“It was Benny Deal in the picture,” Gray said. “But Benny’s dead. His remains were found about a month ago in a landfill near the airport.”
I had the instant vision of seagulls swooping over mountains of trash and sludge dredged up from the marshlands that surrounded the airport. I could smell the brackish air and the ever-present odor of jet fuel and exhaust. I imagined Benny in a green Hefty bag, adding to the overall fragrance of the dump, fertilizing what would one day become a new runway.
“So if the killer’s dead, why come after the video?”
Darlene was about to squirm out of her seat with the agony of not hearing the other side of my conversation.
Gray’s voice continued, tinny through my cell phone. “Because now there’s a link back to Lombardo. They can at least grab him on accessory or even conspiracy to commit murder. It’s circumstantial evidence, but now they can nail Benny, and Benny was Lombardo’s right-hand guy. It creates a chain leading back to Lombardo. The investigation can pick up again. The Feds will get a search warrant and who knows, maybe something’ll turn up.”
I sighed. “So what will you do now?”
Gray’s voice sounded stronger than it had since I’d met him, confident and certain. “No problem. We pick up those two guys again and send them back up to Philly. Once the others hear that the authorities have the evidence, they’ll lose interest in you and go away. It’ll all be over.”
“So you think Lombardo’s men killed Connie, too?”
Darlene punched my thigh. “What? What’s he saying?”
“Yeah, at least that’s what makes the most sense. It’s possible that a rival family or someone else with an interest is behind this, but the only people we’ve found so far lead us back to Lombardo. Nick must’ve come down here to get the pictures, and Lombardo’s men followed him. They were probably trying to break into your house the night Connie got killed.”
“Did something go wrong? Why didn’t Nick find the tape? Why didn’t Lombardo’s guys break in and get it? Why did Connie get killed?”
Gray said, “I don’t know what went wrong, but I think they were all trying. I think Nick tried to scare you away from the house by burning your car and leaving nasty messages. Then Lombardo’s guys figured Nick knew where the tape was and were following him, waiting for him to do their work for them. When that took too long, they started coming after you. Don’t worry, I’ve put out an alert. We’ll pick them up and that should be the end of it.”
Darlene moaned, slipped the car into Drive and pulled out into the street. From her general direction, I figured we were headed home.
“Darlene and I were eating ice cream on Middle Street a little while ago,” I said. “We think they circled the block a couple of times, watching us.”
Gray’s voice tightened. “What? I thought I told you to stay put. What were you doing out?”
Darlene picked up speed, zooming toward home. She was muttering to herself, something that sounded like a commentary on my failure to communicate with her while also talking to Gray. The woman had no patience even if she was a trained therapist.
“It was just ice cream,” I protested. “We had to move the car so Ma could get out. We were just around the corner from the house.” Well, almost.
“Yeah, and in that time they followed you. That surprises me, but then, they’re pretty desperate. At least you made it home safe.”
Okay, I lied. “Yeah. See? Nothing to it.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Darlene was about to make the turn onto my street.
“Well, stay inside. It shouldn’t take long before they’re back in custody.” Gray put his hand over the receiver and I heard muffled voices, then he was back. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when it’s clear.” He was gone, the line dead; whatever it was had to be urgent.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me!” Darlene demanded. “What did he say?”
She rounded the corner, gasped and hit the brakes. Ahead of us was total chaos.
Chapter 16
In the midst of chaos was one black sedan boxed in by a car, a pickup truck, a crowd of onlookers and the Old Guy Militia.
“Oh my heavenly Goddess!” cried Darlene. “What now?”
I peered ahead and tried to figure out the scene. Mort, bandy-legged in his khaki shorts, leaned against the open door of his elderly four-door Chevy. He had the black sedan blocked from proceeding farther down the street. Resting on his shoulder and across the open doorway of the car was a shotgun. Mort was sighting down the barrel, a determined look on his craggy face.
The sedan was cut off from making a rear getaway by a battered and rusted out old Ford pickup, vintage 1944. Pa stood on the running board, a megaphone in hand, saying something.
I figured the megaphone was responsible for the crowd of neighbors and tourists. We’d drawn the Tryon Palace visitors, the ones who’d wandered off to view local gardens and now thought they’d become extras in a movie.
“They’re going to die!” Darlene screamed. She threw the car into Park and jumped out, leaving it running and sitting in the middle of the street behind the turned-sideways pickup truck.
“Darlene, wait!” I yelled, hopping out to run after her.
But the old guys were in strict command of the perimeter. Frank whirled around, his bald head covered by a World War II helmet, and stuck out an arresting hand. Belts of ancient ammo were strapped diagonally across his chest and he was holding a huge, but elderly pistol in his other hand.
“Halt!” he said firmly. “Stay where you are. We’ve got it under control.”
Darlene stopped in her tracks, wide-eyed, and said, “But what about your rotator cuff? Frank, that gun’s too heavy for you to hold like that.”
Frank blinked but held fast. He didn’t answer Darlene, choosing instead to turn his attention back to the scene.
Pa wielded the megaphone like a seasoned professional.
“The men in this car are armed and dangerous,” he was saying. “Take cover.”
A few old ladies in floral polyester giggled and clapped enthusiastically, clearly charmed with my father. My neighbors, on the other hand, given the events of the past few days, knew better and ran like startled rabbits, with the exception of my closest neighbors, Bill and his partner. Bill stepped to the edge of his walkway, a small black gun in his hand.
“Mr. Mazaratti,” he called to Pa, “I got you covered from this side.”
His partner, dressed today in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and sporting fuchsia-pink, flower-topped flip-flops, stepped out from behind his brave companion and flashed a huge orange Super Soaker water gun.
“I got game!” he called. “Don’t underestimate the power of my weapon. It’s loaded with Russian vodka and only a whisper of vermouth!”
Bill shot out a cautionary arm and shoved the man back behind him. He raised the pistol and pointed it straight at the driver of the car.
“Gentlemen, you are surrounded,” announced Pa. “Step out of your vehicle or we will blow you straight to hell!”
Mort grinned, as if he would like nothing better, and inched his rifle up a bit to bring it level with the middle of the black car’s windshield.
“Slowly,” Pa called to the vehicle. “Very slowly open the doors. Throw your weapons out and then exit the car with your hands up over your heads.”
The street, minus the tourists who were still clueless, held its collective breath. After ten seconds the driver’s door opened, then the two back doors. Three handguns were tossed out onto the street.
“Throw the rest of them out here, too,” Pa called.
An Uzi submachine gun followed, then a thin black rifle, two additional handguns and three knives.
Pa turned to look at Frank. “That’s most of it,” he said, “but I don’t buy it’s all. Be careful.”
Slowly, very slowly, three men emerged from the vehicle. I recognized two of them as being the men who’d hit my car, but the third man was a complete stranger. He was tall and thin, balding with
wisps of black hair combed across his scalp in an attempt to fool himself into thinking all was not lost in the hair department. The men wore dark dress slacks and golf shirts, gold bracelets and necklaces. It looked like a business outing instead of the sinister stalking of innocent victims.
“Is there some kind of problem here?” the thin man asked. He attempted a grim smile, but stopped at the sight of the Super Soaker. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked Bill’s partner.
The young man shot him right in the heart with 180-proof liquor. “Gotcha, sweetie pie,” he called. “I ain’t no joke.”
“Call the police,” one of the mobsters begged, obviously more afraid of Pa and his cronies than the cops.
“Maybe,” Mort answered. “And maybe we’ll just take care of this ourselves. Maybe we don’t think the police are doing such a hot job and we’d like to police the neighborhood.”
The three men huddled together in the middle of the street, trying to look tough and failing miserably.
“Did you kill that girl?” Mort asked.
Silence.
I reached Pa, dialing 9-1-1 as I walked. “These guys work for the Lombardo family,” I said, loudly enough to be heard by the gangsters and Mort. “Nick made a video of one of their guys killing an FBI agent who was working undercover within the Lombardo organization. That’s why they won’t go away.”
Pa’s face tightened. “Wiseguys, eh?”
“Now that the police have the tape, all they’ll need to do is pick up this garbage and take it back up North.”
“Damn Yankees!” Bill’s partner cried. “Let’s lynch ’em, boys!”
“Trey, shut up!” Bill snapped. “This is serious.”
Trey stuck out his lip. “Well, who’s kidding?” he answered.
I heard the communicator’s voice saying, “Police emergency, can I help you? Hello? Hello?”
Once again I gave the address, but before I could finish I heard the sound of sirens racing toward us. Someone sensible had already called.
Mort looked disappointed when the cruisers swung onto the street from both directions. Within seconds the three Lombardo family employees were lying across the hood and trunk of their car, handcuffed and in custody. Pa and Frank wandered around the edge of the scene to join their disappointed buddy, commiserating about the kind handling their captives were now receiving, and discussing how they would’ve gotten the men to confess given enough time.
“Well,” Darlene said softly, “that’s that.” She was staring at the men and frowning. “Which one do you think actually did it?” she asked.
I stared back at them. Each one looked completely capable of killing without remorse, and yet who could judge an actual killer by appearance alone? I could envision the trio following Connie, aka, “Connie Bono,” down to New Bern. Connie and Nick. They were naive and stupid, and now they were both dead. What did it matter who actually did the killing?
I sighed, suddenly tired of everything and everybody. I wanted to sleep, for days or weeks, or maybe even months. I wanted to wake up later, when I didn’t feel hurt and defeated and, above all else, so terribly sad.
Gray arrived as the three suspects were packed into separate squad cars. He listened as Pa detailed the trap they’d laid for the sedan, and smiled to himself when no one was looking, his eyes taking in the ancient artillery and the rusty vehicles.
“We wasn’t going to use our good cars,” Frank said. “Guys like us can’t afford to have our insurance rates go up.”
Gray nodded, all business, saw to the wrapping up of the details, and gave his okay when the old guys requested permission to go home.
“There’s a Phillies game on,” Pa groused, but I knew he was headed home for a nap in the recliner.
“Yeah, and I got chores to do,” Mort added.
Darlene hadn’t said a word. When Gray’s unmarked car had pulled up onto the scene and it had been him and not Wendell, she’d disappeared. I remembered the hurt in her eyes and knew that unless something changed, and quickly, Wendell would be losing the best thing to ever happen to him. Stupid man.
Gray walked over to me and touched my arm, smiled when I looked at him, and lowered his head to talk to me.
“I’ll be in charge of getting them processed,” he said. “It might take awhile. I have a couple of other things to handle, too, before I can take off and relax.”
I looked at my watch. It was already after four. “Ma wants us for dinner,” I said. “I’ll tell her…”
“Tell her I got tied up,” he said, “and go on without me. If I get away at a decent hour, I’ll stop by your place later.”
The way he said that last, with the emphasis, made me look up at him, reading the intent and knowing he meant more than for just a quick nightcap. My stomach flipped over and my heart started its familiar banging away at my chest.
“Okay.” It was the only word I could manage, because in addition to feeling excited, I was aware of a new emotion that seemed to spread through me like a flame touching dry tinder. Panic. I was absolutely terrified. Nothing stood in our way now—no ex-husband, no threatening killers, no emergencies, nothing.
If Gray noticed the way I felt he didn’t point it out. He kissed me quickly on the top of the head and turned to follow his three charges back to the police department. His mind was on business, not pleasure. Clearly Gray didn’t see relationships as terrifying catastrophes the way I did.
I stood on the sidewalk, watching everyone go, and felt an overwhelming relief at finally having some time to myself. Behind me, Trey’s voice called, “Champagne cocktails, anyone? Hors d’oeuvres?”
I turned around and realized the boy wasn’t kidding. He held a tray at shoulder height and was handing out plastic flutes of bubbly liquid and offering what appeared to be meat-balls to anyone and everyone who still remained in front of our two houses.
When he reached me, the food was gone, but I grabbed a glass and let myself feel caught up in the air of celebration for a moment. Barry Manilow sang through Bill’s outdoor speakers “Her name was Lola….” and the three elderly tourists were quickly becoming Trey’s surrogate mothers.
Bill edged up to me and smiled shyly. “He’s such a nut-case,” he said, “but I love him.”
I looked over at Trey and saw him begin to dance with one of the women. He was bright-eyed and laughing, carefree and oblivious to anything but the spirit of the party.
“What’s not to love?” I asked.
Bill gazed after his boyfriend and smiled. “We’re so different. I guess that’s why it works.”
“Who knows why things work out?” I said, and felt a fresh wave of panic wash over me. I grabbed another champagne cocktail from the tray Bill held and downed half of it without thinking.
Bill’s eyes met mine and I knew he read me. “Nothing like a fresh start to shake things up, huh?” he said. “Go crash for a while. Things always look better when you’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
I smiled and hugged him, a tentative first hug of many hugs, and watched him walk away. He was right. I was tired and overwhelmed and flooded with too much emotion happening too quickly. There would be time to think about what it all meant later, much later.
The champagne had gone to my head. I left the impromptu party, thinking the entire situation would look better after a snack and a nap. I stood in the kitchen for a minute, staring into the refrigerator and waiting for something appetizing to leap out at me, but nothing did.
Every time I thought about food, I thought about Ma, then Ma feeding Gray, then Gray looking deep into my eyes. Food lost its appeal as butterflies swarmed through my stomach and my heart raced in my chest. Who could eat at a time like this?
I gave up on food, turned off my cell phone, unplugged the downstairs phones and drifted upstairs to bed, my head as fizzy as the champagne. I pulled down the covers and slipped between the cool sheets, still fully dressed and once again too tired to care. It was only going to be a short nap, I promised myself; t
hen I’d get up and figure out what to do with Detective Gray Evans.
I fell asleep thinking about him, but dreamed about Nick. I remember thinking to myself, This is so stupid. Why am I dreaming about you when I want to dream about Gray?
In my dream, Nick was fishing, hooking something that bowed his rod, something that he struggled to pull from the water. He tugged and tugged, reeling the line in, and sweating with the exertion. Finally, with a mighty heave, he brought it up. It was a rusted, red bicycle.
We were sitting on the edge of the dock, and when the bicycle surfaced Nick turned to me and smiled. “How about that?” he said. “Fish do need bicycles!”
We looked back at his catch, but it was no longer there. In its place floated the horribly bloated body of Connie Bono. I screamed over and over again until Nick dropped his rod and grabbed my shoulders.
“Wake up!” he said. “Wake up! They’re here.” He looked over his shoulder then back out at the water. I heard the sound of wood shattering. “Quick,” Nick said, “wake up!”
I did. I sat up in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat, with tears running down my cheeks. My heart was banging against my chest wall and I felt absolutely terrified.
“It’s only a dream,” I whispered to myself. “A bad, bad dream.”
I peered out beyond the bed into the darkened room, and then looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was after eight. I’d slept through dinner at Ma’s. I hadn’t even called.
“Great,” I swore under my breath. “Now Ma will be mad. I need that like a hole in the head!”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and hopped down onto the floor. Bleary-eyed, I changed into fresh jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers. I began to make my way out of the room and down the stairs. I had to call home before home decided to call on me.
I wandered into the kitchen, got distracted by the refrigerator and realized that I was starving.
“Burgers,” I muttered to myself. “Junk food.” I grabbed my purse and the keys to Ma’s car from the counter, scribbled a hasty note to Gray saying I’d be back in a few minutes if he came by, and headed for the car. Durrell was waiting for me in the backyard, his look too pitiful to resist.
Sophie’s Last Stand Page 24