by Lee Driver
“How is she doing?” Brian paced at the foot of Josie’s bed as the visiting nurse checked his wife’s blood pressure.
“As well as can be expected.” She shushed him and pressed the stethoscope to Josie’s chest.
He tried to keep his mind on his wife but he also had to find a buyer for the guns downstairs. Last thing he needed was to have them discovered in his house. Maybe it was best that they move away. Things were getting a little too hot. A change of scenery might do Josie some good, too.
The nurse straightened, stuffed her stethoscope and other implements into her black bag. She was gangly, arms and legs too long for her short midriff. Her thin face and short, black hair reminded Brian of Popeye’s girlfriend.
“How’s her appetite?”
“Next to nothing,” Brian reported.
“It won’t be long now,” she whispered.
Brian walked her to the door and then returned to the bedroom. Laying the suitcase down, he opened it and checked the contents.
“What are you doing?” Josie’s weak voice asked.
“Making sure you have everything you’ll need.” He moved clothes to one side and unzipped the storage compartment. Then Brian went downstairs and returned several minutes later with a bag of money. He stuffed the banded bills into the compartment with the rest of them. After snapping the locks on the suitcase, he set it on end next to the dresser.
“What about you?”
Brian smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. He thought back to the cache of weapons downstairs and the thrill of being on the road again, creating a new identity. He kissed Josie’s freckled nose and said, “I travel light.”
Skizzy studied the listings on realtor web sites. He figured that was the best place as any since realtors had a way of adding a little flair to nostalgic features of a home. They could gussy up the description to make a blackened coal bin sound like the perfect place to put a children’s playroom. And it wasn’t as if he expected the home to be on the market now which was why he was delving into their past sales or rentals.
He kept one eye on the monitor where Mick was waiting like some sniper in the dark. Skizzy had set it on action-activated so it would beep if anyone entered Mick’s field of vision.
“Dammit, Dagger. Why can’t your suspect be a female and frequent a health club so I can at least see something interesting.” He checked the monitor again not sure if he had set the activation even though he had just checked it.
“Needle in a haystack,” he mumbled as the printer spit out pages of property descriptions. What he was looking for was floor plans. If he could find a house with a coal bin the size he estimated and a door on the same wall as Mick had revealed, then he should be able to narrow down the search.
The buzzer upstairs rang. Skizzy turned his head to check the video of the person outside the pawn shop. The man appeared well-dressed and was carrying a gym bag with a designer name stamped on the side.
Skizzy pressed the speaker button. “Speak your business,” he growled.
“Have some items to pawn.”
The man looked safe enough. Looked like a banker and Skizzy envisioned him to have a bag full of his wife’s china, probably trying to pay off gambling debts.
“Hang on a sec.” Skizzy climbed the stairs and closed the bookcase, checking twice to make sure it stayed closed. After unlocking the dead bolts, he jerked the front door open.
“Come in.” He checked up and down the sidewalk before closing the door. “What have you got?”
The man looked about twenty-five to Skizzy, and rich. The sweater was cashmere and the shirt had a button-down collar Skizzy thinks people called French collars. Mentally, he changed his assessment of the customer from a banker to a stockbroker trying to cover his losses with his parents’ collectibles. Skizzy’s eyes bugged as the man pulled several weapons from the bag and set them on the counter.
“I know this is very unorthodox for me to be coming here with these weapons. My father is a preacher. Last Sunday’s service he asked parishioners to turn in their weapons.”
Skizzy held the short barreled rifle. “C15m? This is a military weapon.” He checked two others. “Taurus titanium? Where do you live? In the middle of a drug cartel?” Skizzy always told customers he didn’t deal in guns. Truth was, he would buy them but never sold them. Instead, he was stockpiling them in case of Armageddon.
The young man smiled. “My father always wanted his church to be in the center of the most problem-riddled part of town. He figures it wasn’t the gang bangers who turned in their weapons. It was their family members.”
Skizzy was amazed at the light weight of the Taurus. Gun manufacturers had just started using titanium in their products.
“What do you think? I haven’t a clue what they are worth.” “Steal these from your pappy?” Skizzy’s gaze jerked from the pistol sight to the preacher’s son.
“I’m sure the Lord won’t mind us making a little money for the church. The rest of the weapons my father will turn over to the police.” He held Skizzy’s gaze with as much sincerity as he could muster.
Skizzy didn’t believe him for a minute. His gut was leaning toward the stockbroker who lost a bundle in tech stocks. Definitely not the son of a preacher man. Skizzy was surprised the floor where the guy was standing didn’t ignite in fiery damnation.
“Give you a thousand for all of it.”
“A thousand?” the man sputtered. “The C15m is worth a hell of a lot more than that alone.”
“Thought you said you didn’t know what they were worth,” Skizzy said, grinning. They settled on eighteen hundred dollars and as Skizzy slammed the series of dead bolts on the door he mumbled door he mumbled, “Stockbroker my ass.”
CHAPTER 28
October 12, 5:20 p.m.
“You’re a hard man to track down.” Sheila pushed her way into Joe Spagnola’s townhouse.
“I do have a phone.”
“Must have lost the number.” Sheila’s gaze traced the room’s dimensions, eyed the gym equipment in the middle of the living room, then noticed the towel draped around Joe’s shoulder and the sweat glistening on his body. “A little light on furniture.” Other than a television screen hanging on the wall and a geometric area rug under the gym equipment, there wasn’t any other furniture in the living room. The complex backed up to a park and through the patio window Sheila could see a pond.
Joe stripped out of his soaked tee shirt. “Are you here as a damsel in distress or a pesky reporter?”
Her eyes glazed over the cop’s chest, a patch of dark hair, damp and matted spreading from his sternum. His biceps were the size of her thighs and she felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach. What was it with dangerous men she found so irresistible? She turned quickly and glanced into a side room near the kitchen. It probably was supposed to be a dining room, Sheila guessed, but instead there was a train set up on an eight-by-ten foot table.
“You have got to be kidding. You don’t strike me as a Lionel train sort of guy.” She studied the mini-town complete with trees, park benches, mountains, and miniature buildings. When she reached out to touch the coal car, Joe grabbed her wrist.
“Didn’t your father ever teach you not to play with a man’s toys?”
Pulling her wrist from his grasp, she held his gaze. “Only those with moveable parts.” If Joe Spagnola had been in her high school, she just knew he would have been at the top of her father’s list of boys to avoid.
Slipping around him and out of the room, Sheila said, “Just wanted to know if you had anything new on Caroline’s murder.” She pulled out a notepad and pencil to make her visit look official. It was warm in the apartment so she slipped out of her angora cardigan, hooked it over the handlebar on the exercise bike. A camisole under her silk blouse was sheer and Sheila wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were full and perky, the best Daddy’s money could buy.
“Have a few good leads.” Joe pulled his gaze from her and plodded off to the kitchen. “Want s
omething to drink?”
“Wine would be great, unless all you have is carrot juice.” She couldn’t help but notice he filled out his gym shorts rather nicely. Her first impression was that he just recently moved in since his townhouse was sparsely decorated, and the subdivision was a new construction. “How do you entertain company without furniture?”
He returned with a glass of white wine and handed it to her. With a shrug he said, “I’m not a sociable kinda guy.” Tipping his head back he downed his sport drink in one long guzzle. “You’re welcome to wait while I shower but I really don’t have much else to tell you.” He didn’t wait for her response, just headed for the bathroom.
The sounds from the shower drifted down the hallway. Sheila slid open the patio door. Joe’s townhouse was on the ground level. A brick fence surrounded the patio and off to one side was a hot tub, simmering and bubbling.
“This is for us, Dagger.” Stepping back inside, Sheila slipped out of her shoes and stripped off her clothes, leaving them trailing on the floor. On the couch was her purse, partially open, the corner of a tape peeking out. She stepped out onto the patio, slid into the frothing water, and waited.
CHAPTER 29
October 12, 8:40 p.m.
“Einstein, what’s wrong?” Sara walked into the dimly lit aviary and stared at the macaw. She probably shouldn’t have given him another dose of medicine because all it seemed to do was make him lethargic. And she was getting used to his screeching. It felt comforting and she imagined it was the same way wives felt when their husbands snored. At least it filled the silence and there was a comfort in knowing you weren’t alone.
Einstein blinked slowly and poked at his feathers with his beak. He spread his wings, showing her his vibrant blue underwings and then settled back on the branch.
“How about a warm shower? Would you like that?” Sara walked over to the shower and tapped the basin. The macaw looked past her, toward the window where darkness beckoned, but not for long. A faint glow in the night sky was arcing its way through the trees.
Einstein flew over to Sara and clamped his claws on her arm. This startled her. Einstein would only land on Dagger’s arm, never hers. She ran her hand over the silky feathers and down his beak. “Someone feed you avocados when our backs were turned?” Although the vet had said all tests for toxicity came up negative, Sara was never sure what Einstein might have eaten when she had him outside for exercise. “I’m going to have to stop giving you that medicine. It’s difficult to tell your true symptoms.” He grabbed a beakful of her hair and pulled. “Don’t.” She didn’t know what it was about her hair. But he probably would try to grab her jewelry, too, if she wore any. “No,” she scolded again. He released his hold and Sara stroked his back, pulled him closer. “You’re just feeling uneasy because Dagger had to go to the police station, that’s all. Everything will be fine.”
She crossed the living room and stared out at the darkened yard, the moon rising in the distance. A shiver ran through her. “It’s almost over with, Einstein,” she whispered into the macaw’s crown. “This Friday the thirteenth rumor is just that, a rumor. I’ll sleep down here tonight, okay?” She pressed her head against his and watched as the bright globe filled the sky. Her grandmother once said if she stared long enough she could see the man in the moon. It was the craters or shadows that seemed to form the eyes and mouth. Even at a young age she hadn’t believed there was a man in the moon. It was clear to her that it was only an illusion. But now as she stared she could see more than just the image of a face. She could swear parts of it were stained red.
9:25 p.m.
Dagger stood behind the chair, arms crossed, glaring at Detective Spagnola who was leaning against the one-way mirror. A tape recorder sat in the middle of the table, a tape in the chute. It was a stand-off. Spagnola wasn’t going to sit until Dagger did, and vice versa.
“Where’s Sergeant Martinez?”
“Ain’t his case.” Joe chewed his gum lazily and waited him out. As if being the good host, he asked, “How about some coffee?”
“No.” Dagger didn’t bother with ‘no thanks’ and watched Spagnola stroll out of the room. Dagger could just stroll right after him but he had no idea who was on the other side of the mirror. Finally, he pulled out a chair and sat down. He pushed the chair back, legs scraping against linoleum. The hard wood was uncomfortable as hell and he knew he wouldn’t be sitting for long.
His gaze dropped to the recorder and it was obvious Spagnola wanted him to be curious, maybe even play it while he was gone. But he would wait him out. He wasn’t that curious. Staring at the one-way mirror, Dagger slowly raised his middle finger and rubbed it along the side of his nose. Within a few seconds, Spagnola returned carrying a pad of paper and a cup of coffee that smelled several hours past brew time.
Detective Spagnola shoved the pad of paper at him, tossed a pen on the table and sat down. “Want to write out your confession now or after you hear the tape?” He smiled, a cocky smile like someone who felt he was holding all the cards.
Dagger smiled back. “Is it Tina Turner?”
“Close.” Spagnola pushed the chute down and pressed PLAY.
The tape was a recording of his and Sheila’s phone conversation earlier. But it had been altered. An expert job, too. On the tape Dagger was telling Sheila, “You can live here and take care of Einstein. Sara and I will be in prison.” More editing and then Dagger’s voice said, “It was a conspiracy. We planned it together.”
Dagger silently seethed. Was Sheila in on it? Would she really go that far? “Did I ever tell you I have wonderful equipment that lets me know if my phone is being tapped?”
Spagnola’s dark eyes danced and he leaned back, his chair touching the wall behind him. “Can’t trust reporters, you know? They always want to get at the truth, no matter the cost.”
“Did I also tell you, for business purposes, I tape my telephone calls and my tape definitely won’t match this one?”
“Did you inform Miss Monroe her conversation was being tape?”
“Sure, right after she told me mine was being taped.”
Spagnola nodded toward the pad of paper. “Just write down how you killed Caroline Kirby because you thought she was your fiancée.”
“Ex-fiancée.”
“So you admit it?”
Dagger smiled, folded his arms across his chest and turned his watch to see the time. “I have the best alibi in town. I was with one of Cedar Point’s finest and one of the Indy P.D.’s finest. Just do your checking, unless that’s too much work for you. Matter of fact, they can vouch for both me and Sara.”
“Maybe you hired someone to do the job.”
Spagnola leaned across the table, got up close. Dagger wasn’t sure if he was trying to kiss him or what the hell he wanted. But he got a whiff of perfume and realized who it belonged to.
“You know,” Spagnola whispered, “you shouldn’t neglect your fiancée like that. She is one hot lady who needs it every day and night. Know what I mean?” He held his gaze, started that lazy chewing again.
Dagger realized Sheila was behind the tape, she was trying to get Spagnola to incriminate Sara. Sheila wasn’t above doing whatever she had to do to get a story but to sleep with Spagnola to get him to doctor the tape was the final straw. Dagger knew the cop was looking for a reaction and Dagger wasn’t going to give it to him.
“Don’t worry,” Dagger whispered back, “she’s got her shots.”
CHAPTER 30
October 12, 10:05 p.m.
Skizzy leaned back in his chair and tossed a kernel of popcorn in the air. It hit his chin and landed on his chest so he picked it up and ate it. He tried another one, whiling away his time waiting for some action. This time, the popcorn hit its target. He checked the clock. It was past ten and nothing was happening. Not one to get to bed before midnight, Skizzy normally started his round of checking and rechecking the dead bolt locks about now. That usually took him two hours. During commercials when watching the
news, he would recheck them. Then after he climbed into bed, he would be up at least ten more times making last-minute checks.
He decided to give Mick ten more minutes. Skizzy no sooner adjusted the contrast then the door to the room opened and a figure appeared on the screen. “Show time.” He grabbed a fistful of popcorn. “Well, well, lookie here.” Skizzy recognized the face on the screen. It was the same man who had shown up at the pawn shop claiming to have weapons collected by his preacher father. And he had a similar build and coloring as the man on the tape from the Evidence Room. “Preacher’s son you ain’t. And I doubt John Sinclair is your real name either.” That was the name the young man had written on the sales receipt.
Something else was different. The man was wheezing, bending over, out of the viewing area of Mick. Skizzy made sure the tape was running. He moved Mick closer to the edge. But it still couldn’t get a good view of the man without putting Mick dangerously close to falling off the shelf. The man still hadn’t turned the light on in the room but it wasn’t necessary with the night vision. Another strange sound erupted from the speakers and Skizzy adjusted the volume. “Well, you’re sure in one foul mood, buddy.” Scrapings, like a nail on a blackboard, made Skizzy cover his ears. “What in dad gum tarnation are you doing? Filing the serial numbers off those guns, I bet.”
The figure on the screen rose, as if energized by some unseen cosmic force. Something else was different. The man staggered to the hatch on the wall and yanked on the lock, slapping it away as if it were a nuisance fly. The man inhaled the air and Skizzy watched as the muscles under the man’s shirt strained against the fabric. There was something about the way he had slapped at the lock that caught Skizzy’s attention but it happened too quickly.
