Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  Menendez pulled a deep frown; her eyebrows knit together. “No one mentioned anything about the Mafia, Mrs. Elliott.”

  I squeezed Blake’s hand and forced out a few more shaky calming breaths, mentally counting as I slowly inhaled and exhaled before I spoke. “Mary Louise said Leila has family connections. That’s how they got someone to take care of Not-Sid. You and I both know in New Jersey family connections can only mean one thing.”

  “You watch too much TV, Mrs. Elliott.”

  “Do I? If that weren’t the case, Leila would cut a deal for a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  When Menendez made no attempt to refute my statement, my panic grew exponentially. Tears cascaded down my cheeks. I buried my face in my hands and wailed, “Oh God! I don’t want to die.”

  “We’re going to keep you safe while we hunt down this guy,” she said.

  “How?” asked Blake.

  “I’m assigning a detail to protect your wife.”

  Why did that do absolutely nothing to quell my fear? Because every violent TV and movie scene I’d ever watched now bombarded my brain. If I survived this hit man, I was switching my entertainment viewing to nothing but giant yellow birds and purple dinosaurs. Maybe the occasional romcom. And I was definitely giving up on the idea of writing mystery or romantic suspense. Living the real deal was enough to scare me straight back into the loving arms of the romance genre.

  *

  Two policemen camped out in a squad car in front of our house the remainder of the day, replaced by another team overnight. I couldn’t sleep, but I pretended to. Beside me, Blake did likewise. Since nothing ever keeps my husband from his Z’s, I knew he had to be scared out of his mind. I’m sure he knew I was awake just as I knew he was, but we didn’t speak. Voicing our fears would only make them more real.

  Throughout the night my mind raced with all sorts of scenarios involving a hit man silently breaking in through a window at the back of the house and murdering me in my bed. How would cops sitting in front of the house know what was going on at the back of the house?

  Or he might break into a neighbor’s house and target me with a high-powered sniper rifle. To thwart such an attempt I decided to keep all the blinds drawn at all times. I didn’t think a hit man would be stupid enough to spray our house with bullets, hoping to hit his target.

  But what if he planted a bomb? Or tossed a Molotov cocktail through a window? Or…or…or….The possibilities were endless, and I was driving myself crazy by silently dwelling on them.

  I expected to feel like a zombie the next morning, but fear and anxiety acted like an intravenous caffeine drip. By seven a.m. I’d also downed three cups of coffee.

  I was about to pour a fourth cup when Blake stopped me. “You’re wired enough, Gracie. I don’t want to find you bouncing off the walls when I get home.”

  “Bouncing is good. It means I’ll still be alive.”

  Blake sighed. “I really don’t want to leave you alone today.”

  “I know, but you have to.” Tuesdays were Blake’s longest day of teaching. “Besides, you can’t blow off a meeting you scheduled with the dean weeks ago.”

  “He’d understand.”

  “That would require too much explanation. I don’t want the entire university knowing what’s going on, do you?”

  He sighed again. “Look who’s being the logical one now.”

  “You should be glad some of your left-brained logic has finally rubbed off on me after all these years.” Too bad it had taken a hit man to bring me to my senses. I was officially swearing off all right-brained/harebrained ideas for the remainder of my life—assuming I survived long enough to have a remainder of my life.

  At eight o’clock Blake reluctantly headed off to campus. Since the police had returned our computers after Tiffany’s arrest, I tried to work on my novel. However, I spent the next three hours staring at a blinking cursor—when I wasn’t jumping out of my skin every time a car drove down the street or someone in the neighborhood powered up a leaf blower. It’s damned hard to be creative when you’re worrying if you’ll live long enough to see your work in print.

  I thought about getting together with Natalie and Myra, but quickly decided against the idea. I wouldn’t put my friends in harm’s way and risk them becoming collateral damage.

  My lack of sleep finally caught up with me by noon. All the adrenaline and caffeine could no longer keep Mr. Sandman at bay. And that blinking cursor had acted like a hypnotist’s swaying pocket watch. I gave in and curled up on my bed.

  When I jolted awake sometime later, I didn’t know what shocked me more—that someone had a hand over my mouth and a gun pointed at my head or the identity of that someone.

  NINETEEN

  Rudy Klingerhoff leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. In a menacing growl he whispered, “Scream and I shoot you right here. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  He withdrew his hand from my mouth. “Why?” I mouthed, unable to force any sound from my vocal chords.

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  With that, my anger flared. I found my voice, but it came out as a croak. “How am I supposed to take it, Rudy?”

  He shrugged. “It’s business.”

  “You’re the hit man Leila hired.”

  “Small world, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t have to do this. The police already have Leila in custody. She’ll rat you out eventually.”

  “She knows better than to do that.”

  “I’ll pay you double what she promised you.” I’d definitely wind up living above that auto repair shop in Newark, but at least I’d be alive.

  “Sorry. That wouldn’t be ethical. I gave my word.”

  “An ethical hit man? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  “I’m not here to debate philosophy with you. Get up.” He yanked my arm, nearly dislocating my shoulder as he pulled me to a seated position. A lifetime of bowling had given Rudy the upper-body strength of the average gym rat half his age.

  “There are cops parked outside.”

  “Not anymore. A few minutes ago they received a credible tip that the guy holding the contract on you is holed up in a house in East Orange. By the time they realize they were sent on a wild goose chase, you and I will be long gone.” He dragged me to my feet. “Put your shoes on.”

  I slipped into the ballerina-style Keens I’d been wearing before my nap. “I have to use the bathroom,” I said.

  Rudy smirked. “Nice try.”

  “No, really. I suffer from stress-induced plumbing problems.” And boy, was I ever stressed.

  Rudy dragged me toward the master bathroom and poked his head in. “You can go, but I’m leaving the door open to keep an eye on you.”

  “I never took you for a pervert, Rudy.”

  “I’m not. I don’t want any funny business.”

  “You’re the one with the gun. What can I do?”

  He released his grip on my arm and waved me into the bathroom. A four-foot high tiled pony wall topped with frosted glass running to the ceiling separated the toilet from the soaking tub. Standing in the entrance of the bathroom, Rudy would only see a blurry image of my head as I sat on the toilet. And that’s exactly what I was counting on.

  Long ago I’d gotten into the habit of carrying my cell phone in a pocket because I never had enough time to dig it out of my purse before the caller hung up. My one pre-requisite for all new clothing purchases was that the pants, skirt, or dress have a pocket for my phone. I’ve passed up buying many outfits for lack of a suitable phone pocket. I was counting on Rudy expecting that, like most women, I carried my phone in my purse.

  As I sat on the toilet, I slipped the phone from my right front jeans pocket, flipped the side switch to silent, dialed 911, then placed the phone back into the pocket. Even though Rudy never took his eyes off me, he remained clueless.

  All I needed to do now was get him to talk—and hope the dispatcher on the other end would hear us through the deni
m fabric. “Where are you taking me?” I asked as I flushed the toilet and headed to the sink.

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me from the bathroom without allowing me to wash my hands. “What difference does it make? You’re not going to live to tell anyone.”

  As he dragged me down the stairs, I asked, “Isn’t there anything I can do to keep you from killing me, Rudy?”

  “None. I’m a man of my word.”

  “I had no idea hit men had such scruples.”

  “Of course we have scruples. I’m no serial killer.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course, not. I don’t do this for fun. It’s my profession. I only kill when I’m hired to do a job. Like a soldier.”

  “And that makes it okay? It doesn’t bother you that you’re taking an innocent life?”

  “It’s a job. One I’m good at. So don’t get any ideas thinking you’re going to play on my sympathies. I’ve heard every excuse in the book over the years.”

  With one arm wrapped around my waist and his other hand poking the gun into my ribs, Rudy led me out the back door and across my driveway into my next-door neighbor’s back yard. We then cut through to the street parallel to my street.

  We continued halfway down the block to a black Nissan Pathfinder with dark tinted windows. Rudy beeped open the driver side door and shoved me across, over the console, into the passenger seat. “Buckle up,” he said.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. “Really? Why do you care? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  With a perfectly straight face he said, “It’s against the law not to wear a seatbelt.”

  “Murder is against the law, too, in case you haven’t heard.”

  He reached over and grabbed the seatbelt, stretching it across my torso. “And I don’t want you getting any funny ideas,” he said, clicking the fastener in place, “like trying to leap from the car.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it, Rudy. I can’t outrun a bullet.”

  “Good girl.” He squeezed my thigh. My mind immediately flashed back to the dirty old man who’d set my demise in motion. If I hadn’t been swayed by Mandelbaum Moolah, I wouldn’t now be on my way to my own funeral.

  “However,” he continued, “I don’t take chances.”

  He grabbed my left wrist and slapped one end of a handcuff on it. Then he reached across my body again, looped the other part through the grab bar, and cuffed my right wrist. “Not comfortable, Rudy.”

  “Not meant to be.”

  Rudy was a sociopath masquerading as Cary Grant, a perfect cover. Who would ever suspect sweet Rudy Klingerhoff, the good-looking, good-natured king of New Jersey bowling was a coldblooded gun-for-hire?

  He switched on the ignition and pulled away from the curb, the gun resting in his lap. We drove in silence for a few minutes, Rudy maintaining the speed limit, as we traveled through the streets of Westfield.

  I needed to get him talking again. From everything I knew about 911 calls, someone should be on the other end of the line listening to our conversation. They’d track the GPS in my phone, but I had no clue as to how quickly such technology actually worked. From writing workshops I’d attended, I knew never to use television shows as research for my books. TV time had no correlation to real-life time. What actors accomplished in an hour took real cops days, weeks, or even months. I needed to give the police more clues to our location and destination.

  Of course, most of what I knew about 911 also came from watching movies and TV shows. My life now depended on the slim chance that all those fictional stories were based on factual technology and actual police procedures and that the dispatcher hadn’t hung up when no one responded to her initial inquiry.

  Still, a slim chance beat no chance. So I started talking again, trying my hardest to drop clues into my end of the conversation without letting on that the police might be listening. “I thought your kids took away your car keys, Rudy. Where’d you get the black Pathfinder?”

  He laughed. “They don’t know about this car.”

  “Do they know what you do for a living?”

  He shot me a withering look. “They think I’m a retired long-haul trucker.”

  “Were you?”

  “Never. Been in this business since leaving the army in seventy-two.”

  Which meant Rudy had spent over four decades murdering people for a living. Even if I didn’t survive, at least the police would have a taped confession to lock him up for the rest of his life. I’d be Rudy’s last kill, sparing countless future victims, although not exactly the legacy I’d envisioned for myself.

  Rudy pulled onto the Garden State Parkway and picked up speed as we headed east but quickly slowed when we hit backed-up traffic shortly past the Kenilworth exit. “Looks like an accident up ahead,” I said. “Probably all the way past the Union tolls. Maybe as far as Montclair. You know the Parkway. One minor fender-bender can tie up traffic for hours.”

  He turned and glared at me. “What are you, a goddamn traffic report?”

  I changed the subject. “You have no regrets?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “All the people you’ve killed. It doesn’t bother you?”

  He shook his head. “Like I said, it’s a job. Paid the bills. Put food on the table. Clothed my wife and kids. A job is a job.”

  “That’s the way you think of it? Like selling used cars? Or life insurance?”

  He shrugged. “This pays better. The army teaches you to compartmentalize.”

  I couldn’t prevent the shudder that coursed through my body. Tears filled my eyes. I’d never met a man with so little regard for human life—mine and the countless others he’d abruptly ended over the years. “Not even one person you regret killing?”

  “None. Most of them needed killing.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do to someone.”

  I drew in a shaky breath. “Are you going to make me suffer, Rudy?”

  He looked surprised. “Hell no. I’m not a sadist, Mrs. Elliott. Besides, I like you. I’ll make it quick. You’ll never know what hit you.”

  I took little comfort in that. Had he planned to drag out my death, the cops would have more time to find me. “Will you leave my body somewhere for the cops to find?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “So my family can bury me.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t leave any evidence behind.”

  The tears that had welled up behind my eyes coursed down my cheeks. “They’ll never know what happened to me.”

  He shrugged. “No point in crying. Them’s the breaks.”

  I should have made a grab for his gun before Rudy cuffed me. But what if he’d wrestled it out of my hand before I had a chance to shoot? Or I couldn’t squeeze the trigger? I’d never shot a gun before, never even held one. If it had a safety, I wouldn’t know how to unlock it. Not that any of this conjecturing now mattered. I was in no position to do anything except pray the police found me before Rudy carried out his hit.

  At the Union tolls he exited onto Rt. 78, quickly turning onto the first exit ramp into Newark. He drove for a few blocks before turning into a driveway. “Is this where you’re going to kill me, Rudy? A house on Keer Avenue in Newark?”

  “Maybe.”

  He stopped in front of a one-car garage at the back of the property, set the parking brake and hopped out of the car, leaving the engine running. The garage had double doors secured with a bulky metal chain and heavy-duty padlock. Rudy pulled a key from his pocked, unlocked the lock, slipped the chain from one door handle, and swung the doors open. Then he returned to the car and pulled into the garage. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said after parking the car.

  Panic flooded through me. “You’re leaving me here? In this garage?”

  He opened his door and stepped out of the car. “Only until I have confirmation of payment.”

  “Leila’s in police custody. How do you expect her to pay you?”

&nb
sp; “She’ll get out on bail. Eventually.”

  “Rudy, please!” I started crying again, begging. “Don’t lock me up in here. I’m claustrophobic.” I wasn’t, but I was quickly running out of options. What if he dropped dead from a heart attack or stroke in the next few minutes? How long before someone found me? “Can’t I wait in the house with you?” I pleaded.

  “Sorry. Too risky. You stay here ‘til the money is transferred into my off-shore account. Then I’ll put you out of your misery.” He slammed the door but opened it immediately and stuck his head back in. “One more thing,” he added. “If you start screaming, I’ll shove a ball gag in your mouth. Trust me. You don’t want me to do that. So be a good girl, and keep quiet.”

  He slammed the door again, this time beeping the doors locked. A moment later the garage door swung shut, engulfing me in darkness. I heard him pull the heavy chain back through the door handles, trapping me inside.

  I gulped back my tears and fought to force out words, speaking loudly but not shouting. I needed to make sure I could be heard through the denim covering my phone but not loud enough that Rudy might hear me. For all I knew, he was lurking on the other side of the garage wall.

  “I sure hope someone is listening because I’m in deep shit here. This is Gracie Elliott. Rudy Klingerhoff is the hit man hired by Leila Raffelino. He kidnapped me and locked me in the garage of a house on the second block of Keer Avenue in Newark. A white and brick house with a red door. I’d really appreciate a rescue. Sooner rather than later would be ideal. I’m strapped in and handcuffed awkwardly to the grab bar. I can’t move, and I’m losing circulation in my hands and arms. My muscles are on fire.

  “And one more thing, just in case you didn’t hear us earlier—if you let Leila Raffelino out on bail, I’m a goner because Rudy intends to kill me as soon as he receives payment for the hit.”

  I thought about what I must be putting Blake through. He’d come home to find the cops gone from the front of the house. Me missing, my car still in the driveway, my purse on the kitchen counter. He’d immediately figure out the hit man had me.

  Why hadn’t I listened to him when he first told me Relatively Speaking was a bad idea? Blake’s words to me after we were arrested in front of Suzette’s townhouse in Bernards Township haunted me. I want us to live to a ripe old age together, rocking on the front porch, enjoying grandchildren, griping about our aches and pains. I don’t want a future that includes prison, or worse yet, cemetery visits. Because of me, Blake’s future would now be filled with cemetery visits.