“What part of this is your work, Jay?”
“Oh. None of this. This—” He waved his arm to take in the staring eyes of the maidens—“this, we’re preserving. Because it’s—” He swept his eyes heavenward and saw Patricia Stone staring down the stairway at him. “Priceless.”
It was too.
I made note of how fiercely Patti was gripping the bannister. The stairs were so steep a person could almost tumble out into space without tripping. I guessed she’d recognized the staircase, early on, to be the Widower-Maker it was. Buyer’s remorse is a bitch. Suited her somehow.
“Allie, thank you for coming.” Her tone was polite but cool. “Your furnace man told Monica the problem he was most concerned about didn’t affect most of the house. Only my study and my bedroom. And the house phones. So I guess it’s electrical. He needs a part. Says just to choose different rooms to talk in, for now. And to be grateful for small favors. He’s kind of…odd. But pleasant enough.”
An ah-ha moment. Otis had lighted up the Shadow Signal sometime in the dark hours of the night. I was this morning’s rubber stamp. Fine. I was happy to be the stamp. Shadow Man made me feel safer. Edgier, but safer.
Patti gave me a tour. Monica followed along as far as the cavernous living room which had an authentic wood burning fireplace you could play cards in and a raging fire you could roast a pig over. But not both at the same time. Jay and Patti sat down close to it. I walked Monica to the hall.
“He swept for bugs. Found a couple. Left them alone. He says there are things we’ll want the suspects to know about. Says they’d trust what they don’t know we know they’re overhearing. Does that make sense?”
“It does. He’s the best.”
“Well, he found no video, except outside. Which is a blessing. When he drives the heating company van back here this afternoon, there’ll be a swap. In the garage. After that, he’ll stay until it’s all done. I’m glad. He’s not very approachable but he seems to know what he’s doing.”
True. And true.
Just to be sure. “And you’d describe him, Monica—?”
“African American. Six-two, a hundred-seventy, all muscle, alert as hell. Strung up tight. Older than me, but hard to say how much. I wouldn’t try to sneak up on him in the dark, if I were you.”
“Good thinking.”
“What’s his name?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“He’s secretive. By design. For now, let’s leave it that way. You don’t need to call him anything. I think of him as Shadow Man.”
She nodded. “Fits.”
A couple of minutes later Jay joined us and handed me a couple copies of a document. “Lisa and I drew this up last night. It’s a contract that describes in detail the work we’re going to do here this week.”
My eyes said, “No it’s not.”
His eyes said, “You’re right, it isn’t.”
“It’s brilliant, Jay.”
“Patti has her copy. We need to take it with us. So make sure she reads it more than once. Monica this is yours. Shred it, burn it or eat it when you’re done. I have to transfer something from the van into the garage. Then we’ll go.”
Jay was all over his new undercover detective role. I assumed the “transferred something” was Adam. “Call me if anything’s off.” Adam would wait for Shadow Man in the garage which would surely be warmer and less of a back-breaker than the rear of the van. After a reasonable time for furnace fixing, Adam would drive Shadow Man’s vehicle away.
The Shadow Man would be embedded here for the duration. Once the house was asleep, Monica Cowan, PI, would smuggle him food in the servants’ quarters. And books of poetry. And bourbon. Their eyes would meet. The sweaters would slip to the floor—It was a romance novel. I shredded it.
My Shadow Man would have brought freeze-dried jerky and his own bourbon.
I took my copy of Jay’s document and joined Patti in the living room. The fire had died. The room was clammy cold. The fog was still jammed up against the windows.
Jay’s fake contract idea was brilliant. It explained our plan, quickly and clearly, so that nothing needed to be said out loud. Even though we now believed the bugging was minor, it was good not to try to explain everything in that big echoing room. What we’d do. What Patti needed to do. She got it. She was mean but she wasn’t stupid.
“I understand. It’s a good plan. I can do this. Allie?”
“It is. You can.”
“Should I change the locks?”
Well, yes. Back in November.
I didn’t have to say this out loud.
“I know I should have. I didn’t after—at first. And then, once I figured it all out, I was afraid it would tip him off.”
“He has keys.”
“A full set. She has the front door. ‘In case anything should happen to me.’” Patti could do irony and finger quotes with the best of us.
“Don’t change them now. It helps to know for sure he has them. And if he’s made copies, she’s got a set too. We want them in here once we’re ready for them. Then we’ll get them.”
She was giving me only a quarter of her attention. Staring in to a distance I couldn’t see. Distracted. I could relate.
“I hope so. That furnace guy of Jay’s? He’s kind of scary.”
Oh, my dear. “He’s here to protect you. He’s the best.”
“Expensive?”
“As they come.” That was cruel, but she had it coming.
She considered arguing but stop considering when she translated my expression into a lot of swearing.
I was messing with her. The furnace guy was on our payroll.. Otis would handle the details for Tom.
Jay reappeared. “We can go.”
The van was back where Jay parked it when we arrived, and the fog had broken down into unraveling wisps. Here and gone. That’s fog for you. The day was drab and dank, but the snow was going fast too. Big swaths of lawn were exposed, and they were almost green.
I wasn’t about to be disarmed by a half-inch of naked grass. We had full two months to go before we could count on more than two consecutive days of spring. But it made me feel chirpy.
“You and Lisa put together that document for Patricia?” I paused, letting the silence evolve. “That must have taken all night.”
I watched Jay out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t actually smile, but there was something—
“Not quite.”
Chapter Forty-Two
8:45 p.m.
A Millard Fillmore Presidential Library could be just about anything. It might even have books. But the only one I know of—the only one I’ve actually been in—is a bar where a person who’s had a trying day can find a good selection of craft beers, regular performances by local music groups, and memorabilia and photographs of the former president himself. Who upon close examination bears a disconcerting resemblance to Alec Baldwin. The women’s bathroom is labeled “First Ladies” and the front awning quotes President Fillmore’s last words, which were, “The nourishment is palatable.”
It was too.
For the first time since early that morning I had a free moment and a place to savor it. So I was savoring being able to sit in here with people I loved and/or liked a lot. Like a normal person. Who’d escaped from jail. Still wearing the ankle monitor, but happy to be temporarily free. Tonight’s band was Maura Rogers & The Bellows. Rich and soulful singing, served up with a shot of moxie and an accordion. Fire and honey.
Breathe, Allie. It’ll do you good.
I inhaled. The big room smelled like a bar in a building with decades of bar history. A breath of fresh beer. The scent of old wood, ancient brews, palatable nourishment, and, tonight, wet wool, permeating everything. Wet wool is a classic Cleveland fragrance at least six months out of the year.
“Eau de Mitten.”
Mmm. Mitten.
Tom had been easy to seduce into a short road trip. Otis was more of a challenge, but he shared our belief that nobody would benefit from killing us tonight. We were worth more alive and in touch with the money than dead. Our new adversary presented himself as a pragmatist and not a raving loose cannon. Cold comfort was better than no comfort at all. The past week was a no-comfort zone.
Otis put together a minimal team for our trip to the Library. He was at the table Wednesday night, carrying concealed, and stone cold sober. With guys on the front and back doors—one of whom was Adam—and Otis and Valerio sitting at our table, I theorized President Fillmore, whose tenure in office predated the Secret Service, would have thought himself lucky to be protected by Otis’s detail.
So far it was a reprise of last night’s T&A meeting, without nearly as much tension and more booze. I was hoping for merriment enough to offset my awareness that tonight was the one-week anniversary of the murder of Kip Wade. Almost to the hour. A cold-blooded killing, I forced myself to admit, commissioned by a raving loose cannon, and executed at the hand of our pragmatist. I was doing everything but singing La-La-La with my fingers in my ears. But for that moment it was working.
Lisa and I were continuing our tour of Manhattans. We agreed that the Fillmore Manhattan—featuring shots of Grand Marnier and Jägermeister and legendary in our small corner of Ohio—stood up well to the Flying Fig’s. Lisa and Jay arrived together, but there were so many feet around our improvised table I didn’t dare try to kick Margo about that. Margo was subdued anyway.
Valerio was there, I assumed to protect her, although he’d allowed himself a beer. After a while she traded places with Tony to sit by me. Margo advice, incoming. When Margo was wearing her current face, she was all about advice. Also warnings and rantings. Followed by swearings. I braced myself.
She stole a sip from my glass. Swallowed. Made a face. “Well, that’s interesting. Allie, I’m—”
The noise level ramped up. People were scraping their chairs around and hustling to the bar for fresh drinks and palatable snacks
“Allie. I’m worried.”
A party of five blew in the front door. Their friends who were already here hollered a welcome and started rounding up stray chairs. I leaned closer to Margo so I could hear what was bothering her. She was a freestyle worrier, but I respected her intuition. This could be entertaining. Or serious.
“Worried about what?”
“About I’m not sure we should trust—”
Three things happened.
1) The band hit a few test chords.
2) Another bunch of bar-hoppers came in and slammed the front door.
3) One of those hoppers broke away, came over, wedged in yet another chair, and sat down between Tom and me. Plaid flannel shirt. Leather jacket. Indians hat. Right hand in pocket. Pale eyes. Very composed. Neutral. Like Gloria said. Clear water.
Here—at our table—was the man who’d killed her. So close I could see his chest rising and falling with each measured breath.
I wasn’t looking at Margo, but she leaned in close and spoke into my ear. “Him. I’m not sure we should trust him.”
I glanced over to Otis who was making a move to rise from his place across the table. Tony was on the alert too. The man froze them with a look and raised his voice barely enough to cut through the din, but sharp and precise enough to get the job done.
“Otis. The only dangerous people in here right now are you, your cop friend, and the guy who’s coming our way from the back. Stop that one.” Otis turned and with a quick gesture that could have signaled, “We need another round over here” sent the man back to his post.
“And Allie, how about you look happier to see me?”
The band started up. I wrenched my face into something I hoped didn’t look like the mix of terror and suppressed rage it was.
“Hello, you son of a bitch. You murdered Gloria.”
“I shot Rudyard Kipling Wade too. I also took out the roof of your greenhouse, Allie. And I killed Tito Ricci and cut off his hands. I get it. I’m a murdering son of a bitch. By vocation.” He took the bite out of his tone. “I understand. It’s hard to imagine me as the answer to your prayers, but if you can chill yourself out enough to be smart, you’ll see I am that. You can stop trying to smile now. You’re creeping me out.”
“Allie?”
“Margo, it’s okay. Allie and I are talking for a minute here. That’s all.”
“Allie, how does this man know my name?”
“It’s okay. It is. He’s only going to be here for another couple of minutes. Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
“Huh. I can’t hear a fuckin’ word.”
Praise the Lord.
“I know. It’s fine. I’ll listen for both of us. And report back.”
I’d spoken too soon. The band launched in to the first couple of bars of “I Am an Animal.” In this moderate-sized, one-hundred-percent-hopping space, we were swimming in music and mayhem. I was going to have to read his lips.
Tom slid his hand along the table and found mine where it was death-gripping the edge. Cold. So cold. The hands of both of us. The sniper moved closer and locked my eyes in his pale gaze.
Mouse. Snake. I knew which one was me. I was desperate for a quick trip to the First Ladies Room. Also Fiji.
“Your other guy? The one who could pass for your ex? In a pinch?”
Shit. TMI. My eyes were welded to his.
“Your Tito. So-called. He wanted it all. All the money. All the glory. And you, Tom, and everyone you care about—” He let his glance slide around the table and linger on Margo. “He wanted all of you dead. He told me so.”
I kept my eyes trained on him.
He could read my mind, I could tell. He knew fucking everything.
“That was Tito, Allie, not me. I don’t especially want anybody else dead. Here’s what I do want. I want to let this die down until people forget recent events. Shouldn’t take long. Everybody has a short attention span these days. I want you to go ahead and take a break. Keep working your little case.”
Was there anything this guy didn’t know?
He continued. Business-like.
“Tito was a maniac. I am never out of control. Never.” His emphasis on the word bared his teeth which were white and even. I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth.
He continued as if he weren’t reading the disintegration of my mind on my face. “My only job at this point is to keep track of you. I’m extra talented at that. Tell Otis good work, though. Your place is locked up pretty tight. Margo’s? Not so much. Think on that, but don’t worry. I’m happy to see you occupied.’
“What do you want?”
“Money, of course. Clean and simple. Tito lured me into this gig with information about a chunk his boyfriend cut away from the herd last summer. It’s still there. Not available but vulnerable. I’ll have more information shortly. You’ll barely notice. I’ll give you the details when it’s time. So you can have things in place.”
“And if we refuse to pay?”
I was hearing Ruth’s warning. No matter what, Allie, don’t pay him.
Did that apply only to Tito? I didn’t know much psychology but I could tell this guy and Tito were cut from different cloth. He was the chain mail of that twosome.
His silver eyes chilled ten degrees. “Think extra carefully and don’t go there.”
He stood up, gave everybody at the table the well-trained sniper’s once-over and left the building. Adam, Otis’s guy on the front door watched him turn and go on down the street. I’d seen Otis’s almost imperceptible head shake. So had Adam.
Another handful of seconds and a woman wearing a funny wool hat with tassels hanging off it and a big neighborly smile was there asking, “You guys mind if I steal this ch
air?”
Otis and Valerio and I shared five seconds’ worth of eye contact. The man was wearing winter gloves. On his left hand, at least. And his right hand had stayed in his pocket the whole time. We also could see the metal chair the young woman had both her hands all over at the moment.
Prints? Sure, right. Thousands. From back when Millard was still in office. That last thought was probably Valerio’s, but I could hear it.
“No. Not at all. Help yourself.”
“What the fuck just happened here?”
Tom shook his head. “Not sure, Margo. I believe a lady swiped our extra chair.”
“Dammit Tom.”
“Hang on a sec, Margo. Otis, should we leave?”
“No point, Allie. I’ll check with the guys, but it looks like we’re all good. Nothing to be done about this right now. I think you guys should have another drink. I certainly plan to one of these days.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Friday, March 9
11:10 p.m.
Now was the waiting.
“I thought we agreed no more stakeouts.”
“We didn’t have to be here tonight, Tom. Shadow Man could have sent the video straight to the monitors in our own cozy garage. He’s handy like that. You’re the one who was determined to do this. And it’s is a good, safe stakeout.”
“Yeah, I especially like how it’s about half a mile from the action. Should be far enough. Although you can never be too pessimistic about these things.”
His tone was light. I wasn’t fooled. Things blow up.
Many of the mansions on Lake Shore had gatehouses, often mini copies of the main residence. Little architectural offspring. These days they were in demand as rentals for young professionals who lust after the neighborhood and the proximity to the lake. Patricia and Stephen had neither renovated nor rented theirs. It was rundown, chilly, and had a smell that said Rats were here to me. Maybe earlier today. Maybe now.
Jay had announced, loud and clear, in one of the bugged rooms, that he was going to “store stuff” in the gate house. The stuff was us, carefully disguised as a couple of cramped moving boxes, and Shadow Man’s spy equipment disguised as a box of paint cans. Wheeled in by Shadow Man disguised as your almost-average hot delivery guy.
The Devil's Own Game Page 22
