Deadly Intent (16 page)

night, when both had been called to the scene of another homicide.

“What’s up, Frank?” John asked.

Wrapped in a yellow rubber poncho, the ME looked up. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Frank gave a disapproving shake of his head. As a doctor, he was a strong advocate of the eight-hours’ sleep doctrine, even though he seldom took his own advice.

John looked at the victim lying on the wet ground, the sharp, almost angular features, the straight nose, the dark hair that formed a widow’s peak at the center of his forehead. He wore a navy polo shirt that was now stained with blood and blue jeans. Black sneakers completed the outfit. “Dave says the victim was stabbed?”

The ME nodded. “Multiple wounds to the abdomen. Massive internal bleeding. Time of death estimated between eight last night and midnight. I can’t come any closer than that until I do an autopsy because of the body’s exposure to rain and the drop in temperature.”

“Any clues on the killer? Male? Female?”

“Probably male. The wounds were inflicted at an upward angle and in rapid succession. A female attacker, as you know, would have held the knife with a fist grip, like an ice pick, and stabbed in a downward motion.”

John nodded. He knew from past cases that women who chose to kill with a knife held their weapon differently from the way men did. They simply didn’t have the kind of strength that was required to strike in an upward motion, over and over, as was the case here. “How soon can you schedule an autopsy?”

“Two-thirty soon enough?”

John smiled. “You’re an amazing man, Frank. I’ll see you then.”

As he walked away, he glanced toward the row of houses that bordered this section of Route 27 and made a mental note to question their occupants before the end of the day.

Right now he had to find out if Ian McGregor had a wife and kids waiting for him at the Clearwater.

The Clearwater Motel, no more than three blocks from the crime scene, was a one-story concrete building with a road sign advertising free cable TV and in-room coffee.

The desk clerk was reading the sports section of the Princeton Packet when John stepped into the small lobby. A freestanding reception desk, a green plant, a vending machine and a color poster of Princeton University were the room’s only accessories. At the sound of footsteps, the clerk looked up. “Can I help you?”

John held out his badge. “Is the manager in?”

The man’s attitude improved quickly as he folded his newspaper, almost snapping to attention. “I’m the manager. Name’s Rudy Walsh.” He smiled, showing a chipped front tooth. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You have a guest registered here, a man by the name of Ian MacGregor ?”

The manager hesitated. “McGregor?” he repeated.

“That’s what I said. Is he registered?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell offhand, but let me check.” He turned to the computer monitor on the right side of his desk and hit a few keys. “Nope. No one by that name.”

John held up a small plastic bag with the motel key in it. “Why don’t you see who’s in room 11?”

Looking increasingly nervous, Walsh punched two more keys. “Here we are. A double room, but it’s registered to a Ms. Rose Panini.” As he talked he swung the monitor around so John could see the entry.

John read the registration with Rose Panini’s name on it. “Anyone come in asking for either of those two?”

Walsh’s Adam’s apple moved up and down. “No.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

The man, so relaxed a moment ago, shot a nervous look at the door, even though there was no one there. “I don’t know. I told you the truth.”

“Look, Mr. Walsh,” John said patiently, “I’d rather save time and talk to you here, but I can just as easily talk to you at the police station. Which one is it going to be?”

Walsh swallowed again, with greater difficulty this time. “I don’t want to get in trouble with...anyone.”

“By anyone, you mean someone other than the police?”

He gave a faint nod.

Realizing the man was scared, John spoke in a gentler tone. “Did someone come here and asked for Ian McGregor?”

“Yes.”

“Did he give a name?”

“No. He just said he was an old friend of Mr. McGregor’s.”

“Describe him, please.”

“He was big, maybe six-five. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Or more. His head was shaved and he had tattoos on both arms.” Beads of perspiration had formed above his upper lip. “He said he’d kill me if I didn’t give him his friend’s room number.”

“Did you see him go into Mr. McGregor’s room?”

Walsh shook his head. “He told me to stay put and not say a word to anyone, and that’s what I did.”

“When was that?”

“About two-thirty yesterday afternoon.”

“Did you happen to see what he was driving?”

“No. I was reading the paper when he came in. I looked

up, and there he was, big as a house.” He wet his lips. “Will I have to... you know... testify about this?”

“We’re not there yet, but if the time comes for you to testify, we’ll make sure you have adequate protection.” He gave a reassuring smile. “All right?”

Some of Walsh’s color returned to his cheeks. “Yes. That’s what I wanted to know. Thank you.”

John put the bag with the key back in his pocket. “Is Ms. Panini in her room?”

“I don’t know. She came in earlier to get a soda.” He pointed at the vending machine. “I haven’t seen her since.” Relief made him suddenly gabby. “What’s going on, Detective? What have they done?”

“Where is room 11?” John asked, ignoring the man’s question.

“Last one at the end of the building.”

An old but well-maintained Oldsmobile with Ohio plates was parked in front of it. John knocked and a couple of seconds later, the door was flung open. A rather flamboyant-looking woman stood looking at him, an angry expression on her face. She was in her mid-to-late forties, with bright-red hair and a voluminous bosom. Her eyes would have been unnoticeable were it not for the frosted turquoise shadow and the dark liner around them. She wore tight jeans and a vibrant-red blouse knotted at the waist.

“Ms. Panini?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m John Ryan of the township police.” He held his badge long enough for her to verify his identity and was surprised when she let out a long-suffering sigh.

“All right, where did you find the bum? Drunk in some gutter? Because if that’s the case and he wants me to bail him out, tell him to forget it. He can stew in jail for the rest of his life for all I care.””May I come in?” he asked gently.

Rose Panini’s expression immediately went from angry to worried. She moved aside and quickly closed the door. “What happened?” There was a slight tremor in her voice.

John’s gaze swept quickly over the room, his trained eye picking up the Styrofoam cooler against the wall, an empty pizza box folded in two and shoved into the wastebasket, the Diet Pepsi on the nightstand. Next to it were two other items—a man’s gray wig and a matching mustache. “Are you Ian McGregor’s wife?” he asked.

“Girlfriend.” Her expressive face was beginning to show signs of alarm. “Where is Ian? Has something happened to him?”

In spite of her flashy makeup and no-nonsense attitude, there was something touching about this woman, a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with her outside persona. “I’m afraid so, Ms. Panini.”

Her hands went to cover her mouth. “Oh my God, what?” she asked, talking through her hands. “Is he hurt? How bad?”

There was no easy way of saying this. There never was. “His body was found half an hour ago in a wooded area bordering Lake Carnegie.”

“Body?” She whispered the word as though she had never heard it before. “You mean...”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Panini—Rose. May I call you Rose?”

She didn’t answer. She let herself plop down on the bed, and looked at him with a dazed expression. “It’s not true. It can’t be true.” She searched John’s face as though she expected him to concur.

“Can I get you anything?” he said instead. “Some water?”

She shook her head, then, with a small cry, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly. John had seen

that kind of despair time and time again during his thirteen years on the force. Each time the raw, uncontrollable grief hit him hard. In his early rookie days he had even considered changing careers, and put to good use that master’s in criminal psychology he had worked so hard for. Each time he had talked himself out of it. Law enforcement was as much a part of who he was as his DNA.

As Rose Panini’s sobs began to subside, he took a crisp, white handkerchief from his pants back pocket and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She blotted her eyes, sniffed a couple of times. “How did he die?”

“He was stabbed.”

For a moment, he thought she would start sobbing all over again, but she didn’t. Making what looked like a valiant effort to hold herself together, she gave a sad, almost fatalistic shake of her head. “He got him,” she said simply.

John’s ears perked up. “You know who killed him?”

She looked up. Her eyes were red, her cheeks already blotchy, her lipstick smeared. “Arturo Garcia. Ian had just found out he was looking for him.”

John had never heard of Arturo Garcia, but that didn’t mean anything. “Do you know what this Arturo Garcia looks like?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never had the pleasure,” she said sarcastically. “But Ian said he was big and mean.”

Walsh’s visitor. “Why would he want to kill Ian?”

“Because Ian ratted on him in exchange for immunity. His testimony sent Arturo to prison for eight years.”

“What was their connection?”

“Ian worked for Arturo in Toledo.” She hesitated before adding, “He was a courier.”

“Courier?”

“He delivered drugs for him for about two years, until

he was arrested and offered the immunity deal in exchange for the goods on Arturo, who ran the drug distribution center. Arturo swore that when he got out, he’d hill him. Ian was scared to death of him. That’s why he used my name on the motel registration.” She walked over to the night stand and picked up the wig. “And probably why he bought this stupid thing. And the mustache to go with it.”

John took the wig and turned it around in his hands. “If he was so scared, why wasn’t he wearing the disguise when we found him?”

“I don’t know.”

John remembered the expired driver’s license in the man’s pocket and the absence of other identification. “Was Ian in prison recently?”

Rose nodded. “He just got out after serving sixteen months for breaking and entering.” A small laugh turned into a sob. “Ian and I were going to start a new life together, get jobs, find a place to live.”

“Here in Princeton?”

“We hadn’t decided that. Ian came to reunite with his stepsister. He hadn’t seen her in twenty-eight years.”

“What’s his sister’s name?”

“DiAngelo. Abbie DiAngelo. She has a restaurant on Palmer Square.”

John knew the name. He had never met the restaurant owner, but she had been the talk of the town a few weeks ago when she had returned from France with a culinary award. Other details such as her marital status—she was divorced—had been supplied by Jordan, who played in the same baseball league as Ms. DiAngelo’s son, Ben, and was good friends with the boy.

“You said they hadn’t seen each other in twenty-eight years. Why is that?”

“When Ian was thirteen, his father married a woman by

the name of Irene DiAngelo—Abbie’s mother. Two years later, a fire destroyed the McGregors’ home in Palo Alto, California. Ian and his biological sister went to live with their father’s sister, and his stepmother and stepsister moved back to Irene’s home state—someplace in the Midwest, I think.

“How did the reunion with the stepsister go?”