“But Vino Blanco’s not real,” I said.
“Of course it’s real. We operate a legitimate wine import/export business. Brent had to have an official source for the start-up costs. It seemed a small concession at the time. How was I to know that you, Mary Ryan, would discover the one piece of paper that linked Vino Blanco to American Fare. It was a perfect plan. I had a little trouble convincing Brent to go in with me, but the lure of opening his own place was too tempting.”
Sharon was right, Juan was evil. Except for the hand pointing the gun at O’Connor’s head, his manner was nonchalant, as if we were discussing a minor etiquette faux pas, like using the cheese fork for your dessert.
“And you killed him in my bedroom because he was losing his nerve. Right?”
He nodded. “I toyed with the idea of framing him for Carlos’ murder but couldn’t quite see making that work. I kept an eye on him, followed him to your house, and confronted him. He was waiting for you to return from Carlos’ funeral. He planned on confessing the whole thing to you. Brent hoped that you’d speak on his behalf to your ex-husband and try to cut him a deal. You really should get better locks. We walked right in. Where were you? I had a lovely murder-suicide plan all mapped out. I really didn’t care whether they believed you murdered him or he committed suicide, he had to be silenced.”
That silly indulgence in vanity saved my life. The next time I had an impulse for a manicure I was going to give into it with a vengeance.
“How did you get his clothes and toiletries into my house?”
“Drew was very helpful in that regard. She had several articles of Brent’s clothing and things at her place and provided the ‘props,’ shall we say. It was, and is, a good plan. Carlos will be dismissed as a victim of some Latino in-fighting, Brent the victim of some love affair gone wrong.” He smiled at O’Connor. “The police like everything simple, don’t they, Inspector?”
O’Connor’s moved his chin a fraction of an inch, as if to silently challenge that last statement.
“Uh, uh, uh, Inspector.” Juan moved the gun toward O’Connor’s head another half inch. “I suggest you stay still. Any false moves on your part and who knows? I might get confused and our lovely Mary might get in the way of the confusion.”
“Is Drew involved in this?” I demanded, in an attempt to draw Juan’s attention away from O’Connor and back to me.
“Oh, yes. Beautiful Drew.” Juan smiled. “She and her rich friends like cocaine, especially since it’s laced with heroin. Tames the beast, so they tell me. They buy out every shipment. She gets a nice percentage, of course.”
“But she doesn’t need the money,” I protested. I thought about the outfit she’d worn that night I ambushed her in her doorway. Her monogrammed mules probably cost more than all my shoes put together.
“Oh, sad little story there. I think Drew needs all the money she can get. She’s developing a nasty little habit. She told me what you said about Teri. She was so angry,” he laughed. “She wanted me to kill Teri right away, but I said no. In hindsight she was right.”
Because I always felt like I had permanent food stains on my clothes around Drew, I’d been overjoyed to think that she wasn’t in the loop for once. Naturally, she was the very center of the loop. She was angry because Brent had jeopardized their little enterprise by his bedroom whisperings to Teri, not because Teri was privy to info she didn’t have.
I fingered the plate of eggs, debating whether or not to risk throwing it in Juan’s face. As though he could read my mind, O’Connor moved his eyes back and forth a fraction of a millimeter. No, not yet.
“But if you were going to implicate me, why attack me in the motel room?”
“Unfortunately, once you found out about the wine, I knew I’d have to kill you, too. I had a meeting arranged with Drew that night. We were going to talk about what to do next. I saw you leaving her house. She told me that you knew about the wine. I followed you to the motel. I had hoped to make it look like a random attack, but again luck was with you. That was pretty smart, trying to cut up the credit card. You are strong,” he admitted. “It was too bad that Gilberto Perez got in my way.”
I’d managed to keep the fear at bay up until now, but screams were pushing up against my throat. All these confessions on his part were just the entree. Clearly, dessert meant pumping multitudes of bullets into O’Connor and me. Despite all his talking, Juan remained in complete control, never flinching or relaxing the gun pointed at O’Connor’s head.
O’Connor must have seen the panic mounting on my face. The grim mask he’d worn since I’d entered the room softened a little and his eyes seemed to say, Hold on, Mary, hold on.
“Don’t kill us, Vamos,” O’Connor warned. “You’ll never get away with four murders.”
“Yes, I will, Inspector.” This man was going to kill us as casually as you’d throw a lobster into boiling water. “Your deaths will be ascribed to a robbery gone awry. I’ll rifle through the safe, take some liquor. I’ll make it look authentic. I doubt the police will suspect me. I live in Pacific Heights, I drive a fifty-thousand-dollar Mercedes, and I have a Swiss bank account. I don’t think you two are going to stop me. Shall we kill the Inspector first, Mary?”
O’Connor blinked twice very fast. I hurled the plate of cold wet eggs and silverware in their direction and trusted that O’Connor would be expecting it and duck.
As I flew through the doorway, I heard a gun go off. I said a silent prayer to the Virgin Mary.
Don’t let it be O’Connor.
I ran down the stairs toward the front door, my feet never so light and nimble in my life. Halfway across the dining room I heard heavy footsteps following me down the stairs. I knew I’d never make it to the front door. He’d shoot me right in the back. I raced behind the bar. In the big mirror over the bar I saw Juan enter the dining room.
I did some quick thinking. If I could see Juan, could he see me? No. With Brent’s meticulous eye, he’d never position the bar mirror so that you’d see the bartender’s feet while he was fixing your drink. Fortunately, the floor was covered with heavy rubber matting.
Making no sound, I crawled across the floor of the bar. I kept my eyes on Juan as I inched my way toward the far wall. If I could get to the podium near the front door, I could call 911 on the reservation telephone. I prayed that the tables, still covered with linens, were close enough together so he wouldn’t see me scuttling across the floor.
He scanned the dining room, poised. Suddenly, I heard a big thump overhead. O’Connor.
Juan remained where he was for a second, and then started back toward the office stairs. When he reached the staircase, I got up from my hiding place behind the bar and hurled a glass tumbler across the dining room and into the open kitchen. It worked. Juan raced into the kitchen, and I ran for the podium. I grabbed the phone, crouched back on the floor behind a table, and frantically dialed 911.
I reached an operator and whispered as loud as I dared, “Cop down, cop shot,” knowing that would get them here like lightning.
The operator started speaking loudly into the phone, demanding to know if the cop was okay. Her voice carried through the silent restaurant. I slammed down the receiver. I looked in the mirror. Juan had turned around and was looking directly at the podium. The phone was missing. A little smile played on his lips.
I had to get away from that phone. Fast. I began crawling between the tables, never once taking my eyes off that mirror.
I realized too late that I had crawled far enough into the dining room that I was now visible in the bar mirror. Our eyes locked.
He called my name: “Mary.” His voice was soft and gentle like a lover.
My only salvation was to anticipate when he was going to shoot and heave a chair at him at just the right moment in the hope of throwing him off the mark. He was ten tables away and coming closer. Eight tables away. Six. At four tables away, he flexed the biceps of the arm holding the gun. He was
going to shoot me from there.
I jumped to my feet and grabbed the closest chair. I hoisted it to my chest and was about to throw it up in the air when I heard several quick explosions in a row. Blood spewed all over the white tablecloths.
Oh dear Jesus, he hit me.
I began patting my white chef’s jacket frantically trying to stop the flow of blood.
But it wasn’t me.
The force of the bullets had propelled Juan forward and pitched him onto one of the dining tables. Beneath his splayed body, a halo of blood stained the white tablecloth, growing in ever-widening circles.
O’Connor leaned against the wall of the staircase, one arm wrapped around his torso, the other holding a gun.
Chapter 23
O’Connor’s bulletproof vest saved our lives. He was shot at such close range that it broke three ribs, but luckily the bullets didn’t penetrate his vest. Those police-issued, nine-millimeter Glock semi-automatics mean business. Juan was dead on impact.
We never did find out where Brent was the night of Carlos’ murder. Sharon confirmed that he didn’t come home until three that night, but no one believed he helped kill Carlos. O’Connor and I surmised that Juan had Drew set up a romantic tryst with Brent that evening so that he could kill Carlos without Brent interfering.
Naturally, Drew denied knowing anything about the drug smuggling. She hired the biggest legal guns in the city and didn’t have to appear in court once. I’ve heard through the grapevine that she’s in a major detox facility back east.
Gilberto vanished from the hospital two days before he was due to be discharged. Rosa and family also disappeared, as did the majority of the restaurant’s staff. I imagine they took their bogus green cards and moved to another city to start over.
Teri was devastated by Brent’s death. I think she was the only person besides his children who truly mourned him. I got her a job as a pastry apprentice at one of the hotels. Last time we talked, she had bought her first plate on the long road of replacing what Juan’s henchmen had smashed.
Since there was no trial to drag Brent’s name through the mud, Sharon sold American Fare at a hefty profit to some investors who would milk Brent’s name for a couple of years and then sell it or close it.
Thom had been in the office the morning I discovered Carlos’ body. He was printing up a batch of green cards when he saw the light flash on the phone console. While I was sitting in a booth crying my eyes out waiting for the cops to arrive, he walked right in front of me and out the door. I never even noticed.
In some ways, Thom benefited the most from this whole sorry affair. His father, faced with the prospect of his only son going to prison, set bail and hired him a good lawyer. His father isn’t reconciled to Thom’s sexuality, but at least he’s back in the family fold. Thom’s lawyer is trying to cut a deal with the INS. Amos keeps me posted. We’re trying to figure out crimes Amos can commit so that his father will start talking to him, too.
My life began coming together slowly. I spent the first week after Brent’s funeral on the couch watching videos. The next week I put my garden in order. The next month I painted the inside of my house. I bought all new furniture. I made a new quilt for my bed. I forced myself to make and eat three square meals a day and gained back all the weight I’d lost after my divorce. I discovered I still liked to cook.
The day before Thanksgiving an old teacher of mine from the École d’Epicure called and asked me if I’d be interested in a job teaching pastry. I told him yes, I’d be there after the first of the year. I had a little more than a month before the semester started, just enough time to remodel my kitchen.
One Saturday afternoon in early December, when I was poring over the blueprints for my new kitchen, the phone rang. It was O’Connor.
“How are you doing?”
I’d visualized this call many times, but now that I had the receiver in my hand I didn’t know what to say.
“Good, real good. I’ve gained fifteen pounds. I have a new job. I start after the New Year. What about you?”
“Good. We’re going to Disneyland next week with the kids. I’m trying to spend as much time with them as I can before I go back on active duty.”
“Any luck tracing the wine and drug trail?”
“No.” He sounded frustrated. “The department hired a computer expert to try and resurrect Juan’s files, but no go, the hard drive is missing. We combed his apartment but it was squeaky clean. There weren’t even bank statements. The guy must have shredded everything after the first murder. We brought in the FBI and Interpol to try to find the connection in Chile. Nada. Vino Blanco’s disappeared. The Swiss won’t cooperate with us. We have nothing. No paper trail, no case.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Um, how are the ribs?” I asked.
“Tender, but getting better. In another month I won’t even remember.”
“I’m seeing a therapist next week. About Jim, the divorce. I need to work out this anger.”
“He’s a good guy, Mary,” he reminded me.
“Yeah, I thought so at one time. Maybe I can do so again.”
“Moira and I are in marriage counseling. It’s helping.”
Another silence.
“Mary, about that day…”
I interrupted him.
“O’Connor, I want to thank you for saving my life, then I think I need to hang up.”
“Mary?”
I gripped the receiver, digging my nails into the plastic.
“We can’t go there. You know that.”
His voice was low and gentle. “I know. I just want to say two things. First, you’re fast on your feet, gutsy, and smart. The best. All those years, I couldn’t understand what Jim saw in you. Now I do. If you ever need me, call. Day or night, you understand?”
“I need to go,” I said softly.
“One more thing,” he insisted. “I want you to know that I’m sorry about that afternoon. Not sorry that something almost happened, sorry that something didn’t happen. Good-bye, Mary.”
He hung up.
I put the receiver back in the cradle.
I’d finally stopped yelling.
I picked up my blueprints. In one month I’d have one of those top-of-the-line, super-silent, German-made dishwashers to match my six-burner cooktop and double oven.
I thought, I’ll make a chocolate cake in the morning. Devil’s food.
Nancy Silverton has a great recipe for devil’s food cake.
I could almost taste it.
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