Chapter 18 #2
But Rachel was looking at me with shining eyes, and she’d just told me she was being careful, and I’d already said my piece about Daniel multiple times.
So instead I told her, “That’s great,” and made sure my voice was warm when I did it. “I really hope it works out. And I promise I’ll come visit once it’s open and give it a fair chance.”
Rachel’s smile widened. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Even though it’s in Five Points and might fail within a year along with half the other bars in that neighborhood.”
“If it does,” Rachel said, “it won’t be for lack of trying. Maybe I can prevent that.”
Maybe she could. It was more help than Daniel had had at any other point in his career.
“So,” Rachel said. “Back to the murder. You didn’t mention Kenny earlier.”
No, I hadn’t. And I’d been wondering when we’d circle back to this.
“I don’t know, Rachel,” I said. “He certainly had motive—he wants Jacquie, and Nick was in his way. And he might have had means—I’d ask you if he or Daniel owns a gun, but to be honest, I don’t want to risk you lying to me.”
She gave me a stony look, and I added, “But he certainly wouldn’t have a key to Nick’s place, and from what Jacquie told me, he hasn’t been in touch with her for a while, so he wouldn’t have had access to her key either, assuming she has one.”
Rachel nodded, looking a little mollified. I was being as fair to Kenny as I could be, to be honest, and it was good that she appreciated it.
“He might have picked the lock,” I said, “although I don’t know whether he knows how. On the other hand, he’s never been caught doing that sort of thing before.”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Rachel agreed. “He’s not a crook, or a thief. Just a playboy. Women and alcohol and a whiff of cocaine.”
That sounded about right. “I still think he might have thrown paint at my door,” I said. “Fair warning. He dropped Jacquie off at home around eight-thirty, she said. That would have given him time to stop at Home Depot, buy paint, and hit my house before Greg brought me home.”
Rachel was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in her glass.
“I think...” She sighed. “I think you may be right. It’s petty and spiteful and exactly the kind of thing he would do to get back at you.
Like he’s still a teenager and you’re still his stepmom.
But I don’t know about murder. That’s different.
That’s cold-blooded. And I just don’t see it. ”
Kenny was plenty cold-blooded in my experience, but maybe I was prejudiced by those early years.
“I admit that that bullet between the eyes was plenty cold-blooded. That’s not even murder, it’s an execution. That’s the kind of thing the mob would do to make a point.”
Izzy Spataro and Gio Abruzzi had both come across as capable of anything, each in their own way. If Mendoza called me tomorrow and told me that the murder was solved, that Gio or Izzy had confessed, I wouldn’t think twice about believing him.
“We’re probably just fantasizing with our suspicions of anyone else,” I added. “It looked like a professional hit. That’s probably what it was. Someone wanted to send a message about involving the police in mob business, and Nick was the messenger.”
Rachel shuddered. “That’s terrifying. You don’t think they’ll send any messages to us, do you?”
“I hope not,” I said. “Although I’m not sure they know who we are. I don’t think Gio saw me follow him to Sambuca the other day, and I’m pretty sure Izzy just thought I was a ditzy dame looking for the bathroom. If they’re going to murder anyone else, it’ll probably be Megan or Mendoza.”
We fell silent again, each lost in our own thoughts. Mine, I admit, were not altogether pleasant. I didn’t want Gio or Izzy to come after me, no, but I didn’t want either of them going after Mendoza, either. Or Megan.
“Hopefully the whole case will be wrapped up soon,” Rachel said, “and we don’t have to worry about it anymore. The police will wrap up the money laundering investigation, Jaime and his colleague will be safe, and someone will admit to the murder, whether it’s mob related or not.”
I nodded. “I guess we’re hoping for Sal or Mrs. Miller, then. Or Jacquie.”
“I guess so,” Rachel agreed. “It would be a shame if it was our client, but at least if they arrested her, I think we’ve dug up enough suspicious circumstances surrounding everyone else that her lawyer could make a case for reasonable doubt.”
“If she’s guilty I want her to go to prison,” I said firmly, “whether she’s our client or not.”
She didn’t say anything to that, and I added, “But you’ve got a point. Between Sal and the life insurance, and the mob and Nick’s debt, and Mrs. Miller and her key to Nick’s half of the duplex, and even Kenny and Jacquie, I think even I could get her off on reasonable doubt.”
We sat in silence a moment.
“Let’s turn on a movie,” I said. The sun had set by now, and it was getting dark outside.
Rachel nodded. “We might as well. We’re just going to keep going on circles if we keep talking about this. Might as well do something to distract ourselves. Domestic thriller or romantic comedy?”
She reached for the remote on the table.
We finished off the cheese and most of the second bottle of wine to a rerun of a classic James Bond. One of the early ones, with the suggestive title and Sean Connery in the title role. After that I brought out the ice cream, and finally, around nine-thirty, Rachel announced she should get going.
“Daniel’s supposed to call,” she said, gathering up her purse. “And I should probably be sober enough to hold a coherent conversation.”
“Are you OK to drive home? Should I call an Uber? I can drive your car to the office tomorrow and get a ride home.” We wouldn’t be doing any surveillance tomorrow, so I probably wouldn’t need my own car for anything.
She smiled. “I’m fine. See, walking a straight line and everything.” She held out her arms and placed one foot carefully in front of the other down the hall.
I followed behind her to the door. “Make sure you drive carefully. And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“I really am happy for you. About Daniel. I hope I’m wrong about him and the bar and everything.”
She squeezed my hand. “I know you do. Thanks for trying.”
I unlocked the front door and pulled it open, and grimaced at the red splotches of paint. “I forgot.”
“You’ll fix it,” Rachel said. “It’ll be good as new once it’s been painted black.”
She leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Gina.”
“Likewise,” I told her, and watched as she walked across the parking lot to her car, and then maneuvered carefully down the dark driveway. I waited until her taillights had disappeared, and then I locked the door and headed back to the living room.
Edwina had taken advantage of my absence to lick the cheese platter.
“You’re going to get an upset stomach,” I told her, but she didn’t seem fazed, just wagged happily.
I carried the plates and wine glasses to the kitchen, where I rinsed everything and loaded the dishwasher.
The routine of it was soothing—something normal and domestic after a day full of trespassing and surveillance and murder suspects.
Edwina followed me into the kitchen, her nails clicking on the hardwood, for a couple of slurps of water. The better to wash down the cheese and salami, I suppose. When I’d finished cleaning up, I looked down at her.
“Time to go outside?”
Her ears perked up, and she trotted toward the back door, tail wagging.
I opened it and she darted out onto the terrace, heading for her favorite spot on the lawn.
I leaned against the doorframe, breathing in the cool night air. It had been a long day. A long couple of days, really. A long week. A long year…
A branch cracked in the trees beyond the reach of the back door light, and I snapped to attention. Something moved back there. Something that wasn’t Edwina, who was still squatting on the grass, her back to the tree line and her eyes on me.
My heart beat harder, even as I reminded myself that it was probably nothing to worry about.
Most likely just a deer. We get them all the time, in the wooded area between the houses on this street and the one behind.
They’ll come out onto the lawn and eat the cultivated flowers sometimes in the summer months.
At worst it might be a coyote, but Edwina could bark one of those into flight—they aren’t much bigger than she is—and we don’t have wolves or bears in this area.
By now the Boston Terrier had noticed that something was there, too. She was staring at the tree line, her body rigid, a low growl building in her throat.
“Edwina, come here,” I called.
She didn’t move.
I took a step towards her, and that was when two massive shapes burst from the trees.
My first instinct was wolves. Werewolves, even, although I know those aren’t real. But they were large and furry, low to the ground, and I wasn’t thinking straight.
What they were, of course, were dogs. German Shepherds, or maybe Malinois like Zachary had said. Huge and dark and moving with terrifying speed across my lawn straight toward Edwina.
“No!” I screamed. “Edwina, run!”
But it was too late. They were on her in seconds, teeth bared, snarling. Edwina yelped—a high, terrible sound—and tried to run, but one of the dogs had her by the back of the neck.
I didn’t think. Didn’t consider the danger or the consequences or anything beyond the fact that those monsters were going to kill my dog.
I grabbed the broom from beside the door—the one I used to sweep the terrace—and ran toward them, screaming like a banshee.
“Get away from her! Leave her alone!”
I swung the broom at the nearest dog, catching it across the shoulders.
It released Edwina and turned toward me, lips pulled back in a snarl that showed every tooth in its mouth.
They were yellow, like old ivory—could have been the glow from the security lights, I suppose—and looked like they were at least an inch or two long.
I thought I could see blood, but it was hard to be sure in the chaos.
“Go!” I told Edwina again as I swept the broom toward it a second time. “Run!”
The second dog circled around, and Edwina bared her teeth and growled.
It was laughably high pitched compared to the deep snarls from the much larger, much more vicious canines.
She backed up until she was pressed against my legs, and I couldn’t tell whether the vibration I felt was her growling or whether she was shaking with fear.
Or pain. I couldn’t even take my eyes off the other dogs long enough to see whether she’d been hurt by the attack.
I raised the broom again, but my hands were shaking. “Nice doggies. Good doggies. I’m sorry I hit you—”
One of them lunged. I brought the broom down hard, and it caught the dog on the snout. It yelped and backed off, but at the same time, the other one was moving in from the side.
This was it, flashed through my mind. This was how I was going to die—mauled by attack dogs in my own backyard.
I knew whose dogs they were, of course. I had seen these two through a French door earlier today. And there was absolutely no way they had gotten here from Pegram on their own.
No, Sal must have loaded them into his truck or SUV and driven them here, and waited until I let Edwina out for the night, and then set them on me.
Or on her, to trick me into coming outside.
I wondered whether he was planning to stand in the shadows—because he had to be back there somewhere—watching as they mauled both of us to death, or whether he planned to interfere at some point.
“Show yourself, you bastard!” I shrieked, as I whapped the second dog with the broom to keep it at a distance. “Hiding in the trees like a coward—”
It figured that an accusation of cowardice was what would do it. The next second, a figure had emerged from the trees. Tall, broad-shouldered, limping slightly.
I opened my mouth to scream at him, but before I could—
“This is the police!” a voice boomed from somewhere off to my left. “You are surrounded. Call off the dogs and raise your hands!”
The porch light suddenly seemed too bright, or maybe those were the floodlights that suddenly lit up the lawn. The ground tilted beneath my feet. I saw Sal’s face—shocked, angry, afraid—and I saw the dogs turning toward him, uncertain.
“Police!” the voice bellowed again. “Show me your hands!”
And then everything went black, and I had the distant sensation of falling before I felt nothing at all.