Tom and I been here since we were delivered late this afternoon. Enjoying the ambiance. The windowless, meticulously blacked-out room we’d been stuck in since dark fell was rundown, chilly, and rat-smelly, but it now provided us a link into what I was guessing was the highest-tech communications network in Bratenahl on this Friday night.
When it came to tech, Shadow Man ruled.
“Face it, Tom. Shadow Man rules.”
His grin flashed in the half light from the video screen.
“You’ve not been talking about how crazy good looking he is. So I figure he’s extremely good looking and you’re sparing my feelings. Didn’t he steal Julie from our security team last year?”
“She went of her own free will. It was a career move. She’s working for a government agency now. I’m guessing one that ends in and “I” or an “A.” Otis won’t say which. Or where.”
“So he’s not hot?”
“Oh, he’s crazy hot, Tom. And also an expert at listening in on his stakeout team. I’m interested to find out how he feels about this highly-not-protocol conversation.”
The grin faded.
“Allie, look. We had to be here. For better or worse, you and I are the T&A of the T&A.” Another flash and a glimpse of the dimple I couldn’t live without.
“We’re in this now. We didn’t have Patti in mind at the beginning. Or Lloyd even. I assumed we’d help folks find their lost dogs. One or two afternoons a week. But the Lloyd case—We made a big difference for Loretta. For a lot of people. It was worth it and I’m not sorry. Not willing to give it up.
“Look how Valerio and Olivia and Ms. Southgate at the museum came to us—okay, us and the money—to do something good. Worthwhile. Even though they don’t need us and the money to save them after all. This new guy wants us to ransom ourselves. Museum looks to be home free.”
I breathed out. Surrendered. We were committed to the T&A. The T&A was committed to saving Patti. Gears were turning. If Steve and Heidi didn’t show up tonight, we were screwed.
The flurry of so-called HVAC and general home improvement experts who’d cycled in and out over the last forty-six hours had been for the most part a smoke screen for the installation of surveillance, and the embedding of Otis’s troops.
Plans for this operation got coordinated in “non-surveilled” locations, via the most burner of burner phones. Jay had been in and out, nonstop, prattling about color ways and window treatments and smoothing the path for all the comings and goings and embeddings.
Patti did her part. She got on the compromised house phones and talked up her planned vacation with travel agents. She interviewed posh resorts about the amenities she was insisting upon. She declared she “absolutely had to” get out of town first thing Saturday morning and, at the same time, stubbornly refused to make a solid reservation. I suspected the number of people who were ready to kill her this morning had increased exponentially. I also figured the T&A was going to be on the hook for significant penalties on any actual reservations.
Tonight was the perfect setup from Steve and Heidi’s perspective. Heidi would realize the scheduled vacation might make it a week or more before the body was even discovered. She probably had to point this out to Steve.
Patricia Stone was as prepared as she’d ever be. Stoked by her vision of Steve and Heidi in cuffs, I assumed. She’d gone up to bed at ten. I was super confident she wasn’t asleep. Otis would alert her when they came into the house. She’d go to her assigned spot in the upstairs hall and give her best, quavering performance of, “Hello? Is someone there?”
Our setup might not have fooled Shadow Man or Sniper Man or Otis or even security freaks such as Tom and I were these days, but we were confident it would outsmart Heidi and Steve. If they showed up tonight.
“Do you think they’ll come, Tom? Tonight? I can’t wait for Patti to be safe and sound and out of our lives. I hope she goes to Fiji and stays for months. And sends no postcards.”
“You’d wish that on poor Fiji?”
A few minutes past midnight, it started to look like Steve and Heidi were about to be outsmarted.
I watched the screen as a car crept along Lake Shore, doused its lights, and turned into the drive. A moment’s hesitation and the gate swung open. As we figured, Steve had his own set of open sesames. He drove on in, slowly. The car purred. We could barely hear it pass us by. It glided around the oval and parked, facing out. The doors opened. Interior light was off. Steve was not a complete fuck-up. Or maybe Heidi was in charge of even the smallest details. Two shadows disembarked and stole up the front steps. The door opened. The alarm got disabled before it could sound.
I was describing it all to Tom. The switch from outside to inside camera was flawless. We had a perfect view of the empty stairway. So far so good.
A moment passed. Two.
“Hello? Hello?”
Patti’s voice was shaking realistically. She was doing fine.
“Who’s there? Monica, is that you?”
Nice little extemporaneous wrinkle. Monica had left in the afternoon. She’d asked for the evening off. Patti had given an Oscar-winning performance of “Patricia kicks Monica Out” for the benefit of anyone listening in. “Sure, go ahead. Don’t bother to come back. I don’t know what I’m paying you for anyway.” A practiced kicker-outer.
Now she now she appeared on the landing, wrapped in a heavy throw such as she might have snatched up in a hurry, looking down the precipitous staircase. Smiling.
With good reason. Otis’s team would be closing in on Heidi and Steve. Shadow Man would be his own shadowy self. The camera was entirely focused on Patti so I couldn’t see Steve and Heidi’s expressions, but they had to be there, at the bottom of the steps, looking up. I could picture the flood of doubt washing over them, the moment of indecision, looking left and right. Seeing only darkness but sensing trouble. Maybe already turning away.
Thinking, Something’s not right here.
Too late.
Something wasn’t.
“Tom, there’s something—Something’s wrong. Tom. It’s Patti. She’s holding a gun. She’s—”
Two quick shots. Sharp and loud. Tom and I both jumped. Two more.
Shouts and running feet.
I was still staring at Patti. Trying to see—I fumbled, frantic, with the controls.
She eased herself down onto the floor at the top of the stairs as if a thoughtful gentleman had pulled a chair out for her. She laid the gun next to her on the floor. Based on my sketchy gun research, it was the “Glock something” she’d mentioned the first day we met.
Patricia Stone. Smug. Defiant.
Still smiling.
Chapter Forty-Four
Saturday, March 10
12:24 a.m.
This was not the game plan.
Hearing chaos getting unleashed is an anxiety provoking experience. I was torn between fussing with the camera and looking at Patti. The explanation had to be in one of several conclusions we were jumping to. Patti had shot at Steve and/or Heidi? Were they both dead? One dead? One or both merely wounded? Severely? Slightly? Had she missed? Where was Otis? I stopped dithering and stayed with Patti. The damn resolution was excellent.
Her smugness was less smug now.
When she fired, Tom’s hand was resting lightly on my arm. Now his grip was progressing from painful to bruising. “Allie, what happened. Who’s been shot?”
“I can’t see that either, Tom. The camera only shows Patti. She aimed down the staircase. I saw the flashes. She looked really pleased with herself, but now she’s just sitting there. Staring.”
I fumbled with the video controls. This time I located the one that should have been labeled “Duh, Allie.”
Bingo. The bottom of the stairs was on screen—an indecipherable scrum of jostling bodies. A struggle. Confusion. No answers.
&n
bsp; Our burner phone went off in Tom’s non-arm-crushing hand.
“Otis. What did—Oh—Okay. Yeah. We’ll be ready.”
He clicked off. “They need us. And a car from the Bratenahl PD is going to pick us up on their way in. Otis says nobody’s dead. Yet.”
* * *
I felt a trifle uneasy about scooting into the backseat of a squad car. The officers were polite enough. Reserved though. As their training required. Especially in Crazy Town. Where we now appeared to be.
I knew someone high-up at the Bratenahl PD had been preapprised of the circumstances by Tony and talked into standing back until we could get everybody in one place. I was pretty sure he’d encouraged them to believe there’d be no shooting. No promises, I’d bet. Tony did not do optimistic.
What were the cops expecting to discover when we arrived? Simple B&E? Attempted homicide? Justifiable homicide? Merely intended homicide? Unexpectedly complex situation? All of the above.
Tom and I could picture Steve back from his watery grave only to be heading to his actual one. Heidi dead for the first time. Steve and Heidi under arrest? Treated for shock? The possibilities were multitudinous. I thought even Tom and I could land in jail before the sun came up. We rode along in a silence I’d describe as tense. Holding hands again. Both of our palms were medium clammy.
By the time we got there, the situation was sorted out if not clarified.
Nobody was shot dead. Nobody was shot at all. Nobody was in cuffs. None of the three principals was looking particularly satisfied. In fact, they all three looked anxious as hell.
Steve and Heidi were finding themselves in a situation that gave new and colorful meaning to the phrase, “a lot of ’splainin’ to do.” As the cops ushered them out, Heidi halted in front of Tom and me. “Who are you? What is this?” Her expression was an oscillating mix of rage, fear, and bafflement you don’t often see on a human face. I could almost empathize. Up close and glaring, she was as I’d imagined her: An expensive veneer of “Heidi has it all” spread over the deep disappointment of “It’ll never be enough.”
Otis’s team had shown up in the front hall—a crowd out of nowhere—while Steve and Heidi were busy not-murdering Patti and getting not-shot. Although, for a handful of long seconds, I bet those two were checking for bullet holes all over themselves.
After that, Otis and Valerio popped out from close by to grab them both. Now here was Bratenahl PD, plus the tall hot blind guy and me. Confusion had to be reigning inside Heidi’s head. I was savoring the moment.
Steve’s expression mirrored the blank, hopeless faces of the maidens still trapped in the hall’s woodwork. It was going to take him years to figure out what happened to his foolproof plan. I could have saved him time by explaining how he was the fool, but I figured he’d be needing something to ponder for the rest of his almost-sure-to-be-less-privileged life.
Otis told me he’d taken custody of Patti’s gun. He answered my raised eyebrows. “Blanks. Just in case. I’d met Patricia Stone, so I asked myself ‘what would Patti do?’ Our specialist took care of the swap. Looks like she knew how to handle her Glock just fine.”
All in all, the resolution of our case was unexpected for everyone involved, but from the T&A perspective, the plan had produced the desired result. Steve was now outed on faking his own death and breaking into his own house to—circumstances suggested—murder his own wife. He’d probably spend the rest of the night and a few days answering tough questions and facing anything that could be made to stick. At the very least, I could look into his future and see an uncontested, unremunerative divorce. The consequences for Heidi probably depended on the conditions of the trust. And how much shade Patti could throw on her. Some, I thought, but not enough.
For right now, Patricia Stone was scheduled to make an official statement tomorrow, and, I figured, not leave for Fiji. At least for a week or two. I bet Tom would let her handle her own reckless penalties on the travel arrangements.
Someone had relieved Patti of her blanket, beneath which she was well-and-expensively-dressed, except for no shoes. I could see this footwear faux pas was gnawing away at her sense of herself as an impeccably-attired and fashionably-shod wealthy person of unimpeachable social standing. She wasn’t grateful we’d stepped in to save her life as she’d begged us to do, not even five whole days before. No. Not in the least. She’d glommed onto our plan and, as a clever twist, added the righteous slaying of a couple of people she had good reason to hate. Maybe that was her dream from the get-go.
“You! You’ve screwed up everything.” Her face was drawn and angry. Not a good look. “I’m going to put your T&As out of business.”
Tom busted out laughing. I was right there with him. Maybe it’s not as awful as I thought to have a business name that cracks you up when you hear it spat at you by an ungrateful client. “We should be so lucky, Ms. Stone. Let me warn you, though, if you tell anybody about any of this? You’ll end up looking stupider and more reprehensible than your limited imagination could comprehend.”
She squinted at him. Not a great look either. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Think about it. It might do you good. And ‘reprehensible’ is in the dictionary. In the Rs.”
I loved him an extra lot right then. He looks so hot and handsome when he’s kicking somebody’s ass. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Patti turned on her—bare—heel and huffed up the stairs. Steep as they were, she didn’t falter. She was fit. That was the only positive thing I could give her. Coming from old lazy me, it wasn’t much.
Otis and I watched her go. “Guess she could handle that Glock okay after all,” he said. “No real surprise there. Given the givens, she should thank us for those blanks.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
He shrugged. “She’s going to spend the rest of her life being who she’s always been. That’s probably punishment enough. According to Patti’s Rules, they were intruders. She meant to kill the both of them. It didn’t work out. Too bad for her.”
“What’s going to happen to us?”
“Something new and different every day.”
“Is that an ancient Chinese curse?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Thursday, March 15
5:45 p.m.
In the wake of our episode of disorganized crime prevention, the T&A’s were feeling good about ourselves. We’d wrapped our small, quick, secondary “Save Patti” case. We’d saved her, all right. All her wishes came true. Except for the really big one.
Hah.
As we’d hoped, Steve and Heidi got subjected to considerable uncomfortable legal scrutiny and a righteous pummeling in the press. Many Clevelanders had been alerted to the news of the weekend’s “mystifying events.” I took particular satisfaction from a Plain Dealer headline that screamed, “BRATENAHL RESIDENT ‘MISSING’ IN LAKE ERIE FAKED OWN DEATH.” Heidi’s name came up a lot in unofficial discussions as “heir to the family trust.” Not in the best possible light. She and Steve both ran for deep cover. As far from one another as the restrictions of the formal investigation would allow.
Patricia Stone was treated more circumspectly. Nobody beyond the small inner circle of police officers, a few amateur detectives, a PI, and a former Navy Seal knew the facts of what happened in the front hall of her venerable mansion. Firing blanks at theoretically unidentified intruders coming up your stairs in the middle of the night is not a crime the law anybody can hang on anybody. Those present—and/or monitoring from the safety of the gatehouse—knew she’d shot with a wholehearted intent to kill.
On a more satisfying note, earlier in the week, Patti recklessly agreed to an interview with Lisa Cole, newly returned to Channel 16 after a “brief illness.” Patti’s complete ignorance of Lisa’s T&A status rendered her vulnerable to a number of questions designed to ma
ke her appear vaguely guilty and, for sure, paranoid as hell. Also mean, rude, and unattractively snobby. Not a good look. The black-widow coiffeur and couture and her angry, hardened glare didn’t play well to the camera either.
We tuned in. Tom said, “I guess she forgot to look up ‘reprehensible.’”
Olivia Wood gave us a moderate amount stink-eye about the whole thing when she heard from Tony about it and realized she’d crossed paths—or at least our front steps—with Patricia Stone on the first day of the case. Then she said, “Thanks for keeping me out of the loop on this one. So many things a person is better off not knowing.” She thought about that for a second. “But don’t get carried away. Watch more Netflix.”
On the evening of Thursday, the Ides of March, we convened the entire agency—T&A+O,V,M,L& J—to celebrate our small victory. True, it had not gone precisely as we’d planned, but the case was our most satisfactory so far, i.e., no one had died. Our client was now on her own. That was my favorite part.
An extra bonus was the weather. The highs, with almost no warning, as usual, were pushing seventy degrees.
Clevelanders, even imported Clevelanders such as Tom and me, know how to maximize the gift of modestly warmer temperatures. We would all say, “This can’t last.” Nobody cared. Everybody was all, “Carpe spring. Carpe baseball. Haul out the boat.” I figured if the sniper was out there tonight, he’d be wearing Bermuda shorts and flip-flops and holding a Great Lakes Brewery’s Edmund Fitzgerald Ale in his non-gun hand.
Our fabulous veranda, conveniently accessed through French doors, ran the full length of the house and overlooked the lake which—pay no mind to Channel 16 Weather—was an open refrigerator door that afternoon. Never you mind. We had sweaters, coats, a shawl, and Veuve Clicquot. We’d uncovered the deck furniture at least until tomorrow. It was a party.
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