Deadly Intent (26 page)

He had almost given up on finding a parking space, when a delivery van pulled away from the curb just two blocks from Liz’s building. Moments later, he was ringing her doorbell.

She still wore her bartending uniform, although she had shed the black vest and the shoes, and had undone the first two buttons of her white blouse.

A light smile flitted across her lips. “Lost your way from the Towers, Detective?”

He laughed. “You spotted me?”

“This may be news to you, but men with your looks don’t exactly go unnoticed—even in New York.” She opened the door. “But I’m embarrassing you. Come on in.”

He followed her into a living room furnished with attractive contemporary furniture and a white baby-grand piano in the center of the room that he assumed had belonged to her late husband. Several photographs stood on it, and although hard rock had never been John’s music of choice, he easily recognized Jude Tilly, of The Boys From Hell fame, in most of the shots.

“Would you care for something to drink?” Liz asked. “Another club soda? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

“A beer will do fine, if you have one.”

“I may even have two.” She started for the postage-stamp-size kitchen. “Glass or bottle?”

“Bottle, please.”

Two minutes later she was back, with two bottles of Heineken in one hand and a bowl of peanuts in the other. She put the latter on the coffee table and handed him one of the beers before taking a long drink.”They don’t let you drink booze on the job. Can you believe that? We can have soda until we burst, but a lousy beer?” She shook her head. “Isn’t that the dumbest rule you ever heard?”

Not crazy about rules himself, John agreed. “How long have you been working at the Manhattan Towers?”

“Too long.” She took another sip. “Going on ten years,” she added, gazing into the distance. “I wouldn’t have to work at all if I had invested Jude’s life insurance money instead of blowing it on therapy sessions.” She shrugged. “But I was never the idle type anyway. Sooner or later I would have looked for a job.”

“This one seems to suit you.”

“I guess. It’s easy enough. And bartending was all I could find at the time.” She laughed. “Being a roadie for a rock band doesn’t exactly prepare you for a corporate position.”

She scooped up a handful of peanuts and popped one in her mouth. “So, what do you want to know, Mr. Princeton Township Detective?”

“To start with, the obvious. Do you have any idea who would want to kill your brother?”

“Well, let’s see now. There was Nick Valenti in sixth grade. He hated Ian for stealing his girlfriend. And the lady next door, who claimed Ian ran over her cat with his dirt bike.” Lifting the bottle to her mouth, she gave John a teasing look. “But you’d rather have something a little more current, right?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“That’s not hard either. My brother, you see, had a knack for making enemies. He lied to people, he stole from them and he double-crossed them. Most men would have learned their lesson after the first payback. Not Ian. If he

thought he could get away with a scam, he dived in and worried about the consequences later.”

“Can you give me names?” He took his notebook out. “Other than Arturo Garcia.”

“Ah, you’ve heard of big bad Arturo.”

“Rose filled me in. She told me Ian was scared of him.”

“That’s an understatement.” She shook her head. “Why Ian crossed that man is beyond me. Personally, I would have done the time rather than rat on a man like Arturo Garcia, but as I said, Ian always thought he was smarter than everyone else.”

The lady wasn’t pulling any punches, nor did she seem overcome with grief. “Did he mention any other enemies besides Arturo?”

“No. Unless, of course, you count Abbie DiAngelo.” Holding the bottle by the neck, she swung it gently “She did tell you Ian was blackmailing her, didn’t she?”

Damn, he hadn’t seen that one coming. So that was what Abbie had been keeping from him. He should have guessed it. He might have, if he hadn’t been so taken by her.

“No,” he said quietly. “She didn’t.”

“Hmm, I wonder why.” Her tone had turned sarcastic. “Could it be she was afraid you’d suspect her of murdering my brother?”

He didn’t see any reason to tell her Abbie had never been a suspect. “Why was Ian blackmailing her? I thought they hadn’t seen each other in twenty-eight years.”

“That’s true.”

“So what did he have on her?”

“Not on her. On her mother.”

Another surprise. “Irene DiAngelo?”

“I’m assuming you know about the fire that destroyed our Palo Alto house and killed my father.”

“Abbie mentioned it.”

She held the beer bottle at eye level and seemed to study it as she spoke. “Shortly after being released from prison two weeks ago, Ian learned that the fire wasn’t an accident after all.”

“What was it?” But he already knew what her answer would be.

“Arson.” She glanced at him to check his reaction, which he managed to keep neutral. ‘ ‘Irene had decided she no longer wanted to be married to my father, you see, so she hired a professional killer and paid him to set fire to the house.”

John took a moment to digest the news, studying the woman across from him and trying to determine if she was lying. It was obvious she wasn’t fond of the DiAngelos, but would she make such an outrageous accusation just to get Abbie and her mother in trouble?

He settled deeper into his chair. “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

She chewed a few more peanuts. “Sure, but remember, all this is secondhand. Until a couple of days ago, I believed my father’s death was accidental.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She got out of her chair and, bottle still in hand, walked over to the window overlooking the noisy street below. Even from the fourth floor, the cacophony of horns and police sirens was deafening. It made John appreciate the serenity of his Princeton neighborhood.

“While Ian was in prison,” Liz began, keeping her back to him, “a man on death row at another Ohio prison saw Abbie on TV. Apparently, she had just won an award important enough for one of the major networks to do a piece on her. He remembered that Irene’s former name was DiAngelo, and when he heard the broadcast, it reminded

him of the woman who had hired him and her connection to Ian.”

‘”What’s the inmate’s name?”’

“Earl Kramer. He and Ian met years ago when both were involved in some scam. Through the grapevine. Earl found out Ian was about to get out of prison and sent word that he wanted to see him. When Ian got there, Earl told him that twenty-eight years ago, Irene McGregor had paid him five thousand dollars to kill her husband and make it look like an accident.”

It took all of John’s training to keep his voice on an even keel. “I find that hard to believe.”

Liz turned around. “I was surprised, too. Irene never struck me as the cold-blooded-killer type, but then, she was an abused woman. Not physically abused—my father didn’t believe in hitting women. He preferred to fight them on an emotional level. There were times when she seemed so...beaten, so desperate, I felt sorry for her. It was probably despair that drove her to write that letter.”

John sat up. “What letter?”

“Irene was very close to her father and used to write him long letters. Ian intercepted one of them and was using it to keep Irene from telling Patrick that Ian smoked pot.”

“What was in the letter?”

“Various grievances. And her admission that she had thought of killing her husband.”

“Did you see the letter?”

“No, but Ian told me he gave Abbie a copy.”

John was silent, digesting the information. Ian had not come to Princeton to reunite with a long-lost sister and hit her up for a loan. He had come to blackmail her. Had he been successful? John’s instincts were at odds with his growing feelings for Abbie. On one hand, he couldn’t imagine her giving in to blackmail. On the other, he knewshe loved her mother and would want to protect her at any cost.

“What was Kramer’s reason for admitting to the crime three decades later?” he asked at last.

“Ian said the man had become some kind of religious fanatic. Apparently many inmates do once they get on death row.”

“He could have confessed to the police instead of your brother.”

“He thought Ian could put the information to good use. My brother’s words, Detective,” she added, raising her hands, “not mine.”

“What exactly does Earl claim to have done?”

“Torched my father’s house. Again, Ian’s words. My brother was never big on subtleties.”

“What kind of proof is he offering?”

“His confession, which he seems to think counts for something. He also gave Ian the exact location of the house, the placement of each bedroom and a description of the master bedroom, where my father slept.”

“That only proves he knew the layout, which your brother could have given him.”

She looked surprised. “Are you implying my brother made up the story for the sole purpose of blackmailing Abbie?”

“Isn’t that conceivable, considering Ian’s background?”

She seemed to consider the question. “I would agree with you, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

She took her time answering, as though savoring the moment. “Abbie agreed to pay my brother one hundred thousand dollars for his silence.”

Twenty-Eight

Tiffany had only been gone a few minutes when Abbie heard the sound of footsteps crunching on the graveled driveway.

Walking quietly, she approached the front door and peered through the long, narrow window alongside it, ready to hit the panic button on her security system if she didn’t like what she saw. The outdoor sensors had been activated and the driveway was bathed in bright light, confirming her suspicions. Someone was out there. Someone who apparently wasn’t trying to hide, judging from the car that had been left in plain sight.

Taking a closer look, she let out a sigh of relief as she recognized John Ryan’s black Plymouth. But what was he doing here at this hour? And why hadn’t he come directly to the front door and rang the bell instead of sneaking around like a thief?

She opened the door. “You have something against doorbells, Detective?”

He seemed surprised at the question, as though walking around her property in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world. “I thought you might be out by the pool.”

She looked at the flashlight in his hand. “At eleven thirty at night?”

“I need to talk to you.”

He was different, she thought, feeling a sudden chill, not as friendly as he had been the previous day. And she didn’t believe he had expected to find her relaxing by the pool at this time of night.

A dreadful apprehension started to build in her gut. He knew something.

“May I come in?” he asked, ending her speculation.

She wanted to tell him no. It was late and she was exhausted, not to mention completely unprepared to answer whatever he had come to ask. But something about the way he stood there, with that serious look on his face, told her he wasn’t going anywhere until he had talked to her.

Managing a nervous smile, she let him in and walked ahead of him in silence, until they had reached the kitchen. She knew she probably should invite him to sit down, but since this visit had such an official feel to it, instead she leaned against the counter and waited.

He took off his jacket, as if he was planning to stay a while, and draped it over the back of a chair, taking his time. Her gaze stopped on the leather holster strapped to his shoulder and the gun tucked inside. Both—which she hadn’t seen before—seemed to fit the occasion.

When he finally spoke, his voice was filled with mild disappointment. “Why didn’t you tell me you were being blackmailed?”

Her heart lurched in her chest. She thought of answering the question with a swift denial, accompanied by a shocked expression. She had become such a master manipulator these last few days, she could probably pull it off and he’d never know the difference. Obviously someone had tipped him off, but so what? It would be that person’s word against hers.