“J.P., it’s me,” a voice shouted. Other voices were shouting other things and time seemed to slow down. I was willing myself not to squeeze my eyes shut and pretend it wasn’t happening, if only so I could try to dodge any further attacks.
“Go away,” J.P. screamed as his father’s face showed through the fractured doorway. Another hit and the door gave way. A uniformed policeman attempted to pull Vince away.
I jumped when there was a sudden shout next to me. McManus hollered loudly, “You can’t get out of here, Margoletti. Drop the gun. Don’t shoot her.”
Dimly, I heard J.P.’s father yelling “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” at somebody.
“Mr. Margoletti, you shouldn’t be here right now. It’s too dangerous.” McManus spoke in the same loud voice he had used on Dickie, his official voice, a good cop concerned for a citizen’s safety. I wanted to scream that he was lying, but no one would have heard me right then. There were shouts outside the door, and from inside the room, but they were beginning to recede from my consciousness. I was seeing bright spots and had a nasty feeling I was about to throw up.
The cop, who had been struggling with Vince, turned and yelled something over his shoulder. J.P. was screaming, “This is your fault. If you’d just given me the money.” His voice was ragged. He raised the gun with two hands and pointed it at his father.
Vince Margoletti started to speak but was stopped by the sound of a gun going off. J.P.’s face registered equal amounts of shock and horror as he threw the gun down. It slid toward me. I dimly registered McManus moving in front of me before another shot was fired. McManus’s foot appeared and kicked J.P.’s gun back in his direction. I was reeling from the sounds, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from Silicon Valley’s most powerful attorney. He looked surprised as a hole on the front of his beautiful suit jacket began to stain red. He fell backward out of the door, replaced by three or four swarming cops.
I looked at J.P., but he had crumpled to the floor. McManus began to yell, “He’s down, he’s down,” and the cops in the room converged on J.P.
What happened next took a nanosecond. McManus squatted down next to me and pressed his gun deep into my side. I thought he meant to kill me, but all he did was murmur, “I can always find you,” his breath hot and moist in my ear. I could hardly hear him, but I caught the malice in his voice perfectly. Then, standing and turning away from me, he said in a loud voice, “I had no choice. He was going to kill her next.”
CHAPTER 31
When I woke up, there was daylight, which stabbed at my eyes and made me groan. I closed my eyes quickly and started to turn my head away from the window. Very bad idea.
“Dani? Are you awake? How are you feeling? Nurse, she’s waking up.” It was Dickie’s voice, loud in a stage whisper, but what was he doing here? For that matter, where was here and what was I doing lying in a bed that wasn’t my own? “Dani? It’s me. Can you hear me?”
My ex was talking rapidly and squeezing my hand so tightly that I finally said, “Ouch.”
“Nurse, she’s in pain,” Dickie said loudly, still hanging onto my hand as if it might fly off by itself.
“Quit it, Dickie,” I whispered, tugging my fingers loose. “I’m fine.” Which I wasn’t. My skull hurt and my temples throbbed, and there was a stabbing pain in my eyes when I opened them again. “Oh boy,” I said when I squinted and turned my head a millimeter on the pillow. “How many ways can one head hurt?”
“Lots,” said a new voice, cheerful and loud and right over me. A young woman with tightly braided hair and dark-rimmed glasses leaned over me and held a coffee-colored finger in front of my nose. “How many?”
When we had agreed it was only one digit, and when she had done a variety of small things to measure how alive I still was, she retreated with the good news that I had a concussion but that I would live. That left me alone with my ex, who was looking worse than I felt.
“How did you get here? I mean,” I said, working hard to form coherent thoughts, “how did you know where I am? In fact, where am I?”
He smiled a bit raggedly. “First, you’re in the hospital in East Quince, fifteen miles from Bridgetown. Second, I found out because I got two phone calls, one from Charlie Sugerman and the other from Quentin Dalstrop.” I must have looked puzzled because he went on, “Quentin Dalstrop, your lawyer? Charles Sugerman, the cop you were calling while you were held captive? Although why you’d call him for help when you thought he was all the way across the country, I’m not sure.” The look that wafted over his face before it became determinedly cheerful again told me he had some idea.
The memories of the past few days were descending on me. Amnesia would have been preferable. “Vince Margoletti? Is he…?”
“Alive, and he’ll recover. His son was a better polo player than shooter.”
It took me a minute to get it. “Was? Jean Paul?”
Dickie is sunny by nature, but there was no trace of cheerfulness on his face now. “Your favorite cop shot him when J.P. pulled the trigger on his dad. He died instantly. You don’t remember?”
I did remember. What had McManus said?
“Jean Paul told me again and again that he didn’t kill Gabby. He was adamant,” I said, thinking out loud.
Dickie grabbed my hand again. “Of course he’d say that. Why would he confess to murder?”
“Someone’s confessing?” said another voice from the doorway.
“Charlie?” I said and, for some reason, began to cry.
Later, after I slept some more, Charlie replaced Dickie in the single chair in my hospital room, while Detective Kirby leaned against the wall.
“I don’t understand,” I managed this time.
“Thunderstorms. I was hanging out at Logan waiting for my delayed flight when you started sending me these cryptic messages, so I came back. Good thing I did.”
“Agreed,” Kirby said. “I’m sorry you had to go through so much scary stuff before we got you out. J.P. was one desperate guy by then.”
Holding Charlie’s hand, I said, “He admitted he caused Saylor’s death by shoving him into the pond on the golf course, even though he could see Saylor was having a heart attack. But he wasn’t the one who killed Gabby. McManus shot her.”
A muscle worked in Kirby’s jaw. “We heard Mr. Margoletti senior’s phone.”
“It worked? I wasn’t sure…”
“Well enough. We’re putting the pieces together now, but I’m sure we’ve got enough for a charge. I just need to hear it from you.”
“Can I sit up?” I said as a couple more people came into the room.
“Yes,” said the doctor, the same woman who had waggled her fingers at me.
“Well,” said the nurse.
“No” said my ex, who had tiptoed in to join the crowd.
“If she’s well enough to ask, I need ten minutes alone with her,” said Kirby, straightening up from the wall.
“Got it,” Charlie said. “I need to call Weiler anyway.”
It took that long to get me upright and over my gasping at the dizziness. The doctor warned Kirby ten minutes was the limit since it had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d been hit hard, and Dickie let it be known he would be right outside and counting. Briefly, I wondered if Miss Rome was sitting patiently in the hospital’s cafeteria, drinking weak American coffee and dimpling at the doctors. If she was, I loved her for it, I decided.
“McManus is a bad cop,” I began in a rush. “He shot Gabby and framed Dermott Kennedy and broke into my hotel room. He’s threatened to come after me if I talk.”
“He threatened you? When?” Kirby looked concerned.
“Yes, right after he shot J.P.”
“He’s in custody, insisting he was framed. We should have warrants for his bank accounts and emails in a couple hours. I’m guessing we’ll find evidence.” He smiled.
“Evidence?” This is what happens when you’ve been hit on the head more than once, I reminded myself, been dragged aro
und with guns pointed at you, and heard bullets fired a couple feet from your head. You get stupid.
“Deposits from Margoletti junior. The father handed his phone to the chief when he realized it was picking up something vital, and he picked up enough information to tell us where to look. We still need details, but I feel good we’ll convict him for the murder of Gabriela Flores.”
“Wait,” “I said, holding up a hand and waving it weakly. A thought that had been nagging at me had worked its way to the surface. “Was McManus assigned to help search Dermott’s apartment after the shooting?”
“No, he was off that night and the next day, said he went fishing.”
“Good, gotcha, you creep. Not you,” I said quickly when he looked over at me, startled. “You need to go back to Dermott’s apartment. There’s evidence there, too, a toothpick.”
Kirby’s friendly smile disappeared. “And you would know that how?” If I thought Kirby would thank me for my brilliant detective work, I was wrong. I explained I’d been kidnapped outside Dermott’s apartment, and admitted that I’d spent some time inside, hoping to clean up but getting scared after J.P. came looking for me. Kirby lectured me about disturbing evidence, but he admitted it might be a useful tool in shaking McManus’s alibi. My head was aching and I had already told the detective I had to take a break when Dickie poked his head in. Kirby nodded and promised to get back to me.
“Wait,” I said, the queasiness coming back as I imagined myself in the room with Vince, J.P. and McManus. “You need to know this. J.P. had already dropped his gun when McManus shot him. J.P. wasn’t armed. McManus shot him to keep him from talking. I saw it.”
Kirby looked at the floor and sighed. “I wondered. His fellow officers haven’t said anything, but I got the feeling they were bothered by something. The two shots were close in time, however, and McManus says J.P. had turned the gun on him.”
“No. J.P. dropped his gun,” I said through teeth gritted as much in anger as in pain. “I know what I saw.”
“You’ll testify? His word against yours?” Kirby looked thoughtfully at me.
“Yes, but,” I added as I eased back down to a prone position to combat the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me, “if Macho Cop—I mean McManus—gets out on bail, I don’t feel comfortable. He said he’d come after me.”
“Oh, he’s not going to bother you,” Kirby said grimly. “Joe Ricocetti, his partner, says he caught sight of McManus coming from behind the building where Flores was killed before the 911 call was relayed to them. At the time, he thought McManus was goofing off, but we’ll revisit every minute of that time to see if it’ll tie to the shooting.”
“The elevator,” I said. “They took the elevator to the basement. J.P. told me.”
“Good. We’ll look for DNA in the offices and the elevator,” Kirby said, “but I’m betting the best evidence we’ll find is a large cash deposit to Officer McManus’ bank account and a one-way, first class ticket to Buenos Aires.”
“That’s in Argentina,” I said, beginning to drift. “Will you charge him with Gabby’s murder?”
“At least,” Kirby said, and we sat in silence for a few seconds.
“That clears Dermott. I’m so glad.”
“The only thing that pointed to Kennedy strongly was his fingerprints on the gun. But that was a big one.”
“I guess Macho—er, McManus—wasn’t such a bright guy.” Dickie chimed in.
Kirby didn’t seem to notice the nickname. Even in my fuzzy state, I realized this episode was going to rattle the little Bridgetown police department. Most cops are honest, dedicated men and women. The occasional bad one hurts the whole force. It meant no one would cut McManus any slack. He’d be thrown to the legal system with no lifeline, which was precisely what I wanted and what Gabby’s and Larry Saylor’s memories demanded. Bart Corliss’s widow would have to learn the sordid story too.
With a small grimace, Kirby left us. Dickie was subdued as he took the chair Kirby had vacated. “Your Macho Cop is bad news through and through. You’re lucky, you know?” he said, patting my hand. “If you hadn’t left your phone on, with its tracking capability, who knows what might have happened to you?”
“It was Charlie who called the police?” I murmured, already drifting to sleep.
“Yes, and I heard they were already searching for the exact location of the apartment when Vince called for help. Your Macho Cop must have picked it up on the patrol car’s radio.”
“Not my cop, ugh.”
“Anyway, thank God for Charlie.” Dimly, I noted that he sounded completely sincere.
They kept me in the hospital for two days. Kirby came twice, with another police officer who took copious notes. Quentin Dalstrop not only came to see me, but brought a huge bouquet of lilacs, solving the mystery of Lynthorpe’s scented campus. “Oh my, yes,” he beamed as I inhaled deeply. “I have a half dozen bushes in my backyard and they’re all blooming like crazy right now. Lynthorpe’s known for them.”
Rory Brennan and Coe Anderson were too busy to come, but the college sent a rather grand floral arrangement with a subdued note of condolence for my trauma.
The doctor who visited me every day told me Vincent Margoletti was confined to his bed on another floor in the hospital after surgery. His lung had been punctured by the bullet, but he would recover. J.P. had been his only child and, as parents do, he loved his son, the rakish polo player and reckless gambler, even if he hadn’t known how to show him that not all high risks paid high rewards. I had a hunch that when the tough lawyer woke up from his nightmare, McManus and the entire police department of Bridgetown might suffer, but that would have to work itself out, as would a decision about the donation that had started all this insanity. If I knew my boss, he’d argue for making a bid on the Devor’s behalf after a decent interval. I already knew I couldn’t be part of any cultivation of Vince’s gift in that case, since the sight of me would bring back bitter, sorrowful memories.
Dermott Kennedy came to see me, accompanied by a middle-aged woman who looked so much like Gabby that tears filled my eyes. Dermott babbled so often that I’d saved him that I had to command him to stop. Mrs. Flores held my hand in her soft ones and thanked me for being with her daughter at the end. I didn’t see how that had changed anything on that dark day, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Anything that helped ease her pain was good.
Oddly, the one person I didn’t hear from was Charlie. The last time he had stopped by my bedside, he had kissed me gently and apologized, saying he had to get back to work now that he knew I was okay and that McManus was locked up. I left a handful of phone messages for him, but all I got in return was silence. Could he be that wrapped up in an investigation, or multiple investigations?
On the last day of my hospital stay, when Dickie showed up again with a box lunch better than the hospital food that lay untouched on the plastic tray, I asked him how he could spare the time. “Don’t you have to meet your friend, Miss…?” I almost said Miss Roman Holiday, but that was uncalled for. If she was in Massachusetts with Dickie, she was a good sport.
“Isabella?” he said. “She went back to Rome.”
“How do you feel about that?” I said, treading lightly.
He thought for a minute. “Sorry, at least a little. She’s smart and fun.”
“I liked her.” I finally got up my nerve to ask, “Did she come to the reunion?”
“To my prep school? Lord, no, why would she do that? A lot of old guys standing around drinking and telling bad jokes? Not her style at all. Yours either, I know,” he added quickly. “Listen, I talked to Peter and he wants you to take all the time you need before coming back to work. Teeni says she has everything in hand. How about taking a week to rest on Martha’s Vineyard? I could rent a house. It’s quiet up there at this time of year and you can sleep and sit in the sun and eat fried clams.”
It was the promise of fried clams that did it. Not a whole week, but a long weekend marked by the smell of fresh
sea air and the sound of gulls, and waves breaking in the distance. I made it clear the primary condition was separate bedrooms and he agreed without argument. In fact, he never tested my resolve, maybe because he was afraid my head would split open if I were crossed, or maybe because Isabella had left a serious dent in his affections. I took a few long walks by myself, played Scrabble with Dickie in front of the fire, and thanked the universe that I was alive. I promised myself that never again would I let my curiosity and stubbornness tempt me into dangerous situations. Never.
I was in a peaceful frame of mind when I unlocked the door of my apartment. Yvonne or Suzy had obviously been there because there were more flowers, and I saw a bag of freshly ground Peet’s French roast on the counter. Fever was happy to see me if I read the upright tail correctly. As I sat on the sofa flipping through the accumulated mail, a handwritten envelope caught my attention and the return address made my heart jump a little against my ribs.
Dani,
I need to talk with you. Call me when you get back, okay?
-C
We met at the North Beach café that was becoming our special place. He hugged me and squeezed my hand when I arrived, and asked me how I was feeling. I sensed something was making him nervous. For a nanosecond, I wondered if he was going to propose, maybe not marriage, but a whole week’s vacation together, something to signify a new stage in our relationship.
“I’m so glad you thought to call me when that bastard kidnapped you,” he said after toying with a piece of pizza for five minutes. “That was smart, Dani, but it could have been so much worse, and that scares me.”
I waited, not sure where this was going.
“I deal with death every day, but I’m having trouble letting it get as close to me as it does when you get drawn into these situations. I work hard to keep the violence I have to investigate impersonal, so I don’t get sucked into the pain it causes. That’s how I can keep doing my job day after day.” His voice had taken on a pleading tone and the green eyes were dark with emotion.
Mixed Up With Murder Page 23
