by Brenda Hiatt
“I went over to check. You know how Mrs. Henderson is. But I think she’s right. They didn’t take anything really valuable that I could tell, but the back door lock was broken. I didn’t know whether to call the cops or what, so I figured I’d better talk to you.”
“So Mrs. Henderson is okay, too?” My next door neighbor was elderly, and I hated to think of her upset because of some teenage vandal.
“She’s fine. She wasn’t even positive the house had been broken into. That’s why she called me.”
“But you sound pretty sure that it was.”
“Well, yeah, once I looked around some, it was pretty obvious, apart from the broken lock. The stack of mail that’s come while you’ve been gone was spread all over the dining room table, like someone had gone through it. Milo didn’t do it, because a few things were even opened.”
“That’s strange. I wasn’t expecting anything valuable.” Even as I said it, I thought of the ring. Was it conceivable that someone thought I’d mailed it to myself?
No—that was my paranoia talking. Wasn’t it?
“Yeah, I thought it was weird, too. What’s even weirder is that the only thing that seems to be missing is that family portrait over the fireplace.”
I had that awful cold-water feeling again. “When did you say this happened?”
“Sometime yesterday. Mrs. Henderson noticed the lock and the mail when she went to feed Milo last night. He’s fine, too, by the way, though he was acting pretty spooked when I first got there last night.”
“And you didn’t call the police?” Even at this distance, I’m sure she couldn’t mistake the outrage in my voice, but I hoped the fear wasn’t as obvious.
She hesitated long enough to make me almost regret my implicit scold. She was, after all, an adult now, and doing me a favor by calling at all. But then she said, “I . . . I thought maybe, you know, maybe it was Dad. Because of the picture and all.”
She sounded so young, so lost, that I forgave her on the spot. The divorce hadn’t been easy on the girls, even if they were on their own now. I even gave her theory some consideration—for about three seconds.
“No, that’s not his style at all. If he’d wanted something from the house, he’d have involved his lawyer. He’d never stoop to breaking in.” Whatever else he might stoop to. Nor could I imagine him wanting that family portrait, after the way he’d turned his back on us. No matter what he’d been saying to my mother recently.
Besides, I had a terrible suspicion about who had done this. Well, not who, exactly, but why. The ring. If I was right, it could explain how my attacker this morning had known what I looked like, so he could follow me. That portrait.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Deb said.
I was startled, thinking for an instant she was talking about my theory involving the ring, then I remembered what my last words had been.
“So call the police, okay, Honey? And ask Mrs. Henderson if she’d be willing to keep Milo at her place for now—or you can take him, if your apartment complex allows cats. I’d rather neither of you go back to the house, just in case whoever broke in comes back. Wait until the police come and then get Milo out.”
I loved that fat, old, gray tabby, but not as much as I loved my daughters. And I wouldn’t risk old Mrs. Henderson for him, either, irritating as she could be on occasion. Thank God they were all safe. I sent up a quick prayer that they’d stay that way.
“Okay, Mom, if you think it’ll do any good.” She sounded skeptical, and I couldn’t blame her.
“It probably won’t, but I’d like a report filed anyway. I’ve worked in insurance, remember?”
She chuckled at that, and I found myself envying her for her ability to take this lightly. “Got it. Do you want me to do it tonight, or can it wait till tomorrow?”
Mrs. Henderson would have already fed Milo tonight, since she was a go-to-bed-with-the-chickens sort, so there didn’t seem much point in dragging Deb across town now.
“Morning will be fine. But early—before Mrs. Henderson goes over, okay? Call her now and let her know to wait for them, even if it means waking her up.”
“Oh, come on, Mom, what are the chances of them coming back? Especially first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Just humor me, okay? I know you hate getting up early, but this is important. I’ll make it up to you—I’ll take you and Bess out to dinner as soon as I get home.”
“All right, fine. I’ll call Mrs. Henderson now and the cops the first thing in the morning. Early, I promise. Now, shouldn’t you be getting to bed, or are you living the wild life there in Aruba?”
I had to laugh at the sudden primness in her voice. “Wild. Yeah, that’s me. I was getting ready for bed when I saw your voice mail. Good night, Deb.”
Even before I set down my phone, I was wondering how early the first flight back to Indianapolis might leave in the morning. I went to the closet and pulled out my canvas bag with all my travel paperwork to find the 800 number for the airline.
I might have to go standby if I didn’t want to pay a fortune, but I couldn’t leave Deb and Mrs. Henderson to deal with people who might possibly have links to organized crime. Once I was home, I could . . . what?
With the airline’s phone number in my hand, I sat on the edge of the bed to think. The absolute most important thing was to keep my daughters safe. If those thugs had our family portrait, they had pictures of my daughters as well as of me. There was no knowing how thoroughly they might have searched the house, so I had to assume they also knew where my daughters lived.
Scary, scary thought.
But by flying back to Indy, would I be bringing even more trouble with me? At the moment, at least, I was fairly sure the main villains of the piece were here in Aruba. Would they dare to follow me to Indiana? Did I dare find out?
I considered again the portrait they’d taken: a large one, hanging in an obvious spot. Surely, they could as easily have taken other pictures, ones that would be easier to copy and fax or e-mail—ones that might not even have been missed. Surely, real pros could have broken into my home, searched every inch of it, and left no trace they’d even been there, beyond a badly frightened cat.
Which meant that either these weren’t pros, or . . . they had intended to send me a message.
Either way, my best chance of neutralizing the threat, to myself as well as my daughters, would be right here in Aruba.
Chapter Fifteen
IT WAS A good thing my meeting with Argus Haliakis wasn’t until ten o’clock the next morning. I was so distracted I forgot to set the alarm, then I didn’t fall asleep until the wee hours, so many different scenarios were running through my head.
Thankfully, a noise out in the hallway woke me at half past nine. I jumped out of bed, splashed my face, pulled on capris and a blouse, and did a quickie version of my makeup, which got me out of the room at a quarter till.
Downstairs, I raced to the coffee kiosk to grab a bran muffin and coffee, then sat in the lobby to compose myself while I ate. I couldn’t help glancing around, alert for any sign of “Lenny,” but of course I didn’t see him.
Munching my muffin, I told myself it was better for me than waffles, if not exactly a nutritious breakfast. Ah, well, I’d make up for it at lunch, when Everard, Jennings & Holt would be paying. The sushi was probably pretty good in Aruba, it being an island and all.
“Ms. Seally?” came a voice from behind me.
I jumped up, my mouth still full of muffin since it wasn’t quite ten yet. I took a quick sip of coffee to wash it down as I turned. Too quick—I choked and coughed, needing two more gulps of coffee that was still too hot for gulping, before I could speak.
“Mr. Haliakis?” I finally managed. Through watering eyes, I could see that the man facing me was definitely young, certainly less than thirty, and rather out
rageously handsome. In fact, with his dark hair and eyes and European air, he reminded me more than a little bit of my attacker from yesterday.
“Yo, Ms. S, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, looking genuinely concerned—and making me feel like an idiot.
“That’s okay. Not your fault.” I cleared my throat, trying to make my voice less raspy. “I overslept, which is why I was still eating. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”
He smiled a movie-star smile and shook his head. “I just ate, but thanks. You want we should talk here, or would someplace else be better?” As on the phone, he sounded almost like a street kid, but with a hint of accent—probably Greek, I reasoned, given his name and his connection to Stefan Melampus.
“There’s a little lounge off to the side of the lobby that’s usually empty this time of day,” I suggested. “Unless you’d rather sit out by the pool?”
“Lounge sounds fine. I know you’re on vacation, Ms. S, so I’ll try to keep it short,” he added as we walked to the area that served as a piano bar in the evenings.
Since the bar wasn’t serving now, the lounge was deserted. We sat in a couple of the plush turquoise chairs, facing each other across a small table. Despite his youth and his unrefined speech, he looked serious now.
“You’re probably wondering why I came all the way to Aruba when Mr. M can talk to you on the phone.”
I assumed it was to get the ring from me, but I didn’t say so. I simply waited for him to continue.
“He may not have told you this, but Mr. M has enemies—lots of enemies—and some of them pretend to be friends. Even his private phone conversations might not be all that private sometimes. So he really wanted a face-to-face meeting with you.”
“And since he’s not allowed to leave the States, he sent you,” I said. “He told me that, yes.”
Again with that dizzying smile. “Great. He wants me to get all the details about that ring you found and anything that’s happened since. I’m also supposed to make sure you’re safe, since there are people out there who’d like to get their hands on that ring and see him go down, and they might not play by the rules, if you get my drift.”
“I understand.” For a moment, I pondered how much to tell him, but then realized that if he was working with the bad guys he knew more than I did already. And if he was exactly what he claimed, he might as well have the whole truth to relay to his employer.
So I started at the beginning, with my finding of the ring, all of my interactions with the Cartier store, my sighting of the woman I’d thought was Melanie in Oranjestad, and the underwater attack yesterday morning. I told him about my interview with the FBI last night, and about my house back in Indiana being violated, even about my fears for my daughters.
The only thing I didn’t mention was Ronan. Stefan knew about him, of course, but after all that had happened, I couldn’t shake my caution, just in case Haliakis wasn’t who he said he was.
He listened attentively, making no comments and asking no questions until I had finished. His very appearance was a little distracting, but I thought I made a decent story out of it. At the end, I asked a question that had been bothering me.
“I imagine I’ll have to repeat all of this for Mr. Phelps over lunch today. Why have both you and someone from the law office come down here? Isn’t that kind of overkill?”
He shrugged. “No one told me about the lawyer, though it’s not like Mr. M tells me everything. But he’s been backstabbed before, so maybe he’s just playing it safe.”
I was still confused. “Are you saying that this lawyer, who presumably represents Mr. Melampus, might not have his best interests in mind? Why not fire him from the case, then?”
“Oh, there’s probably no proof, even if Mr. M suspects it—which I don’t know that he does. But he’s had more than one person he trusted turn on him, especially the past couple of years.”
“Since his conversion, you mean?” It was a delicate topic, but I really wanted to know.
Mr. Haliakis hesitated for a long moment before answering. “Mr. M is a very, very good man, Ms. Seally. He’d tell you that he was a very bad man for most of his life, but I don’t believe it. Even before he got religion, he was way better to me than I deserved. I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say he saved my life.”
There was no mistaking the sincerity that shone from those gorgeous eyes. This man idolized Stefan Melampus. Which meant I needed to take anything he said with a grain of salt.
“I understand that some of his former, um, associates were rather upset when Mr. Melampus changed his way of doing business.”
He laughed, but grimly. “Yeah, you could say that. Someone’s tried to kill him at least three times I know of, and I’m betting there’ve been others he hasn’t told me about.”
This was news to me. No wonder Agent Truman had said that Stefan’s enemies weren’t above murder to get what they wanted.
“But why?” I asked. “For vengeance? How would killing him benefit them?”
“They’re afraid he’ll finger them to the Feds, trying to make up for the stuff he did in the past.”
I supposed that made sense. “Why hasn’t he already done just that? If he really has changed—”
“He doesn’t want to be the one to send any of ’em to the slammer, no matter what they did. He says his own sins were just as bad, but God forgave him. He wants them all to change like he did, and he doesn’t think prison’s a good place for that to happen.”
“But surely he would be much safer himself if they were in prison?”
“Well, sure. I’ve tried to talk him into that a bunch of times, but he won’t do it. He claims it’s his fault some of them took a wrong turn in the first place, but I don’t believe it.”
I didn’t doubt it, particularly, but it didn’t lower my esteem for the man Stefan Melampus was now. Still—“Surely he has taken some sort of precaution, in case one of them is successful?”
“Yeah, he has, and that’s why this case is so important to them. Mr. M wrote out a full confession, complete with names of his former, um, associates—dozens, maybe hundreds of ’em—to be given to the Feds if he’s murdered. Since he spread the word on that, nobody else has tried to snuff him.”
No, Stefan Melampus was no fool, but I already knew that after all of my research on him. “I assume having him convicted of murder wouldn’t fall into that category, even if he believes he was set up. Yes, I can see why his enemies would want this case to go forward—unless they’re worried about his testimony in court?”
Haliakis shrugged. “Anything he’d say against them there, he could say against them now.”
I supposed that made sense. I glanced at my watch: eleven forty-five. My rendition of events had taken longer than I’d realized. Time to wrap things up.
“So now I assume you want me to give you the ring to take back to Mr. Melampus?” I asked, since he hadn’t mentioned it.
Very much to my surprise, he shook his head. “No, that could make it look like he’s had the ring all along. He says it’s important for the case that the ring was found here in Aruba. Also, that you claim to have seen Melanie Melampus alive.”
“Well, I thought it was Melanie, but I’ve now been told her sister is here in Aruba and that they look a lot alike. So I now realize it was probably her and not Melanie that I saw. I’ve never met either of them, so I wouldn’t be a very good judge of that, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, Mr. M thought of that. He doesn’t have a lot of hope his wife’s alive, to be honest. He thinks it’s more likely she was murdered so he could be framed for it. But if the ring was found here and the sister is here, it could point to her being guilty instead of Mr. M. It’s still really important.”
That made sense. “I don’t understand why the sister hasn’t been brought in for questioning yet.” I
almost mentioned the life insurance policy, but realized I’d be bringing Ronan into it if I did that.
And his answer matched Ronan’s, almost word for word.
“No one’s been able to find her. She has a PO box here, but that’s it. I’m pretty sure you’re the only person other than Melanie herself who’s seen her. That’s another reason Mr. M is worried for your safety.”
“Oh. I, um, hadn’t realized that.” I swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. It seemed that I was even at more risk than I’d realized—and that simply turning over the ring might not end that risk after all.
“But—” I was still working things through in my mind “—if she has a post office box here, why should she care if someone proves she is here? Wouldn’t it make sense that she would be?”
“You’d think so, but she’s been slippery as an eel. That’s why Mr. M suspected her from the first. You may not know this, but Mrs. M hadn’t really known her sister for very long. She might have done some things based on the whole sisterhood idea that weren’t all that smart.”
I assumed he meant the life insurance policy, but of course I couldn’t say so. “I, um, read about that. They were separated when they were very young, and Melanie only found her a year or two ago—in Brazil?”
“Yeah. She flew to Brazil three or four times a while back, first looking for, then meeting with her sister. ’Course, Mr. M invited the sister to visit them in Miami, but she never came.”
“And is it true that she and Melanie look alike? That I could have mistaken her for Melanie?”
He shrugged expansively. “I’ve never seen her, like I said. But Mrs. M herself did say they looked a lot alike, so it’s possible. Much as I’d rather believe it was Mrs. M you saw.”
I could understand that. While Michelle and the ring both turning up in Aruba might cast considerable doubt on Stefan Melampus’s guilt, Melanie herself would completely void the whole case.