Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (19 page)

Freddie had done a great job.

Holding the note in his latex-gloved hands to ensure only Warren’s fingerprints were on the sheet—a precaution he’d instructed Freddie to take as well—Alan shifted it closer to the light beside his home computer, picked up the magnifying glass he kept in his desk, and compared the writing to the samples he’d taken from Warren’s house, moving back and forth between the documents.

Amazing.

The ink pressure was consistent. There were no interrupted strokes. The size and proportion of the letters were the same, as were the slant, angles, connections, and curves. The spacing and alignment matched. There was no discernable tremor, a common flaw when forgers traced letters or words—or moved too slowly as they copied. A shaky hand in a man about to commit suicide wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but it was better not to raise red flags.

Alan sat back. He wasn’t a handwriting expert, but he’d been a detective long enough to know a good forgery from a bad one.

And this was a good one.

Good enough to fool the experts at Quantico, if it got as far as the FBI lab.

He scanned the note, this time for content rather than technique. Freddie had written the message exactly as he’d dictated, and it had all the characteristics of the typical suicide note. In four brief sentences, it referenced despair, offered an apology, and contained an expression of love for Kelly.

He was set.

A yawn caught him off guard, and he glanced at his watch. Two in the morning. And tomorrow—make that today—was going to be a full day. Now that a real lead had surfaced, the double homicide investigation was heating up. But it had been safer to retrieve the letter from the drop location after midnight rather than at a more reasonable hour. Four hours of sleep wasn’t much, but he’d gotten by on less in his gambling days.

And if the meteorologists’ predictions were accurate, the winter storm should move in within the next twenty-four hours.

Making tonight D-day.

Did elves have blue eyes?

Kelly paused, brush poised above her palette, pondering that question. The diminutive woodland dwellers peopling the children’s book she was illustrating all had green eyes so far.

But she had blue eyes on her mind.

Not that a certain detective bore the slightest resemblance to her fanciful little creatures. Still, it might be fun to try and replicate the intense cerulean/cobalt hue of those captivating irises.

As she leaned forward to dip her brush into phthalo blue, her cell began to ring. Cole, perhaps? She hadn’t heard from him since their encounter two days ago at the restaurant, and there was no reason for him to call her unless there was news on the case. Not likely until after his meeting with Rossi. But she couldn’t quell a surge of anticipation as she set the brush in a jar of water and reached for the phone.

A quick look at caller ID, however, deflated her hope. It was the realtor for her father’s house. Reining in her disappointment, she pressed the talk button and greeted the woman.

“Kelly? Denise Woods. I’m glad I caught you. I have someone who’s very interested in seeing your father’s house. He’s being transferred here the first of the year, and he and his wife and baby will be in town over the holiday weekend visiting his wife’s parents. When he described what he wanted, I thought of your father’s house. I know we haven’t listed it officially yet, and a holiday week isn’t ideal timing, but in this market I don’t think we should pass up any opportunity. Would it be okay if I show it to him while he’s here?”

The image of her father’s torn-apart bedroom and office flashed across her mind—as did the layer of dust that had settled on the furniture over the past few weeks.

“I guess that would work. But I need to clean first. And I’ve pulled out a lot of stuff that needs to be trashed or boxed up for charity. When does he want to see it?”

“Friday.”

She checked her watch. It was already after three. That only gave her what was left of today and tomorrow to get the house in shape—unless she wanted to spend some of her Thanksgiving cleaning toilets.

Not an appealing prospect.

“Okay. I can get it done.”

“Great. And anything you can do to make it seem lived in will help. Fresh flowers on the table. A plate of cookies in the kitchen. That kind of thing.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“All right. I’ll let you know what he says. Have a nice holiday.”

“You too.”

Kelly set the phone back on the table and gathered up the brushes that needed cleaning. So much for her plans to finish this illustration before Thanksgiving. But Denise was right; it would be foolish not to woo a potential buyer.

As she entered the kitchen, the phone rang again. Once more, her pulse took a leap. Veering off her route to the basement stairwell, she flipped on the lights, picked up the portable, and checked caller ID. Lauren.

“Hi there. I thought you were leaving at noon.”

“We were supposed to, but I got delayed at work. We’re finally ready to hit the road. I just wanted to call and let you know I’ll be thinking of you on Thursday, and to say I’m sorry I can’t have you to our house for dinner. It stinks that it’s our year to travel.”

“I’ll be fine. I just had a call from the realtor, who has a hot prospect for Dad’s house. So cleaning up the place will keep me occupied.”

“That’s not much of a holiday. Why don’t you reconsider spending the afternoon with Cole and his family?”

Kelly wandered over to the window, eyeing the ominous, black clouds that were massing in the distance. The wind had picked up too, judging by the gyrations of the branches on her blue spruce. “Like I told you Sunday night, Cole wasn’t all that enthusiastic about the idea. But Christmas sounds promising.” A smile tugged at her lips.

“Hold that thought. Listen, Shaun’s giving me the high sign, so I guess the kids are in the car. And he wants to try and get ahead of the storm.”

“I don’t blame him.” She checked the threatening sky again. “It looks like we might be in for our first taste of winter. Have a safe trip and . . .” She stopped speaking as her lights flickered and went off.

“Kelly? What’s wrong?”

“I just lost power. It happens all the time in storms.”

“Hmm. Ours is still on. I hope it’s okay at your dad’s too, or you’ll end up cleaning by candlelight.”

“His house is on a different grid. It never loses power. That’s why I stayed with him a few years ago when we had the ice storm that knocked out half the city, remember?”

“Yeah. Maybe you ought to spend the night there again. The temperature’s supposed to drop, and your house could get chilly if the blower’s off on your furnace.”

“Not a bad idea.” She heard Shaun call again in the background. “Listen, go ahead and get rolling. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. Next week I want a full report.”

“Sixteen people in a moderate-sized house, seven of them under the age of ten, for four days. And I don’t even like turkey. It ought to be loads of fun.”

At her friend’s glum tone, Kelly grinned. “Look at it as an opportunity to bond with the in-laws.”

“If we don’t kill each other first.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s only until Sunday, right?”

“Right.”

“And the cousins will have a blast.”

“Thanks for the pep talk. I’ll call you when I get back.”

As they said their good-byes and Kelly put the phone back in its stand, a gust of wind rattled the window. With the sky darkening, the house was already growing dim, and she didn’t relish spending the night in absolute darkness huddled under three blankets.

Brushes still in hand, she dropped to her knees and groped around under the sink until her fingers closed over a flashlight. Then she descended the basement stairs to take care of her brushes, propping the light on a shelf beside the utility sink as she worked. She hadn’t slept at her dad’s house since that crippling ice storm, but maybe it would be beneficial to return to her childhood home for one last overnight visit. To fall asleep in the place that had always been a sheltering haven from storms of every kind. The place where she’d always felt loved. Protected. Safe.

Except that had all been an illusion. In the end, someone had not only gotten in but flawlessly masked a murder as suicide. Someone on Rossi’s payroll. There was no question in her mind about that. Or Cole’s. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be making this trip to Buffalo.

And that same someone had gone after her once too.

She stared down at the red paint staining her fingers as she cleaned the brush she’d used for the ladybug in her illustration. A shiver ran through her.

That person was still on the loose.

But Cole was on his trail, and she had absolute confidence in the handsome detective who was fast becoming an integral part of her life.

In the meantime, though, she’d use extra caution, as Cole was always reminding her to do. And her childhood home was far more secure than hers, despite the new locks she’d had installed. Whoever had targeted her father had to have gotten in when the security system was off, either a caller her dad had let in himself or an intruder who’d perhaps come in through an open window. But she’d arm it tonight and she didn’t intend to open any windows or answer the door, no matter who might come calling.

Giving her fingers a final rinse, she examined them. No trace of red remained. Satisfied with her cleanup and her security plan, she gathered up the brushes and the flashlight and started back up the stairs to pack a bag for the night.

Confident that in her father’s house, she’d be safe.

Stifling a yawn, Cole exited the jetway, stepped out of the path of the disembarking passengers at Buffalo Niagara International Airport, and twisted his wrist to check the time. Four-ten a.m. Two hours behind schedule, thanks to weather delays.

There’d be no sleep this night.

But he didn’t intend to let fatigue throw him off his game. Unless they came up with some solid evidence linking Rossi to the crime, they were only going to get this one shot at the Mafia honcho.

Mitch appeared among the hoard of zombie-like travelers shuffling out of the jetway, looking disgustingly well-rested for someone who’d sat in coach for most of the night.

“You must have caught some shut-eye.” Cole picked up his small carry-on and squinted at his colleague as the man joined him.

“Uh-huh. From wheels-up to wheels-down.” Mitch grinned. “SEALs learn to sleep anywhere, anytime.”

“Lucky you.” Cole doubted he’d dozed off for more than two or three ten-minute stretches. He’d been crammed into the window seat on the cramped commuter plane, beside an overweight man who’d snored during the entire trip. “I need coffee.”

“I’m with you.” Mitch surveyed a shuttered Starbucks outlet two gates down. “But we’ll have to get some en route. This whole place is shut down for the night.”

“You’d think they’d have longer hours during peak travel times. At least the car rental place extended its hours for the holiday—I checked.” Cole continued toward the terminal, casting a disgruntled glance at the dark coffee shop as Mitch fell in beside him. “Since sleeping on the plane wasn’t an option for
some
of us, I reviewed the background material on Rossi again, looking for angles. The FBI guy I talked to in the Buffalo office doesn’t think there’s been any contact between him and his son since he’s been released. Sounds like the son doesn’t want anything to do with the Rossi dynasty. That has to rankle his old man.”

“How does that help us?”

Cole checked the arrows on the overhead sign and stepped onto the escalator that led to the car rental kiosks. “It could be a trigger point. I doubt Rossi will expect us to bring up his family—but if we’re not getting the answers we need, introducing his relationship with his son could throw him off balance. Cause him to make a slip.”

Skepticism narrowed Mitch’s eyes. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. His attorney isn’t going to let him say anything incriminating.”

Cole shrugged. “People can make mistakes—even if they’ve been well-coached. You never know when some question will hit a sensitive spot and yield a lot more information than you expect—either in words or body language.” He gestured to the left as they neared the bottom of the escalator. “There’s our car place. You want to drive until we get some coffee?”

“Sure. We should clean up a little too.” Mitch straightened his tie and ran his hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “I need a shave. And you need . . .” He inspected Cole. “Something. A fresh shirt, maybe. You could also use some of that stuff Alison has to disguise shadows under her eyes.”

“Thanks a lot.” Cole got off the escalator and set off toward the car rental counter, leaving Mitch to catch up. He knew he looked scruffy, and he’d freshen up before they saw Rossi. But as long as his mind was sharp, he really didn’t care what the former mob boss thought of his appearance. He wasn’t here to impress the man.

He was here to dig for answers.

And before he boarded the return flight later today, he intended to do everything in his power to get them.

Alan killed the lights on his car two blocks from John Warren’s house as he drove through the silent night. Not that the precaution was necessary. The streets were deserted at three-thirty in the morning. But he hated taking unnecessary risks.

Like this whole operation.

He flexed his fingers on the wheel and frowned. Rossi should have followed his advice and let this problem die a natural death—as it would have. But he was used to calling the shots. Used to people jumping when he barked commands. Used to exacting revenge when they didn’t.

And after his role in delivering that revenge to John Warren, Alan knew firsthand what it looked like.

He swallowed past the sudden, acrid taste of fear. The very fear that had driven him here tonight, despite the risk, to plant a letter he hoped would wrap up the Warren case once and for all.

The small apartment complex he’d scouted out Monday night while he’d been retrieving the note at the drop location came into sight, and he pulled into the parking lot. There had been plenty of open spots then, and there were more now. A lot of people must already have left for the holiday.

Choosing one at the far end, he angled in, then pulled a knit hat low over his forehead and tugged on a pair of gloves. He scanned the area to confirm he was alone, then exited the car and locked it manually to avoid the audible click of the automatic mechanism. He’d taped the trunk light earlier in the day, so there was no illuminating glow when he opened the lid to retrieve the backpack that contained everything he needed. The letter, encased in a protective plastic sleeve. Night-vision goggles. A length of sturdy rope to toss over a branch on the tree. Latex gloves. A hammer to break the window.

He was set.

And if all went smoothly, he’d be home in time to grab a little more shut-eye before he had to show up at headquarters to update his boss on the double homicide investigation prior to Sarge’s departure for the holiday.

Then it was just a matter of waiting for Kelly to discover the “storm” damage and find the note.

After that happened, the Warren case could be put to rest once and for all. It would be difficult to refute a suicide note in the man’s own hand. The heat would be off Rossi. The man would send him his final payment, and he could start fresh with Cindy—a reformed gambler, debt-free, with a bright future waiting for him.

Thanksgiving this year would be sweet.

What was that noise?

Kelly opened her eyes and stared at the dark ceiling in her childhood bedroom. All was silent now. But hadn’t she heard a beep or two? The kind made by a microwave or a smoke alarm when the batteries needed changing.

Or a security system being armed or disarmed.

A quiver of fear snaked up her spine, and she bunched the blanket in her fists.

Breathe, Kelly.

She inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Repeated the process, listening.

There were no more beeps. Nor was there any other sound, except the wind whistling around the corner of the house and the thrashing of the trees.

She wrinkled her brow. Had she dreamed the noise? Or heard a sound outside, perhaps? A garbage truck backing up, with its distinctive, piercing warning beep? She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Three forty-five. No one, including trash collectors, should be out and about in the neighborhood making noise at this hour. Especially in a storm.

Or the noise might have been some sound idiosyncratic to her father’s house. All houses made unique sounds at night, and it had been a while since she’d spent a . . .

A floorboard squeaked.

The breath lodged in her throat, and her fingers clenched as she tried to quell her rising panic. There was probably a very simple explanation for that noise too. Wood contracted and expanded in heat and cold. She’d set the heat lower before going to bed. Maybe it was the flooring adjusting to the change in temperature.

Or an intruder.

No. That was impossible. She’d set the alarm when she went to bed. No one knew the code except her. The realtor did have a separate access code, one Kelly had programmed just for her. But Denise wouldn’t be prowling around the house in the middle of the night, nor would she have given her code to anyone. The noise had to be . . .

Another creak echoed in the quiet house.

The breath whooshed out of her lungs.

Someone
was
in the house!

Heart hammering, she eased the covers back and swung her feet to the floor. Too bad her cell phone had died this afternoon and was stuck in the charger in the kitchen, where she’d inadvertently left it when she went to bed. As for a weapon—a quick scan confirmed there was nothing more lethal in her old bedroom than a college art show trophy. At least it was handy—and heavy.

She tiptoed across the room, praying her unsteady legs would support her, and retrieved it from among the others on the shelf her father had built for her twenty years ago. Turning it upside down so the solid wood base was on top, she gripped it with both hands, inched toward the door, and peeked into the dim hall, illuminated only by a night-light.

Empty.

She waited for another noise. One that would help her pinpoint the location of the intruder.

It came ten seconds later. The muted sound of a zipper. From her father’s study.

Okay. Decision time. She could try and slip past the study without being spotted, get the phone out of the charger, and dial 911. Or she could hide in a closet with her weapon and hope the intruder wouldn’t search the house.

But if this person had had anything to do with her father’s death, she couldn’t let him get away again.

Decision made. She had to try and reach the phone.

Tightening her grip on the trophy, she crept down the hall.

Three steps later, the sudden snap of rubber echoed in the quiet house. She froze. A few seconds later, the sound was repeated.

What was that all about?

She edged to the study door and peeked around. A black-clothed figure was crouched near the desk, rummaging through a bag on the floor. A man, based on his size.

Kelly tried to keep breathing, but she could only manage shallow gasps. Knowing an intruder was in the house was one thing. Seeing him mere feet away was another. At least his back was to her, and he was intent on his task.

This was her chance to pass the door unnoticed.

With a silent prayer for courage, she crept past the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

Two steps past the door, however, a floorboard
under
the carpet protested.

She heard a sudden movement in the study and swung around, trophy raised.

The intruder emerged. “What the . . .”

His startled exclamation registered at some peripheral level, but all of her focus was on his face. Or what
should
have been his face. Instead, some sort of binocular-type contraption was protruding from his eyes, held in place with a piece of headgear anchored by a chin guard.

He looked like a creature from a science fiction movie.

And he was a lot bigger than he’d appeared when he’d been hunkered down in the study.

But whoever he was—
whatever
he was—he represented a serious threat.

Raising the trophy, she prepared to smash it over his head.

Unfortunately, her delay had cost her the element of surprise. As she swung the trophy down with all her strength, he sidestepped and lunged at her. She missed his head, but the walnut base did connect with his shoulder.

Muttering an oath, he grabbed her wrist in a vise-like grip with one hand and yanked the trophy out of her grasp with the other.

Adrenaline surging, she kicked at his legs and clawed at his face with her free hand, all the while trying to twist free. From his grunts, she knew a few of her blows connected. But she was no match for his muscular strength. The most effective thing she managed to do was hook her fingers into his headgear and jerk on it. He tried to elbow her, but she kept on jerking, hoping that would distract him enough to allow her to kick him in some vital place—and give her a chance to grab a lamp in the living room so she could smash something more substantial over his head.

Instead, though, her tugging loosened the headgear. The next thing she knew, the binocular-like appendage fell away—and she found herself staring into a familiar face, inches away.

“Detective Carlson?” Her words came out whispered. Incredulous.

Panic flared in his eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Tightened his grip on her arm. Spat out an expletive.

Still reeling from shock, she had no time to react when he lifted his hand. But in the instant before his fist smashed into her jaw and her legs crumpled, she knew she’d found her father’s killer.