Sleighed

by T Lockhaven

  “Miller, it’s Detective Mitchell. Has George Owens been processed?”

  The sound came of fingers flying across a keyboard. “No, sir, it’s a quiet night.”

  “Thanks, Miller. If he arrives, let me know ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ryan looked at the group and rubbed his head. “Seems like George is in the wind. Do me a favor, Ellie, let me know immediately if you see him, he could be dangerous.”

  Ellie wanted to vomit. How had everything turned out so wrong?

  Chapter 10

  Numb, Ellie climbed into her freezing car with Michael and Olivia. She took her phone from her pocket and dialed George’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

  “Ellie, we need to get back to my house. We need to find out if George is still there,” Michael said.

  “He lied to us…why would George lie to us?”

  “He’s afraid, Ellie,” Michael said, touching her shoulder. “He’s not thinking straight.”

  Ellie started the engine and pressed the front and rear defrost buttons. She put the car in reverse. The tires made a crunching sound in the snow. On the display from her rear backup camera she could see Rita, hunched over, her head in her hands.

  “Ellie, maybe we should try calling George’s lawyer…what was his name? Gordon something,” Olivia said.

  “Gordon Sparks,” Ellie replied, turning onto Ridgewood.

  “I’ll check.” Michael pulled up Google on his phone and searched for Gordon Sparks Esquire. “Found him.” He tapped the speaker button.

  The phone rang several times and then went to voicemail.

  “Great.” Michael sighed. “I’ll leave a message. Hopefully he checks his voicemails.”

  “Wait,” Olivia cried, “he’s giving an emergency number.”

  Michael opened his notepad app and quickly typed in the number. “Got it.”

  Olivia met Ellie’s eyes in the rearview mirror. This was hard on both of them. George was a close friend, and now he’d lied to them and may have killed a man.

  “Hello.” Michael’s voice cut through the silence. He tapped the speaker button again and turned up the volume. “I’m Michael West, I’m a good friend of George Owens. I’m so sorry for the late hour, I wouldn’t call if this wasn’t urgent.”

  “Hello, Michael, what’s this about?”

  “I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news, but a man was killed in George’s front yard.”

  “Yes, I tried phoning him a couple hours ago to make sure everything was okay, but it went straight to voicemail.”

  Michael looked at Ellie. She veered off the road into a Wawa gas station.

  “So, George hasn’t tried contacting you?” Michael asked.

  “No, not this evening. Is everything okay?” Concern grew in the man’s voice. “I’m guessing not.”

  “George came to my house when he found out Drew…was murdered. He told me he was worried about the police suspecting that he was to blame.”

  “Why on earth would he think such a thing?”

  “George got into a fight with Drew at the Schooners bar, and a couple hours later, Drew wound up dead in his front yard. I told George to call you immediately. He faked a phone call to you and told me that you and he were going to the police station to clear all of this up. Now, no one can get ahold of him.”

  “Good Lord. What in the Sam Hill is he thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll give you a call if I hear anything. I’d greatly appreciate it if you would do the same. Everyone is terribly worried about him.”

  “I will. I take it the number you’re on is your cell number.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, I’ll be in touch if I hear anything. Have a good evening.”

  “Goodnight.” Michael hung up and turned toward Ellie.

  Olivia leaned forward from the back between the two front seats.

  “I need some coffee and some fresh air,” Ellie exclaimed, pushing her car door open.

  “I second that,” Olivia said.

  Michael hurried around the front of the car and joined the girls. “Listen, I have a theory. So far just about everything George has told us over the past twelve hours has been a lie.”

  Ellie gave him a harsh look.

  Michael threw up his hands. “I’m sorry, Ellie, but it’s true. Bernstein’s party, calling his lawyer—”

  “Okay, okay, so what’s your point? I refuse to believe that George killed someone. I’ve known him my entire life. People don’t just change.”

  “He snapped at the mall,” Michael said. “Remember the entire beard incident? The truth is, we never know what will set someone off.”

  A bell tinkled as Ellie pushed open the door to the service station. She blinked at the harsh fluorescent overhead lights washing over them. Michael and Olivia followed at her heels and made a beeline to the back of the store, to the coffee counter.

  “Hazelnut’s fresh,” a short, balding guy yelled out. He pointed at various pots of coffee. “French vanilla is fresh, and the pecan blend. The rest was made about three hours ago.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia shouted back.

  “So,” Michael continued, pouring himself a large cup of hazelnut. “Remember when George said Drew kept trying to force the book on him, and he wouldn’t take it? What if Drew made him take it? What if Drew told George who the black book belonged to, and George tried to return it?”

  “What do you mean, he tried to return it? What would stop him from giving someone a book at the Bernstein party?” Olivia asked.

  “Unless,” Ellie said suddenly, “he couldn’t get in!”

  “He couldn’t get in? You think he showed up at their door and the Bernsteins said no, go away?”

  “I think he got to their guardhouse, and they stopped him from getting in. Come on,” Ellie exclaimed.

  Michael threw a ten on the counter on the way out the door. “Three large coffees,” he called out to the bewildered clerk as the door shut behind them.

  Ellie gunned the engine and whipped the car onto A1A.

  “Want to clue us in on where we’re going?” Michael asked.

  “Lantern Drive,” Ellie replied, turning onto Sandy Pond Lane.

  Michael stared out the window. The houses grew from elegant homes, to modest mansions, to sprawling oceanfront mansions. Ellie made a left onto Lantern Drive and came to a stop on a stone driveway. A brick guardhouse stood outside a set of ornate iron gates. Ellie slowly drove up and stopped at the gates.

  A young man stepped from the guardhouse, his expression polite but stern. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please. I’m Ellie Banks, owner of the Bitter Sweet Café.”

  “Yes…?” he prompted.

  “Look, this is embarrassing, but we are trying to locate a gentleman, who, let’s say, is in a delicate mental state. His name is George Owens. He said that he was here, playing Santa.”

  The young man rolled his eyes. “He was here, but he was denied entrance. The Bernsteins have him on the no-admittance list.”

  “So, he wasn’t allowed into the party this evening at all?”

  “Nope. However, a few minutes later, Mr. Owens was apprehended when he tried to climb over the wall. We have security cameras mounted around the entire premises—not sure how he thought he was going to sneak in. I told him he was trespassing and I was going to call the police if he didn’t leave immediately. Then he started going crazy, saying he had to deliver something to Giovanni Bono—he said it was life or death. The guy was scaring me. I radioed to my partner to call the police, and he bolted.”

  “Wait, Giovanni Bono, was he at the party?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t tell you. That attendee list is kept private.”

  “One more question, sorry.” Michael smiled, leaning across the front seat toward Ellie’s window. “Do you have any idea what time that was?”

  “Just a moment.” The man sighed, disappearing into the guardhouse. He returned
a moment later with a clipboard. “He arrived at eight-oh-seven p.m.”

  “Thank you so much, you’ve been a big help,” Ellie said.

  “Your very welcome, ma’am. Good luck.” He instructed Ellie to reverse and then retreated into his guardhouse.

  “Where to now?” Ellie asked, winding through the neighborhoods back to A1A.

  Michael looked from Ellie to Olivia. “I think we all know where George is heading.”

  “Giovanni Bono’s house,” she said, the weight of impending doom crushing her.

  “I think that black book is a lot more than just an address book,” Michael said. “I know that Giovanni claims that his family ended their involvement with the Mafioso decades ago…but there are rumors that he is still very much entrenched in their operations.

  “Drew may have stolen a book that could implicate Giovanni in illegal activities—maybe not only Giovanni, but other powerful people,” Michael continued. “They begin to close in on Drew, he panics and tries to get the book back to the Bonos but, he’s seen too much.”

  “Which leaves George with the book,” Ellie whispered. “He’s going to take the book to the Bono estate.” She hung her head. “George is as good as dead.”

  “Why wouldn’t he just tell us?” Olivia asked. “We could have figured something out.”

  “Maybe he was going to,” Ellie said, “but then he decided it was too dangerous—he probably didn’t want anything to happen to us. So…?” she inquired.

  “Lighthouse Lane,” Michael replied, “the Bono house is on Lighthouse Lane. I think I’m going to do a Fodor’s guide to criminal masterminds’ estates when I’ve finished my mystery book,” Michael revealed as they drove in silence. “Visit Sandpiper’s Cove to visit Martin Peters’s convicted serial killer estate. Next, residing in this charming Cape Cod, we have the home of Wilfred Moneybagger, known for crushing his victims under heavy bags of cash.”

  “Michael! Do you mind?” Ellie begged.

  “Fine,” Michael surrendered. “Turn right on Seaside, and then…,” he glanced back at Google maps, “make a quick right on Lighthouse Lane.”

  “I don’t think we should pull right up to his house,” Olivia suggested. “The sign says it’s a dead end. Maybe we should park a little further down the street.”

  “Good idea,” Ellie said.

  “It looks like his estate is a dead end, in more ways than one,” Michael said, staring out the passenger-side window.

  Ellie pulled her car along the curb. The Bono mansion was surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall that circled around the entire property, until it reached their private beach. A pier led from their deck, out to the ocean, where two speedboats were moored.

  A cluster of spotlights and security cameras were mounted every fifteen feet, and the entrance was blocked by a massive wrought-iron gate.

  The trio climbed out of Ellie’s car and stood staring at the house.

  “The Bonos and Bernsteins must shop at the same gate shop,” Michael whispered.

  “What now? It’s not like we can just go up to the gate and ask them if they’ve seen George,” Olivia reasoned.

  “Why not?” Michael replied. “It worked pretty well at the Bernstein’s. The only stupid question is the question not asked.”

  “Excuse me!”

  They spun around, not expecting to hear a woman’s voice behind them.

  Michael clutched at his chest. “Good God, lady, you almost killed me.” A small dog resembling a furry snowball sniffed Michael’s shoe and then lifted its rear leg.

  “Mildred McConey!” the woman gasped, reeling in her dog. “Mind your manners. I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine,” Michael insisted, “I’m sure she was just stretching.”

  “Are you folks lost?” the young woman asked. She was dressed in snow boots, scrub pants, and a huge puffy white coat that made her appear as if someone had stuffed her inside a tower of powdered donuts. She brushed her hair away from her face with a gloved hand. “I wouldn’t go snooping around the Bono’s house if you know what I mean. Strange family.” She tilted her head from side to side and rolled her eyes in a circle.

  “We’re trying to track down my grandfather,” Ellie replied. “He’s a professional Santa. You know, he does Christmas parties and events. The Bono house was the last one listed on his events calendar.”

  “He’s getting old,” Olivia added, “and we didn’t see his car in the driveway. We’re just worried about him.”

  “Does he drive a….” The woman scrunched up her face. “Actually, I don’t know what kind of car it is—”

  “A red car with wood paneling, a reindeer on the hood?” Ellie asked anxiously.

  “Yes, that’s it, you just missed them. A man drove by with a woman and another man who fits your grandfather’s description, just a couple minutes ago.”

  “Thank you,” Ellie exclaimed, already racing toward her car.

  “Lighthouse Lane is one way,” Michael said as Ellie spun the car around, spitting snow. “Seaside connects to A1A.”

  Ellie nodded, pouring on the gas. The car fishtailed and picked up speed. “If they’re on A1A, we’ll never catch them.”

  “If they go north,” Michael said, “they’ll be heading back toward town—”

  “So?” Olivia asked.

  “Town means more police, and since George is currently wanted by the police—”

  “And his car stands out like a sore thumb,” Ellie added and slid to a stop at the intersection of Seaside and A1A. “They’re not going to want to go that way.” She revved the engine and moved out onto the empty highway.

  “Ellie, taillights,” Michael blurted.

  “I see them, I see them.”

  The taillights disappeared as the car pulled into a cove.

  “That’s the Atlantic Pier…this isn’t good.” Michael shook his head.

  Ellie flicked off her headlights and eased her car behind a dumpster. “There’s George’s car,” she pointed.

  Michael was already nodding that he’d seen it.

  Quietly, the trio exited the car, running low behind the dumpster. In the distance, three silhouettes walked toward the end of the pier.

  “It’s George, and Drew’s friend. He’s going to kill them,” Ellie whispered, putting her hand over her mouth.

  “We need to get to that shed,” Michael said. “It’s where they keep rental rods and equipment. If we can sneak up behind him, we might have a chance.”

  “A chance to do what?”

  “I’m not sure,” Michael replied, “I’m formulating a plan as I go, it’s fluid.”

  “God help us,” Ellie moaned.

  Ellie, Michael, and Olivia crept through the darkness onto the pier. Below them, the waves crashed onto the shore, and above them, dark clouds raced across the sky.

  A man dressed in black pants and a black hoodie gave the woman a vicious shove. “Keep moving,” he snarled.

  “Okay,” Michael whispered, crouching behind the equipment shed. “Ellie, call the police. I’m going to do something stupid!”

  “That’s your plan? Michael!” She reached out to grab his arm, but it was too late, he was on the move.

  The roar of the ocean covered the sound of Michael’s approach. The wind whipped across the pier. He froze in his tracks.

  The hooded man thrust his hand into his pocket and handed George something. “Turn on your cell phone,” he demanded. “Hurry.” He snatched the phone from George and launched it out into the ocean. “You look confused, old man,” he mocked him. “You see, your cell phone will ping the closest tower, so after you kill her and push her into the ocean…the police will know that you were here. Plus, the red fiber from your suit on the pole over there…it’s all the evidence the police are going to need.”

  The man put his gun to George’s head. “You’re going to shoot her. I’m going to let you live and take the rap for her death.”

  “I’ll never shoot her!” George cried out.<
br />
  “If you don’t shoot her,” the man spat, “I’ll shoot her, and then I’ll shoot you. Either way, she’s going to die.”

  The woman flung her head from side to side. She tried to scream, but to no avail. Tape stretched across her mouth, blood caked around the edges, and terror glinted in her eyes.

  The man roughly maneuvered George in front and placed a gun in George’s hands. “That’s right,” he hissed, “now, I’m gonna help you kill her.” He raised George’s hands so the gun was level with her chest. “Good, now, all you’ve got to do is pull the trigger, and it will be over.”

  In the distance, a speedboat appeared, making its way across the ocean, heading toward the pier. The man turned his head for just a second, and that was when Michael slammed him in the back with a boat oar.

  It all happened in an instant. The man toppled forward. George fired the gun, striking the woman in the leg. Horror flared in her eyes as she toppled backward off the pier into the ocean. Without a thought, George dived after her, into the churning, freezing ocean.

  The hooded man whirled on Michael, his eyes filled with rage. In his hand, he held a gleaming knife with a serrated edge, shark teeth, for tearing and ripping flesh.

  “You’re an idiot.” The man smiled. “And now you’re dead.”

  “Actually,” Michael said, “you’ve got your tenses wrong. I’m still alive. It should be: and now you’re going to die.”

  The man’s smile turned into a sickening sneer. He pivoted, twisting his body, and then hurled the knife at Michael’s torso. There was a sickening thud. Michael stumbled backward, teetering on the edge of the pier. This is it. He waited for the searing agony, for that painful last beat of his heart.

  “Michael!”

  Ellie’s scream tore through the night, and that was when Michael realized he had somehow blocked the knife with his oar. The man in the hoodie charged, and in the blink of an eye, Michael faked high and then brought the edge of the oar crashing into the man’s knee.

  He screamed in pain and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Ellie rushed in, and Michael tossed the oar to her. Without hesitation, she smacked him in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious.

  Olivia raced to the edge of the pier, scanning the water for George and the woman. Sirens wailed.