Was I imagining it, or had his voice gone shrill?
“I’m fifty years old. If I let the next few years slip by without seizing them-” his fists tightened, “-it will be too late…and now I’ve met her.”
“Ilona?”
He didn’t answer. I didn’t blame him. It was a stupid question.
“Since then, every day has been magic.”
“Yeah, carpe diem, Morgan. There’s ancient wisdom in seizing the day.”
“You can scoff. It doesn’t matter. She’s the woman of my dreams.” For some reason, he was whispering, though no one could hear us but the snakes and the bugs.
“Get real, Morgan. She’s turned your life into a nightmare.”
“No, she hasn’t. You have.”
He raised his hands to chest level. Getting ready for his big play, was he?
“Oh, really?” I goaded, letting the sarcasm drip. I’d be damned if I’d cower in front of him. “Was I the one who told you to kill three people?”
“I had no choice. The cook saw me the day-”
“-you cut the Monet out of its frame?”
He nodded, the slight slump of his shoulders the only acknowledgement of defeat. Or was it guilt?
“And Jesus caught you hiding one painting behind the other. And George? Well, George was just too smart. He guessed.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He sounded calm and conversational now, as if we were having a pleasant chat in somebody’s living room. “The Sunrise belongs to Ilona. But she was correct. We need both paintings to live the life we deserve.”
“God, she’s got good ideas. Good breast implants, too.”
“Don’t be crass, Deva. It doesn’t become you.”
Crass? This from a guy who killed three innocent people in cold blood? A toxic mix of anger and adrenaline seethed in my veins. I raised the club. I’d give him crass. But before I took my place at bat, I had to know something.
“After the robbery, where did you hide the painting?”
He smiled and lowered his hands, ready to chat it up. I guess he figured what the hell, I was never going to escape alive, why not tell me how diabolically clever he had been.
“I rolled the painting in a priority mail box, drove to Tallahassee and sent it to the Naples Community Hospital, care of myself. The mailroom held it till I picked it up.”
“So when Ilona gets her divorce, she walks off with not one Monet but two. And no one the wiser. Very clever.” I swung my club. Practice warm-ups, if you will. “Except your plan didn’t work. I told the homicide detective about the missing painting. The cops know it’s hidden behind Sunrise at Royan. So does the FBI.”
He reared back as if I had struck him. Desperate now, I played my strongest card. “If anything happens to me, they’ll nail Ilona, blame her for my death. Her only hope is if you let me go.”
He stood motionless. Would he buy what I was selling? Did he love Ilona enough to sacrifice himself for her? Doubtful. Far more likely he’d kill me and make a run for it. But I pressed on. “Ilona and I are friends. You heard her say so yourself. Those killings have appalled her. What will she think…or do…if you kill again?”
“She’ll think I’m strooong!”
Showtime. Morgan jumped into the ditch beside me. Confident he had me, he didn’t bother to pick up another log so we could duke it out, but lunged straight for my throat. As his arms reached out, I twisted out of the way. He shot past me, whirled around and, with a snarl, came at me again, a beast seeking its prey.
Muscles I didn’t know I had sprang into action. Weaving, parrying, feinting, I circled the ditch, brandishing my log, never turning my back to him. One chance was all I’d get. I couldn’t waste it. My best bet-go for his head, knock him out.
We circled, panting with effort, our harsh breaths mingling in the damp air with a cloud of buzzing gnats.
“You haven’t got a chance,” Morgan gasped. “Give up, Deva. It’ll be swift.”
“Damn right, Morgan.” Who did he think he was? He’d kill me mercifully, would he? Well, screw him. “Come on,” I taunted. “Come on. Come and get me. Let’s see how much of a man you are. Come on.”
He paused, not answering, sucked in a deep breath and rushed forward, arms extended, fingers flexed.
In the last split second before he grabbed me, I raised the log and held it in both hands, straight out like a battering ram. Too late to stop his forward thrust, Morgan crashed into it with his chest, the force of his rush splitting the log and jarring my arms clear up to my shoulders.
I screamed in pain, but Morgan didn’t utter a sound. A look of stunned disbelief flashed across his face, and he slumped to the ground where he lay as peacefully as if he were in his soft, satin ultra-king bed.
I flung down the log and scrambled out of the ditch. Helter-skelter, not knowing where I was running to, I raced through the woods on sore feet, hoping for the best, hoping for the west, hoping for a manicured lawn, a ribbon of road. I was running from a dead man. And from myself. For now I knew what I was capable of, and I ran from that as much as from the thought of Morgan’s lethal hands crushing my windpipe.
On tortured feet, I ran and ran, knifelike undergrowth slashing my soles, branches slapping my face and clawing at my clothes, until like a madwoman I burst through the undergrowth onto a lawn like a carpet.
Relief brought me to my knees. I sank onto the manicured grass, gasping for air, spewing out a prayer of gratitude. I lay there panting, listening for the sound of pounding feet and angry hands shoving away branches. Nothing.
I had to get help. I needed Rossi.
Pulling myself to my feet, I limped across the lawn to a huge Tuscan mansion sitting like a well-fed duce in the center of its elaborate gardens. My feet left a bloody trail on the stone entrance stairs. Wait till they see that, I thought, as I pressed the chimes. From inside the house, I heard a musical ring then the sound of footsteps. A few moments later, the door opened. A heavyset Hispanic woman in a white nylon uniform took one alarmed look at me and slammed the door in my face. No wonder. I probably looked like I’d been regurgitated.
I punched the chimes again. I’d keep doing that until someone inside called for help. And that’s exactly what happened.
After an eternity, the Bonita Bay security car rolled up the drive, and an elderly guard slowly climbed out from behind the wheel.
“Thank God you’re here,” I said, not giving him a chance to say a word. “Call the Naples Police.”
“You’re in Lee County, lady. Not Collier.”
“No matter, ask for a Lieutenant Rossi. His number is 555-8000. I want to report a homicide. Tell him I just stopped a man’s heart.”
The guard’s jaw dropped open.
“The man I killed was a cardiac surgeon. I got him in the chest. I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s a case of poetic justice.”
He hesitated, then, without taking his eyes off me, trying to look tough, he stood at the bottom of the stone steps and dialed the number.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” he said, hanging up and pocketing his cell. “What’s your name, lady?”
“Deva Dunne.” I slumped onto the top step and let my feet hang over the edge.
“Good lord, how did that happen?” he asked, pointing to them.
“It’s a long story, sir. If you don’t mind, let’s wait for the cops. I’ve only got the strength to tell it once.”
Wary but willing, he nodded.
While we waited in an uneasy silence, I glanced around at the stone planters flanking the stairs. “Remind me to tell the owner these planters are the wrong scale for an entrance this size.”
“Okay, lady, sure,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other and giving his pants a hitch.
I knew he wouldn’t. I could tell he thought I was crazy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The guard was right. I was crazy. Crazy from guilt. I’d done the unthinkable-killed another human being. Fought like a wild
animal to save my own life-to smash the life out of Morgan. When he lay crumpled at my feet, pure, raw triumph had surged through my veins. I could remember the very taste of it. Omigod, mea culpa. Mea culpa.
Keeping his vigil at the bottom of the stairs, the guard stood with his feet apart. Though he wasn’t packing, he kept his hands on his hips cowboy style. Still trying to look tough, he stared at me without blinking, though in my current condition I was no flight risk. I couldn’t have taken a single step.
I didn’t know if he had called Rossi or not. Like he’d said, we were in Lee County and Naples police had no jurisdiction here. At this point, I was almost beyond caring. All I wanted was to lie down in a clean bed and lose the pain in my feet and in my heart.
Within minutes a Bonita Springs cruiser drove onto the circular drive. No Rossi then. Two officers emerged from the car and one approached the guard. “This her?”
He nodded. “Yes sir. I apprehended her right here.”
“Hey wait a minute,” I said. “He’s got it all wrong.”
The younger of the two, the one without the paunch, strode up the steps. “I’m Officer Casey. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
I waved an arm at the wooded lot. “He’s in there somewhere.”
“Who’s in there?”
“The man I killed. Dr. Morgan Jones.”
“You killed a man?” Officer Casey upped his chin at his partner. “Take this down.” He turned back to me. “What is your name, ma’am?”
“Devalera Dunne. Mrs. Devalera Dunne.”
Paunch poised his pen over his clipboard. “Spell your first name please,”
“Oh for God’s sake. I’ve been spelling that damned name my whole life. Forget about it. Just go find the body.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am. If there’s a body, we’ll find it.” From the soothing tone of Casey’s voice, I could tell he had gone into hysteria-control mode. It infuriated me.
“What’s your address, ma’am?” he asked, his voice super soft.
“What are you whispering for?” I glanced over a shoulder at the quiet house behind us. “Nobody in there can hear a bloody thing. Not unless you bang on the door.”
“Where do you live, ma’am?” he asked.
I turned back to him. “In Naples at the Surfside Condominiums. Gulf Shore Boulevard. Satisfied now?”
“Do you have any ID?”
“What’s the matter with you people? Do I look like I’m carrying ID?”
The two officers exchanged glances. “Have the guard call an ambulance,” Casey ordered.
“I don’t need an ambulance. I need you to listen to me.”
“We are listening, ma’am. You need medical attention.” He pointed to my cut and bleeding feet. “How did that happen?”
“I already told you. In the woods over there. After I ran out of the house.”
“What house?”
“The big deconstructionist one.”
He frowned so deeply his brows collided. “What house is that?”
“The white one. Down the road on the left. Ilona is probably still in there.” I gasped as a thought struck me. “Unless my car got fixed and Bears’ Plumbing dropped it off. If so, she could have swiped my keys and left in the Audi. She’s in on it, you know.”
“In on what?”
“The art theft and the murders.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t. You think I’m deranged.”
The two officers exchanged another glance. One of those glances.
“Okay, you want proof? You want some ID? Go to 1900 Bonita Bay Road. You’ll find my purse on the kitchen island. At least that’s where I left it when I ran out of the house. I was fleeing from Dr. Jones. He had already killed three people, and I was next on his list.
“Anyway, look for a lime green hobo. A Kate Spade. It was expensive as sin, but not as extravagant as you might think. I’m an autumn on the color chart, so the green goes with a lot of my outfits.” I glanced down at my soiled, torn skirt. “I probably shouldn’t have worn it with this orange skirt, but sometimes a girl has to think outside the box.”
That was when Casey’s face got all fuzzy. Determined not to pass out and bonk my head on the stone landing, I leaned against one of the planters and listened to sirens screaming in the distance. Before I knew it, a medic was bending over me.
“This chair is hard,” I told her. “It needs cushions. An indoor-outdoor fabric would be good.”
“Yes, it is hard,” she said, her voice soothing. “We’re taking you where you’ll be more comfortable.”
“The gas chamber?”
“Close your eyes,” she said. “You’re going to be all right now.”
The ambulance crew lifted me onto a stretcher. As I passed the guard, I said, “You didn’t call Rossi like I asked you to.” He looked puzzled as if he didn’t know whom I meant, but he knew all right. “It’s okay,” I assured him. “These guys are doing fine.”
“That’s a relief, lady,” he said as the medics slid my stretcher into the back of an ambulance.
The green, groomed landscaping of Bonita Bay passed by in a blur, and we were soon racing along the Tamiami Trail heading into Naples, sirens screaming, and no doubt blue roof lights whirling. What was the hurry? I wondered. Morgan was no longer a threat to anyone. What were we racing toward? My fate?
* * *
I woke up in a hospital bed, my feet wrapped in bandages. A pair of liquid brown eyes were inches from my own. I knew those eyes and the stern, stubbled face they belonged to. I even recognized the shirt-lush hula girls swayed in the breeze clear across Rossi’s chest.
“So they finally called you,” I said.
“Yes. Sorry I wasn’t there, Deva.” He took my hand. “You did well.”
Tears flooded my eyes and leaked down my chin onto the sprigged hospital jonny someone had dressed me in.
“How can you say I did well? I’m no better than Morgan was. When he came after me, Rossi, I lashed out with everything I had. I didn’t know I was capable of…of…” The word wouldn’t come out.
“We’re all capable of the same thing, Deva,” he said, yanking a fistful of tissues out of a box on the bedside table and wiping my eyes. But the tears wouldn’t stop. “Keep that up and we’ll be having a wet T-shirt contest in here.” He grinned, giving me a flash of even white teeth. “Maybe you should just let the tears roll.”
I grabbed the tissues out of his hand. “That’s not funny, Rossi. I killed a man.”
He sobered immediately. “No, that wasn’t funny,” he agreed. “But you haven’t killed anyone.”
I blinked and swiped a hand at the wetness. “No?”
“No. Morgan’s alive. Bruised and battered, but alive. Two floors down, under twenty-four-hour police guard.”
Relief like a drug flooded my soul. “Oh, thank God. To have a death on my conscience was awful.”
“I know,” he said, his voice as soothing as the paramedic’s. But this time, it sounded good to me.
“What about Ilona?” I asked.
“We found her on Alligator Alley, halfway to Miami. But not to worry. The Audi can be repaired.”
I reared up on my elbows. “What? I knew it.”
Rossi pressed my shoulders back onto the pillow. “Relax. I’ll see that the repairs are made and Trevor’s given the bill.”
“Really?”
“Of course. He’s legally responsible. Ilona’s still his wife, technically anyway. The divorce hasn’t gone through, and from what Trevor said it won’t. He still wants her. He’s hiring Alan Dershowitz as her defense attorney.” Rossi shook his head. “I thought I’d heard everything, but this one tops all. Trevor said he bought her, lock, stock and barrel, for three hundred thousand dollars. And he has no intention of losing his investment.”
I nodded. “Ilona told me all about the yenta who negotiated their marriage. I’m just glad he’ll take care of the Audi.”
“Repairing your car won’t even
be a blip on his radar. According to a piece in today’s paper, he’s an extremely wealthy man. Recently bought a huge parcel of land in Estero and intends to develop it. Simon Yaeger is his partner in the deal.”
Ohhhh. I blew out a pent-up breath. So that was why Trevor had made those massive withdrawals I’d stumbled across on his study desk. And that’s why when Simon called that day, he wanted no one except George to find out about the deal-not until it was consummated. Not even the Dunne woman, I sniffed.
But that was all right. Actually Simon had done me a favor. Since then I’d known without a scintilla of doubt that we would never be more than casual friends. As for Rossi standing by my hospital bed with that attractive all-night stubble on his face, who knew?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A week later, back at the Surfside condo, my bandaged feet propped up on the living room couch, I watched Rossi stride in with a pizza box and a six-pack of Coke.
I sighed. A pizza. “Rossi, we need to talk. I don’t think I can swallow another bite of pizza. I need a salad. Fresh fruit.”
“You don’t like my cooking?” he asked, lowering the pizza and the soda to the coffee table.
“I’m grateful for all you’re doing, and I mean that, but in a word, no.”
He waggled a finger at me. He liked doing that. “The rest of the stuff’s in the car.”
“The rest?”
“Yeah, the girl food. Be right back.” He returned in a few seconds with two bags full of groceries. “Salad greens,” he announced. “Strawberries. Grilled chicken tenders. Thin-sliced bread. Danish butter. Something called tea cookies.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a genius.”
“Correct. Let me stash this stuff. Give me a sec.” The refrigerator opened and closed a few times before he reappeared and handed me a Coke. Then he sank onto a club chair across from the couch where I lay stretched out like a pampered invalid.
He smiled across at me. “You look nice sitting there, Deva, like Cleopatra on her barge or something.”
I sipped the Coke. He had put ice in the glass just the way I liked it. “That was positively poetic, Rossi.”
The Monet Murders Page 22