Trouble in Tallahassee (Familiar Legacy Book 3) Page 16

  Abby kneels on the floor and looks me in the eyes. “Are there any more flash drives, rings or things, or other clues hidden in my house?”

  I meow, appreciatively. Then I shake my head. There’s a piece—or two—of the puzzle still missing, but it’s not here at Abby’s.

  “Shall we see what this is?” Victor is already heading toward a desk lamp in the living room.

  Under the bright light of the lamp, Abby and Victor study the wedding band.

  “Look,” Victor says, and points. “The word love. The same style of engraving script as in the earrings.”

  They stare at each other for a moment and rush back into the bedroom, and tumble around among the items on the top of the dresser. Abby pulls up a wedding ring. I hop on top of the dresser to supervise. The ring Abby took from Jennifer’s finger is a decent match for the one in the cat food can, but not exact. As with the replacement earring, the engraving is cruder.

  “Why on earth would Layla have two pieces of Jennifer’s jewelry, especially jewelry that’s so obviously precious to her?” Abby looks at me as if I have an answer.

  But I don’t.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Abby’s cell phone chimed from inside her purse, and she wrestled it out from the clutter. “Delphine,” she said, glancing at the caller ID, and her heart kicked painfully in her chest. This would either be about Phillip or Jennifer. Either way, Abby didn’t figure it for good news. Not this early.

  “I’m working on getting Phillip out of jail so he can go be with Jennifer. But if I can’t get him out, you need to get to the hospital and be with her.” Delphine hadn’t bothered with hello.

  Abby swallowed hard. That didn’t sound good. “How’s she doing?”

  “In a coma. Bad.” Delphine’s voice sounded tired and anxious. “Docs say that she had Valium and antidepressants in her system. A lot.”

  “I thought I saw some bruising along her jaw,” Abby said. “Like somebody had pried her mouth open against her will and maybe forced her to take those pills.”

  “Yes, that’s what the ER doctors said,” Delphine replied. “The bruises became more intense at the hospital, especially after they cleaned her face and removed her make-up.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “They don’t really know yet.”

  Abby felt tears forming in her eyes and wiped at her face with her sleeve. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve got to go. I got a judge waiting to hear an expedited bail hearing.”

  “Wait, wait, Delphine. Please. Does the name Marshall mean anything to you?

  “What’s that got to do with Jennifer?”

  “It was the last thing she said to me, right before she passed out and the EMTs loaded her in the ambulance.”

  “Marshall? You mean like the Marshall court?”

  “Yes, Marshall. Does she have…I don’t know, a brother or somebody named Marshall?”

  “No. And I’ve got to go.” With that Delphine ended the phone call.

  “Like the Marshall court?” Abby felt like a bell was going off in her head.

  “Victor, we need to get to the law school. Right now. I’ll explain on the way.” Abby didn’t pause to see if he agreed, but grabbed her purse and her keys. “You too, Trouble. We might need you.”

  A moment later, they were all crowded into Victor’s pickup, and he was driving.

  “Okay, now, you want to explain this to me.”

  “The Marshall court,” Abby said.

  “You mean, like Marbury vs. Madison and all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me on this, okay.” Abby paused, once again trying to gather her own thoughts into a coherent pattern. “We both know that Marshall was the Supreme Court justice in 1803, and that he authored Marbury v. Madison, the case that established beyond doubt the independence of the U. S. Supreme Court.”

  “Yeah, I remember all that. We spent a whole week studying the case in my constitutional law class. It’s a famous case. And it changed the way our government and our country have functioned ever since then because it established the Supreme Court’s right to knock down laws of Congress if the Court found them unconstitutional.”

  “Bravo. You get an A.” Abby grinned at Victor for a second before worry creased her forehead again. “But there’s a connection between that and …well, Layla. Maybe.”

  Victor ran a red light, but in the early morning traffic, no one was about. Still Abby cut her eyes at him and frowned.

  “A connection? I don’t see how. You’re not saying Layla was researching or writing something on the Marshall court? I mean hasn’t everything that could ever be written about that been written?”

  “Yes.” Abby paused, waiting to see if Victor connected the dots on his own. Trouble let out an insistent yowl, but she ignored him.

  “Professor Miguel.” Victor pounded the steering wheel. “He wrote that book on the Marshall court and how it changed American history. We all had to buy the damn book and read it in Con Law. He must make a fortune off the sales since practically every law student in the country has to buy the book.” Victor drove, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other pushing back the hair drooping over his eye.

  “The night Layla disappeared, she and Miguel were talking about her doing some research for a sequel to his book.” Abby tried to remember exactly who had said what, but she’d been distracted as they’d talked.

  “So Miguel and Layla were working together on something? And that something might have to do with the Marshall court?” Victor sounded dubious.

  “Maybe.” Abby closed her eyes as if to remember better.

  “But how could a book that man wrote about the Marshall court have anything to do with kidnapping Layla, killing that poor homeless man, and trying to burn down Layla’s and Jennifer’s places?”

  “I don’t know.” Abby knew it sounded far-fetched, but she had a feeling she was on to something. “I think we might be able to find out in the law review offices and maybe in the law library. And I want to find out what kind of car Miguel drives. If he drives a dark BMW, it could have been him rushing away from Jennifer’s after he tried to kill her.”

  Perched over her shoulder and looking out the back window of the pickup, Trouble let out a resounding yowl.

  Chapter Forty

  Victor parked the pickup in the student lot at the law school. He hopped out quickly so he could open the door for Abby, but before he rounded the back of the truck, she was already heading toward the school, holding Trouble in her arms.

  Victor hurried after her. “How are you going to find out what kind of car the professor drives?”

  Abby didn’t slow up. “Ask.”

  Victor felt a little stung at the tartness of her reply, but he knew Abby was exhausted and stressed. And he understood too: Miguel was a heartthrob. Most of the women at the law school—student, teacher, or administrative—had crushes on the man. Probably any female inside the law school would know what he drove and, no doubt, his shirt size, his birthday, and his favorite liquor.

  “Let’s go to the law review offices first. I want to see if I can find any research Layla might have been doing for Miguel that might tell us something about what’s going on. Then we’ll find out if he drives a dark BMW and then we confront him, or stalk him, or torture him, or whatever it takes to find Layla.” In Abby’s arms, Trouble meowed as if agreeing.

  “It’s a plan.” Victor spoke as they raced inside the building. He worried somebody might object to the cat, but they hurried into the law review offices without anyone even speaking to them.

  In his billfold, he still had the law review key card he had taken from Layla’s office the night she was kidnapped. He pulled his billfold out, yanked out the key card, and a moment later the door sprang opened. On a hunch, he tried the key card on Layla’s office door, and it sprang open too.

  At once, Victor saw Layla’s PC was gone from her desk, and he figured Rizzo and Lucas had taken custody of i
t. Abby put Trouble down and looked around the office. Surely anything of any real interest was in police custody, like the computer. But it didn’t hurt to search again.

  Or maybe they were just wasting time while Layla died.

  As glad as I am to see Victor and Abby getting along so well, they need to stop chatting it up and get a move on.

  To get them back on track, I jump up on the credenza and start sniffing along the edge of the book shelves, with my nose on red alert.

  From the moment I entered this office, I could catch the faint whiff of that same spicy aftershave I’d smelled in Abby’s backyard, in Layla’s room, and on Phillip. Of course, Layla might have brought the scent into her office on herself, or she might have had a visit from Phillip. But somehow, I think the smell itself is more tangible than something lingering from a past visit.

  Abby and Victor stop what they’re doing and watch me.

  On the top shelf, I pick up a stronger scent trail, definitely the aftershave or cologne that Phillip was wearing at Abby’s, and I shove my nose between the books. I find what I’m looking for and meow loudly to alert the bipeds, as I start digging at the source.

  Victor jumps over to me and pulls the book I’m focusing on from the shelf. Abby joins us as Victor flips open the book.

  “Look at this,” he says and pulls out a set of papers about the length and width of an average paperback, though much thinner, and stapled in one corner.

  “Page proofs.” Abby takes them from Victor’s hand and looks through them. “Final page proofs for an article analyzing the national implications of Florida’s determined stand against offshore oil drilling on its tourist coastline. By Professor Miguel Angel Castillo”

  “But that’s Layla’s article.” Victor sounds mad and also quite sure of what he said as Abby turns pages. “I read several drafts of it on those flash drives from her gym bag and the one taped to the back of the toilet.”

  “Me too.” Abby sounds indignant. “I read some revisions on the flash drive I found in her diabetic snack bars at the law firm.”

  “Plagiarism?”

  “Hell, yes, plagiarism. It’s got Miguel’s byline and is set for publication in the Texas Law Review. That lousy, thieving son of a bitch.” Abby slaps at the page proofs as if it were the papers’ fault. “All that publish or perish. I guess it got to him, and he stole her article.”

  “But would he kidnap her to hide that? I mean how does that help him? And to kill that homeless man, and try to burn Layla’s apartment and the Drapers’ house? That seems a bit too much.”

  I meow some encouragement at the two of them, and tangle around their legs trying to hurry them up. We need to be confronting Miguel if you ask me, not having a chat.

  But chat they do. Humanoids!

  “You’re right,” Abby says. “I don’t see him killing or kidnapping over this. I mean, he’d just say he wrote it and Layla was making it up that she did, or exaggerating. Or that she helped some with the research, but he did the actual analysis and writing. This kind of thing goes on a lot in grad schools. You know, it’s a he said-she said kind of thing. The professor denies it and the student looks bad. The professor gives the student poor recommendations or blackballs them if the student objects. It’s a no-win situation.”

  “But Layla wouldn’t have taken that.” Victor practically tramples my tail as he stomps around the office.

  “Exactly,” Abby says, her voice a rising sound of comprehension. “All those drafts, and the research notes, that proves she wrote the law review article and not him. Don’t you see that?”

  Even I comprehend the stratagem, but Victor still has a small frown on his face. Nobody but the author of the law review would have all those drafts showing the progression of the article from research notes to rough outline to final version. Miguel couldn’t just dismiss Layla as a liar because she had the proof he was the cheat, not her. The only way out of that for Miguel was to find and destroy all the flash drives with Layla’s work in progress.

  “So is that it?” Victor stares at Abby, the puzzled look fading. “That’s what he’s looking for then? Right? The flash drives with Layla’s various drafts. If he destroys them, then he can just deny Layla wrote the article, and she wouldn’t have any proof.”

  Victor and Abby stare at each other. “That’s why the fires—he was trying to destroy any flash drives he couldn’t find,” Abby exclaims.

  Bravo, bipeds! Now on with the chase.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I hop down from the credenza and run to the closed door. I paw at it and bellow a clear command. Let me out.

  Abby scrambles to open the door for me and I take off running.

  I don’t bother to look behind me, as I know Abby has enough sense to follow me. And surely Victor will follow Abby if only to protect her.

  Once more, I trust my nose. The scent of the aftershave is strong enough that it’s easy for me to follow it down the hallway toward an office. A few students, and even a dean-type person, look at me, mostly friendly, as I zip down the hallway.

  I turn down one hallway into another one, and finally arrive at a door where the scent is quite strong. Almost unpleasantly so. At least that Phillip person had the good taste not to drench himself in the stuff.

  Stopping in front of the office, I see a brass name plate on the door that reads Miguel Angel Castillo. The door is slightly cracked, and I see no reason to wait for Abby and Victor to catch up with me. Shoving my weight against the door, I push it open. Miguel is sitting behind his desk, his PC on, and a frown on his face.

  I meow and he jumps, startled no doubt by my invasion of his office.

  He grimaces, and I sense that in a moment he will throw something at me, or at least shout at me. But Abby knocks on the door and pokes her head in at the same time.

  “Oh, my goodness. Look where my kitty ran off to,” she says, her voice in an unnatural tone I know at once is her fake perky voice. Hopefully Miguel doesn’t register the bogus chirping quality.

  “My cat, Trouble,” Abby points at me. “I’m sorry, but he got away from me. May I come in and get him?”

  Miguel’s former scowl suddenly transforms into a smile. “Hello, Abby. I was just thinking about you. What a wonderful surprise.”

  He’s lying. I can hear it in the strained inflections of his voice, and I glance at Abby. Satisfied that she knows too, I slink forward toward him. I want a close-up sniff to be sure the smell is actually his aftershave or cologne.

  Abby lunges for me, but I evade her and jump on Miguel’s desk. He jerks back as if he is afraid of me and I hiss at him, thinking how much fun it would be to actually bite him.

  Instead, once more, I follow my nose. Jumping about, ever just out of reach of his hands, I locate the drawer in the desk where a strong scent of the aftershave radiates out of the space. Unless I miss my guess, he has a bottle of the stuff in that drawer.

  I meow and swat at the drawer. Miguel swats at me. Abby grabs for me, and this time I let her catch me, but not before I make one last determined and conspicuous swipe at the drawer with the aftershave.

  “I’m so sorry.” Abby says it breathlessly but smiles at Miguel as if she is trying to flirt. “He’s usually so well behaved.”

  I swat at the drawer again, and meow.

  “Well, he certainly is misbehaving today, isn’t he?” Miguel smiles back at Abby, before turning to give me one of those if-looks-could-kill glares. I wiggle half out of Abby’s arms and claw at the desk drawer.

  “He must think you have catnip or salmon in that drawer.” Abby grins and tilts her head so that her hair flips over her face, Veronica Lake style.

  Okay, a bit of overkill on the play-act flirting. I meow at her to tone it down. But Miguel seems to buy her act and leans toward her. “Shall we see?” With that, he opens the drawer, and I lunge out of Abby’s hands and land inside the open space.

  There, among a few odds and ends of personal toiletry items—including a comb, brush, and hand
held mirror, each with matching tooled silver handles in a kind of Spanish style—is a bottle of aftershave. It looks expensive. I paw at it, knocking it over.

  The top is not on it tightly, and a wave of spicy, yet flowery, smell floods the room as the aftershave spills. Amber and iris, with notes of geranium, and definitely patchouli.

  Miguel grabs for the bottle, smacking me on the head as he does.

  “I’m so sorry.” Abby snares me as she gets a very good look at the bottle. “He must really like your aftershave. Maybe they put catnip in it?”

  “This is expensive cologne, not aftershave,” Miguel says, sounding petulant and no longer pretending to flirt. “It’s L’Homme Prada cologne.”

  “I’m so, so sorry. I’d be glad to replace it.” Abby has stopped smiling and flirting too. Miguel stares at Abby, and then at me, now lying in Abby’s arms like a peaceful lap cat. I grin at Miguel and purr.

  “No, no, that’s quite all right.” Miguel regains his composure, smooths his hair, and tries another smile at Abby. “Not that much spilled.”

  “I bet a lady friend gave that to you?” Abby flips her hair back and licks her lower lip.

  Once more I suspect she is overdoing it. But Miguel gives her a sheepish grin and nods. “But it’s over now. The relationship, I mean. Perhaps I should stop using it.”

  “I like Spicebomb.” Abby’s voice is suddenly husky, as she runs her fingers through my fur with her eyes focused on Miguel’s. “I’ll bring you a bottle of that to make up for what my kitty spilled.”

  I don’t like being called a kitty, and start to protest, but then remember Abby is acting. Thank goodness Victor has the good sense to stay outside the room and leave this to Abby and me.

  “I’d like that. Very much.” Miguel is puffing out with ego, and yet again I stifle the urge to bite the man. “But it’s not at all necessary. Not just yet, anyway.” He positively twinkles as he looks at Abby.