Toured to Death (25 page)

Marcus squeezed shut his eyes, and his hands moved reflexively, doing what his mind was too slow to tell them to do. The jerk of the wheel away from the trees made the Jeep also swerve and gave Marcus just enough leeway to avoid a direct hit. He heard both rearview mirrors snap off in shrieks, one metal against tree, the other metal against metal. His eyes flew back open. The maples' exposed roots shivered under his wheels.

When he realized he was still miraculously alive, actual thoughts began to return.
Slam on the brakes,
he told himself. But his instincts said no.
Control and survival.
To brake was to invite a host of uncontrolled possibilities. Swerving. Skidding. And even if he came safely to a stop, what then? A hit-and-run? A gunshot as he tried to escape into the woods on foot?
How?
he asked himself.
How had this happened so quickly?

Another car was coming up from the rear. Marcus allowed himself a moment of hope. He turned his head in time to see something white speed by in the passing lane, honking its horn in a wail of irritation. It was gone in seconds. Tomorrow, when the irritated driver read about the accident in the news, would he even recall what he'd seen?

The shoulder widened. When the verge flattened, Marcus could finally lift his gaze from the immediate foreground. He had driven through one emergency turnout already, slamming down into the black roadway, only to be slammed back up, the wheel thrashing wildly in his hands. Ahead he could see a gap in the trees. Another turnout. And right in front of it . . .
No!
A road sign!
EXIT GREENBROOK POND.
He threw his foot to the other pedal. Again instinct. The brakes locked instantly, wrenching the car sideways.

The passenger door hammered into the sign, then through the sign, clipping off the yard-high aluminum supports as it went. The wide green rectangle slapped against the side windows, which were now the front window. Through the windshield, Marcus was relieved to see nothing. No Jeep. Only the two empty southbound lanes and the trees and the sky, all of them turning over and over in unison as the Volvo began to flip.

He reached for support to the ceiling and the door, then forced himself to pull back, grasping the shoulder harness instead. What was it they said? Drunks did better in crashes because their bodies were relaxed? Damn! Who could relax?

His foot was pushing through the brake pedal as the car flipped two complete revolutions, thrusting him to the right, to the ceiling, to the left and back. Then everything all over again, making the two rolls feel like ten.

The Volvo settled on four flat tires, flopping itself neatly onto the unpaved exit for Greenbrook Pond. A cloud of dust billowed around the wreck, swirling inside the car through a shattered rear window. He coughed fitfully, then cleared his throat, choking off his dry spasms.

Marcus sat there shivering, his throat clenched. Concentrating on each bone and joint, he waited for the dust to clear. A sprained right wrist from when he'd first reached up to the ceiling. A tender bruise across the torso, where the shoulder strap had caught him. Too traumatized to actually move, he flexed his arms, then his legs and feet. Nothing seemed broken.

The world outside the cloud was unnaturally quiet. A few gusts of sound whizzed by from the northbound lanes, but no such sounds from his own. Where the hell was New Jersey traffic when you needed it? His encounter with the Jeep seemed to have taken a lifetime, but he knew the whole thing couldn't have been more than sixty seconds.

And now? Was it over? As quickly as that? Had his attacker simply given up and driven on, afraid to take any more chances on a public parkway?

Marcus rolled down his window an inch. The soft scent of pine played through the dust and helped to relax him, making him suddenly and strangely nostalgic for the childhood summers on his grandmother's farm. Marcus allowed himself one more cough, then took in his first deep breath.

He breathed in again. He exhaled. Then every muscle in his body clenched as an explosion ripped through the inch of air above his head. A second shot came a second later, shattering the driver's side glass, then the passenger glass, passing through the car as easily as it could have passed through him.

Marcus pulled himself down into the seat.
How easily could a bullet penetrate a Volvo?
he wondered. The shoulder harness caught him under the chin like a noose, keeping his head stubbornly above the door metal. With fast, feverish hands, he reached toward his right hip, seeking out the little red button. There it was. Why wouldn't it release? Again and again he punched it.

The third shot hit him. Marcus let out a muffled, strangled scream just as the buckle released.

A
my pointed to an inside space on the bench. “You sit here, across from me. Frank can have the outside.”

Sergeant Rawlings said nothing. But he traded places with Patrolman Loyola, scooting across to the inside of the wooden booth.

“There's a reason for this,” Amy said, feeling foolish but determined. “Lou. Three orange juices.”

“I can always eat,” Frank said with a cautious eye to his superior. “Muffins here are pretty good.”

Something close to a sneer wrinkled Rawlings's pale, young features. “You said you know who killed Ingo. That's the reason I'm here. Three hours ago I had breakfast.”

“Then you must be hungry. And no. I said I know who killed Georgina Davis, though it's a safe bet it's the same person. As for Fabian Carvel, there I'm a mite shaky.”

“If you're withholding evidence, Ms. Abel . . .”

“Whoa!” Amy was forcing herself to be loud and confident. If it came off a little obnoxious, so be it. “I don't know anything the police shouldn't know. For instance, Fabian Carvel had an allergy attack on the night of his disappearance. And the cook's son was in the house that night but was never questioned. And Carvel didn't voluntarily disappear. The credit card signatures on his cross-country trip were forged.”

“That's not my case,” Rawlings said.

“But they're all connected. Thanks, Lou.” Lou had put the three glasses in front of his three customers. “Lou!” Amy took her orange juice and held it up to the light. “Is this fresh squeezed?”

“Don't push your luck.” Lou dumped the menus and walked away.

Rawlings's patience was growing thin. “That thing about credit card receipts. You got that from Ingo's notes.”

“No comment.”

“Someone sent me that script. Overnight delivery.”

“No comment.” Amy sat up tall and lifted an orange juice. “To catching the killer.”

Rawlings paused, examining Amy's face. “You're in a cocky mood, which is probably why I'm still listening.”

Amy shrugged and toasted again. Rawlings reached for his juice. Frank followed suit, and all three touched glasses. The travel agent glanced over her rim as the homicide detective drank.

Rawlings caught the look. “What are you up to?” he demanded, then returned his juice. “What the hell!” He reached down in the glass and pulling out a red cat's-eye marble, half an inch across. “What the hell?”

“Think of it as a cyanide pill,” Amy said with a nervous grin.

“I could've choked on this,” Rawlings barked. “Waiter!”

“Lou didn't do it. I did.” Lou was approaching with an order pad, but Amy waved him away. “We're not ready.”

“You? You mean, before we got here?”

“I mean just now.” Amy took the wet marble from Rawlings and placed it on her place mat. “I held up my glass and asked about fresh squeezed. When you looked away, I dropped it in.”

“But that was
your
glass.”

“And just now, when we were toasting . . .” Amy pointed to a fresh water ring on the table. “I picked up yours. They were close together, so you assumed the remaining glass was yours. Even if you'd realized I'd taken the wrong one, the normal thing would be to just take mine. Neither one had been drunk from.”

“Ooh!” Frank was excited, almost choking on his juice. “That's how she was poisoned.”

“I could've bit into that damn marble.”

“You bite your orange juice?”

“I could've swallowed it. Is that why you brought me here? To play a little parlor trick? Can you make a quarter come out of my ear?”

“Ooh.” Frank was holding his temples in place with his fists. “Who was sitting across from Georgina?”

“The people on her left and right were too far away to do it unnoticed. Frank knows. He was there. But we always reach across the table for a glass. It's natural.”

Rawlings gazed down at the wet marble, rolling it along the placemat with a fingertip. Amy knew enough not to push it further. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Shouldn't we order first?” Amy asked with an eye cocked toward Lou, now a brooding presence behind the counter.

They ordered. And while they waited for, then ate their muffins, Amy explained her theory, everything from Fabian's death to Otto's shooting and Georgina's poisoning. It all sounded good, Amy felt, until the moment when the big hole started to become apparent.

Rawlings saw it soon enough. “The murders aren't connected,” he interrupted. “How is Carvel's killer, this Leonardo character that no one knows about . . . how is he connected to your poisoner?”

“I'm not quite sure,” Amy mumbled. “But there's a connection.”

“Connection, hell. It makes sense only if they're the same person.”

“Not really. They could be related. You'll never know until you check it out.”

“We did checks on everyone.”

“Well, check this one again.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

The two of them kept at it, with Frank sitting quietly by. Amy tried to emphasize other aspects, the logic, the personalities. But Rawlings kept returning to the hole, like a dog with a bone.

“All I'm asking for is a search warrant.”

“That's all?”

“You'll find the gun that killed Otto.”

Rawlings wiped his mouth. “Ms. Abel. This is not something I'm willing to act on right now. I appreciate your help, and I loved the magic trick. I really did. Lou, my man, the muffins were great.” He slapped down a twenty and headed out the screen door.

Frank followed.

Lou crossed to the booth, took the bill, and began to wipe down, brushing the muffin crumbs into Amy's lap. “You and your pals might want to look for another spot. I got a reputation.”

“Sorry, Lou. It won't happen again.”

So that was it? Her great breakthrough? Amy knew she was right, but what good would that do her now?

Back out on the street, she was surprised to find Frank Loyola leaning against the shingle-sided building. Alone. “I told the sarge I had an errand to run.”

“That's nice,” Amy said, still mindful of their last encounter.

“Him and me came in separate cars, so . . .” Frank pointed to his green Camaro, parked by a hydrant. “You really think that's how it happened?”

“You were there.”

Frank rubbed his chin. “It's possible. A couple of people picked up their king of Sweden wine and sniffed it. The pill could have gone in then.”

Amy looked at the Camaro, then back at its owner. “So what's this errand?”

Frank kicked an old candy wrapper into the gutter. “I was thinking we might go visit someone. Nothing official. But I'm pretty good at throwing people off guard. What do you say?”

Amy shook her head. “I thought you were after Marcus.”

“Yeah. But if Rawlings is right, then it's his collar and I'm still a flunky. If you're right . . .”

“Then it's your collar. No, thanks.”

“Ah, come on.” He was practically pleading. “If you must know, the sarge hasn't been too encouraging. Sure, he confers with me, but more like a witness than a fellow investigator. So, I was thinking if I showed a little more initiative . . . you know?”

“Unofficially? Without a warrant?”

“There are things we can do.”

“Like making people vomit their muffins?”

“You're not making it easy.” Frank bit his lower lip. “I'm sorry about that. But look what you got here. I'm an on-duty cop who half believes you, who's got a legal sidearm and knows what he can and can't do. You're not gonna do better. Not today.”

“You're just doing this to get your gold shield.”

“Yeah? Well, so what? I mean, so what?”

“So . . .” She mulled it over. “So you're right. Let's go.”

For most of the drive they stayed silent, except for Amy's suggestion about the best approach to the Holland Tunnel, which Frank appreciated. Once in New Jersey, he headed north on the turnpike, weaving through steady traffic until the Palisades. From there on they expected clear sailing, and were surprised when the cars began slowing down and backing up.

Frank leaned out his window, regarded the flow with a practiced eye, then strained his neck to gaze at the nearly empty southbound lanes. “Feels like a rubbernecking delay.”

The minutes crawled along with the traffic. Two miles later an access break between the wooded medians gave them a clear view. It was rubbernecking, as Frank had figured, caused by an accident in the southbound lanes. Everyone was ogling two highway patrol units, their reds flashing as they straddled an exit leading onto a dirt road. In the middle of the exit stood a battered Volvo sedan. A plume of light steam rose from its hood, and shrubs seemed to be growing out of the grille. Three windows had been broken or severely cracked, and all four tires were flat. A sign,
EXIT GREENBROOK POND,
lay crumpled nearby.

“How the Hector . . . ?”

Amy stared past Frank's head. “It's a Volvo like mine,” she said as they crept toward a closer view. It had a Rye Playland bumper sticker, too. And the license plate . . . “Holy crap, it's my car.”

Frank winced. “Are you sure?”

“It's my car.”

Frank began to ease the Camaro across a lane and through the access break. They pulled in behind the patrol cars, and while Frank was busy showing his badge to an officer, Amy jumped out and ran to the injured Volvo. It was empty, with streaks of blood across the driver's seat.

A minute later Frank joined her. “Someone dialed nine-one-one about gunshots along this stretch. That was maybe ten minutes ago. They say it probably got run off the road. The boys are waiting for the locals. This isn't really your car?”

“It is.”

“Holy Hanna. Who else has keys? Your mom?”

“Yeah.” Thirty yards in, the dirt road vanished around a leafy bend. “I can't believe she . . . Can we drive back in there?”

Frank shrugged. “It's a jurisdictional thing, you know?”

“It's my mother.”

“The Volvo's blocking the way. And we can't drive up and around, 'cause my Camaro doesn't got enough clearance.”

“My mother gets run off the road, and you're talking about clearance? She's in there.”

“Not necessarily.” But Frank was already talking to Amy's back. “Hey!”

Amy had almost reached the bend in the dirt road when the patrolman caught up. “All right,” he hissed as they fell in beside each other. “I guess there's nothing wrong with an off-duty New York cop taking a walk in the New Jersey woods.”

“You're on duty.”

“Sugar!” Frank stopped in his tracks, then started again. “Oh, what the Hector! But you follow my lead. This is my show.”

It was Amy who first saw the Grand Cherokee parked in the middle of the road, near the spot where a footpath branched off and meandered into the brush. The two of them gazed silently. A breeze stirred the leaves at their feet, and Amy could swear she heard footsteps not far off, rhythmically crunching through the autumn debris. Frank heard them, too. He drew his service revolver and motioned for Amy to stay with the Grand Cherokee. Amy nodded.

She waited until Frank had turned down the footpath, not a second longer. Then she took the only other route, the dirt road beyond the Jeep, walking softly and listening through the dying breeze for the footsteps that might have been nothing more than the breeze. The road curved up an incline, and from the top Amy thought she could see the faint outline of the Empire State Building across the woods and the river.

Taking the curve down the other side, she was immediately faced with the kidney-shaped expanse of Greenbrook Pond. The road ended at the pond's edge, in a small gravel patch. Nearby, a graffiti-riddled storage shed leaned into a weeping willow, its chained and nailed-up boards serving to hold the structure together as much as to keep out intruders.

Amy felt a touch on her ankle, like the landing of an insect on skin, except that she was wearing trousers, not shorts. As she passed within a few yards of the shed, she felt another touch, this time more like a sharp pang, hitting her on the right hip. Amy stopped and inspected the spot and rubbed it.

“Amy,” a voice whispered. She started, then spun clumsily in a circle. There was no one in sight, and she spun again. A third stone, this one too large to be a pebble, arched past her head and hit the ground. “Amy. The shed.”

She hadn't even considered the shed. There seemed to be no way in and barely enough of it standing to accommodate a human being. As she stared, a narrow plank of rotting wood was lifted and moved aside, leaving a black hole about four inches wide. “Marcus?” Amy looked into the hole. “What are you doing in there?”

A pair of eyes inside the wedge of darkness reflected the cloudy daylight. “Get out of here now. Go.” His voice was weak and shaky.

“Where's Fanny?”

“At home. I borrowed the car.”

“Thanks for taking such good care of it.”

“Amy, I've been shot.”