by West, CJ
TJ trailed through the hallway-like room, past the tussled bed she’d slept in and opted for a seat on the neater bed beside her empty suitcase. Deirdre sat opposite him and for the first time she noticed the large white envelope in his hands.
TJ opened it without speaking and handed her a glossy photograph that captured Randy walking out Charlie’s front door. Deirdre imagined TJ aiming a gun rather than a camera when he took this shot. She pictured Randy dropping at the foot of the stairs, tangling in the shrubs, and writhing on the ground. A few minutes of agony and he would be forever still. She was lost in reverie several seconds before realizing TJ was waiting for her to look up.
“How’d you know he’d go back to the winery?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I followed him there.”
“How’d you find him?”
“You were right about the car. It cost four hundred thousand dollars. The sales manager remembered him as soon as I said ‘McLaren.’ Not only that, you had the license plate almost right. It’s A-V-N-G-R.”
Deirdre’s spirit brightened. “So you know where he lives?”
“In Dartmouth, across from that banker’s house that burned down.”
Mention of the fire tickled her memory, but she ignored it. She asked instead what Randy was doing in Charlie’s house.
“He spent four hours there on Saturday and went back to the winery again on Sunday, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what he was doing.”
“You got this picture.”
TJ clenched his teeth, frustrated with her lack of appreciation for his work. “I took the photo from the trees across the driveway. If you remember, the rest of the property is wide open. Any closer and he would have seen me. Then he’d be on guard and following him would be next to impossible.”
“I didn’t mean to criticize. I’m glad you found him so fast. I’d just like to know what he’s doing in there when Charlie’s not home.”
“Hard to say. He brought three large boxes inside,” TJ indicated the photo. “He stayed in there for two hours then disappeared into the woods. I went back to my car to wait for him, but he didn’t leave the winery for another hour and a half. He could have been in the parents’ house or in the barn, I can’t be sure.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“No. After he left, I walked around and checked in through the windows. Everything looked normal, but it was getting dark and I couldn’t see very well.”
Deirdre studied the box Randy held in the close-up. It had no markings, but he clutched it to his chest as if it were quite heavy.
She looked back to TJ. “Why would he go into Charlie’s house when he’s not there? I heard Charlie tell him off the other night and he knows Charlie saw him kill my husband. If Charlie goes to the police, Randy will be locked up for sure.”
“I don’t know what he’s up to, but it’s not about money, that’s for sure. He’s got plenty of his own.”
She couldn’t imagine he earned it legitimately. The only jobs that suited him were heavy-metal guitarist and nudie-magazine photographer.
TJ seemed to read her thoughts as he handed her the envelope. “I don’t know where the money comes from. He didn’t leave for work this morning.”
She smoothed the bedspread and dumped the contents of the envelope: several typewritten pages and a dozen photographs. The first page detailed Randy’s real name, address, and assorted details about his car and his house. A Compass Bank statement showed nearly a million dollars on deposit. She wondered if TJ had stolen it from the mailbox or if he had a contact at the bank. Then she moved on to a photograph showing the car driving into a magnificent white-brick colonial.
“Where’s this?”
“That’s his house. The banker’s house and the ocean are across the street.”
Deirdre couldn’t imagine someone so vile could afford such luxury. Finally, she moved on to a report of his comings and goings for the last two days.
“How long do you want me to follow him?” TJ asked.
Her breath caught in her throat. He knew she hadn’t paid ten thousand dollars for the contents of that envelope, but he showed neither fear nor excitement for the task ahead. She admired his huge hands; hands strong enough to clamp down on Randy’s windpipe and slowly strangle the life out of him. His shiny bald head and the rounded muscles under his black shirt gave him a menacing look, but his relaxed demeanor lacked the hatred he’d need for the job. She remembered how Randy strapped her to the bedposts after Charlie had gone. Randy deserved the intense, prolonged suffering that only a committed professional or a deranged psychopath could inflict. She wanted him to shriek like a little boy before he died.
A wave of guilt rolled through her and she flicked her eyes skyward for reassurance. Feeling none, she gingerly walked around the bed, behind TJ to the old leather suitcase lying in the corner. His eyes followed.
“I didn’t prepare a bill, but the ten thousand more than covers three days work. I’ll bring—” TJ stopped when he saw Deirdre lift two handfuls of cash from the old case. She piled one stack on each thigh, sixty-five thousand dollars in all.
Scooping them up, he looked solemnly at the thickness of the stacks and then back at Deirdre. Sixty-five thousand was six months’ salary for TJ, not counting the ten she’d already paid. His expression slowly hardened. His muscles stiffened and his gaze intensified. The relaxed delivery boy became the high-powered entrepreneur. She hoped the money would buy unspeakable cruelty.
“Remind me again why you can’t go to the police.”
“They can’t help me. That’s why I need you.” Deirdre’s hands started to shake. She’d thought the sight of the money would snap TJ into compliance, but he already had it and he was still balking.
TJ looked annoyed. “Lady, it’s obvious you’re not a criminal. If you tell them what happened, they’ll pick this guy up and it won’t cost you a dime.”
“If the money’s not enough...”
“The money’s not the issue. The issue is whether you can keep this quiet for the rest of your life. If I walk out of here with this money, there’s no changing your mind. My work is irreversible.”
Deirdre looked him squarely in the eyes. “It’s him or me.”
“What do you mean?”
Deirdre led TJ over to the computer and showed him an Internet news story. “LOCAL WOMAN KILLED Deirdre Deudon, wife of the late Henri Deudon, was killed Saturday at her home…”
TJ stared back and forth from Deirdre to the dated photo on the screen that showed her and Henri standing by the roadside stand where they sold flowers and vegetables to tourists.
“Randy paid someone to kill me, but they got my sister-in-law instead. If I go to the police and he finds out I’m alive, he’ll send someone else.”
TJ stared down into the screen. “Someone knows this story is a lie.”
“Charlie is there in Piolenc. He knows what happened, but if he told them, they’d have the Westport police swarming around the winery waiting for Randy to come back. That doesn’t seem to be happening, does it?”
“No, but whoever lied to the papers knows you’re in danger. That’s the only explanation for a story like this.”
“That’s why I need you.”
In the long silence between them Deirdre had a horrifying thought that he’d suddenly announce he was a cop and his partners would burst into the room from every conceivable direction. But he didn’t say anything, nor did Henri rise up and assail her for the sin she was committing.
TJ measured her with a critical glare that said he didn’t take these assignments lightly. He wasn’t deciding to help a woman in need. He was deciding if he could place his freedom in her hands. She needed to keep her composure in spite of the guilt and regret her conscience would certainly conjure up. Otherwise, she’d meet a fate similar to Randy’s.
When Deirdre was sure she couldn’t face him a second longer, he snatched the envelope and removed every photograph. He ripped off a business card he�
�d stapled to one of the pages then stuffed the typewritten pages back in the envelope and locked eyes with her as he handed it back. “You didn’t get this from me,” he said.
She nodded gravely, afraid of TJ for the first time.
“Is there anyone else who knows about your problem with this guy?”
“Just you and Charlie.”
“Think!” he snapped.
The forceful voice jolted Deirdre’s heart-rate up to a steady drumming. TJ’s eyes radiated intensity. These were the eyes of a man who could set you on fire and watch you burn to soak in your agony. He’d punish Randy, but if he felt deceived he’d bury her just as efficiently. She wondered what he’d do if he knew about the money in the leather case. Would he slaughter her and leave her body for the maids? She stared up at him blankly, barely breathing.
“How about the other investigators?” he asked more evenly.
“Two others. Both recommended you,” she stammered.
“You told me that. Think about what you said to them. Did you ever mention harming Mr. Black? ”
“No, never.”
TJ clenched a fist and squeezed it with his free hand as if compressing it into something more lethal. “You’re sure,” he said almost to himself.
Deirdre knew what he was thinking, but didn’t dare interrupt. Somehow both investigators had known what she wanted and sent her away. This didn’t trouble TJ. Maybe he trusted his colleagues to keep his secret; maybe he paid them.
He quizzed her about acquaintances she could have discussed her problems with. Then he asked about the phone calls she’d made to his office. He read every movement of her eyes and lips from behind an intense, blank stare. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact as if he were working through his pre-murder checklist. Deirdre held her breath after each answer. The end of her nightmare was near.
Finally, TJ stood up, slipped the packets of bills into his jacket one after the other, and zipped it closed. He sidestepped around to the end of the bed and faced her squarely, hands on hips accentuating the breadth of his shoulders. He lingered, scrutinizing her face. She knew now he was more concerned about her discretion as a client than he was about fulfilling the contract.
“I’ll do this on my timetable,” he said with a commanding air. “Don’t call me and don’t come back to my office. If things go bad, I handle my problems, you handle yours. Understood?”
“How long will it take?”
“Impossible to say. It depends on your friend. Watch the news. Eventually you’ll see him in a body bag. I suggest you stay here until then.”
Before she could respond, TJ left without looking back.
Giving him the money all at once was a mistake. She wondered if he’d actually do it, or if he’d just take the money and melt away. She could only wait and hope that TJ was a man who honored his commitments.
Chapter Thirty-three
The whirlwind trip to Piolenc and the encounter with Laroche left Charlie groggy-headed even after four hours of sleep on the plane. Already weary, he arrived home to find the parking lot devoid of customer vehicles, reminding him he needed to do something about sales before production filled the entire barn. The sight of Sebastian’s tired Buick—the only car in the lot—reminded him he needed to get closer to Sebastian to understand the staffing problem. He wondered if his father envisioned problems everywhere he looked: if this was what had blinded him to Charlie’s accomplishments. First he’d sleep then he’d take on the sales problem.
Charlie parked and began lugging his suitcase inside. An image of Randy breaking through his front door rushed to mind. He’d been haunted by similar images ever since his calls to Deirdre went unanswered. Most times he imagined Randy bursting in while she was watching television. He saw him spin into a rampage, alternately pummeling her and tearing at her clothes. He reminded himself that Randy’s hired thug had mistakenly killed Monique in Deirdre’s place. Randy hadn’t known where Deirdre was then. If she’d heeded his warning, she’d be safe until Randy was caught.
Charlie’s heart beat with resolve to overcome whatever Randy had done while he was away. He’d go to the attic expecting to find the money gone. If it was, so be it. He reached the top step, but before he could open the door, clamshells crunched behind him. Charlie turned and watched Sebastian slow to a jog and pull up panting on the grass ten feet away.
“Glad to see me?” Charlie asked.
“More than you know,” Sebastian gasped between words, “Lily quit.”
“What are you doing to these people?” Oops. Charlie immediately regretted his phrasing.
Sebastian’s face hardened with indignation.
“Me?” Sebastian poked his own chest with an audible thump. “We never had these problems until you joined the business.”
The statement rang oddly true, but Charlie had nothing to do with employees leaving the operation en masse. This was Sebastian’s mess and Charlie felt no need to argue the point. “How can I help?” he asked.
“You can babysit the gift shop so I can get some work done.”
“What about Deirdre?”
“Haven’t seen her since Friday. I thought you’d know where she was.”
“Nope.” Charlie felt the knots in his abdomen loosen. Deirdre was safe.
Sebastian threw his hands up. “What the Hell’s going on here? Three vineyard hands quit in a week, then Lily, and now Deirdre’s gone? I can’t run this place myself.” He scowled as if he’d stomp off in disgust and leave Charlie to run the winery alone.
“Relax. Let me get showered. I’ll cover the shop and I’ll make some calls. We’ll have some help next week. Don’t worry.”
Sebastian shook his head and muttered at the ground as he walked away.
Charlie plodded back up the stairs wondering if losing Sebastian might not be fortunate. In another month he might welcome Sebastian’s resignation.
The doorknob turned without the key. He pushed the door open and his thoughts immediately returned to Deirdre. The living room was the way he left it three days ago: no sign of trouble. His eyes panned to the dining room as he crossed the threshold. When his shoe touched down, he heard a spitting sound in the kitchen followed instantly by a stinging sensation in his chest. The spitting continued in a prolonged rapid-fire burst and before he could see where the noise was coming from, something whacked the door casing inches from his shoulder. Another splat hit the glass door and then another sharp pain stabbed his abdomen. Charlie dropped his bag and clutched his stomach. Before he realized what was happening, three more stinging spots appeared on his shirt, nearly one on top of the other, like a coordinated attack of large mechanical bees. Two more strikes smacked his knuckles where he clutched his chest and his vibrating fingers stung. Instinct sent him diving to his right and he ended up sprawled on the dining room floor.
There before him was a white wire that had been strung from the mat inside the front door toward the kitchen.
The sputtering continued, accompanied by cracking impacts centered on the single pane of glass in the storm door. Paint pellets smacked the door at chest height until the glass finally shattered and the barrage of pellets whizzed through toward the Volvo. Charlie pulled up his shirt and found five well-defined red welts where he’d been hit.
Bastard!
Charlie regained his feet and followed the wire. Before he reached the kitchen, he stopped—aware that he was doing exactly what Randy expected of him. Somehow Randy knew he’d get free of Laroche and come home. Obviously, Randy had sent the photo that forced his trip to France, but then he invested a lot of time setting this little trap. He already had the money. He rigged the paintball gun because he wanted something more.
Charlie remembered the endless pranks that threw the Caulfields’ lives into turmoil. What began as a string of inconveniences grew more destructive each day. Overwhelmed, the Caulfields blamed karma, negligent contractors, and neighborhood hoodlums. They never realized that all the little disasters were building to Randy’s final
e. The same might be true for Charlie. Randy’s goal might be just out of sight. Something more sinister could be in the kitchen, in his bedroom, or lurking in the barn tomorrow. Charlie wouldn’t repeat the Caulfield’s mistake. He’d be ready.
Charlie wondered what he’d have to endure before he discovered Randy’s true objective. It wasn’t a bomb or a gun he worried about. Randy enjoyed watching people suffer. His ploys would be psychological and he’d be nearby watching.
Charlie’s tender cheek began to throb without provocation: a message from his subconscious perhaps. Charlie had gradually entered Randy’s cycle of torture and like the boiling frog, he hadn’t noticed the slowly increasing heat. The episode with the Caulfields was a message, a slap to attention, a warning that put Randy’s game in perspective. Otherwise, Charlie might never have seen the truth behind Randy’s antics. Randy wanted him to step trembling into the future, numbed by apprehension.
Charlie did his best to keep his eyes wide and his thoughts quiet.
He checked the doorway to the kitchen and tested the floor just inside. There was no motion detector around the corner and no trapdoor to drop him into the basement. He followed the wire underneath the table where it connected to a robotic contraption mounted behind a paintball gun. A steel rod pulled a cable taught, depressing the trigger indefinitely. The gun continued to fire even though it had exhausted the two-hundred-round paintball hopper. Charlie unscrewed the carbon dioxidecylinder and the spitting noise stopped.
Back on his feet, he noticed several screws that protruded up through the tabletop, cracking the veneer. One held a note.
Charlie,
You’re still too easy to kill!
And, c’mon, the attic?
Smarten up. Make this fun.
Victory without competition is hollow indeed.
I know where Sweetie is, do you?
Again Randy had him doing exactly what he wanted. Charlie was standing behind the gun with his back to the sliding glass door. Randy could be anywhere out there. Charlie spun to find nothing but the grassy slope, the stone wall, and the vineyard beyond. He sidestepped away from the glass to think.
