Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) Page 20

  But the whole thing was an aggravation.

  Expelling an annoyed breath, Vincentio drove slowly past the house where his son and daughter-in-law and grandson would be celebrating Thanksgiving in three days while he sat home alone. He’d give five years of his life to be with them for the holiday, to be welcomed at their table.

  Perhaps this delay was for the best, though. It would give him a chance to clear up his little problem. And if he was smart, Carlson would be working very, very hard to erase any doubt about the cause of Walsh’s death.

  Because this whole mess was his fault.

  Vincentio’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He didn’t blame the detective for the tulip note. That was a freak coincidence. But he should have stuck close to his desk, just in case there were any unexpected glitches. Instead, according to the information his contact had provided, he’d missed the daughter’s visit—and his opportunity to convince her the note wasn’t worth investigating—because he’d taken a vacation shortly after putting the case to bed.

  That had been unprofessional. And Vincentio had no respect for amateurs—especially ones whose lack of foresight and planning could destroy his hope of a relationship with his grandson.

  And that would be the outcome if Marco got wind of this.

  Fifty feet ahead of him, the stoplight at the intersection changed from yellow to red. Somehow he’d missed the green-to-yellow transition.

  Smashing the brake pedal to the floor, he braced himself as the car skidded to a halt behind an SUV with mere inches to spare.

  Heart hammering, he sucked in a deep breath. That had been close. Too close.

  And he didn’t like close calls. Behind the wheel—or in business.

  By the time the light changed to green, his pulse had slowed. But thanks to Carlson’s botched job, his nerves were still vibrating. As they would continue to do until the man got the heat off of him.

  He had a powerful incentive to make that happen too. Carlson knew Vincentio Rossi didn’t tolerate failure. Mistakes brought consequences, as he’d instructed his contact to tell the detective.

  And they weren’t pretty.

  “Cole! Wait up!”

  At Mitch’s summon, Cole turned, his hand on the door that led to the detective unit’s waiting room.

  “Cutting out early?” Mitch grinned as he joined him.

  “I wish. Sarge asked me to deal with a domestic violence situation before I call it a day.”

  “Not the best way to end a Monday.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I wanted to check on the flight time tomorrow. Alison and I were hoping to get together for dinner first.”

  “Forget it. The flight leaves at seven. We can grab a burger en route to the airport, eat there, or scrounge up a meal during our two-and-a-half-hour layover in Chicago.”

  “What time do we get into Buffalo?”

  “Two in the morning. And our meeting with Rossi is at eight.”

  Mitch shot him a disgruntled look. “I bet we’re on puddle jumpers too.”

  “I took what I could get.” Cole shifted aside to let another detective exit. “Open seats less than a week before Thanksgiving are as scarce as clues in Alan’s double homicide case. You want to leave your car here and drive together?”

  “I guess.” Mitch shoved his hands into his pockets. “Maybe Alison can meet me for lunch.”

  “You saw her Sunday, and you’re going to be with her all day Thursday. What’s the urgency?”

  “It’s called attraction. You know . . . like what you feel for Kelly—only stronger.”

  The ribbing from his colleague didn’t sit well with Cole. “Speaking of my sister, I have a bone to pick with you. She says you told her I was smitten.”

  Mitch’s ears reddened. “I don’t recall using that exact term. She must have come to her own conclusions after she grilled me about the two of you.”

  “I thought SEALs were trained to hold up under interrogation.”

  One side of Mitch’s mouth hitched up. “Not the kind Alison dishes out. Let’s just say she has a very persuasive technique.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Hey. We’re talking about my sister here. I don’t want to hear this.” Cole pushed the door open and called over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

  Mitch’s chuckle followed him as he crossed the pavement toward his car, and his lips twitched. He was glad Alison had found someone like Mitch. His colleague was a lot more worthy of her than that jerk of a Legal Aid attorney she’d been serious about, who’d walked out on her after the accident that had almost taken her life. And he’d never seen his sister happier.

  It would be nice to find a little of that kind of happiness himself. And maybe, after the Warren case was put to rest once and for all, he might follow in his siblings’ footsteps. Because though he hadn’t admitted it to Mitch, Alison’s assessment of his feelings for Kelly were accurate.

  He was, indeed, smitten.

  “Can I offer you a beverage?” Thomas Lake gestured to a chair at the round conference table in his office.

  “No, thank you.” Vincentio took a seat. Not the one the attorney had indicated. He was in charge here, and Lake needed to know that. “Let’s just get this over with. What do you need from me?”

  The fortysomething man retrieved a leather notebook from his desk, picked up a Mont Blanc pen, and sat in the chair beside him. “I’ve reviewed your file, and I have one main question. Do we have anything to worry about?” He pinned him with an intimidating look designed to ferret out the truth.

  It probably worked on most people.

  Vincentio wasn’t one of them.

  No one intimidated a Rossi.

  He stared back. “You tell me.”

  Lake held his gaze for a few seconds, then broke eye contact. Excellent. The pecking order had been established.

  “Mr. Rossi, I’m sure you know that attorney-client privilege provides legal protection of confidentiality.” His tone was more conciliatory now. “It will be very difficult for me to represent you properly in a discussion with the police without full disclosure.”

  Vincentio considered him for a moment. He didn’t intend to admit anything. To anyone. “Young man, I will tell you the truth. And I will tell you what you need to know. Nothing more. If, after I do that, you feel you can’t represent me, I’ll find other legal counsel. Are we clear?”

  The attorney gave him an assessing look. Then he opened his notebook. “Why don’t you say what you have to say and we’ll go from there?”

  “Fine.” Vincentio linked his fingers over his stomach. “James Walsh was a trusted employee of mine many years ago. Due in large part to his testimony, I spent the prime years of my life behind bars. There was no love lost between us. However, he disappeared after the trial. I assume he went into the Witness Security program. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

  “Last week, a St. Louis County police detective called to tell me they were investigating the death of a John Warren. In your conversation with him, the detective said they suspect Warren was actually James Walsh. I’m assuming that name led them to me. And thanks to our connection, I’m also assuming they’ve concluded his death was murder rather than suicide.” He leaned forward and fixed the other man with a steely gaze. “That may be true. But I can tell you with absolute certainty there is no evidence linking me to his death. None. That’s what you need to know.”

  Vincentio sat back and re-linked his fingers. If that didn’t suit Lake, he’d find someone else to represent him. Or handle the detectives himself. Why did he need an attorney anyway, when there was no way the police could pin Walsh’s death on him?

  “How did you know it was suicide?”

  At Lake’s quiet question, Vincentio frowned. “What?”

  “How did you know the police thought Walsh committed suicide? I didn’t mention that.”

  “You must have.”

  “No. I haven’t talked with you since I discovered that piece of
information.” He tapped the end of his pen on the blank piece of notepaper in front of him. Watching. Assessing. Much like Vincentio used to scrutinize his associates. Looking for cracks.

  “The detective must have mentioned it when I talked to him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, he wasn’t. He’d been thrown by the call. All he remembered clearly was that it had been brief. Perhaps too brief to get into details like cause of death.

  Maybe he did need someone to watch his back after all. His mind might not be as sharp at seventy-four as it had been at forty-seven.

  And maybe he’d underestimated Lake.

  “Good catch.” It was a grudging admission, but the man deserved his due.

  “I’m trained to pick up discrepancies, Mr. Rossi. So are the police. A slip like that could cause major problems.”

  That was true. One wrong comment might not be enough to send him back to prison, but it would be more than enough to give the police license to make his life miserable.

  And if that happened, any hope of spending time with his grandson would evaporate.

  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “You have a point. Are you willing to represent me based on what I’ve told you?”

  Lake set his pen down and steepled his fingers. Letting him sweat for a few moments. “Here’s my deal. We can punt through this first round. If it goes beyond that, I’ll need more information.”

  That was fair. And prudent.

  “Agreed.”

  “All right.” The man repositioned his notebook in front of him. “Now let’s talk strategy.”

  Freddie had done a great job.

  Holding the note in his latex-gloved hands to ensure only Warren’s fingerprints were on the sheet—a precaution he’d instructed Freddie to take as well—Alan shifted it closer to the light beside his home computer, picked up the magnifying glass he kept in his desk, and compared the writing to the samples he’d taken from Warren’s house, moving back and forth between the documents.

  Amazing.

  The ink pressure was consistent. There were no interrupted strokes. The size and proportion of the letters were the same, as were the slant, angles, connections, and curves. The spacing and alignment matched. There was no discernable tremor, a common flaw when forgers traced letters or words—or moved too slowly as they copied. A shaky hand in a man about to commit suicide wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but it was better not to raise red flags.

  Alan sat back. He wasn’t a handwriting expert, but he’d been a detective long enough to know a good forgery from a bad one.

  And this was a good one.

  Good enough to fool the experts at Quantico, if it got as far as the FBI lab.

  He scanned the note, this time for content rather than technique. Freddie had written the message exactly as he’d dictated, and it had all the characteristics of the typical suicide note. In four brief sentences, it referenced despair, offered an apology, and contained an expression of love for Kelly.

  He was set.

  A yawn caught him off guard, and he glanced at his watch. Two in the morning. And tomorrow—make that today—was going to be a full day. Now that a real lead had surfaced, the double homicide investigation was heating up. But it had been safer to retrieve the letter from the drop location after midnight rather than at a more reasonable hour. Four hours of sleep wasn’t much, but he’d gotten by on less in his gambling days.

  And if the meteorologists’ predictions were accurate, the winter storm should move in within the next twenty-four hours.

  Making tonight D-day.

  Did elves have blue eyes?

  Kelly paused, brush poised above her palette, pondering that question. The diminutive woodland dwellers peopling the children’s book she was illustrating all had green eyes so far.

  But she had blue eyes on her mind.

  Not that a certain detective bore the slightest resemblance to her fanciful little creatures. Still, it might be fun to try and replicate the intense cerulean/cobalt hue of those captivating irises.

  As she leaned forward to dip her brush into phthalo blue, her cell began to ring. Cole, perhaps? She hadn’t heard from him since their encounter two days ago at the restaurant, and there was no reason for him to call her unless there was news on the case. Not likely until after his meeting with Rossi. But she couldn’t quell a surge of anticipation as she set the brush in a jar of water and reached for the phone.

  A quick look at caller ID, however, deflated her hope. It was the realtor for her father’s house. Reining in her disappointment, she pressed the talk button and greeted the woman.

  “Kelly? Denise Woods. I’m glad I caught you. I have someone who’s very interested in seeing your father’s house. He’s being transferred here the first of the year, and he and his wife and baby will be in town over the holiday weekend visiting his wife’s parents. When he described what he wanted, I thought of your father’s house. I know we haven’t listed it officially yet, and a holiday week isn’t ideal timing, but in this market I don’t think we should pass up any opportunity. Would it be okay if I show it to him while he’s here?”

  The image of her father’s torn-apart bedroom and office flashed across her mind—as did the layer of dust that had settled on the furniture over the past few weeks.

  “I guess that would work. But I need to clean first. And I’ve pulled out a lot of stuff that needs to be trashed or boxed up for charity. When does he want to see it?”

  “Friday.”

  She checked her watch. It was already after three. That only gave her what was left of today and tomorrow to get the house in shape—unless she wanted to spend some of her Thanksgiving cleaning toilets.

  Not an appealing prospect.

  “Okay. I can get it done.”

  “Great. And anything you can do to make it seem lived in will help. Fresh flowers on the table. A plate of cookies in the kitchen. That kind of thing.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know what he says. Have a nice holiday.”

  “You too.”

  Kelly set the phone back on the table and gathered up the brushes that needed cleaning. So much for her plans to finish this illustration before Thanksgiving. But Denise was right; it would be foolish not to woo a potential buyer.

  As she entered the kitchen, the phone rang again. Once more, her pulse took a leap. Veering off her route to the basement stairwell, she flipped on the lights, picked up the portable, and checked caller ID. Lauren.

  “Hi there. I thought you were leaving at noon.”

  “We were supposed to, but I got delayed at work. We’re finally ready to hit the road. I just wanted to call and let you know I’ll be thinking of you on Thursday, and to say I’m sorry I can’t have you to our house for dinner. It stinks that it’s our year to travel.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just had a call from the realtor, who has a hot prospect for Dad’s house. So cleaning up the place will keep me occupied.”

  “That’s not much of a holiday. Why don’t you reconsider spending the afternoon with Cole and his family?”

  Kelly wandered over to the window, eyeing the ominous, black clouds that were massing in the distance. The wind had picked up too, judging by the gyrations of the branches on her blue spruce. “Like I told you Sunday night, Cole wasn’t all that enthusiastic about the idea. But Christmas sounds promising.” A smile tugged at her lips.

  “Hold that thought. Listen, Shaun’s giving me the high sign, so I guess the kids are in the car. And he wants to try and get ahead of the storm.”

  “I don’t blame him.” She checked the threatening sky again. “It looks like we might be in for our first taste of winter. Have a safe trip and . . .” She stopped speaking as her lights flickered and went off.

  “Kelly? What’s wrong?”

  “I just lost power. It happens all the time in storms.”

  “Hmm. Ours i
s still on. I hope it’s okay at your dad’s too, or you’ll end up cleaning by candlelight.”

  “His house is on a different grid. It never loses power. That’s why I stayed with him a few years ago when we had the ice storm that knocked out half the city, remember?”

  “Yeah. Maybe you ought to spend the night there again. The temperature’s supposed to drop, and your house could get chilly if the blower’s off on your furnace.”

  “Not a bad idea.” She heard Shaun call again in the background. “Listen, go ahead and get rolling. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. Next week I want a full report.”

  “Sixteen people in a moderate-sized house, seven of them under the age of ten, for four days. And I don’t even like turkey. It ought to be loads of fun.”

  At her friend’s glum tone, Kelly grinned. “Look at it as an opportunity to bond with the in-laws.”

  “If we don’t kill each other first.”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s only until Sunday, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And the cousins will have a blast.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  As they said their good-byes and Kelly put the phone back in its stand, a gust of wind rattled the window. With the sky darkening, the house was already growing dim, and she didn’t relish spending the night in absolute darkness huddled under three blankets.

  Brushes still in hand, she dropped to her knees and groped around under the sink until her fingers closed over a flashlight. Then she descended the basement stairs to take care of her brushes, propping the light on a shelf beside the utility sink as she worked. She hadn’t slept at her dad’s house since that crippling ice storm, but maybe it would be beneficial to return to her childhood home for one last overnight visit. To fall asleep in the place that had always been a sheltering haven from storms of every kind. The place where she’d always felt loved. Protected. Safe.

  Except that had all been an illusion. In the end, someone had not only gotten in but flawlessly masked a murder as suicide. Someone on Rossi’s payroll. There was no question in her mind about that. Or Cole’s. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be making this trip to Buffalo.