Damn it. Apparently this was some kind of closed community where you needed to identify yourself before they’d let you in. All Barker had to do was show his badge.
Mongo drove on by. A block or so farther on, he realized the area was not actually enclosed. There was no fence or high wall along here, only trees and shrubs. So he could get inside, but he’d have to do his trailing on foot from here on out.
Which wouldn’t be easy. Stumbling around in a strange area at night with rain coming down was not a happy prospect. But he had no choice. He parked and took the Scorpion out of his bag, along with a Dodgers cap. The machine gun he covered with his jacket, the cap he put on his head.
He left the Chevy and pushed his way through some shrubbery. As he reached the street on the other side, he saw a lot of big houses. Finding the one Barker had gone to would be tough.
On the other hand, he noticed that the cars he could see were mostly BMWs and Mercedes, along with a Lexus here and there. The beat-up Mustang would stand out like a sore thumb. He pulled the cap lower on his head and began looking for it.
63.
Dana calculated that with Mrs. Delaney off to the Hamptons and the old man’s nurse gone for the night, only four people were in the house: she and Roger; Delaney Sr.; and the maid. It was the cook’s night off.
Carl, the security man, would also be around, prowling the grounds as usual. She was pretty sure he lived in one of the servants’ apartments over the garage. The chauffeur lived there too, but he was driving Roger’s wife to Long Island. And the gardener? Most likely he was here only in the daytime.
So there was no one she could turn to for help.
The problem was the same one she’d been wrestling with since she’d talked to Barker: How could she get out of here? If she could think up some excuse to give Delaney as to why she had to leave, she could call a taxi and have the driver take her to the train station.
Or would that tip him off to what he probably suspected anyway, that she’d stumbled onto the truth about him? The letter she’d read was ambiguous enough to be interpreted as entirely innocent. Just a perfectly ordinary communication from a lawyer to his client.
But it could be read another way as well. With his sister gone and his father on his way out, Roger Delaney stood to gain a fortune. Had he conspired to have those events take place?
It was a shocking idea. And maybe she was wrong. Maybe she’d jumped to the wildest kind of conclusion, like some hysterical kid whose nerves had been shattered by Catherine’s murder.
Maybe. But she didn’t think so.
And Barker? He’d said he’d come for her, but was that possible? For one thing, there was no question that he was in a hell of a lot of trouble himself. Whether or not he deserved to be was another matter. Nevertheless, after the flap about his activities in LA he could very well have been suspended.
For another thing, even if he did come here, then what? She knew enough about the law to know what a cop could do and what he couldn’t. And one thing he couldn’t do was barge into a private home and start ordering people around. Especially when Greenwich wasn’t even in his jurisdiction.
There was a knock at the door, and she tensed. “Come in.”
Roger Delaney came into the room. He had on a light gray shirt, and an ascot was tied around his neck. Quite the country gentleman.
“Didn’t see you for cocktails,” he said. “Come on down and have a drink with me.”
She hesitated, but only for a second. Better to go along, as Barker had said, as if nothing was wrong.
“Sure, Roger,” she said. “Be right down.”
“Good. There’s something I want to tell you.” He went out the door.
She stepped into her bathroom, where she combed her hair and put on a touch of pale lipstick. Then she left the room and went down the main staircase, thinking, Here goes nothing.
He was in the library again, and she resolved not to show that returning there made her uncomfortable. She straightened her shoulders and marched in.
“Hi,” he said. “Have a seat.”
She chose one of the red leather chairs and settled into the deep cushions. A piano concerto by Rachmaninoff was coming from hidden speakers, a dreary composition that to her was like a dirge.
Delaney touched a button under the mantelpiece, and one of the bookcases swung around silently, revealing a fully equipped bar. “What would you like?” he asked. “I’m going to have Shanahans. Are you familiar with it?”
“No, what is it?”
“An Irish single-malt whiskey. Care to try some?”
“Okay, but make it light, please.”
“Coming right up.”
He made the drinks in short crystal glasses and handed her one. He raised his and said, “Good luck.”
“Good luck, Roger.” She sipped the drink, finding it smooth and pleasant. She hoped it would also steady her nerves.
He sat in one of the chairs near hers and said, “Tell me, have you heard from that detective again? Barker?”
“No.” Flat lie, but she wasn’t about to admit that she’d spoken with him.
“When you were with him in Los Angeles, was there anything he told you that might shed some light on Catherine’s murder?”
“He didn’t say much about what he was doing.”
“That’s because he hasn’t actually done anything. I had a talk with my lawyer. I told him about Barker’s erratic behavior, and how he’s been stalking you.”
“Stalking me? I wouldn’t put it that way. He tried to call me, and I didn’t want to speak with him. That’s all there was to it.”
“You may think that’s all, but it’s actually a lot more serious than that. My lawyer says his sources tell him Barker is about to be disciplined by the police department in New York. He’ll probably be thrown off the force.”
Hearing that was a jolt. Dana made no reply. She drank more of her whiskey.
“The fact is,” Delaney went on, “he’s a dangerous man. The report on him says he’s not only untrustworthy, but very likely emotionally unstable. Sorry to tell you that, but I felt you should be forewarned. In case he tries to contact you again.”
“I see.” This was weird.
“If he does try to reach you,” Delaney said, “I want you to let me know at once. For your own good, of course. Will you promise me you’ll do that?”
She tried to dodge the question. “I’ll be very careful, Roger. Thanks for letting me know.”
He was about to say something else, but he was interrupted when the maid knocked on the door and entered the room. She was a young black woman who was obviously intimidated by Delaney. “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “Dinner is ready.”
“Very well, Lucille. We’ll be there shortly.”
Dana saw this as her opportunity to get off the subject. She finished her drink and rose from her chair. “I’m famished,” she said.
Her host seemed a little annoyed, but he too swallowed the remainder of his whiskey and got up. “We can talk further over dinner.”
They went into the dining room, and Dana was aware that the depressing stream of Rachmaninoff was being piped in there as well. It seemed to go with the rain that was beating at the windows. Did it ever stop raining in Connecticut?
Delaney took his customary seat at the head of the table, with Dana close by on his right. It was more intimate than she would have liked, but she could hardly move her place setting.
“With the cook off tonight,” Delaney said, “we’re taking potluck. Lucille put this together. Isn’t anything much. Hope you find it okay.”
God, but the remark was rude. Lucille was standing off to one side, no doubt anxious about how the meal would be received. Delaney’s words probably put a further dent in her self-confidence. She left the room.
“Dinner looks lovely,” Dana said.<
br />
And it did. Cold vichyssoise, asparagus vinaigrette, sliced roast beef, a salad of lettuce and tomatoes. And a bottle of Montrachet.
The only problem was that the wine reminded her of that slimy lawyer in Beverly Hills, Alex Haynes. He’d ordered it when they had lunch at Mario’s.
“Coming back to our discussion of the detective,” Delaney said. “I think it would be fairly easy for you to get a restraining order against him. Even applying for one would be a good idea. Then you’d be on record.”
“Something to think about.” She sipped some of her wine. Delaney seemed obsessed with keeping Barker as far away from her as possible. Weirder and weirder.
Lucille returned to the room. “Mr. Delaney, there’s a phone call for you. Should I say to call back?”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Whitworth.”
“No, I’ll take it.” Delaney rose from his chair. “Excuse me, Dana.” He hurried from the room.
Speaking of slimy lawyers, Dana thought. Carter Whitworth was the one who’d written the letter she’d seen when she was nosing around Delaney’s desk.
She ate a spear of asparagus and picked at her salad. Why would Delaney’s lawyer be calling him at night?
She shivered, aware that the room was chilly. And gloomy. The falling rain was competing with the Rachmaninoff, the drops beating on the windows.
Should have worn a sweater, she thought. In fact, better go get one. She got up and went out into the hall, walking toward the main stairway.
Passing the library, she could hear Delaney talking on the phone. The door was slightly ajar, and his end of the conversation was clearly audible. She stopped to listen.
He sounded angry. “Damn it, you told me it would be taken care of, Carter. I can’t believe this thing hasn’t been wrapped up by now. Especially when I think about the amount of money I’m paying for it. And paying you, for that matter. What? Don’t tell me to calm down. Just tell me that fucking cop is gone. He’s dug up too much already. I’m trying to get information on that out of the bitch, but it’s like pulling teeth.”
Dana had heard enough. She felt chilled to the bone now, and it had nothing to do with the rain or the jangling piano music. The truth was, she was terrified.
So the hell with whether Delaney liked or disliked her leaving. She had to get out of here, right now. And if he tried to stop her? She’d handle him, somehow.
As quickly as she could, she went up the stairs and ducked into her room. She’d call a taxi, and when the driver came to the house she’d get to it if she had to fight her way.
She’d left her cell phone on the dresser earlier in the day. She didn’t know the number or the name of a taxi company, but information would help her with that.
When she looked for the phone, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. The phone wasn’t there.
And she heard footsteps, coming up the stairs.
64.
Barker had trouble finding the house. Last time he was here he’d simply followed Delaney’s limo and hadn’t paid much attention to where he was going. Now he was on his own, on a dark rainy night, and he made two wrong turns trying to locate the place.
As he drove he thought about Joe Spinelli’s reaction when he learned Barker was going to Greenwich to get Dana Laramie out of Delaney’s house. Joe said, “Have you lost what’s left of your mind?”
It was a fair question. Joe pointed out that Barker had one foot stuck in shit already. Go to a private home in another state and force a confrontation and he’d not only put in the other foot, he’d be up to his neck in it.
But Barker was nothing if not stubborn. And far more important, Dana needed him.
When he finally found the house, he pulled up the circular drive and parked in front of the entrance. As he got out of the Mustang, he saw someone approach.
It was Carl, the security man. He had on a slicker and a sou’wester, both glistening with raindrops. And he was carrying a pump shotgun.
Might as well try being cordial. “Hello, Carl. Not a very pleasant evening.”
But Carl wasn’t buying it. He blocked Barker’s path. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Came to pay a visit to your boss.”
“He expecting you?”
“No. I’m just dropping by.”
“Then drop yourself someplace else. You want to see Mr. Delaney, call and ask for an appointment. If he says okay, he’ll let me know. For now, get lost.”
Barker hauled out his shield and held it up. “Back off, Carl. I’m a cop. And I’m on official business, so don’t give me any problems.”
That shut him up. Barker stepped around him and strode to the house. He went up the steps to the entrance and rang the bell. As he did he heard muffled voices from inside, one of them that of an angry male.
The door swung open. Delaney looked out at Barker and his jaw fell.
“I know Dana Laramie is here,” Barker said. “I want to talk to her.”
Delaney’s voice was a snarl. “She doesn’t want to—”
Before he could say more, Dana cried out from somewhere behind him. “Jeb! Help me!”
That did it. He reached for his pistol.
And felt a hard object prod his back. He didn’t have to see it to know it was the barrel of a shotgun.
“Put up your hands,” Carl said. “Or I’ll blow you away.”
Barker slowly raised his hands, cursing himself for being careless.
Delaney said, “Get him in here, and we’ll deal with him.”
The shotgun jabbed again, and Barker stumbled forward. Carl kicked the door shut behind them.
Barker said to Delaney, “You’re making a bad mistake. Things’ll only go worse for you.”
“For me?” Delaney said. “You dumb shit. We’ll see who made a mistake.”
Dana tried to step past him, and Delaney backhanded her hard across the face. She would have fallen, but he grabbed her arm. He said to Carl, “We’ll take them back this way. Come on.”
With Delaney dragging Dana by the arm and Carl prodding Barker with the shotgun, they went down the central hallway to the kitchen. Delaney opened a cupboard and got out a roll of duct tape.
Barker tried again. “Give it up, Delaney. The whole thing’s out in the open now. Starting with how you hired a hit man to kill your sister.”
Delaney stared at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You had her killed because your father would have left her the bulk of his estate. Now with her dead, and the old man sick, you stand to get the whole pie when he dies.”
“He’s right, Roger,” Dana said. “I not only read your lawyer’s letter, I heard you talking with him on the phone.”
“Shut up, bitch,” Delaney said. He gave her another backhand, harder this time. It staggered her and left her gasping, a bright red mark on her cheek.
“Don’t say anything more,” Barker said to her. To Delaney he said, “I know the killer’s name. It’s Mongo. The cops in LA are picking him up, probably have him by now. You think he won’t try to save himself by running his mouth? He’ll tell them everything. And that’ll leave you swimming in the toilet.”
Carl said, “You want me to shut this shithead up, Mr. Delaney? Just say the word.”
“What I want,” Delaney said, “is to get rid of the pair of them.”
“I can do that, too,” Carl said.
“How?”
“Take ’em to the boat, go out in the Sound. Tie weights on them and dump them over. No more problem with either one of them.”
Delaney paused, thinking about it. “Yeah, that’d work. Let’s get them trussed up.”
He spun Dana around and taped her hands behind her. Then he pushed her to the floor and bound her ankles. Turning to Barker he said, “Now you, asshole.�
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“I’m telling you—”
The shotgun slammed Barker on the top of his head. He saw a bright flash and felt excruciating pain, as the blow drove him to his knees. Carl kicked him in the back, and he fell onto his face.
He was dazed, and his ears were ringing. He was dimly aware that the Mauser had been ripped out of its holster, and that his hands and legs were being bound with duct tape.
When Delaney finished he stepped to a wall cabinet and opened it, revealing a row of keys on hooks. He took out one of the keys and handed it to Carl.
“Get the Escalade out of the garage,” he ordered. “And bring it up here to the back door. We’ll use that to take them down to the boat.”
He peered into the cabinet. “I don’t see the keys to the boat in here. I’ll look for them. Meantime, go get the SUV.”
Carl went out the door, taking the shotgun with him.
Barker’s Mauser was lying on the counter. Delaney picked it up. “Don’t try to move,” he said to the pair on the floor. “I’ll be right back.” He left the room.
“Are you okay?” Dana asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Barker said. “Just hurting from a case of stupid.”
“I have the same problem. Never should have come here.”
“No way you’d have known. Can you move your hands at all?”
“No. Can you?”
“I’m trying, but this damn tape is tight.”
The swinging door to the dining room opened, and the maid came into the room. She had on a raincoat and was carrying a valise.
Dana said, “Lucille! Can you help us?”
“Yeah, I will. I heard what that man was doing to you. He’s a low-down motherfucker. ’Scuse my language, but that’s what he is. So’s the other one.”
She put the valise on the floor and took a knife out of a drawer. Getting down on her knees, she began sawing on the tape that bound Barker’s hands behind his back.
“I feel like I been workin’ in a nuthouse,” she said. “And praise God I’m leavin’. You don’t know what I seen here, but it’s crazy. Delaney and his wife, they hate each other. And the old man? The nurse keeps him drugged up so he got no idea what’s going on.”
The Big Hit Page 36