“So?”
“Deputy Burgess called me. About… about Mitch?”
It took a moment for him to remember. “Oh, yeah. The little girl.”
“What about her?”
“She’s going into protective services unless someone is willing to take her.”
Neesy blanched. “Me?”
“Wasn’t my idea.”
She bit her lip. “Can I… can I see him?”
“I have a few questions first.”
They were mostly about Mitch—when she’d seen him last and things like that. But he also asked about Shelby Townsend, and she told him about the phone call that morning.
The chief drummed on the desk. Something she’d said—the phone call?—seemed important. “Do you know what she wanted?”
“No.”
“And Mitch was at Crick’s all day. Same as you.”
“Well, yeah. Except, well, there was the fifteen minutes or so when I was at his house.”
Abe’s brows rose, and she told him about putting up the tree. “It was a surprise for Julia.”
“So you and Mitch are friends?”
Her face heated, and silently she cursed her tendency to blush when she got flustered. Truth was, she didn’t know what she and Mitch were. And now… well, maybe that was just as well. “I guess.”
“You ever hear him talk about the Sentinel or Shelby Townsend?”
“What is this with Miz Townsend?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Far as I can remember, he’s never mentioned her. Well, except there was that one time with the dog. You remember. That dog that got killed in the alley? Shelby came by later that afternoon wanting to talk to Julia about it, but Julia was so upset that we snuck her out of there before Shelby could get hold of her.” She explained rapidly, not wanting to dwell on that day, even in her mind. The lovely afternoon and the dinner that night. And after, outside on the curb in the moonlight…“Look, can I see Mitch now?”
He took her into a room with a two-way window. Hannah Blunt was there. Neesy didn’t have time to glance at the window to see how things were going, but when Abe opened the door to let her in, the temperature inside was cold enough to freeze an Eskimo.
The minute Mitch saw her, though, his face warmed up. “Thank God,” he said, trying to stand.
“Don’t you dare,” the chief said. “I only just let Miss Hannah back in here.”
Mitch sat back down again.
“Can I talk to him alone?” Neesy asked.
“Don’t see why,” the chief responded. “Either you take the kid or you don’t. Either way, I’ll have to know.”
Neesy didn’t bother pointing out there might be other things she wanted to say to Mitch Turner or whatever the hell his name was. But she didn’t. And even if they had been left alone, she probably wouldn’t have said any of them. He looked awful. Like he’d aged a decade. His face had always been craggy, but now there were new lines around his eyes and mouth.
“Chief here says you want me to look after Julia,” Neesy said.
“She’ll go into the system if you don’t,” Mitch said.
“My life isn’t exactly child-friendly.”
“It would only be temporary,” Hannah put in. “Until my brother returns from vacation. I’m sure he and Bitsy would take over then.”
“Please.” The word was soft and low, and it nearly broke Neesy’s heart.
Damn her for a fool.
“You lied to me,” Neesy said. “Hell’s bells, Mitch, you lied to everyone. Making out like you were just folks when all the time you were anything but. I’ll bet you laughed your head off every night thinking about us.” Thinking about me.
“You know I didn’t.”
She looked him square in the eye. “Did you kill that woman?”
His gaze on her face didn’t waver. “No.”
“Did you kidnap her child?”
“What difference does it make?” he replied, and everyone could see it for the dodge it was. “It’s not me you’re helping; it’s Julia. She hasn’t done anything.”
“Miss Brown, it’s late,” the chief said. “And my wife is home cooking up a low-fat Christmas Eve feast. Are you going to take the child or not?”
Neesy looked around the room. Everyone was staring at her. What did they think she was—some kind of heartless monster? “Well, if I’m the best choice that poor kid’s got, she’s in a bad way. Yes, yes, of course I’ll take her.”
Every muscle in Mitch’s body unclenched. “Thank you.”
Neesy nodded. “Does she have everything she needs, or should I stop by the carriage house?”
“She’ll be okay for tonight.”
“Well, then…” Neesy gave him a small, pitying smile, and the chief escorted her out.
When they were alone, Hannah said, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about you.” She straightened, new strength in her voice. Strange how much more comfortable she was talking about life-and-death legalities than about what to do with a kid. “The first step will be a hearing to establish your identity. That should happen within ten days. Once the court is sure you are the Mitchell Hanover from the warrant, there’ll be an extradition hearing. Of course, you can concede to the extradition and waive the hearing, which would save everyone—”
“Don’t you want to know if I did it?”
“You already said you didn’t. Besides, your guilt or innocence is irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant? You’ll be defending me.”
“No, I won’t. The crime took place in New York. That’s where you’ll be tried. I only have to get you through the extradition hearing.”
He stared at her, reality getting colder and colder by the minute.
“Then what?”
“Then you’ll be shipped to New York and—”
“What about Julia?”
“What about her? You took the child. Do you deny that?”
“How can I?”
“Murder aside, that’s kidnapping. How do you think she’s going to feel about that?”
He was silent. The twin terrors of discovery robbed him of thought. Not only did exposure put everything he cared about in danger, but it was also the beginning of Julia hating him. And that was worse than anything.
“What’s going to happen to her?” he asked quietly.
Hannah pursed her lips, clearly not happy to turn the conversation back to Julia. “CPS will get involved. There’ll be a hearing to determine temporary custody. If suitable relatives can be found, she’ll most likely be placed with them. I imagine her father—”
“No!” His heart leaped into his throat. “You can’t let that happen.”
“There isn’t much I can—”
“There is. There has to be!” He dove forward—to grab her, shake her, make her understand.
She jerked away. “Calm down.”
“I won’t ca—”
“You will or I’ll leave.”
His pulse hammered, his gut twisted, but he needed her. There was a monster loose, and he was coming for Julia.
Mitch closed his eyes, forced his breathing back to normal. Apologized. “It’s just…” He searched for an explanation she’d accept. “Julia doesn’t know him.”
“Whose fault is that?”
The question felt like a punch, and he wanted to punch back. “Mine, okay?” Despite his promise to stay calm, he slammed a fist against the edge of the table. “Mine.” He leaned in. “But if you knew what I know, you’d fight with every breath to keep Julia away from her father.”
“What do you know?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. The truth was there if only someone would believe it.
“What do you know, Mitch?”
“I know my brother. If you want to know who really killed Julia’s mother, ask him.”
She frowned. “I’ve seen the reports. There isn’t a shred of evidence against him. Whereas you—”
“W
ere stupid and impulsive—you think I don’t know?”
“Well, you won’t get very far pointing fingers at your brother. No one saw him in the area, there is no physical evidence against him, and he has no motive.”
Mitch knew all this. By heart. But hearing the facts spoken so bluntly still chilled him. “You can’t let him have Julia.”
“Would you rather her go into the system?”
“Why can’t she just stay with Neesy? Or the Blunts?”
“Any blood relative would have a better claim than either of them. And her father would have the best claim of all.”
He sunk his head into his hands. He had no choice now. “I have to get out of here.” He said it to himself, a vow, a plea, an entreaty to the universe. But Hannah heard him.
“That’s not going to happen.” She said it gently, with enough pity in her voice for him to know it was true. “You’ve been running for over a decade. No judge will set bail given the flight risk. Once extradition is set, the demanding state, in this case, New York, will send people down to get you. Two people usually. Detectives. With handcuffs.”
“Then I’ll just have to get out before they get here.”
“Going to tunnel your way out?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well”—she rose—“good luck with that.”
18
The Ricci was the best art gallery in Manhattan. Even with the tightening of the economy and everyone pretending it was better to eat at home than out, Bernardo Ricci still sold paintings. Especially Dutch Hanover paintings.
Not that Dutch cared about selling. He didn’t need the income. But he thrived on the adulation and loved the prestige.
And he did enjoy a party. Bernardo’s openings always included Cristal and an elite list that had been winnowed down over the years to a select few. The show was invitation only, and art lovers killed for an invitation.
The thought made Dutch smile. He stood in the center of the gallery, surrounded by a respectful rabble. Words like fascinating and insightful swirled around his head, but he only pretended to listen to what was, after all, his due.
Instead he looked at Priscilla, the painting directly across from him. Bernardo had hung the work on a single white wall, and the woman it enshrined looked out at him humbly. Thankfully. He’d dressed her in rags, set her among an array of decaying cartons against a graffiti-strewn brick wall. And yet she looked regal. Pale, stark, and beautiful. The Princess of the Boxes. No wonder she was grateful.
His gaze caressed the beautiful carmine ruby around her throat. His mouth watered thinking of how he created that color. Nodding absently to whoever was on his left, he sipped his glass of wine. Dutch didn’t drink champagne. He didn’t like the color. So Bernardo always stocked a Barolo for him, preferably the ’96 vintage. Not only did it taste like ambrosia, its burgundy tint was deep and rich.
Excitement buzzed inside him. He excused himself from the circle of worshippers to gaze fondly at another painting. In Carolyn, a woman huddled on a rooftop. A TV satellite dish, painted to look like some alien device, shielded her nearly nude form from the wind that was blowing the city’s detritus around her. As pale and wan as Priscilla, Carolyn appeared alone and forlorn, and yet there was that same dignity in her face. And the same crimson jewel around her neck.
They were his signature, those pale, stark virgins with their scarlet rubies. It gave him a little shiver to think of them. They brought him millions he didn’t need and the adoration he deserved. And no one but him knew their true worth.
Soon there would be another.
The thought stirred him so much he couldn’t keep still. He dipped around a corner and behind a door that led to the gallery offices. Leaning against a wall in the dark hallway, he breathed heavily. He’d waited a long time for this one.
He’d already begun planning the painting. The setting was nearly chosen. All he had to do was wait for the judge to sign the papers, and she’d be his.
It was too delicious.
The door opened suddenly, and the light popped on.
“Oh, Signor Hanover, I did not see you there.”
“Just taking a moment to myself, Bernardo.”
The curator continued down the hallway to his office. “You will be happy to hear we have already sold one.”
Dutch followed him. “Oh?” Feeling languid and happy, he leaned against the jamb of the office door. “And who is the first to go?”
“As I predicted. Signorina Priscilla.”
“Ah, yes, she is a beauty.”
“You are never sad to see them go.”
“Should I be? There are always more to paint. In fact, I am already working on another one.”
“Buono, buono.” Bernardo made some kind of note to himself and looked up. “I cannot wait to see it.” He picked up the bottle of special reserve he kept for Dutch’s exclusive use and offered to top off his glass. Then he poured some for himself. “To profit,” he said.
Dutch smiled and raised his glass. “To art.”
19
Julia didn’t say much on the ride over to Neesy’s. Then again, neither did Neesy. Just stuff like “Are you hungry?” and when they got to the house, which was so old it looked like it would fall down any minute, “This is the kitchen” and “This is your room.”
The house smelled funny. Like old clothes piled in a dusty basement. But “I grew up in this house,” Neesy said, so Julia didn’t mention the smell.
Neesy made peanut butter sandwiches, and they ate them in a room she called the parlor, where they watched a stupid movie about Rudolph and Santa. Well, Neesy ate them. Julia had trouble getting it down, so she stopped trying. But Neesy didn’t say a word about it. When the movie was over, she swept up the paper plates and disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back, she said it was time for bed.
Lying there in the pajamas that were always packed in her bag, Julia felt stranger than she’d ever felt in her life. She’d been in a lot of new places, but Mitch had always been there, and he’d made it feel like home.
She didn’t like to cry. Only babies cried. But even though she told herself she wouldn’t, tears leaked out anyway. They tracked down her cheek, over her ears, and onto the pillow. She wiped them away, and a few minutes later, more came.
Her dad had looked scary at the police station. His hands were cuffed to a table, and they made her sit on the other side instead of crawl into his lap and hug him like she wanted.
“Go with Neesy,” he told her.
“I want to go home.”
“I know, but this will have to do for now.” He smiled. It wasn’t his usual smile. This one looked like he wished he had something to smile about but didn’t. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
She wanted to believe him. She really did.
“I’ve got your back, Junebug,” he told her.
“I’ve got yours,” she said. But she didn’t know what that meant anymore.
When she got tired of crying and tired of remembering, she got up. Dully she roamed around the old house, touching and staring. The stove had clunky knobs and a tiny oven. It looked like something from the kitchen in Old Yeller. A light hung over a table in the room off the kitchen. The table had a whitish lace thing in the middle. When she flicked up the switch, the light didn’t go on.
She missed the carriage house, with its clean wood floors and fireplace. Somehow she’d got it into her head that the deadline Mitch had set would come and go and they’d still be there.
But the year was almost over and now so was everything else.
She was poking around the bathroom when Neesy caught her. The older woman was wearing a purple nightgown that showed a lot of skin, and her red hair was all fluffy and wild. She yawned, which gave Julia a chance to study her. It beat thinking about Mitch, and besides, Neesy was different. Colorful. Nothing like Bitsy or Sara Jean’s aunt Hannah. And her boobs were practically popping out.
“Do you know what time it is?” Neesy aske
d, yawning again.
Julia shrugged. “Nighttime, I guess.” She braced for a scolding, because she knew it was the middle of the night and she should be in bed, but Neesy only sighed, gathered her gown around her, and plopped on the toilet.
“Can’t sleep?”
Julia shrugged again. She didn’t want to talk about why she couldn’t sleep. She focused on the shelves across from the toilet that were filled with bottles and jars and tubes. She picked up a jar and unscrewed the cap. It smelled nice. “What is all this stuff?”
Neesy took the bottle from her. “Oh, I don’t know. Lotions and things. Here.” She scooped some into her palm and then rubbed it over Julia’s hands.
“Why do you need so many?”
“Well, let’s see. I need some for my hands, and some for my face, and some for the rest of me. And then sometimes I feel like spring is all inside me wanting to bust out, so I use this.” She handed Julia a bottle. It smelled like flowers.
“And sometimes it’s all dark and gloomy out, and I feel mad at the world. That’s when I use this.” She opened another bottle. It smelled dark and spicy. “I’ve got something for every mood just about.”
Julia sniffed her hands. “What’s this one for?”
“That’s what I wear when it’s three a.m., and I can’t sleep, and I need something soothing.” She smiled, and Julia’s face got all hot. But she liked the way Neesy’s eyes sparkled. Mitch’s eyes did that when he was teasing her.
“I’ll take some of the mad-at-the-world stuff, please.”
Neesy handed her the bottle. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Julia was surprised at how fast she agreed. It made her want to talk despite what she said.
“Do you think… do you think he did what they say he did?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Neesy said.
“He didn’t!”
“I don’t know if he killed anyone. I don’t think he did, but…”
“But what?”
“But he does have you.”
“He’s my dad.”
“Is he?”
That was the question Julia didn’t want to hear, let alone answer. She ran out of the bathroom and raced back to the room she’d been given, slammed the door, and pounced on the bed. Burying her face in the pillow, she fisted her hands, and tried hard to hold back the tears.
Two Lethal Lies Page 11