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She squinted at me suspiciously. “Who’d you say you were?”

  “My name is Jessica Popper. Dr. Jessica Popper. I’d like to speak with Mr. Keeler.”

  “If ya don’t have an appointment, I can’t just let you walk in there,” she insisted. She snapped her gum, which seemed to be back in operation. “This happens to be a professional office, not a drive-through.”

  I glanced around, wondering how long paintings on velvet had been considered appropriate décor for professional offices.

  “I understand that,” I replied patiently. “But if I could just have five minutes of Mr. Keeler’s time—”

  “Dottie, what the hell is going on out—oh, hello.” A man in his late thirties had opened the door that led off the waiting area and stuck his head out. His demeanor changed the moment he saw me. Maybe he was pleased that a potential customer had entered the premises. Or maybe, like his buddy Marcus, he was simply impressed by the fact that I possessed two X chromosomes. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I composed myself quickly. “One of your clients is a friend of mine. Suzanne Fox. I was wondering if I could talk to you about her case.”

  “Well, there is such a thing as attorney–client privilege,” he said, chuckling.

  “I understand,” I told him. “I’m not looking for information. I just thought we might be able to...chat.” Without me being billed, I was tempted to add.

  “Okay, sure. We could do that.” Jerry Keeler turned to Dottie. “Hold all my calls, will you?”

  Given the fact that his phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook, I thought he was being overly optimistic. But I followed him into his office and sat down.

  The same decorator who had created the waiting room’s distinctive look had obviously worked his magic in here as well. He had gone with the same refreshing mint-green walls—refreshing referring to the fact that it reminded me of breath-freshening chewing gum. The yellow linoleum floor not only set off the green walls; it also complemented the gunmetal-gray furniture. The artwork in here differed, however. Instead of the classic kittens-on-velvet motif, the walls were dotted with framed diplomas that celebrated the educational and professional accomplishments of Jerry Keeler, Attorny At Law.

  At least he went to a real law school, I thought, instead of taking classes on the Web.

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee and studying me. Meanwhile, I studied him. I didn’t like what I saw very much. Whether it was the shine of his slicked-backed hair or the shine of his polyester suit, I couldn’t say.

  “First of all, how do I know you’re who you say you are?” He picked up a ballpoint pen and began tapping it on the edge of his desk in a most annoying manner.

  “I’ll show you my driver’s license.”

  “That’s not what I mean. How do I know you’re a friend of Suzanne’s and that you’re not, you know, working for the prosecution?”

  Does that kind of stuff really go on? I wondered. But I didn’t ask.

  Instead, I reached into my wallet and pulled out a photograph of Suzanne and me, taken the day of our graduation from Bryn Mawr College. After she and I had reconnected four months earlier while I was filling in for Marcus at a charity dog show in the Bromptons, I’d come across this photo and stuck it into my wallet to show her. We’d had a great time reminiscing about our college days—and marveling over how quickly the years since then had passed. I’d been meaning to put the photo back in the album where it belonged but had never gotten around to it.

  I dropped it in front of Jerry Keeler. “Recognize us? That’s Suzanne and that’s me. This photo was taken at our college graduation.”

  He glanced at it, his face lighting up immediately. “Hey, you were both pretty hot back then! What were you, twenty, twenty-one?”

  Whatever traces of optimism I’d still been clinging to vanished. In fact, I felt as if a wrecking ball had just landed on my stomach.

  “You could call Marcus Scruggs,” I told him. “He’d vouch for me—and the fact that Suzanne and I really are friends.”

  He leaned forward, stroking his ballpoint pen in a way I found most disconcerting.

  “So you’re a friend of Marcus’s, huh?” he said, his expression definitely leering.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” I sat up a little straighter and folded my hands primly in my lap. “I’m a veterinarian, too.”

  “I see. You know, I’ve always wondered about female veterinarians and horses.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Veterinarians have to perform some pretty—shall we say personal procedures? I remember reading once that—”

  I could feel my blood heating up. “I’m here to talk about Suzanne,” I insisted. “I want to know if you think the Norfolk County cops have a case.”

  He slumped back in his chair and tossed his pen on the desk.

  “Between you and me?” he said, not quite looking me in the eye. “I wouldn’t bet any money on her getting off. I mean, the police got witnesses who saw Suzanne going to the victim’s house shortly before she was found dead.”

  “But a jury would never convict her on something that shaky!”

  He narrowed his eyes. “And what law school did you say you graduated from?”

  It took all the self-control I possessed not to do him bodily harm. “I watch Court TV whenever there’s a rerun on Animal Planet,” I said dryly.

  He actually seemed to accept that as a valid explanation. “Okay, then you’ll understand that on top of all that, they also got a powerful motive: jealousy. This Thorndike lady was boffing Suzanne’s ex.”

  “Actually, Cassandra Thorndike and Suzanne’s ex-husband were engaged to be married,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, I seem to remember something about that.”

  My blood quickly went from simmer to boil. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem to be putting a lot of effort into this case.”

  He shrugged. “Look, I been doin’ this a long time. It gets to be routine, y’know? I guess what I mean is, I don’t sweat it the way somebody who’s brand new at this might.”

  “Does that mean you can’t be bothered to remember the facts of the case correctly?”

  “Hey, when the time comes, I’ll read through my notes. Right now, I got three different dope dealers, an armed robbery at a florist, and a guy running cock fights in the basement of the local elementary school. D’you believe that?”

  “Quite an illustrious list of clients,” I observed, already planning what I was going to say to Suzanne the moment I left Jerry Keeler’s office. She simply had to listen to reason. “By the way,” I asked, “how many murder cases have you handled?”

  He squirmed in his seat. “You mean including this one?”

  That wrecking ball that had started slamming against my stomach a few minutes ago was back in action. “Yes, including this one.”

  “Well, now, let’s see.” He screwed up his face as if he was thinking very, very hard. And as if he found the effort painful. “One, two...three...”

  I stood up. “I think I’d better talk to Suzanne about finding another lawyer.”

  “Hey, I’m practically doin’ this for nothing!” he cried, sounding hurt. “It’s a real favor to Marcus, since we’ve been friends for so long!”

  “I’m sure your intentions are good,” I said, even though I didn’t believe that for a minute. “I just want to make sure Suzanne has the best possible representation. And so it only makes sense that she consider more than one attorney.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Well, thanks for your time,” I said.

  A glazed look came into his eyes. “Listen,” he said, his voice suddenly as smooth as chocolate pudding. “There’s this great little Greek restaurant I know, not too far from here. You should see what they can do with their couscous.” His eyebrows were jumping up and down as if he were the villain in a silent movie. “How about if, later on, you and I...”

  I wondered if the college
Marcus Scruggs and Jerry Keeler had attended offered a major in Hitting on Women Who Aren’t the Least Bit Interested in You. Or maybe this particular skill was something their fraternity specialized in, like chugging beer and vomiting it back up again in an exceptionally short period of time.

  “Thanks, but I’m involved with somebody.”

  “Too bad. For you, I mean!”

  I considered forcing a polite smile, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me,” he went on. Grinning, he added, “And if you don’t, the cops do.”

  He leaned across his desk and handed me his business card. I took it reluctantly, then glanced down, just to check. Sure enough; like the sign on his door, it read, Jerry Keeler, Attorny At Law.

  “You know, you really should fix your sign. And your business cards.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s an e in attorney.”

  “No shit. Hey, if you’re accusing me of being a bad speller, then I’m guilty as charged!” Jerry shrugged. “But believe me, I got plenty of other assets—and being innocent isn’t one of them!”

  As I left his office, I could hear him guffawing over his own cleverness. I only hoped the steam that was coming out of my ears wouldn’t make my hair frizz.

  As soon as I got back to my car, I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Suzanne’s number.

  “Suzanne, it’s Jessie,” I said as soon as she answered. “I just paid a little visit to your lawyer. I thought it might be a good idea to check him out. You know, so you could get a second opinion.”

  “He’s great, right?” she asked hopefully.

  “Suzanne...” I realized it probably would be kinder to resist my natural inclination to tell her what I really thought. Somehow, words like turkey and idiot seemed so harsh. “I really think you need to find a new lawyer.”

  “But Marcus recommended him!” Suzanne insisted. “He and Jerry have been friends for years! Besides, he must know what he’s doing. Otherwise, how would he have gotten through law school? How would he have passed the bar? How would he have kept his practice going for all these years?”

  I suddenly remembered a lawyer joke I’d once heard. A lawyer goes to court to defend his client, who’s found guilty. The client turns to him and says, “What happens now?” The lawyer shrugs and says, “You go to jail, and I go back to my office.”

  I’d never found that so-called joke particularly amusing. But today I found it downright chilling.

  I burst forth with a long list of reasons why Suzanne would be making the biggest mistake of her life by putting all her eggs in Jerry Keeler’s basket, meanwhile watching the rain streak down my windshield.

  “Jess, I know you mean well,” she finally said, sounding as if she was losing patience. “But I have to go with the lawyer Marcus thinks is best. He loves me. I’ve got to trust him!”

  Her words—and the sentiments behind them—set my teeth on edge. The fact that love was a four-letter word wasn’t wasted on me. It had the potential to be extremely dangerous. In fact, the longer I lived, the more I saw people doing all kinds of crazy things because of what they claimed was love.

  As I hung up the phone, I was tempted to call Marcus to beg him to change his mind—and Suzanne’s. But I knew I wouldn’t have any better luck with him than I’d had with her.

  I was starting to suspect that if anybody was going to get Suzanne out of trouble, it was me. The frightening thing was, I had yet to figure out how I was ever going to accomplish such a daunting task. But I figured that going straight to the top wouldn’t be a bad way to start.

  I was sitting in my car, still watching the rain and trying to muster up the nerve to drop in on Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Norfolk County’s chief of homicide, when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number that appeared on the screen but didn’t recognize it.

  “Dr. Popper,” I answered.

  “Dr. Jessica Popper?” a squeaky female voice inquired.

  “That’s right. Who’s this?”

  “Dr. Popper, my name is Marlene Fitzgerald, and I’m calling from Sunshine Media—”

  Great. A telemarketer from the company that supplied my cable service, interrupting me with an annoying sales call at the least convenient time possible. “I’m sorry to be rude,” I snapped, not trying in the least not to sound rude, much less even remotely sorry about it, “but I’m in the middle of something important and I really don’t have time for this.”

  “But—”

  I hung up before I had a chance to say anything even ruder. Then I turned the key in the ignition and drove off, wondering if I was making a huge mistake by not fortifying myself with the $4.99 Al Capone Meatball Sub Special before venturing into the belly of the beast.

  I knew I was taking a chance by simply dropping in on Lt. Falcone at his office. Then again, it was raining, and Falcone was the kind of guy who’d think twice about going outside on a day when he might ruin his shoes—even if they were probably pleather.

  I pulled into the parking lot surrounding the intimidating complex of gray brick buildings that included the Norfolk County Police Department’s headquarters and dashed into the lobby, where a uniformed officer sat at a high, imposing counter that practically had a moat around it. I nodded in his direction, then headed toward the metal detector that led to the elevators.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the officer at the desk sang out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I have an appointment with Lieutenant Falcone.”

  “In that case, I’ll check your ID, call upstairs to confirm your appointment, and then send you through the metal detector.”

  I slid my New York State driver’s license across the counter, then stood calmly in front of him while he made the call. I half-expected a cauldron of boiling oil to be poured on me the moment I was found out.

  “Hey, Joe. I got a gal here name of Jessica Popper who says she has an appointment with Lieutenant Falcone. No? Then I’ll—sure, I’ll hold.” He glowered at me while he waited. It took every ounce of nerve I possessed to continue looking him in the eye.

  “Yeah? Really? Okay. I’ll send her up.”

  He hung up the phone and shrugged. “He says the lieutenant will see you. Fifth floor.”

  “Thanks,” I told him, unable to keep either the triumph or the surprise out of my voice.

  When I exited the elevator, I found Lieutenant Anthony Falcone standing in the doorway of his office. Whether he was waiting there to greet me or to bodily block me from entering, I couldn’t say.

  “Dr. Popper,” he said. Only, thanks to his New York accent, the way he pronounced my name was more like “Docta Poppa.” Smirking as if he were about to say something terribly clever, he added, “The vet with a nose for murder. I see you’re up and around again.”

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Yeah, well, I figured this wouldn’t take long,” he replied gruffly.

  Falcone stood only about five foot four, so even though I’m not exactly a giant, talking to him meant talking down to him. I was glad that he headed straight for his desk and sank into his chair. Today, as usual, he was wearing a cheap shiny brown suit that made him look like a fashion “don’t.” His equally shiny, blue-black hair was slicked back, giving the impression he was auditioning for Grease.

  But it wasn’t his fashion sense, or rather his complete lack of it, that irritated me. It was his cocky attitude. Maybe it came from being short and slight of build, factors that Dr. Freud could no doubt have gone to town with. Or maybe it stemmed from the fact that his line of work not only entitled him to carry a gun; it also allowed him to boss around other people who carried guns.

  Even so, I was determined to act all sweet and gooey, hoping he’d forget some of our past history. Perhaps even all of it.

  “I’d like to talk to you about a recent case,” I began as soon as I sat down facing his desk
, “though I know you haven’t exactly been crazy about my past interest in murder investigations.”

  He grimaced. “Isn’t that what more literary types call an understatement?”

  Literary...or literate? I thought dryly. Fortunately, this turned out to be one of those rare occasions on which I had enough self-control to keep my mouth shut.

  “This is about the Thorndike case, right?” he added.

  I nodded.

  “I thought you and Suzanne Fox might be pals, since both you ladies are veterinarians and all. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if it turned out you two were as thick as thieves. Of course, that may not be the best metaphor, given the situation.”

  “Simile,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “As thick as thieves is a simile, not a metaphor.”

  “What, you’re an English teacher now?” Falcone said, scowling. “It’s not enough that you’re a veterinarian and an amateur detective?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I replied crisply, ignoring the last of his obnoxious comments. “About Suzanne and me being friends, I mean. We went to college together. We were lab partners in every single undergraduate science course we took together. We even applied to vet school at the same time and opened our acceptance letters in front of each other.”

  “Now, isn’t that sweet,” Falcone replied sarcastically.

  “Lieutenant Falcone, I wish there was some way I could convince you that Suzanne had absolutely nothing to do with Cassandra Thorndike’s murder. She told me that herself, of course, but she didn’t need to. I’ve known her for more than fifteen years. There’s no way she was involved.” I hesitated before adding, “You have no real evidence to link her to the murder, do you? Aside from what a few witnesses might have said?”

  He narrowed his dark, beady eyes. They reminded me of the black button eyes on stuffed animals—except those are usually cute and cuddly. There was nothing the least bit cute or cuddly about this compact bundle of polyester-wrapped testosterone.

  “Surely you didn’t come here thinkin’ I’d be willing to discuss the details of this case with you.”

  I sat up straighter and looked him in the eye. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping that you would. You and I have the same goal: making sure the person who really killed Cassandra Thorndike is caught.”