Toured to Death (26 page)

T
his had started out as a drive, going out to New Jersey to intimidate the Mrozeks and see what happened. Now, suddenly, it was a wrecked car—her car—and gunshots and the man she cared about, shot and bleeding in a tumbled-down shed.

“I'm bleeding like hell.” Marcus moved his arm so that Amy could see it and the blood. So much blood.

“You should tie a tourniquet.” Amy started unbuckling her belt. “Can you get out of there?”

“I'll take care of myself. Get help.”

“I am help,” she replied. “Frank's around, too. Somewhere.”

“Does he have a gun? Nardo has a gun.”

“Nardo shot you? He's here?”

“I recognized him in the Rome photo.”

“I thought you never met him.”

“I knew his mother. They look a lot alike, especially now. Oh, shit!” The hazel eyes had refocused somewhere behind Amy.

Too late she heard the crackling of leaves. “Turn around slowly,” a voice said.

Amy obeyed and fixed her gaze on Jolynn Mrozek, walking down the slope, a tiny but lethal .22 pointed relentlessly at Amy's chest.
Well, this solves one problem,
she thought.
The murders are officially connected.

“Leonardo Gray,” Amy said, moving to her left, trying to cut off Jolynn's view of the hole between the boards in the shed.

“Jolynn Hanover Mrozek.” Jolynn said the words with slow authority and kept coming up the slope. “Very much a woman, thank you. Of course, I can't have kids, which I call a blessing.”

“Does Vinny know?”

She laughed. “Would you marry a transgendered? Well, maybe you would, but not Vinny. I know he's in the shed, so just step aside.”

Amy held her ground and played for time. “Why did you kill Carvel?”

“So long ago,” Jolynn said. “A lifetime.” The small, bony woman glanced around, then shrugged. “It was more or less accidental. One thing leads to another. Events take on a life of their own, you know?”

“You sabotaged his food. He came back to the kitchen and found you.”

Jolynn stopped in her tracks. “I knew it was just a matter of time. Either Otto would figure it out or Marcus would remember.”

“What happened in the kitchen?”

“Questions, questions.” Part of Jolynn seemed annoyed, and part of her seemed pleased. “I've never, ever talked about this. For obvious reasons.” She settled gently onto a stump ten feet away, so feminine and proper, the muzzle of the .22 still trained on Amy's chest. “That bastard. If it wasn't for Mama . . . She was responsible for his success, you know. Of course you know.”

“Sour cream and the prefolded taco.”

“It was more than that,” spat Jolynn. “She created all the early recipes. Everything. He promised to make it up, give us lots of stock. I was counting on that money for my operation.” Here she smiled. “I told Mama I needed it for college.”

“And then Carvel's family talked him out of it.”

Jolynn's eyes narrowed. “Mama took it so good, like she was expecting it. That old Italian fishwife attitude where you figure you'll probably get screwed, anyway, so it doesn't matter.”

“So you played a little prank on his food.”

“That's all it was. A prank to get his attention.” Jolynn was distracted now, waving her free hand at a persistent fly that was orbiting her black, lacquered hair. Amy felt an opportunity. But what could she do? A second later and the fly buzzed away.

“Anyway, he came fuming into the kitchen, yelling at Mama. I was yelling at him. Of course, that's just what he didn't want, someone yelling about his thievery. So, Mama stays to serve the next course. And he takes me by the neck and drags me off to the apartment above the garage. By now the asshole's threatening me with assault and battery charges. Assault with milk.”

“And then he had his attack.”

“You know a lot.” The words were spoken as a threat.

“What's to know? He eats dairy. He has an attack.”

Jolynn nodded. “It was damn scary. The mean old bastard is moaning, all bent over with cramps. And outside the window I see all these people running around, calling his name. I thought he was gonna die.”

Yes,
Amy thought,
events do take on a life of their own.
“So you got scared and hid out. And somehow that led to kidnapping him and driving cross-country.”

Jolynn bristled, holding the pistol at arm's length and pointing it for emphasis. “It wasn't dumb. I'm not dumb.”

Amy raised her hands to chest level. “I'm just trying to understand.”

“Getting to San Diego was the only leverage I had. Mama left some stuff in the attic where we used to live. A diary, some old recipes, a thank-you letter from Fabian. Proof the inventions were really hers.”

“You thought they'd still be in the attic?”

“It was a rental. No one used the attic. Anyway, I had no choice. This stuff would give me leverage. He'd have to forget about the kidnapping. And he'd give me money for the diary, just to not have it hanging over him. Mama would never do it. Too much of a victim. Well, Nardo wasn't gonna be a victim.”

“So you had to get to San Diego and had to keep Carvel out of commission until you got there.” Amy was beginning to fall in with the crazy logic. “I guess a car would be the only way. What? Tied up in the backseat?”

Jolynn regarded her with bemused disdain. “In the trunk. I'd buy ice cream cones along the way and feed them to him. God, that trunk smelled. I'd take him out at truck stops and try to clean him up. Poor slob barely knew where he was. We got to San Diego, and the stuff was in the attic, right where I knew it would be.”

“Then you contacted Stu Romney.”

“I figured he'd be the one to negotiate.” Jolynn's eyes looked straight into Amy's, as if seeking approval or at least understanding. “I never meant to kill him. We were in our motel, and somehow he got out. I barely caught him. Sure, he was sick, but not as sick as he pretended. All I had on me was this pocketknife.”

“You stabbed him to death with a pocketknife?”

“What else could I do?” She smirked, still a little proud of herself. “It wasn't easy. Afterward, I sold his watch and ring and cashed out as much as I could on his bank cards. Maybe a year later Mama moved back to Elba to live with her cousins, and I started to come out of my cocoon.” Her free hand flew up in an almost joyous flourish. “Jolynn Hanover. On the prowl for a big brute of a man to make her happy.” Her hand lost its flourish and fell to her side. “It's worked out okay. Once the twins get out of our hair.”

The shrill call of a bird played in the empty air. Amy had warned herself not to let this happen, not to let the conversation lag. But her mind had been too busy weaving together the last of the threads.

Nardo Gray had been replaced by Jolynn, who, with each passing year, felt safer from Nardo's homicidal past. Until the rally, when she heard that Marcus was nosing around. Otto's involvement was a threat she couldn't ignore. What seemed like an unfathomable mystery to the overworked police might turn out to be child's play to a creature like Otto.

When Amy refocused her attention, Jolynn had just finished screwing a long black cylinder onto the pistol's snub nose. “I think this will be the end of it,” Jolynn said, almost to herself. “Mind stepping aside? First come, first served.”

“No.” Amy stood her ground, squaring her body to block the shed's slab of open darkness.

“C'mon, girl. Move.”

But Amy was frozen. Just like Monte Carlo. Like Minetta Lane two years ago. But now her inaction meant something different. It meant standing up to a cold-blooded killer. There was defiance in this frozen inaction.

“Well, have it your way.” Without warning and in rapid succession, Jolynn fired four breathy, muffled shots.

Amy shut her eyes and heard a scream, unable to tell if it was her own or Marcus's. Shards of rotting wood splintered and flew, and she opened her eyes and turned to see two splintered, gaping holes on either side, waist high, just inches from her own trembling torso.

Jolynn cackled. “Believe it or not, I was aiming at you.” “Marcus!” Amy turned her back on the gun and started clawing at the gap in the boards, desperate to see if anything in the shed was still standing. “Marcus!” She looked downward into the shadows and saw nothing.

Jolynn stepped closer. “Bye-bye, Amy.” Her tone was controlled and chilling.

It took every ounce of Amy's nerve to pivot slowly and face her. It wasn't so bad, after all, she discovered. Once she forced herself to actually turn and face her killer . . . it was actually quite a relief.

“Police. Drop the weapon.”

Amy watched as Frank Loyola marched down the side of the hill, toward the pond, his service revolver drawn. Jolynn swiveled and a second later recovered her balance.

“Frankie, darling,” she said in the mock-Bronx accent that she had used on him throughout the tour. “Fancy finding you here.”

“Put down the gun, Jolynn.”

She smiled, biting her lip and thinking. “The name's not Jolynn. It's Nardo.”

Frank tried not to look confused. “Nardo?”

“Leonardo Gray. Amy must've told you.”

“Nardo?” Frank glanced at Amy, then back. “The cook's son?”

“Yes, the cook's son. What's the matter?”

“You're not Nardo.”

“That's the name I was born with.”

“But you're a married woman.”

“What's wrong, Frankie? I saw how you used to look at me. Don't think I didn't notice.” And she clucked her tongue. “Tch, tch, tch.”

Amy sneaked a step forward. A twig snapped under her weight, and she stepped back.

“Shame on you. Want to feel my titties?” Jolynn shoved her chest forward, as if to fill the twenty yards still between them. “They're really real.” And she raised her gun.

“Whoever you are . . . whatever your name is . . .” The lumbering patrolman kept the revolver pointed and kept coming.

“My husband doesn't even know.”

“This is your last warning. Drop the gun.”

“I had my penis cut off, Frankie. Imagine having your penis cut off!” A millisecond later came the same breathy pop as before.

Frank collapsed to his knees, his own weapon falling into the leaves. He grabbed at his chest with both hands as Jolynn turned back to face the shed.

For Amy, the shot was like a starter pistol. With no more thought of consequences—damn the consequences—she was sprinting. Jolynn had just recovered and turned, her gun raised to shoot again, when Amy squeezed shut her eyes and leaped. She hit Jolynn squarely in the chest, throwing her eyes open as the two of them tumbled, Amy forward, Jolynn back, the .22 pistol lodged between them.

Amy spread herself on top of the small, writhing woman. She clutched at the gun barrel, then let go. “Ow. Damn. Ow.” It was searing hot. But she forced herself to grab again, and this time her hand found the cooler silencer. Gripping it with both hands, Amy pulled the gun off to one side. She was significantly stronger than Jolynn, and it would be just a matter of time before . . .

Jolynn concentrated all her strength on twisting the pistol sideways in a circle. At first Amy thought this was an attempt to aim it at her or wrench it out of her grasp. It wasn't until Jolynn had twisted it a full revolution and the silencer began to wobble in Amy's hands that she realized what Jolynn was doing. She was unscrewing it.

Jolynn smiled now. Short of letting go, there was nothing Amy could do. It was happening so fast. A second full twist.

Amy let go with one hand, then grabbed the barrel again. The shock of the heat sapped her strength just enough to allow Jolynn to turn the whole mechanism, pistol and wobbly silencer, away from the empty air and toward Amy's chest. It was at that same instant that the silencer snapped off, throwing Amy to one side and letting Jolynn start to wriggle out from under, the weapon now completely hers.

A second later and Amy found herself facing the muzzle, just inches from her face. She could see the hammer cocking back, as if in slow motion. Instinctively, she shut her eyes.

“Don't move!”

Amy stopped moving.

“I've got a gun.”

Yes, of course she had a gun. And then Amy recognized the voice.

When she snapped open her eyes, Marcus was directly over them, legs spread on either side of their heads. He was wobbly on his feet and his left arm hung useless, dripping blood from the shoulder. In his right hand he held Frank's service revolver, aiming it straight down. Amy rolled away, leaving him an unobstructed target.

“You so much as twitch and I'll pull it. I'm not Frank. Don't think you can psyche me with penis talk.”

Jolynn paused, considered her options, and slowly let go of the gun.

Marcus smiled.

So did Amy. “Penis talk?”

“I
thought those magic Kevlar vests protected you.”

“Just because it didn't pierce the skin . . .” Frank was slurring his words. “Ain't you ever heard of trauma?”

“I live with my mother. I know trauma very well.”

Frank lay back on his pillows and looked Amy in the eyes. “And I live with my dad. Nothing wrong with that.” He managed a smile. At last they'd found a connection, one perhaps large enough to build a truce on. “Real heroes, that's what they're calling us. Did you hear?”

Amy didn't know what to say. Instead, she looked around for a vase. There were two of them in the private room, both filled with floral tributes from the PBAs of New Jersey and New York. It had been only a few hours since the shooting, and Amy was impressed by police efficiency, at least their florists' efficiency. She placed her own modest bouquet on Frank's meal tray. “These should get put in water.”

“What's the matter, Abel? Don't like being a hero?”

Amy shrugged. “You and Marcus, maybe. I was just in the way.”

“What're you saying? Marcus told me everything. Rambling on in the ambulance. How you blocked the shed with your body. You were ready to take a bullet.”

“Jolynn shot anyway.”

“Yeah. But those extra seconds. He was using them to squeeze out the back. If you'd have moved when Jolynn told you, he'd be dead. That's how he sees it.”

“Really?” Amy mulled it over, trying hard to believe it. “Nah. I couldn't have moved if I wanted. I was too scared.”

“Like the rest of us weren't. And then the way you jumped on her?”

“I distracted her while someone else got the gun.”

“What're you talking? If it wasn't for that distraction . . .” Another wince forced Frank back into his pillows. “Have it your way. But I'm telling you, the press likes things nice and simple. We're heroes, and the bad guy is in jail. Bad girl,” he corrected himself. “Jeez.”

“Nice and simple.”

“You see that kind of thing on talk shows, but you never expect. . . jeez.” Frank squirmed. The angle of his neck looked uncomfortable. Amy gently lifted the officer's head and stuffed another pillow under it. “Thanks,” Frank said. “Wanna be a real hero? Get me out of here.”

“I'll do my best.”

The first thing Amy saw when she left Frank's room was her mother pacing in the hall. In an instant she was being hugged, the short arms fiercely encircling her waist and cutting off her air.

“Are you all right?” Fanny let go her grip, then stepped back and examined her face. “You look pale.”

“Oxygen deprivation,” she wheezed. “I'm fine, really. Frank and Marcus, on the other hand . . .”

“I heard. They're letting Marcus see visitors. That's what I hear.” Fanny grabbed Amy's hand and led her down the corridor. “Don't you ever scare me like that again.”

“How did you get out here?”

“The sergeant drove me. You know this is only fifteen minutes out of the city?”

“I've been told.”

“Sergeant Rawlings was very comforting. He explained as much as he could, which was awkward since I knew more than he did.”

“That must have galled.”

“It's a good lesson for the man. The next time Fanny and Amy Abel get involved in a murder, he should take us seriously.”

“Next time? Mom, there wasn't a last time. There won't be a next.”

“You never know. Travel can be very dangerous. Come on. We're going to see Marcus.”

Amy stopped. “I'm not sure that's the best idea.”

“Sure it is.” Fanny dragged her daughter forward, expertly changing the subject as they walked. “The sergeant asked me about the tour.”

“So he finally sees the connection.”

“ ‘Did Jolynn come on the tour, planning to kill someone?' he asked me.”

Amy had thought about this. “Well, she did follow us and throw the rock. At that point she had no idea what Marcus knew or didn't. But at the first dinner, when Jolynn saw the menu . . . You can imagine. Nardo's little prank, right there for everyone to eat.”

“Yes, yes,” Fanny said. “But she wasn't in any real danger.”

“She didn't know that. I remember walking into my room one night and smelling lilacs. I didn't connect it to Jolynn. But I'm sure she broke in regularly, checking the next day's game. That's how she found out about Elba.”

“Right. She's the one who tried to have the rooms robbed.”

“Her mother came from Elba. I imagine Jolynn got in touch with some relatives. She was hoping the robberies would make us cancel the game.”

“And then Georgina finally remembered. Hey!” They stepped aside just in time as a pair of boys sped by in their wheelchairs. Fanny's eyes crinkled, and she was reminded of a world of more innocent pleasures. “When you had your tonsils out, you were the best wheelchair racer on the floor.”

“I was nineteen.”

“You never give yourself permission to feel proud. That's your problem.”

Fanny had stopped at the door to room 426. There was no name penciled in on the sliding tag, no indication of the current occupant. “You stay on your best behavior. Remember, the two of you saved each other's lives. That's a bond.”

Amy focused on the blank tag. “How did you know the room number? You were here? You already talked to him? Before you came to see me?”

“You were busy, and they said he could have visitors.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready for this.”

“Do what feels right. But you can't use the excuse of him being a killer.”

“You don't waste any time, do you?”

“Amy, dear. I never make you do anything you don't want to. Eventually.”

“Eventually.”

“C'mon.” Fanny had already pushed open the door and was ushering her daughter inside. “Look who's here,” she called out in a sweet whisper. “Marcus, wake up.” And with one more little push, Amy was in.

Fanny remained out in the hall and let the door swing gently shut.