by Meryl Sawyer
“What gun? You didn’t tell me,” Aunt Thee said.
“I didn’t want to upset you,” Shawn explained. “It’s the same caliber as the murder weapon—a .22.”
A suffocating sensation made it difficult to think. Jake’s throat, parched with fear, worked hard to get out the words. “Did Alyssa have a gun?”
“Absolutely not! She hates guns.” Aunt Thee stopped abruptly, staring at Shawn. “How could they find a gun? I don’t own a gun. You must have misunderstood them.”
“I’m sure I didn’t.”
A rivulet of cold sweat slithered down between Jake’s shoulder blades. He felt powerless, trapped by something he couldn’t control, the way he had when he’d been a kid and had been stuck overnight in an old freight elevator. He’d sworn nothing—no one—would put him in this position again.
“I didn’t have time to have a security system installed. Someone must have slipped in and planted the gun.” Aunt Thee attempted to rise to a sitting position, but fell back, her chest heaving.
“Take it easy,” Shawn said as he adjusted the pillows supporting her. “Being sent back to the hospital won’t help your niece.”
“I warned her,” Aunt Thee cried. “Alyssa should never have gone near Phoebe. She only wanted to hurt Alyssa.”
“Phoebe is the one who’s dead, not Alyssa,” Shawn reminded Aunt Thee.
A deadweight in his chest, Jake rushed over to the telephone. “She’ll need a top-flight criminal attorney. Let me see what I can do.” He dialed Sanchez and asked the detective to meet Jake at police headquarters with the best criminal defense attorney in the city.
“Your attorney is going through Security. He’ll be in to see you soon,” the detective informed Alyssa in a terse voice.
Alyssa was sitting alone at the central police station in an interrogation room no bigger than her closet, choking on her fear, a sob trapped deep inside her. How could it have come to this?
Phoebe had been shot to death in the study during the Vampire Ball. Why? Why? Why? The tightness in her chest became a cramp, and she almost doubled over.
No matter what their differences, there always had been a bond between them. They looked so much alike, and they shared the same father. Last night Phoebe had seemed willing to accept Alyssa, and her sister appeared to be looking forward to making changes in her own life.
The weight of the loss, knowing she’d never have a chance to really get to know Phoebe, surprised Alyssa. It took her a moment to realize what she was experiencing was partly guilt. All these years she’d believed Phoebe knew more about her baby’s disappearance than she was telling. Now, Alyssa wondered if she’d been wrong. Perhaps Phoebe had lived all these years with the horrendous loss of her baby, and it was the cause of her sometimes strange behavior.
Alyssa couldn’t imagine it Just having Aunt Thee in the hospital had traumatized her. What if she’d carried a child only to have it abducted? Then just as you were on the verge of getting your life together, you were brutally murdered?
Something inside her longed for what could have been … but would never be. They would never be able to share anything now. The pain reverberated through her, a keening cry she had to struggle to suppress.
Once again, she was standing at the edge of an unforeseen precipice in her life—just like last time. The memory of being accused of kidnapping little Patrick had cast a dark, painful shadow. It had almost ruined her life.
When she thought about the past, she burned with humiliation that had been transformed over time into anger. Now, anger morphed into white-hot fury. Someone had diabolically set out to murder Phoebe and frame her for it.
The door swung open unexpectedly. An older man with close-cropped gun-metal gray hair and a stocky build walked past the detective into the room.
“I’m Vincent Crowe.” He lowered his Mark Cross briefcase onto the small table and sat down as the door to the room shut. “Jackson Williams hired me to represent you.”
Jake. Just thinking about him sent a powerful surge of relief through her entire body. He believed in her.
The lawyer said without missing a beat, “They can only hold you forty-eight hours without charging you. If they have enough evidence, you’ll be arraigned tomorrow.”
He was a lawyer far above emotional involvement, Alyssa decided. She struggled to control her pent-up feelings. Bolstering her courage, very aware of the seriousness of the situation, she couldn’t allow herself to break down.
“They keep asking about my gun. I don’t own a gun.”
“They’re not telling me anything yet, but unofficially I understand they found a .22 caliber handgun in your home. The murder weapon was a .22.”
“That’s impossible! I don’t own a gun and neither does my aunt.” Be businesslike, she told herself. You sound hysterical.
“I’m told your fingerprints were on the desk in the study where Phoebe Duvall was shot.”
“I can explain. I leaned against the desk when we were talking.”
“What else have you told the police?”
“Just what I’ve said. I did mention I went out to the gazebo not far from the study after Phoebe and I talked. I heard a popping sound like a firecracker. Looking back, it might have been a shot.”
He nodded slowly. “A .22 is a small gun that’s easily concealed. It doesn’t make a loud noise. People often mistake a gunshot for a car backfiring or a firecracker.”
“The band was playing loud music at the same time.”
“Did you see or hear anything else I should know about? I’ll have to relay the information to Rueben Sanchez and have him work on it. You’re not going to be allowed to see anyone until after you’re arraigned.”
She wasn’t going to be able to see Jake. Nothing on earth was lonelier, more isolating, than being arrested. Keep your mind on helping the attorney, she warned herself.
“I didn’t tell the police, but before I talked with Phoebe, I went into the living room with Gordon LeCroix. I saw a man in a devil’s costume walking down the hall and going into the study. Later, when I went into the study, I saw a flash of red outside. I thought someone went out the French doors.”
“I’ll see if Sanchez can find out which men were dressed as the devil.”
“I only saw one—Max Williams.”
Vincent Crowe’s expression didn’t change, but she had the impression he had mastered the poker face long ago, and it served him well in his profession. She suspected, though, he was shocked, considering who had hired him, to discover Jake’s father might be a suspect.
She couldn’t help wondering herself what Jake would do. Would he turn his back on her in order to protect his father? She didn’t think so, but her experience with Clay all those years ago warned her not to be too trusting. Prepare for the worst. Aunt Thee would help her, but she was ill and didn’t have a former FBI agent on the payroll.
“Don’t talk to anyone about your case,” Vincent warned her as he stood up to leave. “Be especially careful of the other prisoners. Some of them will sell out their own mother in return for a reduced sentence. They’ll make up anything. If you talk to them and they have enough facts about your case, they’ll be able to fabricate a credible story.”
He left and a guard appeared seconds later and escorted her to a cell where three other women were stretched out on bunks. None of them so much as glanced at Alyssa when she was shoved into the cell.
She slowly lowered herself onto the only vacant cot. A paper pillow lay at the head of the space while an institutional blanket was folded at her feet. She instinctively tried to become invisible as she lay down on the bunk.
Desperation metastasized into a mind-numbing bitterness and anger so raw it felt like a physical wound. How could she help herself when she was locked in here?
“It’s possible,” Jake conceded when Sanchez told him about his conversation with Vincent Crowe about the man dressed as the devil. They were sitting in the living room area of Jake’s loft. Benson lay at h
is feet, his head on his paws, a bewildered look in his eyes as if he understood something was terribly wrong.
“My father was the only one at the party dressed as a devil—at least while we were there. Alyssa and I left early. Someone could have arrived later, but Alyssa wouldn’t have seen him.”
“Your father didn’t have any reason to kill Phoebe.”
Man, oh, man, don’t you wish? Who knew what went on in Max Williams’s head? He’d abducted his own son and was obsessed by Phoebe Duvall.
It wasn’t that his father didn’t mean anything to Jake. In his own way, Max had tried very hard to make up for lost time. He’d willingly handed over his business to him … yet the financial angle meant nothing to Jake.
When he’d told his father that he didn’t want TriTech, Jake meant it. He’d never been emotionally threatened like this, but then, he’d never been so … taken with a woman. When had he begun to long for more? His need had escalated, disguised by sexual interest until the full-blown intensity of his feelings had caught him off-guard.
Now he knew with absolute certainty that losing Alyssa would be worse than anything that could possibly happen with TriTech. He had to level with Sanchez. It was the only way to help Alyssa.
“My father and Phoebe go way, way back,” Jake began. It took him another few minutes to fill in the private detective. “So, it’s possible that my father might have had a reason to kill Phoebe if he knew she intended to divorce Clay and marry Troy.”
“Troy Chevalier, hmmm,” Sanchez responded and Jake could almost hear him trying to put Jake’s assistant together with Phoebe Duvall. Sanchez knew Troy fairly well, having reported to him several times during various company investigations.
“Troy’s family is very wealthy. They live in Paris and have a home in the south of France and another in Marrakesh.”
“Marrakesh?”
“A lot of rich Parisians have places there. It’s a very seductive lifestyle. I could see it appealing to a woman like Phoebe.”
Sanchez nodded thoughtfully. “What if Phoebe was only leading Troy on to get back at her husband or some other man? Troy was at the Vampire Ball. He had the big two—motive and opportunity.”
“Nah, I was with him when the detectives told him about her murder, Troy seemed genuinely shocked.” Jake caught the slight furrow between Sanchez’s eyes. “Gotcha! I know what you’re thinking. Troy had me fooled into accepting that phony report. He could be a world-class liar. Hell, I don’t know.”
“What about Clay? He would have every reason to want Phoebe dead, wouldn’t he? If she divorced him, Clay would have to fork over a chunk of money.”
“Yes, and Clay was trying to get Alyssa back. So he had more than one reason to want his wife out of the way.”
“From what I gather, Phoebe had been involved with a number of men. Any of them or their wives could have murdered her. The Vampire Ball was the perfect setting with everyone in masks and costumes. Anyone could have slipped into the party, killed Phoebe, and left. It didn’t have to be a guest.”
“Someone had to know she was downstairs in the study alone.”
“True, but she could have been lured there by the killer who was in disguise and pretending to be someone else.”
“Troy mentioned Clay was having an affair with Maree Winston,” Jake said. “He indicated something … kinky was going on with a third person, a Bahamian psychic.”
“Maybe we should start with a list of people who are not suspects. It’ll be easier.”
“You might also want to take a look at Wyatt LeCroix, Phoebe’s brother.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Not really, but he was helping Clay with the Port Authority scam. Maybe Phoebe knew about it and was planning on turning them in. I know it sounds farfetched, but with this family, you never know.”
Sanchez rose. “I’d better get on this. If anything else comes up, call me on my cell phone.”
Clay walked into the small living room of Maree’s apartment, where his former mistress and Dante were watching television. Dante clicked off the newscast the moment the door opened. Clay had just spent the last two hours at the police station answering questions.
“Did the police call to verify my alibi?” Clay asked Maree. He plopped onto the sofa next to her. “Good thing I was with you last night.”
“No,” Maree said. “They haven’t called.”
“I conveniently forgot to tell them how late you came home from Neville’s,” he said.
“What if they ask Neville?” Dante wanted to know.
Clay eyed Maree; she claimed to love him. Now was the time to prove it. The half-smile curving her lips assured him that she was crazy about him.
“Their questions seemed to have more to do with my relationship with Alyssa Rossi,” he observed. “I think asking for my alibi was just routine. I spent the night here and you can verify it.”
“We jus’ saw Ravelle on television, mon. She says your wife may have been shot during the party.”
“I was with people the whole time. I gave them names. They can check if they want.” Clay wasn’t admitting he’d been in the study with Phoebe. Why should he? It had only been for a few minutes. No one had seen him.
“Ravelle said Alyssa Rossi is in custody,” Maree said. She seemed to be studying him for his reaction. “They expect to charge her with the murder.”
Clay shrugged as if to say: Who cares?
“I’d better go home,” Clay said to deflect Maree’s unwavering stare. “The LeCroixs will be looking for me. We have a funeral to plan.”
“Oh, Clay. I almost forgot. Some lawyer called. He said to get in touch with him right away.”
Clay did not like the sound of it. “How would he know to contact me here?”
Dante laughed, a dark laugh that made Clay’s skin prickle. He ignored him and went over to the telephone. He didn’t recognize the attorney’s name, but he could imagine what this lawyer was billing to work on a Sunday.
He dialed the number, and a man answered. When Clay identified himself, the attorney immediately launched into his reason for calling. Clay listened, blinding panic crawling through his veins, mounting with each word the attorney uttered. What in hell was going on?
He hung up, and slowly turned around. “You’re not going to believe this. Max Williams has given me what amounts to a quit claim on Duvall Imports.”
“What does that mean?” Maree asked.
“He gave my company back to me.”
“Why would he, mon? Doesn’t make sense.”
Clay thought a minute. “Maybe the IRS is on to me, but I don’t think so. They always notify you before anyone else.”
“I don’t like it, mon.”
“Well, if you’re psychic, tell me what he’s up to.”
Dante chuckled, then winked.
“I think it’s good news,” Maree said. “Phoebe’s gone. You have your company back. We’ll wait a respectable amount of time before getting married.”
CHAPTER 31
At dusk, Jake was in his loft, sitting where he’d been when Sanchez had left. He was staring up at the skylight, looking for answers that weren’t there. Benson had remained at his feet, his soulful eyes still troubled. Above the skylight, bloated clouds laden with moisture huddled over the city, promising another downpour. The sullen sky reflected his mood.
He’d been waiting, hoping his father would do what was right and go to the police. His information might not free Alyssa, but it would give the authorities less reason to think of her as a criminal who’d gotten away with a crime once already.
It wasn’t going to happen. Jake should have known. His father was a complex man with a lot of money. No doubt, he didn’t believe Jake would walk away from a fortune by turning him in.
Okey dokey. Two could play this game. No way in hell was he going to let Alyssa go to prison for something she didn’t do. He’d have to go to the police himself. So be it.
He rose, his legs st
iff from sitting for so long. “Come on, Benson. Din-din. As soon as you eat, I want you to go outside. I won’t be back until late.”
Benson surged up onto all fours, tail wagging for the first time in hours. He’d picked up one of his favorite words, din-din. He trotted at Jake’s heels into the kitchen, where Jake pulled out a sliding bin containing Benson’s kibble.
A sharp knock on the door startled him. He gave Benson a quick pat and went to answer it. Max stood there, appearing exhausted, subdued.
“I’ve told the police everything I know.” Max’s voice seemed dry and matter-of-fact, the way people sounded when they’d explained something over and over to different groups of people. “Phoebe’s been murdered.”
“I know.”
Tears flashed in Max’s dark eyes. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry. I know how much you cared about her.”
He’d written off his father, and he’d been wrong. An ache of relief nearly overcame him. It was a second before he found his voice. “Come in. Let’s talk.”
Max walked slowly into the loft, and Jake realized this was only the second time his father had been here. The first time, he’d proudly shown his father the place he’d bought to renovate. Max had freaked. Why would anyone want to live in a huge room divided by screens when they could buy the nicest place in town?
This time Max didn’t make any comment on the way Jake had remodeled the loft. He collapsed into a leather chair, asking, “Do you have any Wild Turkey?”
“You’ve got it.”
Strangely enough Jake had bought his father’s favorite years ago in case Max came over again. Jake walked over to the bar housed in a breakfront. He cranked open the cap of the sealed bottle, then poured a generous portion into a cut crystal glass. He fixed himself two fingers of his favorite single malt Scotch, Springbank.
“Here you go.” He handed his father the Wild Turkey and waited for him to take a drink before asking, “What happened?”
“I told the police everything.” The words were spoken in a tone Jake barely recognized. Gone was the commanding voice Max usually had. “All about Patrick. All about my relationship with Phoebe through the years.”
