Love And Lies

by Dawn Stewardson

  Sincerely,

  Judge Cameron Bradshaw.

  His final sentence made her smile. The idea of his ever being anything other than a perfect gentleman would never have entered her mind.

  She passed Cade the note and watched him read it. “What’s wrong?” she asked when his expression grew concerned.

  Cade shrugged. “He wants to talk to you because he’s worried about you. And if he figures there’s reason to be worried…”

  “What makes you think he’s worried?”

  “I spoke to him while you were in with the detectives, because it occurred to me we could’ve been way off base—assuming Joey wanted you dead, I mean. I started thinking that if anything happened to you it might mean a retrial, which I’m sure Joey wouldn’t want. So I asked the Judge about it—just in a general way, but he knew why I was asking.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Well…he said if something happened to one of us, the deliberations would simply proceed with one less juror.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. She’d done her best to convince herself Frank Boscoe and Arnie Rebuzo were right, that the idea Joey had sent someone to kill her was farfetched. But between raising the issue of that silencer and now this, Cade was doing a great job of unconvincing her, “The Judge still doesn’t believe the killer was just a hotel thief,” she said uneasily. “Despite what the detectives figure.”

  “No…that’s not necessarily it. He could tell I was worried about you, so maybe it was just contagious.”

  “Like a flu bug.”

  “Yeah, like a flu bug.” Cade gave her a warm smile, but it didn’t warm the chill of fear that had settled in her chest.

  “And you’re worried about me,” she said at last, “because you still think it could’ve been me who got killed.”

  He reached across the table and rested his hand on hers for a moment. “I just don’t think,” he said quietly, “we should entirely rule out the possibility.”

  The chill began spreading through her entire body.

  “It’s nothing more than a possibility, though,” he went on. “I’m not saying I’m convinced Joey was behind what happened.”

  “No…no, of course not.” But if everyone except the detectives believed it was even a possibility…

  “I’m only saying I think you should be careful. Until the police get the guy. And that’s probably what the Judge wants to tell you, too.”

  “I intend to be careful.”

  Cade leaned back in his chair, wishing there was some way he could keep an eye on her full-time until they knew exactly what was going on. He was worried about her. So damn worried it made him suspect he’d begun caring for her a lot more than he’d realized. A lot more than he’d ever intended.

  He sat watching her glance nervously around the dining room, thinking that, as concerned as he was, she had to be a hundred times more worried.

  When she finally looked back at him she said, “You think the police will get the guy?”

  “That’s their job.” But even if she didn’t watch cop shows she had to know there were a lot of killers walking around that the police never caught.

  “Where do you think he went afterward?” she asked. “Whoever he was, whatever reason he had for being in that room, did he just jump off the balcony, then coolly walk down to the dock and sit there waiting for the ferry to leave?”

  “No, that would’ve been too risky. If anyone had noticed him waiting, they’d have been able to give the police a description.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  Cade shrugged. “I was thinking he might’ve come over by private boat and left it docked at the village marina. Bud said the estate owners have things delivered there, remember? And they must have visitors. Which means a strange boat wouldn’t draw much attention.”

  “So he could’ve just come and gone without anyone realizing. But…there’s no guarantee he’s actually left, is there.”

  “Well, no.” Ever since that thought had occurred to him, it had been preying on his mind. The killer could easily be hanging around the hotel—the way arsonists often hang around after setting a fire.

  “You know, Cade, I once saw a movie about a hotel thief whose MO was to check in as a guest. Then he’d go into the various rooms and steal things. Do you think that might happen in real life?”

  “I guess it might.”

  Talia glanced anxiously around the dining room again. “You don’t suppose our murderer could still be right here, do you? Right here in the hotel, I mean?”

  “No,” he said firmly. But who was to say the guy wasn’t registered as a guest. And if he had a reason to stay, if he’d made a mistake and killed the wrong woman, for example…But hell, they were just going around in circles on this.

  Talia sat trying to convince herself the killer was a million miles away. She couldn’t manage it, though. For all she knew he was right here in this very room. For all she knew he was watching her this very minute.

  She looked at Cade, glad he was with her, glad he was concerned about her, then reluctantly said, “I’d better go up and see the Judge now.”

  Cade nodded. “I’ll help you find his suite.” He pulled a couple of bills out of his pocket, tossed them on the table for a tip, and they headed up to the second floor.

  “Which is the west wing?” she asked when they reached the top of the stairs.

  “This way.” He gestured in the opposite direction from their rooms.

  “Mr. Hailey?” someone said from behind them.

  The someone proved to be a bellboy. “There’s an urgent phone call for you, sir. If you’d like to go to your room and dial down to the desk, they’ll put it through for you.”

  Cade glanced at Talia.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “The Judge’s suite?” She asked the bellboy. “Is it along here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just turn right when you get to the end of this hall and it’s down that way.”

  “Thanks.” She looked at Cade once more. “I’ll be fine,” she told him again.

  “Well…knock on my door when you’re done. Let me know what he had to say.”

  She nodded, then started away before she lost her nerve. What could possibly happen to her while she was walking down a hallway in an exclusive hotel?

  The same thing, an imaginary voice answered, that happened to Mrs. Wertman when she walked into one of the rooms.

  Trying to ignore the voice, Talia turned right at the end of the hall. Like the rest of the second floor, the west wing hallway stretching ahead of her had antique furniture placed at irregular intervals along it. Big solid pieces that, as she’d thought earlier, would be perfect for a killer to hide behind.

  She picked up her pace. Then, a second later, someone pressed something hard into the small of her back and said, “Stop. Don’t take another step. And don’t turn around. This is a gun.”

  Chapter Five

  Cade turned the key in the lock, giving a quick knock to let Harlan know he was there, but when he opened the door the room was dark and silent.

  Switching on the light, he walked over to the phone. He had no idea who’d be calling him here—let alone with any urgency. There shouldn’t be problems with the projects his men were working on. Nothing his foreman couldn’t handle at least. Checking the number for the desk, he punched it in.

  “Front desk,” someone picked up.

  “There’s a call on hold for me,” he said. “Cade Hailey, room 227.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  He glanced around while he waited, wondering where Harlan had gotten to. He’d said he was coming straight up from the dining room, but there was no sign he’d been here.

  “Mr. Hailey?” the voice on the phone said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the gentleman who called is no longer on the line.”

  “He leave a message?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t.’’

  Cade slowly lowered
the receiver, picturing Talia walking toward the Judge’s suite alone while he headed in the opposite direction—lured away from her by some unknown caller.

  He told himself he’d been reading too many detective novels lately. Then he turned on his heel and started back across the room. Before he reached the door someone knocked, and when he opened it he was standing face-to-face with Frank Boscoe and his partner.

  When Boscoe introduced himself, Cade reminded him they’d met earlier in the bar.

  “Oh, right,” Boscoe said. “Well this,” he added, gesturing to his partner, “is Arnie Rebuzo, and we’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  Cade stepped back to let them past. Rebuzo closed the door after himself and took a little notebook from his pocket.

  “We just want to double-check,” Boscoe said, “on something you told one of the other detectives earlier. About where you were at three-forty-five when Mrs. Wertman was murdered.”

  “I was right here.”

  “You’re sure?” Rebuzo looked at his notebook. “According to the detective you spoke to, you said you walked from the ferry, spent a few minutes in the lobby, then came straight up here to your room. But are you certain you didn’t go anywhere else? Or get delayed maybe?”

  “I didn’t go anywhere else.” Cade glanced from one detective to the other. Neither one’s expression gave anything away. “And as for getting delayed, I stood in the hall talking to another juror for a few minutes. But Talia said she and Mrs. Wertman came up about ten minutes after I did, so I’d definitely have been in the room by then. Why? What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that Harlan Gates says you didn’t show up here until almost five,” Boscoe said.

  “Yeah? Well I don’t know why he’d say that, because it’s not true. Where do you think I went when I came upstairs if not here?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to establish.”

  Boscoe’s implication was only too clear. But it was also ludicrous, so Cade simply waited to see how far he’d push it.

  “Mr. Gates seemed certain of the time,” he finally continued. “He said you’d barely walked in before ‘Geraldo’ came on. And that airs at five.”

  Cade ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out the reason for Harlan’s confusion, and then the answer popped into his head. “Oh, I’ve got it,” he said. “There’s a simple explanation.”

  Boscoe looked very interested in hearing it. But before Cade could say another word there was a muted ring and the detective fished a cell phone out of his pocket.

  “Excuse me a second,” he said, answering it. “He didn’t give any details?” he asked after listening briefly. “No? Well, it’s probably nothing urgent then, and we’ve got a couple of other things going. We’ll get to his suite as soon as we can.”

  Boscoe stuck the phone back into his jacket. “Sorry, Mr. Hailey. You were just going to explain about the time discrepancy.”

  “Right. When the detectives talked to me earlier, they asked if I’d heard Mrs. Wertman scream. And I said I hadn’t heard anything, because the TV was on and the shower was running.”

  Rebuzo checked his notebook, then nodded to Boscoe.

  “Well, when I came up to the room,” Cade continued, “Harlan was already in the shower. And he was still there when I went out again.”

  “You went out again,” Boscoe repeated.

  “Uh-huh. I decided I’d go have a look around the resort. So I guess Harlan just didn’t realize I’d been in the room at all.”

  “I see,” Boscoe said, glancing at Rebuzo.

  The glance made Cade decidedly uneasy. These guys didn’t believe him. They figured he could be their killer.

  “And how long were you in the room?” Boscoe asked. “Before you decided to go have your look around?”

  “Oh…maybe fifteen minutes. My suitcase had already been delivered, so I took time to unpack.”

  “And Gates was in the shower all that time.”

  Cade shrugged. “I guess he takes long showers.”

  Rebuzo wrote something into his notebook, making Cade even more uneasy.

  “Mr. Hailey,” Boscoe said, “did you know Mrs. Wertman before her death?”

  “Of course not. If I had I’d have said so.”

  “You’d never even heard of her? Never even heard anyone mention her name?”

  “Not that I recall,” Cade said slowly. One more question, he decided, and he was going to demand a lawyer. Even though that would make these guys sure he was guilty.

  “Well,” Boscoe said, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “I think that’s all for now then. Thanks for your help.”

  Cade trailed them to the door and closed it behind them, not certain who he felt more like killing—Harlan Gates or the good detectives.

  “Better keep thoughts like that to yourself, Hailey,” he muttered. He’d bet Boscoe and Rebuzo would just love hearing him admit to homicidal impulses.

  TALIA HAD BEEN in the Judge’s suite for a good twenty minutes, but she was still feeling very shaky. And the Judge didn’t seem in much better shape than she was.

  She glanced across the coffee table at him again, thinking he looked years older than when they’d first met—even though that had only been this afternoon. It made her wonder if, next time she looked in a mirror, there’d be a middle-aged woman staring back.

  “This has certainly been a day we all could have done without,” he said.

  She nodded. Having a gun stuck in her back was definitely something she could’ve done without—not to mention the horror of discovering Mrs. Wertman’s body. If she ever managed to get to sleep tonight, she’d probably have nightmares on top of her nightmares.

  “I just don’t understand what happened with that note, Talia. After I told the bellboy to deliver it personally, how did your waiter end up with it?”

  She shook her head, but that was one question they’d soon have an answer for. When the Judge had called downstairs and told someone to find Boscoe and Rebuzo, he’d also asked that the bellboy be sent up.

  “I should have sealed the envelope,” he murmured.

  It was at least the tenth time he’d said that, and by this point she could have delivered his next line herself.

  “I do hate the taste of the glue on the hotel envelopes, though,” he finally added.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she assured him again. But obviously, the man with the gun had read the note. If he hadn’t, how would he have known to lie in wait for her on her way here?

  The man with the gun. The man who’d terrified her half to death.

  She wished Boscoe and Rebuzo would hurry up and get here, because she wanted to know what they were going to say about the incident. Would it make them admit they’d been wrong earlier? Make them admit that the killer in 203 had probably been waiting for her? That Joey Carpaccio was prepared to do whatever it took to keep from ending up on death row?

  That whatever included having a juror killed so she wouldn’t be able to vote guilty?

  “Would you like coffee or anything?” The Judge asked, bringing her back to the moment.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  Liar, an imaginary voice accused. And it was right. She certainly wasn’t fine. The scene in the hallway was persistently replaying in her head. And each time it did, she felt terrified all over again.

  “Stop,” the man had said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Don’t take another step. And don’t turn around. This is a gun.”

  She could still feel its hardness against her back, could still hear the man’s sinister tone.

  “I just want you to know how vulnerable you are,” he’d continued. “You understand how easy it would be to take you out?”

  When she’d nodded, her knees weak with fear, he’d told her to count to a hundred before she moved a muscle. And by the time she’d done that he was long gone. Her heart had been pounding so loudly she hadn’t even heard the sound of his footsteps as he’d left.

&nb
sp; Before the scene could begin replaying yet again, the bellboy arrived, and the Judge ushered him into the living room.

  “Don’t be nervous, son,” he said. “I just want to ask you about the note I gave you for Ms. Sagourin, here. She says you didn’t deliver it personally, that her waiter brought it to her.”

  The boy anxiously glanced at her, then back at the Judge. “I know you told me to give it right to her, sir. But when I got to the dining room the maître d’ stopped me. He said he didn’t want me tracking through, so he’d see that she got it.”

  “Ah. I assumed it must have been something like that.”

  “I…I didn’t think I should argue with him, sir.”

  “No. You were right not to. So, you took it straight downstairs and left it with the maître d’, is that correct? No detours on the way? It never left your hands until you got to the dining room?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fine, that’s all I wanted to know. Thank you for coming up.”

  “No problem, sir. So…should I just get back to work now, or what?”

  “Yes. Yes, you do that. I imagine the police will want to talk to you in due course, but don’t start worrying about it.”

  “No, sir,” he murmured. His expression when he left, though, told Talia he was already worrying about it.

  “Well,” the Judge said, “I believe I’ll just call the dining room and have the maître d’ and your waiter come up. I doubt Detective Boscoe is going to appreciate our doing his work for him, but I’m too old to worry about things like that. And I’m sure you’d like nothing better than to get to the bottom of this.”

  She tried to smile, but it didn’t feel right. What she’d really like better than anything else was to be certain she’d be getting off this island alive.

  DETECTIVE FRANK BOSCOE, partner Arnie Rebuzo in tow, got to the Judge’s suite before the maitre d’ and the waiter. Not long before, but long enough for Talia to walk them through her encounter in the hall.

  Just as she was finishing, the other two men arrived, and Boscoe asked the maître d’ to tell him exactly what had happened to the note after he’d taken it from the bellboy.