by Diane Capri
Fifty feet down, he turned off. He gunned the engine and embedded the car into the tangled undergrowth. When the tires did nothing but spin, he switched off the engine.
He used the wipes to clean the steering wheel and gearshift. He wiped around the doors. He couldn’t open the front two doors because of the undergrowth, so he climbed into the back and out.
He walked to his rental, satisfied the cruiser wasn’t visible.
Wollard’s flashlight lay on the ground by the compact. Luigi used it to scour the ground for evidence. Dark patches might in time be identified as blood, but Luigi had left nothing behind.
He used the wipes to clean his hands and face. He stripped off his shirt and pants, and stuffed them in the bulging plastic bag. He donned fresh clothes from his overnight bag.
He checked his watch. Time to go. He was twenty-five miles from his destination. No doubt the Grantlys lived in an upscale community. All of these chumps did. Along the way, he would find a dump for the plastic bag, and whatever happened, he would stop at every single red light all the way to Winter Park.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Winter Park, Florida
May 11
Jess parallel parked at the office of Grantly & Son at the posted 7:00 a.m. opening time. The lights were already on, and a woman occupied one of the big desks, but the sign on the door still read closed.
According to an elegant script over the window, the company had been established in 1945. The plate glass window fronted the main street. Window boxes filled with red geraniums splashed color across the width of the storefront. A thin gold coach line ran around the door and window, contrasting with the rich green paint. The effect reminded Jess of an old-fashioned steam train, solid and reliable.
She locked the SUV, and stood on the sidewalk. It was barely daylight. Faux antique streetlights illuminated the storefronts, and a patchy fog swirled around their beams. The dampness was heavy in the air. Yesterday’s rain, evaporated in the afternoon heat, was coming back to earth as this morning’s fog.
The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery on the corner. It battled the smell of bacon from a diner sitting catty-cornered from the bakery. Her stomach growled. Her early morning coffee had awakened her senses, but not quelled her appetite.
She ducked into the bakery, and bought a selection of breakfast pastries. The sugar and the carbs would buoy Grantly’s metabolism. Every little thing would help her push him into revealing his secrets.
Jess returned to Grantly & Son’s, and put her phone on silent mode. She wanted no distractions during the interview. The entrance was on the right side of the window. A cheerful bell announced her arrival when she pulled on the polished brass door handle.
The antiques that decorated the small lobby looked as if they might have been original to the business. Incandescent lamps cast a soft glow over the room. An oak desk in the center faced the big window, allowing the receptionist a view of the town.
When so many offices were nothing more than cubicles in high-rise buildings, this one reflected a solid, old-fashioned character of the kind Jess’s grandmother would have called breeding.
At the sound of the bell, the woman behind the desk glanced up from her morning paper. She sported a bright fuchsia welcoming smile.
She stood up. “May I help you?” Her voice was high pitched, sing-song, a perky tone that would resonate well on the telephone. She didn’t introduce herself and there was no nameplate on her desk. Jess guessed everyone in town already knew who she was. She seemed that type.
Jess smiled and pulled off her sunglasses, hoping the dark circles under her eyes had faded. “I’m looking for Wilson Grantly.”
The woman shook her head. Her smile dimmed, and a deep crease furrowed her brow. “Did you have an appointment?”
The question rang alarm bells in Jess’s skull.
She held out the box of pastries. “I was just hoping he might be available.”
Miss Fuchsia glanced toward her computer screen. She seemed efficient and polished, and if Jess had an appointment, she was sure Miss Fuchsia would have known about it.
Jess held out her business card. “Jessica Kimball, Taboo Magazine.”
Miss Fuchsia’s eyebrows arched becomingly, and her eyes widened. The lipstick formed a vivid little “Ooo.”
Jess had seen the reaction before. A chance for a feature or even a mention in Taboo didn’t come along every day. Most people didn’t squander the opportunity. She smiled. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Grantly.”
The woman took the card. She read the glossy front before turning it over to the plain white and back again. “Oh.”
Jess frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no.” The woman planted the card on her desk. In the middle. Squarely aligned. “I’m sure he would be delighted to talk to you.”
Jess exhaled. “Good. I’m working on a big feature. The challenges faced by successful small businesses.” She gestured to the office. “Like this one.”
The woman looked around as if to assure everything was photo ready.
Jess cleared her throat. “I’m kind of on a tight deadline.”
Miss Fuchsia shook her head. “Right. Yes. Well. I’m sure he would love to speak to you, but…” She bit her lip. “He’s not in the office.”
“Are you expecting him back?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Oh yes. Perhaps you could…” She took a deep breath. “He’ll be so disappointed. I mean if he can’t speak to you.”
Jess waved the box of pastries. “Well, here I am.”
“Yes.” Miss Fuchsia pushed her chair back. “But I’m afraid he won’t be back for a while. He’s in Italy.”
Jess’s breath snagged and for the second time in as many minutes, alarm bells rang in her head. “Italy?”
The woman nodded. “Rome, in fact.”
Jess strained to keep the smile on her face. “How nice.”
“Oh, it is.” Miss Fuchsia fairly beamed. “I’ve been looking. On the Internet. It’s wonderful. So many places, and—”
“So, he’s out of the country.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m afraid he is. But I just know he would love to talk to you. About…you know…”
“His business?”
The woman nodded.
Jess sighed. “When did he leave?”
“Last week.”
“And when is he returning?”
“Ah, well. He’s got an open-ended ticket.” She leaned closer to Jess and whispered, “He left it on his desk, and, well…I had to look.”
Jess put the pastries on Miss Fuchsia’s desk. “Do you know what he’s doing in Rome?”
“Vacation. He’s taking a vacation.” The woman frowned and shook her head. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Should do him a world of good.”
“Maybe.”
Miss Fuchsia shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She glanced down at the pastry box.
Jess clenched and unclenched her fists. Italy? Could it be? Had that lying, sniveling so-and-so Blazek been telling the truth for once? Had he really been right? The operation was run by Italians? A cold chill ran down her arms. Or, was Grantly really the kingpin? Alive because he was the one calling the shots? Or the cyanide, in this case.
“Miss Kimball?”
Jess snapped her gaze to Miss Fuchsia’s worried face. “Rome. Do you know where he’s staying?”
Miss Fuchsia pursed her bright pink lips and shook her head. “Sorry.”
“Any way to contact him?”
“He trusts us to run the place.” She shifted her weight, shaking her head at the same time. “Perhaps I could answer some questions.”
Jess tapped the leg of her sunglasses against her front tooth. Grantly. In Italy. Blazek’s claim confirmed by Miss Fuchsia. She rubbed her forehead.
“Enjoy the pastries. You’ve been very helpful. Thanks.” She turned and walked out. The green door. The brass handle. Dawn growing into morning outside when she reached t
he sidewalk.
She pulled out her phone and dialed Morris.
He answered before it even rang. “You okay?”
She frowned. “Yes. Why?”
“I’ve been calling and calling.”
She glanced at the display on her phone. Seven missed calls. One number. She returned the phone to her ear. “Sorry. Grantly’s in Italy.”
Morris didn’t reply.
“Did you hear me?”
Morris nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Just thinking.”
“He’s the only one still alive on Blazek’s list, and—”
“Wait. Where are you?”
“Outside Grantly’s real estate office.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“People around?”
“Yeah, I’m standing on the sidewalk. Why?”
“Do you feel safe?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Do you have a gun?”
She took a breath for patience. “Glock. Why?”
“Know how to use it?”
“Morris!”
She heard a strong stream of air blowing into his phone before he said, “Guy’s name was Marek. We found him.”
“Marek?” She frowned. “The man Candace Supko mentioned?”
“One and the same. I called her. Told her you were working with me. She remembered the name, but nothing else.”
“So how did you find him?”
“He lived in Canada.”
Her skin tingled. “He’s dead?”
“Cyanide.”
She whistled.
“The scene was staged to look like murder followed by suicide. Like he’d shot his wife, and then killed himself, filled with remorse or rage or whatever.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“For one thing, the killer left the kids alive. In a domestic shoot like this, usually the parent kills the kids, too.”
Jess said nothing. Her legs felt wobbly. She knew the statistics as well as anyone and Morris was right. But how any parent could kill their own children was always a shock to her.
“Marek owned a nightclub. The Mounties are investigating, but there’s plenty of suspicion he was involved in the same type of extortion as Blazek. Maybe even one of the ring leaders.” He paused. She heard the satisfaction in his voice when he said, “Marek’s wife? Her family name was Zimmer. Originally from New Orleans.”
Jess’s breath caught in her chest. “Let me guess. She was a budding artist.”
“Seems like it. She had a gallery in Montreal. And Mrs. Supko was right. The art is dreadful. Probably used those paintings somehow in the extortion ring or maybe to launder the money.”
She nodded, but he couldn’t see her, so she said, “And Grantly?”
“Get this. Marek visited Orlando at least twice that we know of. So far.”
Jess looked in through the plate glass window to Miss Fuchsia. “Can you link him to Grantly?”
“We’re working on it.”
“So you’re working on the case now?”
He grunted. “One of nine on my overflowing plate. Don’t drop out now, Jess.”
“No chance of that.” She was surprised by the steel in her voice. “But we need something to link Marek to Grantly. He might simply have gone to Disney World. Millions of people do.”
“Montreal to Orlando. It’s four hours each way.”
“So?”
“Each visit, he only stayed an hour and a half.”
Jess paced along the sidewalk. “So he met Grantly.”
“Most likely, even though we don’t have evidence of a meeting. Yet.”
“Cameras? At the airport?”
“Still checking. The Mounties think when the scammers have squeezed everything they can from their victims, they use ransom threats.”
“Like they’re not doing that anyway with the whole scam.”
“No, I mean literally. They take a child or a spouse or a girlfriend.”
Jess exhaled. She put her hand on her SUV, and leaned forward. Kidnap? Ransom? She breathed hard. Forcing back the mist that was rolling over her. A red mist. Fogging her mind with hot anger.
“Jess?”
She uh-huh’d. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else.
“Jess, Wilson Grantly may be the hostage. He might have been operating the scam, or a victim of the scam. Regardless, my guess is he’s in trouble.”
“It could be anything.” She straightened up, shoulders squared. “We’ve got so little real evidence. Just because Blazek mentioned Italy, and Grantly’s gone to Italy, doesn’t mean Grantly’s in trouble.”
“Jess, who goes all the way to Rome for a vacation alone?”
“Right.” But the urge to tell him a vacation alone in Rome sounded like a wonderful idea almost overcame her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Winter Park, Florida
May 11
Luigi Ficarra parked his rental around the corner from the Grantlys’ house. He guessed he was a hundred feet away. Closer than he would normally consider prudent, but necessary with the thick fog that concealed everything. He’d checked the forecast. The fog wasn’t expected to clear until mid-morning at the earliest.
The clock on the dashboard said 7:09 a.m., but it was still dark, and his body reminded him he’d awakened in the middle of the night. The adrenaline rush from dealing with the cops was wearing off. He stretched and yawned. Even after three days, his jet lag lingered.
He left the engine running. Clouds of vapor billowed from the exhaust, mixing with the fog. He turned up the air-conditioning. The last thing he wanted was for the windows to mist up like the air outside.
He stretched his back. The Grantlys should have been a simple operation, but nothing seemed easy with them. They had to discuss everything. It was like each of them could only make half a decision. Even when they packed the money, they couldn’t decide whether to follow their instructions and pack $100 bills, or just pack what notes they had. Eventually they ran out of time, and packed what they had, and as a result would be carrying more weight than necessary. They were old and stupid, and he would be glad to be rid of them.
Or, he grinned, get rid of them. The idea already had great appeal. He’d killed oldsters before. There was not much challenge involved, but killing them was a permanent solution which appealed to him. Surely, at their age it was time for them to go? With their son gone, who would take care of them anyway?
He checked his knives. He took a deep breath. No matter how ready he was to be rid of the Grantlys, he had to be patient. A quarter of a million dollars was at stake.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jess looked through the door to Grantly & Son. Miss Fuchsia appeared to be busy photocopying. Jess opened the door. The cheerful bell rang, and the woman looked up. “Can I help you? I’m really sorry Mr. Grantly isn’t—”
“Look, Rome sounds wonderful, but I don’t think Mr. Grantly is there on vacation.”
The woman frowned. “He…is. He told me. I mean…why else would he go there?”
“Let me be straight with you. I flew here from New Orleans last night because I think Wilson Grantly is in serious trouble.”
Her frown reappeared. A faint line in her makeup suggested it was a frequent visitor. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that could put him out of business, or worse.”
“What would be worse?” She put her hands over her mouth. “What…what are you saying?”
“You said he trusts you with all aspects of this business. So, you must know if he’s got problems.”
Jess watched for involuntary signs of confirmation. All she needed was a lead. Morris would handle the rest.
Miss Fuchsia was a professional under pressure. Perhaps a skill learned selling houses. She took her hands from her mouth. “I couldn’t possibly comment. I mean, is that what you wanted for your magazine? A scandal? Is that—”
Jess held up her hand, palm out. “Nothing of the sort. But I need to know, has he been short of cash lately? Or had trouble meeting the bills?”
“Well…” She moved from the photocopier to stand behind her desk. “We have postponed some closings lately. Just a little cash flow…I mean—”
“Is his escrow account low? Empty?”
Miss Fuchsia didn’t reject the suggestions. She chewed the lipstick off her bottom lip and looked from one side of the office to the other.
Jess waited.
Miss Fuchsia’s gaze settled on her desk. She took a deep breath. “Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to Mr. Grantly. Maybe he could help you.”
“What?” Jess scowled while her heartbeat galloped. “I thought you said he was in Rome.”
“Mr. Grantly. Roger Grantly. Wilson’s father.”
“His father? Does he know what’s going on with the business?”
“He had a heart attack a year ago, so he’s semi-retired now. But he worked here every day of his life. He’s the only person who, well, could speak on the matter.”
If Wilson Grantly was involved in Blazek’s extortion ring, Jess figured his father was the last person he would have confessed to, but she had no other option. “Is he here now?”
“No, but he lives nearby. You’ll want to be quick, though. They’re going to New York today sometime.”
“New York?”
“Harriet, that’s his wife, she said they’ve never been. She’s a bit more sprightly than he is. Always going on about taking trips and seeing the world.” Miss Fuchsia smiled and the mirth reached all the way to her worried brown eyes.
“How old are they?”
“Ninety or so.”
“Ninety? And they’re going to New York alone?”
Miss Fuchsia arched her eyebrows and nodded her agreement, as if she found the idea preposterous, too. “But I’m sure if his son’s in trouble, he’d want to know.” She scribbled on a post-it and handed it to Jess. “He’s a real morning person, you know? Always up early. You wouldn’t be waking him. And he makes great coffee. Really nice man. Worked here—”
