Deadly Intent (31 page)

Abbie smiled. “In other words, she has the hots for you.”

“Whatever she has, I didn’t want any of it and told her so. She’s had it in for me ever since.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“She only likes to think she is.”

They walked together to the restaurant. The walk seemed to calm John down. “I’d love to pick up our conversation where we left it off,” he said when they reached Campagne’s front door, “but I know you have to go home.” Unexpectedly, he kissed her cheek. “Rain check?”If it hadn’t been for her promise to take Ben shopping for new cleats, she would have cashed in John’s rain check this very minute. Instead, she let out a small sigh of regret. “I have a wedding reception on Saturday and I’m going to be awfully busy until then, but...would you like to call me when you get back from Toledo?”

His grin lit up his face. “I’d like that very much.”

“What’s the matter with you?’ Arturo asked when he walked in. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

Tony, who had been sitting in the front room, waiting for Arturo, looked up. “I ran into that detective in charge of McGregor’s murder.”

Arturo gave him one of his blank looks. “Where?”

“At Enrique’s Garage. He was questioning him, showing him your mug shot and giving a description of the truck.”

Now he had Arturo’s attention. “How did he find out about Enrique?”

Tony gave him an icy look. ‘ ‘Would it really kill you to use your brains once in a while, Arturo? How do you think he found out? From that phone call you made on McGregor’s cell phone! That’s how he found out. The cops traced the call.”

“I hope Enrique kept his fucking mouth shut.”

“He did, but he’s scared. He doesn’t want any trouble with the police.”

“Shit.” Arturo scratched his bald head.

“He wants us out of his apartment, Arturo. I convinced him to let us stay a few more days, but after that, we’ll have to go.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere until I get my money from that bitch.”

Tony expelled a frustrated breath. ‘ ‘When are you going

to get it through your thick skull that McGregor’s sister is not going to hand you forty-eight thousand dollars just for the asking.”

“Maybe she won’t. Maybe she will.”

Tony stood up. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ve been checking out on her, where she lives, where she works. Did you know she had a kid? A boy.”

“So?”

“Now who’s the dumb one, huh?” He laughed, obviously proud of himself. “That kid could come in handy, Tone.”

Even though Arturo towered over Tony by at least a foot and outweighed him by a hundred pounds, Tony grabbed him by the collar and backed him against the wall. “The only thing you’re going to do is keep out of sight, do you hear me? I’m going to do what I can to get you out of this mess you made for yourself, but I warn you, if you screw up again in any way, I’ll make you regret it.” He gave him another shove. “Did you hear me, Arturo?”

The two brothers stared at each other for a long minute, then Arturo shoved Tony aside. “What the fuck is with you, man?”

“I’ve had it. The only reason I didn’t bail out on you after you killed McGregor was because I believed you killed him in self-defense. I still do, but I don’t want to hear any more whining about Abbie DiAngelo’s money. For the next few days, I expect you to stay cool and out of trouble.” He caught Arturo’s dark, angry look but didn’t flinch. “I mean it.”

Sitting on a stool, Abbie watched Claudia chisel a block of ivory marble she claimed would soon be transformed into a rendition of a mother and her child.

“How did the funeral go?” Claudia asked.

“Better than I thought. Liz was there. She was the same old Liz, aloof and sarcastic, but for all her efforts to appear heartless, I don’t think she’s that at all.”

“Then why did she tell John Ryan that Ian was blackmailing you?”

“If your brother convinced you someone had killed your father, wouldn’t you turn them in?”

“Does she really believe that?”

“I don’t think she knows what to believe.”

“Did Irene talk to her?”

“Liz never gave her the chance. Needless to say, my mother was disappointed. She wanted to tell her about the letters she had written to both children after we left California, letters I now know Liz’s aunt never gave them.”

Claudia adjusted her protective goggles and continued to chip away. “Why are you so concerned about Liz? Let her believe what she wants. And if she doesn’t want a relationship with you and your mother, well, maybe you’re better off.”

“That’s not what Ben thinks.”

Claudia stopped in midmotion. “He’s still talking about her?”

“He wants a real aunt.” She smiled. “Sometimes I wonder if he and my mother are conspiring behind my back.”

“What does he want you to do?”

“Are you familiar with the saying, ‘If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain—“”

“The mountain will come to Mohammed.” Claudia ran her hand over the rough finish. “You’re planning on going to see her, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’ll call her first and give her an opportunity to
 
tell me to go to hell.” She leaned against the broad back of the still-untitled reclining woman and watched her friend work. “She won’t, though.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s all alone, Claudia.”

“Maybe that’s the way she wants it.”

“Nobody sets out to live a lonely life.”

“And you are setting yourself up for a fall, Abigail.” Claudia sometimes resorted to Abbie’s full name when she was dispensing advice.

“Maybe so, but at least I’ll be able to tell Ben that I tried.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, I think I’ll call her right now. According to Rose, Liz should be home, getting ready for work.”

She reached inside her purse and took out her cell phone, along with the number Rose had given her.

“Liz,” she said when her stepsister answered. “It’s Abbie.”

Her stepsister’s tone was only a shade warmer than it had been on Wednesday. “I recognized your voice.”

“I won’t keep you. I know you’re getting ready for work, but...I had a thought.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t involve me.”

Abbie didn’t let Liz’s cool tone deter her. “As a matter of fact, it does. I was thinking about taking Ben to New York on Sunday. It’s been ages since we’ve been to the city and—“

“Don’t tell me—you’d like to stop by my place so Ben can meet me. We could even go somewhere for brunch, talk about old times, swap a few photos, act nice and cozy, like any normal family.”

Abbie could have done without the sarcasm, but she let it go. “Something like that.”

“I work on Sundays.”

“All day?”

There was a slight hesitation. “No.”

“Well, when do you have to go to work?”

“At two.”

“Then that’s perfect. Ben and I could come up early, meet you at your place and then go somewhere for breakfast. Afterward I could take him to the Central Park Zoo, which I know he’ll love. How does that sound?” She braced herself for a turndown, but kept her tone jovial. “It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because Ben feels bad that he doesn’t have aunts and uncles, like all his friends. He wants to meet you, Liz. I just couldn’t tell him no. I know you and I have never been close, and maybe we never will, but won’t you do it for Ben? Please?”

A long silence fell over the line, stretched into another. Abbie didn’t dare break it.

At the sound of the resigned sigh, Abbie allowed herself a smile. She had won the first round.

“All right,” Liz said. “Sunday morning. Ten o’clock. Don’t come any earlier, because I’ll be in a cranky mood if I don’t get my eight hours’ sleep. And don’t expect me to be a chatterbox either. That’s not my style. Tell Ben that.”

“I will. Thank you, Liz.”

Her only answer was a grunt.

“I’ll need your address.”

Abbie wrote it down, and hung up, feeling a little like the cat who had swallowed the canary.

Thirty-Three

It was a few minutes after ten on a glorious, sunny June morning, when Abbie and Ben arrived in New York City. Because it was still early, the traffic was light and Abbie quickly found a parking space half a block from Liz’s apartment building. Ben could barely contain his excitement while they rode the elevator to the fourth floor. His remark when she had told him Liz had agreed to see them had been a confident “I told you so.”

Liz opened the door, dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, and gave them a lukewarm smile Abbie assumed was meant for Ben rather than her. She ignored the cool reception, confident Liz would eventually warm up to that sweet little boy.

To Abbie’s satisfaction, she did, even laughing at some of the stories Ben was telling her about his friends and his school principal—the one with the fuzz above her upper lip.

As they walked to a Caribbean restaurant Liz was fond of, Ben continued to fill her in on the events of the past year. Over giant pineapple-coconut pancakes, which he never would have eaten at home but devoured here, he told Liz about his team’s battle for first place and how much he was looking forward to summer vacation.

Although she had expertly dodged his questions about her private life, he looked so hopeful when he mentioned

her late, famous ex-husband that she was more or less trapped into saying a few words about him, his rise to fame and his eventual fall.

“Why don’t you have any kids?” Ben asked at one point. At his blunt question, Liz simply replied. “We can’t all be as lucky as your mother.”

As they parted, an hour and a half later, Abbie invited Liz to visit them in Princeton, adding that Irene would love to see her, but her stepsister wouldn’t commit to a date, even when Ben chimed in. Abbie didn’t push her. Liz had made a huge concession today. The rest would have to be taken one step at a time.

“You think Aunt Liz liked me?” Ben asked as they drove up Sixth Avenue.

Abbie smiled at him. “I think she’s crazy about you, sport. How can she help it?”

Thanks to Otis, who had put in a good word for John, the warden at Stateville Prison had been quick to provide information on his less-than-model prisoner.

“Earl Kramer isn’t one of our favorite people around here,” Timothy Paulson said as he escorted John down a dank, depressing corridor. “At least not with prison administrators. He instigates riots, he bribes guards, which forces us to fire them, and he goes on hunger strikes, attracting more attention to our facility than we’d like.”

“Do you remember Ian McGregor’s visit last month?”

The warden sighed. “I certainly do. For the record, I was against it from the start, but Kramer’s wife vouched for McGregor, claiming he was an old friend, practically a family member. She was so vocal and loud about letting him in, I thought she was going to start a riot all by herself. So I made a judgment call and allowed McGregor to visit his friend. According to the guards, they didn’t do anything

but talk. Knowing what I know now, I wish I had stuck to my guns.” He let out another sigh. “Making decisions in a place like this isn’t always as easy as one thinks.”

“I don’t suppose their conversation was recorded.”

Paulson gave a regretful shake of his head. “Conversations between inmates and visitors used to be recorded. Then came the uprising of ‘92, and a list of demands that included inmates’ right to privacy on visiting days. They were holding two of our guards hostage and we had no choice but to go to the bargaining table and allow them a few concessions. The demand for privacy was one of them.”

John’s hand went to his breast pocket where he had tucked a small tape recorder earlier. The warden caught the movement as they started down another corridor. “Of course, as I said earlier, you have my permission to record your own conversation with Kramer. Whether or not he’ll let you do it is another matter.”