Deadly Intent (18 page)

She stopped at a table occupied by a well-dressed, older man who handed her an object John couldn’t identify. She thanked him and gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before moving to the next table.

He was still staring, when Tina kicked him under the table. “Stop drooling, will you. You’re giving me a complex.”

He pulled his gaze away just as Abbie reached their table. He could see the item in her hand now—a model railroad car.

“Hello, I’m Abbie DiAngelo.” She smiled at both of them, then glanced discreetly at the remains on their plates. “Did you enjoy the bass?” she asked Tina.

“It was incredible. Made me want to get on a plane and fly to the French countryside.”

“Careful, you might not want to come back.” She turned to John. “And the lamb?”

Under her friendly gaze, John found himself as tongue tied as the day Jeanette Smokley had asked him to the third-grade dance. Another discreet kick snapped him out of his trance. “Excellent,” he managed to say.

“I’m glad you both enjoyed yourselves.” Perhaps assuming he and Tina were husband and wife, she asked, “Is this your first visit to Campagne?”

He and Tina said yes in unison.

“Then you must come back and see us soon.” With a nod, she moved on to the next table.

“Charming.” Tina took a sip of her Evian, studying John above the rim of her glass. “And you’re disgustingly smitten.”

An embarrassing flush crept up John’s neck. “I am not,” he protested.

“Are too.” Tina put her glass down. “Tell me something. How in the world are you going to conduct an investigation and remain objective if one of your suspects has already gotten under your skin?”

“She’s not a suspect and she has certainly not gotten under my skin. Jesus, Wrightfield. Give me some credit, will you?”

Tina started to reply, but the waiter had returned, this time with the dessert menu. On his recommendation, both ordered the lavender-flavored creme brulee and coffee.

Half an hour later, the meal finished and the bill paid, John rose and handed Tina his keys. “Why don’t you take my car back and ask Bernstein to pick me up here in a half hour.”

Tina took the keys. “I should really walk off this meal, but I’m expecting a call from the DMV, so I’ll take you up on the offer.”

She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, “Try not to embarrass the department.”

Nineteen

Her rounds finished, Abbie returned to the kitchen, feeling much more relaxed than she had been twenty minutes earlier. Agonizing over a man who had apparently vanished from sight was stupid and nerve-racking. Whoever had attacked her was gone, and so was Ian. Good riddance to both.

A blowtorch in her hand, she was putting the finishing touches to a creme brulee, the restaurant’s most popular dessert, when Brady gently touched her arm. “Joel just told me that a homicide detective from the Princeton police is in the dining room and wants to have a few words with you.”

Abbie’s fingers curled tightly over the torch handle. There could be only one reason a homicide detective was here. Her attacker hadn’t disappeared after all. He had been found—or rather, his body had been found. And somehow the police had linked him to her.

“Did he say what he wanted?” she asked.

“No.” Brady’s eyes were filled with concern. “Abbie, are you all right?”

“Yes.” Feeling shaky, she started to shut off the torch, but Brady took it from her. “Here, let me finish this.”

“Thanks.” Fear tightened in Abbie’s stomach like a knot. How could she have been foolish enough to think

something as serious as what had happened last night would simply go away?

“What’s the detective’s name?” she asked, already untying her apron.

“John Ryan.”

John Ryan. Why was the name familiar? Then she knew. He was Jordan Ryan’s father. She had seen him at the baseball field a few times when Ben had played Jordan’s team, the second best in the league. That’s why the man at table six had looked familiar. She hadn’t recognized him without his jeans and baseball cap. The woman, however, was definitely not Clarice Ryan.

With little time to speculate, Abbie tossed her apron aside. “Tell Joel to take him to my office.” As soon as he was gone, she walked into the utility room for a quick glance in the mirror. Could she look any more guilty? Her skin had turned a putty color, and thanks to a sleepless night, there were dark circles under her eyes. She gave her cheeks a few quick slaps, hoping to restore their original color. The sudden flush made her look a little better, but for how long? Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Squaring her shoulders and hoping for the best, she walked briskly toward her office.

He stood with his back to her, studying her most recent award, which was prominently displayed on the wall behind her desk. “Detective Ryan?”

He turned around, a smile on his face. Abbie returned the smile, taking in the tall, athletic physique, the watchful, compelling brown eyes, the short black hair so much like his son’s and the strong square jaw. Something about him—she couldn’t say what—told her that in spite of his good looks and easygoing manner, he was not a man to be underestimated.

Realizing her inspection had lasted longer than was necessary, she covered her sudden embarrassment with a question she hoped would break the ice. ‘”Did you have second thoughts about the lamb?”

This time when he smiled, a deep dimple creased his left cheek. “None whatsoever. My partner and I agree this was the best meal we’ve had in years.”

So the woman with the kind smile was his partner. Had they come here on official business?

“Good.” She closed the door and walked across the room, trying to appear at ease.

“Actually I’m here about your stepbrother, Miss DiAngelo.”

Her composure dropped like a rock. He knew about Ian. Praying her voice wouldn’t betray her panic, she asked, “What about my stepbrother?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“He was killed last night. Stabbed. His body was found at Lake Carnegie about four hours ago.”

Abbie took a moment to absorb the news. Ian was dead. She should have felt something, some regret at the loss of a human life, maybe a little sadness because, for a short while, he had been part of her family. She felt nothing except immense relief.

“Do you know who did it?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

She, on the other hand, had a pretty good idea. She thought of the man who had jumped on her car, his face contorted with rage, hacking away at her with that knife. He had known about the money and had been willing to kill for it. And now he was on the loose, perhaps looking for her.

“That’s why I’m here,” Detective Ryan continued. He was watching her but in a rather relaxed, unthreatening

way. “I’d like to collect as much information about Ian McGregor as I can. It would make my investigation a lot easier.’”

She felt the tension gradually ebb from her body. “I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person, Detective. I haven’t seen my stepbrother in twenty-eight years. I know next to nothing about him.” She paused, then asked, “How did you find out about me?”

“His girlfriend, Rose Panini, is here, too. She told me that Ian came to Princeton with the specific purpose of reuniting with you.”

A girlfriend. Why hadn’t Ian mentioned her? How much had he told her? More important, how much had the woman told Detective Ryan? Abbie leaned against her desk and folded her arms, studying the policeman. She had heard enough from other Little League mothers to know that he was divorced, a great dad and one of the best investigators in the police department.

“Nothing goes by him,” a single mother had cooed not too long ago. She had laughed. “I wish I didn’t.”

Abbie chased the intrusive thoughts away. “What exactly did Ms. Panini tell you?”

“That your stepbrother was recently released from prison and needed some quick cash. That’s why he came here. He was hoping to borrow money from you.”

She wondered if Rose had really told him that or if he was baiting her. Lying wasn’t something that came easily to her, and knowing that the forty-eight thousand dollars she had withdrawn from the bank sat in her safe, waiting to be reinvested first thing Monday morning, didn’t help matters.

But right now, lying was a necessity, so she took a stab at it. “She told you the truth. Ian was here. He approached

me on Monday evening and said he needed money to get back on his feet, maybe to start a business of his own.”

“What kind of business?”

She wasn’t sure exactly when he had taken a small black book from his jacket pocket, but suddenly he was writing. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I couldn’t help him. I’m a single parent, with a business to run and a mortgage to pay. I don’t have the kind of money he wanted.”

“How much was that?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

The detective let out a slow whistle. “That’s a lot of money.”

“He saw a TV interview I did a couple of weeks ago, found out I own a restaurant and figured I was wealthy, which couldn’t be further from the truth.”

He looked at her with an unblinking gaze. “How did he take it when you turned him down?”

She shrugged. “He wasn’t happy, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.”

“Yet he hung around,” he remarked. “Why do you think that is?”

Her stomach flip-flopped. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said he approached you on Monday. He was killed on Thursday night. Why was he still here?”

Her hands were beginning to feel clammy. She groped for a logical answer and couldn’t think of one. “I don’t know. I suppose he was exploring other avenues. From what I gathered, Ian was a scam artist, always looking for the next deal. Or maybe he decided he liked it here, not that I can blame him.” Too late she remembered one of her favorite TV mystery series—Columbo—and how the culprits always talked too much, offering solutions to the

seemingly bumbling detective, unaware that he was actually trying to trip them up.

“Was Monday the only time you saw your stepbrother?’ ‘

She thought quickly, wondering if there was any harm in mentioning Ian’s return visit the following day. “Actually, no. He stopped by again on Tuesday, hoping I had changed my mind.”

“But you hadn’t.”

“No.”

His gaze was steady, a little unnerving. Not accustomed to this kind of questioning, Abbie glanced out the open window overlooking a small herb garden, while John Ryan made another entry in his book. A blue jay was perched on the birdbath, his watchful eye surveying the surroundings. She tried to focus on the pastoral scene and absorb its soothing effect, but already she could feel a dull ache press against her temples.

“What time do you close the restaurant at night, Miss DiAngelo?”

She forced herself to maintain eye contact. “Around eleven. Sometimes later if we’re exceptionally busy.”

“Was last night one of those exceptionally busy nights?”

“No, but I still didn’t leave until after eleven.” Worried she had spoken a little too defensively, she quickly added, “May I ask you a question, Detective?”

“Certainly.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“In your stepbrother’s murder?” His mouth curved into a smile. “Hardly. Ian McGregor was viciously attacked, and died as the result of multiple stab wounds. As adept as you must be in the kitchen, I doubt you could have handled a man that size, and stabbed him repeatedly.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Well, that’s a relief.”

He flipped a page in his notebook. “What do you know about a man by the name of Arturo Garcia?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”

“According to Rose Panini, he used to run a drug distribution business in Toledo, Ohio, and your stepbrother worked for him. Ian was caught during a delivery and turned state’s evidence in exchange for immunity. As a result, Arturo Garcia went to prison for eight years, but not before he swore to kill Ian the minute he got out. Your brother didn’t mention him to you?”

Abbie couldn’t hold back a little sigh of impatience. “Detective Ryan, you seem to be under the misconception that Ian confided in me. He didn’t. The two conversations we had were brief and to the point. I didn’t even know he was here with a girlfriend, or where he was staying.”