Deadly Intent (23 page)

He found a parking space in front of the restaurant and was feeding quarters into the meter when a good-looking young man in jeans and Allen Iverson sneakers walked out, a duffel bag swung over his shoulder.

To John’s surprise, the man grinned at him. “Hi. You’re Detective Ryan, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” John flipped the handle on the meter. “And you are?”

A hand shot forward. “Brady Hill. I’m Abbie’s sous chef. I was here when you stopped by yesterday.”

John liked him right away. He was direct and friendly and not at all intimidated, as some people were when speaking to a homicide detective. He tucked the newspaper under his arm. “I was hoping to catch Abbie before she left.”

“Then you’re in luck. She’s still in the kitchen.” A bright light danced in his eyes as he pushed the door open with his elbow. “Good to see you again, Detective.”

John wondered if Abbie would feel the same way, or if his visit would put her on the defensive again.

Well, there was only one way of finding out. He said goodbye to Brady Hill and walked into Campagne.

# # #

“Hi, there.”

Startled, Abbie turned around and felt a flush creep up her neck at the sight of John Ryan standing just inside the kitchen’s swinging doors.

He gestured toward the dining room. “I ran into your sous-chef.”

She reached for a dispenser on the edge of the sink, pumped a small amount of lotion into her palm and rubbed it into her hands. “And I suppose he told you to come right in.”

“Do you mind?”

What was she supposed to say to that? Yes, I mind, because I could let my guard down and tell you something I shouldn’t. She smiled instead. “No, of course not.”

She walked into the utility room to discard her apron. When she returned, John Ryan was leaning against the counter, his observant eye moving from one end of the room to the other, taking in every detail. He looked perfectly at ease—but then, why shouldn’t he? She was the one who was being put under a microscope.

She leaned against the island, facing him, trying to appear just as relaxed. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

He took the folded newspaper tucked under his arm and handed it to her. “I was wondering if you had seen this?”

She took the paper, and had to make a tremendous effort to keep her face blank. Staring at her, looking every bit as nasty as he had the first time she had seen him, was her attacker, the man she had left for dead at the lake and who had later disappeared.

“Arturo Garcia,” she said softly. “The man you told me about.”

“He’s beginning to look more and more like a prime suspect.”

She listened as he brought her up to date about the lab results, Arturo’s early association with Ian in Toledo and the drug distributor’s vow to kill Ian when he got out of prison.

“What I haven’t figured out yet,” John continued, “is why those two spent several hours in Ian’s motel room on the day of the murder, ate pizza, drank beer and then walked together to Lake Carnegie in the pouring rain.” He paused. “Unless they were meeting a third party.”

Abbie felt as if a mule had kicked her in the stomach. “A third party?”

“You know, a buddy, maybe even an accomplice.”

“Are you saying that Arturo and Ian somehow made up and were planning something together?”

“That’s a possibility, don’t you think?”

She gave what she hoped was a semi-disinterested shrug. “This third party. You have any clue who it might be?”

She wondered if his slight hesitation was calculated, or totally innocent. “Not yet. I was hoping some of the residents along that stretch of road saw or heard something. They didn’t.”

Thank God for small mercies. Maybe her luck was holding after all. Not sure she could maintain her poise much longer, she picked up a stack of empty vegetable crates from the floor and was about to take them to the back room, when John rushed forward.

“Here, let me help you with this,” he said, taking the load from her.

She felt his arm accidentally brush against her breast, and for and instant she couldn’t speak. She even forgot he was the enemy and saw him, perhaps for the first time, as a man who had managed to stir up her senses in a way she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“Where do you want them?” he asked, apparently unaware of what had just taken place.

“Uh...” It took her a second or two to remember. “The utility room. Over there,” she added, pointing. She cleared her throat. “Against the wall.”

He walked back into the kitchen, plucking a piece of lettuce from the lapel of his jacket and setting it on the counter. “Anything else I can do for you?”

She laughed, pleased to feel some of her tension melt away. “Are you looking for a side job, Detective?”

“No. Just an excuse to spend a little more time with you.”

His candor caught her off guard and she felt herself blush again. “Why?”

“Because you and I started on the wrong foot yesterday. In my eagerness to be efficient, I came off as a bully. I’d like a chance to make it up to you, show you I’m not such a bad guy after all.”

She knew exactly where he was going with that approach. She may be out of practice when it came to the fine art of flirting, but she wasn’t stupid. She could see a come-on as clearly as anyone else. The thought of indulging in a little flirting of her own vanished quickly. No matter how tempting that concept may be, she could not allow herself to be charmed. What if she was wrong about him and all he wanted was to trip her up?

“I never thought you were a bad guy,” she said cautiously.

“Then would you do me the pleasure of having a late lunch with me?”

That, she hadn’t seen coming. “Now?”

“I thought you might be the impulsive type. Don’t tell me I was wrong about that.”

Abbie sighed. He wasn’t an easy man to say no to, and

he was much too good at analyzing people, which was the reason she had to stay clear of him. “I’m sorry, Detective. I have a half-dozen errands to run before my son gets home.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

Charming and persistent. “I’m afraid not. You see, I—“

“Are you afraid of me, Miss DiAngelo?” he asked with a smile.

That was a little too close for comfort, but she managed to skirt around the question fairly convincingly. “Why would you think that?”

He folded his arms and leaned forward, gazing deep into her eyes. “You didn’t answer the question.”

His proximity threatened to break down the barrier she had carefully erected. For safety’s sake, she pulled back just a little. “No, Detective. I am not afraid of you. I have no reason to be,” she added, boldly holding his amused gaze. “The truth is that I’m too busy to socialize.” She almost said “date” and stopped herself in time. “I have a son to raise, a business to run and a mother who needs my attention. Believe me, there are times when twenty-four hours are not enough to fit it all in.”

He gave a graceful bow. “In that case, I’ll have to catch you one day when you’re not so busy.”

And with those words, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with her mouth open.

Twenty-Four

Tony slapped the newspaper on Arturo’s lap. “Take a look at this.”

Arturo took his eyes off the TV screen, not bothering to look at the newspaper. “What’s the matter with you?”

Exasperated, Tony gave the front page a backhand slap. “This is what’s the matter with me. Because of your stupidity, your face is in all the papers. And on every TV station.”

Arturo glanced at the screen. “I didn’t see nothin’.”

“If you watched something other than those asinine cartoons, you would have seen it.”

Arturo picked up the paper and read. “Shit,” he said when he was finished. “How did that happen?”

“How do you think it happened?” Tony bellowed. “You parked the truck outside McGregor’s motel room and left it there for the whole world to see. And if that wasn’t enough, you left a half-dozen set of fingerprints behind. Why didn’t you just leave a note to the cops, telling them what you had done and where they could find you?”

His brother gave him a blank look. Tony rolled his eyes. Sarcasm was wasted on Arturo. “Are you happy now?” he continued. “There are APB’s all over the tristate area. It’s only a matter of time, maybe only hours, until they find you.”

Arturo kept looking at the paper with its blaring headlines, its details of a massive manhunt for the driver of a green pickup truck with Texas plates. There was also a photo and a description of Arturo, ex-con, age forty, armed and dangerous.

“All right, so they made me.” Arturo shrugged. “That means shit, man. They don’t know where I am.”

“People in the neighborhood have seen the truck.”

“You said Enrique had agreed to hide it.”

“I don’t know if we can trust Enrique.”

“Why wouldn’t you trust him all of a sudden?”

“Because you killed a man and Enrique isn’t going to want any part of that.”

In a fit of anger, Arturo crumpled the newspaper and flung it onto the floor.

“That was mature,” Tony remarked.

“Shut up, will ya? I’m tryin’ to think.”

Tony gave him a steely look. “There’s nothing to think about. You’ve got to give yourself up.”

Arturo’s face turned red. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

“McGregor tried to kill you, which means you acted in self-defense. A good lawyer will prove that and get you off.”

Arturo sneered. “You know a good lawyer, Tone? One who works for free?”

This time, Tony remained silent. Arturo had a point. Other than the few hundred dollars they had brought with them, they had nothing. Tony walked over to the window overlooking Second Street, wondering how long it would take for the cops to find his brother. His first impulse, after seeing the newspaper, had been to take the next bus out of town and head back to Texas. The hell with Arturo. Let him fend for himself for once. It’s not as though he hadn’t been warned. But by the time Tony reached the front door

of the apartment they now called home, he had changed his mind.

How could he abandon his brother at a time when Arturo needed him the most?

As always when the two best teams in the league met, the stands at Carl Ripken Ball Field were packed, not only with parents but grandparents and neighbors as well, all of whom had come to cheer the Falcons and the Cardinals.

On the field, the players were warming up, their faces bright with excitement, their eagerness to get the game started almost palpable.

Sunday was Abbie’s only day off, twenty-four blissful hours she always set aside for Ben. Although most of that time was spent at the ballpark these days, she didn’t mind. Watching Ben have fun was one of her greatest pleasures.

Today. Abbie was in charge of post-game treats. The battle for first place warranted something special, so instead of bringing the usual ice-cream bars, she had baked chocolate-fudge cupcakes, each decorated with a ball and bat.

“Can you make enough for the other team, too?’7 Ben had asked as he licked chocolate frosting from his finger. “I’ve got lots of friends on the Cardinals.”

Rather than disappoint him, Abbie had let him ride with one of the players’ mothers, and had quickly whipped up another batch.

The bleachers were already full when she arrived, so she went to stand by the fence, directly behind Jimmy Hernandez, Ben’s best friend and the Falcons’ first baseman.

It was the bottom of the fifth inning, score tied 4--4, when she heard a man’s voice next to her. “Giving the ump a hard time already?”

Embarrassed to have been overheard criticizing the umpire’s last call, Abbie turned to see John Ryan standing

beside her. He had changed into casual khaki pants, a gray T-shirt with some sort of police logo on the front and a New York Yankees baseball cap that had seen better days. Behind the aviator sunglasses, his expression was still as unreadable as it had been the first time she’d met him, but the amicable smile was genuine. If he felt any resentment over her refusal to go to lunch with him yesterday, he didn’t show it.