“It’s like the night Eric died,” I told him. “No matter how good we think we are, no matter how careful, or how intuitive, sometimes we get blindsided. For months now everyone’s been telling me Eric’s death wasn’t my fault, and I simply wouldn’t believe them. Now that I find myself saying the same to you . . . well, I begin to get a broader picture.”
I leaned in, speaking in short, sharp bursts. “You went on an initial interview. An interview with a very wealthy society matron in her own home. You had only the vaguest suspicion her husband might be involved in the murders. Absolutely no evidence. You were there only because I urged you to check her husband’s alibis. Your gut instinct told you she knew something. Gut instinct said she might be willing to talk. But about what? You were there in your official position as a detective. You could have been in serious trouble if you pressed her—a well-connected lady in the sanctuary of her own home. So you filed it all away for future reference. You had absolutely no reason to suspect St. Clair, even if he was guilty, would turn on her.”
“He had a mistress.”
“And I bet he’s had twenty or a hundred others in the past.”
“She’s right,” Josh interjected. “It’s not your fault, Parrish. I know a lot more than you do about what a bastard St. Clair is, yet it never even occurred to me he’d kill his wife. She’d stuck with him through a lot worse than this.”
“Are we so sure he did it?” I asked, just to be difficult.
“Who else?” Josh retorted. “Me?”
“It was your boat.” I knew I sounded ridiculous, even as I said it.
“Travis,” Ken sighed, “you can’t really think Mr. Anthony Johns, a.k.a. Josh Thomas, would be stupid enough to put the body in his own boat?”
“He would if he thought it would be the perfect twist on the obvious: You know . . . he’d never be stupid enough to put the body in his own boat.”
“Excuse me,” Josh said, “but I’m still here. And I assure you I haven’t murdered anybody lately. Not a single soul in Sarasota County, as best I can recall. Of course . . . I may have been hit over the head one too many times. Perhaps I’m suffering from blackouts. Murderous rages in the middle of the night—”
“Enough!” Ken decreed. “What good is having all this high-powered talent around if the two of you are going to squabble instead of help?”
Josh and I subsided into the sofa’s cushions, pouting. Separately.
“Parker St. Clair’s alibis for the nights of the murders—the first two, anyway,” Ken said, “were being at home with his wife, with social events earlier each evening. Therefore, it seems pretty odd he’d do away with his alibi.”
“Maybe she was tired of covering for him,” I said. “Maybe, as you said, she changed her mind and was going to tell all.”
“Believe me,” Ken said, “I’ll be talking to him again first thing in the morning.”
“He’s slippery,” Josh said, “but maybe you can find where he bought his bomb-making supplies.”
“And a strop razor,” I added. “And did he take two thousand in cash from the bank to pay Billie? And is there a local Rohypnol dealer who might recognize him?”
“Pillars of the community tend to be Teflon-coated.” Ken sighed. “But I’ll try.”
“Ten minutes,” I heard Josh mutter. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Just don’t tell me about it,” Ken growled.
I stared at my squeaky clean city cop and realized just how desperate he was to end this mess.
And Josh—this stranger named Anthony—was he as vengeful as he appeared to be? Or was it all an act? Was Melinda St. Clair’s murder designed to be the final nail in Parker’s coffin? The final piece in Josh’s precisely orchestrated trap to get rid of a business rival? I didn’t really think Josh or Martin would go that far, yet I had to consider it.
“And now,” Josh said, “if Miz Travis is finished demolishing my character, I’ve some intel to pass along.”
He had our full attention.
“For what it’s worth,” Josh said, “after retiring early from government service, Rob Varney went to work for Clairity. He could easily have been involved in things St. Clair didn’t care for a watchdog committee to discover.” Josh glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, gave an infinitesimal nod. “And Rory could be right about Tim Mundell. Tempe may have been listed on the police report as his home town, but the last two summers he was an intern in the computer department at Clairity.”
Oh, my God! Even my toes prickled.
Ken swore, softly but fiercely. No cop likes to discover his department missed a possible murder.
Of course, Josh could be making the whole thing up. Anything to trail red herring across the investigation. Anything so Anthony Gianelli of the infamous Gianelli Family would come up smelling of roses.
“Watch your back,” Ken was saying. “Both of you. St. Clair has you on his short list.”
If he was guilty. “Is Billie off the hook?” I asked.
Ken patted his thumb against his lips and favored me with his most enigmatic gaze. “If I let him off on trespassing and theft.”
“Aw, come on.”
Ken grinned. “Okay, I’m ninety-five percent certain your favorite gator wrestler was only guilty of being stupid. And not being able to resist two thousand dollars to show off his sculpting talent.”
“Thank you, thank you!” My raised eyes strayed way higher than the top of Detective Sergeant Ken Parrish’s head.
“Rory,” Josh said sternly, turning to grasp both my shoulders, his onyx gaze fixed on my face, “take my word for it, Parker St. Clair is a very dangerous man. If asked a month ago, I would have said he’d never go this far, but since I know I didn’t do it, he’s the only game left. Do not think he won’t turn on you.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“In trying to save Billie, you stirred up an enormous amount of trouble. Basically, you threw a monkey wrench into his well-laid charade. I would guess he had to get rid of Mundell because the kid stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. Probably hacking around through the Clairity system for the hell of it. When Billie discovered the body, St. Clair did a bit of what he does so well and found out Billie was a sculptor—”
“And set him up,” Ken finished. “Hell, that actually makes sense.”
“Until Rory came along,” Josh said, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Billie was the perfect patsy for a serial killer. His only nighttime alibi was an illegal date with gators and golf balls.”
“So I guess we can say an alligator saved Billie.”
“You laid a lot of groundwork before that. Parker’s scheme was already in serious trouble before Billie ended up in the hospital.”
“I guess,” I said. Damn! My two Macho Men were trying to make me feel good.
“I believed you, Travis,” Ken said. “You’d convinced me Billie didn’t do it.”
Josh gave my shoulders a shake. “Listen to him, dammit, and stop looking like a lost soul.”
I shoved Josh’s hands away. “And when I saw the boat, who told me to call Ken?” I demanded. “Who set him up to take the blast? Well?”
One moment Josh was sitting; the next, he was on his feet, throwing a hundred dollar bill onto the long narrow table. He stalked out, his shiny black shoes practically burning holes in the thick carpet.
“So why did he save my life?” Ken drawled, breaking the ringing silence.
“Because I had one of my freaking fits, which he couldn’t possibly ignore.”
“So he blew up the boat, then ran out and kept me from drowning?”
“What else could he do with a crowd gathering fast, let alone me standing there watching?” I knew my jaw must be jutted out so far that I looked like some cocky kid spoiling for a fight.
Ken came over and sat down beside me. I didn’t flinch when he put his arms around my shoulders. “Listen, Rory,” he said, “you saved my life today. Since I don’t believe in psychic gifts, the ob
vious explanation is that you knew the bomb was there and decided at the last minute you didn’t want to see me dead.”
I have no idea what my face looked like, but my expression must have been a beaut. Ken tossed me a quizzical look. “Do I really think you’re a murderer? Hell, no. But I’ve got to tell you that as much as I dislike our mafioso’s guts, I think you’re being a bit hard on him. Basically, I dislike him less for what he is than because he has the hots for you. And the feeling is mutual, by the way. For equal cause.”
Really? My head swam. And it wasn’t from that second glass of Yaeger on the rocks.
Ken Parrish, Boy Scout to the end. The modern-day embodiment of noblesse oblige.
Shakily, leaning heavily on my purple-flowered cane and Ken’s strong right arm, I got to my feet. He walked me to the elevator, and he wasn’t any more hesitant about a kiss in full view of the security guard than Josh had been. But with Ken Parrish I felt wrapped in security and a surprising tenderness. Warmth and comfort. For a moment I was reluctant to let him go. And then I remembered what had brought us here tonight, the three of us. And that for all the elegance and wealth that surrounded my life at the Ritz-Carlton and at the Bellman Museum, there was no protection against evil. Not for Lydia, or Rob. Most of all, not for Melinda St. Clair, who had had it all. And lost it. Had she appreciated the Viking farewell? I could only hope so. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Parker had cared just a bit.
Or was Melinda’s immolation just another artful murder?
I stepped into the elevator. My God, it was all coming together. At last. No matter who the killer was, we were going to get him. Perhaps I had a Sicilian ancestor somewhere on the family tree, because Lydia’s senseless death cried out for vengeance. As did Rob’s death and Billie’s anguish. Even Melinda’s, though I still couldn’t like her.
Sicilian. Anthony Gianelli. The Godfather’s grandson.
Josh. My personal enigma. I wanted to cry, but my eyes refused to tear.
Exhaustion and confusion disappeared. I was empowered. Somehow, in spite of two men brought up on too many Westerns where the hero patted the heroine on the head with, “Aw, shucks, little lady,”—not to mention the notoriously protective attitude of mafiosi toward their women—I, Rory Travis, was going to bring in whoever killed Lydia, Rob, and Melinda, and made Billie’s life a living hell. So I sat at the kitchen table and cleaned my Glock. I got out my shoulder holster and used some of Marian’s leather balm to shine it and get it back into supple condition. How fortunate that the Florida weather had turned nippy enough to warrant my wearing a jacket.
I even gave my badge a polish. I wouldn’t call the local office, of course. I knew what they’d say. Which was all right, as I didn’t think I’d ever be going back to work for the Death Star. (That, by the way, is what we younger graduates of Quantico call the head office in Washington.)
It was two a.m. before I was done. But I felt good.
Even if Ken Parrish turned out to be the villain, I could handle it.
Chapter 20
The next morning the Bellman murders took the whole top half of the front page of the newspaper. The local TV channel could talk of little else. Lawrence Kent, the Museum Director, was seen, looking grim, while responding to such questions as, “Are you hiring extra security guards?” and “Do you plan to close the museum?” A few terse words were dragged from Ken Parrish about his close call. And, no, sorry, he couldn’t comment on an on-going investigation. Yes, he knew the person who rescued him, and he was very grateful.
Nor did the bereaved widower escape the camera’s glare. Parker St. Clair, looking suitably devastated, spoke of his wife’s many fine qualities, her work as a docent at the museum, his terrible shock, how much he would miss her.
I was so quiet at rehab my therapist actually looked concerned. “Comin’ along well, Rory. Real well,” he cajoled, for the thousandth patronizing time. He was frowning when I left, obviously puzzled by why I hadn’t snapped at him. On the way home I stopped to see Billie. He high-fived me and told me I was the greatest, while I tried to remind him that he really owed his deliverance to an alligator now on its way to becoming shoes and handbags. I abandoned driving around Sarasota, carrying concealed, and spent the rest of the day helping Marian prepare for Thanksgiving. Although the turkey and all the fixin’s would be sent up from the hotel’s kitchen, along with a waitress, we were preparing the hors d’oeuvres ourselves, not to mention making sure that Aunt Hy’s immaculate condominium was even more immaculate than usual. After all, it isn’t every day we had two spooks to dinner.
Yes, that’s right. Martin and Josh had been invited to something so Mom and Apple Pie as Thanksgiving dinner. So I allowed Josh his sulk all day on Wednesday. He was bound to show up tomorrow. Not even a soulless villainous satyr would miss Thanksgiving, right?
Ken called about nine o’clock that night. Nothing new. Parker St. Clair put on the same façade at the police station that he had on television. Double-coated Teflon. Anthony Johns, born Gianelli, had fallen back on Martin Longstreet as a character reference. And since gainsaying Martin is rather like calling the Governor or the President a liar—maybe even the Pope—Josh, too, was covered in Teflon. So, no, Ken said, he hadn’t called about business. He just wanted to wish me Happy Thanksgiving and he’d stop by the tram run on Friday afternoon to give me an update. Meanwhile, everyone stayed out of jail, and the spirits of Tim, Lydia, Rob, and Melinda St. Clair remained restless.
No, I’m not into the supernatural. It didn’t take a seance to tell me they deserved better than they’d gotten from law enforcement so far. Thanksgiving was a pause, a refueling of the soul. Time for me to take a deep breath and say, “Okay, I can do this.”
And I would.
For Thanksgiving dinner I wore an ankle-length dress, pantyhose and brand new shoes with one-inch heels. I inaugurated my walking stick of twisted sassafras. It was handsome, and I didn’t look so bad myself. Naturally, Aunt Hy seated me next to Josh. We made polite conversation, but, after all, not much is needed when there is so much to eat. I asked the fresh-faced young woman who was serving us—a Ritz-Carlton employee—if she minded working on Thanksgiving. Her reply was typical of the Sarasota area. Oh, no, she was delighted to help out. I thought of all the other people working this day, in hospitals, nursing homes, police and fire departments, EMS, and was humbled. I thought of Ken in the midst of his large family gathering. Of Martin and Josh, who for all the mysterious power they wielded, might have been alone today if we had not invited them to dinner. Our family celebration might be a bit alternative, I conceded, but it was a day from which it was impossible to erase sentiment.
Josh and I said little to each other, but he was always there, beside me, his essence so strong it penetrated all the way to places I didn’t want to acknowledge. We sat down to the table, hostile, and got up, family.
Not that I wouldn’t put him away for murder, just as I would my own brother, if I had to. But the last link in the chain between Anthony Gianelli and me had been forged. I was unsure if he had become a brother, kissin’ cussin’, or something more, but I knew he was in my life to stay.
Truthfully, if my physical reactions counted as we lingered sipping liqueurs amidst Aunt Hy’s collection of treasures, I didn’t think of Josh as a brother, even though we tended to squabble like spoiled siblings. There had been disturbing emotions arcing between us from the moment we met. Something frightening, intriguing. And always dangerous.
“You’re driving tomorrow, right?” Josh said as I walked him to the door. “I’ll come by. We need to talk.”
We certainly did. Yet how could I ever believe anything Josh Thomas, a.k.a.. Anthony Johns, a.k.a. Tony Gianelli, told me?
“I’m so sorry, Rory,” Martin said, the bonhomie displayed at dinner disappearing on the instant. “None of this was supposed to happen. None of it. I fear I’ve grown old and careless.”
Josh grasped his arm and had him out the door in under five seconds. I was left sta
nding, eyes wide, head awhirl, readjusting my theories, like a juggler switching from round rubber balls to fragile eggs.
Na-aw. No way. I’d just decided Josh was family. And so was Martin. They had to be numbered among the Good Guys. Even if I couldn’t believe a word they said.
I went to bed early and brooded.
Ken didn’t call.
We had miscalculated. I wouldn’t be discussing sensitive information with anyone on my Friday afternoon tram run. Every household in Sarasota had brought its Thanksgiving guests to the Bellman on the day after the holiday. Or so it seemed. The line for tickets snaked past the Lygia and the Bull, all the way out to the street. The trams ran harder and faster than worker ants trying to save eggs from a ravening anteater. Detective Sergeant Ken Parrish stood in line at the Tram Stop like everyone else, neatly outmaneuvering a little old blue-haired lady to plop down into the seat beside me. He leaned close and spoke in my ear. My tram-wide bank of mirrors reflected looks, both knowing and indulgent, from my six passengers behind. (“Oo-o, she’s got a boyfriend. Isn’t that sweet?”) We were lucky I didn’t veer off the road and twist us all up in the arms of a giant banyan.
The gist of Ken’s words was, there was no evidence against Parker St. Clair. No red hand caught buying bomb supplies. No scarlet credit card either. (Of course, what else could we expect from an ex-spook?) The Roofie dealers were, naturally, elusive—hard to find, let alone pin down for information. And antique strop razors? All they’d been able to discover was that neither Parker St. Clair, nor anyone else, had bought one on eBay. They were still canvassing local antique dealers.
Ken made the full tram circle, earning dirty looks from waiting visitors when he didn’t get off at the Casa Bellissima. He strode off up the sidewalk—Detective Sergeant Ken Parrish, the Boy Scout who had parked in the lot across the street rather than use his badge to park on the Bellman grounds. But there was no time to think; my tram was already full. I put the pedal to the metal and started my next circle.
Art of Evil Page 22
