Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2)

by Colleen Connally

  Brophy stared hard at the man. “Was this situation connected to Walter Ashcroft?”

  Rosenberg came to his feet and gave a slight shrug. “It is my understanding that there is a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Ashcroft. He is set to surrender himself in the morning.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Brophy stood.

  Walking to the door, he paused at a picture hanging on the wall. A group of men dressed in camouflage stood around a dead elk. Rosenberg held the buck’s antlers. Staring back at him in the group was Ellis Dean.

  Tapping on the photograph, Brophy turned back to the man. “You’re a big game hunter?”

  “No.” Rosenberg shook his head. “Ellis is, though. His favorite pastime. He arranged the hunt for the partners. A ranch in Colorado. To be honest, I was a little surprised to find myself enjoying the hunt. I killed my first bull elk. A twelve point.”

  “Do you mind if I borrow it?” Without waiting for permission, Brophy took the picture off the wall. “One more thing: I will need the name and number to this place.”

  For the first time in days, he felt his heart race with anticipation. He had his lead.

  * * * *

  His lead had disappeared. Ellis Dean was nowhere to be seen.

  An APB had been issued, not for connections to the murders, but for collaborating with Walter Ashcroft, who stood accused of a multitude of federal charges.

  Fraud and money laundering were the most serious charges that Walter Ashcroft stood accused of. The news had run one story after another on the consorting with known organized crime leaders.

  Dean had last been seen at his high-rise condominium along the waterfront. From the looks of the place, he had left everything behind, including his car. His credit cards hadn’t been used. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

  The man had simply vanished.

  Over his webcam, Brophy interviewed a Clyde Porcello at Ridge Road Ranch. Porcello hadn’t recognized the name Ellis Dean, but knew the man in the picture as Timothy Crosley. Ellis’s associates at Lincoln and Sullivan confirmed Ellis used the name when he wanted to be anonymous. Most of the men mentioned Ellis was concerned about an obsessive girlfriend.

  Porcello continued, “The man I knew as Crosley thought he was an expert marksman. I’m hesitant to call him an expert. He had talent, but was too impatient. He always let his emotions get the better of him. But if I remember correctly, he said he was a member of a gun club in New Hampshire somewhere.”

  Sure enough, Brophy discovered Ellis under the alias of Crosley was a member of the Manchester Rod and Gun Club. Brophy had no question the man had the capability of shooting and killing Olivia Edmunds.

  Most everyone else scoffed at the idea. What would have been his motive?

  But Brophy’s instincts told him he was on the right path. He just had to find the scumbag.

  Where the hell could he have gone?

  He sat at his desk and went back over each report. Something…anything that would jump up out at him to where Ellis would have gone.

  “Have you had any luck?”

  Brophy looked up to see Cruz in front of him. He shook his head. “Nothing, but it’s been hard. He had one alias. He could have had more. Honestly, I think he has left the country.”

  “You would think that would have been the smartest move,” Cruz agreed. “But I think I may have found the bastard.”

  He studied her intent face. “That would be?”

  “When you told me that he was a member of a gun club in Manchester, I did some digging on my own. Everyone I talked to said that he came only sporadically. I mean, the place is two hours away from here. So, I’m thinking a man obsessed with guns would need to take out his frustrations somewhere closer.”

  “And?” He hated it when Cruz paused for dramatic effect.

  She grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Salisbury.”

  * * * *

  Ellis Dean walked over to the window for the tenth time. Goddammit, she said she would be here over an hour ago!

  He should have never listened to her. Telling him to leave everything so they couldn’t trace his movements. I’ll help you vanish. Go to our place.

  The lying piece of shit. He should have known better. He only had a couple of thousand in cash. The old Buick he had used in the shooting was in the garage, but he didn’t dare use it too often, even after he had changed the plates. The new ones were stolen as well.

  Nervously, he tapped his fingers against the windowpane. Why hadn’t he taken the time to go to the bank and withdraw from one of his accounts? He could have gone up north and crossed into Canada. From there, he would go to Belize.

  Then, he could live out his life in ease with one of their off-shore accounts they had set up together. Over the years, the account had grown to well over a hundred million.

  That is what he thought when she said go, don’t worry about anything.

  Now, though, he was worried. He had been held up in this house for days, since the FBI had put out a warrant for his arrest in connection with that fool Walter.

  Foolish and stupid on his part. He had let his guard down. The Feds had picked up on it immediately and connected him with helping Walter do business with the Delfino family in Chicago.

  For years, Ellis had been able to lead Walter on a merry-go-round and hadn’t let him off. To keep Ellis quiet, Walter had done anything Ellis wanted. The cost of his silence had been high.

  It had all been part of Julia’s glorious plan. When Walter embezzled money from his father with that damn power of attorney, Ellis had him. He roped the idiot in without him even realizing it.

  Walter was an arrogant, selfish sonofabitch. It hadn’t taken much for Walter to push his own brother under the bus. To save himself, Walter set his brother up.

  Of course, Ellis had helped. Walter, the bungling fool, wouldn’t have known what to do, but once it was done, Walter had no trouble with the outcome.

  Even after Jack’s suicide, Walter never blinked an eye…was relieved that the FBI had dropped the case. No guilt. No remorse of the pain he had caused.

  No, Walter had maliciously turned his guilt on Jack’s daughter, cutting her off and leaving her penniless. Ellis and Julia had reveled in the outcome.

  When Julia had come to him with her plan for revenge, Ellis had thought her crazy. But little by little, things fell into place. Determined to get revenge on the mighty Ashcrofts, Julia Stanford made them pay for their treatment of her precious brother, Russell.

  Pay with their blood. Oh, yes! Life became interesting when he met Julia Stanford.

  Remembering when he first realized that in Julia he had found his soulmate, a shiver of lust raced through his blood. Over the years no one suspected they were carrying on a torrid affair right under their eyes.

  Especially not Jack. His dear friend had worn on his last nerve. Ellis had tired of playing the poor sidekick—relying on Jack for his pity handouts.

  Jack helped him stay on the basketball team when he had got caught drunk off campus the night before a game. Jack went to the dean to see what could be done to get him into Harvard Law after they put him on the waiting list. Jack had his father speak to the city’s most prestigious law firm to get him on as an associate…behind Jack, of course.

  High and mighty Jack, who could do no wrong.

  All those years, Ellis had hated the ground Jack walked on and the fool never suspected. Jack never saw beyond the mask Ellis hid behind. Jack never realized his best friend was a psychopath until it was too late.

  Julia saw it, though.

  Relief flooded him when he saw her car pull into the drive and park. Ellis watched the car door open. Wearing red high heels, her long legs emerged from the vehicle. His anger forgotten, replaced with an overwhelming desire to have her.

  Straightening her short skirt, she smiled seductively. Her button on her blouse was undone enough to show off her cleavage. Turning, she opened the backdoor and bent over grabbing a bag of groceries. She wasn’t wea
ring panties.

  Lord, he was rock-hard with need.

  Ellis walked out to help. She handed him the bag and kissed him eagerly. Pushing her ample breasts against his chest, she whispered in a low, throaty voice. “Naughty boy.”

  She laughed.

  Licking his lips in anticipation, he followed her into the kitchen and placed the bag down. He smiled at the blue Gatorade. “You remembered.”

  She nodded. “Hope you don’t mind. They didn’t have the sugar-free. I got you regular.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’m not going to be here long. When do we leave? Did you bring my backup passport?”

  Abruptly, her mood changed. She turned sharply, shooting him a look that could cut through steel. “No. How was I supposed to do that? I took a big risk just coming here.”

  “Nobody knows about this place. We used it for years.”

  “That was before the FBI was looking for you.”

  Standing with her arms crossed, her eyes flamed with a sudden anger.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Ellis protested. “How was I to know the FBI was going to arrest Walter…me?”

  “You were careless. After all this time, you’ve ruined everything. You killed the wrong one. Now, Riley’s going to go after her share. We both know that the will is real.”

  “Most of our money is already hidden, Julia. Why worry?”

  “Why? Because then they will launch an investigation. I won’t let them destroy what it has taken years to build.”

  “Neither will I. Didn’t I take care of Barlow? Her betrayal cut deep.”

  “Too much so. Bludgeoning her to death was dangerous, stupidly so. It caused red flags. You should have just shot her like you did Charlie. You fool. It was Charlie who was blackmailing us and you had to beat the shit out of Helen.”

  “Helen betrayed the family. She told her lazy, good-for-nothing son.”

  “You have been reckless. For god’s sake, you killed Olivia. It broke my heart.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, Ellis, you have complicated our lives.”

  Her voice stopped him cold. He glowered at her. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I need time to think. We can’t just react. Give me a few days. I’ll be back with a plan.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “A few days.” She moved back to his side. Just as abruptly as her anger appeared, it vanished. She leaned up and kissed him. “I promise. We’re in this together.”

  “Stay,” he whispered…begged.

  “Darling, I wish I could, but I have to get back. We don’t want to raise any eyebrows.”

  Exasperated and hurt, he stepped back. “Did you at least bring me a laptop?”

  She smiled. “It’s in the car. Come with me.”

  He followed her back out to the car. As he opened the door for her, she slid behind the wheel.

  “Here it is, darling. I’ll be back.”

  Taking the laptop from her hand, his heart jolted. He said nothing, but stepped back and let her drive off without another word.

  He stood there the longest time and stared after her. What was a jug of antifreeze doing in the back of Julia’s car?

  * * * *

  The next morning, Ellis walked out the backdoor to the hummingbird feeder. Below it lay two dead birds.

  He was right. Damn, he was right—Julia had tried to kill him!

  After she left, he had his suspicions. Julia never did anything for her car. It made no sense she would have had a jug of antifreeze.

  Last night, he tested his theory and poured the blue Gatorade into the birdfeeder. Based on the evidence lying dead on the ground, she had put enough antifreeze in the Gatorade to kill a horse.

  Not to mention when he tried to get into their joint oversea accounts, the password had been changed.

  The cold-hearted bitch! He wasn’t safe. Goddammit!

  What was he going to do? The FBI looking for him and he only had a little over two thousand dollars.

  He rushed back inside and grabbed his bag and keys. He was going to get the hell out of there.

  * * * *

  Brophy had gone to Captain Centrello with Cruz’s information. Captain Centrello hesitated, but finally gave him permission to investigate the lead with strict restrictions. If something turned up, he was to stand down and go through proper channels, which meant the FBI.

  With the early morning light, Brophy and Cruz arrived at Henry’s Open Range, which offered a variety of services besides use of the indoor shooting range. The business, also, sold guns, ammo, and an assortment of knives.

  A closed range, they allowed only their members to use their facilities. When showed the picture of Ellis Dean, he was identified as one of theirs. But he wasn’t known by that name.

  Ellis Dean used the name R.F. Stanford…Russell Stanford.

  Russell Stanford listed a residence in Newburyport.

  Brophy intended to do Captain Centrello commanded, but he wasn’t about to let Ellis Dean slip through his fingers. He would be damn if he wasn’t the one checking out the information.

  Driving up the private drive, he pulled to a stop in front of the Nantucket-style home. Impressive for a safe house. Immaculate grounds. Beautiful gardens.

  “Have to say the sonofabitch knows how to live.”

  “It’s a getaway for him,” Cruz said, as if thinking out loud. “There would have been no other reason for him to have the house.”

  Brophy nodded in agreement and opened his car door.

  “Not waiting for the troops to arrive?”

  “Nah,” Brophy muttered under his breath. “Can’t let them have all the fun. Let’s go ruin Mr. Dean’s day.”

  Walking through a garden arbor, Brophy walked up to the entrance and knocked. Cruz took the rear.

  “Mr. Dean, police. We would like to talk with you.”

  No answer. He knocked again. This time, he turned the handle. It wasn’t locked.

  Not hesitating, Brophy entered with his hand on the grip of his gun. “Mr. Dean, this is Detective John Brophy from the Boston PD. Just want a word.”

  Brophy said the words, but his eyes and ears were intent on any sound or movement. Nothing…but quiet.

  He made his way through the house, upstairs, and then back into the kitchen. Nobody.

  The place looked lived in. The bed hadn’t been made. Clothes littered the floor. Dishes lay throughout the place. Obvious the housekeeper hadn’t been in to clean.

  Out through the kitchen, he walked onto the patio. Strange. An open bottle of Gatorade sat on the patio table. Not far away, under a bird feeder, lay a couple of dead hummingbirds.

  “Find anything?”

  “He’s gone. Looks like he left in a hurry.” He shrugged. “But this is interesting. Who feeds hummingbirds Gatorade?”

  Cruz looked over the scene, careful not to touch anything. “Poison?”

  “Looks that way. Have to get it tested. But who?”

  “Maybe the woman the neighbor across the street says comes over quite often when Mr. Stanford is home.”

  “Get a description?”

  Sirens in the distance told their time here was limited.

  She shook her head. “Never saw her close up. They weren’t social. But she said that Stanford drove a late model Buick.”

  Brophy glanced around, thinking. Waving his finger in front of his face, he used it to point to the kitchen.

  “What if this mysterious woman wanted Ellis out of the way? Tried to kill him.”

  Cruz nodded in agreement. “It would appear so.”

  “He suspected,” Brophy went on. “The Gatorade.”

  “Ah…” Cruz comprehended his meaning. “Since Ellis was holed up here, maybe someone brought it to him.”

  “Maybe we could get a print of something in the kitchen…quickly.”

  Cruz wasted no time. Donning gloves, she hurried into the house.

  Brophy walked around the house from the outside, buying Cruz a few more min
utes. He watched an entourage of black SUVs…FBI.

  That was a quick response. He had expected the local police force first—unless someone else called in a tip. Someone who expected the authorities to find a dead body.

  Charleston

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun covered the Carolina countryside, shining on miles and miles of green fields. Majestic Virginia live oaks blanketed with Spanish moss. White steeple churches. Abandoned old houses.

  Driving with her windows down, Riley soaked in the familiar sights of her youth. She had come home. Here she regained what she had lost over the last few weeks: control.

  Somewhere in the madness, her focus had been diverted. Her world had tilted off its axis. Now, though, her attention lay solely on her objective.

  It had been over a year since she pulled into the parking lot of Lieber Correctional Institution. Even so, the same sick, nauseating feeling returned that plagued her every time she visited this place.

  Lieber Correctional Institution was South Carolina’s most dangerous prison. It was here the state housed the most violent offenders. Hardened criminals. Lifers…Harrison.

  Nothing here could ever be confused with a country club. Not with the razor-wire fences, the guards at every turn, or the bars on the windows.

  She hated all of this—going through security before being allowed to enter into the visiting room, waiting to see if your loved one was allowed the visit, and most importantly, whether Harrison would see her or not. The last time she had seen him, he had told her never to come back.

  Watching others greet their loved ones, Riley stood by herself in silence, her eyes fixed on the door. Finally, she saw a tall, black man with a shaved head, muscular, with a frown plastered on his face.

  Harrison.

  He gave her no acknowledgment, hung his head down, and walked over to a vacant table. She did the same, claiming the chair opposite him.

  “I told you I would be back,” Riley finally said.

  “Why?”

  Suppressing her frustration at his welcome, she reminded herself that no matter what she had gone through, nothing compared to what he had endured.

  Ignoring his edgy greeting, she kept her own voice deliberately upbeat. “Soon, Harrison. We’re getting so close.”