Deadly Intent (14 page)

‘ ‘Calling Enrique. We have to get the truck off the street, just in case someone saw it.”

“Enrique ain’t home.”

Tony flicked his phone off. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m not as stupid as you think I am. I knew I’d have to hide the truck, so I called him. His grandfather said he was out on a date and wouldn’t be back until late.”

“You stopped to make a call after you killed McGregor? Are you nuts?”

“I didn’t stop. I used this.” He took out a cell phone from his pocket and set it on the table in front of Tony.

“What’s that?”

Arturo laughed as if he had just done something incredibly clever. “McGregor’s cell phone. I took it from him.” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “And this. Four C’s and some change, man. The bastard wasn’t as broke as we thought.”

But Tony wasn’t looking at the money. He was looking at the cell phone. “You used McGregor’s phone to make a call?”

Arturo gave him a blank look.

“Don’t you get it? The call can be traced. Once the police find out the phone is missing, they can get hold of the phone records.”

“And who’s gonna report it missing, bright boy? A dead man?”

“How about Rose? She had to know Ian had a cell phone.”

Arturo fell silent. Without a word, Tony took the phone from the table and wiped it clean. Then he walked over to the closet and dropped it in his duffel bag.

“I’ll get rid of it in the morning. In the meantime, don’t touch it. And don’t answer it if it rings. You hear me?”

Looking relieved now that Tony was handling all the details, Arturo meekly nodded.

“I’ll call Enrique in the morning,” Tony continued. “Right now, take the truck off the street and park it behind the garage.”

“You’re not going to tell Enrique I killed a man, are you?”

“No. I’ll make up a reason why we need to hide the truck.”

“And then what do we do?”

Funny, Tony thought, now that Arturo was in serious trouble, he used “we” instead of “I.”

“We lay low and wait for the heat to cool. When it’s safe to leave, we’ll leave.”

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

Tony felt like grabbing that bottle from Arturo’s hand and using it to knock some sense into that thick skull of his. “And how are you going to do that? You plan to kill McGregor’s sister, too?”

“I’ll do what I have to do to get my money back.”

“It’s not your money!”

“She was going to give it to McGregor, wasn’t she? Now she can give it to me.” He brought the bottle to his mouth again. “And she will, if she knows what’s good for her.”

Abbie stood on rubbery legs and waited until Tiffany had driven away, before closing the door and leaning against it. The events of the last thirty minutes kept replaying in her head in vivid, frightening details, and although her heartbeat had finally returned to normal, she was still filled with too many conflicting emotions to think clearly.

Something had gone terribly wrong at the lake, but

what? Where was Ian? Who was that man who had attacked her, demanding the money? Obviously he had known about the payoff or he wouldn’t have been there. He may even have been the reason Ian had called her in that urgent tone earlier, whispering new instructions. Yet, a man she knew nothing about had ended up at the meeting place instead of Ian.

She ruled out the possibility the man was Earl Kramer. The death-row inmate was as likely to have escaped from prison in the last twenty-four hours as she was of jumping off the Stony Brook Bridge.

But if not Kramer, then who had been willing to kill her just to get his hands on that money? And how was she going to find out?

Sixteen

Homicide Detective John Ryan had to circle FitzRandolph Academy three times before finally finding a parking space. He could have double-parked, the way most cops did when they needed to get somewhere in a hurry, but this was his son’s school and it wouldn’t bode well for an advocate of law and order to break the rules.

Hands in his pockets, he stood for a moment, gazing at the sprawling three-story brick building with the well known logo above the entrance—the profile of Nathaniel FitzRandolph, an eighteenth-century landowner and one of the town’s early benefactors.

Although the school was indisputably one of the best learning establishments on the East Coast, John hadn’t been in favor of sending his son to a private institution. Old fashioned by nature, he was a strong believer that a well rounded education could only come from a public school. But his wife—ex-wife, now—had been adamant that Jordan needed structure and discipline, something she claimed public schools did not provide. The problem was, Jordan wasn’t happy here, and it was beginning to show. This was John’s second visit to the headmistress this year. The first, in January, had been in regard to Jordan’s failure to turn in his homework. And now, the energetic nine-year-old had apparently punched a classmate in the nose. Clarice had been notified as well, and would call him as soon as she

could get a moment. God forbid she should leave in the middle of an important meeting.

John started toward the main entrance. In spite of what Clarice thought, Jordan was not a difficult boy. He was a little more passionate than most about the things he cared about and that occasionally got him in trouble, but other than that he was a good kid.

Knowing that children of divorced parents needed more attention than most, John spent as much time as possible with Jordan. He took him fishing, picked him up after school on his days off and coached his baseball team whenever he could squeeze in a couple of free hours between shifts.

For a while after he and Clarice had agreed to split up, he had considered filing for custody, partly because he liked the idea of having Jordan with him full-time, and partly because Clarice’s schedule wasn’t much better than his. In fact, it was worse. As the newly appointed vice president of a pharmaceutical firm, her life was a series of meetings, seminars and sales conferences that often took her out of town for days.

Those absences had been the subject of constant bickering between the two of them. John had felt she should spend more time with Jordan, and Clarice accused him of not understanding how important her career was to her. “Every bit as important as yours is to you,” she had told him, missing the point entirely.

In front of the glass door, he took a moment to check his appearance, in anticipation of Mrs. Rhinehart’s own eagle-eyed inspection. He ran a hand through his black hair, glad he had remembered to get a haircut. He was so busy these days that he often let that part of his grooming go until his captain gave him a stern reminder. His gaze drifted down. The navy blazer and gray trousers were just

out of the cleaner’s, and the open-neck white shirt crisp enough to please the most discriminating of headmistresses.

Satisfied he wouldn’t embarrass his nine-year-old son, he pushed the door open and walked in. Although school would be out at ten today due to a teachers’ conference, the halls were empty when John walked through the glass domed entrance. Remembering the location of the headmistress’s office, he turned right and headed toward the administrative wing, wondering what could have prompted Jordan, a relatively gentle soul, to hit a classmate. Well, he’d know soon enough.

Mrs. Rhinehart was at her desk, sorting through a stack of correspondence, when John knocked on her door, which she had left ajar. She was a fairly attractive woman whose rather dour expression and stiff demeanor discouraged the slightest pleasantry.

She waved him in. “Come on in, Mr. Ryan. Please have a seat.” She had made it a point, from the very first visit, not to call him “detective,” explaining that the philosophy at FitzRandolph was to treat all parents as equals. That was fine with him; he had never been big on titles.

“Thank you.” The words “What has he done now?” almost slipped out, but he stopped himself in time, allowing her to speak first. He was beginning to get the hang of that private-school stuff.

Mrs. Rhinehart pushed her papers aside and rested her arms on the desk surface, looking at him above the center line of her bifocals. “Do you box, Mr. Ryan?”

Since she had obviously meant it as a serious question, John tried to keep an appropriate demeanor. “I did, in my younger days.” At her slightly disapproving look, he added. “But I haven’t put on a pair of gloves in at least twenty years.”

His attempt at a little humor seemed to make matters

worse. “I was wondering where Jordan had learned his technique.” She surprised him with her next remark, although it was delivered with the utmost gravity. “To quote one of your son’s friends, who was an eyewitness to the incident, ‘Jordan’s got a killer right hook.’”

John felt an involuntary rush of fatherly pride. During the first six years of his life, Jordan had been painfully thin and the object of many cruel jokes, in and out of school. One day, unable to take the humiliation any longer, he had lunged at one of the boys who had called him “bread stick,” only to have the boy retaliate mercilessly. When Jordan had come home sobbing and bloody, John had taken him out in the backyard and taught him a few moves. Soon afterward, the same bully, certain he’d score an easy victory, had instigated another fight. This time, he was the one who had run home crying.

That’s when Clarice had decided her son was turning into a bully and it was time to put him in a private school.

The expression on Mrs. Rhinehart’s face, however, reminded John this was no laughing matter. “May I ask what brought on the fight?”

“Some silly argument about baseball icons.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t think much of baseball. “I didn’t go into it, Mr. Ryan. The reason for the fight is not important. I must mention, however, that the other boy threw the first punch, which is the reason I’m not suspending Jordan. But he did hurt his classmate, and for that I must put him on probation. One more incident like this one, regardless of who starts the fight, and I will suspend him.”

Although John had turned thirty-nine two months ago, under that unyielding gaze, he felt ten years old. “How’s the other boy?” he asked.

“In pain, although I’m glad to say his nose is not broken.” She paused, her eyes still on John. “I know you and

Mrs. Ryan have been divorced for a couple of years now, but I was wondering if there had been any changes in Jordan’s life recently. I’m not prying,” she added. “I’m just trying to find a reason for the boy’s sudden aggressiveness.”

John sighed. There was no avoiding responsibilities here. He was just as guilty as Clarice. “His mother is out on the road a lot,” he said. “And I’ve been working long hours.”

‘ ‘Where does Jordan go when his mother is away?”

“He stays with me. Or his mother makes arrangements with a neighbor who has a boy his age.”

Mrs. Rhinehart nodded. “Has he expressed displeasure over those arrangements?”

“Not to me.”

“A lack of active parenting could be the base of the problem,” she continued, sounding more like a psychologist than an educator. John’s reaction must have shown, because she immediately raised her hand. “I’m not accusing you or Mrs. Ryan of being bad parents. I’m merely suggesting that children of Jordan’s age need their parents much more than a teenager would. Jordan could be lonely, or homesick for the life he used to have when both you and your former wife lived together. The symptoms may not be apparent at first, but sooner or later, they manifest themselves. In your son’s case, I believe they already have. He wants attention, Mr. Ryan, and if he can’t get it the standard way, he’ll get it any way he can.”

“By fighting with a classmate?”

Mrs. Rhinehart gave a light shrug. “It got you here, didn’t it?”

She had a point. “I’ll talk to him, Mrs. Rhinehart. And I promise you this will not happen again.”

“Good. In the meantime, perhaps you and your wife could reevaluate your respective schedules? See how you

might be able to fit in an extra hour or two each day for your son?”

It was as close to a reprimand as he had ever gotten, but she had driven her point home. Changes would have to be made.

When the bell rang at ten o’clock sharp, Jordan was the first one out of his classroom. Tall for his age, and still slender, he had filled out nicely in the last two years, gaining the kind of confidence he had so desperately needed. His thick black hair was a little mussed, maybe from the fight, but by some strange miracle his navy-blue uniform didn’t have a spot or a tear in it. Either the fight had been stopped at an early stage, or fighting was not what it used to be when John was a boy.