It was Monica’s little conscience, which she didn’t listen to very often, nagging deep inside her.
You took Todd away from her on the basis of a lie . . . which sent her off in despair to do stupid things.
“That’s crazy,” Monica whispered, arguing with herself as she ran the dishes under water before placing them in the dishwasher. “She was well over Todd before she took up with Emil.”
If anything, Monica assured herself, it was Heather who’d ruined Jessie’s life by stealing Bryan away from her.
Bryan.
Monica squinted her eyes as she looked out of the window over the sink. Was that Bryan she’d just seen lurking outside in the dark?
She tried to get a better look, but the glimpse she’d spotted just moments before was gone now. It must have been an illusion. She’d been thinking about Bryan and then she’d thought she’d seen him outside the window.
But in that split second she could have sworn she’d seen Bryan Pierce moving stealthily through the yard, past Monica’s house and toward Jessie’s.
Wouldn’t that be just like her? Monica thought.
It wouldn’t surprise Monica in the least to find out her sister was carrying on with Bryan. Jessie brought scandal with her wherever she went.
FORTY-NINE
“What I want to know,” Chief Walters was demanding of Detective Wolfowitz, “is why you haven’t yet asked John Manning to explain his reasons for keeping a dossier on Emil Deetz, as well as whether he was in Mexico on the day Deetz was gunned down by police?”
Wolfie sat back in his chair, crossed his arms against his chest, and grinned. “Oh, so now you think I’m not so crazy for suspecting that our esteemed author might be involved in these killings?”
“I’m just expecting you to follow proper police procedure, that’s all.” Walters eyed him with her sharp blue eyes. “When you find evidence, you question a suspect.”
“I’m planning on questioning him. But this new information has led me to postpone it a little while longer. And B’lin, you’ve gotta admit that if Manning had known I’d seen that dossier, he’d have quickly gotten on the horn to warn these other guys not to speak with me.”
“These other guys” were four associates of Emil Deetz, three in prison and one living in Hartford whom the cops had never been able to pin anything on. After speaking with dozens of Deetz’s old cronies, Wolfie had found these four guys who admitted yes, they had been contacted by a man named Manning—and paid a considerable amount of money to tell what they knew. They weren’t aware that he was a bestselling author; they’d figured “Manning” to be his first name. But the description of the guy was identical in every case, and matched Sayers’ Brook’s illustrious and enigmatic resident.
“So he told them he was writing a book?” the chief said. “So far, I see nothing suspicious about that. He’s an author, remember?”
“Come on, B’lin. You know something smells fishy. Why was he in Mexico at the same time as Deetz’s killing? Why did he buy the property from the Clarkson estate? And what is the FBI not telling us? Why won’t they confirm or deny that Manning is the guy mentioned in their agent’s report?”
Walters shook her head, her short gray pageboy moving like an iron helmet. “That is indeed strange. They usually cooperate in local investigations.”
“I suspect they’re watching him, too, and don’t want to tip their hand.” Wolfie was certain that was the case. It made him even more determined to find out the goods on Manning. He resented the feds for not sharing information and for moving in on a case that should fall under local jurisdiction. He’d show them.
“So what did these pals of Deetz tell you?” Walters asked. “What kind of information was Manning looking for when he questioned them?”
“Everything. He wanted every detail of their drug-and-porn ring. Where they got the drugs. What they paid for them. What kind of profit they made. Where the porn was made.” Wolfie leaned forward in his chair. “Eastern Europe, if you want to know. And it’s the kind of stuff that could land you in jail for a very long time.”
“Well, it did indeed land three of those guys in jail,” Walters said. “The porn charges against them, for distributing and aiding in producing, landed them longer sentences than the drug charges.”
“Yes, they sure did. Only one guy fell through the net. A guy named Ernie.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He lives up in Hartford. Very cagey. Obviously scared that he’ll say something that will finally pin some of the charges to him. But I kept assuring him that by cooperating, he won’t be arrested.”
“What did he tell you about Manning?”
“That one day he picks up his phone and it’s Manning, identifying himself as a reporter and asking for an interview. How Manning got his number, Ernie had no idea. It’s unpublished, and even then, listed under his girlfriend’s name.”
“So how do you think Manning got the number?”
“The man apparently has connections.”
“Okay, go on.”
Wolfie leaned even farther forward in his chair. “The first time Manning called, Ernie hung up on him. So Manning called again. And again and again, each time getting a thud in his ear. Finally Manning shows up at the guy’s house, and flashed a wad of cash when Ernie opened the door. Ernie lives in pretty squalid conditions, so he gave in and let Manning inside.”
“Did he tell him everything he wanted to know?”
“I suppose. After three hours, Manning seemed satisfied. Ernie wouldn’t let him tape-record anything, so Manning scribbled everything down in a notebook. He wanted every detail of their illegal activities, but he seemed particularly interested in where they’d stashed their cash. The FBI report does mention a large amount of money that was never recovered. Looks like it could be in the millions. Deetz was just one operator in a very large scam, but he was moving his way up the ladder, and apparently was holding on to a big stash. After he got gunned down in Mexico, the rest of the ring was either arrested or scattered. And it’s suspected that they’re competing with the FBI to find that money.”
“So which side is Manning working for?”
“Your guess is as good as mine at this point.” Wolfie smirked. “But the fact that he bought the property next to Jessie Clarkson suggests to me he’s working with the bad guys. I think that money was stashed on the estate, and Manning bought the chunk that he needed. And when his wife found out what he was involved in, he killed her.”
Chief Walters frowned. “And what evidence do you have to support that?”
“That part’s just a hunch.” Wolfie smiled. “For now.”
“Where did Ernie tell Manning they’d hidden the money?”
“He didn’t know. Only Deetz knew that. All Ernie knew was that it had been buried somewhere.”
“And you think it had been buried on the Clarkson property.”
Wolfie nodded. “The part that is now the Manning property.”
Walters leaned back in her chair. “I still think you’ve got to confront Manning with this information soon.”
“I hear you, B’lin. And I think I’m finally at that point where a confrontation can take place without messing up any other sources.” A grin slipped across his face. “And to be honest, I’m relishing the idea of seeing the look on his face when I tell him that I know he’s been digging around into Emil Deetz’s past.” His smile faded as quickly as it appeared. “And I did tell you, didn’t I, that last I saw our esteemed author, he was sitting on a swing set with none other than Jessie Clarkson?”
“Yes, you told me that. As well as the fact that she provided him with an alibi for the night of Theresa Whitman’s murder.”
“Things add up, don’t they?”
The chief raised her eyebrows. “Show me your math, Wolfie.”
“Don’t you think it’s curious that Jessie returned to Sayer’s Brook when she did? I always suspected she knew more about Deetz’s drug deals and shady connect
ions than she let on. Maybe she knew where the money was hidden, and she’s in cahoots with Manning. They sure looked awfully cozy that day. And she admitted they spent several hours together the night before talking about ‘love.’ ”
“This is all speculation.”
“But there’s reason to speculate. Two people are dead soon after Jessie returns to town. Both are connected to her. And she’s sitting there making goo-goo eyes at Manning.”
Chief Walters stood. She seemed to have heard enough. “Your next step is to question Manning about everything you’ve found out. What I don’t want you doing is drawing conclusions before you have any evidence to support them.”
She walked out from around her desk and called to a couple of sergeants passing down the corridor, asking them about another case. Wolfie stewed. Chief Belinda Walters placed too little stock in gut feelings. That was why she’d never be a great police chief. That was why Wolfie should’ve gotten the job. Sometimes the best police work was done not by relying on hard-and-fast evidence, but that little nagging voice in the back of your head.
And that voice was telling Wolfie that John Manning and Jessie Clarkson were involved in both murders. He’d find the hard-and-fast evidence eventually.
But for now what kept him moving forward was his gut.
FIFTY
Outside Bryan’s window, the trees looked as if they were on fire. It seemed that overnight all the deciduous trees along Hickory Dell—the maples and the oaks and, of course, the hickories—had turned bright red, orange, and gold. Autumn was upon them. There was a cold bite to the mornings now when Bryan threw off his covers, and the nights sometimes meant frost on the grass.
Maybe that was why he’d been drinking more than usual. He was trying to ward off the cold fingers of winter, which he felt were just waiting to grab hold of him. Heather had started sleeping in the guest room, unable, she said, to bear his tossing and turning. Bryan figured she just wanted to be away from him, which he didn’t mind in the least—except that meant he wasn’t getting any tail from anyone. Clare had announced she’d found a boyfriend and so she couldn’t see him anymore. And when Bryan wasn’t getting sex, he drank more. And when he drank more, he wanted more sex. It was a vicious cycle.
Plus, it had been a bad period at work. His firm was losing money; this economy was dragging everybody down. There was talk they might have to sell out to another company—possibly the very one Bryan had left, the place where that loathsome Todd Bennett ruled the roost. If so, Bryan felt certain his job would be axed. More than ever, he rued his decision to leave the old firm—and Mr. Thayer’s mentorship. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he lost his job. They had quite a mortgage on this house—plus there were the kids. Independent Day wasn’t cheap. And Heather expected them to go to the same expensive prep schools she and her brothers had attended. After that, there was college.
Bryan wished they’d never had those two brats.
He could hear them squawking in the other room. Ashton was yelling at Piper to give him back his toys, or maybe it was the other way around. If it weren’t for the red hair, Bryan would swear those brats weren’t his. Here he was, trying to unwind after a long day at the office—okay, not really so long, he’d left early—and this is what he had to put up with. Something banged against the wall. One of the kids throwing something, in the midst of a temper tantrum.
Bryan flung open the door. “Heather!” he shouted out into the hallway. “Keep those street urchins quiet! I’ve got a headache and I’m trying to sleep!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce,” came the voice of Consuela, poking her head out from the doorway of the kids’ playroom. “Heather isn’t home yet. I’m trying to break up an argument between—”
At the moment a stuffed teddy bear came flying out of the door and hit Consuela in the head.
“Between the two children,” the long-suffering housekeeper said.
“Well, tell them I said to shut up,” Bryan growled. “And don’t disturb me. I’m napping.”
“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”
Bryan slammed the door.
He poured himself another glass of whisky. He was pleased that Heather wasn’t home. That meant she wouldn’t be barging in on him unexpectedly. He’d been vaguely horny all day, and now, hastened by the alcohol, his dick was growing in his sweatpants. For some guys, drinking inhibited performance. For Bryan, it seemed to accelerate it.
From his secret lockbox, he withdrew the photographs of Jessie. But now he had a few other things to go along with it. His expedition the other day to her house had resulted in some considerable loot. He’d been so shrewd—slipping in through a front window by popping out the screen, then carefully replacing it once he was inside. If Jessie had thought she was secure in that house, she’d had a rude awakening after that. Bryan laughed. And when he’d left he engaged the front door lock so that it would click into place once he closed the door. Brilliant! He knew he shouldn’t have made such a mess of things—tossing Jessie’s clothes around, pulling things off hangers—but he liked the idea of freaking her out. It got him even harder knowing that she was scared.
Bryan smiled. He pressed a pair of Jessie’s blue satin panties to his face.
He knew he wouldn’t be content with photos and panties for long, however. He’d been sneaking over to Jessie’s house lately, and spying on her through her windows. But he knew sooner or later—more likely sooner—he would need Jessie herself. Why she had come to occupy nearly his every waking thought, Bryan wasn’t sure. It was true she was still hot. It was true that he carried around the feeling of unfinished business with her: she was the only chick he’d ever dated who he hadn’t gotten to fuck. But he was smart enough to know his obsession with her these past few weeks was due more to what else was going on his life: the rapid and obvious disintegration of his marriage, his loss of Clare, and his problems at work. Thinking about Jessie got his mind off all of that.
Thinking about Jessie gave him a purpose.
He lay back on his bed, Jessie’s panties on his face, the photograph on his chest, and began beating his meat.
That was when the door opened and Heather walked in.
“I come home and the kids are on the warpath and Consuela tells me you’re taking a nap—?” she said.
Then she stopped.
She saw the panties, and the photo.
Bryan sat up, looking at her with wide eyes and open mouth.
Heather couldn’t speak for a moment. Bryan didn’t even try to hide the evidence. It was pointless at this point.
Why hadn’t he locked the door?
Maybe, he realized, he’d secretly hoped she’d find him.
Heather looked at him with utter disgust. “You sick perv,” she managed to say, and turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Bryan looked down at the photograph of Jessie.
He had to have her.
Soon.
FIFTY-ONE
Detective Wolfowitz unlocked his door and flipped on his light. He liked coming home to an empty, quiet house. After a day at headquarters, with all that noise and all those phones ringing, this was what he craved: peace and quiet. After his divorce, friends had suggested he get a dog. Or maybe even a cat. A cat wasn’t as much work, and didn’t mind being home alone all day. But Wolfie thought the idea ludicrous. He didn’t want some dog yapping at him or some cat meowing to be fed. At the end of the day, all Wolfie wanted was to be left alone.
He opened his refrigerator and took out a plate of leftovers. He’d fried a couple of cube steaks the night before. He didn’t mind eating them cold. He’d cut up an onion and a cucumber. That was all he needed with it. That—and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.
He popped the top off a beer can and took a sip. Tomorrow he’d take a ride out to Hickory Dell and have a little conversation with Mr. John Manning, and maybe Ms. Jessica Clarkson, too. He thought this first confrontation ought to be low-key, friendly. He’d arrive without Knotts at his side, ma
ybe even in plainclothes. That would make it seem less serious. He’d mention casually that one of the detectives, during the search of Manning’s house, had found the collection of clippings about the Deetz-Solek murder case. Wolfie would ask innocently how long Manning and Clarkson had known each other. He wanted to see the initial reaction on their faces. Initial, unexpected reactions revealed so much.
He could return later in the day, in a more official capacity, and confront Manning with the information he’d learned from Deetz’s cronies, especially Ernie. Wolfie smiled, carrying his dinner plate and can of beer out to the living room. That was when he’d lower the boom.
Maybe he’d even be able to make an arrest before the week was out, depending on what Manning and Clarkson spilled.
But for now, he was just looking forward to sitting in his chair, eating his dinner, and watching a little Wheel of Fortune. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.
Suddenly the lights went out.
“Jesus,” Wolfie groaned.
The bulb in the overhead lamp must have blown.
But the kitchen light behind him, he realized, was also out.
He was about to go check the fuse box where there was a sharp, sudden, searing pain in his buttocks. Wolfie yelled out, thrust forward by the pain, dropping his dinner plate and his can of beer. He saw the can fall onto the old brown shag carpet, the golden lager spilling out in a mound of foam.
He reached around to feel his butt. There was something wet and warm. It was hard to see in the dark, but it seemed like blood.
That was when another sharp pain hit him, this time in his thigh.
Wolfie screamed as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor.
Someone was in the room with him. He could hear whoever it was walking around him. The bastard had stabbed him!
“Who are you?” Wolfie shouted.
It was the last thing Detective Wolfowitz ever said. He felt the sting of cold metal at his throat before he felt the pain. And then he couldn’t breathe.
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