Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  She fumbled with the doorknob, balancing the pizza box on her knee. The door opened a mere three inches. Cudge had latched the chain hook. Puzzled, Elva opened her mouth to call him, then winced. The temperamental tooth with its rice grain of decay was going to ache all night.

  “Cudge,” she whimpered, “open the door, will you?”

  “Elva?” It was a hoarse whisper from the other side of the door.

  Something was wrong. Cudge never whispered. He yelled and put his fists through walls, but he never whispered. “Yeah, it’s me,” she responded. “What’s the matter? Why are you whispering?”

  The door was forced shut, jamming against a corner of the pizza box, and she heard him fumbling with the chain latch. Then it swung open again and he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her into the apartment. The bare lightbulb over the kitchen table swung back and forth, creating wild shadows and rhythmic patterns of light.

  “Get in here, dummy. Where the hell were you?” He was angry but he was still whispering, and the annoyance on his face was mingled with something else. Something dreadful she had never seen there before. Now it wouldn’t matter that she had done everything exactly right. Nothing would matter except that Cudge was mad and, one way or another, she would pay for it.

  “I . . . I went for the pizza like you told me. I even got the change.”

  “Shut up. I gotta think!”

  Elva shrank back, still clutching the pizza box. Something was wrong, awfully wrong. What? She’d never seen Cudge like this, so quiet and scared. He moved away from her and sank down on the edge of the daybed, his head in his hands. The TV was still on but the sound had been turned off. She watched him, not daring to turn her eyes away.

  Then suddenly, like an uncoiled spring, he jumped to his feet and punched the wall, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a frightening grimace.

  “Stupid little shit! He never should’ve tried to bust my hump. He should’ve known I didn’t have fifty bucks to pay him back.” His fist pounded the wall again, punctuating his words. “Thought he’d take my truck and rig. Thought I was stupid or something. He should’ve known!”

  Elva pressed against the wall, eyes wide with terror. In all the time she had lived with Cudge she’d never seen him like this. Cudge was scared. Scared shitless.

  “Don’t look at me that way!” He turned on her, slamming his fist into the cardboard pizza box, knocking it to the floor.

  “You ruined it.” Automatically she bent down to pick up the box but Cudge hoisted her to her feet.

  “What the hell are you messing with that for?”

  “I . . . I just wanted to clean it up.”

  He shook her, almost making her teeth chatter. “Oh, yeah? Well, see what you can do about cleaning that up!” He turned her around so she came face-to-face with Lenny Lombardi. Lenny was lying on the floor, his face barely recognizable. If it hadn’t been for his familiar trench coat and slick dark hair, she wouldn’t have known him.

  Elva knelt down beside him, her hands extended in a gesture of helplessness. Lenny wasn’t breathing!

  Her mouth opened but before the sound could rip from her throat, Cudge had his beefy hand clasped over her lips, covering her nose, cutting off her air. Waiting for her to be quiet, he hissed a warning not to scream.

  She stared up at him over his hand, her eyes wild and panicky, then shook her head violently, fighting for breath.

  “Will you shut up?” Cudge growled. “ ’Cause if you don’t, you’ll get some of the same.”

  The cords in Elva’s neck threatened to burst; she was feeling dizzy and sparks were shooting off inside her head. Frantically, she nodded.

  Cudge waited a long moment before removing his hand. For an instant, she believed he never would, that he would hold her there forever and ever. Her feet kicked out, touching the soft, unyielding body wedged against the wall. Sickened, she ceased her struggles.

  “Now, shut up. One sound out of you and you’ll look just like him!” Cudge warned in that creepy whisper, a scared look narrowing his eyes.

  Full of revulsion, Elva made her way to the daybed, away from Lenny—from what used to be Lenny. She clamped her hands over her mouth to stay the questions. Unable to control herself any longer, she began to tremble as the words tumbled out.

  “Why? Why’d you kill him? He was your friend! My God! You killed him!”

  Cudge raised his hand, threatening her. “I told you to shut up! I don’t wanna hear your mouth! Shut up!”

  Elva was beyond the point of hysteria, she was verging on dementia. “God! You killed him! You killed Lenny! Your best friend! God!”

  “If you don’t shut up so I can think, you’re gonna get what he got!” Cudge knocked the lamp beside her onto the floor. “One more word, Elva, one more word and you’re gonna get it! You stupid broad! I gotta think!”

  “But the police! What are you gonna do? They’ll find out!”

  “Quit your babbling, I gotta think!”

  She shuddered with horror. Cudge had killed Lenny Lombardi and he would do the same to her if she didn’t keep quiet. Everyone always said Cudge would kill somebody someday and Elva had silently agreed with them, never realizing how his potential for violence fascinated her. But Lenny was his friend.

  Cudge paced the floor, his hands constantly kneading his skull in exasperation. While he paced, he kept up a constant monologue, muttering curses at Lenny, whining complaints and praying to God for a solution.

  Bit by bit the quarrel between Lenny and Cudge became clear to Elva as she stole quick looks at the body that lay stuffed between the table and the wall.

  “We have to get out of here,” Cudge said, intensity sharpening his blunt features. “And we have to get him out of here, too, before anybody starts wondering where he got to.”

  Elva looked up, puzzled.

  “You’re an accessory, you know,” he informed her. “If I hang, you’re gonna hang, too!”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything! I just came in here and found . . . him.”

  “It don’t matter, baby,” Cudge told her, his voice showing concern. He knew how easy Elva was to handle—stupid, dumb broad. All he had to do was make her think he cared for her and she came crawling, willing to do anything he demanded. “Look, baby. According to the law, you should have run out of here and gone straight to the cops. You didn’t, so that means you’re aiding and abetting. That makes you an accessory and what I get, you get too! Understand?”

  Elva really didn’t understand, but she knew that Cudge was smart when it came to the law and he sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. If he said she was an accessory, then she must be one. He’d been busted by the cops enough times to know what he was saying. “But what can we do? Where can we go?”

  Cudge smiled to himself. Poor, stupid Elva. “Look, baby, we’ve got to get out of here and we have to take him with us. I figure we can stuff him into the camper and take off somewhere and bury him.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “Poor Lenny.”

  “What about ‘poor Cudge’? What about me? That stupid jerk tried to rip me off—he got what was coming to him! And now I ain’t got no best friend.” He knew that would bring Elva around. There was nothing that could swing Elva around like cheering for the underdog. Just make her feel sorry for you and you could lead her around by the nose.

  “Cudge, I didn’t mean anything like that.” She went over to put her arms around him. “Sure I know how hard this must be on you and all. Lenny was your friend and I know you didn’t mean to . . . to hurt him.”

  “That’s right, honey. I never mean to hurt nobody. I just don’t know what comes over me sometimes. Hey, I’m sorry I hit you before. Real sorry. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. But don’t back out on me, baby. I need you. More now than ever.”

  Elva’s heart went out to him. Poor Cudge, he just couldn’t help himself. Any more than her father had been able to control his temper. Hadn’t Mama always forgiven him? Hadn’t Mama
known that she was Daddy’s very own salvation here on earth? Daddy had known it too. He always called Mama his own angel. Deciding she couldn’t do any less for Cudge, Elva squeezed him hard. “Just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything to help you, Cudge, you know that.”

  “Good girl.” He answered her hug with a kiss on the cheek. “Only don’t go getting the idea you’re doing it for me. It’s for you too, baby. Christ, what would I do if they ever took you away from me because you’re an accessory?”

  “Don’t worry, Cudge,” she said soothingly. “Nobody will ever take me away from you.”

  Cudge Balog smiled and began formulating his plans for moving the remains of Lenny Lombardi into the camper.

  Chapter 2

  Listening to Sara’s slow, regular breathing, Andrew knew she had fallen asleep. She had climbed into bed beside him after their lovemaking in front of the fire, placed her head on his shoulder and settled down. Now, as he lay beside her, he thought about their trip to Florida the next morning.

  No need to worry about packing; Sara had seen to it, and much better than he could have done himself. They would be escorted by federal agents to the airport; and there was no concern about tickets or reservations; the government had seen to everything. They would simply board the plane and, once in Miami, go right to the courthouse. Their hotel accommodation was being kept secret even from them, so there was no possibility of a leak.

  No matter how often Sara tried to reassure him, Andrew still felt uneasy for not coming forward to testify of his own volition. Nothing should have kept him from going to the authorities as soon as he’d learned that Jason Forbes’s body had been discovered behind an all-night supermarket. Forbes had been only twenty, a promising student in Andrew’s second-year physics class. While Andrew hadn’t known the young man outside class, he had found him to be affable and to have an above average aptitude for higher mathematics.

  Tomorrow Andrew would be asked to review his acquaintance with Forbes on the witness stand. There was little he could say beyond an impersonal recital of Forbes’s class attendance and scholastic record. The prosecuting attorney wouldn’t be looking for a personal history, Andrew reminded himself. He would want to know the details of the last time Andrew had seen Forbes alive.

  It had been in May. The university library had been dim and cool, especially in the stacks where he was doing research in preparation for the coming week’s classes. It had been quiet, so quiet one could almost hear the proverbial pin drop. With a scholar’s contentment in the musty, hushed atmosphere, Andrew had gathered up the heavy physics texts. This was a little-used area and he had expected to spend the entire time alone at a table in the far alcove. He had been so immersed in his work that he hadn’t even been aware of any noise until he heard angry voices. Curious, he had stopped to listen.

  There were two voices: one with the unmistakable tenor of youth; the other harsher, older, more authoritative. They were arguing in hushed tones but their words were clear and distinct. The older voice was accusing the other of “holding out . . . starting your own business . . .”

  “No!” the younger man had protested. “That was all I picked up. Honest!” He continued to protest the accusation, his tone becoming more nervous, fearful and wheedling. Impelled by curiosity, and a vague recognition of the younger voice, Andrew had quietly closed his book and moved to the archway of the alcove.

  He’d recognized Forbes immediately. His accuser was a man in his late forties, of heavy build, wearing a Hawaiian-print shirt. Andrew had never seen the man before but there was something menacing about him and the way he was leaning toward Forbes. He was a dangerous man, Andrew thought, one he wouldn’t want to deal with himself. He wondered if he would have Forbes’s courage in standing up to him.

  “We know you’re lying, kid. I’ve been told to tell you that you’d better get the rest of the stuff to us by ten o’clock tonight . . . or else.” The man had jabbed his index finger into Forbes’s shoulder for emphasis. “We don’t like kids who hold out on us. We know you picked up ten kilos, so how come you only delivered eight? At street prices that would make you a nice little bundle, wouldn’t it, kid? Think about it, you’ve been playing around with the big boys and you’d better come across.”

  Forbes’s complexion had turned pasty white beneath his Florida tan, and he’d choked out his words with difficulty. “I don’t have it, I tell you. You’ve got this all wrong.”

  “You’ve got it all right, kid. We know you do. Word got back to us about that little sale you made yesterday. Ten o’clock, kid, the usual place. Be there with the stuff. Oh, and don’t try running home to mama. We’ve got our connections in St. Louis, too.” With the speed of lightning, the man had punched Forbes in the stomach, the blow sending the young man gasping to his knees. Then he’d turned and strolled away, his heels clicking along the aisles of books.

  Andrew had hurried over to Forbes to see if he was hurt. As he stepped forward, Forbes staggered to his feet, rubbing his abdomen. A low whistle escaped him, and Andrew thought he heard him mutter a curse.

  “Are you all right?”

  The young man stood frozen, staring at Andrew.

  Andrew had taken a step toward the student, but the forbidding expression on Forbes’s face stopped him. Jamming his hands in his jeans pockets, Forbes walked out.

  For the rest of the day, the scene he had witnessed replayed in Andrew’s mind. That Forbes was involved with drugs was obvious. Florida was the U.S. entry point used by many drug smugglers; from there the drugs were distributed to major cities. There was also no doubt that Forbes had gotten hold of two kilos of whatever—cocaine, heroin or marijuana—and had kept it. The only uncertainty was whether or not he would return it. If he had made a sale the day before, did that mean he no longer had the drugs? What would happen to him if that were the case? The question had occupied Andrew throughout dinner, until Sara had complained. Finally, he had confided in her.

  The following day, Forbes’s body had been found behind the supermarket. Was that the “usual place” the older man had spoken of? The campus was thrown into turmoil by the murder, and an investigation was launched. Detectives and policemen scoured the campus for information. No one approached Andrew to question him; yet he was becoming increasingly uneasy. Two weeks passed and still he wrestled with the question of whether or not to come forward with his information. Then more information had come to light. Forbes had been found to be involved in drug trafficking, along with his roommate, Franklin Pell. Still, nothing in the newspaper reports indicated that the police were any closer to finding Forbes’s killer. Andrew knew that the police rarely revealed all information to the press, yet every day he scanned the papers, finding out more about Forbes after his death than he had ever known about him in life. It became an obsession.

  In the midst of it all, Andrew and Sara had had to respond to job offers made to both of them earlier that year by Montclair College in New Jersey. They had talked it over and agreed they would be fools to leave the “Sunshine State” for the long, cold Jersey winters. But now the opportunity to leave Florida and escape even the remotest involvement in the Forbes case appealed to them. They would leave as soon as classes ended in order to set up housekeeping and prepare for the fall semester.

  By the middle of July, the Taylors had moved into an old Victorian house on the outskirts of Montclair. Andrew seemed to be his normal self again, and Sara was occupied with setting up housekeeping and redecorating. Even Davey seemed to adjust to the move with little difficulty; in fact, he thrived on the additional attention provided by Sara’s sister, Lorrie, who lived nearby. September came, and with it a structured schedule, marshaled by Sara, of classes, study, chores, and school for Davey. Then the murder in Florida had caught up with them—Andrew and Sara were picked up during their classes by federal agents. Franklin Pell had informed the police about the circumstances leading to his roommate’s death, revealing that Forbes had told him that Professor Taylor had witn
essed the confrontation in the library. Pell’s testimony had leaked to the newspapers, but before the news could be picked up by the wire services, the government hastily arranged for the Taylors to be picked up and questioned.

  The drug ring Forbes had been involved with was one of the biggest in the country. Andrew’s testimony was vital in linking the syndicate to Forbes’s death, and hence to other crimes. The government had been waiting for such a link—it would be instrumental in breaking up a wide circle of corruption which it was determined to destroy. Without Andrew’s testimony, the connection between Forbes and the syndicate would be weak, and if the government knew this, so did the killers. Even Franklin Pell had no direct contact with the syndicate. His only contact had been Forbes himself.

  With awesome speed and thoroughness, the government put the Taylor family under twenty-four-hour guard. The syndicate’s main objective would be to prevent Andrew from appearing in court—an end most likely to be achieved the same way they had dealt with Forbes.

  Sara had been wonderful throughout, dealing with the government interlopers with the same efficiency with which she ran the house and her career. Davey liked the men who followed him to school and stood outside his classroom even though he didn’t understand exactly why they were there. Sara had deemed it unnecessary to tell him too much. It was more important, she said, that Davey saw his parents coping with the unusual happenings in their household and going about their lives as normally as possible.

  Andrew hated the news media most of all. They referred to his caution in coming forward with the information that could “crack the most infamous drug ring operating in the United States” as though he had deliberately held back. While he didn’t have any illusions about being a hero, Andrew despised their use of the word “caution.” He knew it was a non-libelous euphemism for “coward.”

  Sara turned over onto her side, sleeping deeply now, her blond hair fanned over the pillow. The sweet, round shape of her haunches pressed against Andrew and he smoothed his hand over her hip, following the line to the slim valley of her waist. He envied Sara her peace, wanted it for himself, wished he could find sleep instead of lying there thinking.