The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Confidence is good.”

  “I believe good overcomes evil, especially if good works its ass off. Just like I believe in the sacrament of marriage, and the poetry of baseball. These are constants for me, Bo. Unassailable.”

  She looked away, felt steadier. “He knows me better than I know him, and that’s his advantage. He’s had years to study me, to explore my weaknesses. But I’m learning. I want to know why now, why he feels he can or must show me who he is, what he’s done. He’s got cops up and down the eastern seaboard on his tail. He could have taken me out, or tried, without anyone knowing who or why.”

  “It wouldn’t be as important? He wouldn’t be as important?”

  “Yes, that’s part of it. This is the big bang, what he’s been building up to for twenty years. God, what kind of person obsesses over a woman for twenty years? I can’t understand it.”

  “I can.” He stayed where he was when she turned back to him. “It’s not the same, but I know what it is to have someone get inside you, against all reason, and just get stuck in there. For me, it was magic. For him it’s a sickness. But in a way, for both of us it was a kind of fantasy. It just grew in different directions.”

  She considered, studied the board. “His was rooted in childhood. His and mine. Rape isn’t sexual, it’s violence. It’s power and control. The fact that he earmarked me, focused on me, tried to rape me wasn’t so much about me but about who I was. The youngest daughter—and likely pretty pampered—of the Hale family.”

  She walked around the board as if to study it from different angles. “Holy family, that’s what he said. We were happy, respected, crowded with friends. His family was violent, isolated, and he was the only child. There were others like ours in the neighborhood, but we were more in the forefront because of Sirico’s. Everyone knew us. No one really knew them. And I was the closest to his age. His father abused his mother—he in turn learns abuse, directed at women. But his attempt to take power over me, to do violence to me, wasn’t just thwarted—and by my younger brother, at that—but its consequences affected the rest of his life. My fault, as he sees it.”

  She circled the board once more. “But it still doesn’t speak to why now, and what next. He’s a sociopath. No conscience, no remorse, but he’s also self-serving. When something kicks him, he doesn’t just kick back, he burns. Something kicked him. Something triggered this. Something pushed him into coming back here and letting me know who he is.”

  He’d stopped listening. Bo had risen, stepped to the board, and her last few words were just buzzes in his head. “This is him? This is Pastorelli?”

  “Junior, yeah.”

  “I saw him. Twice. I’ve seen him twice. The first time he was as close as you are.”

  “When?” she snapped. “Where?”

  “The first time it was the Saturday before I had the family dinner deal. I went into the grocery store near a client’s to pick up the flowers for your mother. He stood right beside me. Goddamn, I’m stupid!”

  “No. Stop. Just tell me what happened. Did he talk to you?”

  “Yeah.” His hands had balled into fists, but he released them now, went back in his head and told her about the incident as best he remembered.

  “Son of a bitch bought red roses.”

  “He’s followed you. Taking the time to surveil. Client’s house, grocery store. He’d have gotten a thrill out of talking to you. Made him feel superior, powerful. I need a chalkboard in here. Why didn’t I think to buy a chalkboard?”

  Instead she dug out a map, pinned it to the back of her corkboard. “Show me the client’s house, the store.”

  She grabbed pushpins, stuck red ones in the two locations he pointed out. “Good. Let me mark where else we know he’s been seen.” She stuck another red pin into the map on Tony Borelli’s street. “Where did you see him the second time?”

  “About twenty minutes ago,” Bo told her. “Diagonal from Sirico’s.”

  She nearly fumbled the box of pins. “Was he going there?”

  “No.” He clamped a hand on her shoulder. “He drove off. He was across the street, few houses up the block. When he saw I’d seen him, recognized him from before, he got in his car.”

  “Make, model.”

  “Ah . . .” He had to close his eyes, work to bring it back. “Toyota. One of the 4Runners, I think. Dark blue, maybe black. It impinges my masculinity, but I don’t actually know every make and model of every available car out there. I made this one because I dated someone who had one. So anyway, I’d sort of half-waved, like you do if you see someone familiar. He drove by, gave me one of these out the window.” He made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger. “Said bang, and drove off.”

  “Ballsy bastard.” Her throat was hot and dry at the thought there might have been a gun. “He must’ve been standing out in front of his own house, watching the shop. He said he’s got another surprise planned for me tonight. He’s plank stupid if he thinks I’ll give him a chance to hit Sirico’s.”

  She stabbed a pin into the map. Temper steadied her nerves. “I need to make some calls.”

  28

  There were cops posted at Sirico’s, in position to watch the restaurant and the apartment above. There were two more who’d be enjoying her parents’ hospitality, and yet others keeping watch on Fran’s home. And though Vince had objected, and pointed out his home was protected by state-of-the-art security systems, Reena had men patrolling their grounds.

  “He could try for any one of them. Or none of them.” She paced the living room. She stopped, stared at her map. “He’s going to light a match somewhere tonight.”

  Bo had hauled her board downstairs at her request. So much for keeping the job and her life separate, she thought, even symbolically. Right now, the job was her life.

  Her cell rang in her pocket. She yanked it out. “Hale. Wait.” She grabbed a notebook. “Go.” And scribbled. “Yeah, yeah, okay. We need to send a unit out to BWI, check long term there. Most logical place for him to ditch one, grab another. Good. Thanks.”

  She flipped the phone back in her pocket, moved back to the map and used a yellow pin to mark the airport. “Family just got back from a big vacation in Europe. Shuttle out to long-term parking at Kennedy, and their Jeep Cherokee’s gone. Boost that to make the trip south, go see an old pal and get the bum’s rush. Maybe you keep it awhile. Going to take a while for them to track it all the way to Maryland. Then you drive it to BWI—maybe Dulles, maybe National, but probably BWI, pick another, do the switch, drive away. You like SUVs. Plenty of room to hold your toys.”

  “I’m going to go next door and shower, it was hot out there today.”

  Distracted, she frowned over at Bo. “What?”

  “I said I need to go clean up.”

  “Would you mind cleaning up here? Don’t you watch movies? The bad guy always breaks into the house when you’re in the shower. Look what happened to Janet Leigh in Psycho.”

  “Janet Leigh’s a woman.”

  “Regardless. I’d appreciate it if you’d grab that shower here. You’ve got a clean shirt in the laundry room.”

  “I do?”

  “You left one here. It got washed. So, do me a favor, okay?”

  “Sure.” He put his hands on her shoulders and understood what people meant when they talked of someone coiled like a spring. “Any point in telling you to try to relax?”

  “Not one.”

  “Then I’ll go clean up. Look, if some guy dressed in his mother’s clothes breaks in, fight him off until I get my pants back on.”

  “There’s a deal.”

  Alone, she went into the kitchen to get another bottle of water to offset her intake of caffeine. She saw the bag of takeout he’d set on the counter. No, she couldn’t relax, she thought, but she could be grateful. Grateful to have someone who fit so truly into her life.

  She was definitely going to marry him, she decided as she took out the plastic containers. He could wriggle on the hook for a while—h
e was entitled—but she was reeling him in.

  It made her laugh to remember buying red shoes with Gina at the mall, and having Gina tell her she was marrying Steve. He just didn’t know it yet.

  All these years later, she finally understood.

  She put the chicken in the oven on warm. A meal would keep her energy up more productively than nerves.

  She took the water back into the living room to study the map. “Where are you, Joey?” she asked aloud. “Where are you now?”

  They look over there, you work over here. It wasn’t just timing that counted. It was planning.

  Rattled now, sure she was. Thinks I’ll come after her mommy and daddy.

  Not yet.

  Nice little spot, Fells Point. Be nicer yet when it starts to burn.

  Cops were so stupid. How many times had he proven that? Maybe they’d tripped him up a couple of times, but he’d been younger then. Besides, he’d learned from it. Lots of time to learn in the joint. Time to plan and imagine, read, study.

  He’d honed his computer skills inside. Nothing handier in today’s world than strong computer skills. Hacking, searching, cloning phones.

  Or finding out where a certain cop’s widow lived.

  Too bad the other one moved to Florida. He’d deal with that one of these days, but it would’ve been nice to take out both of the bastards who hauled his father away. Who pulled the man out of his own home, humiliated him.

  Humiliated both of them.

  It didn’t matter that the other cop bastard had already bought it. His widow would do just fine.

  He left the car—another Cherokee this time—a block south and walked briskly up the sidewalk like a man with things to do.

  He was still wearing jeans, but he’d changed into a blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. He wore Nikes and a black O’s fielder’s cap. He carried a small backpack and a glossy white florist’s box.

  She lived alone, Mrs. Thomas bastard Umberio. Deb to her friends. Her daughter lived in Seattle, so was out of the zone for game time. Her son lived in Rockville. He’d been closer to Baltimore, Joey thought, he’d have taken the son instead of the widow. But this was a hometown show, after all.

  He knew Deb was fifty-six, taught high school math, drove a 1997 Honda Civic, went to some cunt-gym three times a week after school and closed her bedroom curtains most nights at ten.

  Probably so she could masturbate, he thought and strolled into the apartment building, chose the stairs rather than the elevator to take him to the third floor.

  There were four apartments to a floor. He’d already done his scope. Not much to worry about, and the old coots directly across the hall went out to dinner early every Wednesday night.

  Pays to do your homework, right, teacher? he thought, and knocked cheerfully on Deborah Umberio’s door.

  She opened the door, keeping the security chain in place so he caught only a slice of her. Brown hair, pointy face, careful eyes.

  “Deborah Umberio?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Got flowers for you.”

  “Flowers?” Pink came into her cheeks. Women were so predictable. “Who’s sending me flowers?”

  “Ah . . .” He turned the box as if reading a label on the side. “Sharon McMasters. Seattle?”

  “That’s my daughter. Well, what a surprise. Wait just a minute.” She shut the door, rattled the chain off, pulled it back open. “What a nice surprise,” she repeated, reaching for the box.

  He rammed his right fist into her face. As she fell backward, he nipped inside, closed the door, flipped the lock, set the chain.

  “It is, isn’t it?” he said.

  He had plenty to do. Hauling her into the bedroom, stripping her down, tying her up, gagging her. She was out cold, but he punched her again, just to keep her that way for a while longer.

  The bedroom curtains were closed a little early tonight, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. Or give a rat’s ass.

  He left her TV going. She’d had the Discovery Channel on—for God’s sake—while she worked in the kitchen.

  Looked like she’d been making herself a salad. Too lazy to cook, he decided as he poked inside her refrigerator. Well, something would be cooking soon.

  He found a bottle of white wine. Cheap shit, but sometimes you had to make do.

  He’d learned to like finer wines while working for the Carbionellis. He’d learned a hell of a lot working for the Carbionellis.

  He drank the wine with the hard-boiled eggs she’d set out for the salad. Though he had surgical gloves in his backpack, he wasn’t worried about fingerprints any longer.

  They’d moved past that part of the game.

  He riffled through her cupboards, in her freezer. He found several frozen dinners. His initial reaction was disgust, but the picture on the box of the meat loaf and mashed potatoes didn’t look half bad.

  He popped it in the oven, dumped some Italian dressing on the salad.

  While he waited, he surfed channels. Couldn’t the stupid bitch spring for more than basic cable? He kept the sound low in case some nosy neighbor came to the door and settled on Jeopardy!

  Jeopardy! ended, Wheel of Fortune began while he ate the meat loaf and potatoes.

  There was a lot to do, but plenty of time to do it. He caught the low, muffled moaning from the bedroom.

  Ignoring it, Joey drank some wine with Wheel. “Buy a vowel, you asshole.”

  He got a sudden, vivid image of his father, kicked back in the living room recliner, drinking a beer and telling some stranger on the game show to buy a vowel, you asshole.

  It pushed him up, pushed the fury through him, fresh and bright.

  He wanted to punch his fist through the TV, slam his foot into it. Nearly did as his brain screamed with the rage.

  Buy a vowel, you asshole, his father had said, and sometimes, sometimes had shot his son a wide grin.

  “When are you gonna get on the show, Joey? When you gonna get on and win us some money? You got more brains in half your head than these cocksuckers.”

  He murmured the words, remembered the words as he paced the tiny living area, calming himself again.

  They’d’ve been all right, he thought. They’d’ve come out of the slump and been all right. They’d just needed a little more time. Why didn’t they get the time?

  Because that little bitch had gone crying to her old man and ruined everything.

  It shook his body for a moment. The fury and the grief stormed through him so that his body vibrated and hummed until he got it under control once more.

  He picked up the wine, took another long sip.

  “All right. Time for work.”

  A man who loved his work was a prince among men, Joey thought as he flashed on the lights in the darkened bedroom. He smiled at the woman in the bed whose eyes blinked, then widened with terror.

  His pal Nick mouthed off about never taking it personally, about remembering it was just business, but he didn’t buy that crap. He always took it personally. Otherwise, what was the damn point?

  He strolled up to the bed while her eyes wheeled toward him. “Hiya, Deb. How’s it going? Just want to say that for a woman pushing toward sixty, you’re not in bad shape. That’s going to make this more pleasant for me.”

  She was shaking, her body jerking with shudders as if with small electric shocks. Her arms and legs pulled and twisted against the clothesline he’d used to bind her. He was tempted to rip off the duct tape from her mouth, pull the wadding out, just to hear that first bubbling scream.

  But there was no point in disturbing the neighbors.

  “Well, why don’t we get started?” He put his hands on the button of his jeans, watched her head shake frantically, her eyes fill with tears.

  God, he loved this part.

  “Oh, wait, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. Joseph Francis Pastorelli Junior. You can call me Joey. Your cocksucking husband dragged my father out of our home, put handcuffs on him
and pulled him out in front of all the neighbors. Put him in jail for five to seven.”

  He unbuttoned his jeans now. She was rubbing her wrists raw with the struggles. There’d be some blood in a minute, and that was always satisfying.

  “That was twenty years ago. Now, some people might say that’s a long time to hold a grudge, but you know something, Deb, some people are assholes. The longer you hold it, the better it feels when you make the fuckers pay.”

  He unzipped, released himself. Stroked. The sounds she made now were tinny, high-pitched shrieks held in by the wadding and the tape. “The cocksucker you married? He’s got to bear part of the blame for all this. Since he’s dead—oh, condolences, by the way—you’re going to get what was coming to him.”

  He sat on the side of the bed, making her leg jerk and twist when he patted it. He removed his shoes. “I’m going to rape you, Deb. But you’ve figured that out already. I’m going to hurt you when I do.” He boosted up his hips, pulled down his jeans. “That really adds to it for me, and I’m the one in charge here.”

  She struggled and wept and bled. He watched her face as long as he could, the bruises and bleeding he’d caused. He saw Reena’s face. He always did.

  He came hard, with that tinny shriek in his ear.

  She was down to mewling whimpers when he rolled away. He used her bathroom, emptied his bladder, cleaned himself up. He didn’t care for the smell of sex, that whore smell women coated on a man.

  He went out, drank a little more wine, surfed around, found the ball game and watched an inning while he snacked on some Wheat Thins.

  Goddamn O’s, he thought as they went down in order. Couldn’t find the ball if you rammed it up their ass.

  When he went back into the bedroom, she was struggling weakly against the bonds. “Okay, Deb, I’m refreshed. Time for round two.”

  This time he sodomized her.

  Her eyes were dull and distant when he was finished. She’d stopped fighting and lay limp. He could probably perk her up for another go, but a man had a schedule to keep, after all.

  He showered, humming to himself and using her lime-scented body gel. Dressed, he lined up what he could use from her own kitchen.