Deadly Intent (29 page)

“Ken Walker showed up again,” he informed her, casting an angry glance across the square.

“He came into the restaurant?”

“No, he stayed outside. He walked up and down the sidewalk first, then went to sit on that bench over there.” He pointed toward the Green.

“Did he say anything? Cause any problems?”

Brady’s voice grew impatient. “Not this time, but Abbie, come on, the man is unstable. There’s no telling what he’ll do next.”

Abbie scanned the square, but Ken was nowhere in sight. “I’ll talk to Lainie. Maybe she can reason with him.”

But when she called Ken’s wife, Lainie’s news was disconcerting.

“Ken moved out last week,” she said. “I told him not to come back until he stopped making everyone around him so miserable.”

“Is he gambling again?”

“No. but his negative attitude was starting to get me down. And Robbie’s a mess. He loves his dad, but he doesn’t understand why he’s acting this way.”’

“What exactly is Ken doing?”

“He’s blaming everyone for his problems, moping around the house instead of looking for a job. Maybe now he’ll realize what he stands to lose if he doesn’t make some changes.” She paused. “I’m sorry if he’s taking his frustrations out on you, Abbie. You’ve been more than fair to him, considering what he did.”

Abbie hung up, still unwilling to call the police as Brady had suggested. Ken was going through a rough time, and adding to his troubles by calling the authorities would not be very effective. She would just have to be on her guard, and make sure there was no repeat of the incident of a few days ago.

Thirty-One

When John arrived at the station on Thursday morning, he found two Federal Express envelopes on his desk. One was from his new friend, Detective Otis Bloom in Toledo, and contained a copy of Earl Kramer’s court transcripts. The other contained Rose’s cell phone records.

He picked up the transcripts first and started to read. Kramer’s trial for the murder of a police officer had lasted only five days, and for the prosecution, it had been a slam dunk. Although the defendant had pleaded not guilty and repeatedly claimed he was the victim of an elaborate police frame-up, two witnesses had seen him shoot Officer Daniel Moyarty point-blank, as the young policeman lay wounded on the sidewalk.

The incident had begun a half hour earlier, when Kramer’s neighbor had called the police to report a domestic disturbance next door. When Moyarty and his partner, Kevin Luthcomb, had arrived, they had found Kramer’s girlfriend badly beaten and unconscious. Alerted by the police sirens, Kramer had escaped through the fire escape and taken off in his car.

After a fifteen-minute high-speed chase through the streets of Toledo, he had crashed his car and tried to run just as Moyarty and Luthcomb were getting out of their vehicle. Kramer had shot them both, hitting Luthcomb in the chest and Moyarty in the shoulder. According to the

two witnesses, Kramer had stood over Officer Moyarty and shot him in the head, execution style, before fleeing in the cruiser.

He was found a day later, hiding in a bordello. Luthcomb survived the shooting but Moyarty had died on the spot, leaving behind a wife and a six-month-old baby.

As expected, Kramer had a rap sheet longer than the Delaware River, but his attorney had not allowed any of his priors to be introduced in court. Nevertheless, a jury of seven men and five women had found him guilty on all five counts: assault and battery, fleeing from the scene of a crime, first-degree murder, attempted murder and grand theft.

After two appeals, both of which had been denied, Kramer’s chances of escaping the death penalty were slim to none.

John read every word of the sixteen-page transcript twice, searching for something he could use as leverage against Kramer, something his attorney or the prosecution had missed.

He found nothing.

Disappointed, he picked up the rap sheet again. The man’s felonies over the past twenty-five years ranged from misdemeanors to more serious charges, such as the molestation of his seven-year-old stepdaughter when he was twenty-three, and the aggravated assault on a Chinese immigrant. He had served time for both before being charged for the killing of Officer Moyarty.

As the germ of an idea began to worm its way into John’s head, he picked up Rose’s cell phone records and went down the list. Since the day she and Ian had arrived in Princeton, six calls had been made to numbers in the 609 area code—four to take-out restaurants and two to Campagne. There was also one long-distance call to To

ledo. Judging from the date and time, John guessed that was the call Ian had made to Earl Kramer’s wife from Abbie’s restaurant.

Only one call had been made after Ian’s murder. That call could only have been made by the person who had stolen Rose’s phone. If John was lucky, that person and McGregor’s killer would be one and the same.

His eyes on the number, John dialed it.

“Enrique’s Garage.”

John didn’t miss a beat. “I need to bring my car in,” he said. “Where exactly are you located?”

“In Trenton. Corner of Center and Bridge Streets. You can’t miss it.” The man had a faint Hispanic accent. “What’s the problem with the—“

But John had already hung up.

The man who had answered the phone had been right. John couldn’t possibly have missed Enrique’s Garage, not with the colorful sign in the shape of an old Edsel and the American and Puerto Rican flags flying side by side just above the entrance.

A man’s upper body was hidden under the hood of a beat-up Chevy Impala. John approached it. “Excuse me. Are you Enrique?”

The man straightened up, inspecting him with sharp brown eyes. “Yeah, I’m Enrique. What can I do for you?”

John took out his badge and gave Enrique a few seconds to inspect it before putting it away. “For starters, you can tell me where I can find Arturo Garcia.”

There was no change of expression in the man’s face. “I don’t know any Arturo Garcia,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Are you sure? He called this garage four days ago.”Enrique shrugged. “Lots of people call here, Detective. They don’t always give a name.”

John took out Arturo’s mug shot and held it up so Enrique could have a good look. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

The man leaned forward a little, going to great pains to carefully study the picture. “Sorry.” He shook his head again. “I never saw him before.”

“He drives a green pickup truck with Texas plates.”

“There are lots of pickup trucks in this neighborhood, but they all belong to locals, people I know. And none have Texas plates.”

John looked around. “You work alone?”

“Yes, sir, I do it all.” Enrique looked proud. “The repairs, the towing, the bookkeeping.” He pointed at a sign advertising used tires, starting at nine ninety-nine. “I even do my own promotion.”

John had no reason not to believe him. The man seemed sincere enough, and apparently he was a hard worker. However, John was suspicious by nature, so rather than take the mechanic at face value, he handed him his card. “Call me if you suddenly remember something, will you? Or if you see Garcia around.”

Enrique took John’s card. “What’s he done, Detective?”

“He’s wanted in connection with a murder. The victim is a man Garcia knew back in Toledo—Ian McGregor. You may have read about it.”

This time there was a change in Enrique’s cool demeanor. His mouth opened slightly and his complexion turned gray. He could have been worried about the possibility of a murderer running loose in his neighborhood. Then again, it could be more than that. John decided it might not be a bad idea to keep a discreet eye on Enrique.

As John turned to leave, he bumped into a young man

who bore an amazing resemblance to Ricky Martin, the singing sensation the girls in Jordan’s class were so wild about. Giving him a curt nod, John walked out.

Tony waited until the man had disappeared from sight before letting out the breath he had been holding. He had heard enough to know he was a police detective, and was looking for Arturo. So his hunch had been right after all. The cops had traced his brother through that stupid phone call on McGregor’s cell phone.

Tony ran shaky fingers through his hair. Jesus. This situation was getting more dangerous with each passing minute, and the worst part was that he was the only one who had enough sense to worry. Now that Arturo had hidden the truck in the garage of a Latina woman he had met a few nights ago, he didn’t give a damn about anything, except Abbie DiAngelo’s money and how to get his hands on it.

Enrique had picked up an oily rag from a workbench and was walking toward him. “Is it true?” he asked, nervously wiping his hands on the rag. “Your brother killed a man?”

Admitting the truth would be like signing Arturo’s death sentence. Tony gave a vigorous shake of his head. “That’s crazy, Enrique. Arturo didn’t kill anybody.”

“That’s not what that detective said. He even showed me Arturo’s picture. And he gave me a description of the truck.” He threw the rag back on the workbench. “You told me your brother ran away from a state trooper because his driver’s license had expired, but if it’s more than that—“

“It’s not, Enrique, I swear.” Sweat ran down Tony’s back, soaking his shirt. “That cop made a mistake. Or he’s

looking for a fall guy. It happens all the time. It’s called ethnic profiling. You know how those gringos are.”

Enrique must have experienced his share of discrimination over the years because he pondered that remark for a moment, looking torn. Tony prayed he wouldn’t ask them to move out. Where would they go?

“Look,” Enrique said after a while. “I don’t mind helping a couple of brothers. God knows I’ve needed help in my time, too. But I run a legitimate business now. I want no trouble.”

“You won’t have any. I give you my word. All I ask is that you let us stay here a few more days.”

“And then you go, okay?”

“I promise.”

The Hispanic community in Trenton’s south side was a small, close-knit nucleus. It comprised, for the most part, hard-working and law-abiding citizens, many of whom owned businesses, like John’s good friend, Manuel Cabrero.

John had met Manuel four years ago, when a Princeton Township liquor store had been robbed at gunpoint and its owner killed. One of the robbers had been identified as Manuel’s sixteen-year-old son, Freddy.

Despite his emphatic denials, Freddy, who had been in trouble with the law before, was arrested. But John had liked the youth. He came from a good family and was trying to put his life back on track. Not satisfied he had the right man, John continued his investigation. A week later he had apprehended the real killer. Manuel and his wife were so grateful that, on the day Freddy was cleared, they told John he had a standing invitation at their home and at the Cabreros’ bakery on Lalor Street.

Manuel was behind the counter, making change for a

customer, when John entered the bakery. He was a sturdy, well-built man with dark curly hair and dazzling white teeth. The moment he saw John, he let out a loud greeting in Spanish, and called his wife, “Pilar, ven a ver quien estd aqui.” Come and see who’s here.

He circled the counter and came to shake John’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “How are you, my friend?”

“I can’t complain, Manuel. How about you?”

“Life is good. Freddy is in college and working with us part-time. He wants to go into the FBI,” he added proudly.

“Then I’m sure he’ll succeed.”

Before Manuel could reply, Pilar was running out of the back room, moving as fast as her short legs would allow, and gave him a warm hug. “What a nice surprise. Manuel, get John a chair. Are you hungry?” She spoke rapidly and with a pronounced Spanish accent. “I could make you a sandwich. I have some of that cassava bread you like. Or a nice bowl of conch chowder? Maybe you’d prefer a pastry?” Her gaze turned mischievous, as though she knew his weaknesses. “How about a thick slice of pina colada pie?”

Laughing, John put up his hand. “I don’t need a thing, Pilar, honest.” He grabbed hold of her wrist and held her still. “And stop fussing over me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re too thin.” She shook a finger under his nose. “I’m going to give you some good homemade food to take with you. And I won’t take no for an answer.”