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Passion to Die for

Page 20

by Marilyn Pappano


  Swiveling to face her, Ellie rattled off the numbers. A few edges stuck out of the folder, enough to recognize the pages: arrest reports. It was the original of the file she’d burned in her fireplace a week ago, the original A.J. hadn’t been able to find among Martha’s belongings.

  Marie skimmed over the items in the safe, nothing of value to her, then tossed the folder on top. For good measure, she sprinkled a little powder from the pill bottle inside, too, before closing the door and spinning the lock. “Drink. Write.”

  Sip. Martha Dempsey was my mother. “Why did you kill her?”

  “She was greedy and stupid. I told her to get the cash and get out, but she decided she wanted to stay here and be taken care of. She made you suspicious enough to call Randolph. Most blackmail victims are smart enough to keep their mouths shut and pay up as soon as they can get the cash together. But not you. No, you have to call your damned lawyer.”

  Ellie tried to focus on the line she was writing. She was so tired. Probably the wine on top of a long, stressful day. Then the desire to giggle hit her: the wine was laced with enough sedative to kill her. Yep, that could make her tired.

  Her eyes were drooping shut when pain lanced through her scalp. Holding a handful of Ellie’s hair, Marie gave her head a vicious shake. “Finish the damn letter.”

  Drink. I didn’t expect to feel guilty.

  “Tommy will never believe…” The letters swayed on the paper, and she blinked to hold them steady. “He’ll never believe…” Something important, but what?

  Marie snorted. “He’ll have your suicide note written in your own hand. Your fingerprints will be on the wine bottle and the glass. The file covered with Martha’s fingerprints is in your safe. It may break his heart, but he’ll believe.”

  Break his heart. She’d done that before. Wouldn’t ever do it again. Loved him. More than she’d ever loved…

  Another drink, another line.

  Last drink. Last line. It was a struggle, holding her head up, keeping her eyes open, maintaining a grip on the pen, making it move in legible lines. I’m sorry. I’m sorrysorrysor

  Stormy’s Tavern was located a mile and a half outside the town proper, just fifty feet inside the city limits. Long before the bar’s neon lights came into sight, the road, narrowed to two lanes, became clogged with passersby and emergency vehicles casting a ghostly blue and red glow into the air.

  Waiting for a chance to pull into the parking lot, Tommy stared at the scene. There were a lot of people milling around: customers, employees, curious neighbors, emergency personnel. Voices carrying through the open window hummed with excitement, but there was little activity. Paramedics and firemen stood in small groups talking. Most of the cops were making a halfhearted effort at crowd and traffic control, but there was no sense of urgency, no shock, no adrenaline rushing.

  No victims’ bodies lying on the parking lot.

  There’d been no shooting.

  Damn!

  Spinning the steering wheel in a tight circle, Tommy gunned the engine, shooting across the lane in front of oncoming traffic. The SUV rocked when the right wheels went off the pavement, then again when they regained traction.

  A damned diversion. Every cop on duty or off would respond to an officer-down call, leaving the entire rest of the town pretty much empty. It was easier to take out one or two cops when backup was at least eight or ten minutes away.

  He raced back toward the center of town, veering into the opposite lane to pass slower-moving vehicles, jamming the brakes when he couldn’t pass. His tires squealed through the turn onto River Road, and the SUV bumped over the curb when he cut it short angling into the alley. He skidded to a stop at the foot of the deli’s rear steps and jumped out of the truck before the engine died.

  In the shadows at the end of the lot, a car door opened and Petrovski climbed out. “Hey, Maricci, everything okay?”

  “Have you seen anything?”

  “No, it’s been quiet. What about—”

  “The shooting call was bogus. Find Gadney around front. Make sure everything’s okay there.” As Petrovski reached for his police radio, Tommy unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The deli was quiet, the same lights on as when he’d left. He slid his gun from its holster, then moved silently through the shadowy kitchen and into the broad hallway. Light shone from underneath the office door. Nothing appeared out of place.

  He eased up against the wall, reaching for the doorknob. If he was overreacting, he was going to scare the hell out of Ellie. But the hairs standing on end on the back of his neck and the tightness in his gut were pretty good indicators that he wasn’t overreacting. Something felt wrong.

  Before his fingers closed around the knob, it turned from the inside and the door opened. He jerked back, flat against the wall, as a woman came out. She carried a tote bag and was dressed in jeans and one of the Ellie’s Deli T-shirts the waitstaff wore. Her hair was red, and she wore oversize glasses that gave her a bug-eyed look. Together with the wig, they took ten years off her age, but he knew that face. He’d been staring at a picture of it off and on all day.

  He extended his arm, gun pointing directly at Marie Jensen, and stepped out of the shadows. She whirled around, her own arm extended, her own gun aimed at him.

  Too late, he thought in a panic, but he didn’t dare take his gaze from her to look inside the room for Ellie.

  Marie’s smile was as cold and empty as her eyes, at odds with her warm drawl. “You’re too late, Detective. Poor Ellie. So troubled over what she’s done.”

  Fear surged inside him, but his hand remained steady. “Put the gun down, Marie.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  She smiled again. “A person always has choices, Detective.” Her finger tightened on the trigger, and a curious look came into her eyes. Triumph, maybe.

  The shot was deafening in the contained space. Her body spun backward into the doorway of the bar, landing facedown on the wood floor. The gun was still in her grip, her finger still on the trigger, but it was too late to pull it.

  Tommy stared at her only an instant. He didn’t have to go closer, didn’t have to check to know she was dead. A .45-caliber bullet to the chest at close range…

  Footsteps pounding into the kitchen nearly obscured the whisper of sound from the office. Tommy spun around and bolted into the room.

  Ellie sat slumped at her desk, her hair hiding her face, one arm dangling at her side. A wine bottle lay beneath her fingers, red wine gurgling out, spreading across the desktop.

  “Ellie?” Oh God, oh God. He found her pulse, thready, slowing even as he checked. “Get your car, Pete!” he yelled as he lifted her into his arms, then shoved the chair out of the way and headed toward the hall, where Petrovski was staring, green around the gills, at Jensen. “Move! We’ve got to get her to the hospital.”

  “Oh, man, it’s too late,” Petrovski said, then did a double take when he saw Ellie. He dashed into the kitchen and out the back door, and Tommy followed.

  It wasn’t too late. He wouldn’t let it be. He couldn’t let it be.

  He prayed all the way to the hospital. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  Friday afternoon was sunny and warm, the sky an incredible blue. Ellie stood next to a casket the color of ancient pewter, a single red rose in her hand. She hadn’t thought to get flowers, but Sara Calloway and her daughters-in-law had ordered them; so had Tommy’s father and Pops.

  The three Calloway boys and their wives stood some distance back, giving her privacy. She’d been surprised that they would attend; after all, they hadn’t known Martha. But we know you, Anamaria had said. We’ll be there for you.

  Tommy had offered to wait with them, but Ellie had clasped his hand instead. She had lost consciousness Wednesday night thinking she would never see him again. She needed him near.

  “I didn’t love her,” she remarked.

  “She gave you no reason to.”


  And so many reasons not to. “She was a poor excuse for a mother.”

  “But she was your mother.”

  And Ellie had wanted to do what daughters did when their mothers died: bury her. Show a moment’s respect for the relationship that might have been.

  Promise herself that her own mother/child relationships would be exactly what they should.

  With a sigh, she laid the rose on the casket, then glanced around. Martha was dead, and no one truly mourned. Marie Jensen was dead. Randolph Aiken was on his way home to, once again, clean up someone else’s messes. He’d already located two other blackmail victims among his former clients. Likely there were more.

  What terrible events Martha had set in motion when she’d thrown her teenage daughter out of the house fifteen years ago.

  Tommy’s free hand, warm and solid, brushed her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  Ellie drew a deep breath, smelling flowers, fresh earth and autumn leaves, then smiled at him. “I’m better than all right.” A pause. “Are you?”

  He’d shot suspects twice before, but neither had died. He was pragmatic about it, though. If he hadn’t killed Marie, she would have killed him. If her dying meant his living, it was a better-than-fair trade.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  She smiled again, awed by the pure pleasure of looking at him, touching him, talking to him. “I love you, you know.”

  His grin was slow, brash and endearing as he slid his arm around her shoulders and began walking with her to where their friends waited. “I know, darlin’. I’ve always known. I’ve just been waiting for you to figure it out.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-4131-6

  PASSION TO DIE FOR

  Copyright © 2009 by Marilyn Pappano

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  Visit Silhouette Books at www.eHarlequin.com

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