Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) Page 18

  Details. He was a master of details. That’s why he was such a good detective. Why he’d excelled at undercover work. And he always thought ahead. Prepared for contingencies. Had an exit plan for dicey situations.

  But this was the diciest situation he’d ever encountered.

  He headed for the kitchen, desperate for a cup of coffee, noting the time on the hall clock as he passed. Three-fifteen. The night was half over. It probably wasn’t smart to drink caffeine at this hour.

  Then again, what did it matter?

  Caffeine or no caffeine, there would be no more sleep this night.

  At ten minutes to five on Friday, Cole’s phone rang. Long distance from Buffalo, according to caller ID.

  Rossi’s attorney. Waiting until the last minute, as Cole had expected.

  He picked up the desk phone. “Detective Taylor.”

  “This is Thomas Lake, Vincentio Rossi’s attorney. I understand you want to speak with him regarding the death of a John Warren?”

  “That’s right. At his earliest convenience. We’ll be happy to come to his home or meet him at a nearby precinct station.”

  “What do you want to discuss?”

  “We have reason to believe John Warren was really James Walsh, a former employee of Mr. Rossi who was a key witness against him in the trial that sent your client to prison. We’d like to discuss the case with Mr. Rossi.”

  “Have you found a link between my client and your case?”

  “We’re in the early stage of this investigation.”

  Cole held his breath following that nonspecific answer. Rossi could refuse to meet with him, but that would raise suspicions. If his attorney was smart, he’d advise the man to cooperate. And Cole assumed a man like Rossi bought the best of everything—including attorneys.

  That assumption was confirmed a few seconds later.

  “I’m sure Mr. Rossi will be glad to assist with your investigation. How does Wednesday morning look for you?”

  The day before Thanksgiving. It figured. Air travel would be a nightmare.

  “That will be fine.” He kept his inflection neutral.

  “Let me get back to you with a specific time. I’m certain my client will prefer to meet in his residence.”

  That was one piece of positive news, anyway. It was amazing how much you could pick up about a person from their home-turf surroundings.

  “I’ll be coming with another detective. I’d appreciate the time as soon as you have it. Let me give you my cell number so you can call me with that information this weekend.”

  After Lake took the number and ended the call, Cole depressed the switch hook and dialed Mitch’s cell to give him a heads-up about the travel plans. After three rings, it rolled to voice mail and he left a message.

  Then he started checking flight availability. As he’d expected, pickings were slim. The best he could do was a connecting red-eye into Buffalo, leaving late Tuesday night. Coming back also required a connection, but at least they’d get home by six o’clock.

  He tried Kelly next, to give her the promised update, but her phone, too, rolled to voice mail. He thought about calling again later, when he might reach her in person, but ended up leaving a message. Now that the case was heating up, it would be safer to keep his distance until things were resolved.

  But with each day that passed, it was getting harder and harder to follow his self-imposed rule.

  “So did you forget my phone number or what?”

  Bleary-eyed, Cole shifted the phone against his ear and squinted at his bedside clock. Nine o’clock. That qualified as sleeping in for him. But since he’d stayed up late watching a movie and then spent a restless night staring at the dark ceiling and thinking about Kelly, he wasn’t too happy about being rudely awakened on Saturday morning by his sister.

  “I’ve been busy.” He flopped onto his back and stifled a yawn.

  “Avoiding me is more like it.”

  He closed his eyes. He wasn’t up for one of Alison’s grillings. Not without a cup of coffee first.

  “You’re afraid I’ll ask about Kelly, aren’t you?”

  Make that a pot.

  “What do you want to know?” Maybe he could throw her off by tossing her a few nuggets.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Mitch says you’re smitten.”

  Cole narrowed his eyes. His so-called buddy was going to hear about that on Monday. “That might be pushing it.”

  “But you like her, right?”

  “Sure. What’s not to like? She’s pretty, smart, fun to be with, a great cook, and she goes to church every Sunday. The whole package.”

  Silence.

  “How come you answered that question?” Alison sounded thrown by his candor.

  Good.

  He grinned and stretched. “My life is an open book.”

  “Since when?”

  “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.” He swung his legs to the floor and padded toward the kitchen to start that coffee. “Want to know anything else?”

  “Are you dating her?”

  “Not yet. It wouldn’t be professional.”

  “Meaning you plan to ask her out once the case is closed?”

  “If the lady’s interested.”

  “Do you think she is?”

  “Yep.”

  More silence.

  “What’s with you today, anyway? Usually it’s like pulling teeth to get you to open up.”

  “Are you complaining?” He pulled a can of coffee out of the refrigerator.

  “No. Just trying to decide if I have my real brother on the phone, or if some alien has snatched your body.”

  “Cute. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Not on that subject. But I did want to ask if you’d like to join Mitch and me for church tomorrow.”

  Cole shook some coffee into the filter, slid it into the coffeemaker, and carried the carafe over to the sink. Why not? He’d been thinking about going back, and he didn’t have anything else to do this weekend.

  “Sure.”

  In the brief silence that followed, he pictured her mouth dropping open.

  “Should I attribute this change of heart to your new romantic interest?”

  “Partly. She got me thinking about some things I should have addressed long ago.”

  This was one topic he didn’t intend to expand on. And he was glad Alison had sense enough not to push her luck by pressing for details.

  “Well, whatever the reason, that’s great news. Want us to pick you up?”

  “No. I’ll meet you there. Ten o’clock service?” He filled the carafe with water.

  “Yes. So what else are you going to do this weekend?”

  A quick scan of the apartment reminded him he still hadn’t tended to housekeeping duties. “Clean up a little around here.”

  “Not a bad idea. Last time I stopped by, your apartment was a sty.”

  “Thanks a lot. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Wait . . . did you order the pies for Thanksgiving?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” He’d add that to his to-do list for the weekend too.

  “That means you forgot. You can’t fool me with evasive answers, Cole. I lived with you for years, remember?”

  “Good-bye, Alison.”

  Her throaty chuckle came over the line. “See you at church.”

  As he hung up and poured the pot of water into the coffeemaker, Cole reviewed his agenda for the next two days. Church, housecleaning, pie ordering. His weekend wouldn’t be so empty after all.

  But he’d much rather be spending the day with Kelly than washing socks.

  15

  He was in.

  Standing beside the table in John Warren’s kitchen, Alan flexed his latex-gloved fingers and readjusted the black balaclava that covered his head and most of his face. Gaining entry had been a breeze. But at this predawn hour on a Sunday morning, he’d prefer to be sleeping—not revisiting th
e scene of the crime.

  That was for amateurs.

  Thanks to those stupid tulip bulbs, however, he’d been forced to take unnecessary risks.

  With a snort of disgust, Alan walked toward the living room, his smooth-soled shoes quiet on the oak floor. Instead of issuing threats, Rossi should be thanking him—and paying up. Despite the glitch, all the “evidence” Taylor had turned up was circumstantial. And none of it was from the crime itself. Nor would his colleague find any. The job had been well planned and perfectly executed. The wise course would be to let things rest, as he’d told his contact in the middle of Friday night. Eventually, the investigation would fizzle out and die.

  Except Rossi didn’t want to wait. Or deal with the police. And thanks to recent developments, the mob boss probably thought the man he’d hired to carry out his vendetta had made mistakes. Overlooked something.

  But Alan hadn’t done either. The job had been clean. His only slipup had been overreacting to Kelly’s persistence, but there was nothing to tie the peanut incident to him or Rossi, either.

  Alan paused in the living room, beside the couch where he’d sat on his two visits with John Warren. One to scope out the place and create a comfort level. The second to do the job. He’d used that technique a lot in his undercover work. It had worked on the street, and it had worked here. But only because he’d done his homework.

  Like finding the right neighbor to be his unwitting accomplice.

  The hint of a smile twitched at his lips. Sheila Waters had plied him with brownies and iced tea on his first visit to the neighborhood, when he’d stopped in to talk with her while investigating the robbery at a house down the street that he’d committed himself as an excuse to do some reconnaissance. She’d given him the idea of showing up with brownies at Warren’s house two weeks later, when a second—nonexistent—crime had needed investigating.

  Alan bent and rubbed a gloved finger over the faint stain on the walnut coffee table, a souvenir of the maneuver that had bought him the time to spike Warren’s lemonade with two generous shots of Russian Standard vodka. Twenty-five bucks a bottle, but worth every penny. His research had indicated it went down sweet and smooth, without the burn on the tongue or throat produced by harsh, cheaper versions—making it the perfect liquor to add to a glass of iced tea or lemonade. Tasteless but potent—especially when mixed with a strong sleeping pill. And easy to dump into Warren’s drink after Alan spilled his and the man went to get him a refill.

  He traced the stain once more and stood. The whole operation had been easy. Almost too easy. Generic Ambien was plentiful on the black market, and getting Warren to ingest the innocuous-flavored sedative had been no problem. It was a simple matter of grinding up the pills, adding them to a boxed brownie mix, and playing Betty Crocker.

  Alan’s smile broadened. It had been a beautiful plan. He’d shown up here that evening carrying three of the laced bars—and one that was drug-free—to ask a few questions about the latest neighborhood robbery. He’d told Warren that Sheila had insisted he take a few when he’d stopped in to talk with her, and gone on to say they were making him hungry, since he’d worked through dinner. As he’d expected based on the man’s previous hospitality, Warren had told him to eat a couple while they talked, and even offered him a drink. Alan had agreed—but only if Warren joined him.

  It had been an easy sell.

  Two brownies and two shots of vodka later, Warren had staggered as he rose to show his visitor out. Alan had helped him back to his chair and gone to the kitchen to get him a glass of water—to which he’d added a third shot of vodka.

  Once Warren’s dizziness had worsened, Alan hadn’t had any problem convincing him he needed to go to the ER. And with his daughter out of town—a fact Warren had mentioned on his first visit, and the reason Alan had chosen this night to carry out his plan—he’d offered to drive him there. But since he’d parked at the end of the block, he’d suggested they take Warren’s car to save time.

  As the events of that night replayed in his mind, Alan returned to the kitchen and opened the door that led to the shadowy garage. The man’s car was gone now. No surprise there. Kelly had said she was going to sell the instrument of death, as she’d called it, as soon as possible. Otherwise, the garage looked the same. It had been dark then too, as he’d helped Warren out, settled him in the passenger seat, and started the engine. On the excuse he’d forgotten his jacket in the house, he’d retreated to the kitchen—leaving both car doors open.

  Fifteen minutes later, the man had been disoriented and barely conscious. He hadn’t even realized what was going on when Alan helped him out of the older-model car, moved him to the rear of the vehicle, and eased him to the floor beside the tailpipe. After he’d propped him with his back against the wall, he’d squatted down to deliver Rossi’s message.

  Warren had stared at him, his unfocused eyes at first confused. And then, as a glimmer of understanding dawned, the color had drained from his complexion. He’d tried to push Alan away, to stand, but in his condition, it took no more than gentle pressure against his chest to keep him in place.

  Alan’s smile faded. That part had been unpleasant. It had made the killing seem too real. Though it took mere minutes for the man’s eyelids to drift closed and his feeble struggles to stop, it had felt like hours.

  The rest had been easy. He’d slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Wiped down the few objects he’d touched during his visit. Drained three beer cans in the sink. He’d also poured out half of the beer from another can and returned to the garage to set that can, plus the unmarked bottle of pills, beside Warren—after pressing the man’s fingers against them. He’d done the same maneuver with the empty beer cans before tossing them in the kitchen garbage container for the Crime Scene Unit to find.

  A faint, irregular pulse had still beat against his fingers when he’d checked the man’s carotid artery, so he’d gone back to the living room. Waited twenty minutes. Checked again.

  There had been no discernable heartbeat.

  Just as he’d done on that May night six months ago, Alan took one more scan of the dark garage where Warren had died, shut the door, and turned away. But he’d felt more confident back then. More certain he’d pulled off the perfect crime. And with Warren’s daughter out of town, the odds had been in his favor no one would discover the man until at least the next day.

  No one had, either. The call had come through about noon on his police radio, and he’d been on the phone with his boss immediately, volunteering to handle it since he “happened” to be in the area.

  Alan returned to the living room. Funny, being a man who had sworn to uphold the law and protect the citizens, how he’d never felt any remorse about taking a life . . . but Warren had been dying anyway. All Alan had done was hurry the process along. And in doing so, he’d given himself a fresh start financially—plus a second chance with his wife. He’d finished the job with a sense of relief, not regret.

  But tangling with the Mafia had turned that relief into apprehension.

  Reminding himself to focus on the task at hand, Alan crossed to the hall. Light was beginning to seep around the edges of the window shades, and he didn’t want to be here in broad daylight. Kelly would be going to church, as she always did on Sunday, but there was no sense lingering. He needed to find a spot to plant the letter. One that wouldn’t raise suspicions, make her wonder why she—and the Crime Scene Unit—had missed it before.

  Eight minutes later, after a quick sweep of the house, Alan concluded from the state of disarray in Warren’s office and bedroom that Kelly had focused her search in those areas. The second bedroom appeared to be untouched, as did the basement. If Warren had left a letter, however, there was little chance he’d have put it in either of those places. Suicide notes were typically left in obvious locations. On a desk. A kitchen table. The body itself. Had a note been in any of those places, however, the crime scene tech or the investigator from the medical examiner’s office would have found it
.

  Passing Warren’s office, Alan jerked to a stop at a sudden shift in the shadow on the wall across from the doorway. Adrenaline surging, he reached for the off-duty Beretta in his concealed holster. Stopped as the shadow shifted again and he identified the source.

  A wind-tossed tree limb, backlit by the rising sun.

  As his pulse slowed to normal, an idea began to germinate. He reentered Warren’s office, crossed to the window at a right angle to the desk, and tipped the shade. There was enough light outside now for him to confirm the presence of several large maple trees in the backyard, one close to the house. He knew about maples from the two in the yard of the house he and Cindy had shared. Thanks to their brittle wood, which made them susceptible to wind damage, he’d often made a circuit of the yard after storms, collecting downed limbs.

  He squinted at the maple closest to the house. Meteorologists were predicting a major storm for this week. A first, icy blast of winter. Trees shed limbs in storms like that, and limbs broke windows—whether ripped off by Mother Nature or pulled down with a rope. Fixing this particular window would require moving the heavy wooden desk, and that might reveal all kinds of things. Stray paperclips. Coins. Post-it notes.

  A single sheet of paper that a breeze had nudged off the back of the desk the night Warren died.

  A breeze from the open window he’d noted on his report.

  The ghost of a smile curved his lips.

  It was perfect.

  Or as perfect as he was likely to get in the short time frame Rossi had allotted him to complete the job.

  All at once a ray of the rising sun darted through the narrow strip between the edge of the shade and the window frame. His cue to leave.

  He returned to the kitchen, punched in Warren’s security code next to the back door, and slipped out. While the privacy hedges rimming the yard provided excellent cover, as did the common ground in back, there was no reason to delay. He had his plan now.