Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

  Owen scanned the article for the information about the murder. Her apartment was on the ground floor of a converted mansion, with a terrace looking south over the Atlantic Ocean. From what the paper reported, the police were assuming that she’d been shot, probably in the face, just inside her front door on the afternoon of August 2. The detectives in charge were speculating that her body might have been wrapped up and carried out onto the terrace and then down to a waiting car. Sarah Rand’s body, they assumed, was at the bottom of the Atlantic.

  Owen leafed through the pages and stared at the picture of Sarah standing between Henry Van Horn and Judge Arnold. An unexpected knot twisted in his gut. From the newspaper account, their relationship had all the earmarks of a love triangle in which the judge had ended up as odd man out. And it appeared that the police were looking at that as the motive for murder.

  He carried the paper into the kitchen. Something didn’t jive. It just didn’t seem possible that the woman looking back at him from the photo could be playing a part in this twisted script.

  “You should stop going out to parties entirely,” he muttered, reaching for the phone. “Or at least stop picking up strays off the road.”

  But then again, he thought, you meet such interesting people.

  ~~~~

  No matter what she tried, the metal stumps on the stove would not turn.

  Going back to the door, Sarah put her shoulder to it once again. The gas was horrible, and a fit of coughing racked her body as she threw herself against the door. It was no use, she thought, sinking to the floor. Helplessness flooded through her, and she lay her cheek against the cool tile.

  As she lay there, waiting for the gas to finish her, visions collected in her head, memories pooling in her consciousness before sliding off, only to be replaced by others. The funeral of her father. The open grave with John Rand’s casket at the bottom. The cheerful face of her friend Tori when she’d last seen her standing in the doorway of the apartment. The glare of flashlights.

  They were after her. On the road and now here. But why?

  There was no longer any reason to fight. She waited for the end to come and the face of Owen Dean flitted into her mind. Those youthful dreams. The silly crush she’d had on him...a movie star. She’d been barely seventeen when she and Tori had hitched a ride from Boston to New York. They stood for hours in the pouring rain just to catch a glimpse of him at the premier of Restless. To think that tonight she hadn’t even recognized him, at first.

  Her thoughts darkened. And now someone wanted her dead, and for no reason that she could think of.

  The seconds ticked into minutes, and Sarah wondered why she was still alive.

  A phone rang somewhere out in the office.

  The gas was burning her eyes, but as she glanced at the glass-block window above the sink, she realized that she couldn’t hear the hiss of escaping gas. There was the sound of movement outside the door.

  She found the brass pineapple lying on its side on the floor.

  The door beside her head opened slightly. Sarah remained still and clenched the paperweight in her hand.

  A few more moments of silence, and Sarah held her breath.

  When he kicked her in the shoulder, she rolled onto her back and lay still. A moment later she heard him step past her into the kitchen.

  She opened her eyes slightly. A short, heavyset man was bending over the knobs of the stove, a white handkerchief over his mouth and nose.

  He didn’t have a chance when the pineapple paperweight came down like a hammer on his head.

  Sarah watched him go down and, clutching her weapon in one hand, she backed out of the kitchen. Once in the hallway, she staggered for the door.

  As she passed the telephone in the outer office, she paused...then picked it up and dialed.

  ~~~~

  Nothing was said openly, but Owen knew. He was the enemy.

  Most of the scripts of his show—in which he played John McKee, an internal affairs investigator for the FBI—dealt with the workings of local law enforcement. So he knew that police departments were close-knit. Protective of their own. Suspicious of everyone. No surprise he’d been on hold for close to ten minutes.

  After introducing himself, he’d told the dispatcher that he might have come upon some information regarding the Sarah Rand case. The cop had been polite, asking him to hold and telling him that Detective Captain Daniel Archer would probably want to talk to him. He’d been on hold ever since.

  If it weren’t for the fact that the papers had all kept mentioning this specific detective by name, Owen would have hung up long ago and left a message for the guy’s superior. For a change, he was determined to be agreeable. But Archer had roughly thirty seconds.

  Owen started water for coffee. Another voice came over the wire.

  “Mr. Dean. Are you still there?”

  “Barely.”

  “Captain Archer had to leave on a call. But he said if you’d come down to the station, he should be back in an hour or so.”

  Owen glanced at his watch. One twenty. “No chance.”

  “Then maybe I could take down your information over the phone.”

  “No. Just tell him it’s very important and have him call me in the morning.”

  He left his number and hung up. What Owen had learned tonight was too important to leave on some pink note in a pile of pink notes on the desk of an overworked detective. Nope, he had liked Sarah, somehow, in spite of the lie she’d fed him about running out of gas. Something wasn’t right, but Owen didn’t think she needed the entire Newport Police Department coming down on her tonight.

  The phone rang and Owen, certain it was Archer, reached for it. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Mr. Dean. This is Sarah Rand. You told me I could call you.”

  “I did.”

  “I...I need your help, Mr. Dean. Please...there’s been another attempt on my life.”

  “Another?”

  “I don’t know what is happening. I need help.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “Don’t,” she begged. “They’re here already...but I can’t let them find me. Please, I’m frightened. I need your help.”

  She made no sense. And yet the fear and desperation in her voice were very real. “Where are you?”

  “The Ju...the same place you dropped me earlier. But I...you’ll have to wait...until they leave.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes. Please wait for me outside. I’ll explain everything. I haven’t done anything wrong. But don’t let them see you. Please!”

  Owen knew at that moment he had totally lost his mind. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  ~~~~

  The piercing headlights of the two police cars cut sharply through darkness. The rain continued to pelt the ground, the gusting wind twisting the raincoats around the men’s legs.

  Dan Archer flipped the fan switch to high and watched the fog retreat across the windshield. He stared at the police officer sweeping the broken glass on the deserted road. A second officer, shining a flashlight around the perimeter of the accident scene was inspecting the gravel shoulder. There was a pronounced limp in the man’s step.

  Archer lowered his window as an unmarked police car pulled up beside his own car.

  “Anything?” he barked.

  “Too dark to see. But she must have turned off on one of the side roads along the way.”

  Archer banged his hand on the wheel. “Goddamn it. I thought we fucking had her this time.”

  Chapter 4

  The wind had eased up, and it was not long before the rain stopped completely. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Owen filled his lungs with the fresh air. It was salty and carried a hint of briskness.

  He must be insane to be here. He was a fool not to have called back the police station and reported the call. He ran a hand through his hair and waited.

  From where he’d parked on the little road off of Bellevue, the side ent
rance to the Van Horn mansion was only fifty feet away, an old fashioned gas street lamp throwing light on it. Not far from the high gate that opened along the wall, he could see a smaller gate for pedestrian traffic. That was the one she’d used before to access the estate grounds.

  Owen took another deep breath and frowned, remembering Sarah’s brief but desperate-sounding plea.

  This wasn’t TV police drama, Owen reminded himself. This was real life. He ran over what he’d be telling the detective, once Archer finally got back to him.

  He’d given a stranger a ride. Later, he’d come to suspect she was the murdered attorney. He’d called the police. It was just Archer’s tough luck that he’d been too busy to take the call the first time. And right now he was just making sure he wasn’t way off base in thinking the woman was really Sarah Rand.

  After all, he could hear himself saying, he didn’t want the police thinking he was just some Hollywood crackpot.

  Five minutes after arriving at the Van Horn Mansion, Owen had seen two men in a silver van with “Steele Security Company” on the side, putting a chain on the barred main entrance gate. He just hoped that she was still inside. If she’d already left the estate, he would have no clue where to go after her.

  Circling the mansion before parking on the side street, Owen had realized that the estate took up the entire block. Other than these two gates, he’d found another two chained gates facing Bellevue and an old delivery gate on the back street that looked like it hadn’t been opened since the Crash of ’29. If she was going to come out, then she was coming out here.

  The same silver security van he’d seen before passed along Bellevue Avenue at the end of the little road, and in a few minutes Owen saw its headlights in his rearview mirror. The van had circled the block and was rolling up the street, the two guys inside eyeing the perimeter of the estate wall. He tilted his seat back to a reclining position, and the van passed by and turned again on Bellevue.

  As Owen returned his seat to an upright position, the hackles on his neck rose.

  In the silence that was so peculiar to this time of the night, the click of the deadbolt came distinctly through the darkness. His eyes were riveted to the iron gate as it swung open. An instant later, a dark-coated figure emerged, casting a look up and down the side road.

  He started the Range Rover’s engine. She immediately spotted him and hurried across the street.

  She’d pulled on a black raincoat that was about three sizes too large for her, and with the collar of the coat turned up, there was little of her that could be seen by any pursuer. But Owen knew it was Sarah. From the bulge at her hip, he could tell that the briefcase she’d been carrying was still slung over her shoulder.

  She was almost beside the car when a police car appeared on Bellevue, and she came to a dead stop. Panic was apparent in her stance, and Owen thought for a moment that she was going to run for it. He lowered the passenger window and turned on the headlights.

  “Get in.”

  Regaining her wits, she quickly went around, pulled open the door, and hopped in.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet, Ms. Rand. Not until...”

  “Please, Mr. Dean.” The panic was audible in her whisper as she reached over and took hold of his arm. The cruiser came slowly down the street. As it reached them, she leaned over the center console and buried her face into the crook of his neck. The brush of her breath against his skin was too warm and too difficult to ignore.

  The police car passed without stopping. Watching in the mirror as the cruiser crept to the end of the block, Owen frowned when the same security van appeared again, its driver waving the policemen to a stop. A conversation ensued, but he could hear nothing at this distance.

  Owen looked down into the face inches away from his. It was pale, and he could feel her shivering.

  “What kind of trouble are you in, Ms. Rand?”

  She looked down the street where the two cars were still idling. “I don’t know. But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Why are you running away from the police?”

  “I’ll tell you everything...but later. Please get me out of here…this street.”

  “Everybody believes you’re dead. There is an innocent man in jail. A man who—”

  “Please help me,” she interrupted, pulling at his arm as the two drivers finished their conversation at the end of the block. The security van came by at a faster clip this time, turning in the direction of the town center when it reached Bellevue.

  Owen could feel her fingers clutching his arm. He grabbed her by the chin and lifted her face to his. “Ms. Rand, I don’t trust you.”

  “Please, I just got back tonight. I’ve been away. In Ireland. And...and they’re trying to kill me...and I don’t know why.” Owen heard her let out a ragged breath. “I only ask you to take me away from this street. That police car will be back, and I need a few minutes...just to...just to think what I should do.”

  Owen frowned, watching her as she looked beseechingly into his face. She was trembling from head to toe. From the cold or from fear? His money was on the latter.

  “And just what would you advise a client to do here, Ms. Rand?”

  “Wait! I can prove that I’ve been away.” Quickly, she let go of his arm and fumbled beneath the raincoat. Hauling up her bag, she unzipped the top of the brief case and reached inside. A vision flashed through Owen’s mind of Sarah pulling a gun out of that case.

  “Here’s my passport. The ticket stubs from my flight. They’re tucked inside of it. Could we please be on our way? They’ll be turning the block any second.”

  “Why not go to the police?”

  “They are the ones who are after me, trying to kill me, and I don’t know why. Please, Mr. Dean.” She practically shoved the passport into his hand. “This proves where I’ve been. Please, just give me a chance!”

  Owen stared at her for a long moment, knowing better than to trust anything she was trying to feed him. But at the same time, she’d called him for help. Of all the people she must know and work with, she’d called him, a stranger.

  She, indeed, had to be desperate.

  “I’ll help you, but only to get away from this street. After that, we talk.”

  She nodded and pressed down the door lock herself.

  ~~~~

  The two detectives’ silent exchange of looks went unnoticed by Frankie O’Neal as he sat at one end of a battered steel table, his head buried in his hands. At the far end, a muscle-bound rookie in uniform sat operating a tape-recorder.

  “Let’s see if we got this right.” Disbelief evident in his voice, Bob McHugh lifted a shiny, black wingtip onto a chair and leaned two hairy forearms on his knee. Dan Archer straddled another chair and looked at Frankie. The heavyset man never raised his head. “You left your brand new Mercedes just off Bellevue and decided to take a stroll down to the Cliff Walk at midnight, in the rain, where somebody assaulted you?”

  Frankie groaned and dug his fingers deeper into his hair. “My head is exploding. If this ain’t a concussion...?”

  Archer took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and slid it in front of the suspect.

  Frankie peered through puffy eyes at the pack. He didn’t reach.

  “And whoever it was that clocked you, carried you all the way back from the Cliff Walk, crossed Bellevue, hauled you another half a block to the Van Horn’s side entrance, dragged you into the judge’s office wing, and dumped you in that little kitchen off the library.” The red faced detective rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Frankie. Can’t you come up with a better fucking story?”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  Bob moved in, looming over the ailing suspect. “We want to know what the fuck you were doing in the judge’s house, Frankie.”

  “I told you before that I didn’t go in there of my own free will.” His eyes lifted only as high as the coffee cup on the table. “I was knocked unconscious. I was dragged there.”

  “Dragge
d by who? And why? Oh, and have I mentioned that your goddamn fingerprints were all over the place?”

  “You’re full of shit, but I told you I want my lawyer.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  Frankie lifted his head for the first time and squinted into the officer’s red-rimmed eyes. “I’m the victim here, and you’re treating me like shit.”

  “Victim, my ass. We could be talking breaking and entering. Theft. Resisting arrest.”

  “I know my rights. I’m not saying another word until my lawyer is sitting right there.”

  Archer dropped a thick folder with Frankie’s name on the tab onto the table, then moved over to the coffee pot, pouring out two fresh cups. “Let him be, Bob.”

  The short detective turned his sights on his superior. “What do you mean, let him be? This scumbag—”

  “Let him be!” Archer commanded harshly. “Hand him that phone. Better yet, take a hike and cool your jets.”

  There was a moment of silence as the two glared at each other. Muttering, Bob kicked the legs from under a chair and huffed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Frankie’s surprised gaze traveled from the door to the casual shrug of the remaining detective.

  “Just sugar, right?”

  Frankie nodded, staring at the steaming cup Archer placed in front of him.

  Archer pulled an economy-size bottle of Tylenol out of his jacket pocket and put it on the table next to the cup of coffee.

  “Help yourself. I got a concussion myself last year. It was a pretty nasty thing. What with puking all night, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and go to sleep.”

  Again there was only silence for a moment. Frankie reached for the pills.

  Archer picked up the chair that had been overturned and sat in it, positioning himself about half way down the table from the suspect—and in a direct line with the only door out.

  “Hey, sorry about all the grief Bob was giving you. He watches too much TV.”