Tomb With a View

next morning while I was restocking the memorial brochures in the plastic holder outside the rotunda, he showed up. He was so focused on his case, he didn’t even bother with small talk.

“I spent most of last night with your friend, Detective Harrison,” he said.

I was going to say that I’d done the same thing on a whole bunch of nights, but something told me Scott and Quinn weren’t doing what Quinn and I used to do, so there didn’t seem to be much point.

I sized him up and decided maybe we weren’t talking about the case after all. Until I knew for sure, I put my game face on. “You don’t look all that happy about it,” I said, ever observant.

“Harrison . . .” He tossed off the name along with what was almost an eye roll. “Harrison is a jackass.”

I nudged the brochures one final time to straighten them, then turned to give Scott my full attention. “Can’t argue with you there,” I said, but surprise, surprise—no sooner had the words left my mouth than I felt guilty. Let’s face it, there was a time I liked Quinn. A whole lot. “He used to be . . .” I couldn’t exactly say Quinn was nice, but then, it was hard to say exactly what he was or exactly what we were to each other. It was hard to put my finger on the adjectives that would describe him or our relationship and not include words like hot, sexy, or so good in bed, he made my toes curl. I stuck with the tried and true. “He used to be very nice.”

“And you know this how?” Scott crossed his arms over his chest, and the coat of his navy suit rode up and exposed his gun. I don’t think he meant the motion to be intimidating, but he had the whole federal agent mojo going on.

I may not have been impervious, but I could pretend with the best of them. My voice was smooth and my expression was blank when I tossed off that most noncommittal of phrases, “We used to date.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Is it any of your business?”

He didn’t expect me to be so honest. Or so assertive. He caved, but then, I’d seen him in action (no, not when we collared our perp up in the ballroom, on those three dates!). Scott had the whole ubercop personality down pat. That included not wanting to get too personal, and talking about emotions . . . well, that was way too personal.

Since he didn’t want to go there, and I wasn’t feeling much like sharing the intimate details of my life with a man I barely knew, I asked the question that had been bugging me all night. “The guy you arrested—”

“Viktor Patankin.”

“Patankin. Is he the one who killed Marjorie?” Obviously more comfortable now that we were talking murder and mayhem, Scott cocked his head, inviting me to go into the office with him. He didn’t say another word until we were inside and out of sight and hearing range of anyone who might wander into the memorial. “Patankin claims he’s just the middleman.”

“For the counterfeited credit cards.”

His nod said it all.

“Which doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect in the murder. Marjorie had a phony credit card, remember. She was using it to buy her Garfield junk. Even though she wasn’t supposed to be up there, she must have found the cards up in the ballroom and scooped one up for her own use. That’s why she told Ray she had a get-rich-quick scheme.” I had filled Scott in on all these details when he arrived in Cleveland. I’d even turned over the credit card Ray had stolen from Marjorie’s and given to me, so he knew exactly what I was talking about.

“She wasn’t making it up. She had that card. And she could have gotten her hands on lots more of them. That’s why she told Ray she was wrong about the get-rich-quick scheme, right?” Scott didn’t contradict me, so I went right on. “But then she saw that she was getting nowhere with Ray and she decided to keep the credit card secret to herself. But if Patankin found out she took the card and that she knew about the cache of them upstairs, he would have been plenty pissed. He could have killed her. That would explain everything.”

It really wouldn’t. I knew it even as the words left my mouth.

It wouldn’t explain the personal Garfield item Nick discussed selling to Ted Studebaker.

It wouldn’t explain crazy Gloria Henninger, the neighbor who wanted to see Marjorie dead.

It wouldn’t explain Jack and what he was doing hanging around the memorial and how he was connected to Patankin and that sign up in the stairway.

But it would be a start.

Or not.

The or not part plonked down on me like a ton of bricks when Scott shook his head. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that things are that easy. Patankin told us he was out of the country when Ms. Klinker was killed. Your friend . . .” He tiptoed back into personal territory for a nanosecond, but drawn by the siren song of his case, he shook himself back to reality. “Detective Harrison spent the better part of last night verifying Patankin’s alibi for the day of the murder. He said he was in Toronto picking up another shipment of counterfeit cards. We’re still checking into that part of the story, but Harrison talked to Customs this morning and they confirm the rest of it. Patankin really was in Canada. He couldn’t have killed Ms. Klinker.”

“Then who—?”

Scott was carrying a leather portfolio. He flipped it open, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and handed me a sketch of a man.

“It’s Jack,” I said, looking at Scott in wonder. “How did you—”

“Patankin is a citizen of Uzbekistan and he’s not thrilled about the prospect of going back there. He’s decided to cooperate and he’s singing like a bird. Oh, how I love when that happens!” He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “He swears he’s just the middleman, and this guy . . .” Scott tapped a finger to Jack’s nose. “He’s the mastermind of the counterfeiting operation.”

“Jack?” I studied the drawing again. There was no mistaking the face; Patankin had described Jack to a tee. The hair was right. The eyes were perfect. His mouth was just the way I remembered it. Except that when I remembered it, I remembered him kissing me.

“Nice-looking guy.” As if he could read my mind, Scott tossed out, “I can see why you were attracted to him.”

“Who says I was?”

“You didn’t need to.”

“It doesn’t really count if he’s a bad guy.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

I’d suspected that Jack was up to no good, so none of this was much of a surprise. It was kind of shocking, though, to hear he was some kind of Dr. Evil. I did my best to stay focused. “Did this Patankin guy tell you where to find Jack?” I asked.

“Jack . . .” Scott pulled out another paper from the portfolio. This one featured a small color photo of Jack in one corner and an official-looking insignia in the other. I read the printing beneath the symbol. “Interpol?”

Scott’s nod was barely perceptible. “One of our agents recognized him from the sketch. That’s how we caught on to who he really is. Your friend Jack has quite a reputation.” He pointed to the information below Jack’s photo. “His real name is Jonathan Bryce-Conway. He’s a Brit, and he’s wanted in just about every country you can name.”

“Jack?” OK, I was repeating myself, and it was annoying, but it wasn’t exactly easy to wrap my brain around Scott’s information. “I knew he was up to something,” I said, “but—”

“When it comes to crime, he’s one of the superstars. I can’t wait to get my hands on this guy.”

“But you’ve got Patankin. And the credit cards. How are you—”

Scott didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The way his eyes glittered told me everything I needed to know.

“Jack doesn’t know you arrested Patankin. And you were careful to make sure the media didn’t find out. You’re not going to tell anyone now, right?”

He nodded.

“Which means you’re hoping Jack shows back up here, either looking for Patankin or those credit cards. And when he does—”

Like I said, Scott is pretty low-key. Except when it comes to his job. Just the prospect of arresting Jack practically made him salivate.