Kaycee stared at her dark monitor. “I’m fine, Mark. Let’s just find Hannah.”
She hung up and hurried to her kitchen to pick up her overnight bag, still sitting by the door. Carrying it, she climbed the stairs to change her clothes. Kaycee felt eyes follow her every move, but she steeled herself against the fear. This was no time to give in. Hannah was still out there somewhere, and Kaycee was going to find her.
TWENTY-THREE
Lorraine slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair at the police station, Tammy on her lap. Her daughter was half asleep, worn out from crying and terror. The heat from her little body made Lorraine’s chest feel sweat-slicked and clammy. They sat in a small, grim room with one table, a couple more chairs. A round-faced, beefy detective with a badge that read Jim Tuckney had been questioning her for over an hour. He’d stepped out to talk to somebody. How long he’d been gone — it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter when she left here or where she went. She and Tammy had no life to go back to.
Her mind played the tape of Martin’s body on the floor. All that blood. Vaguely Lorraine remembered screaming outside her apartment, two men running out of different storage units. One of them called 911. He said he’d glanced up when a car drove out of the storage lot, but all he remembered was an old white sedan. He hadn’t seen the driver’s face.
Lorraine and Tammy were still in their bloodied pajamas when the police arrived. Lorraine could not recall getting dressed.
Electricity had sparked through the police station as Lorraine was ushered to the interview room. She heard snatches of talk about last night’s robbery: seven million dollars . . . the FBI . . . no suspects . . . stupid reporters demanding information.
Seven million dollars. She couldn’t even imagine that much money.
Lorraine had a tiny bit of money in a savings account. She would have to use it for a cheap hotel tonight. Yellow crime-scene tape already cordoned off the apartment by the time the detective drove her and Tammy away. She’d been told she couldn’t go back until this evening. Fine timing. What was she supposed to do, step over her husband’s blood on the floor to put her daughter to bed?
How could Martin be dead?
Emotions were a strange thing. Lorraine had gone from wild crying to frightening calm. In between she’d tried to appear as normal as possible for Tammy’s sake. Her little girl refused to be separated from her. Like it or not, the detective had resigned himself to letting her stay on Lorraine’s lap while they talked.
“Who do you think might have done this?” he asked.
Lorraine’s mind flashed to Martin, standing nervously before her in their apartment.
“Please tell me this isn’t about the bank robbery.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why don’t I believe you?”
Lorraine shook her head. “I have no idea.”
Could the detective see the questions in her eyes? The confusion and guilt? In the closet she’d heard gunshots but convinced herself she hadn’t. She couldn’t afford to deny reality again. Martin, her loyal, law-abiding Martin, had gotten himself mixed up in something. Even when he came home last night, hadn’t he acted a little odd? Lorraine figured it was shock. But now that she thought about it, he hadn’t seemed shocked enough.
Or was she remembering all wrong?
“Know of any enemies he had?” the detective pressed. Lorraine stared dully at a deep scratch in the wooden table. “Martin doesn’t have any enemies. He’s such a good man.” She couldn’t bring herself to speak in the past tense.
“This guy’s in the mob . . .”
A member of the Mafia had killed her husband in cold blood. And what might that man do to her and Tammy if she talked?
How had Martin met anybody in the Mafia?
Detective Tuckney shifted in his chair, and the legs creaked. “How did your husband act last night when he came home after the bank robbery?”
Lorraine kept a poker face. The detective was reading her thoughts. “He was real shook up. The minute he saw me and Tammy he just hugged and hugged us — ” Lorraine’s throat closed. She lowered her chin and blinked back tears.
“I just want Tammy to get well.”
Detective Tuckney gave her a moment. “You don’t think the two could have been related?”
“How? Why would those bank robbers even know where we lived?”
He spread his hands.
“And if they wanted to kill him, why didn’t they do it last night? Why would they — why would anybody come to our apartment in broad daylight and . . .” Lorraine looked away, her mouth pulling. She swallowed hard and her chest jerked. Tammy stirred in her arms.
Tall and thin, real short and stocky. The descriptions blipped into her brain. Martin had said that’s what two of the bank robbers looked like. Just like the men she’d seen last night in such a hurry, jumping from a truck to open unit seven. A newly rented unit . . .
And one of them had been wearing all black — like the robbers. The driver had at least been wearing a black shirt. She hadn’t seen him from the waist down.
Lorraine’s eyelids flickered.
“Look, can I just go now? I don’t know what else to tell you. I just don’t . . . I don’t know anything right now.”
Detective Tuckney gave a reluctant nod. “I appreciate your time. You have someplace to go for awhile? We’ll want to know where to get hold of you.”
Before the interview Detective Tuckney had called Nate Houger, Lorraine’s landlord and boss who lived in New York, and told him what had happened. The AC Storage office would have to be closed for the day, the detective told him. Sitting next to her apartment, the office was also taped off as part of the crime scene. Lorraine asked Mr. Houger for a second day off, and he said okay. She couldn’t imagine returning to work — answering the phone, posting payments — as if nothing in her life had changed.
“There’s a motel about a mile from our place,” she said. “I’ll stay there.”
“Okay.” Tuckney had pushed back from the table and stood. “Let me go check on something. Be right back.”
And now Lorraine waited.
Those two men last night at the storage unit . . . She calculated the time. It would have been soon after the bank was robbed. While Martin was being questioned by police.
But that was crazy. Why would they put the money there?
Why not? Maybe it was the perfect place. If Martin had been pulled into the crime, and his wife just happened to manage storage rentals . . .
Seven million dollars.
“I just want Tammy to get well.”
Detective Tuckney returned. For a searing second Lorraine considered telling him everything. Her argument with Martin, the Mafia man at the apartment, the two men at the storage unit. Whoever did this to Martin, Lorraine wanted to see him fry.
But a member of the Mafia? She had a young daughter to protect. A little girl now without a daddy. What would Tammy do if she lost her mother too? And how could Lorraine imply anything to the police that would connect Martin to the robbery? He was dead, and now she wanted to drag his reputation through the mud? It would be all over the newspapers. People would accuse him of being some awful criminal, people who never even knew him.
The words dribbled down Lorraine’s throat.
“All right.” Detective Tuckney placed his hands low on his hips. “I’ll take you back to your car at the storage place. If you want I can go into the apartment and get a few items for you and your daughter before you go to the motel.”
Lorraine shuddered at the thought of strangers examining Martin’s body.
“No. It’s okay.”
They drove to the apartment in silence. Tammy fell asleep in the backseat, head lolling. For once Lorraine was glad for her daughter’s tiring sickness. If only she could sleep through this herself. If only she could sleep through the rest of her life.
Beyond the crime-scene tape at her apartment, the media had gathered. Lorraine saw two news vans and other ca
rs. Five reporters hurried toward the detective’s vehicle, TV and still cameras raising up. Lorraine hunched over and buried her face in her arms.
“Sorry about this. I’ll deal with them.” Detective Tuckney slid out.
Lorraine heard him asking the reporters to “Get back, please — I’ll answer what questions I can over there.” Multiple voices — men and women — shouted questions at him.
Something banged against the backseat window behind her. Lorraine jerked around to see a still camera aimed through the glass at her sleeping daughter. Instant rage rocketed up her spine.
“No!” She leapt from the car and rushed the reporter. “Get away!”
He whirled toward her and aimed his camera. It clicked twice.
“Stop, whoa!” Detective Tuckney ran around the front of the car and grabbed her arm. A uniformed officer appeared, pushing the reporter back.
“Mrs. Giordano, I heard you were at home at the time of the murder,” one reporter called. “Did you see the suspect?”
“Mommy!” Tammy’s wail filtered from the car.
Lorraine wrenched from the detective’s grasp and flung Tammy’s door open. Her fingers shook as she unbuckled the seatbelt and pushed her daughter over. She crawled into the car and slammed the door. Wrapping her arms around Tammy, she hid her little girl’s face in her chest. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Together they rocked and cried.
Lorraine would not get out of Detective Tuckney’s car again with the reporters around. He drove them to the motel, a policeman behind them in her car. No reporters followed. No need — they’d already gotten their dramatic shots.
In the motel room it took some time to calm Tammy down. Lorraine berated herself for losing control. It had only scared her daughter. She couldn’t let that happen again.
As Tammy finally slept Lorraine lay beside her, exhausted and heartbroken, staring at the stained ceiling.
“Please tell me this isn’t about the bank robbery.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why don’t I believe you?”
TWENTY-FOUR
As Kaycee headed out her back door, the phone rang. The sound jangled her nerves. Not even outside yet, and she was trembling.
Hannah.
She lunged for the receiver and checked the ID. It was Tricia’s number at work. Her shoulders slumped. She pressed Talk. “Hi, Tricia.”
“Have they found her yet?”
“No. Not a sign. Not a clue. Except they found a note she left in her bedroom. She ran away because of her dad and stepmom and everything. She mentioned me. I wouldn’t let her come live with me — ” Kaycee’s voice cracked on the last word.
“Hey, hey, stop. Don’t go blaming yourself for this.”
Sure, no problem.
Tricia blew out a breath. “What about her friends? She must have gone to one of them.”
“No one knows a thing.”
Silence spun out. Kaycee envisioned minutes, hours, days of the same hovering lack of words.
Please, God, send her home.
“Kaycee, hang in there. They’ll find her.”
“I know. I’m . . . fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’ll manage.”
“How are you doing there in your house? See anything else strange?”
“Yes. But I can’t worry about that right now.” Right. Like the fear of being watched wasn’t doubling the panic within her.
“What did you see?”
“You know the camera and the picture of that dead man? Turns out they were real after all. The same dead guy blipped onto my computer screen this morning, then went away. So far he hasn’t come back.”
“Kaycee! Are you sure?”
“Tricia, I saw him. That makes twice now. And he’ll show up again. I think some lunatic ‘Who’s There?’ readers are trying to drive me crazy.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I have no idea.”
More silence. Dread rolled around in Kaycee’s gut. Double the panic or not, if it weren’t for Hannah, she’d be on the floor right now, catatonic.
Her thoughts skipped to the column she’d just written — that final trip to the dentist and what it had taught her. She needed that power now.
Kaycee glanced out toward the backyard. The day was sunny and warm. Utterly terrifying.
“Did you tell the police about this?” Tricia asked.
“No way. They’re all looking for Hannah. When she’s found, I’ll tell them.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Tricia sounded too easily convinced. As if she didn’t believe in the second photo any more than she believed in the first.
“Tricia?”
“Huh?”
“If something happens to me before Hannah’s found, tell Chief Davis everything. About the first picture and the second. And last night at your house I dreamed about it. It’s like I was in someone else’s body, seeing the dead man and all the blood. I heard screams and footsteps. And the floor under the dead man was dark yellow. Then guess what — the picture I saw this morning on my desktop? The dead man was lying on that very same floor. The one I saw in my dream.”
Tricia hesitated. “Really.”
“Really. Somehow I think they made me have that dream. Maybe they pushed the sights and sounds into my head, sort of like subliminal advertising. Then they sent a second photo onto my computer this morning, matching the details.”
Absolute deadness over the line.
Kaycee’s lips firmed. Okay, Tricia wasn’t buying any of this. Kaycee could picture that cynical expression of hers, one side of her mouth pulled up, neck arched back. And the raised left eyebrow.
“Tricia, I need to go now. I’m leaving to look for Hannah.” Before Tricia could reply, Kaycee clicked off the line.
She hung up the phone and closed her eyes. So she couldn’t talk to her best friend about this anymore. Fine. She didn’t need Tricia anyway. She just had to find Hannah.
Raising her chin, purse over her shoulder, Kaycee stepped out into the menacing day.
TWENTY-FIVE
Nico got the call to come in just before noon.
He was pacing the floor in his den in a rage. He’d swept liquor glasses and bottles to the carpet, kicked over the coffee table. Over and over in his mind ran that split second when he pulled the trigger — twice. Why couldn’t Giordano have just done what he was told? Nico should have kept his cool, fought the man, pistol-whipped him. Anything to keep him alive and get him into the car. Now cops were crawling all over that place.
Good thing Bear didn’t want the money out of there today. That one fact just might keep Nico alive.
He should have gone to the underboss and reported what happened right away. But he was too furious. Not a good frame of mind to be in when you met with Bear. Instead Nico burst through his own front door, shouting curses. In time he calmed down enough to send an associate to drive through AC Storage. Rizzo reported five police cars, some unmarked, and crime-scene tape around the apartment.
You could be sure the police had questioned those two renters Nico had driven by. They wouldn’t trace his unregistered Chevy. And he knew the one man who glanced up couldn’t have seen much of his face. But would Bear believe that?
After the associate reported, Nico got a call from Dom, one of his soldiers. Dom had heard from his friends on the police force that the homicide detectives were suspicious. Martin Giordano gets held up by a gun at night and shot to death the next morning? A little too convenient. The detectives were talking to the G-men investigating the robbery. Talk had even turned to whether the mob was involved. Did Giordano have any connections? Dom had insisted to his friend the Lucchese family had nothing to do with the heist.
“The cops can’t link Giordano to me,” Nico told Dom — not that he had to answer to any of his soldiers. “No way.”
“Sure, sure.”
“You hear anything about what the wife’s tellin’ the cops?”
“She ain’t te
llin’ ’em nothin’. Said she was lyin’ on the bed with her little girl when she heard the shots. Then she was afraid to come out of the bedroom. She and the kid hid in the closet.”
So she hadn’t seen him. Or if she had, she wasn’t talking. “Thanks, man.”
“You bet.”
Nico hung up the phone and started pacing, trying to get his head on straight. You didn’t mess up with this much cash on the line and pay nothing. But he could still take care of things. Once the money was out of that rental, there’d be no way at all to prove a connection between him and Giordano.
He’d be okay with Bear. He’d be okay. As long as the boss didn’t start playing with the scar on his face. Nico had seen him do that maybe a dozen times. Every time somebody wound up whacked. A few times Nico had been sent to do the job.
The phone rang again. Nico knew who it was before he picked up.
“I want to see you,” Bear growled. The line clicked.
At the underboss’s house Nico did the only thing he could. He stuffed his rage at Giordano down in his gut and tried to play it cool.
“What’d you do?” Bear planted himself behind the massive cherry wood desk in his office. His arms were folded, the gray brows meeting over his eyes like one long thundercloud. On the wall behind him spread a leopard skin. Nico had never asked where he got it.
“He came at me, I had to shoot.”
“What, you can’t control your own guy?”
“My gun was out and he jumped me. I was still going to put him in the car and clean up, but I saw a cop car out the window and thought they were coming to question Giordano. I had to get outta there.”
“So now our money’s parked at a crime scene.”
Nico shook his head. “Don’t worry, the cops’ll be outta there tomorr — ”
“Don’t tell me what to worry about!” Bear smacked his palm on the desk. He pointed a thick finger at Nico. “I wondered about this guy from the beginning, but you vouched for him. Then you come back to me whinin’ he’s no good and how you’re gonna take care of it. I tell you how to do that. But you don’t listen.”
Exposure Page 10
