Deadly Intent (25 page)

“Yes, we did, but...I like spending time with you, Dad. I wish...” He stopped, but John knew what he had been about to say. Like him, Jordan wished they could have more time together.

“And I like spending time with you.” Anxious to bring a smile back to his son’s face, John tousled the boy’s hair. “I tell you what. The Phillies are playing at the Vet next Sunday. Why don’t I see if I can get a couple of tickets?”

Jordan’s face lit up. “That would be neat, Dad. Do you think you could? It’s kind of late.”

“Hey, I’m a cop, remember?” Slapping his hand on one hip, he did his awful impression of John Wayne, which never failed to make Jordan roar with laughter. “And if I can’t buy the darn tickets, I’ll get my six-shooter out and shoot our way in.”

Jordan laughed. “You’re funny, Dad.”

“And you’d better run. Your mom said you still had homework to do.”

“Okay.” He gave John a quick hug. “You’ll be at the game on Tuesday? Now that we’re tied for first place?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

He watched Clarice’s front door long after Jordan had closed it, thinking about his earlier conversation with Abbie, and how impressed he had been at the way she had managed to combine home and career. Had he been too insensitive to Jordan’s feelings? Too quick to assume he couldn’t take care of his son because of a demanding career? After another minute, he put the Plymouth in gear again, backed out of the driveway and headed straight for his father’s house in Lawrenceville.

Two years ago, when John had thought of filing for custody, Spencer Ryan had been very supportive, going as far as suggesting John hire Percy, Spencer’s butler, to help take care of Jordan. The Scotsman had run the Ryan household ever since John’s mother had died twenty-two years earlier. Dignified as well as efficient, Percy wore many hats around the house. He was a cook, a chauffeur, a housekeeper and a confidant. He also happened to worship Jordan.

His father’s offer had been tempting, but John had felt guilty taking Percy from Spencer. The two men were like brothers, and so tuned to each other’s idiosyncracies, it was impossible to imagine one without the other.

Maybe there was a way to make everyone, including his ex-wife, happy, but before he spoke with Clarice, he wanted to run the idea by his father.

Percy, a small round man without a single hair left on his shiny, pink scalp, opened the door, greeting John with his usual affability.

“Good evening, John.” A long time ago, he had tried to call him Master John, as he had with his previous employer, but John had quickly put an end to that, threatening to call him Percival in retaliation. The word master had

never passed Percy’s lips again. “How are you this evening?”

“Actually, Percy, I’m in a terrific mood.”

Percy smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. And so will your father, I’m sure. He’s in his study.”

The highly decorated, four-star former army general was in his favorite La-Z-Boy, and although John couldn’t see him, the familiar smell of pipe tobacco delicately laced with chocolate told him that Spencer Ryan was indulging in two of his favorite pastimes—smoking and watching the History Channel. Today, the Battle of the Bulge was unfolding on a large-screen TV, detail by detail.

“Hi, Dad.”

Spencer shut off the” TV set and swiveled in his chair. Unlike Percy, John’s father had a full head of silver hair and a physique that would have made a thirty-year-old green with envy.

“John. Did I know you were coming?”

John laughed and sat down. “I doubt it, since I didn’t know myself until a few minutes ago.”

“Good. You had me worried for a moment.” He took a puff of his pipe. “How did Jordan do today?”

“The Cardinals won. They’re now tied for first place.”

“Excellent. I’m sorry I missed the game. An old army buddy of mine stopped by and I lost track of time.”

“You’ll catch the next one.” John waited until his father had taken another puff before speaking again. “Dad, I’ve decided to ask Clarice to let me have Jordan—on a permanent basis.”

The statement drew a startled look from his father. “I thought you had given up on that idea.”

“I’ve reconsidered.” Jack told him about the incident at school and Clarice’s decision to put Jordan in military school. At the mention of Jordan’s “killer hook,” John

thought he saw a smile twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth.

“I don’t blame you for standing firm on this, son,” he said when John was finished. “Military school is no place for a nine-year-old. But if Clarice has already made up her mind, she’ll put up one hell of a fight.”

“’She might. But I have a feeling that, although she loves Jordan very much, this full-time mothering is more than she bargained for, especially now with all those additional responsibilities.”

“Does that mean you’re willing to hire Percy?” “Yes, but only on the condition that I don’t take him away from you completely.” He told him the plan he had come up with, and he could see from the grin on his father’s face that he had his full approval.

“The question is,” John continued, “will Percy agree?” Spencer stood up. “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask him?”

Captain Matthew Farwell wasn’t a big man—five foot six and a hundred and fifty pounds, if that—but in his seven years as head of the Princeton Township PD, his size had never been a handicap. His assertive personality and clear judgment had earned him the respect of the men and women in the department—except Tina. She felt, and John didn’t entirely disagree, that Farwell was more of a politician than a cop, and would bail out on them to run for office if the opportunity ever presented itself. He was also a hopeless male chauvinist and she resented the fact that she always had to prove herself to him.

The still-unsolved rape and murder of eight-year-old Eric Sommers was a huge thorn in the captain’s side. Parents were scared for their kids, the mayor was worried about

his job and putting pressure on the chief of police, and the chief was putting pressure on Farwell.

Yesterday, a nervous teacher at Eastbrook Elementary had reported a car parked behind the playground and had been concerned enough to jot down the license plate number before it drove away. No child had been abducted from Eastbrook, but the tension around town had escalated dramatically over the last twenty-four hours.

So it was not surprising that the atmosphere in the captain’s office on this Monday morning was charged. Because John and Tina were technically still partners, Farwell had called them into his office together.

“You can both brief me about your respective cases,” he said from behind his messy desk. “You first, Wrightfield. What have you got?”

“There may be a small break in the case,” she said, looking a little more hopeful than she had in recent days. ‘ ‘The car that was spotted in front of Eastbrook Elementary yesterday was reported by a Barbara Michaels as stolen. Mrs. Michaels lives on Hunt Drive and owns a gray Ford Taurus with New Jersey plates MSC 5438.”

Farwell’s expression brightened. “Stolen? That’s the same MO we had when Eric Sommers was abducted.”

“That’s right.”

“Where is the Taurus now?”

“It was found abandoned on Rosedale Road this morning with another set of tags on it. That’s why it took so long to locate. I’ve had it towed to our garage. The lab techs are going over it now.”

Farwell seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon. “That’s your break, Wrightfield? You’re hoping our killer left a calling card?” He made an exasperated gesture. “Forget it. It’s not going to happen. The man is too clever.”

“Not so clever after all, Captain.” John hated it when Farwell used his rank as an excuse to talk in that tone, especially to an officer as dedicated and methodical as Tina. “Why don’t you hear Tina out?”

Farwell raised an eyebrow at his only female detective. “Sorry, Wrightfield. Go ahead.”

Tina, who was thicker-skinned than John realized, threw him one of her “thanks, but I fight my own battles” looks and forged ahead. “Barbara Michaels has insomnia. She was awake when her car was stolen, heard the engine being cranked and ran out in time to have a glimpse of the driver.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet. The information was relayed to me from the stolen-vehicle division a short while ago.” Her voice chilled slightly, enough for Farwell to notice. “I was on my way out the door when you called me in.”

“Oh. Well...” Farwell cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on his desk, a sign that he was flustered. “In that case, go to it, Wrightfield. And bring me some good news.”

As soon as she had closed the door, he looked at John. “Maybe you should go with her.”

Good thing Tina hadn’t heard that or there would have been fireworks. “What for? When it comes to interviewing witnesses, there’s none better than Tina.”

Farwell thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his fingers over his flat stomach. “Where do you stand on the McGregor murder?”

John brought him up to date, carefully omitting any reference to Abbie, and informed him he’d be leaving for New York to talk to Liz Tilly in a few hours.

Twenty-Seven

Liz Tilly lived on McDougal Street, in a neighborhood of coffeehouses, jazz clubs and ethnic restaurants. John had no problem imagining the former wife of Jude Tilly living there. The various newspaper articles he had read on the Internet had described her as a free spirit who was often seen attending some of the more avant-garde plays that were still a staple in and around Greenwich Village.

Liz had moved to New York in the early eighties, but hadn’t become part of the Manhattan celebrity scene until her marriage to the rocker and consummate bad boy. The famous couple had been two of the most photographed people in New York, entertaining their friends in their lavish Manhattan penthouse, attending movie premieres and flying to the four corners of the world. The charmed life, however, hadn’t been without its problem. Jude had been hopelessly addicted to drugs, a habit that had put a strain not only on his marriage, but on his career as well.

The rock star’s divorce ten years later had attracted almost as much attention as his wedding, but when Jude’s career started to take a nosedive following the breakup of his band, public interest had quickly faded. Unable to cope with this latest failure, Jude once again tried to find comfort in booze and drugs, but only managed to kill himself with an overdose.

In an interview with Rolling Stone some years ago, Liz

had admitted that the divorce had nearly destroyed her. If it hadn’t been for her weekly therapy sessions, she was certain her life would have ended just as tragically.

It wasn’t until three years ago, in a “Where are they now?” column in a fan magazine, that an overzealous reporter had found out Liz tended bar at the Manhattan Towers in New York.

Her photograph, although a few years old, showed a noticeable resemblance to Ian McGregor. Both had the same dark eyes, the same angular features, although Liz’s were softer, and the same pronounced widow’s peak.

When John had called her the day before, she hadn’t sounded surprised or reluctant to talk to him. In a pleasant, rather sexy voice, she had given him her home address and told him to meet her there on Monday evening at seven.

True to his MO, however, he had gone to the Towers first, choosing a table in the back of the lounge so he could observe her, much as he had done with Abbie that day at Campagne. Liz moved behind the bar with the ease and efficiency born of years of experience, smiling as she poured, and handling the occasional pass like a pro.

At six o’clock sharp, she had taken her drawer out of the cash register, tossed a few good-nights to her customers and walked out. John had settled his tab and done the same.

It had taken him longer than he’d expected to get his car from the valet, and even longer to maneuver through the traffic that made South Manhattan such a nightmare.

This was John’s first trip to downtown New York since the tragic events of September 11, 2001. He had come to Ground Zero as part of a special relief team, but also as a counselor for the surviving families of the many victims who had perished in the collapse of the Twin Towers.

The area had changed in the last two years. The debris and chaos were gone and the shops thrived once again, but

the memories were still there. One could not drive down Broadway and not remember.