by Julie Hyzy
George stroked his chin, lifting an eyebrow toward Al. “Tell me about Pete.”
“Okay, maybe he was here. You know, I see a lotta guys. I can’t remember them all.”
Bill tapped on the bar as he spoke. “Yesterday, though, huh?”
Al threw a hand out in a gesture of defeat. “It coulda been yesterday.”
“And Don Romas?” George let the question hang, as he glanced around the room. Way down on Romas’ food chain. To get the big man down here himself, this bartender had to have something impressive to offer him.
“He stops by for a brew once in a while. Just like any other guy who comes in here now and then.”
Bill tapped again, attracting Al’s attention. “Look. We need to talk to this Pete guy. We’re not interested in your business dealings, but if you don’t want to cooperate with us in our homicide investigation here . . .” He let the sentence hang.
Al slapped the towel down against the bar with a thwack. He shook his head at Emil, but the old guy was muttering and drooling over the bar, his hands wrapped around his drink, the cigarette nearly burnt down to the filter.
“Okay, fine. He was here. I don’t know nothin’ about him bein’ involved in a homicide. He told me Gary died, but he said it was an accident.”
As George listened, he felt a piece of the puzzle push to the forefront, stopping just shy of dropping into place. Maybe Pete Munro didn’t kill Gary Randall, but it was a good bet he knew who did. Now it was just a matter of finding the little creep.
Back outside, George started up the car, opening the windows for fresh air, even as the rain began pattering down again.
“Where to now?” Bill asked.
George put the car in gear and drove down the block, parking further down, but still keeping the bar in sight. Bill gave him a quizzical look. “What? You think that the bartender’s gonna hurt that old drunk or something?”
George shook his head and tapped a cigarette out of his pack, gesturing for Bill to spit out his gum. “Just a hunch,” he said.
* * * * *
DeChristopher slammed the phone into its cradle and turned around to face Gina and Timothy. Charles’ manner had broken through Richard’s normally calm reserve.
The bodyguard stood up. “Problem?”
Richard’s lips were pulled tight against his teeth. Gina stopped chewing, looking at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “What’s wrong, Dickie? You don’t look so good. Something happen?”
He pushed himself to maintain a neutral air, even managed to force a smile. “No,” he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster. “Nothing at all.” He walked over to the back doors again, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out for a moment before asking, “Gina?”
“Yeah?” she answered. From the sound of her voice, her mouth was full again.
“Is that playroom mural about finished?”
“Yeah, about.” Gina finished chewing and swallowed before continuing. “As a matter of fact that was Annie on the phone just now. She was supposed to be here, but I guess she can’t make it today.”
Richard turned toward his wife. “Oh really? Did she give you a reason why?”
Gina lifted an eyebrow, and he knew that his question had surprised her. He rarely concerned himself with projects around the house. Gina wiggled a little, as if to signify getting her back up, and affected an air of sass. “What’s it to you, mister?”
Richard recognized the actions of a jealous wife. As if he had something like that on his mind right now. He didn’t have time for games. His voice lowered in impatience. “Gina. Why isn’t she coming today?”
A little bit of light went out of Gina’s eyes, to be replaced by hurt puzzlement. Her mouth opened and she blinked, but didn’t answer right away.
“Gina!”
Regaining her composure, Gina’s eyes flashed. “She ain’t got a car. Hers broke down or something. Or, that’s what she said.”
Richard lifted his glance to Timothy. “Call her,” he said. “And go pick her up. Tell her anything. We’re having a party or something. I don’t care. Tell her we need the room finished today and don’t take no for an answer.”
Timothy nodded, moved toward the phone.
“Wait,” Richard said. “Gina should call her. It’ll be less suspicious if Gina makes the call.”
“Suspicious? Dickie? What the hell are you talking about?”
He chewed the inside of his mouth as he tried to placate his wife. “It’s a long story, honey, and I wish I had time to explain it to you. Anne might have, um, seen something while she was here. And I need to talk with her about it.”
Gina pushed the platter across the table with a huff and watched her husband with narrowed eyes. “You got something going with her now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said in clipped tones.
Gina stood up and advanced on him. “I ain’t as stupid as you think I am, Dickie. Don’t think for a minute that I don’t know when you got a girl on the side. I know. I always know. I just pretend, so’s you have a place to come home to.”
He raised his hands in an effort to calm his wife down, but her face was reddening as her voice rose, “I’ve heard you talk, asshole, and I know you don’t ‘get involved’ with clients. But she ain’t a client anymore and now you got the hots for her.” Gina pushed at him with angry hands, but couldn’t budge him. Instead the movement caused her to momentarily lose her balance. Richard reached for her arm to steady her, gripping hard and not letting go.
“Gina,” he said pulling her with a rough tug. Her features contorted with rage and she looked about ready to cry. Richard bit back his anger and cursed the situation, not for the first time. The moment called for desperate measures. Over her head he saw Timothy, waiting for direction. Richard’s voice was low. “You will make that phone call, you hear? And you’ll be convincing. I don’t care what the hell you think is going on between us, and I assure you, madam,” his voice took on a condescending tone as his grip tightened, “that your imagination has run away with you once again.”
“Call her yourself,” she said, wrenching her arm out from his grasp.
Richard felt a rush of fury as Gina stepped back, massaging her arm, just out of his reach. He wanted to slap that woman silly. If she had any idea what a fool she was making of herself. Taking a deep breath, Richard turned to Timothy and spoke in a quiet voice, afraid of losing even a small measure of control. He knew he was capable of doing serious harm. “Take my wife and the boys to her mother’s house, will you?”
Timothy nodded and moved toward Mrs. DeChristopher, reaching his hand out, but not touching her. She shot an angry glance at her husband before moving to head out of the kitchen. “Screw you,” she said.
“Timothy,” Richard added, waiting for the big man to turn. “I better go down to visit Charles. Settle him a little. He needs some reassurance if we’re going to do business and I can’t let this deal fall through. I should be back in a couple of hours.” Gina had moved out of earshot. “After you drop off my wife, go directly to Anne Callaghan’s house and pick her up. Have her work on the playroom till I get back. I’ll call her and let her know you’ll be coming.”
Timothy nodded and they were gone.
Alone, Richard reflected on the morning. Anne was his best chance at finding the drawing and he needed her here. The key would be to get information from her without her becoming suspicious of his intentions. He’d need to be friendly, inquisitive. She wouldn’t respond as well to intimidation. At least not yet. But time was running out and he needed answers.
With one eye on Anne’s business card, posted on the refrigerator with a colorful magnet, Richard dialed the phone. She would be there. He willed it. There were so few options left and he refused to accept the possibility that the drawing had slipped through his grasp forever.
She answered on the third ring.
He tucked his left hand into the back of his suit pants and conjured up his most ingratiating vo
ice, “Good morning, Anne.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Jeff?” Annie spoke into the phone, dragging a gym shoe onto one foot and hopping on the other one as she spoke. “Is Sam there?”
“No he’s not, Annie,” the boy answered, then added, “hang on one second.” Annie heard him speak to someone in the background. From the sound of it, he was directing a delivery.
“I’m sorry,” Jeff said, speaking back into the phone. “Sam said that he’d be in later this morning. He had a meeting with someone, but he didn’t tell me where. Do you want me to tell him you called?”
Through the phone line Annie heard the sounds of things being moved in the background as she laced up her sneakers, one foot at a time, propped on a kitchen chair in front of her. “Please. I’ll try reaching him on his cell phone, but in case I can’t get through, let him know I had to go to the DeChristophers’, okay?”
Kitchen sounds surrounding Jeff grew louder. “You had to go where?” he asked, his voice rising, as though Annie would have as much trouble hearing him as he had hearing her.
“To the DeChristophers’,” she said. “Make sure you tell him, okay? It’s pretty important.”
As she hung up the phone, she turned to the corner of the room where she kept her paint supplies and gear. A brief check assured her that she had everything she needed to finish the job. She replayed the earlier phone conversation with Richard DeChristopher as she snapped shut the lid.
When Annie had explained that her car wasn’t working, hoping her lie sounded convincing and apologetic enough to get through the conversation quickly, Richard had graciously offered her Timothy’s chauffeuring services. Annie had declined three times, before Richard’s insistence became too difficult to refuse. He was sorry to hear that her car was out of commission, but they were preparing for some big bash at the house tonight and Richard wanted to surprise Gina by having the playroom done. This way, he said in a voice so warm as to sound forced, she could show it off to their guests when they arrived. He hated to impose, he said again, but stressed how important this would be to Gina.
Something didn’t ring true, but she shook her head. Imagining things.
Annie would have much preferred to drive herself, to be able to come and go as she pleased, but she’d literally painted herself into a corner with the fib about her car.
She had a few minutes before Timothy was due. Annie reached for her phone again, this time dialing Sam’s cell phone number, relieved to hear it ring. She’d been afraid he might have forgotten to turn it on this morning. After the end of the first chime, however, realization dawned. A shrill sound coming from her bedroom corresponded exactly with the sound from the handset by her ear.
Listening, waiting for him to pick up, she started toward her room, knowing at once what the sound was, but hoping against hope that she was wrong. The small black tip of an antenna stuck out from beneath her flowered bedskirt. She picked up the small cell phone and watched it, feeling her shoulders fall in dismay even as she took her home phone from her ear and hit the “off” button. The ringing in her hand stopped.
She’d counted on getting ahold of Sam before Timothy got here. Just in case. Just on the off chance that some of their suspicions about Richard DeChristopher were right. “Damn,” she said.
Annie stood in her bedroom, trying to gather her thoughts. Turning her phone on again, she dialed Uncle Lou’s number, letting her eyes drift toward the clock as the other line began to ring. At this time of the morning, he was most likely still sleeping. She let the phone drone on and on, silently cursing the fact that he’d never gotten around to hooking up the answering machine she’d bought him three Christmases ago.
Walking back into the kitchen, she slammed the phone back into its cradle and decided she’d run over to his house, just for a second, before Timothy got here. She wanted someone to know where she was. Uncle Lou’s house key hung on a hook near her back door. She grabbed it and headed for the front door, thinking that if he wasn’t there, she’d leave him a note. But then remembered that finding a pen and unused paper at his house might be problematic.
Congratulating herself for thinking ahead, she hurried back to the kitchen to scribble a short note explaining where she was. Just as she made it to her living room, Max leapt up and ran past her to the door, with a growl. He started barking at the prismed glass, his paws tapping a frenzied dance on the floor.
It must be Timothy. Annie frowned her disappointment. He was early. She wouldn’t get a chance to let Uncle Lou know where she was after all.
“Quiet boy,” she said to the dog, as she reached for the shiny doorknob. Then she thought about it. “Good boy,” she said in a more appreciative tone.
Opening the door, her jaw dropped. “Pete,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
Max growled, his face lowering to the vicinity of Annie’s knee, nose inches away from the screen of the storm door.
Pete’s eyes shifted from Max to Annie. His chin lifted, indicating the dog. “When did you get him?”
Annie ignored the question. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn the first time they’d met at the courthouse. Even more wrinkled than it had been then, the shirt was just as rumpled, sporting a shadow of dirt near the wide open collar. No tie. “Where have you been?” she asked, surprised at the instantaneous anger that had jumped into her chest.
Pete put a hand up, as though to explain.
“What’s your name?” she asked, not even trying for civility.
“Huh?”
“Your name,” she said again, with impatience. “What’s your last name? I never got it.”
Pete scratched at the side of his face. “I just stopped by to pick up some of my stuff, you know. Don’t need to bother you. Just want to get my clothes and some other stuff that belongs to me.”
Annie widened her stance a bit, and placed a hand on her hip. Max continued to make low rumbling noises next to her. “Give me your last name, and I’ll consider returning your things,” she said, with finality.
“Come on, Annie, I need my stuff. It’s my property, you know.” His voice started out petulant but then his tone altered. “I could report you holding stolen property if you don’t give it to me.”
Annie laughed at that. Her hand reached out to stroke Max’s fur. Having him nearby felt good. “Go ahead. Report me.”
She saw Pete bite the insides of his cheeks, as he strove for control. Whatever it was she had here of his, he was adamant about getting it returned. “Listen,” he said, wheedling now, craning his neck to see inside the living room. “I just need ten minutes in there. Ten minutes, okay? I’ll get what I need and be gone.” He raised his eyebrows, encouraging her agreement. “And I swear to you, I’ll make good by it. I’ll make good on what Gary would have wanted. Just give me the ten minutes, okay?”
“What are you talking about?”
Pete’s fists clenched, but just as he was about to speak again, the gold-colored Lincoln pulled up, Timothy at the wheel. Pete glanced behind, then back at Annie, as he started to move. “I gotta go, okay? But don’t let anybody touch any of my stuff. You got that? I’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll make good on it.” He’d edged down the steps and was on the sidewalk, moving down the block. “I swear.”
Annie still had the note for Uncle Lou in her hand as Timothy got out of the car and headed up the stairs. Each step creaked as he climbed to the porch, and Annie noticed that the blonde highlights on his spiked hair seemed brighter than they had before. He nodded in the direction Pete went and furrowed his brows. “Who was that?” he asked.
Thinking it peculiar for him to ask that question, she lied. “Lost his dog,” she said, one hand on Max. “And the neighbors told him I just got one, so he came by to check.”
Timothy’s gaze settled on Max, who hadn’t moved from his position next to Annie. Max bared his teeth. “Nice pooch,” he said. “You ready to go?”
Annie remembered the note in her hand. “I
have a phone call I need to make, then I’ll be all set.”
Timothy shook his head. “You know, I gotta be somewhere. How about you use my cell phone to make any calls you need.”
“This’ll be real quick,” she said.
“Miss Callaghan?” Timothy said, his hand gesturing toward the car. “We really need to get going.”
So much for trying Uncle Lou one more time. She left the note on her coffee table and grabbed her paints and tools. At the last second, she spied her backpack. There was nothing in it she needed, but she hoisted it over her shoulder nonetheless. “Bye Max,” she said, scooching past the dog to get out the front door. “Take good care of the house while I’m gone, okay?
”
* * * * *
“You know, Emil,” Pete heard Al say to the drunk old guy in front of him as he heaved himself away from the bar, “this place shouldn’t be called ‘After Five’ anymore. It should be called ‘Before Noon.’” To the door he raised his voice, “We ain’t open yet, for Crissakes.”
Pete let the door swing shut behind him. “Hey, Al,” he said.
The bartender ran a hand over his shiny head, “Holy Mother of God,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I got a problem.”
“Yeah, I’ll say you do. Two detectives were just in here looking for you.”
“What?” Pete’s hands splayed on the bar in front of him, and he half-swiveled to face the door as though the cops were expected to return any minute.
Al leaned forward on the bar. “Just a little while ago. They showed me your picture and said they were investigating a homicide. Thought you told me Gary got killed in an accident?”
Emil raised his head, his eyes blinking, not focusing. “That was today?”
Pete headed over to the front window and looked out for a long while before sliding onto one of the swivel-seated barstools. “They were just here?”