Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) (18 page)

Licking his lips in anticipation, he followed her into the kitchen and placed the bag down. He smiled at the blue Gatorade. “You remembered.”

She nodded. “Hope you don’t mind. They didn’t have the sugar-free. I got you regular.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m not going to be here long. When do we leave? Did you bring my backup passport?”

Abruptly, her mood changed. She turned sharply, shooting him a look that could cut through steel. “No. How was I supposed to do that? I took a big risk just coming here.”

“Nobody knows about this place. We used it for years.”

“That was before the FBI was looking for you.”

Standing with her arms crossed, her eyes flamed with a sudden anger.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Ellis protested. “How was I to know the FBI was going to arrest Walter…me?”

“You were careless. After all this time, you’ve ruined everything. You killed the wrong one. Now, Riley’s going to go after her share. We both know that the will is real.”

“Most of our money is already hidden, Julia. Why worry?”

“Why? Because then they will launch an investigation. I won’t let them destroy what it has taken years to build.”

“Neither will I. Didn’t I take care of Barlow? Her betrayal cut deep.”

“Too much so. Bludgeoning her to death was dangerous, stupidly so. It caused red flags. You should have just shot her like you did Charlie. You fool. It was Charlie who was blackmailing us and you had to beat the shit out of Helen.”

“Helen betrayed the family. She told her lazy, good-for-nothing son.”

“You have been reckless. For god’s sake, you killed Olivia. It broke my heart.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, Ellis, you have complicated our lives.”

Her voice stopped him cold. He glowered at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I need time to think. We can’t just react. Give me a few days. I’ll be back with a plan.”

“I don’t like it.”

“A few days.” She moved back to his side. Just as abruptly as her anger appeared, it vanished. She leaned up and kissed him. “I promise. We’re in this together.”

“Stay,” he whispered…begged.

“Darling, I wish I could, but I have to get back. We don’t want to raise any eyebrows.”

Exasperated and hurt, he stepped back. “Did you at least bring me a laptop?”

She smiled. “It’s in the car. Come with me.”

He followed her back out to the car. As he opened the door for her, she slid behind the wheel.

“Here it is, darling. I’ll be back.”

Taking the laptop from her hand, his heart jolted. He said nothing, but stepped back and let her drive off without another word.

He stood there the longest time and stared after her.
What was a jug of antifreeze doing in the back of Julia’s car?

* * * *

The next morning, Ellis walked out the backdoor to the hummingbird feeder. Below it lay two dead birds.

He was right. Damn, he was right—Julia had tried to kill him!

After she left, he had his suspicions. Julia never did anything for her car. It made no sense she would have had a jug of antifreeze.

Last night, he tested his theory and poured the blue Gatorade into the birdfeeder. Based on the evidence lying dead on the ground, she had put enough antifreeze in the Gatorade to kill a horse.

Not to mention when he tried to get into their joint oversea accounts, the password had been changed.

The cold-hearted bitch! He wasn’t safe.
Goddammit!

What was he going to do? The FBI looking for him and he only had a little over two thousand dollars.

He rushed back inside and grabbed his bag and keys. He was going to get the hell out of there.

* * * *

Brophy had gone to Captain Centrello with Cruz’s information. Captain Centrello hesitated, but finally gave him permission to investigate the lead with strict restrictions. If something turned up, he was to stand down and go through proper channels, which meant the FBI.

With the early morning light, Brophy and Cruz arrived at Henry’s Open Range, which offered a variety of services besides use of the indoor shooting range. The business, also, sold guns, ammo, and an assortment of knives.

A closed range, they allowed only their members to use their facilities. When showed the picture of Ellis Dean, he was identified as one of theirs. But he wasn’t known by that name.

Ellis Dean used the name R.F. Stanford…Russell Stanford.

Russell Stanford
listed a residence in Newburyport.

Brophy intended to do Captain Centrello commanded, but he wasn’t about to let Ellis Dean slip through his fingers. He would be damn if he wasn’t the one checking out the information.

Driving up the private drive, he pulled to a stop in front of the Nantucket-style home. Impressive for a safe house. Immaculate grounds. Beautiful gardens.

“Have to say the sonofabitch knows how to live.”

“It’s a getaway for him,” Cruz said, as if thinking out loud. “There would have been no other reason for him to have the house.”

Brophy nodded in agreement and opened his car door.

“Not waiting for the
troops
to arrive?”

“Nah,” Brophy muttered under his breath. “Can’t let them have all the fun. Let’s go ruin Mr. Dean’s day.”

Walking through a garden arbor, Brophy walked up to the entrance and knocked. Cruz took the rear.

“Mr. Dean, police. We would like to talk with you.”

No answer. He knocked again. This time, he turned the handle. It wasn’t locked.

Not hesitating, Brophy entered with his hand on the grip of his gun. “Mr. Dean, this is Detective John Brophy from the Boston PD. Just want a word.”

Brophy said the words, but his eyes and ears were intent on any sound or movement. Nothing…but quiet.

He made his way through the house, upstairs, and then back into the kitchen. Nobody.

The place looked lived in. The bed hadn’t been made. Clothes littered the floor. Dishes lay throughout the place. Obvious the housekeeper hadn’t been in to clean.

Out through the kitchen, he walked onto the patio.
Strange.
An open bottle of Gatorade sat on the patio table. Not far away, under a bird feeder, lay a couple of dead hummingbirds.

“Find anything?”

“He’s gone. Looks like he left in a hurry.” He shrugged. “But this is interesting. Who feeds hummingbirds Gatorade?”

Cruz looked over the scene, careful not to touch anything. “Poison?”

“Looks that way. Have to get it tested. But who?”

“Maybe the woman the neighbor across the street says comes over quite often when Mr. Stanford is home.”

“Get a description?”

Sirens in the distance told their time here was limited.

She shook her head. “Never saw her close up. They weren’t social. But she said that Stanford drove a late model Buick.”

Brophy glanced around, thinking. Waving his finger in front of his face, he used it to point to the kitchen.

“What if this mysterious woman wanted Ellis out of the way? Tried to kill him.”

Cruz nodded in agreement. “It would appear so.”

“He suspected,” Brophy went on. “The Gatorade.”

“Ah…” Cruz comprehended his meaning. “Since Ellis was holed up here, maybe someone brought it to him.”

“Maybe we could get a print of something in the kitchen…quickly.”

Cruz wasted no time. Donning gloves, she hurried into the house.

Brophy walked around the house from the outside, buying Cruz a few more minutes. He watched an entourage of black SUVs…FBI.

That was a quick response. He had expected the local police force first—unless someone else called in a tip. Someone who expected the authorities to find a dead body.

Charleston

The sun covered the Carolina countryside, shining on miles and miles of green fields. Majestic Virginia live oaks blanketed with Spanish moss. White steeple churches. Abandoned old houses.

Driving with her windows down, Riley soaked in the familiar sights of her youth. She had come home. Here she regained what she had lost over the last few weeks: control.

Somewhere in the madness, her focus had been diverted. Her world had tilted off its axis. Now, though, her attention lay solely on her objective.

It had been over a year since she pulled into the parking lot of Lieber Correctional Institution. Even so, the same sick, nauseating feeling returned that plagued her every time she visited this place.

Lieber Correctional Institution was South Carolina’s most dangerous prison. It was here the state housed the most violent offenders. Hardened criminals. Lifers…Harrison.

Nothing here could ever be confused with a country club. Not with the razor-wire fences, the guards at every turn, or the bars on the windows.

She hated all of this—going through security before being allowed to enter into the visiting room, waiting to see if your loved one was allowed the visit, and most importantly, whether Harrison would see her or not. The last time she had seen him, he had told her never to come back.

Watching others greet their loved ones, Riley stood by herself in silence, her eyes fixed on the door. Finally, she saw a tall, black man with a shaved head, muscular, with a frown plastered on his face.

Harrison.

He gave her no acknowledgment, hung his head down, and walked over to a vacant table. She did the same, claiming the chair opposite him.

“I told you I would be back,” Riley finally said.

“Why?”

Suppressing her frustration at his welcome, she reminded herself that no matter what she had gone through, nothing compared to what he had endured.

Ignoring his edgy greeting, she kept her own voice deliberately upbeat. “Soon, Harrison. We’re getting so close.”

He shook his head, his aggravation evident.

A sudden sadness gripped Riley. Gone was the once happy, carefree soul she had grown up beside. Despite the years that had passed…despite the verdict that sent an innocent boy behind these concrete walls…she still couldn’t believe…accept…the injustice.

“I told you to forget it. Forget me. Live your life.”

“Impossible,” Riley stated emphatically. “You’re my brother.”

“That was a fantasy that we lived in when we were children.”

“Don’t say that! You are the only family I have. You’re the one who told me that family doesn’t abandon family.”

He sat back. The hard look in his eyes softened. The years of harsh living had taken their toll when all hope was gone.

“I got a letter a couple of days ago from Sony, saying things are moving in the right direction with my case,” he said at last. “Is it due to that crazy scheme you cooked up with Grandma and Sony?”

Riley took a moment. Sony was the private investigator she had hired to help her free Harrison, one of his high school friends. He had been on the case for a couple of years. If the truth be known, this wild and crazy plan had been his idea.

“We had a few local media outlets pick up the story. The reward has called attention to your case. Sony feels it has put you in a good light. Tips have come in that Sony is in the process of checking out.”

“But nothing that gets me out of this hellhole?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “But…but I think Grandfather’s will has been found.”

He frowned, clearly perplexed. “Is that why someone tried to kill you?”

Pushing her hair behind her ear, Riley shrugged. She should have realized that word would have gotten back to him.

“Ah fuck it, Riley. We do get the news. Did you think they wouldn’t have covered your cousin’s murder?”

For the last week, she hadn’t watched TV, answered her phone or even gone on the Internet. She hadn’t dared.

“Look, Riley. Look at me,” Harrison demanded. “It’s too dangerous. End this.”

She met his eyes. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice.” The words were delivered tonelessly. “I’m telling you to move on.”

“And I’m telling you, I have to do this. It isn’t a choice. I am not leaving you here to rot in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. If you think I can, then you don’t know me.” Riley looked down at her trembling hands. “It’s not only for you. It’s for Daddy…I see him every night I close my eyes. The last time I saw him alive, we argued about you.”

She caught her breath and wiped back the tears that escaped down her cheek. “He was so worried and upset about the whole situation. It was all he was doing… and I was upset that all his time was spent trying to free you. I just wanted him to come to my tryouts….for God’s sake, it was only freakin’ softball tryouts.

“But I said some things…things I can never take back.” She swallowed hard. “I told him I hated him…now, he’s gone. This…getting you out…is the only thing I can do for him…have to do for Daddy.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she tried desperately to regain here composure. When she looked back up, Harrison sat in silence. Riley saw the water welling in his eyes.

“What I’m doing, I’m doing for us both. You may live behind bars, but I live in a prison, too. Don’t ask me to stop. Daddy would never.”

He stared at her and shook his head. “Too damn stubborn. I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

“Trust me, Harrison. We’re almost there. I feel it,” she assured him and then paused for a moment. “But you need to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Do the interview with Josh Kincaid.”

“I don’t do interviews.”

Riley understood his position. At the start of this nightmare, a reporter from Charleston requested an interview with Harrison, promising to let Harrison give his side of the story. It hadn’t gone well.

But this interview was different. It was the reason for her visit—to convince Harrison the necessity of the conversation.

“You need to do this one. I know him. He wants to help.”

Harrison stared at her intently. Reluctantly, he nodded. “You trust him.”

“Yes,” she said simply.

With that, a brief hug, and a promise to see him soon, the visit ended.