Lost in the Storm:

by Mark Stone

  Peter looked over the letter, reading every word.

  “No, Dillon,” he answered. “No. I don’t think it is.”

  “Give that back to me,” I said, grabbing the letter.

  “Dillon, it’s not him,” Peter said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not.”

  “No, but it’s evidence,” I answered, folding it back up and putting it in my pocket. “You said he went further this time, that he made me ‘next of kin’ and that he always threatened to disinherit you. Do you think he’d have gone as far as to actually change his will? Is it possible that when you brought Lionel here to deal with changing power of attorney, your father might have convinced him to change the will instead?”

  “He was dragging his feet when it came to talking about power of attorney,” Peter said. “I thought it was just because Lionel and father were old friends. I thought the entire ordeal made him sad. But, if he was going to change the will, and someone found out about it—”

  “Then they’d want all the evidence that they were cut out of it scrubbed,” I finished.

  “Which was why they killed Lionel. So that no one would be alive to talk of Father’s wishes after he died so suddenly.”

  “And why they burned his computer. So the evidence would disappear.”

  “It was Angela, wasn’t it? She’s the only person other than me who stands to inherit anything in the will.” Peter’s face tightened. “If she thought she was being cut out, she’d stop at nothing to rectify it.” He blinked. “She might have even gone as far as to murder my father herself.”

  Suddenly, I did start feeling for Peter. I might have hated my father, but he was the one who lost him. He was the one suffering through it right now.

  “I’m not sure it’s that simple,” I said, trying to sound less critical than I had before. “I need you to get somewhere safe, somewhere with security and people who can account for your whereabouts. Someone is trying to frame you for murder, more than one. And I think I know who it is.” I balled my hands into fists. “Also, I’m going to need your car.”

  ^

  By the time I pulled out of Peter’s gated community, rain was beating hard against the windshield. The sky had darkened and the Gulf had grown angry and thrashing. It was like it knew what was going on, the injustice that had been right under my nose this entire time, and it wasn’t happy about it.

  “Boomer!” I said, calling his phone and waiting for him to answer. “I need you to get to Storm House right this minute!”

  “Dil, where the hell are you? It’s like the world is ending out there,” Boomer answered.

  “I’m on my way to Storm House right now, Boom. You were right. Ethan Sands was right too. I can’t be the only one there when this all goes down. I’m too involved in it. I’m a target. I need you there to make sure she goes down.”

  “Who?” Boomer asked, screaming over the sounds of the beating rain. “Dil, what are you talking about?”

  “I know who did this, Boom. I know who and I know why. Now I’m going to put a stop to it.”

  I turned toward Storm House and my signal dropped. Damned Chicago phone was iffy down here. I could only hope that Boomer heard me and he understood. Hopefully, he would be on his way too. Hopefully this would all end today.

  24

  I got to the hill where Storm House rested to find the black rod iron gate closed. I could have stopped. I could have pressed the button and waited for someone to answer, but if what I thought was true, I wouldn’t get that answer. I wouldn’t be allowed in and just alerting her to my presence would be enough to make this a hell of a lot worse. I was going to have to power through this and hope it afforded me enough time.

  I slammed my foot on the accelerator, wishing I had Boomer’s truck with me instead of this frou-frou luxury car. It might have had heated seats and XM radio, but you can’t beat four-wheel drive and a huge frame when it came to destroying something.

  I bore down on the steering wheel and steeled myself, yelling as I made impact with the gate.

  I half expected the damned car to break in half when it hit the gate, but God must have looking down on me through all the storm clouds, because the gates flung apart, clapping loudly as they whipped away from me.

  Hopefully the occupants of the house would think that was thunder, and I could get up here undetected. Hopefully, I wasn’t already too late.

  I spun up the hill, thinking of all I had been through since I came back to Naples, all I had learned about myself, about the past, about the people I thought I knew. It had all led me to this. I had to hope it was worth it.

  Screeching to a halt in front of the house, I jumped out of the car, my gut burning. Rain beat down on me as hard as bullets. This storm had been coming for days and, now that it was here, it wasn’t holding back. I put my head down and ran through it, keeping my eye on the prize of the huge house my father had called home.

  I had thought about what it might be like to go into this house on more occasions than I cared to count right now. None of them were like this. None of them involved murder. None of them involved me running as hard and as fast as I could toward the huge French doors.

  That didn’t matter right now though. All that mattered was ending this.

  I ran up to the covered patio and banged against the huge doors. I had been trying to keep my presence a secret up to this point, but now I was here. Now I was at the threshold of the house, and since I didn’t have a warrant, I was going to have to be invited in. Otherwise, everything that happened from this point forward would be inadmissible in a court of law. I had already pissed Ethan Sands off enough. I saw little need in furthering the trend, and even less in giving a murderer what she needed to get off.

  Then I heard a scream. Bingo. There was my “get out of trouble free” card. Reasonable belief of an emergency meant I didn’t need a warrant anymore. It meant I could kick this damned door down and there wasn’t a defense attorney in the country who could touch me for it.

  The scream repeated, and I reared back. Fulfilling about a dozen of my childhood fantasies, I drove a foot hard into the door of my father’s house. It creaked and shuddered, but didn’t fall. So I reared back and did it again. And then again. And again. With each clap of thunder, my foot fell hard against the door.

  Finally, it yielded.

  As the door flung open, I rushed inside, pulling out my gun and surveying the area.

  “Police!” I screamed, announcing my presence as was standard when bypassing a needed warrant. “Police! Where are you?”

  “Up here!” a woman’s voice shrieked from upstairs. I rushed toward the staircase, a winding thing in the center of a huge and gaudy foyer.

  If Peter Storm’s house lacked the overt luxuries I expected from the excessively wealthy, Storm House more than made up for that. Floors of marble, hanging chandeliers, and walls made entirely of glass. This was the sort of place where the richest of the rich felt at home.

  Of course, if I wasn’t quick, it would also be where they died.

  I ran up the staircase, listening to the sounds of a struggle, including glass shattering against the floor.

  Following the sounds of confrontation, I made my way into what had to be the master bedroom.

  It was in shambles. Ornate lamps had fallen and were in pieces on the floor and the bed had been messily stripped of its dressing.

  There, in the open space in front of the bed, a man stood over Angela. He had pale white skin and track marks all over his arms. In his hand was a pistol, and it was aimed right at Angela’s head.

  She looked over at me, tears having caused her mascara to run down her face, staining her cheeks.

  My eyes flickered to her, but I couldn’t afford to comfort her. I had to keep my attention trained solely on this man. He was a jerk of the finger away from blowing her brains out all over this luxurious bedroom and, if I was going to have a hope of a chance at stopping him, I was going to have to concentrate.

  “You don’t want to do
this,” I said, my jaw tight and my voice tense and curt. “You haven’t done anything you can’t take back yet, buddy. You pull that trigger, and I can’t help you.”

  “Shut up,” the man said, jerking a little, causing the gun to shake. Angela trembled in response and I shot her a look meant to tell her to calm down. Freaking out wouldn’t help her cause here. I hoped she had the strength and dexterity to know as much.

  “There are more police on the way,” I told him calmly. “The chief of police too. In a few minutes, they’ll have this place surrounded.” I took a deep breath. “But if you put the gun down, if you stop this right now, then they don’t have anything on you besides breaking and entering.”

  “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid!” the man shouted and Angela’s hand flew to her mouth in terror. “I know how this works. You think this is my first time with the cops, pig?! I know this is assault, maybe even assault with a deadly weapon. With my priors, that means I’m going away for good.” His grip tightened on the gun as he looked back down at her. “So what have I got to lose?”

  “A lot,” I answered. “Angela doesn’t have to tell the cops what happened here today. She can say you came in to get out of the storm and I charged here and I misinterpreted what was going on and went off on you. You can walk away from this.”

  That was a lie, of course. I had a duty to uphold justice, and that meant being honest about what I saw and punishing those who deserved it. It didn’t mean I always had to be honest to the perp—if white lies would help me disarm this guy, then I was damned sure going to employ them.

  “What’s your name, buddy?” I asked, inching toward him, my gun still pulled.

  “What the hell does that matter?” he asked, contempt in his voice. This was a guy who had dealt with police more than once and come away with a pretty solid opinion of them, and that opinion was not a good one.

  “I guess it doesn’t. You’re right,” I said, raising my free hand to try and settle him down and show him I meant no harm. “What did she promise you? What are you getting for your part in this? Because, I assure you, it won’t be worth what’ll happen to you if the chief of police comes in here and sees your gun trained at the widow of the most powerful man in the city.”

  “You don’t want me to?” he asked, finally looking over at me. “I know who you are. Hell, everybody in Naples knows who you are. You’re the bastard. You’re the one he didn’t want. You’re just like us, pushed aside, forgotten, picked over.”

  “Is that what she told you about yourself?” I asked, swallowing hard. “Did Lucy tell you that you were worthless?”

  “Lucy?” Angela asked, her entire body jerking. “My daughter doesn’t have anything to do with this!” Her voice was shocked and, because of that, far too loud given her circumstances. “My daughter—”

  “Shut up!” the man said, turning back to her, his eyes wide and enraged.

  This wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t getting anywhere with him and I was running out of time. Boomer would be here in minutes and, given the volatile nature of this situation, adding another boy in blue wouldn’t make things any better.

  His attention was turned now though. For the smallest of seconds, his guard was down.

  I took the opportunity. Squeezing my trigger, I aimed for the bastard’s hand. Never one to miss when I aimed my gun, I saw the bullet had torn through his palm, knocking the gun from his hand.

  He screamed, grabbing his hand as Angela skidded away from him, crawling on all fours toward the world’s largest walk in closet. I lumbered toward him, driving into him with a shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

  He slammed against the floor and I was on him in an instant. Pulling at my cuffs, I went for his hand. He panicked, kicking me in my wounded midsection.

  Pain lit me up like fire all through my body. My eyes watered and my body shook, but I kept my stance. I couldn’t let myself fall, no matter how much I wanted to. Grunting through the pain, I threw a fist into his face. His head went back, colliding with the floor and knocking him the hell out.

  As soon as he was out, I slapped the cuffs on him and grabbed at my gut.

  Angela was looking over at me. I was going to have to explain myself.

  “Your daughter,” I said, pain running through me anew. Now that this guy was out cold, I could afford to let the hurt run free, and it was causing my stomach to knot up.

  “My daughter didn’t have anything to do with this!” Angela answered. “She’s a good woman, Dillon. She’s had problems, but she’d never do anything like this. This man wanted to rob me…or…or worse.”

  “This man wanted to kill you and he wanted to make it look like Peter did it,” I answered, walking toward her, my hand still pressed firmly against my midsection. “That’s why you got a message asking you to meet with Peter today. You needed to be seen visiting him so that when you ended up dead, he’d be the number one suspect again. Couple that with the evidence that we found at Rusty’s place, and he’d be found guilty in the court of public opinion before a trial could even take place. Being a cold blooded murderer would give anyone willing to try for it ample leverage to have him cut out of the family business as well as disinherited. That would leave all of my father’s money for you. Only you’d be dead. So it would be passed down to—”

  “No!” she said, shaking her head frantically. “Lucy had nothing to do with this.” She blinked back tears. “She just-she didn’t.”

  “Of course she did,” I answered. “She’s also the reason I came here in the first place. After my father had his heart attack and she learned he’d actually gone through with making me ‘next of kin’, she couldn’t chance I’d be left the fortune. So she wrote a letter to me, pretending to be my father, and asking me to come back for the funeral. I did and she had one of her friends set my house and shed on fire in an attempt to take me out and make it not look suspicious.”

  “You’re making this up!” Angela cried. “She doesn’t have friends like that.”

  “You mean like him?” I asked, pointing to the unconscious man on the floor. “Friends with track marks all over their arms? Friends with a history of either using or selling drugs?”

  “She put that behind her,” Angela assured me, stumbling to her feet. “She’s better now.”

  “Maybe, but she’s responsible for this, and I’d bet once I put some pressure on this guy and the person I smelled your perfume all over last night. they’ll fold like cheap card tables. Especially once they learn that Rusty was killed by Lucy and not Peter like I’m sure she led them to believe.”

  “What?” Angela asked, shock coloring her face.

  “Rusty had a confrontation with Peter at the funeral, much in the same way you were meant to have a confrontation with him earlier. The goal was to get someone to see Peter arguing with him. That way, when Peter’s glove was found in the man’s hand, there would be evidence that they didn’t get along. My guess is that Lucy knew him from her past days as an addict and paid him to confront Peter. He didn’t know she planned on killing him to seal the deal.”

  “Kill me, kill you, frame Peter for two murders; that’s her plan,” I said firmly. “She does that and she gets the whole of the Storm fortune, and all the freedom in the world to do with it what she wants.”

  “You don’t know that!” Angela scoffed. “You don’t have any proof.”

  “About that,” I said, digging into my pocket and pulling out the letter I thought was from my father. “Does that look like her handwriting?”

  Angela took it, reading it over. Her face fell and her skin turned a ghastly white. “My God,” she gasped. “My good God.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked, my voice as kind and compassionate as was necessary for a woman who just learned her daughter was trying to kill her. “Where is Lucy?”

  “She went to see the boy,” Angela said, almost absentmindedly. “She went to see Peter’s boy.”

  My heart threatened to leap out of my chest. I was so stup
id. I’d forgotten about one crucial thing. There was another person who stood to inherit the Storm fortune, the youngest member, and Lucy was with him right now.

  25

  My heart was racing as I waited for Charlotte’s phone to go to voicemail for the third time in a row. Rain was beating hard against my windshield and I was about a minute and a half away from Rocco’s.

  I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid. I should have figured Lucy would go after Isaac. The second I learned the boy existed, I should have known he would be part of this. Even if Peter didn’t have a relationship with him, a blood relative would always be a threat to her plan.

  The idea that she would hurt that innocent little boy, the idea that she would kill him for money, sent a sour note through my soul. I had to stop this, but what if it was already too late? What if Ethan Sands had been right? What if I was so wrapped up in this, so close to this nonsense that it clouded my judgment? If I’d have had a clear head, maybe I’d have connected these dots sooner. Maybe I’d have known enough to keep Isaac close, to keep him safe.

  I didn’t though, and maybe it was too late now.

  My heart skipped a beat when Charlotte answered the phone, right before the voicemail was about to take it again.

  “Dilly? What’s going on? I’m at work. I can’t have you calling me every five minu—”

  “Where’s Isaac?” I said, swallowing hard and breathing heavy.

  “What?” she asked. I could hear the ruckus going on in the background. I could almost picture it; the usuals chatting it up over beers, oysters and key lime pie. It was going to kill me, but I was about to rip all that normalcy out of her world. I was about to shatter her heart into a million pieces with hopes I might be able to save it.

  “Char, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Just tune out everything that’s going on around you. I need your attention.” I swallowed hard. “Tell me where Isaac is.”

  “He’s at home,” she said, fear present and obvious in her voice. “Dilly, what’s happening? You’re scaring me.”

  “He’s not at home, Char. I just left your place. Where would he be? Where would Lucy have taken him?”