Deadly Intent (32 page)

John smiled to himself. Kramer would have no problem with the recorder. Or any of John’s requests. He could almost guarantee it.

Condemned men all looked the same, John thought. On the surface, there was this cockiness, this swagger as they shuffled into the room, chains clinking. But to the discerning eye, fear—and sometimes, hope—were visible, for a new visitor could only mean good news. What else could a man on death row expect? Occasionally, you could see something else—a deep-rooted anger. In their eyes, the system had let them down. It wasn’t their fault they were screwed up. It was the fault of the drunken father who had walked out on them, or the mother who had brought a new man home every night, or the beatings they had suffered as kids. Sometimes, sadly, the claims were legitimate, other

times they were manufactured. Whatever worked. Sorting out truth from fiction was a task John gladly left to others.

Earl Kramer was no different. Not only was he a con artist, he was also a ruthless killer. The bible he carried in his hand as he approached the glass booth did nothing to change John’s opinion of the man.

They picked up the receivers hanging from the wall at the same time.

“Hello, Kramer.”

Wary eyes studied him. “Who the hell are you?”

“Didn’t they tell you?”

“They said some cop wanted to see me, but I’ve never seen you before.”

“Then this is your lucky day.” John gave him a cool smile and was rewarded by a flash of hope in those beady little black eyes.

“It is?”

“You bet. But first, let me offer my condolences.”

Kramer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who died?”

“Your buddy. You know. Ian McGregor.”

Kramer’s expression turned blank. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. He’s the guy who came to see you a couple of weeks ago with this little plan that would put the two of you in the money—a hundred grand, to be exact. All you had to do was confess to a crime you didn’t commit.”

Kramer laughed. “Now why would I do a dumb thing like that?”

“Because you liked the idea of collecting fifty grand without lifting a finger, and because you knew that admitting to a new crime would open a new investigation, thus delaying your execution indefinitely.” John flashed him a grin. “How am I doing so far?”

Kramer’s expression didn’t change. For the time being, he seemed supremely confident. That would soon change. “You’re nuttier than a fruitcake,” Kramer said.

“I don’t think so. You see, we have proof that McGregor called you on June 4 from Princeton, New Jersey, asking you to call his sister, which you did, that very same day.” He paused to study Kramer’s reaction. “Is your memory coming back?”

The man was quick on his feet. “Oh,” he said, tapping his forehead as though his memory had indeed miraculously returned. “That McGregor. Why didn’t you say so? Yeah, sure, I know Ian. He’s an old buddy of mine.” His gaze lowered to the bible in front of him. “I’m sorry he passed. I’ll pray for his soul.”

What a load of crap, John thought, but said instead, “Why did he come to see you?”

“Because I asked him to. I had heard he was getting out and I wanted to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“About me torching his father’s house, and I wanted to ask for his forgiveness. But I don’t know nothin’ about no hundred grand.” He placed one hand on his chest. “I did what I did out of the goodness of my heart.”

“You’re lying, Kramer.”

Kramer let out a thin laugh that grated on John’s nerves. “You cops are all the same, you know that? You think just because you got a badge and a gun you can push people around and make them admit things that ain’t so.” His lips pulled into a sneer. “Well, guess what? You ain’t gonna push me around. So rave all you want about that half-baked story of yours and get the hell out of my face.”

John leaned forward. As much as he felt like reaching over and squashing Kramer’s face against the glass, it was important to keep his temper under control. “Then I’m

going to keep it nice and simple for you,” he said quietly. “Before I came here, I did my homework. It’s a little passion of mine, learning all I can about cons like you. You’re not going to like what I found out.”

Still no reaction. Either the man was stupid or he was one hell of a poker player.

“You’ve done some nasty things in your lifetime, Kramer. But one of them is especially disgusting. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Kramer didn’t bother to acknowledge the question. He continued to watch John, both hands on the bible.

“I’m talking about molesting your little stepdaughter. How old was she, Kramer? Five? Six?”

This time Kramer flinched. “Seven, and I paid for that crime, so what the fuck are you bringing this up for?”

“I’m bringing it up because it wasn’t mentioned during your last trial.”

“The prosecutor tried to, but my attorney stopped him before it could go on record. It’s called ‘motion to exclude evidence.’” He puffed up his chest and gave John a smug smile. “You see, I know a little about the law, too.”

“That was a lucky break for you, wasn’t it? Otherwise the information may have leaked out, maybe right into this prison.”

For the first time, there was a glimmer of fear in Kramer’s eyes. He had finally gotten the message.

“How do you think your fellow inmates would feel if they knew the nasty things you did to that little girl? I don’t think they’d like it, do you? Some of those men may be hard-core criminals, but they have one rule they all abide by—you don’t hurt a child. In fact, they get so worked up when they find out a child molester is in the same prison, they often take the law into their own hands and administer whatever punishment they feel is right. One case I remem

ber had an entire cell block attack the man and beat him within an inch of his life. I heard one of the inmates bit off his dick.”’ John gave a sad shake of his head. “Poor bastard never did walk right after that.”

Kramer’s face had turned as gray as the dingy walls behind him. “You can’t release that information. You’ll be held in contempt.”

Apparently Kramer had had time to learn some legalese. “I don’t think so. Last time I looked, freedom of speech was still alive and well in this country. All I have to do is drop a few words into the right ears, and by tomorrow you could be a dead man. Or you might wish you were.”

Kramer stared at him for a long time, under hooded eyes. John figured he was weighing the odds and not liking how they added up. John didn’t rush him. He just returned the stare.

“What do you want?” Kramer asked at last.

John took his tape recorder from his breast pocket and put it on the table.

“Tell me what really went down between you and McGregor.”

Thirty-Four

Abbie could barely control her emotions when John called on Monday morning to tell her about his successful trip to Stateville Prison and Earl Kramer’s confession, which had been signed and witnessed before John left Ohio.

“I can’t believe you got him to confess,” she said excitedly. “If you were here right now instead of halfway across town, I’d plant a big kiss on that handsome face of yours.”

He laughed. “Hold on to that thought then, because you’re going to get your chance.”

“Is that so.”

“How does a little dinner sound? Say, around nine?”

“It sounds wonderful. And I can do nine. Mondays are slow.”

“I know. Brady told me.”

She cast a glance toward her sous-chef, who looked as if he knew exactly who she was talking to. “He did, did he?”

“Only because I threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t fess up.”

“That’s right, stick up for him.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m taking you?”

Actually, she was wondering how she’d last until nine tonight. “Where are you taking me?”

“Church Street Bistro.”

“It’s one of my favorite places.”

“Good. Shall I pick you up at Campagne? Eight forty five?”

“I’ll be ready.”

She hung up and turned to Brady. “So, you’ve been discussing me with John.”

“Just a little.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Only enough to help him choose a restaurant—things like the foods you like, the kind of restaurants you prefer, the best time to ask you out.”

“Best time to ask me out?”

“You know, how mornings are good because you’re upbeat, relaxed, excited about the day ahead. Evenings are not so good. You’re punchy and frazzled.”

She laughed. “In other words, you’ve divulged all my secrets.”

“Not all of them. I left out a couple so he could discover them on his own.”

A deliveryman walked in, wheeling a cartful of French baguettes, and handed Brady a clipboard. Brady glanced at the cart before scrawling his name on the invoice. “So,” he said when the deliveryman had left, “where is he taking you?”

“Church Street Bistro in Lambertville.”

Brady nodded his approval. “Good choice. The food is simple but excellent, the service friendly without being overpowering.” He winked. “And the romantic atmosphere can’t be beat.”

She snatched a dishtowel from the counter and swatted him on the rear with it. “You’re incorrigible.”

He gave her a silly grin. “I am, aren’t I?”

Abbie was too busy over the lunch hour to think about her upcoming date with John Ryan. But when she and

Brady walked out of Campagne at two-thirty everything changed. She felt like a teenager preparing for her first date, dropping things, staring off into space and half listening to what Ben was telling her.

At four-thirty, she went upstairs and subjected her closet to the worst abuse in years as she rummaged through her clothes in search of an appropriate outfit. After trying on a half-dozen different combinations, she settled for a gauzy skirt in a muted shade of purple, a simple, sleeveless white tank and high-heeled mules the same color as the skirt. She was probably overdressing, but it was getting late and she had run out of clothes to try.

After kissing Ben and telling Tiffany she’d be home at the usual time, she left.

John arrived at Campagne fifteen minutes early and ended up waiting outside the restaurant’s back door, worried his eagerness would make him look stupid. Showing up early for a date had never been a concern before. On the contrary. He was usually late.

When he finally went in, his first thought as he stood on the threshold was that Abbie looked absolutely luscious. Under the white apron, he caught a glimpse of an airy, purple fabric, the hem of which seemed to float around her ankles as she moved. She looked taller tonight, and when he glanced down again, he saw why. Though she wore high heels, she moved about the kitchen as easily as if she were wearing sneakers.

“You look beautiful,” he managed to say when she finally walked over to him.

She looked down at her stain-splattered apron. “You think so?”

“Stop teasing the man and get going,” Brady said as he took an order slip from a waiter. “You’re in the way here.”

“All right, all right.” She was untying her apron when Marsha, Campagne’s lovely hostess, rushed in, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright with excitement.

“You’ll never guess who’s here,” she said.

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Abbie tossed her apron aside and picked up a small clutch purse from the chair. “I’m out of here.”

“Archibald Gunther.”

The room went silent. Everyone, including Abbie and Brady, seemed to have gone into a trance. It was as if a magic wand had touched them all and frozen them in place.

Abbie was the first to recover. “Are you sure?” she asked, already rushing to the double doors and peering into the dining room.

“He gave me his name and said he didn’t have a reservation.”

“I don’t see him.”