I didn’t.
I laid in the dark, thinking about Brenda while holding Maggie as she cried herself to sleep. What was it I felt for Brenda? Gratitude. Friendship. But most of all guilt. For not mentioning my premonition about the baby. For knowing she’d be hurt and being unable to prevent it.
What did I feel for Maggie? Tenderness, for sure. Love? I still wasn't sure about that, but I felt a strong sexual attraction to her. I didn’t feel that way about Brenda. I couldn’t allow myself to ever feel that for my brother’s wife. And that’s all she would ever—could ever—be to me. There was no way I’d ever betray Richard’s trust.
Eventually I dozed off, but too soon I was awake again—feeling like I’d gotten no rest at all.
I brushed my fingers over the leaves that still clung to the shrubs. Holtzinger had waited, hidden there. An empty pint bottle of whiskey was still caught in the branches. He’d caressed it, almost sensually, while formulating his plan. I picked up anger and avarice—but nothing like the impressions I’d received from the rifle casings. There was no doubt in my mind: Holtzinger had not killed Dr. Newcomb.
Sophie had been right about danger still being close at hand. I could feel it, but couldn’t identify its source.
I straightened, and headed for the garage and the trashcans, where I tossed the empty bottle. That’s when I remembered the cat upstairs. I wasn’t used to pulling pet duty and reconsidered keeping my father's pet. Herschel was used to a full-time companion. I’d hardly been home since he came to stay with me. But I liked the little guy. He was a bundle of happiness, needing little more than a scratch behind the ear to trigger a burst of kitty joy. It felt good to have him around. And I didn’t like to think of his chances of finding a new home if I dumped him at the local humane society.
Herschel was waiting behind the door, purring like a buzz saw, reinforcing my guilt. I gave him some food and noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. I hit the play button.
“Jeffrey, it’s Patty.”
Was she being theatrical or did she really sound frightened?
“It’s eight o’clock. You’ve got to come to the house. Now. You and Richard. It’s a matter of life and death!” The call ended.
“Yeah, right,” I muttered, and rewound the tape.
An emergency, huh? Then why did she only call once? Hadn’t she ever heard of crying wolf? She just wanted to get at Richard. In his wallet, if not his pants.
Still . . . .
I dialed the number and let it ring eight times before hanging up. Whatever the emergency was, she must’ve handled it. Probably just a spider in the bathroom.
A red-eyed Maggie was making coffee when I got back to Richard’s place. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She shook her head, but her expression wasn’t hopeless. “I called the vet. They told me Holly’s sitting up in her cage, waiting to be fed.”
I put my arm around her shoulder, gave her a smile. “See, she’ll be just fine.”
Richard’s pressure bandage had saved the dog’s life, the young vet on duty had told us. Because of ligament damage, Holly would probably always limp, but he was pretty sure she’d make a full recovery.
Maggie kept staring at Holly’s empty food bowl on the floor. “It wasn’t real to me. Brenda’s friend was killed—but it wasn’t real to me until—”
“Until some creep hurt you, too.”
Maggie sniffled. “I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I told her. “I’m sure Brenda and Rich would—”
“What kind of a friend would I be if I just abandoned them?”
“A safe friend,” Brenda said from the doorway. Dressed in robe and slippers, she looked just as exhausted as Maggie. “I’m so sorry this happened, Maggie. We wanted Holly here for our own safety. It never occurred to us someone might hurt her.” Her voice broke. “Can you ever forgive us?”
Maggie hurried to Brenda and hugged her. “There’s nothing to forgive. She’s going to be fine.” She looked at me over her shoulder, forcing a brave smile. “Right, Jeff?”
“That’s right.”
The tension was electric. Time to defuse it. “Anybody hungry? I’ve decided to make my world-famous waffles.”
“Oh, no,” Brenda groaned in mock despair, giving us all a much-needed laugh.
The phone rang and I grabbed it. “Mr. Resnick? This is Bonnie Wilder. We’re going to be talking to Lou Holtzinger this morning. Are you interested in listening in?”
“You better believe it. When?”
We took Richard’s car, and his cell phone, not wanting to be out of touch. Maggie and Brenda assured us they felt safe enough with a guard planted at the end of the drive. Brenda even joked that she didn’t expect the house to be attacked in broad daylight. Still, I would’ve felt better if Holly was there. She’d been a better—more alert—guard than the one we’d hired. And it hadn’t escaped my thoughts that she’d probably saved me from Lou Holtzinger’s knife the night before.
Bonnie Wilder met us in the station’s reception area. Her eyes were bloodshot—probably from lack of sleep. She clutched a cup of coffee in one hand, with file folders in the other.
“Us being here isn’t standard operating procedure,” I said.
“This is an unusual situation,” she admitted.
“Did Reverend Linden ever surface?” I asked, as we headed down the empty corridor.
“About noon, yesterday. He’d been counseling his secretary. She swore on a stack of Bibles that he was with her at the time of the shooting.”
“Had he been there all night?” Richard asked.
“Yes. Apparently she leads a very sinful life,” Wilder said straight-faced.
She showed us to a small, stark, gray room. Two-way glass let us watch as Agent Segovia conducted the interrogation. The two Washington stiffs stood against the wall, nearly hidden in the shadows.
“Let’s go over it again, Lou,” Segovia said
“Don’t you guys ever give up?” Holtzinger asked, stubbing out a cigarette. He lit another and leaned back in his chair. “I left the car in the alley a couple blocks from the health center because that bitch of a hairdresser at the strip mall threatened to have me towed the last time I parked there. I was just getting out of my truck when I heard the shots.”
“How did you know they were gunshots?”
Holtzinger scowled. “I watch a lot of TV.”
“What did you see?”
“At first, nothing. I started walking down the alley, then I seen this guy running away, carrying a rifle.”
“Give me a description.”
Holtzinger sighed, bored. “White guy, six foot—more or less. He had on a hooded sweatshirt.”
“The color?”
“Black, navy—I don’t know.”
“Did he see you?”
He shook his head. “I ducked in a doorway.”
“Then what?”
“He jumped into a silver pick-up.”
“License?”
Holtzinger shook his head again. “No plates.”
“The make?”
“Do I look like a fucking brochure? How the hell do I know?”
“And?” Segovia prompted.
“He took off—headed east, turned onto Main Street.”
“Why didn’t you stick around? Why didn't you tell the officers on the scene what you saw?”
“Get real. I’m on parole. I wasn’t about to talk to the cops. Besides, you already thought I shot the baby butcher.”
Segovia glared at the slimy little bastard. “Did it ever occur to you they might’ve believed you?”
Holtzinger stared right back. “No.”
“What were you doing at Dr. Alpert’s house last night?”
“I figured he could pay me for what I seen.”
“Why him?”
“His wife works at the health center. She just missed getting shot.”
“How did you know that?”
“I saw it on TV
.”
“How did you know where she lived?”
“The church has addresses on all the clinic’s employees. They were gonna picket some of the doctors.”
“Why didn’t they?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask Reverend Linden.”
“Why did you stab the dog?”
“You think I’da been hiding in the yard if I know’d they had a dog? That damn thing was vicious. It went for my throat.”
Bonnie Wilder looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
I shook my head. “Holly’s a Golden Retriever—she’s practically a lap dog. She’s never bitten anyone.”
“Let’s go over it again,” Segovia said, and we turned away from the glass.
“So far he’s stuck to his story,” Detective Wilder said. “How is the dog?”
“She’ll live.”
“Do you want to press charges? We can get him on cruelty to animals and trespassing. Otherwise he’s going to walk.”
I looked at Richard, who’d been silent, his expression grim.
He met Bonnie Wilder’s solemn gaze. “Nail the sonuvabitch.”
We watched as Segovia took Holtzinger through it again, and again, but Pony-tail never changed his story. Bonnie Wilder took us back to her office, and Richard filled out the complaint form.
Afterwards, Richard sat behind the wheel of his car, his gaze fixed on the dashboard. The silence between us dragged.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He looked at me. “No, dammit. I’m sick and tired of being taken advantage of. Of being hounded. If Holtzinger isn’t the one who’s been harassing Brenda and didn’t shoot Jean Newcomb, and if Willie or Reverend Linden didn’t do it, then who the hell did?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
I rubbed my eyes. “God, I’m tired. I’m working on about three hours sleep.”
“I didn’t get much more,” Richard groused.
The silence lengthened. His hands kept clenching the steering wheel.
“What is it?” I finally asked. “You’ve been a bastard since yesterday.”
“Don’t you think I’ve got the right?”
“Yeah, but there’s more to it. Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”
Richard’s knuckles were white. He turned, glared at me. “Have you got feelings for my wife?”
His icy tone rattled me.
“Of course I do. I love her.”
Then I realized just what I’d said—and what he’d meant. He hadn’t forgotten the sight me and Brenda in his bed the day before.
“Wait a minute. No. Nothing like that.”
“Because if you do . . . . ” His voice broke and he looked away.
“Rich, you know I’m with Maggie. I care about Brenda as my friend. I care about her because you love her. I care because some dick-ass is making her life hell and she doesn’t deserve it. You guys are my family,” I said. God, this was hard. “I’ve been thinking about that word a lot lately. Brenda means more to me than Patty ever can. I never wanted or needed family until you guys took me in, until you . . . .”
I was blathering. Didn’t that just sound like classic denial?
As quickly as it had surfaced, his anger faded. He patted my shoulder. “Thanks, kid. I'm sorry, but I had to ask.”
I took a shaky breath. “Now I’ve got a question for you. Why did you call Patty last night?”
His face colored.
“Why?” I demanded.
“Because . . . I had too much to drink. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t understand what was happening with you and Brenda. I needed someone to talk to. A sympathetic ear.”
“You couldn’t just ask me?”
His voice was hard. “You don’t make it easy.”
Ouch. But I wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “Then why didn’t you talk to Maggie--or even the damn dog? Why in God’s name did you call Patty?”
“I don’t know.” He was quiet for a moment. “What did she tell you last night?”
“Not much. Her friend Ray’s been asking a lot of questions about you—and me. He read about the Sumner murder in the paper.” I thought about it for a moment. “She said Ray just came back to Buffalo after being away for a long time. If that’s true, how did he know about our involvement in the case? That was eight months ago.”
He shrugged. “Did she say anything else?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t understand it. Something about a Dr. Concillio.”
Richard’s back stiffened, his eyes going wide. “What?”
“She said to ask you about Dr. Concillio.”
He took a ragged breath. “I told you a colleague of mine was killed recently.”
“The guy downstate.”
He nodded. “Marty Concillio.”
“What’s he got to do with Patty?”
Richard’s eyes darkened with worry. “I don’t know.”
“Who was he?”
“A friend. At least before our malpractice suit.”
I blinked, disbelieving. “Malpractice. You?”
He nodded. “I was an intern. Marty was in his last year of residency. We were the only doctors on duty in the ER during a blizzard. A pregnant woman in her late forties came in and she was in trouble. We were short staffed. The OB on call was in surgery. We were on our own.”
“To do what?”
“An emergency C-section.”
“Did you have any surgical training?”
“Not at the time. The ER was my first tour.”
“What happened?”
He swallowed down remembered pain. “We had two deaths that night.”
His words chilled me. “God.”
“That was the first time I questioned my career choice.”
“What was the woman’s name?”
“Dorothy Pfister,” he answered without hesitation—the memory was deep and as painful as a fresh wound. “The lawyers said it was gross incompetence.”
“Was it?”
“Hell, no. She'd had no prenatal care and was a diabetic with toxemia—no one could’ve saved her or her baby.”
“What happened?”
“The hospital settled out of court. I forget the amount, but I remember thinking they’d settled cheap. Especially since the husband was so vocal.”
“Did the woman have other kids?”
“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“How would Patty know about Marty Concillio?”
“Why don’t we ask her?”
“I tried calling her this morning. I got no answer. She left a melodramatic message on my answering machine last night. Said she needed to see us both. That it was a life and death situation.”
I grabbed the cell phone, dialed her number. It rang and rang. I hung up.
Richard turned the key and the engine purred. “Let’s go to her house. It’s on the way.”
“I’ll call Maggie and let her know why we’re delayed,” I said and started dialing as Richard pulled into traffic.
We were halfway to Patty’s place when I spoke again. “How come you never mentioned this lawsuit stuff to me?”
“It wasn’t the highlight of my career. Besides, you were just a kid. I didn’t want to worry you.”
A plausible explanation—and another example of his lack of candor? Still, we’d come a long way since those days.
“Tell me more about Marty Concillio,” I said. “What did he look like?”
“I hadn’t seen him in years.”
I took a good guess. “Is he tall, with olive skin—kind of ethnic? Thin nose, thin lips, a heavy beard. Thick hair?”
“Yeah, why?”
I let out a shaky breath. “That’s the man in my recurring nightmare. You said he was killed in a hunting accident. Was he gut shot?”
“Yes.”
My insides twisted. “Didn’t you say his son died?”
“A hit and run motorcycle accident. His wife was murdered earlier this year. The sick
o mailed him a videotape. Last I heard, the case was unsolved.”
I thought about that unreasonable anger Ray Sampson had transmitted the day of Chet’s funeral, and realized it hadn’t been directed at Patty or me, but at Richard. I told him so.
“First Concillio’s son, then his wife. Now he’s dead, too. Do you think that’s just coincidence?” I asked.
“What’re you thinking?”
“I think I’m jumping to conclusions with no evidence.”
Richard stole a glance at me, his eyes troubled.
We were only a couple of blocks from Patty’s house.
The latest version of the dream flashed through my mind. The three faces. The dead man, Jean Newcomb and—
I hadn’t wanted to look at her face. If I had, I would’ve seen it was—
“Oh my god, it was Patty, not Shelley.”
“What?” Richard asked.
“In my dream. I thought it was Shelley I saw dead—they look so much alike—but it was Patty.”
We exchanged worried glances.
Richard pulled up the driveway. Patty’s Mustang wasn’t parked there. “It looks like there’s a note on the door,” he said.
I opened the car door, jogged up the steps, snatched the note taped to the glass, and hurried back to the car. “It says, ‘Richard and Jeff—meet me at Medsco.’”
“What’s Medsco?”
“Where she works, in Lockport.”
“Is that her handwriting?” Richard asked.
“I don’t know.”
He studied the note. “Did you get anything from it?”
“Patty doesn’t leave a psychic signature I can read.”
“We ought to call Bonnie Wilder,” Richard said.
“We don’t have any proof. All we have is a note. For all we know, she’s pulling some kind of scam.”
“Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “In your dream—are you sure Patty was dead?”
I nodded. “The top of her head was blown off.”
“These dreams always come true, don’t they?”
“So far.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “What’re the odds that I’ve been the target all along?”
“How so?”
“What better way to get back at me than through the people I care about.”
“Including Patty?”
He nodded.
Cheated By Death Page 23
