”

Ben sighed. “You’re gonna get me into a lot of trouble, Ari.”

“C’mon, Ben,” she said, using her voice from childhood, the voice that had always won Ben over, whether it was for another game of checkers or another push on the swing.

Ben scowled and looked around. “Michael Thorndike.”

It took only a second for the name to register. “The guy who renovated most of the downtown area? The leader of the Phoenix League?”

“Shhhh.” Ben cautioned. “Yes, that Michael Thorndike.”

“So how did he die?”

“Two shots from a thirty-eight caliber. One to the chest and one to the gut.”

“Any theories as to how it happened?”

“Estimated time of death is somewhere between eight and ten last night. He probably got shot while he was standing behind the bar, wrote his killer’s name on the wall and tried to drag himself out toward the door. Got as far as the living room.”

“That’s an awful lot for a dying man to do,” Ari muttered. “Are they sure he wrote it?”

Ben nodded. “According to the coroner, that name was written by Michael Thorndike himself. They got a nice clear fingerprint at the top of the b. Matched his bloody right hand.”

Ari exhaled. If that were true, then it meant Michael Thorndike had used the last of his strength to identify his killer. Bob would be questioned and probably arrested before nightfall. eyes shifting from Ben to Ari, who pretended not to notice. She turned away, just as she had done throughout most of her life, every time a guy had come on to her. Except for Bob. Bob had been different.

Ben nodded to Ari and wandered back to the front door with the young cop while Ari took a few steps away and surveyed the crime scene. Things were starting to wind down. The body was being removed and some of the techs were packing up. Ari spotted Molly across the lawn talking to a young black detective. There was no question about who was in charge as Molly pointed at the ground and barked an order. Ari guessed this was Molly’s partner and clearly he hadn’t done his job correctly. She held up fingers, ticking off a list of things while the man wrote furiously in his notebook. She yelled, “Get it done!” before stomping toward Ari.

“You’re free to go, Miss Adams,” Molly said curtly, as she walked past Ari. The shades and the attitude were back, and Ari noticed Molly didn’t look at her.

Something gnawed at Ari. Once a cop . . .

“Detective,” Ari called. Molly stopped and turned abruptly, impatience written into her expression. “Why would Michael Thorndike bother to drag himself out from behind the bar after he wrote Bob’s name? It’s not like there was a phone out there. And why would he write Robert? Most everyone calls Bob Watson, just that, Bob.”

“We don’t know the answer to those questions, Ms. Adams, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Now, I am going to ask you to leave the crime scene. I know your father is a friend of just about everyone here, but that doesn’t give you the right to stick your nose in my investigation,” Molly said.

Ari’s defenses rose at the mention of Jack Adams. “I think you’re forgetting something, Detective. I’m the agent on this house, and I’m legally responsible for this property. My clients are going to want an explanation as to what happened and why part of their five thousand dollar floor must be replaced again.”

“Well, all I know is that your friend Mr. Watson better have a good alibi,” Molly retorted, her cell phone ringing in her pocket. She scowled as she retrieved it. Beautiful or not, Molly hated amateurs. “If we need anything else we’ll be in touch, Ms. Adams,” she said before she flipped open the receiver and walked away.

Ari headed to the SUV, Molly’s words ringing in her ears. She had no idea how Bob could be implicated in the murder of a Phoenix power magnate, since it was absolutely unbelievable. Yet, it was also too coincidental. Somehow Bob was involved.

She pulled away from the house, a house she had visited hundreds of times during her teenage years. Images of Michael Thorndike’s body and the bloody message clouded her mind. She pushed them away, unwilling to contaminate the memories of her youth.

Bob had been the most important person in her life for a long time. They met when he was a high school junior and she a sophomore. They were both on the track team, only mildly aware of the other’s existence, until the day they shared a seat on the team bus and became fast friends. Bob wanted more, but Ari brushed him off, like every other guy. He persisted, and Ari finally went out with him a few times and even agreed to go steady. Kissing him had been a chore, but at least with a boyfriend, it was as if a “No Trespassing” sign had been posted on her body, and the boys left her alone. No surprise, really. Bob was the state’s number one shot putter—no one would dare mess with his girl. Still, it wasn’t right. Ari knew he deserved better.

It amazed her that Bob’s manhood remained intact when three months into the relationship, she confessed her suspicions about her sexuality. Most guys would have thrown a fit, blamed her, or played it cool. Instead of destroying their bond, Ari’s announcement actually brought them closer, as Bob transformed from boyfriend to counselor. They stayed in touch during college, even though they went to different schools, and Bob married Lily during his senior year. The true proof of friendship, though, came two years later. It was Bob who offered Ari his guest room the night her father disowned her, and it was Bob who had saved her from the biggest mistake of her life.

 


Chapter Two

 

Sunday, June 17

 

P.m.

 


Ari accelerated and pulled ahead of the Sunday traffic winding around the base of Camelback Mountain. She was speeding, consciously rushing to Bob before the police could get there. Detective Nelson would not be pleased, but Ari needed to talk to him, not to warn him, but to read his initial expression before he had time to create any facade or erect his defenses. She was Bob’s oldest friend, and if anyone could tell if he was lying, it would be Ari.

She glanced in her rearview mirror. The sun was finally setting, and the mountain was awash in red and yellow. This was her favorite time of day. It was still light out, but the burning heat had retreated. The afternoon still didn’t seem real, finding Michael Thorndike’s body and now Bob possibly accused of murder.

And then there was Molly Nelson, complete with the typical tough cop demeanor Ari thought most of the female cops wore like armor. She had so much to prove and had to be twice as good, probably more so if she was already a detective. Ari admitted she was drawn to her, and she tried to bat the feeling away, but like a pesky fly it kept circling, and she found herself thinking about the tall blond for the third time in an hour. It wasn’t just a physical attraction, although Molly was very much Ari’s type. No, Ari was drawn to powerful women. She didn’t mind that Molly had spoken sharply to her, in fact she knew she deserved it. She got the feeling Molly didn’t take any crap from the male officers, but there was something else—she’d seen it in the way the woman had smiled at her when they were alone. There was another side to her, or perhaps many sides and Ari loved women who were complex.

As the SUV drew within a mile of her destination, her thoughts drifted to Bob, a friend who had been there for her during the absolute worst of times. She needed to focus on him, not on her love life.

She turned right on Weatherview and entered the exclusive Arcadia area. Sprawling ranch houses that covered large lots filled with citrus trees, these stately homes were usually owned by doctors, lawyers or CEOs. They were well preserved with manicured yards and good schools—all factors necessary for a quick sale. The competition for these high-priced listings was brutal; everyone who lived there knew a real estate agent and had two or three others soliciting them per week. Obtaining a listing in Arcadia, one of Phoenix’s oldest and most prestigious neighborhoods, was quite a coup. Ari had been fortunate to sell a few of these homes during her career, but she knew it was basically a matter of luck and nepotism.

That was how she’d landed Bob and Lily. They already knew her, and they knew they wanted to live in Arcadia, both for the view of Camelback and the status that the name implied. Ari remembered the day Bob and Lily had purchased their house. It had been a series of firsts for both of them—they were her first clients, and this was their first home, bought with Bob’s first million. Now, twelve years later, there had been many more millions for Bob, who had a chain of copying centers all over Phoenix.

She wound around the long circular drive, which almost seemed like a trip through a desert garden, and parked next to Bob’s Porsche. The woman who answered the door was slim and muscular, her jeans and Oxford cloth shirt outlining her slight frame. “Ari, what a surprise! Please come in,” Lily Watson said, flashing a sincere smile.

Ari could hear the NBA commentators as they entered the family room. Bob was glued to the Suns game and didn’t notice them at first. “Look who’s here, Bob!” Lily announced, her voice competing with the big screen TV.

Bob’s attention drifted from the game. When he saw Ari, he lifted his huge frame from the recliner and gave her a bear hug. At thirty-seven, while most of his contemporaries were going to seed, Bob still had the body of a twenty year old. Only his receding hairline betrayed his age. In a moment of vanity on his thirtieth birthday, he’d gone to a hair implant center and asked for plugs. Ari and Lily had arrived just in time, convincing him he would wind up looking like a Seventies lounge lizard. “So, do you have a contract on my parents’ house?” he asked playfully.

Ari paused. There was no easy way to say this. She wanted to be sensitive but there wasn’t time. “No, Bob. In fact there’s a problem. I had a showing this afternoon, and when I walked in, there was a dead body on the floor.”

“What?” Lily shrieked.

Bob laughed heartily. “You’re joking, right, Ari?”

“No.” She watched them closely. They both looked genuinely shocked, unable to process the information. Lily covered her face, and Bob started pacing, his trademark sign of nervousness.

Finally he looked up and asked, “Was it anyone we knew?”

Ari shrugged. “I don’t know if you knew him or not. The victim was Michael Thorndike.”

Lily gasped and Bob exploded. “Jesus! What the hell is this, Ari?” Her eyes widened in surprise. Lily attempted to rest her hand on Bob’s shoulder, but he pushed her away. “What was Michael Thorndike doing in my parents’ house?”

Ari shook her head. “I don’t know. Is he a friend of yours?”

Bob shot his wife a look of contempt. “Not likely.” Silence filled the room and the blaring TV seemed to mock the situation. Bob grabbed the remote and clicked the off button. “I hate that guy. I was going to put a Speedy Copy in this great downtown location, but he caused some major problems and nearly convinced the partnership to lease the property to one of my competitors. If Russ hadn’t worked some of his magic on Thorndike, we would have lost the deal.” Ari knew Bob’s business partner, Russ Swanson, to be extraordinarily diplomatic and level-headed, a nice contrast to Bob’s hot-tempered personality.

As if reading her thoughts, Bob added, “That SOB.” His face shifted as he realized he was defaming a dead man.

“Bob,” Ari interjected, “there’s more. Thorndike used his own blood to write your name on the living room wall before he died.”

“Oh my God,” Lily cried, sinking to the couch.

Total bewilderment covered Bob’s face. “Jesus Christ!” Bob boomed. “Why the hell did he do that? The police are going to think I killed him.” Bob leaned against the stone fireplace for support, wiping his face with a huge hand. “I just can’t believe this!” With one sweeping motion, Bob cleared the mantel, sending pictures, candles and knickknacks to the floor. Lily cried out as glass shattered against the tile.

Ari stepped back, suddenly afraid of Bob’s rage. For a moment, all she could see was his size and how easily he could overpower someone like Thorndike. She watched as he turned slowly around, his fists clenched. He stared at the floor, reached down and picked up his wedding photo, the glass cracked in half. Using every ounce of composure he could find, Bob placed it gently back on the mantel. His back still to her, Ari watched the huge man’s shoulders move up and down with each breath. She was no longer afraid. He was Bob again.

She moved to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s try to figure this out,” Ari suggested. Bob nodded and Ari motioned for him to sit next to Lily on the couch. Lily moved closer and locked her fingers in his. “Bob, the police are going to ask you for an alibi. The coroner estimates that Michael Thorndike was killed between eight and ten last night. Where were you last evening between those times?”

The couple glanced at each other, and Lily answered. “I was at a charity event. I didn’t get home until around eleven. Bob was out at his Tempe store dealing with a problem.”

“Were you with anyone?”

“I went out there around six thirty. Kristen was there until eight thirty. She’s one of the employees.”

“Did anyone come into the store, or did you answer any phone calls after she left?”

Bob searched his memory, but shook his head no. “I was all by myself. I left around ten thirty and came home. No one saw me, and I didn’t stop anywhere. That’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked nervously.

Ari’s expression remained neutral. “It would have been helpful if your employee had stayed the entire evening or if someone had seen you during the time the murder was being committed.” Bob looked at Lily, whose eyes studied the floor. There was tension between them, but Ari couldn’t pinpoint the cause. “You’re sure about the times?”

“Yes,” he said sharply, aware of the implications. If Kristen had left at eight thirty, Bob still could have driven to central Phoenix and killed Michael Thorndike before ten.

Ari took a deep breath and borrowed one of Detective Nelson’s questions. “Besides the two of you, who else has access to the house?”

Bob and Lily shook their heads. “We’re the only people with keys, except for my parents.”

“Who else knew you were selling the house?”

Bob sighed. “God, I probably mentioned it to a lot of people. Some just in passing, but there were a few of my business acquaintances who I thought might want to buy it. And you sent a bunch of faxes over, so probably everyone in my office knows, and most of our friends too.”

“And I mentioned it to several people at the club and my charity groups, hoping to find a buyer,” Lily added.

Ari exhaled. From what they were telling her, many people knew about the vacant house. “When was the last time you saw Michael Thorndike?”

Bob bristled at the name and looked upward trying to remember. “Probably six months ago, when Russ and I went before the League to propose the downtown store. That bastard nearly cost me a fortune.”

“Why did he dislike you so much? What did you ever do to him?” Bob glanced at Lily before looking away. When neither of them answered, she knew instantly that Bob had a motive to kill Michael Thorndike and she started to feel sick. “In a little while, the police are probably going to be here. It might be easier to tell a friend first.”

“Michael and I had an affair,” Lily said softly. “It wasn’t very long, but it wasn’t just a one-night stand.”

“I can’t listen to this again,” Bob growled. He stalked out of the room, slamming the front door as he exited. The women heard his Porsche revving before he drove away.

Pain swept over Lily’s face and tears welled in her eyes. Ari reached for a tissue on the end table and handed it to her, still stunned by Lily’s announcement. They sat silently until Lily composed herself enough to continue.

“Bob was working long hours, and I never saw him. I was lonely. Oh, Ari, this all sounds so trite. Bored housewife looking for affection. I wonder now if we should have had children. Maybe I should have pressed . . .” Lily’s words faded away with the thought. “Michael and I worked on the same charity committee. He was charming and handsome. I’d heard he could be ruthless in business, but he was so sweet to me. We became close, and I think we had a lot in common. Both of us had spouses who were inattentive. Bob lived at work and all Deborah wanted to do was play tennis at the club. I’d actually met her on several occasions, and we’d been doubles partners a few times. She was definitely a cold one. Anyway, somewhere along the way Michael started to pursue me, and I . . . I responded.” Lily’s eyes met Ari’s. “The truth is, he was the most romantic man I’ve ever met. I’ve never told Bob that part,” she quickly added with a blush. “I was head over heels in love, Ari,” she concluded. A dreamy smile crept on her face, and Ari knew she was reliving the fantasy.

“I take it Bob found out?”

Lily nodded slowly but didn’t speak for several seconds. “In the worst way possible. He caught us in bed.”

Ari excused herself after asking a few more questions, feeling both dirty and stupid. Granted, she was not a busybody and didn’t seek out confidences from friends, although when she was trusted with a secret, it remained just that. She felt as if she’d been plunged into the dark corners of a closet and shown truths she really had no desire to know. Lily and Bob were her friends, and while she was upset to learn that Lily had cheated on Bob, neither had chosen to tell her. She only remembered good times—Bob telling off-colored jokes, Lily’s exuberance and friendliness to total strangers at parties and the devotion they seemed to have for each other. That was the image they had projected to Ari, and she was content to see what they wanted her to see.

By the time she got home, she was angry and disappointed that the idyllic picture of the Watsons was ruined. Her thoughts floated to her father, the man who had disappointed her more than anyone else ever could. Ironically, he probably felt she had done the same.

Already feeling the familiar depression creep into her heart, she made a cup of tea and headed straight for the balcony, her retreat from the world. She gazed out at the lights and saw the silhouette of South Mountain in the distance. The view always lightened her mood. She was an urban animal, soaking in the sounds and frenzy of the city, and she loved the fact that she was right in the middle of it, in the heart of central Phoenix, soaring above most everyone on the fifteenth floor. Her chaise lounge was a VIP seat for all the annual parades that marched down Central Avenue, the Fourth of July fireworks at Bolin Plaza, and on a daily basis, the sunsets, which had fascinated her since she was a child. Nothing was more magnificent or humbling.

She sipped her ginseng and contemplated the climactic moment of Lily’s story. When Bob burst in on Lily and Thorndike, he pulled the man from the bed and threatened to kill him. Then he stormed out, refusing to come home. It took Lily three months and countless therapy sessions to get her husband back. She shouldered the full blame, not ever mentioning how inattentive Bob had been before the affair. Their marriage improved, and now it seemed rock solid. But was Ari missing the truth now as she obviously had missed in the past?

She rubbed her forehead, as if to dislodge a thought that wouldn’t come. Something was bothering her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. The phone interrupted her thoughts. “Hello?”

“Maybe you don’t understand my English,” a terse female voice announced.

Ari sat straight up. “Is that how you always start a conversation, Detective Nelson?”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries, Ms. Adams.” Molly seethed across the line.

“What’s the matter?”

“Bob Watson is missing, and according to his wife, you paid them a visit late this afternoon during which time he left the house and hasn’t been seen since.”

Ari’s mouth went dry. When Bob sped off, she assumed that he would return soon. It was his nature to take flight instead of fight. She could remember countless times he had stormed out of a room, but he was a volcano, erupting and going dormant. That was his pattern. Now it was eleven o’clock, and he should have been back, if he was coming back.

“Ms. Adams, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Detective, every word. I did go to see them this afternoon, and discuss the damage to the property. Bob and Lily Watson are acting as the trustees of the property.”

Ari hoped her business-like attitude might deflect some of Molly’s hostility.

Molly sighed. “And that’s the only reason you went over there? Do you really think I’m going to believe that?” she asked, her voice shrill.

Ari was glad miles separated them, because if the detective had been in close proximity, she sounded as though she would strangle Ari. “You just happened to stop by after learning Bob Watson was accused of murder for a friendly chat? How stupid do you think I am? And am I supposed to believe that you just kept the discussion confined to painting and flooring?”

“Well . . .”

“I’m sure a bloody floor would be plenty of reason for Bob Watson to flee,” Molly added sarcastically. “Maybe he’s drowning his sorrows at a bar somewhere, terribly upset that he lost a sale!” Ari closed her mouth and just let the detective rant. “I suppose you know all about Michael Thorndike’s affair with Mrs. Watson. And how it almost ruined their marriage?”

“Yes,” Ari answered honestly, “we discussed that. But that was resolved a long time ago. They went to therapy and Bob forgave Lily for cheating on him. I think it shows a lot of character to be able to forgive your wife, even when you catch her in bed with her lover.” Ari couldn’t help but defend Bob to this woman who seemed to want to throw him in jail. The other end was silent for a while, and Ari wondered if Molly had hung up. “Are you still there, Detective?”

When Molly answered, it was slow and deliberate. “That part I didn’t know. Bob Watson actually found his wife in bed with Michael Thorndike?”

Ari’s hand clenched the receiver. “I thought Lily told you that.”

“No.”

“Well, I was told that in confidence,” Ari sputtered, “as a friend.”

“Let me tell you something, Ms. Adams. I’m not your friend. I’m a cop and this is a homicide investigation. So if you have any other information that could be useful in solving this crime I need to know about it right now.” Molly paused and waited. Ari was certain the detective didn’t know about Bob’s threat. “Well?” Molly barked.

Ari pursed her lips. A lie was forming, and she was about to say something when Molly roared, “Because of your interference, our prime suspect has disappeared. If you do not stay out of this investigation, I will have you arrested!” The phone slammed down in Ari’s ear.

She closed her eyes, letting her emotions swirl inside. The police would hunt for Bob. He certainly had motive, both personal and professional, and he had the opportunity. It looked very simple, but Bob’s reaction that afternoon was sheer shock, and Ari had only seen him like that once before. She was certain Bob Watson was telling the truth, and even if it meant going to jail, she would help her friend—if she could find him.

 


Chapter Three

 

Sunday, June 17

 

P.m.

 


Ordering the fourth shot of whiskey was a mistake. Molly passed from happily buzzed to somewhat incoherent. She shifted on the stool, catching the eye of a hungry redhead who raised her eyebrows in question. All she had to do was nod and she wouldn’t be alone tonight in her small, empty apartment. She let her eyes drop to the polished bar. She was tired. Tired of her life. Too many one-night stands, too many women and way too much drinking. Her life was like a terminally ill patient whom Molly had given up on a long time ago. Her failed relationships lined up in her mind, each of her lovers leaving with a door slam louder than the one previous. Rachel, her last partner and a fellow cop, had cracked the jamb.

Rehashing it made her crave another drink. She held up her hand, but Vicki, Hideaway’s favorite bartender, scowled and waved her off. Molly had to give her credit. The woman kept her in line and knew her limit, but this was Hideaway, the premier lesbian bar in Phoenix. The bartenders knew their regulars and knew how to keep them as regulars. Even on Sunday night, the place had a pulse. All of the bar stools were occupied, and a handful of women were bopping to the dance music. Most of the outer booths were empty, the patrons choosing to cluster together like a flock. Molly knew most of them by name and what size panties each wore. She’d slept with every woman who frequented Hideaway, mostly as one-night stands.

She motioned to Vicki for a glass of water and worked to sober up—it would be par for the day if she got a DUI. Inheriting the Michael Thorndike murder was the captain’s way of breaking her. She’d been hired by his predecessor and that was the first strike against her. Being the only lesbian detective was another, and her abrasive personality was the last. During her last evaluation, she’d been encouraged to “foster better social skills and peer communication.” In her opinion, she communicated just fine, letting many of her male co-workers know that she wouldn’t tolerate the traditional sexual harassment. She hated the good old boy network. It had been tough on the Spokane police force but Phoenix was worse.

Molly returned to the case at hand, very grateful that Michael Thorndike was discovered on a Sunday. By the time the press dogs had picked up the scent, the crime scene was secured and the body removed. So far, the crime scene yielded few clues. The bar’s countertop had been wiped clean as well as the broken patio door, save Ari’s thumb print. Hopefully, the lab results would glean some evidence, but she doubted there would be a smoking gun. They could have used one since the weapon was missing.

In hindsight, Molly should have opted to visit Deborah Thorndike, the grieving widow, but instead she gave that assignment to her partner, a rookie she didn’t quite trust yet. So while Andre had been doling out empathy and drinking iced tea on the Thorndike’s sun porch, Molly had been dodging daggers from Lily Watson at her front door and learning her husband had fled, a fact that seemed to please Lily somewhat. Ari’s previous visit had primed Lily for a fight, and she acted hostile and defensive toward Molly, responding to questions with clipped, terse answers and allowing the detective only to cross the threshold.

She glanced at the redhead who was still staring at her. The woman licked her lips, and Molly got an excellent view of her tongue ring. Molly started to stand up, her decision made, when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She quickly exited to a hallway, escaping the pounding music.

“Nelson.”

“Gee, Detective, it’s nice to know you’re out on the town while our prime suspect is missing!”

Molly moved further down the hallway toward the emergency exit, but Captain Ruskin had already made his point. “There’s nothing more I can do tonight, Captain. We’ve got Watson’s house under watch and a File Stop out for him and that Porsche. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“Aren’t women always the optimists,” Ruskin cracked. “I hope for your sake he does, Nelson. This is your ass. You let a homicide suspect slip through your fingers. I don’t understand how the hell that happened but you better find him or else you’ll be pulling third shift in Maryvale.”

The loud click ended the conversation before Molly could say another word. She unclenched her teeth and took a deep breath. The case wasn’t a day old and already it was a disaster, a ticking bomb sitting in her lap, ready to explode and blow her career into pieces.

She wanted another drink, but there was no way Vicki would serve her again. Maybe she and the redhead could stop at a mini- mart on the way. She made her way back toward the music, imagining the redhead going down on her, tongue stud and all, but the woman was gone.


Molly climbed into her truck and headed home. Crossing Central Avenue, she glanced right at the series of parallel lights that climbed toward the sky. According to her witness statement, Ari Adams lived in one of those condos. The thought of the woman made Molly’s blood boil and her face flush at the same time. If Ari hadn’t beaten her to the Watson’s house, they would have Bob in custody. He’d had no intention of running, which, Molly admitted made his guilt questionable. But once Ari had spoken to him, he was gone, and now Captain Ruskin was breathing down her neck. If he found out that Ari had tampered with the crime scene and warned Bob Watson about the arrival of the police, he would surely have her arrested. She snorted. If she did have to arrest Ari for obstructing an investigation, she’d have to take her straight to her bedroom instead of a jail cell.

Now there was a woman who wouldn’t be a one-night stand. She was too refined and sophisticated, definitely above something meaningless and cheap. She replayed their meeting at the crime scene and the way Ari sat perched in the SUV, poised like a model, tucking that random strand of hair behind her ear. When Molly had reached for Ari’s arm and taken her elbow, the physical contact sent a surge through Molly that surprised and overwhelmed her. Only when Ari asked her to let go did she even realize they were still connected. More powerful than the touch was Ari’s breathy voice, totally seductive.

Molly knew she didn’t stand a chance with Ari. An Elle McPherson businesswoman would never be seen on the arm of a lowly civil servant the size of a Chicago Bears lineman. Not likely, and probably not gay either if she really thought about it. Still, when Ari had smiled at her, she felt her knees go weak. Ari hadn’t noticed Molly leaning against the side of the SUV for support, all the while smiling back at her like an idiot.

Pulling into her parking space this late always sent a pang of loneliness through her chest. She hated living alone, but she’d resolved that after her last breakup, she wouldn’t jump into a relationship with just anybody. For the last year she had confined herself to meaningless sexual encounters, rationalizing them as worthy substitutes for love.

The answering machine blinked incessantly and a brilliant red number 2 shone above the light. She poured herself a whiskey, slapped the playback button and sat down at her piano. Her fingers glided across the keys, playing softly while the tape clicked several times. Molly made her ninetieth mental note to invest in voice mail.

Her brother Brian filled the room with his deep baritone. “Hey sis, how’s it going? Saw you on the news tonight. You were pointing and barking orders at some poor cop. Naw, I’m just kidding, you looked very professional. I hope you’re not still at work, but I’ll bet you are. Let’s get together and chat. Sorry I missed you.” Molly was sorry too. She was closest to Brian, mainly because they were both the black sheep, and they shared the same fiery temperament.

The machine beeped once more and a woman cleared her throat. “Detective Nelson, I hope you don’t mind that I called you at home. I tried the precinct, but they said you had already left.” Molly instantly recognized Ari Adams’s seductive voice. She rushed to the machine and leaned close. “I won’t tell you how I got your home phone number. I doubt you’d approve . . . it wasn’t exactly illegal, just maybe a tad questionable . . . but I guess you already know that sometimes I push the bounds of what is ethical,” Ari said with a slight giggle. “Anyway, I know I’m rambling, but I just felt so bad about Bob Watson running off. I had no idea that he would react like that, but I still think he’s innocent. I’m really sorry that it came back on you—I’m sure David Ruskin was a total asshole. Oh, sorry about the swearing. It’s just a really appropriate description of him, don’t you think?” Molly laughed out loud, totally agreeing. How did Ari know Ruskin? Probably because of her father. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m just really sorry. Oh, and in case you don’t recognize my voice, this is Ari Adams. Bye.”

A shrill sound announced the end of Molly’s messages. She replayed Ari’s five times, twice just to make sure she caught everything and three more times to hear Ari’s voice.

Molly returned to the piano and propped Michael Thorndike’s murder file on the music stand. Her fingers drifted across the keys as she scanned the day’s notes. On the surface, the case seemed simple. Michael Thorndike was helpful enough to leave the most incriminating clue—the name of his killer. Bob Watson certainly had a motive, and a shaky alibi at best, one her partner would check out first thing in the morning.

Still, it seemed too staged. Why had Thorndike’s body been in the living room? And while it didn’t look good for Bob Watson, Ari was adamant that he couldn’t be a killer. Thinking of Ari again, she played more forcefully, creating a new melody, one that was rather good. She had no idea where she was going—it was like an unplanned night drive, but she’d done it for so long, that she just had to follow the notes. Once in a while, Molly would create something brilliant, but she never wrote anything down. How many best-selling hits had literally slipped through her fingers?


Next door, her neighbor Mrs. Lyons clicked off her TV. The eighty-three year old liked to stay up late and watch The Tonight Show. That Jay Leno wasn’t nearly as good as Johnny Carson, but he did his best. Music flowed through the walls. Mrs. Lyons didn’t mind Molly’s music and she liked the idea that a police woman lived next door. Yet she could always tell when the detective was upset, such as tonight. The music captivated her, but it had a sad, forlorn tone—all of Molly’s best compositions did.

She knew Molly would play for at least another half hour and gradually the notes would become so soft that she couldn’t hear them anymore. And then, perhaps, the detective would go to bed for a well-deserved sleep.

 


Chapter Four

 

Monday, June 18

 

A.m.

 


At eight in the morning, Molly’s day was already three hours old, having arrived early to process the paperwork for some of her other cases—people who didn’t rate as highly as Michael Thorndike, at least not in the eyes of Captain David Ruskin. The death of a civic leader was top priority, and Molly would spend as much time as necessary to catch his killer, even if it meant other homicides would go cold.

By three, she’d already clocked ten hours, a figure that would probably double before she went home. A yawn escaped her lips about the same time her stomach rumbled in protest for skipping lunch. She glanced at her watch for the third time in five minutes and crossed her legs, trying to find comfort while she waited for members the infamous Phoenix League to grace her with their presence. Molly felt like a folded trundle bed sitting on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. She stared enviously at the five leather office chairs spread around the conference table in front of her, each one complete with back support and rounded arms. She debated whether to claim the fifth one for herself. Its executive wouldn’t be returning. Michael Thorndike’s death brought the partnership down to four, as she pictured the executives bantering ideas about. A large print hung over the credenza that looked like a paint splatter, but Molly didn’t know anything about art. The rest of the room was sterile and plain. She guessed the partners kept the really good stuff in their offices.

The door clicked and the quartet paraded in. Strength in numbers, or none of them trusted each other enough to be left alone with a detective. Molly quickly assessed their well-tailored and perfectly groomed figures, her first impressions setting like cement. Three men and one woman, all roughly in their mid- forties. All white. She wasn’t surprised. None of them bothered to offer any kind of greeting, and instead they retreated behind the conference table, using it as a shield. Molly realized that their combined net worth probably could pay half of the police force for a year.

They each wore a stern expression. Only Cyril Lemond looked remotely friendly, a half-smile on his thin lips and his hands clasped in front of him on the table. Molly watched him closely, as he was the only one without a concrete alibi on the night of Thorndike’s murder, and he lived just a block from the murder site.

“Detective Nelson, how can we help you?” Lemond’s place at the center identified him as the leader. Molly scanned the other partners, their faces blank. She guessed Felix Trainor, the man at the end of the table, carried the least amount of clout. Undoubtedly, Lemond would be the mouthpiece.

Too uncomfortable and tired to play games, Molly got right to the point. “I need some specific information about Michael Thorndike’s business dealings. Since you are his partners, I thought you could shed some light on his recent projects, future projects . . .” She let her voice trail off in hopes that they understood. She was sure they did, even though they didn’t seem to want to.

Civility gushed from Lemond’s face. “And you think this might have some bearing on his death?”

Molly went for the jugular. “Mr. Lemond, most homicide victims are killed for money or love. I’ve got the love part covered, but this is the money end.” Molly made a sweeping gesture at the five thousand dollar conference table.

Lemond’s smile flickered slightly. “We’d be more than happy to cooperate with you, Detective.”

“Good.” Once again, Molly resituated her large frame and pulled out her notes. “Please tell me about Mr. Thorndike’s business ventures.”

A staged cough erupted from Felix Trainor’s corner. Lemond’s eyes signaled permission. When Trainor spoke, his voice was hesitant and careful. “Michael was exploring possibilities with the Emporium. He wanted to make it into a premier museum like the Getty Center.”

Molly was surprised. “The Emporium? I thought you all worked exclusively in Phoenix?”

“Michael saw tremendous potential,” Trainor quickly stated, eyeing his partners.

Molly made a note. Many developers had tried and failed to “realize the Emporium’s potential.” Located in downtown Scottsdale, it had worn many hats—office space, retail shops, IMAX theater, even a site for the traveling Smithsonian. Nothing seemed to stick. The Emporium was Scottsdale’s white elephant. Turning it around would have made Thorndike a hero, Molly thought to herself.

“Some of us don’t share Michael’s vision,” the female partner said, coming to life. “It was a bad investment idea, and it could have sunk us.”

Felix Trainor leaned forward. “Michael’s plan would have worked, Florence.”

Molly remembered the woman’s name, Florence Denman. Her face colored, and she glared at Trainor. He’d be in severe trouble for contradicting Lady Steel, as she was known in the business community. Judging from the obvious cosmetic surgery done to her face, steel wouldn’t have been the nickname Molly chose.

“You’re as disillusioned as Michael was, Felix,” Florence concluded. “I’m sorry he’s dead,” she announced without any sympathy, “but at least we won’t lose anymore money chasing Don Quixote’s windmills.” She snorted. “An art museum! What an idea!”

“I’m sure Detective Nelson didn’t come here to listen to our petty squabbling,” Cyril Lemond interjected. Molly wondered if petty squabbling included murder. Trainor slumped into his seat while Denman visibly fumed. Lemond played the diplomat. “As you can see, Detective, we are all vehement with our opinions and feel comfortable sharing and discussing differences.”

The euphemisms poured from his mouth. Spin doctoring was Lemond’s art. Molly paused, pretending to shift gears. “Was Mr. Thorndike involved in any other projects?”

The partners looked at each other and shrugged. The man to Lemond’s left who, if she remembered correctly from her notes, was Sorrel Whitlock. He looked utterly bored and Molly guessed he had the least knowledge of Thorndike’s affairs.

Again, it was Felix Trainor who spoke up. “Michael liked to focus on one thing at a time. You know, shine his light at one target, to maximize the possibility for success.”

Molly withheld a heavy sigh and wrote “pompous ass” in her notes next to his name. “So this was his only project?” Everyone nodded. Molly focused on Cyril Lemond. “How did you feel about the Emporium idea, Mr. Lemond?”

Lemond’s eyes shifted to the wall. He inhaled before meeting Molly’s gaze. “I would have to say it had potential, but Michael hadn’t thought it through yet. Now we will never know.” The last part was said with a touch of finality and Molly knew her little interview was about to end.

“Can any of you think of anyone who would want to kill Michael Thorndike?”

The room exploded in laughter.

 


Chapter Five

 

Monday, June 18

 

A.m.

 


Since Ari didn’t answer to anyone, her day started much later and


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