Kiss of death

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ADAM PARKED HIS car in the visitors’ section of the lot behind the coroner’s office. He looked around to see if anyone had followed him. When he’d left the house this morning, he’d carefully surveyed the street to see if any strange vehicles were parked close to the house.

Nothing.

Not that he expected anyone to be tailing him, but he couldn’t stop worrying about Whitney. There wasn’t any reason for concern, he assured himself. Whoever had thrown the pipe bomb had been after Miranda. Still, Whitney was constantly in his thoughts.

Since the night of the pipe bombing, he’d been worried someone might mistake Whitney for her cousin. He was even more troubled now, but he didn’t know why. Okay, maybe he did. Making love to her had triggered a very masculine instinct. Protectiveness. When you cared about a woman, you wanted to protect her.

Whitney had come to mean a lot to him in a short period of time. Once he would have questioned this, but after facing death-and surviving-he knew how quickly life could change. Falling for a woman this soon no longer surprised him.

He walked into the building and down the stairs to the level where Samantha Waterson had her office. He’d received a text message this morning that the assistant coroner wanted to see him.

“Hey,” Samantha greeted him when he appeared at her office door.

“Hey, yourself.” Adam walked in with a smile for the redhead. “I received your message.”

She waved him into the chair next to her desk. “I received the advanced tox report on your uncle. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Adam stared blankly at her for a moment. He couldn’t believe this. He’d been so sure a toxicology screen would turn up something. “Nothing?”

“Nope. Traces of ibuprofen. That’s all. Aspirin or Tylenol turns up in ninety-eight percent of all tox screens. It’s the most common drug in America.”

Adam recalled Quinten Foley’s visit. They were dealing with sophisticated people who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. He didn’t know of any reason they would want to kill his uncle, but then, he didn’t have all of the facts.

“Is there anything that wouldn’t show up on a tox screen?” he asked.

“Sure. Lots of things. Rohypnol, for starters.”

“The date-rape drug?”

“Yes. It’s out of your system in twenty-four hours. If a victim isn’t tested immediately, it’s almost impossible to prove in court that a defendant slipped a woman the drug.”

“How would Rohypnol figure in my uncle’s death?”

“Victims go into a blackout state and don’t remember anything. He could have been given the drug, then forced to exercise so vigorously that his heart gave out.”

“I’m not sure…someone would have to have known heart trouble ran in the family. Even if they did, there’s no guarantee it would work.” He shook his head. “Anything else?”

“There are lots of designer drugs around. Remember the steroid substitutes invented to get around baseball’s steroid ban?” she asked, and he nodded. “Like those designer steroids, there are a number of drugs that can elude toxicology panels. The one that comes to mind in this case is curare.”

“That stuff that Indians in the Amazon used on their arrow tips?”

“Exactly. It’s sold under a variety of names by drug companies. It’s most commonly administered when a doctor is operating on someone’s lungs. The drug causes paralysis so the lungs don’t move during the operation. If your uncle was given an overdose, all his internal organs would have shut down. The process could have mimicked a heart attack.”

Calvin Hunter had been involved in dangerous arms transactions. Considering those deals, the men wouldn’t have wanted to find themselves involved in an investigation. They would have used something untraceable.

“I guess this is a dead end,” he said with heartfelt regret in his voice.

“There’s one other possibility,” Samantha told him.

He refused to get his hopes up. “What’s that?”

“Dr. Alfonse Taggart at Stanford is working on new tests specifically designed to detect drugs that current tox panels don’t show. In this case, I would send him slides of the liver. Curare in any form impacts the liver. I didn’t notice any inflammation and it didn’t come up on the tox panel either, but maybe Dr. Taggart can find something. It’s a long shot.”

“Thanks. I owe you,” he told her.

IT WAS NEARLY NOON BY the time Whitney arrived back at the house. She punched in the alarm code and entered the home followed by the dogs. During her rounds, she’d stopped in at Dog Diva. Daniel, the owner, had given her the names of two women who also worked as pet concierges in the area.

She’d spoken with one of them. Lyleen Foster sounded promising. She lived nearby and had an excellent reputation. She could take on several dogs, but not all of them. It was going to be necessary to split up Miranda’s clients.

“Okay, guys, settle down,” she told Lexi and Da Vinci. Maddie’s owner, Debbie Sutton, had picked her up. Whitney was down to three dogs. Jasper came scampering into the kitchen at the sound of her voice. She assumed he’d been in his favorite hiding spot under the coffee table.

She went back into the maid’s room and took a closer look at the clothes someone had left for her. Was there anything she could wear to Vladimir’s exhibition tonight?

“You’re queen of the clueless,” she said under her breath. She had no idea what anyone wore to an opening. If she couldn’t find something, she would have to spend money she didn’t have on a dress.

Sorting through the clothing, she relived last night. Lord have mercy. Not only was Adam a hunk, he was an exceptional lover. She cautioned herself to keep this physical and not allow herself to fall for him.

She found a raspberry-colored sundress of sheer gauze. The fabric was held up on one shoulder by a lime-green butterfly while the other shoulder was bare. She smoothed out the dress and inspected it more closely. It wasn’t very dressy, but it would work, she decided.

She tried to imagine what Adam would think. She’d tried so hard to be pretty for Ryan. He always found fault. She knew Adam wouldn’t be hypercritical. He’d like whatever she wore. Still, she was determined to look her best.

Whitney hoped Trish’s friend wouldn’t need a house-sitter. She would just as soon live here with Adam. That might not be such a good idea, she reflected. Would she be able to study with him around? Wouldn’t she just be jumping into another relationship too soon?

Well, she silently conceded, she was in a relationship. She never had casual sex. What had happened last night meant a commitment-to her. But after living with Ryan and having a marriage end in heartbreak, she wasn’t sure she should be sharing a house with Adam. A little distance was probably a very good idea.

Becoming a vet would mean giving up a lot, and it would test a relationship. She’d buzzed by the animal hospital on her way home to see if they could suggest another person to help take over her cousin’s business. They had a few suggestions. And while Whitney was there, she’d been drafted to help with a Jackahuahua.

The combination Jack Russell terrier and Chihuahua had been crossbred to create a unique dog. So-called “designer” dogs had become popular. Breeders mated two different types of purebreds like Labrador retrievers and poodles to create a Labradoodle. Golden retrievers had also been crossed with poodles to have Goldendoodle puppies. The positive characteristics of the Labs and Goldens combined with the fur of poodles appealed to people who were allergic to dogs but wanted a family-friendly pet that was easy to train. Jackahuahuas were new to her, and Whitney wasn’t sure why they’d been crossbred.

The Jackahuahua had severely impacted anal glands. She’d nearly been bitten before they’d been able to bring the pet some relief, but she hadn’t minded. Just being in the clinic and seeing the variety of things she’d need to learn excited her, even the gross procedures like expressing anal glands. The road wouldn’t be easy, but becoming a vet was the career for her. She’d languished too long in a cube farm inputting data when she should have been doing something she loved.

“Don’t set aside your dream because of a man,” she said out loud. If Trish’s friend needed a house-sitter, Whitney intended to take the job.

She was ironing the raspberry dress when she remembered the photos of Miranda taken last December. She and Adam had gone up to his bedroom immediately after they left the pool. They’d spent the night making love. Neither of them had given a second thought to the pictures.

She finished the dress and hung it in the maid’s room. The photos were still on the kitchen counter and she took them up to the office, the dogs at her heels. She located the magnifying glass in the top drawer of what had once been Calvin Hunter’s desk. She examined the photos closely, taking care to check the umbrella that Adam had noticed in the background.

It was a talapa-style umbrella made of dried palm fronds. Across the top, letters were stitched in blue. The words were a little grainy but she made out “Corona.” The popular Mexican beer. Could the picture have been snapped in Mexico?

That would account for the dazzling sun in December when it had been raining here. Had it rained on that day? Adam had planned to consult the weather service Web site.

She spun around in the office chair and turned on Adam’s computer. A quick check of the site confirmed what Whitney had remembered. It had been raining as far south as Ensenada, Mexico, which was an hour’s drive beyond San Diego.

So Miranda hadn’t gone there, even though it would have been an easy drive. But she could have caught a cheap flight to Cabo San Lucas at the tip of the Baja California peninsula. It hadn’t been raining that far south. Or Miranda could have been in any number of places in Mexico. There were lots of inexpensive flights out of San Diego to destinations on the sun-drenched beaches in Mexico. Acapulco and Puerto Vallarta were among the most popular but other places were possibilities.

“Does it matter?” she wondered out loud. The other dogs were snoozing nearby, but at the sound of her voice, Lexi cocked her head. Whitney took the time to give her a loving pat.

Where Miranda had been last December could be very important. If Adam’s theory was correct, Miranda might have returned to this sunny spot. But why hadn’t her name appeared on the passport check? She gazed at the smiling picture of her cousin.

What had Miranda been thinking?

She studied the photo for several minutes. There was more writing on the talapa. The magnifying glass showed a smaller word after Corona. It looked like “de.” No. There was another letter. An L. The second word was “del.”

Maybe it wasn’t the name of a beer after all. She’d taken three years of Spanish in high school. Corona meant crown. That accounted for the crown logo on each Corona beer bottle.

The third word was blurred. Evidently, the breeze had ruffled the dried fronds and they had concealed part of the letters. The magnifying glass had a small circular insert that magnified a bit more. She positioned it over the third word. “Mar,” she finally decided.

Corona del Mar. Crown of the sea.

Okay, Crown of the Sea. Was it a resort or a restaurant? No, probably not a restaurant, she decided. The talapa was shading a beach chair. There wasn’t any sign of food.

She went onto the computer again. Expedia didn’t have any listing for a resort in Mexico called Corona del Mar. She tried Google and had over seventy hits. One was a beach in Southern California. Another was a swim suit manufacturer.

She diligently checked each one to see if there was any possible link. She was on fifty-three when she discovered Corona del Mar, an upscale development on the Mexican Riviera south of Cancún. The “villas” were in a tropical reserve called Mayakoba and started at a million dollars.

Miranda couldn’t have been there. She didn’t have that kind of money.

Whitney thought about it for a second as she leaned down to pet Lexi again. “Doesn’t work,” she told Lexi. “Does it, girl? Not unless Miranda did come across a bundle of drug money.”

ADAM STOOD BESIDE WHITNEY, a glass of champagne in his hand. He’d gotten home late, and he’d forgotten all about the opening. They’d rushed to make it to the gallery. Luck had been with them and they’d found a parking space down the street. They hadn’t needed to waste time waiting for the parking valets who had been hired for the evening and were stationed in front of the gallery.

“That’s Rod Babcock over there,” Whitney told him in a low voice. “Next to the tall blonde. She’s Trish Bowrather, owner of the gallery.”

“Let’s see if we can edge our way close enough to talk to them. Make it seem casual,” he told her. “We want to catch Babcock off guard.”

Adam had never been to a gallery opening. He’d expected a lot of dressed-up folks, but not this many. Either the Russian was a huge draw or the gallery owner had an impressive list of clients who were willing to turn out for free champagne and appetizers.

He put his hand on the back of Whitney’s waist to guide her forward. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight. When she’d waltzed out of the maid’s room in a pink number that clung to her sexy bod like wet silk, he’d wanted to drag her upstairs and throw her on his bed.

“Dynamite,” he’d told her. And he’d meant it.

Every guy in the place was gawking at her. Well, okay, not every guy. The gallery was so damn packed that only those close to them could see Whitney. Those men couldn’t get enough. Sure as hell, he wasn’t leaving her alone with some sleazebag lawyer.

“That must be Vladimir,” Whitney said to him over her shoulder.

Adam assumed she meant the little guy with the grizzled goatee and wisps of white hair arranged on his bullet-shaped head in the comb-over from hell. His name had conjured up an image of a young, fit guy, but obviously Adam’s imagination had taken flight in the wrong direction.

“I leave here five, all but six years,” Vladimir was saying as they shouldered their way up to the attorney and the blonde.

Adam decided the Russian had been living here almost six years. His English was iffy, but who was Adam to judge. If he were living in Russia, he seriously doubted he could speak their language any better after five years.

“Whitney, there you are,” exclaimed Trish Bowrather. The gallery owner’s eyes surveyed Adam for a moment, then she smiled at the attorney.

Broderick Babcock was dressed in a black mock turtleneck and a beige linen sports jacket that hadn’t come off the rack. His chocolate-brown trousers had creases sharper than most knife blades. He appeared fit with black hair burnished with gray at the temples. Adam had to admit that Babcock might have walked straight out of central casting to fill the role of a high-profile attorney.

“Whitney adores your work,” Trish told the Russian. “Don’t you, Whitney?”

“Very impressive.” Whitney sounded convincing, but on the way over she’d confided in Adam that she found Vladimir’s immense canvases strange.

“You look great,” Babcock commented, his eyes assessing Whitney in a way that made Adam want to punch out his lights.

Whitney introduced Adam to the attorney, and the guy blessed him with a brief glance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Whitney. Trish kept smiling, but her lips were crimped. Adam would bet his life the gallery owner wanted Babcock all to herself.

“Trish! Trish!” called an old battle-ax with garlands of pearls around her neck.

“Come on.” Trish grabbed Vladimir by the arm. “Geraldine Devore already owns two of your paintings. She’s dying to meet you.”

Adam eyed Babcock while the lawyer and Whitney watched Trish tow Vladimir through the crowd. They were both smiling, on the verge of laughing. Babcock’s eyes shifted left and checked out Whitney’s cleavage.

“Let’s go outside and get some air,” Adam told Whitney.

The attorney took the bait. “Good idea.”

It took the trio a few minutes to maneuver their way through the crowd. Along the way beach bunnies dressed as cowgirls offered them a variety of appetizers from Liquid Cowboy, the caterer. Adam noticed the opening was in full swing. Bored husbands quaffing martinis. Women checking out each other’s jewelry. A few people looking at the art.

Prospect Avenue was on the bluff above the ocean. Outside the gallery a balmy breeze drifted in from the Pacific, bringing with it the briny scent of the ocean. There were a few guests on the sidewalk but it wasn’t too crowded for a private conversation.

Whitney gave him an opening. “Rod’s helping with my property settlement. I went to him because of Miranda.”

Adam looked directly in the attorney’s eyes. “They look a lot alike, don’t they?”

“So I’m told.” Babcock took a swig of scotch. “I never met the woman.”

“Really?” Adam did his best to sound surprised. “Jared Cabral told me you were a regular at Saffron Blue.”

Babcock’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes might have narrowed just slightly. “Jared didn’t tell you anything. It’s easier to persuade a dead man to talk.”

True. So true. Adam had blown it intentionally to gauge Babcock’s reaction. “Okay. Cabral didn’t tell me. Let’s just say someone mentioned you were a regular at Saffron Blue.”

“That’s right. I was-past tense. I haven’t been to the club in ages.” Babcock turned to Whitney. “What’s this got to do with your cousin?”

“You must have known Miranda. She worked there. You know, in the back room.”

Babcock’s expression never faltered. He casually sipped his scotch, then said, “You never mentioned that. You claimed your cousin walked dogs.”

“She did. Miranda also danced at Saffron Blue. I didn’t find out until after I went to your office.”

“You could have told me at lunch.”

Whitney gave him an apologetic smile. “It slipped my mind with the fire and everything, then Trish joined us. I forgot. Sorry.”

“I went to Saffron Blue on occasion.” Babcock didn’t seem fazed. Adam gave the lawyer credit. The guy was damn good. “You said your cousin looks a lot like you. I don’t remember-”

“Does the name Kat Nippe sound familiar?” asked Adam.

Babcock stared at Whitney. “Of course, now I see the resemblance. But Kat had jet-black hair. I never thought of her as a blonde.”

Whitney turned to Adam. “She must have been wearing a wig.”

“When was the last time you were out there?” Adam asked.

“It’s been a year and twenty-three days,” Babcock said matter-of-factly.

“How can you be so sure?” Adam wanted to know.

“I realized I was gambling too much. I mentioned it to a doctor friend while we were golfing. He told me a number of patients who took a certain medication to treat Parkinson’s became chronic gamblers, even though they’d never had the problem before. He suggested I see a doctor at the Mayo Clinic who’s been treating gambling addiction in Parkinson’s patients. The treatment blocks the same part of the brain the Parkinson’s medication affects. I tried it, and the pills work. That’s why I know how long it’s been. I don’t gamble any longer.”

“That was the last time you saw Miranda…Kat?” Whitney asked.

“Yes. I used to tip her quite a bit, when I won. It’s considered good luck to tip the back-room hostess.” He finished off the dregs of his scotch. “Come to think of it, Kat wasn’t around the last few months I was there. She quit or something.”

Adam waited for Whitney to ask if Babcock had encountered Ryan Fordham in the back room. Just then a blue Bentley pulled to the curb, and the parking valet hustled to open the passenger door. Right on its bumper was a metallic-silver Porsche. Out of the sports car stepped a knockout blonde in a black sheath that fit like a tattoo.