Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) Page 21

  And that same someone had gone after her once too.

  She stared down at the red paint staining her fingers as she cleaned the brush she’d used for the ladybug in her illustration. A shiver ran through her.

  That person was still on the loose.

  But Cole was on his trail, and she had absolute confidence in the handsome detective who was fast becoming an integral part of her life.

  In the meantime, though, she’d use extra caution, as Cole was always reminding her to do. And her childhood home was far more secure than hers, despite the new locks she’d had installed. Whoever had targeted her father had to have gotten in when the security system was off, either a caller her dad had let in himself or an intruder who’d perhaps come in through an open window. But she’d arm it tonight and she didn’t intend to open any windows or answer the door, no matter who might come calling.

  Giving her fingers a final rinse, she examined them. No trace of red remained. Satisfied with her cleanup and her security plan, she gathered up the brushes and the flashlight and started back up the stairs to pack a bag for the night.

  Confident that in her father’s house, she’d be safe.

  17

  Stifling a yawn, Cole exited the jetway, stepped out of the path of the disembarking passengers at Buffalo Niagara International Airport, and twisted his wrist to check the time. Four-ten a.m. Two hours behind schedule, thanks to weather delays.

  There’d be no sleep this night.

  But he didn’t intend to let fatigue throw him off his game. Unless they came up with some solid evidence linking Rossi to the crime, they were only going to get this one shot at the Mafia honcho.

  Mitch appeared among the hoard of zombie-like travelers shuffling out of the jetway, looking disgustingly well-rested for someone who’d sat in coach for most of the night.

  “You must have caught some shut-eye.” Cole picked up his small carry-on and squinted at his colleague as the man joined him.

  “Uh-huh. From wheels-up to wheels-down.” Mitch grinned. “SEALs learn to sleep anywhere, anytime.”

  “Lucky you.” Cole doubted he’d dozed off for more than two or three ten-minute stretches. He’d been crammed into the window seat on the cramped commuter plane, beside an overweight man who’d snored during the entire trip. “I need coffee.”

  “I’m with you.” Mitch surveyed a shuttered Starbucks outlet two gates down. “But we’ll have to get some en route. This whole place is shut down for the night.”

  “You’d think they’d have longer hours during peak travel times. At least the car rental place extended its hours for the holiday—I checked.” Cole continued toward the terminal, casting a disgruntled glance at the dark coffee shop as Mitch fell in beside him. “Since sleeping on the plane wasn’t an option for some of us, I reviewed the background material on Rossi again, looking for angles. The FBI guy I talked to in the Buffalo office doesn’t think there’s been any contact between him and his son since he’s been released. Sounds like the son doesn’t want anything to do with the Rossi dynasty. That has to rankle his old man.”

  “How does that help us?”

  Cole checked the arrows on the overhead sign and stepped onto the escalator that led to the car rental kiosks. “It could be a trigger point. I doubt Rossi will expect us to bring up his family—but if we’re not getting the answers we need, introducing his relationship with his son could throw him off balance. Cause him to make a slip.”

  Skepticism narrowed Mitch’s eyes. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. His attorney isn’t going to let him say anything incriminating.”

  Cole shrugged. “People can make mistakes—even if they’ve been well-coached. You never know when some question will hit a sensitive spot and yield a lot more information than you expect—either in words or body language.” He gestured to the left as they neared the bottom of the escalator. “There’s our car place. You want to drive until we get some coffee?”

  “Sure. We should clean up a little too.” Mitch straightened his tie and ran his hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “I need a shave. And you need . . .” He inspected Cole. “Something. A fresh shirt, maybe. You could also use some of that stuff Alison has to disguise shadows under her eyes.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Cole got off the escalator and set off toward the car rental counter, leaving Mitch to catch up. He knew he looked scruffy, and he’d freshen up before they saw Rossi. But as long as his mind was sharp, he really didn’t care what the former mob boss thought of his appearance. He wasn’t here to impress the man.

  He was here to dig for answers.

  And before he boarded the return flight later today, he intended to do everything in his power to get them.

  Alan killed the lights on his car two blocks from John Warren’s house as he drove through the silent night. Not that the precaution was necessary. The streets were deserted at three-thirty in the morning. But he hated taking unnecessary risks.

  Like this whole operation.

  He flexed his fingers on the wheel and frowned. Rossi should have followed his advice and let this problem die a natural death—as it would have. But he was used to calling the shots. Used to people jumping when he barked commands. Used to exacting revenge when they didn’t.

  And after his role in delivering that revenge to John Warren, Alan knew firsthand what it looked like.

  He swallowed past the sudden, acrid taste of fear. The very fear that had driven him here tonight, despite the risk, to plant a letter he hoped would wrap up the Warren case once and for all.

  The small apartment complex he’d scouted out Monday night while he’d been retrieving the note at the drop location came into sight, and he pulled into the parking lot. There had been plenty of open spots then, and there were more now. A lot of people must already have left for the holiday.

  Choosing one at the far end, he angled in, then pulled a knit hat low over his forehead and tugged on a pair of gloves. He scanned the area to confirm he was alone, then exited the car and locked it manually to avoid the audible click of the automatic mechanism. He’d taped the trunk light earlier in the day, so there was no illuminating glow when he opened the lid to retrieve the backpack that contained everything he needed. The letter, encased in a protective plastic sleeve. Night-vision goggles. A length of sturdy rope to toss over a branch on the tree. Latex gloves. A hammer to break the window.

  He was set.

  And if all went smoothly, he’d be home in time to grab a little more shut-eye before he had to show up at headquarters to update his boss on the double homicide investigation prior to Sarge’s departure for the holiday.

  Then it was just a matter of waiting for Kelly to discover the “storm” damage and find the note.

  After that happened, the Warren case could be put to rest once and for all. It would be difficult to refute a suicide note in the man’s own hand. The heat would be off Rossi. The man would send him his final payment, and he could start fresh with Cindy—a reformed gambler, debt-free, with a bright future waiting for him.

  Thanksgiving this year would be sweet.

  What was that noise?

  Kelly opened her eyes and stared at the dark ceiling in her childhood bedroom. All was silent now. But hadn’t she heard a beep or two? The kind made by a microwave or a smoke alarm when the batteries needed changing.

  Or a security system being armed or disarmed.

  A quiver of fear snaked up her spine, and she bunched the blanket in her fists.

  Breathe, Kelly.

  She inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Repeated the process, listening.

  There were no more beeps. Nor was there any other sound, except the wind whistling around the corner of the house and the thrashing of the trees.

  She wrinkled her brow. Had she dreamed the noise? Or heard a sound outside, perhaps? A garbage truck backing up, with its distinctive, piercing warning beep? She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Three forty-five. No one, including trash collectors, should be out and
about in the neighborhood making noise at this hour. Especially in a storm.

  Or the noise might have been some sound idiosyncratic to her father’s house. All houses made unique sounds at night, and it had been a while since she’d spent a . . .

  A floorboard squeaked.

  The breath lodged in her throat, and her fingers clenched as she tried to quell her rising panic. There was probably a very simple explanation for that noise too. Wood contracted and expanded in heat and cold. She’d set the heat lower before going to bed. Maybe it was the flooring adjusting to the change in temperature.

  Or an intruder.

  No. That was impossible. She’d set the alarm when she went to bed. No one knew the code except her. The realtor did have a separate access code, one Kelly had programmed just for her. But Denise wouldn’t be prowling around the house in the middle of the night, nor would she have given her code to anyone. The noise had to be . . .

  Another creak echoed in the quiet house.

  The breath whooshed out of her lungs.

  Someone was in the house!

  Heart hammering, she eased the covers back and swung her feet to the floor. Too bad her cell phone had died this afternoon and was stuck in the charger in the kitchen, where she’d inadvertently left it when she went to bed. As for a weapon—a quick scan confirmed there was nothing more lethal in her old bedroom than a college art show trophy. At least it was handy—and heavy.

  She tiptoed across the room, praying her unsteady legs would support her, and retrieved it from among the others on the shelf her father had built for her twenty years ago. Turning it upside down so the solid wood base was on top, she gripped it with both hands, inched toward the door, and peeked into the dim hall, illuminated only by a night-light.

  Empty.

  She waited for another noise. One that would help her pinpoint the location of the intruder.

  It came ten seconds later. The muted sound of a zipper. From her father’s study.

  Okay. Decision time. She could try and slip past the study without being spotted, get the phone out of the charger, and dial 911. Or she could hide in a closet with her weapon and hope the intruder wouldn’t search the house.

  But if this person had had anything to do with her father’s death, she couldn’t let him get away again.

  Decision made. She had to try and reach the phone.

  Tightening her grip on the trophy, she crept down the hall.

  Three steps later, the sudden snap of rubber echoed in the quiet house. She froze. A few seconds later, the sound was repeated.

  What was that all about?

  She edged to the study door and peeked around. A black-clothed figure was crouched near the desk, rummaging through a bag on the floor. A man, based on his size.

  Kelly tried to keep breathing, but she could only manage shallow gasps. Knowing an intruder was in the house was one thing. Seeing him mere feet away was another. At least his back was to her, and he was intent on his task.

  This was her chance to pass the door unnoticed.

  With a silent prayer for courage, she crept past the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

  Two steps past the door, however, a floorboard under the carpet protested.

  She heard a sudden movement in the study and swung around, trophy raised.

  The intruder emerged. “What the . . .”

  His startled exclamation registered at some peripheral level, but all of her focus was on his face. Or what should have been his face. Instead, some sort of binocular-type contraption was protruding from his eyes, held in place with a piece of headgear anchored by a chin guard.

  He looked like a creature from a science fiction movie.

  And he was a lot bigger than he’d appeared when he’d been hunkered down in the study.

  But whoever he was—whatever he was—he represented a serious threat.

  Raising the trophy, she prepared to smash it over his head.

  Unfortunately, her delay had cost her the element of surprise. As she swung the trophy down with all her strength, he sidestepped and lunged at her. She missed his head, but the walnut base did connect with his shoulder.

  Muttering an oath, he grabbed her wrist in a vise-like grip with one hand and yanked the trophy out of her grasp with the other.

  Adrenaline surging, she kicked at his legs and clawed at his face with her free hand, all the while trying to twist free. From his grunts, she knew a few of her blows connected. But she was no match for his muscular strength. The most effective thing she managed to do was hook her fingers into his headgear and jerk on it. He tried to elbow her, but she kept on jerking, hoping that would distract him enough to allow her to kick him in some vital place—and give her a chance to grab a lamp in the living room so she could smash something more substantial over his head.

  Instead, though, her tugging loosened the headgear. The next thing she knew, the binocular-like appendage fell away—and she found herself staring into a familiar face, inches away.

  “Detective Carlson?” Her words came out whispered. Incredulous.

  Panic flared in his eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Tightened his grip on her arm. Spat out an expletive.

  Still reeling from shock, she had no time to react when he lifted his hand. But in the instant before his fist smashed into her jaw and her legs crumpled, she knew she’d found her father’s killer.

  And that she could very well become his next victim.

  As Kelly collapsed at his feet, Alan massaged his knuckles and fought back the crushing panic paralyzing his lungs.

  Kelly wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was supposed to be here. Running into someone inside the house hadn’t even been a risk he’d factored into the equation. He had no Plan B for this scenario.

  But he had to come up with one.

  Fast.

  Because it wouldn’t take Warren’s daughter long to recover from that clip on the jaw.

  Alan stepped over her prone body and paced the length of the small hall, keeping one eye on her for any sign of returning consciousness. Kelly Warren had been a problem from day one. She’d fought him every step of the way on his suicide conclusion, then reappeared with that stupid tulip note. She’d pushed, prodded, and persevered until she’d riled a mob boss—and put not only his future, but his neck, on the line.

  And now that Little Miss Buttinski had pulled off his night-vision goggles and recognized him, he had a huge complication. If she hadn’t done that, he could have shoved her aside and disappeared, a shadowy intruder melting into the mist. He’d have gone home and figured out some other plan to get the letter into her hands.

  But that was no longer an option.

  Now, she had to be silenced.

  He stopped beside her, fists clenched, hate churning in his gut as he looked down. The peanut incident had already raised suspicions. A second “accident” would too. And considering Taylor’s personal interest in this case, he would dig deep, searching for proof of foul play.

  Alan nudged Kelly none-too-gently with his toe. She was still limp as a dishrag. Good. He needed some quiet time to work out the details of an accident that would be so plausible and so clean no one—not even Romeo Taylor—would be able to find a single hole.

  And before he left this house, he’d also plant the letter. No need to break the window now, though. He’d just slide the letter behind the desk for someone to find while the house was being cleaned out following the tragic deaths of both father and daughter. When that happened, he’d point out that the window had been open the night of Warren’s death and suggest the letter had blown behind the desk. Since Kelly wouldn’t be around to say if she’d searched there, everyone would assume she’d missed it. And the Crime Scene Unit wouldn’t have pulled furniture out from walls in the man’s office when the death was obviously a suicide.

  Okay. That was reasonable. It would work.

  Now he had to come up with a plan to dispose of Kelly.

  He started to pace again. He’
d done a lot of research on her and her father over the course of the past few months, and even more on her after the tulip note arrived. Including surveillance. That’s what had given him the information he’d needed to plan the coffee shop incident so perfectly. That, and the intel he’d gotten during their conversations after her father’s death. He knew her habits, her allergies, her job . . .

  Alan stopped.

  Her job.

  A slow smile chased away his frown as an idea began to gel. A brilliant idea. A perfect synergy between what he knew about her and his own expertise.

  It would take planning, though, and careful timing. He needed to think this through thoroughly. Work it out step by step. The next couple of hours would be crucial, and he didn’t like being rushed. But he could pull this off. He was obsessive about details. He wouldn’t miss anything.

  And by the time Thanksgiving morning dawned, Kelly Warren and her father would be reunited—if the faith that was so important to her was right, and there was such a thing as heaven.

  A happy ending. Nice. He liked that spin.

  After one more toe nudge, he headed to the linen closet at the end of the hall to gather up what he needed for phase one of his plan.

  “Feeling more awake now?” Mitch grinned at Cole across the table in the all-night diner they’d stumbled upon as they left the airport.

  “Not much. I need some of that high-octane stuff we have at work. Or the sludge Alison brews.”

  “Maybe some food would help.”

  “At four in the morning?”

  “It’s almost five.”

  “Eastern time. I’m still on central.”

  “Mind if I order a burger and some fries?”

  “At four in the morning?” Cole suddenly felt queasy.

  “You already said that.” Mitch grinned and signaled to the waitress. “But remember—unlike you and Jake, I drink Alison’s coffee.”