3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  “I don’t wish him dead or anything,” she said. “But Ken is …” She sighed. “Ken is not a part of my life anymore. I mean, there’s not a day goes by I don’t think about him or the terrible things he did to me. But.” She paused and showed a bittersweet smile as the memories danced across her face. “There were some good times, too. In the beginning.”

  I nodded.

  Then she said, “I’ve heard he’s gotten treatment, and I’m glad. I hope he’s okay. I hope he finds peace.”

  I nodded again.

  I had already finalized a plan for handling the Ken and Janet situation, and now I realized I’d been right all along not to involve her in it.

  We had a wonderful dinner, and afterward, my driver took us to her place and she invited me in. Home for Kathleen was a modest duplex cottage with faded green siding. Her side of the duplex had three rooms: a kitchen, living room, bedroom—and a bath. A small stack of books sat on one end of a threadbare couch in the living room. She picked up the books and stacked them on the coffee table so we’d have room to sit.

  “I’m sorry it’s not nicer,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s just, everything is so expensive here.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said.

  And to me it was. When I’m in Virginia, I sleep in a prison cell. When I’m anywhere else for more than a day or two, I generally break into the homes of strangers and sleep in their attics. Sometimes I’ll live in an attic for weeks at a time. By comparison, Kathleen’s duplex was a palace.

  “I can offer you a gin and tonic, bottled water, a hot chocolate with skim milk,” she said, “or a diet coke.”

  I asked, “Do you have an attic?”

  “What a strange question,” she said.

  “No, I just meant, there’s not a lot of room for storage.”

  “I have half an attic and half a basement,” she said. “Does that win me some kind of prize?”

  I placed my hand to her cheek, and we looked at each other. “Don’t ask me to show them to you,” she said. “The attic is totally junked up, and the basement has rats, I think.”

  I asked if I could kiss her. She said, “Okay, but just once. And not a movie kiss,” she added.

  10

  “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Mr. Creed.”

  “Why should you be the exception?” I said.

  It was morning, a few minutes past eight. I was in the hospital coffee shop chatting with Addie’s Aunt Hazel.

  “And just how is it you’re connected to Addie?”

  “She’s my friend.”

  After learning how special Addie was to Kathleen, I’d come to the hospital to check on her. During a discussion with one of the nurses, I learned that Addie’s father, Greg, had won ten million dollars in the New York State Lottery six months ago. I also learned that Hazel and Robert Hughes had originally planned to adopt their niece after her release from the hospital but had changed their minds after learning the money was gone. So when Aunt Hazel showed up, I ambushed her in the coffee shop.

  “We’re not wealthy people, Mr. Creed,” Hazel had said. “Addie will require specialized care for the rest of her life, and yes, we were counting on the inheritance to provide it.”

  “Perhaps your interest in Addie’s welfare extended only as far as the inheritance,” I’d said, and that’s when Aunt Hazel told me she didn’t appreciate my tone.

  “What happened to the lottery money?” I asked.

  “Greg used part of it to pay off the house, the cars, and credit cards. The balance, more than nine million, was placed in an annuity.”

  I had a sudden revelation and immediately began experiencing a sick feeling in my stomach.

  Hazel said, “The annuity was supposed to provide a huge monthly check for the rest of Greg and Melanie’s lives. But the way it was structured, the payments ended with their deaths.”

  “Can you recall some of the specific provisions?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “But the whole business sounds crooked to me.”

  “Who can tell me?” I asked.

  She eyed me suspiciously. “I suppose Greg’s attorney can give you details.”

  She rummaged through her handbag and gave me the business card of one Garrett Unger, attorney at law. I put some money on the table to cover our coffees.

  “I’ll have a talk with Unger and let you know if anything develops.”

  “We can’t afford to pay you,” she said.

  “Consider it a random act of kindness,” I said. “By the way, can you give me the address of the house? I may want to poke around a bit.”

  “Now who are you, exactly?” she asked.

  “Someone not to be trifled with,” I said.

  Hazel gave me a look of concern, and I smiled. “That’s a line from a movie,” I said.

  “Uh huh.”

  “The Princess Bride,” I added.

  “Well it doesn’t sound like a wedding movie to me,” she said. I pulled out my CIA creds and waited for her to ooh and ah. Instead, she frowned and said, “This looks like something you’d find in a five and dime.”

  “What’s a five and dime?”

  “Like a Woolworths.”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. As I said, I’m a friend of Addie’s. I met her through Kathleen, one of the volunteers here. I want to help.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  I sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me.” I took out my cell phone, called Lou. When he answered, I said, “There was a fire two weeks ago at the home of Greg and Melanie Dawes.” I spelled the last name for him. “Both adults died in the fire. Their twin girls were taken to the burn center at New York-Presbyterian. I need the address of the house that burned down. No, I’m not sure of the state. Try New York, first.” I got our waitress’s attention and asked her to bring me a pencil and paper. By the time she fetched them, I had the address. I hung up and smiled at Aunt Hazel.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Inigo Montoya.”

  11

  Valley road in Montclair, New Jersey, runs south from Garrett Mountain Reservation to Bloomfield Ave. Along the way, it borders the eastern boundary of Montclair State University’s sprawling campus. Coming west from NYC, you’re not supposed to see any of this on your way to the fire station, but if you make the wrong turn off the freeway like I did, you get to see the sights. While I was doing so, my cell phone rang. Salvatore Bonadello, the crime boss, was on the line.

  “You still alive?” Sal said.

  “You call this living,” I said. It was still morning, not quite ten. I’d left the coffee shop, and Aunt Hazel, less than two hours earlier.

  “I been hearing some things,” he said. “You stepped on someone’s toes big time.” He waited for me to respond, playing out the moment.

  “Joe DeMeo?” I said.

  Sal paused, probably disappointed he hadn’t been the one to break the news. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of DeMeo,” I said. “Big, tough, hairy guy like you?” I turned left on Bloomfield, heading south east.

  “I don’t gotta fear the man to respect the power. And I got—whatcha call—compelling evidence to respect it. Whaddya mean, hairy?”

  “Figure of speech,” I said.

  I hadn’t been certain that arson was involved in the Dawes’ house fire but figured if it was, DeMeo was responsible. The fact DeMeo knew I was looking into the fire confirmed my suspicions. Still, I was shocked at how quickly he’d gotten the word. “How long you think I have before the hairy knuckle guys show up?”

  “You in someone’s attic or what?”

  “Rental car.”

  “Okay. You prob’ly got a couple hours. But I was you, I’d start checking the rearview anyway.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Just protectin’ my—whatcha call—asset.”

  “DeMeo called you personally? He d
oesn’t know we’re doing business?”

  Sal paused, weighing his words. “He knows.”

  I was stuck in a line of cars at the intersection of Bloomfield and Pine, waiting for the light to change. I had nothing else to think about beyond Sal’s comment or I might have missed the clue. I kicked it around in my head a few seconds before it hit me. “DeMeo offered you a contract on me.”

  “Let’s just say your next two jobs are—whatcha call—gratis.”

  Two jobs? That meant … “You turned down a hundred grand?”

  Sal laughed. “It ain’t love, so don’t get all wet about it. I just don’t have anyone—whatcha call—resourceful enough to take you outta the picture. Plus, where am I gonna get a contract killer good as you? Unless maybe that blond fox you use. You tell her about me yet?”

  The light turned green, and I eased along with the traffic until I got to the curb cut. “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  Sal said, “Wait! We got a deal on the contracts?”

  “I’ll give you one free contract,” I said. “You already made fifty Gs giving my name to that homicidal midget.”

  “Which one?”

  “You know more than one homicidal midget? Vic … tor,” I said, imitating my newest client.

  Sal laughed. “I met the little fuck. He’s got dreadlocks.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Long, nasty dreads, swear to Christ!”

  We hung up, and I parked my Avis rental in one of the visitor’s parking slots and asked the guys out front where I could find Chief Blaunert. They directed me to the kitchen area of the station house. I walked in and asked the one guy sitting there if he happened to be the fire chief.

  “Until October,” he said. “Then I’ll just be Bob, living on a houseboat in Seattle. You’re the insurance guy, right?”

  I nodded. “Donovan Creed, State Farm.”

  “Seattle’s cold this time of year,” he said, “but no worse than here. The wife has a brother, owns a marina up in Portage Bay near the university.”

  From under the table, he positioned his foot against the seat of the chair across from him. His brown leather shoes were well-worn, but the soles were new. By way of invitation, he gestured toward the chair and used his foot to push it far enough away from the table for me to sit down. “Ever been there?” he asked. “Portage Bay?”

  “Haven’t had the honor,” I said. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack near the sink and helped myself to some coffee from the machine.

  “Well, some don’t like the rain, I guess. But to us, it’s as close to paradise as we’re likely to get.” The old Formica table in front of him had probably started out a bright shade of yellow before decades of food and coffee stains took their toll. I sat in the chair he’d slid out for me and tasted my coffee. It was bitter and burnt, which seemed fitting for fire house coffee.

  “How’s the java?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t be polite to complain,” I said. “Of course, in seven months, you’ll have great coffee every day.”

  He winked and gave me a thumbs-up. “You know it,” he said. “Seattle’s got a lot of nicknames, but Coffee Town’s the one I use.” He savored the thought a moment. “Course they’ve got Starbucks and Seattle’s Best. You probably don’t know Tully’s, but that’s a great coffee.”

  We were both quiet a minute, two guys sipping bad coffee.

  “You have much fire experience, Mr. Creed? Reason I ask, we weren’t expecting an insurance investigator.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Not ever?”

  For the slightest moment, he seemed uneasy, but he adjusted quickly. “Not this soon, I meant.”

  Chief Blaunert didn’t look much like a fire marshal. He looked more like the love child of Sherlock Holmes and Santa Claus. He had white hair, a full white beard, and thick glasses with large, round frames. He also had an engaging smile and wore a wrinkled brown tweed suit over a white shirt and knit tie. All that was missing was a pipe and the comment, “Elementary, my dear Creed.”

  Lou Kelly had set up the impromptu meeting while I picked up the rental car in West Manhattan. Lou had given Chief Blaunert my State Farm cover story, and Blaunert put Lou on hold a long time before agreeing to meet me. He said he was doing a field inspection at the Pine Road Station, but if I hurried, I could speak to him before the meeting. Finding him wearing a suit instead of his uniform, I doubted he was conducting an inspection. At the moment, I noticed he was eyeing me carefully.

  “I’m more of a grunt than an arson investigator,” I said. “I interview the firemen, the neighbors, check the site. In the end, I tell the company if I think a fire’s accidental. Of course, even if I think it is, they’ll still want to send a forensic accountant to check the insured’s books, see if there’s any financial motive.”

  Chief Blaunert nodded. “I wish I could save you the trouble,” he said, “but I know your company’s going to want a full report. Still, you can take my word for it—this fire was definitely an accident.”

  “You checked it out yourself?”

  “Had to, the media was all over it. Pitiful tragedy,” he said. “The whole family dead, all but one child, and she was burned beyond recognition.”

  “No motive you’re aware of?”

  Chief Blaunert’s face reddened. “Motive? You tell me the motive! What, they’re trying to screw your company out of a few hundred grand? They won the whole damned New York Lottery a few months back, ten million dollars!” He seemed genuinely upset by my question. “You think they’re going to torch their own home, kill their own kids?”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” I said. “Truth be told, I’m just going through the motions. I’ll need to see the first firefighters on the scene, ask them a couple questions. I assume they’re here, this being the station that took the call.”

  He stared at me until his anger subsided. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear and steady. “Yellow flame, gray smoke,” he said. “No suspicious people at the scene. No open windows. No sign of forced entry. No doors locked, no rooms blocked. Single point of origin, basement. No accelerants.”

  “You definitely know the drill.”

  “Ought to; I been doing it my whole life. You want, I can give you a couple names. You can say you interviewed ’em, take a quick peek at the scene, snap a few shots, and be back in Bloomington by dinner time.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll have to interview one or two neighbors, though.” He nodded, and I handed him the pen and spiral notebook I’d bought for the occasion. I’d also bought the camera sitting on the front seat of the rental car in case one of the firemen wanted to accompany me to the scene. Chief Blaunert wrote some names in the notebook.

  “Three enough?”

  “That should do it.”

  He tore out a clean sheet from the notebook and wrote down my name. “Got a cell number?”

  I gave it to him and thought about Sal’s warning. I could see where this was going.

  “Need an escort over there?”

  “Naw, it’s only a few blocks,” I said. “I’ll get out of here and let you get on with your inspection.” I stood up, reached over to shake his hand. He hesitated, deciding whether to say something else.

  “As to the neighbors,” he said, “my guys were on the scene in four minutes twenty after the call was logged. You can check it out: four twenty.” He stared at me through serious eyes.

  “That’s really quick,” I said, just to fill the silence.

  “It was after midnight,” he said, “darker than a closet in a coal mine. We set up a perimeter, pushed the neighbors back pretty far. They won’t be able to tell you anything different that’s reliable.”

  “Chief, no worries. We’re going to pay this claim. That little girl’s been through enough. Meanwhile, you’ve saved me some time and trouble, and I appreciate it.” I smiled, and this time he shook my hand. “See you in Seattle, chief!”

  “That’s where I’ll be,” he said. “Up b
y Portage Bay.”

  “Drinking coffee with the wife,” I said.

  He smiled and gave me another thumbs-up. “You got it.”

  12

  Greg and Melanie’s burnt-out home was one neighborhood removed from the posh Upper Montclair Country Club. These were two-story, upper-middle-class homes with basements, brick exteriors, and asphalt shingle roofs. I’m no expert, but I’d price them around seven fifty, maybe eight hundred thousand.

  I got out of the car and locked it with the remote. Before heading to the house and without staring at anything in particular, I scanned the area and didn’t like what I saw out of the corner of my eye: a 2006 Metallic Blue Honda Civic Coupe parked where one hadn’t been parked a few seconds earlier. I suddenly spun around, pretending to have forgotten something in the trunk. This didn’t require an Oscar-winning performance on my part, since I had a small-frame Smith & Wesson 642 hidden in the wheel well.

  As I opened the trunk and retrieved the handgun, I noticed the Honda moving toward me. Though the sun was reflecting off the windshield, I was able to see that the driver was a woman.

  The Honda came to a stop about ten feet in front of mine, which meant it was positioned where I couldn’t see anything without exposing at least part of my face from behind the raised hood of my trunk. I put the gun in my right hand and waited. Could DeMeo have sent a woman to do the job? I wracked my brain. Were there any women in the business brazen enough to drive right up to me in broad daylight and make an attempt on my life? Callie, maybe, but she was on my team. No one else came to mind.

  Suddenly, I heard the car door open, and every synapse in my brain became locked and loaded for deadly confrontation. I waited for footsteps, thinking, yeah, DeMeo could have sent a woman. But while there were dozens of contract killers who might come straight at a guy, Joe DeMeo knows me, knows what I’m capable of. Would DeMeo send just one person to do the hit?

  No way.

  Which meant there was probably someone else working their way behind me, getting into position to make the kill shot.