by Joanne Pence
On the other hand, Connie had given him plenty of chances, and each time he’d failed her. Now she had a chance with Dennis Pagozzi, who was just about perfect in every way—except that he might be two-timing her. Or breaking up with that other woman so that he could be free to concentrate on Connie. Who knew?
“I guess you miss her,” Angie said, not quite sure what to say or why she suddenly felt sympathy for him. Was she turning into a total marshmallow because of love?
His mouth tightened. “Could be.” He did another once-over of her apartment. “I guess she’ll be getting a place as nice as this, if she stays with this guy. Maybe even a house. She always used to say she wanted a house—just a little house to call her own, nothing more. Now, she’ll be able to afford a mansion, if she can pull it off.” He chuckled morosely.
“Pull what off?”
“Make the guy think she’s in love with him. I know how she feels about me…how we still feel about each other.” He smirked, on sure footing once again.
What little sympathy she felt vanished. Angie didn’t like the words or the attitude. “She doesn’t have to pretend anything. I’ve seen the two of them together. This guy worships the ground she walks on. He treats her like a princess, and she adores him.”
His smile disappeared. “The hell with her, then. Who cares, right? Well, I’m outta here. Thanks for nothing!”
Angie escorted him to the front door and opened it, glad to see the back of the loser. How had Connie stood him?
He stepped out into the hall, then faced her once again. “Say, when you talk to her, ask her if she can get a couple of Forty-Niner tickets for me, okay?”
“Dennis Pagozzi?”
Bleary-eyed, Pagozzi stood in his doorway in his robe and pajamas, trying to focus on the identification presented by the round, balding man. “Chowchilla Probation Department?”
Lexington stood tall. “That’s right. I’m looking for Veronica Maple. Our records indicate that you are a longtime acquaintance of hers.”
Pagozzi rubbed his face, wanting nothing more than a shower and a shave. “That was ages ago. I don’t know anything about her.”
“Mr. Pagozzi, we have reason to believe she’s armed and dangerous. To you, and to others.”
“What do you mean?”
“It appears that she killed a man in Fresno right after getting out of prison. She failed to report in to my office as required, which lends credence to her having perpetuated the crime. She was tracked to San Francisco, but we don’t know where she’s gone from here.”
Pagozzi was suddenly wide awake. “Veronica? A killer? She was always just interested in money.”
“People change in prison,” Lexington explained. “They go in as white-collar criminals and come out hard, willing to do anything for a buck. She robbed the pawn shop along with killing the owner.”
Pagozzi’s nerves felt ready to snap. Veronica moved out last night after the blow-up at the restaurant, and he was glad. She’d changed, and hardened. He didn’t think she could commit murder, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong about her. This time, he could be dead wrong.
His mind raced. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll contact you if I see her.”
“Just what was your relationship with Miss Maple?” Lexington asked.
“Nothing. We hung out when we were young, that’s all.”
Lexington nodded, peering intently into Pagozzi’s eyes. “For your sake, I hope it wasn’t anything more than that. Here’s my card. We have to get her before she kills again. Once a person like her starts, it can lead anywhere.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Connie glanced at the clock—5:55 P.M. Five minutes more and she could lock up shop, thank goodness. The day began much too early at six-thirty, in time for the New York Stock Exchange’s opening bell. Stockbrokers were already at their desks in San Francisco—not a good way to live, in her opinion, but she was glad she could immediately get the answer to the question that had plagued her all night.
“I’m interested in buying a stock,” she said to the Merrill Lynch broker who answered her call, “but I want to know the price first.”
“Great. I can help you,” the enthusiastic voice responded. “What is it?”
“Geostar Biotechnologies.”
“Okay.” In a moment he came back. “Are you sure of the name? I checked the New York, NASDAQ, even American exchanges, but I don’t see it.”
“That’s what I was told. Oh, wait. He said something about over the counter and GBST. Does that help?”
“It sure does. One moment.” He found it selling at two dollars a share. The broker nearly choked as he asked her if she wanted to “actually” buy any of it.
With a shudder, she said no.
What kind of fool did Max Squire take her for?
She’d fumed about him all day, and maybe that was why she’d only sold a single item—a twenty-dollar porcelain flower and vase to a woman looking for a small gift for a hospitalized friend allergic to real flowers.
Not only that, Dennis hadn’t called, either. What was with him? He should at least have apologized for not saying good-bye when he ran out on their lunch. He was making it mighty hard for her to keep him high up on her stud rating chart. Right now, he was a whisker below Russell Crowe, and sinking fast.
A minute before closing time, the shop’s bell rang. Connie froze. If the customer was returning the vase, she’d run into the back room and hide until she gave up and left again. That sale was important. She needed to eat.
When she gathered her nerve and glanced up, Max stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She could feel her face redden—God, sometimes it was awful being blond—as anger and frustration warred. “Looking for more money?”
“I was desperate, as I told you,” he said, approaching her. He hesitated, then said gruffly, “I’m sorry about the way I treated you yesterday. It was uncalled for. I also want to thank you for not saying anything about it to Dennis. What I did was embarrassing enough without him knowing.”
Now he wanted to apologize? “It embarrassed me, too, to have been such a patsy!”
“I’ve known Dennis a while,” he continued, his voice calm. “I saw you with him—the way he looked at you. He’s a good guy. A good woman is exactly what he needs, and you’re a good woman, Connie. I feel bad about involving you in my problems at all. I’ll try to do something, when or if I’m able, to remedy it.”
None of this made any sense to her. “You feel bad about me?”
Dark eyes captured hers. “Hell, woman, do you think I’d be here if I didn’t? I couldn’t get you out of my mind, even though I tried. Believe me, I tried real hard.”
That gave her pause. She swallowed, then asked, “Why?”
“Why couldn’t I forget you?”
“Why did you want to?”
He shook his head. “Your kindness. Your trust. I didn’t think women like you existed anymore.”
She didn’t know what to make of him, only that he was hurting and desperate. She’d been there herself at times. Slowly stepping around the counter toward him, she lifted her hand to touch his arm, but then dropped it again and drew in her breath. “We met, we talked, and to my amazement, we seemed to enjoy each other’s company. You were hurt, and I helped you. It was all good…until you made it turn ugly.”
“I know,” he said, his voice filled with pain. “I know.”
She stamped her foot. “You make me so angry!”
A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Hit me, why don’t you? A slap in the face or a good hard sock in the stomach—your choice. It’s what I deserve, and it’ll make you feel a hell of a lot better.”
She smacked her arms against her sides. “I can’t hit you! I’m mad enough at you, that’s for sure, but I can’t.”
Gently, he touched her cheek. “I’m so sorry, about everything.” With that, he turned away.
She wat
ched him walk toward the door. Under his beaten-down, trying-to-be-jaded, trying-to-be-tough exterior, she saw a good man, a lonely, sensitive man, someone who had been damaged badly. She moved toward him. She wasn’t sure why; she was never impulsive. “Constant Connie,” as Angie had said. Angie was the impulsive one. Not her; never her.
“Max, wait!” she cried. He turned.
She stopped, unsure what to say. How could she forgive him? But somehow she had. “What would you say to a bowl of Campbell’s vegetable soup and a couple of hamburgers for dinner? Chef Connie’s cooking might not be exciting, but it’s filling.”
He blinked as if not sure he’d heard her correctly. “It would be better if I just left.”
“No,” she said, despite herself. “It wouldn’t.”
With the engine running, Veronica sat parked in a loading zone and watched Max enter Everyone’s Fancy. She couldn’t imagine why he’d taken a taxi across town to go to a cheap little gift shop. She hadn’t intended on following him, but merely to check up on him: to keep him in her sights, so to speak.
But curiosity had gotten the best of her.
This morning, Dennis had called her cell phone sounding agitated. He’d just heard that Max had learned she was out of jail and wanted to kill her. She had to be careful, Dennis said, to get out of town. He also suggested she stay away from him, his house, even Wings, because Max could find her there.
She didn’t know what to make of the phone call. Although she didn’t trust Dennis, something about his words, the fear in them, rattled her. And strangely, she had felt watched; as if someone, something, was moving ever closer to her. Something dark and deathlike. Perhaps death itself.
She hated such thoughts, didn’t believe in them. They meant nothing. Shoving them aside, she concentrated on Max.
By following him after he’d left Wings, she discovered he was living in a homeless shelter. She was shocked.
He used to be a Hugo Boss suit man, his casual wear nothing less than Armani or Polo, with three-hundred-dollar loafers and fifty-dollar haircuts. He liked imported red wine, gourmet meals, classical music, and Broadway shows—and treated her to the same, when he wasn’t working. Too much work had been Max Squire’s biggest problem. He had spent so much time involved in his business, expanding it and finding new clients, that to say it made Max a dull boy was an understatement.
At first, he’d considered himself far above her. Eventually, he swore undying love for her, but when it came to a choice between his money and reputation or her, he’d chosen the former.
He could have let her get away. He was smart enough to make back the money she’d taken and no one would have been the wiser. Instead, he turned her over to the police. That wasn’t love; it was betrayal.
She’d gone to jail, and instead of working, he’d obviously spent the last three years wallowing in self-pity, a loser.
Now, she was stuck in this city with another loser—Dennis. As soon as she got her hands on the money, her money, she’d be out of here. No one was going to get in her way.
She sat a little higher in the seat when the “OPEN” sign in the door of the shop flipped to “CLOSED.” A moment later, the door opened, and a blond woman, a bit too heavy in the waist and hips, stepped out of the shop, Max right behind her. Veronica had seen the woman before—with Dennis.
She locked the door and took Max’s arm as they walked down the street. Who was this two-timing broad?
Max always was a sucker for blondes. She touched her hair, the long strands brushing her shoulders, as she studied the woman.
Her hair had been short, just like hers, when she and Max had their affair. He liked it; used to rifle his fingers through it. She wondered if he pretended the blonde was her when they kissed, when they made love. Max had sworn his love to her, and now was proving himself to be as fickle as all men. It was good the only lust she ever felt around him was for his clients’ money.
Veronica abandoned her car and followed them to a corner, then onto Wawona Street. Two blocks later, they entered a building. She crept close and managed to grab the heavy main door to the apartment building before it locked again.
She waited a moment, then entered. No elevator; the stairs carpeted. A woman’s hand glided along the banister near the top, three flights up. Silently, she climbed the stairs, practically running. Those prison workouts had paid off well for her.
On the top floor a door opened and then a light came on. She angled herself to see which apartment they’d entered. Soon, the door closed again and all was quiet.
She paused on the stairs, remembering the many times Max had taken her to his home—an immense, professionally decorated place that he lived in alone. He’d been a good lover, one of the best, in fact. Much better than Dennis, who was more in love with himself than anyone or anything else. Too bad things went so wrong, Max.
It was tempting to simply burst into the apartment and have it out with him. To think that while she’d rotted in prison, he’d been out enjoying life. Bad enough that he was rutting, but doing it with women who looked so much like her infuriated her even more.
Her breathing grew heavy as her fingers twisted in her hair and she tugged on it hard. Damn them both! If her hair were short, her eyes blue…
An idea, a wonderfully pleasing idea, struck her. Could she do it? Tomorrow was the big day. But if she hurried, she would have time.
As she faced the apartment door, her plans for the next day’s adventure grew a bit more complicated…but far, far more satisfying.
Chapter 14
Max sat in Wings of an Angel, the income and spending records in shopping bags all around him. He’d never seen such a mess. All of them, Earl, Butch, and even Vinnie, thought nothing of reaching into the till whenever they needed cash, mixing tips with receipts, credit card payments with cash, even payables with receivables in ways he’d never imagined were possible. He didn’t even want to think about what they’d done to state sales tax, let alone liquor and cigarette taxes.
Where to begin puzzled him. He might not have taken the job at all except for Butch’s statement about too many from the past showing up, first her, then him. Had Butch meant Veronica? In that context, who else could he have meant?
If she’d been to Wings, that meant Dennis was lying to him. Max needed to stick closer than ever to Dennis and Wings both, and this job was one way to do it.
He was trying to decipher scribbles on a receipt when Earl called him to the phone. “For you.”
Assuming it was Dennis, Max answered.
“I’d know that voice anywhere,” a woman said.
His blood turned hot, then cold. He’d know her voice anywhere as well. “Veronica.”
“You remember. How sweet. I was sure you’d forget after you sent me away. Three years, Max.”
“It was your doing,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice hushed and steady. Your doing, he wanted to say, and then ask Why? Why did she do that to him when he loved her so much? Why had she caused pure love to turn to black, soul-crushing hatred?
“I’m out now,” she said. “It’s over.”
His hand gripped the receiver. It wasn’t over for him. “I want to see you.” He struggled to keep his voice soft and friendly, but could hear it quiver.
“Why? Do you think I want to share?” She laughed.
“I know you better than that,” he said. “I just…want to see you again.”
“I’m sure you do. Maybe we can pick up where we left off, is that what you’re thinking? Except now, I’m the one with the money.”
Every word was another stab to the heart. It was already broken, how could it continue to hurt? “You do have it, then?”
“How could I? I served time. You don’t think they let you keep money you’ve embezzled, do you?”
He knew she was toying with him, the same as always. He’d followed the case as closely as humanly possible. No one knew where most of the money she’d taken from his clients had gone. She claimed it went
to gambling and drugs—all eight million. He knew, though, that she didn’t gamble and rarely touched the hard stuff.
He knew far too much about her.
The image flashed in his mind of the day she’d first walked into his financial consulting office holding a folded San Francisco Chronicle with his help-wanted ad circled. The business was growing more quickly than he and his secretary, Mrs. Hendricks, could handle. He needed a part-time office aid.
She looked like a schoolgirl, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, face scrubbed and make-up free, wearing a sweet dress buttoned up to the neck and hemmed below the knees. Her intelligence had shone through, and she quickly learned and understood everything Mrs. Hendricks explained to her.
Even then, behind the innocent smile, there was a knowingness, a sexiness, that Mrs. Hendricks didn’t recognize, but his male hormones did.
Before long, Veronica was coming into his office after Mrs. Hendricks had gone home for the day, pointing out to him how incompetent his secretary of the past seven years had been, and how much more efficient she was. During those times, they’d relax, and she would often unbutton the top few buttons of her dress or blouse to breathe more easily, or remove the band from her ponytail so her long blond hair could swing freely.
When confronted, Mrs. Hendricks’s protests sounded weak, and the more she complained about Veronica, the more Max found himself defending her. Three weeks after Veronica began working for him, she came into his office after hours and didn’t stop with unbuttoning just a few buttons. Their affair began, and almost immediately after that, Mrs. Hendricks quit.
Veronica took over her job. She was amazingly intelligent. He trusted her completely. His little protégée, he’d called her, and promised to teach her all about financial counseling. They had dreams of her bringing in her own clients and having the business grow larger and more prosperous than ever. She made a goal for herself—a goal to hire a secretary for them both.