“Moved in with our aunt and uncle. Mom’s sister and her husband.”
Charlie could relate to that, having lived with her Aunt Pam and Uncle Dennis for several years while her parents missionaried around the globe. “Was there … was there any hint that Annie could have been implicated in the accident?”
Parnell shook his head definitively. “No way. She was with us, me and Tim. She had taken us to the zoo in Oke City for the day. Pop stayed home to do some chores around the house. He said if you’d seen one giraffe you’d seen them all.” He smiled faintly at the memory.
Charlie rocked back in her chair. Well, there goes that theory, she thought, momentarily stumped. She’d been so sure Annie had engineered Parnell Senior’s accident. Maybe, she thought slowly, his accident really was an accident, but it gave Annie the idea for getting rid of future husbands.
“When she left,” Parnell volunteered, “she cleared out the bank accounts and took Pop’s car. All we had left was the house. My aunt and uncle moved in here with us because it was bigger than their place and they didn’t want to take us away from our home since we’d already lost our mom and pop.”
“They sound like nice people.”
“They are.”
They seemed to have covered everything, but Charlie felt vaguely dissatisfied, like she was missing something important. She couldn’t come up with a question that would get at it, so she was on the verge of thanking Parnell and saying good-bye when he said, “I’d say the only good thing about Annie leaving was that apparently Adam went with her. At least, he disappeared at the same time. She was nice in her own way, but he always gave me the creeps.”
Straightening, Charlie leaned forward. “Adam?” She tried to keep her voice neutral to keep from startling Parnell.
“Annie’s brother.”
Jackpot! Charlie barely refrained from pumping her fist. “Tell me about Adam.”
* * *
By the time she said good-bye to Parnell twenty minutes later, she felt like she was finally on the right track. Adam and Annie, she surmised, better known to her as Heather-Anne Pawlusik and Alan Brodnax, were a team. They used Heather-Anne’s beauty to trap vulnerable men and then, when they’d gotten their hands on enough of the men’s money, they—or more likely Adam—killed them. Or tried to kill them, Charlie thought, thinking of the alive-but-crippled Wilfred Cheney who swore there’d been another vehicle involved in his accident. Adam had been driving it, Charlie bet. Adam was a researcher, he’d said. He probably dug up information on the men, their likes and dislikes, and helped Annie mold herself into the kind of woman each man would be attracted to. Tansy Eustis had mentioned that Amanda Two bore some interesting resemblances to Amanda One. Right down to the name.
Adam, Charlie decided, had sent the newspaper clipping to Les in Costa Rica. Who else would have known about Eustis’s death and known that Eustis’s widow was in South America with Les Goldman? Why had he warned Les, though? Had Adam grown a conscience? Was he worried that his sister would siphon off Les’s money and find a way to drown him in the ocean surf or feed him to the sharks? Charlie popped open a Pepsi, propped her feet on her desk with the chair balanced on two legs, and thought. Dusk crept in the window, but she was barely aware of it. Various bits and pieces of the puzzle drifted around her brain, glancing off each other, refusing to form a coherent picture.
No! She brought the chair back to the ground with a clang. No, just the opposite. Adam was afraid that Heather-Anne was getting cold feet about the murders, or that she was genuinely in love with Les. Charlie found that latter thought almost incomprehensible—how could the gorgeous Heather-Anne be attracted to dumpy Les Goldman?—but accepted it for the sake of her theory. Adam feared that Heather-Anne and Les would ride off into the Costa Rican sunset, enjoying their ill-gotten millions, while he—Adam/Alan—was left in the Colorado Springs rental house, sans money, sans job, sans sister. Charlie wondered about the relationship between the brother and sister but decided it didn’t matter whether they’d fought, or whether Heather-Anne felt threatened by her brother, or whether she’d simply fallen in love with Les and decided to leave the family business of seducing, bilking, and killing.
There was little doubt in Charlie’s mind that Adam had killed Annie. Charlie couldn’t hazard a guess about the siblings’ conversation in the Embassy Suites room, but she was convinced Adam had lost it, grabbed the nearest weapon—the scarf—and strangled Heather-Anne to death. Had he been sorry after the fact? It didn’t matter, but Charlie thought so. At the very least, she thought, he’d have been upset at the loss of his cash cow, the beautiful bait that attracted the rich men to his snare.
Without trying to work out more of the details, Charlie called Detective Lorrimore back. She was gone for the day, the officer who answered the phone reported, but he could transfer Charlie to her voice mail. “Unless it’s an emergency, and then I could phone her and have her call you back.”
Not quite ready to insist the desk officer connect her with Lorrimore’s cell phone if the woman was off duty, Charlie asked to be put through to voice mail. She had no reason to think Adam Bart was likely to make any moves that night; chances were he’d already left Colorado Springs. With his sister dead, there was nothing for him in Colorado.
She left a long message for the detective before locking up and deciding to take Albertine up on her offer of a beer before hitting the road for Gigi’s.
36
Dexter had finished shoveling the driveway and sidewalks by the time I came upstairs and had, according to Kendall, walked over to his friend Milo’s house to work on a biology project.
“Not that I think they’ll be doing any homework,” Kendall said, tossing her hair. “They’ll just play that stupid Grand Theft Auto.”
She was probably right, but I didn’t say so.
“Do you think Dexter will really go to jail?” she asked. She was fixing herself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and kept her eyes on the knife as she swiped Jif on the bread. Her blond head was bent so her ponytail almost swished in the peanut butter.
“Of course not!” I said, crossing my fingers. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” I thought about that for a moment and hastily added, “You know your brother would never kill anyone.”
“I suppose not.” She sounded unconvinced.
I crossed to the counter and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You don’t need to worry about him, Kendall. He’s got a good lawyer, and Charlie’s working hard to figure out who really killed Heather-Anne.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about him,” Kendall said, clunking the knife into the sink. “I was just wondering if I could have his room if, you know, if he’s not going to be living here. We need to leave now or I’m going to be late.”
I noticed she was wearing her skating gear of pink sweatshirt over black leggings. Her skate bag sat near the garage door. “Oh, right. Let me grab the keys.” While I had Kendall trapped in the Hummer, we were going to have a talk about her selfishness, I resolved. I was fed up with her me-me-me attitude. How could she even joke about taking Dexter’s room if he ended up in jail? I decided against trying to sneak back into the basement to let Les know that we were leaving; if he wanted the Hummer before I got back, that was just too bad.
As I backed out of the garage, I said, “Kendall, honey, Dexter’s the only brother you’re ever going to have, so—”
“Thank God.”
Our talk was not off to a good start.
* * *
By the time I got home, it was almost dark. I wished daylight savings time weren’t still six weeks away. I was ready for warmth and sunshine. Lots of sunshine. Neiman Marcus and Spiegel spring catalogs had come in the mail today. They got me thinking about capris and wedge sandals, sundresses—Why don’t they make sundresses with sleeves that cover the upper arm area?—and all the colorful spring clothes I hadn’t worn in nine months. I could sort through them tonight after Les left … that would make me feel cheerier. Maybe it was al
so time to switch my nail polish color to my spring collection. I held my hands out, fingers fanned, and studied my garnet red nails, including the one Dreiser had broken. Coral would be more springy, or that mint-colored polish Kendall had bought. I’d never used green nail polish before, but I was in the mood to change things up, go out on a style limb.
I didn’t know whether the thought of Les leaving, possibly forever, cheered me up or made me gloomier. Kendall had left the peanut butter and bread out, so I made myself a sandwich, using marshmallow fluff instead of banana, and wondered if I should take one to Les and Patrick. Before I could decide, the doorbell rang. Hastily swallowing the sticky lump of peanut butter and bread, I hurried to the front door. I peered through the side window, wondering who was out on a night like this. Probably not a high school band member selling candy or a Girl Scout with cookies. Maybe a neighbor needing to borrow a snow shovel or a couple of eggs.
A man stood there, backed a few feet away from the door like he didn’t want to make the homeowner nervous. I appreciated that. I didn’t know him, but he looked respectable in a Fair Isle sweater over dark blue slacks. He had longish dark hair slicked back from his face and a charming smile. “Mrs. Goldman?” he said when I opened the door. “My name’s Andrew Brett. I’m an associate of your husband’s. May I speak to him?”
“Um…” I crinkled my brow, not sure what to make of Andrew Brett. I’d never heard Les talk about him. “He’s my ex-husband. He doesn’t live here anymore.” I didn’t see any need to mention that he was camped out in the basement waiting for dark to fall so he could skulk out and meet some criminal.
“Oh.” Andrew Brett raised his dark brows and looked puzzled. “I was sure he told me to meet him here. We have a business matter to discuss.”
The light dawned, and I smiled with relief. This must be the man who was going to supply Les with whatever documents he needed to get out of the country. He looked much more respectable than I’d anticipated—not scuzzy at all. Les had undoubtedly come up to get the Hummer while I was taking Kendall to the Ice Hall. When he found us and the car gone, he’d called Andrew Brett and changed their plans. “Of course,” I said, opening the door wider. “He mentioned you.”
“He did?” A frown twitched the man’s brows but then smoothed away. He stamped his feet outside, eased himself into the foyer, and wiped his feet on the rug again. I liked him.
“Let me just get Les for you,” I said. “Please sit down.” I gestured toward the living room and went to the basement door. “Les,” I called. “Mr. Brett is here to talk to you.”
Les yelled back something I didn’t understand and then appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Why don’t you tell the whole world I’m here, Gigi,” he complained, clomping upward. “You’re the one who didn’t want the kids to know.”
“They’re gone,” I said. “Mr. Brett is here. I suppose he’s the one who’s going to make you a new passport or something.” A thought popped into my head. “Have you picked out a new name?”
“It doesn’t work like that, Gigi,” Les said irritably. He paused, halfway up the stairs. “I don’t know any Brett, and I already told you: I’m meeting my contact later. I wouldn’t let somebody like that come to the house. Jesus! What kind of lowlife do you think I am?”
My brow wrinkled. “Then who—?” Ooh, I got a bad feeling. Maybe it was from what felt like a gun barrel poking into the base of my spine. I slowly turned my head to see Andrew Brett standing behind me, grim smile on his lips, big gun in his hand.
He beckoned with his other hand. “Get up here.” When Les hesitated, Brett’s voice got harsher. “Now, Goldman. I’ve had this house staked out for days now, waiting for you to turn up, and I’m about out of patience. I almost caught up with you when you came by here in the Beemer with your kid—I followed you for twelve fucking hours. I wanted to get at you at the truck stop, but those damn truckers never went to sleep. There was always someone coming or going.”
“You slept in the car?” I asked. Brrrr. No wonder he’d broken into the basement.
The men ignored her as Brett continued, “I thought I had you at the movie theater, but you got away. You’re a slippery bastard.”
Les climbed the stairs heavily, confusion twisting his face. “That was you? I don’t know you, do I? What do you want with me and Gigi?”
“I don’t want her,” Brett said, herding us into the living room with the gun. “I want you. More precisely, I want my money, my three-point-eight million dollars that you stole.”
Les breathed out heavily. “Look, Brett, or whatever your name is, I’ve never done business with you. I don’t have any of your money.”
I’d been studying Andrew Brett while he threatened Les, and now it came to me. It was in the shape of his brow and jaw, the way his ears lay close to his head, the identical nose. “You’re related to Heather-Anne, aren’t you?” I blurted.
He swiveled his head and stared at me. “You’re not half as stupid as Annie made out. You’re probably a lot smarter than this guy.” He waved the gun casually at Les.
“She called me stupid?” I was incensed. That was the outside of enough! “Well, she was a home-wrecking, husband-stealing, trashy tramp who had less style than a Barbie doll, and—”
“Gigi, you don’t want to annoy the man with the gun,” Les said, putting a calming hand on my arm and giving Brett a nervous look. Indeed, the other man’s face had darkened.
“She was my sister,” he bit out.
“Ooh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
I couldn’t read the look Brett gave me. “Sit down,” he said finally.
“I’ve got to be somewhere—” Les started.
Brett stiff-armed him with a hand to his chest, and Les plopped down into the recliner behind him. “You’re not going anywhere until I get my money. You, too.” He pointed to me. “Sit.”
I perched on the edge of the blue leather sofa. “This must all be a big mistake,” I said. “If Les had your money, he’d give it back. Right, Les?” I tried not to think about Dreiser in the basement, still trying to get his money back from my ex-husband.
Sweat beaded Les’s forehead and ran down his temples, even though it wasn’t that hot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. I could tell he was lying.
Apparently, so could Brett. “You’re lying.” He pressed the gun barrel against Les’s knee. Les tried to squirm away, but Brett leaned into him. “Maybe a bullet in your knee will help your memory. Do you know what a .38 slug would do to your knee? Let’s just say I don’t think you’d be playing racquetball at the Y anymore. And from the look on your wife’s—”
“Ex-wife!” I said.
“—face, I don’t think she’ll be lining up to push your wheelchair. So tell me where the money is, and I’ll disappear as soon as we’ve transferred it from whatever offshore account you’ve got it in to my account. You’ll never see me again.” He dug his free hand in his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, smoothing it onto the end table. “Here’s the account number.”
“I don’t understand … How did Les get your money if you’ve never met?” I looked from Andrew Brett to Les. His eyes shifted away from mine.
“He stole it from my sister.”
“From Heather-Anne? She had almost four million dollars?” Here I’d always thought she hooked up with Les for his money; now I wasn’t sure. This was too confusing.
“Let me tell you a story,” Brett said. He looked relaxed, like an invited dinner guest, not at all sweaty and nervous like Les. Maybe being the one with the gun made it easier to relax. I always felt keyed up when I held my gun, even at the shooting range, but it might be different for men.
“Once upon a time there was a brother and a sister. She was beautiful, and he was very, very smart, and not unhandsome himself.” His lips twisted. “They had a shitty upbringing with a shitty mother, but we won’t go into that. Suffice it to say that one day, the mother took off, leaving them to fend for themselves. Whi
ch they were perfectly capable of doing.”
“Where did they live?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Tornadoes.” I’d never been to Oklahoma, but I knew about the tornadoes.
“Not in this story. Anyway”—Brett spoke more forcefully, as if to keep me from interrupting again—“a man came along who wanted to marry the sister even though she was only eighteen and he was in his fifties. Perv. We agreed that it was the smart thing to do because the man had money and we didn’t. After they’d been married a couple of years, though, Annie started feeling her oats. She was twenty by then and drop-dead gorgeous in an innocent sort of way that made men want to protect her, take care of her. Right, Goldman?” He prodded Les’s knee with the gun, and Les jerked, refusing to answer.
I thought Heather-Anne needed about as much protection as a scorpion, but I kept my mouth zipped.
“We decided that it was time to move on.”
“So she left her husband?”
“He had an accident.” Brett’s lashes shadowed his eyes, but I didn’t like what I saw there. “It was fortuitous because it made it possible for Annie to withdraw everything from his bank accounts, cash in some investments, and disappear.”
“Was the husband okay?”
Brett shrugged. “Who knows? The point is, we were able to start over someplace where people didn’t know us or our mom, didn’t look down on us. We went to Atlanta. But then the money started running out. I discovered I had quite a flair for computers and research, and we turned that to good account. We’d identify a possible mark, and I’d learn everything about him, down to the kind of underwear he preferred and what he ate for breakfast, what was important to him and the kind of women that appealed to him. Annie was quite the actress, and she’d remake herself in the image of what the mark preferred. It worked more often than not. Sometimes she married the mark, sometimes we turned a profit another way. If the mark started getting suspicious, or if someone in his family started looking into Annie’s background too hard, we cut our losses and moved on.”
3 Swift Run Page 23
