Molly’s eyes darted toward the living room doorway. But she didn’t move a muscle.
“Do you girls really have to rush off like this?” Clay protested.
“A promise is a promise,” Des said, grinning at him. “Hey, would you like to come with us? It shouldn’t be hard to scare up an extra ticket.”
Clay shook his head at her regretfully. “Lady, I have been nothing but cooperative, know that?” He fished another cigarette out of his pack, looking around the cluttered table for a match. “Me and Hector both.”
“And I appreciate it, Mr. Mundy.”
“Is that right?” Clay got up out of his chair and got a book of matches in the drawer next to the sink, lazily lighting his cigarette. He tossed the matches back in the drawer, then yanked a Glock semiautomatic out of there and pointed it right at her. “So why are you treating me like a fool?”
Across the table, Molly let out a gasp.
“Let’s just take it easy now.” Des kept her voice low. “You’re scaring the child. Please put the gun down.”
“Not until I get some straight answers.” Clay’s manner had hardened. No more easygoing charmer. That particular act had left the building. “They haven’t hauled me in for questioning yet. Now why is that? I’m the obvious suspect. Hell, I’ve got a big red X on my back. And yet a whole day’s gone by and nobody has reinterviewed me. Or Hector. Not so much as a single follow-up inquiry. No search of the premises, nothing. I find that mighty damned peculiar. Don’t you find that peculiar?”
“Mr. Mundy, if you’ve got a lost tricycle then I’m your girl. But I’m not involved in the investigation of Professor Procter’s death. Now why don’t you just put that gun down, okay?”
“They think they’ve got something on me, don’t they?”
“Sir, I’m afraid I’m not following you.”
“He knows, Trooper Des,” Molly spoke up, her voice soft and quavery. “That I told you I was supposed to stay out of the root cellar or else. I-I didn’t want to tell, honest. But he made me. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Don’t be, Molly.” Des’s eyes never leaving that Glock. “You’re going to be fine. Everything’s fine. Isn’t that right, Mr. Mundy?”
“Let me spell a little something out for you, lady,” Clay responded coldly, his jaw clenched tight. “I’ve been on my own ever since my tight-ass stepfather kicked me out of the house when I was fourteen. I live by my wits. Play by my own rules. And not once has the law ever touched me. For damned sure not some village Barney Fife with tits such as yourself. I haven’t spent a single night in lockup my whole life. Not anywhere. And I never will. Small spaces get to me, okay? I’d sooner die than get locked up in some cage. I will die if I have to—and take a few of you with me for good measure. That’s a promise. But so far it’s never come to that. Because I’m careful and smart and I know how to take care of business.”
“Your business being seamless gutters, I understand.”
“Don’t get cute with me,” he snarled. “Do you people actually think I don’t know when I’m under surveillance? I always know. I can smell you from a mile off. I’ll walk into a place, any place. For the sake of conversation, let’s say it’s McGee’s diner down Old Shore Road. Everybody looks up at me as I come through the door, checking me out. Everybody except for this one guy with muscles who’s sitting there over his coffee trying real hard not to look at me. That’s when I know it’s time to pick up and move on. Who thinks they’re on to me? Is it the FBI or the DEA? Tell me, damn it!”
“Sure, I can do that,” Des said. “If you’ll do something for me.”
“I’m the one holding the piece, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“And I’m the one who has the information you want.”
Clay narrowed his eyes at her shrewdly. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth about Professor Proctor’s death.”
“How would I know? I had nothing to do with it. I’m trying to keep a low profile here. You honestly think I’d murder a guy and bring the law down on me? I’d have to be pretty damned stupid.”
“Or just a hothead with a temper.”
“It wasn’t me who killed him.
“Liar mouth!” Molly cried out. “I heard you!”
Clay looked at her in annoyance. “What’s this now?”
“The night you beat up Daddy in the driveway. You said if you ever saw him around here again you’d cut him!”
“Well, I didn’t,” he insisted. “Wasn’t me.”
“And I’d like to believe you,” Des said, her eyes on that Glock. And her thoughts on the Sig stuffed in her rear waistband. “Do you know what sure would help convince me? If you’d let Molly go.”
“I’m not holding her,” he said easily. “We’re just hanging together.”
Des glanced over at the French doors that led out to the back deck. “You’re saying she could walk right out that door if she wanted to?”
“Absolutely. She just doesn’t want to.”
“Is that right, Molly?”
The girl sat frozen at the table. “I’m fine right here, Des.” Her voice barely a whisper.
“There, you see? She’s fine. We’re all fine. Now it’s your turn, lady.” Clay jabbed the air with the Glock. “Who thinks they’re on to me?”
“It’s a joint task force. And they don’t ‘think’ it—they’ve known it ever since you left Atlanta. They’re getting ready to shut down the entire Vargas drug trafficking operation.” Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “You just described yourself to me as someone smart.”
“So …?”
“So let’s say you have a big-league stash of ice down in that root cellar. If I were you I’d be trying to cut a sweetheart deal for myself right about now. Seriously, you are staring at a golden opportunity. Provide the Feds with detailed inside testimony and you’ll be out in no time. Hell, they might even put you in the witness protection program. I heard them talking about it last night.”
“Thanks for thinking of me. That’s mighty generous.” Clay kept the Glock trained right at her, giving her no opening to make a move. None. “But I’ll take my chances south of the border. It won’t be the first time Hector and me have had to disappear into the hills down there for a few months. That’s how we’ve kept our records so clean. We know how to go native. Pay the right people off. The Feds don’t. We’ll be clearing out tonight. And you’ll be helping us. You and Molly both. You’re going to be our exit visas.”
“Your hostages, you mean.”
“We’ll let you two go just as soon we cross the border. Then again …” He grinned at Des wolfishly. “Life is full of surprises. By the time we get there you may feel like going native with me.”
“Dream on. If you want to hold me, fine. Why not let Molly go? You don’t need us both.”
“Not a chance. But maybe you’d like to see it for yourself.”
“See what?”
Clay gestured to the trapdoor in the floor. “What’s down there.”
“You want to show it to me?”
“Absolutely.” He groped around in the drawer behind him until his hand came out with a length of rope. “Put your hands behind you. Wrists together.”
Des didn’t budge, her mind racing. It was now or never if she was going to make a move for her Sig. But could she make it without endangering the girl? Or would she better off making a dive for his Glock? Yeah, that was it. Go for the Glock. Go for it. Go …
“Hands together now,” Clay barked impatiently.
As Des stood poised there, ready to spring at him, it dawned upon her that she did not like how the kitchen floor had suddenly started rolling back and forth. Or the way Clay Mundy’s face was swimming in and out of focus…. Oh, no, not now! No, please…. As she fought off the wave of dizziness, struggling to keep her wits, a cold splash of reality jarred her back to here and now: I have no time for this. Molly’s life is on the line. Blinking, she saw Cl
ay clearly once again. Only now he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was over her shoulder at the living room doorway. And now she was hearing the creak of a floorboard—Hector coming up behind her.
“Run, Molly! Get out!”
Molly darted for the glass French doors just as Des dove for Clay’s gun, wrestling him for it. He got off one quick shot in Molly’s direction, blowing out the glass as she ran out. Then a second, wild shot into the ceiling. Des could not tell whether Molly made it. Because by now Hector was all over her. Both men were—pummeling her, kicking her. Des gave as good as she got. Landed a hard right to Clay’s nose that sent blood spurting. But then she felt a tremendous explosion inside of her head and this time there was no fighting it, no chance.
This time everything went black and stayed black.
CHAPTER 12
To: Mitch Berger
From: Bella Tillis
Subject: Local Emergency
Dear Mr. Big Shot New York Movie Critic—You need to come out here right away, tattela. Des is in the worst kind of trouble. I wouldn’t ask you to come except you’re the only one in the whole world who can help and this is a real life and death emergency. She needs you, Mitch. Come at once. Come directly here. Don’t bother phoning or responding to this e-mail. Just come. If you don’t, I promise that you will regret it for the rest of your life.
I’ll explain everything when you get here. Please hurry.
Much love, Aunt Bella.
The slow, agonizing crawl of evening rush hour traffic finally began to pick up after Mitch made it past Stamford. It was 8:30 by now—more than two hours since he’d arrived home to pack for his trip and discovered Bella’s strange e-mail.
He did try to phone her. But all he got was her machine. He’d hung up without leaving a message. Paced his apartment. Reread her e-mail again and again, searching for some hint as to what the hell was going on. A hidden kernel. A nuance. Something, anything. Got nowhere. Paced his apartment some more, boiling with frustration. Then abruptly grabbed the phone and switched to a later flight to L.A. tomorrow. Packed an overnight bag. Dumped some extra kibble in Clemmie’s bowl, said good-bye and dashed out the door. He caught a cab down to a rental car place on West 81st Street off of Amsterdam, signed for a Chevy Impala and took off, scarfing down a takeaway supper as he crept his way slowly up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Cross Bronx Expressway.
It was a warm, humid evening. He had the air conditioning cranked high and the Mets-Cubs game on the radio from Shea, Mets leading 4–1 in the bottom of the third. However, thunderstorms were likely to interrupt play at any time, according to Mitch’s idol, the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker Jim Cantore. Who was never wrong. Mitch drove, sucking the last of his sweet papaya drink through a straw. The greasy wrappers on the passenger seat next to him all that remained of the three Gray’s Papaya hot dogs he’d stuffed in his face before he’d reached the George Washington Bridge. Very first time he’d eaten anything so overtly unhealthy in weeks. But he’d had an uncontrollable yen. Stress, he supposed.
At a time like this a man needed a boost from his natural food group.
He drove, his mind drifting back to last night’s adventures in bed with Cecily. How smooth her milky white skin had been. How uninhibited she was. How incredibly, freakishly limber. Their love-making had been boisterous, loud and an amazing amount of fun. It felt great to take his new, toned body out for a test run after so many months of celibacy. Cecily felt great.
As they were lying there in each other’s arms, spent and exhausted, she’d murmured, “Now I expect you’ll be wanting me to catch a cab home.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Generally speaking, your prototypical male wants you out by two. Two-thirty at the latest. Can’t sleep with a living, breathing, twitchy-legged female in his bed.”
“I’m not your prototypical male.”
“Do you mean to say you won’t utterly freak you out if I spend the night?”
“Not at all. I happen to come from a long line of snugglers.”
“This is most … unexpected.”
“Unless you want to leave.”
“Actually, what I want is a long, hot bubble bath.”
“Right now?”
“If you care to join me I’ll feed you strawberries dipped in hot fudge sauce.”
“You make it hard to say no, Naughton.”
“Making it hard is the general idea, Berger.”
It all felt so right between them that when they were lolling in the tub together he impulsively suggested she spend some time with him out in L.A. And she impulsively said yes. He wasn’t the least bit worried that they were moving too fast. They were just going with it. Letting it happen.
Except now, instead of jetting out to the coast in the morning, Mitch was steering a rental Chevy along I-95 through Westport. It was starting to drizzle. Back at Shea, the rain was coming down so hard that play had been halted. Mitch flicked off the radio and turned on the windshield wipers, recalling the first time he’d driven out to Dorset on another dark and stormy night one year ago. He’d never been to the place before. Barely even heard of it. It was Lacy who’d sent him there. Tossed him a Weekend Getaway assignment for the travel section—her way of forcing him to get his fat butt out of his apartment after Maisie died. As he drove along now, Mitch remembered that first time he set eyes on the little piece of paradise called Big Sister Island. The first time he’d seen the moldering wreck of a carriage house he would rent and eventually own. Finding the dead body in his tomato patch. Coming face to face with a tall, cool, supremely elegant homicide investigator named Desiree Mitry. She of the alluring light green eyes and breathtaking figure. A rescuer of feral cats who had a secret gift for drawing the victims whose killers she hunted down. It all seemed like much longer than a year ago. Maybe because it was so over between the two of them. And yet now he was heading right back out there to help her. Why? Because Bella asked him to? Or because he was the putz of the century? Why did he even care what happened to this woman who had stomped on his heart with her size 12 and a half AA lace-up boots?
He didn’t know. But here he was, cruising his way north past New Haven and into the Land of the Quaint. Welcome to Connecticut’s Gold Coast—Sachem Head, the Thimble Islands, Madison, Fenwick, Griswold Point and his very own Dorset.
He moved over to the far right lane as he took the Baldwin Bridge over the Connecticut River. Got off at the exit just on the other side of the river and started his way down Old Shore Road, rolling down his windows so he could inhale the rich aromas of the tidal marshes. By now it was past ten. He could hear helicopters circling low overhead. And when he passed Turkey Neck Road he noticed a police barricade had been set up there. TV news crew vans were nosed in together along the shoulder of the road. Mitch wondered what was up. And whether it had anything to do with Bella’s e-mail. He flicked on his radio in search of local news. Couldn’t find any. Settled for an oldies station that was playing “If 6 Was 9” by Hendrix as he eased the rental Chevy through the darkness of the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve to the gate, where he used his card to raise the safety barrier and started his way bumpety-bump-bump over the narrow wooden causeway.
Home.
Hearing the water lapping against the rocks of his little beach. Smelling the fresh mown meadow grass. Seeing the welcoming lights of his snug little cottage. As he got out of the car, Mitch felt something thunk into his shin. It was Quirt’s head. The cat had come running over to greet him. Now he was rubbing up against Mitch’s leg and making that eerie, screechy noise that was what he did instead of purring.
Mitch picked him up. “Hey, big guy, don’t tell me you’re happy to see me.”
Quirt licked him on the nose, which he never did. Then began to squirm and writhe in his arms, which he always did. Mitch let him in the house and stood there in the doorway looking around. Bella had moved the table over by the bay windows, which he didn’t care for. His beloved sky blue Fender Stratoc
aster was parked just inside of the door. He’d chosen to leave his axe behind, and shouldn’t have. He reached for it now and held it, loving the feel of it in his hands again.
Bella was in the kitchen. He could hear her charging around in there. Now she came into the living room with a cup of coffee in her hand and a scowl on her bunched fist of a face.
“Okay, I’m here,” he said, setting down his guitar. “What’s so urgent?”
Bella gaped at him in shock. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you. I just can’t believe that you’re … My God, so skinny!“ She put down her coffee and threw him in a bear hug, her face colliding with his chest. “How did you get out here so fast? Was it already on the news in New York?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m here because of your e-mail.”
“What e-mail? I didn’t send you any e-mail.”
“You did so. You e-mailed me to come right away.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Bella, you said it was urgent.”
“Mitch, I said no such thing. I may be crazy, but I’m not nuts.”
“Well, if you didn’t e-mail me then who did?”
“That was me,” answered Molly Procter, who was standing in the kitchen doorway holding a glass of milk and a slab of Bella’s marble cake. The freckle-faced little beanpole still wore that same bent pair of wire-framed glasses. And those dumb floppy socks of hers. And still seemed preternaturally wise and calm for her nine years. The only thing different about her were those angry red finger marks around her neck and arms. “I came out here and e-mailed Mitch while you were at yoga,” she confessed to Bella, her rabbity nose twitching. “I read through some of your old e-mail exchanges so it would sound true.”
Bella looked at the girl in bewilderment. “But, Molly, how were you even able to—?”
“You told me your password once. It’s Morris, your husband’s name. Because that’s the one name you know you won’t ever forget.” To Mitch, Molly said, “Sorry if I scammed you, but a phone call wouldn’t have worked. You’d have said no for sure. I knew this was the only way you’d come. And you just had to come.”
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