Soldier let the guilt he felt slide through him, chill him to the bone like winter fog. He’d been sleeping with Betsy, enjoying her body, her nurturing nature, but he’d not made any kind of commitment to her. He had feelings for her, yet hadn’t had the courage to speak them. It must have been the wind. Betsy was not the kind of woman an honorable man should string along.
“I know my daughter,” Douglas Tremaine offered with an affectionate grin. “When she loves, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Sh-She loves you, Soldier.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“And she deserves to be l-loved in return. And honored. And treated with respect.”
“I know that, too.”
Soldier swallowed, then let his gaze rest on the spent embers in the fireplace. Betsy deserved the best a man had to offer. How could he tell her father that his own best might not be good enough?
Somewhere in the pit of his stomach something tightened and squeezed until he felt sick. The image of Marc Franco spun its way into his mind. He’d failed Marc and he’d let that failure affect everything. If he died today after having fucked up so badly, he thought, it would be his only legacy.
Or he could pick up his sorry ass and his remorse and put the past where it belonged.
Since his conversation with Betsy, since he’d emptied his fears and regrets into her hands, he’d had a clearer picture of things. He realized that Marc had forgiven him, if Marc had even blamed him, just as he would have forgiven Marc had the situation been reversed. Since his partner’s death, he had wallowed in grief and self-pity, not really knowing what else to do or how to put it all behind him. Or why he even should.
Then this lovely woman had entered his life and given him a reason to look to the future, to what he could accomplish instead of what he had lost.
Clearing his throat, Soldier looked the older man in the eye. “Mr. Tremaine, I have only known Betsy a couple of weeks, but with her, a couple of minutes is enough to get hooked. I have to confess, I’m hopelessly in love with your daughter.”
Soldier made a snorting laugh and rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “It’s true,” he said, more to himself than to Douglas. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
Lowering his head, he blew out a nervous laugh.
My God, did I just say that out loud?
He laughed again, suddenly feeling ten tons lighter. “I’m not sure if that’s what you were hoping to hear,” he said. “But that’s how it is.”
The two men stood and clasped hands in a hearty handshake.
“You are a good man, sir,” Douglas said through a beaming smile. “A v-very good man.”
“You’ve checked everybody?”
The uniformed officer nodded in response to Soldier’s question. “Yes, sir. No guns, no knives, not so much as a crochet hook. Everybody’s clean.”
“You’ve seen the sketch? You know what Denato looks like?”
“As well as I know my own face, sir.”
The first part of Ryan Finlay’s funeral service had gone off without a hitch. Now, the crowd of a hundred or so people mingled about the large room, waiting for the limos to be brought up for the procession to the cemetery.
Soldier scanned the area. Around the mourning room, heavy drapes had been drawn across the tall windows in deference to the bereaved and their tears. Candelabra had been lit and set on occasional tables, adding to the serene and stately atmosphere. Red and white carnations, pink roses, and yellow chrysanthemums in arrangements large and small added subtle fragrance to the gathering, while in the background organ music played in dulcet tones.
An array of deeply cushioned chairs and sofas offered mourners the chance to either chat quietly together or simply sit in tranquil contemplation. Men in dark suits escorted women in dark suits. There were some children, but not many. Mostly, people stood about in hushed conversation, shocked that someone they knew and cared for had been taken from them so brutally.
“Lot of people,” Soldier commented to the officer at the door as he examined the sea of faces in the dimly lit room.
“Yeah, I don’t like it either, sir. Too easy for something bad to go down.”
Go down? And what was with the green-tinted shades? Winslow had sent a uniform who definitely watched too much TV.
He thanked the officer, then moved to the small cluster of people where Betsy stood talking to Taylor and Claire and members of the newspaper’s staff.
He recognized Holly Miller, her wild hair subdued in a clip, her lips painted the color of chocolate pudding. Amazingly, she was dressed in a conservative skirt and sweater. Rita Barton stood with her arms crossed, as though without constant vigilance, an emotion might find its way to her stony face, giving the impression of caring. Young Dave Hannigan looked at a loss and out of place in his too small brown suit, which made his size even more noticeable. His eyes were red and swollen as he gripped Soldier’s hand in sincere greeting.
Soldier didn’t think Carla was dumb enough to try anything here, but just in case, in addition to the officer at the door, there was Taylor plus two others in uniform.
But his money was on the graveside service. Veteran’s Memorial Park covered several acres, was landscaped with clusters of trees and shrubs, and abutted forest land. An easy place to hide, and to escape from. Soldier already had several men in position at the park, scanning the grounds and checking for intruders.
Now, as he perused the room, Betsy looked up and their eyes locked. She lifted her chin and sent him a brave smile.
Soldier and Douglas had agreed that until this whole thing was over, he would wait to ask Betsy to marry him. He wanted his proposal to be separate and special, something positive in contrast to the pain and sorrow she’d had to endure.
Besides, it might take a bit of convincing, since she really hadn’t known him all that long. Even so, she wouldn’t turn him down, would she? She would surely recognize they were meant to be together, wouldn’t she?
Man, love was sure hard on the old nervous system.
Now that he’d reached his decision, it was all he could do to keep from tucking her into his embrace and telling her he loved her, then springing a marriage proposal on her. She’d probably give him some feisty, sarcastic remark in response, but he didn’t care. As long as she said yes.
He scanned the room again. The service itself had been quick. Finlay’s widow was pretty broken up afterward. She had already been escorted out to the limousine to spend some quiet time with her children before going on to the cemetery.
Even though things were going smoothly, the back of Soldier’s neck was still prickling. Damn, he hated when that happened. Something was wrong; something felt out of place. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He looked up at the officer at the door. Something about . . .
Just then a dog began to bark and whine. Now, who in the hell would bring a dog to a fune—
Oh, he reminded himself. Of course.
He turned toward the door where Loretta and Piddle were just making their entrance. The mutt was going postal, barking, snarling, whining, trying to wiggle free of Loretta’s arms.
The officer at the door had stiffened, apparently not knowing whether to shoot the dog or put a muzzle on it.
Loretta swept across the threshold and into the room, the lunatic Chihuahua still going nuts in her arms.
“Pids! Shhh! Calm down! Mommy will make everything all right!” She was doing her damnedest to quiet the mutt, but to no avail.
Behind Loretta a commotion arose; a woman screamed, and the officer at the door fired a shot. All hell broke loose.
Through the crowd, Soldier saw the officer whirl and run outside. A second explosion sounded as the cop fired again.
People continued to scream as they ran for cover. Soldier glanced frantically around for Betsy. She and Claire were huddled in a corner with Dave Hannigan standing protectively over them. Taylor was already in motion, his gun drawn as he limped toward the door.
<
br /> Soldier pulled his weapon and followed where the cop had gone, Taylor close on his heels.
“Which way?” Soldier yelled to Taylor.
“There! Between those two cars and down that alley!”
While sirens blared and people screamed, Soldier and the three uniforms took off down the street.
When they reached the alley, they were greeted with overflowing trash bins, a rusty Ford station wagon with only three wheels, and brown autumn leaves blowing in the wind. But no Carla Denato.
“Fuck!” Soldier choked out. “We couldn’t have lost her.” Turning to a winded Taylor, he said, “You see anything?”
His brother shook his head and looked up and down the street. The two uniforms looked just as stumped.
They hadn’t lost any time getting out the door, and Carla Denato was certainly no athlete. There were no doors she could have ducked into and no cars had left the scene.
Soldier huffed out a huge breath and looked around.
“Where’s the other officer?” he barked. “The one who fired the shots? I thought she was right behind us!”
Taylor wiped his brow. “No. When we ran out, she turned back into the—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes registering understanding.
Panic ripped through Soldier’s brain as realization hit him with the force of a shotgun blast to the gut. “It’s her. Goddammit, it’s her!”
On a dead run, they took off back up the street. By the time they reached the funeral home, sweat slicked Soldier’s face and neck. His weapon was slippery in his hand. As he plunged through the doorway, mourners parted to let him pass.
“Betsy!” he yelled into the confused gathering. “Betsy!”
In the far corner, Dave Hannigan leaned against the wall holding his head in his hands while blood seeped through his stubby fingers. Claire urged him to sit down so she could examine him as Loretta tried valiantly to slow the bleeding with her lace handkerchief. In her other hand she held a limp Chihuahua.
“S-Sorry, Detective,” Dave slurred. “Tried to stop her. Hit me with the gun. Carla. Fuckin’ Carla, man. Didn’t recognize her at all . . . s-sorry—”
Soldier felt his heart turn over in his chest. Was he too late to save Betsy?
“Out the back door!” Claire yelled above the din. “She only has a two minute head start!”
Two minutes. A gun could empty into somebody’s head in less time than that. Soldier sucked in a huge breath and tried to quell the panic in his heart.
As he raced toward the back of the building, an image formed in his head of Betsy at Carla Denato’s mercy, facing the woman’s lunatic rage. Shoving it aside, he refused to let the scenario form. He sucked in another breath and plunged through the door.
He knew Betsy. She’d find a way to take care of herself until he got there. She was smart and tough and brave. She’d find an edge somehow. Goddammit, she would because the alternative was just too sickening to even consider.
Hang on, sweetheart. I’m on my way. God, Betsy, please, hang on. . . .
Chapter 23
A shot was fired. Then another! Betsy watched, her heart in her throat, as Soldier ran out the door and down the steps.
The noise in the room became deafening. People were screaming as they shuffled around, not certain whether they should stay or leave. Next to her, Claire said, “Sorry, honey, but I need to sit down.”
Claire appeared pale and tense. Her cuts were healing, but she was still very weak.
“There’s a spot over there,” Betsy said as she escorted her friend to a vacant chair. “Why don’t you let me get you some water.”
“Ma’am.” She barely heard the woman’s voice above the din. When she turned, the uniformed officer who had been stationed at the door was standing there, her mouth a grim line.
“Yes, Officer?”
The woman said something, but the noise level was so high, it was nearly impossible to understand her words.
The officer raised her voice and appeared to be making an effort to control her temper. “Detective McKennitt would like me to take you to a safe place until this is over! Come with me, now!”
Betsy shook her head. “No,” she yelled over the noise in the room. “I need to stay with my friend.” Turning away from the officer, she began to speak to Claire when, a few feet away, the violently yapping Piddle leaped from Loretta’s arms and attached his sharp little teeth to the police officer’s ankle.
The woman shrieked, then backhanded the dog, sending him flying across the room and into a wall, where he slumped to the floor in a furless heap.
Loretta screamed, and Dave Hannigan’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he took a long look at the police officer.
Betsy’s head snapped around, coming face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. A sickening feeling chilled her blood to thick sludge. She became queasy. It was Carla.
Carla sneered and pushed the gun closer to her face just as Dave Hannigan made a lunge for it. Carla swung her arm out of the way, clipping him at the temple, sending him backward into a candelabrum.
Reaching out, Carla grabbed Betsy by the hair and began pulling her toward the back entrance.
Betsy balled her fists and flailed about, trying to connect with Carla’s jaw, but Carla snarled, “Stop it now, or I shoot your friend!” Turning the weapon, she pointed it directly at Claire.
Raising her hands, Betsy breathed, “No . . . don’t . . . I’ll go with you. Please don’t . . .”
People made way for them as Carla dragged her through the room and out the door. In the back parking lot, Betsy recognized Carla’s black Chevy. “Get in!” Carla ordered. “You’re driving.”
Betsy slid into the driver’s side and put her shaking hands on the wheel. When Carla jumped in on the passenger side, she pressed the gun to Betsy’s temple and ordered her to pull out onto the street.
So, this is what it’s all boiled down to. Betsy guided the car onto the busy street. How soon will it be before Carla gets tired of the game and blows my brains out?
“Where’d you get the uniform, Carla?” Betsy said, her voice surprisingly calm under the circumstances.
Carla grinned, pulled off her hat and tossed it in the backseat. “Knocked off a dry cleaners. I made such a mess, they never even knew it was missing.”
Betsy swallowed. “I’ve got to hand it to you. Not a soul recognized you.”
Houses, trees, nicely trimmed yards crept by as Betsy kept her speed low, hoping, praying, the cops would fall in behind her any second.
“Not a soul except for that frigging mutt,” Carla snapped as she turned to look behind them and smile. Betsy glanced in the rearview mirror. Nothing. She was on her own.
Where’s Soldier? Did Carla shoot him when they were outside? Is he wounded, dead? Betsy’s mind choked on that thought.
In the uniform, Carla looked totally different. She had dyed her light hair black and cut it short, then darkened her fair skin with liquid makeup. She’d painted her lips a muted orange and given her mouth a different shape. With lifts in her shoes, dark glasses to hide her eyes, and padding to add bulk to her chest and hips, they could have passed each other on the street and Betsy would never have recognized her.
As she drove down Eisenhower Avenue toward the center of town, Betsy reached down and fastened her seat belt.
Carla laughed. “That seat belt won’t save you from a speeding bullet, you moron.”
Ignoring the comment, Betsy shrugged and said, “Where are we going?”
“Just keep driving until I tell you to stop. I’m in charge now. I give the orders now. You have to do what I say. I like that, Miss Betsy, practically perfect in every way. I like that a lot.”
Betsy’s hands were slick from sweat. The wheel slithered through her fingers. Her heart raced and her mind raced faster.
Stay calm. You can get out of this. You can.
“I thought we were friends, Carla.”
“We were never friends, you stupid bitch!” Carla laug
hed again and shifted in her seat to glance out the back window. “But I know how to be nice. It serves me well sometimes. But the simple fact of the matter is, I hate your guts. Pretty basic when you boil it all down.”
“Did you kill Linda?”
“Sure I did. But then you got her job instead of me!”
Sliding a quick look in the sideview mirror, Betsy watched as a dark sedan turned the corner a few blocks back. Soldier?
Keep her busy, keep her talking. What to say? What to say?
Carla saw the car, too. “Drive faster! Step on it!”
Focusing on the road, Betsy said, “The light’s turning red. What should I—”
“Run it, stupid!”
Betsy closed her eyes and ran the red light, barely avoiding a pedestrian and a kid on a bike.
Sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll come back and apologize later!
As Betsy proceeded down the busy avenue, she said, “You know how, in the movies, when the bad guy—that’s you—has the good guy—that’s me—cornered and he confesses everything?”
Next to her, Carla said nothing.
“Well . . .” Betsy swallowed. “Before you kill me, is there time for you to tell me why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you killed Linda. And Ryan. Why you’re going to kill me.” She laughed, a dry, high, nervous sound. “I mean, this can’t all be because of a job, right? There has to be some bigger, grander thing going on, right?”
As Carla considered her response, a calm began to slowly wash over Betsy. Her breathing steadied and her eyes seemed to be able to take everything in at once. She grasped the steering wheel firmly, her fingers no longer trembling. The knots in her stomach untied. She was not going to die today. She knew it, felt it down to the marrow of her bones, sensed it in the secret chambers of her heart where she’d always kept her most precious dreams. She had a life to live. A man to love. A future. And then she thought: No, I am going to come out of this very much alive.
Carla must have sensed a change in her demeanor because she pressed the barrel of the gun hard into her temple.
“No grander thing,” Carla snarled. “You messed everything up for me, that’s all. Everything. I lost my job, was forced to kill my boss, had to destroy my apartment. All because of you.” She said the words as though they made perfect sense. “I killed my sister, my sister, Betsy! Because of you! You’ll pay for that. I loved my sister and you made me kill her. Yeah,” she screamed, “you’ll pay for that!”
The Damsel in This Dress Page 27
