Now.
Sandy put his right foot on the first step of the staircase, then with infinite caution, began his descent.
63
ALEX CARBINE CALLED LANDI’S RESTAURANT AND ASKED to speak to Jimmy. He waited, then heard Steve Abbott’s voice. “Alex, is there anything I can do for you? I hate to bother Jimmy. He’s feeling awfully down today.”
“I’m sorry about that but I need to talk to him,” Carbine said. “By the way, Steve, has Carlos come to you guys looking for a job?”
“As a matter of fact, he has. Why?”
“Because if he’s still there you can tell him he doesn’t have one here anymore. Now put me through to Jimmy.”
Again he waited. When Jimmy Landi picked up his phone it was clear from his voice that he was under immense strain.
“Jimmy, I can tell something’s wrong. Can I help?”
“No, but thanks.”
“Well, look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve figured out something and wanted to pass it on to you. I understand Carlos is sniffing around for a job from you. Well, listen to me: don’t take him back!”
“I don’t intend to, but why not?” Jimmy responded.
“Because I think he’s on the take somehow. It’s been driving me nuts that Lacey Farrell was tracked down by this killer to where they had her hiding in Minneapolis.”
“Oh, is that where she was?” Jimmy Landi remarked. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Yes, but only her mother knew it. She got Lacey to tell her. And since I was the one who told her to make Lacey tell her where she was living, I feel responsible.”
“That wasn’t too smart of you,” Jimmy Landi said.
“I never pretended to be smart. All I could see was that Mona’s guts were being torn out. Anyway, the night she learned that Lacey was in Minneapolis she bought a copy of the Minneapolis Star Tribune and had it with her at dinner. I saw her slip it back in the bag when I came to the table, but I never asked her about it, and I never saw it again. But here’s what I’m getting at: I noticed that at one point, when Mona was off to the powder room and I was glad-handing a customer, Carlos was over at our table, supposedly straightening our napkins. I saw him move the bag, and it’s entirely possible that he looked inside.”
“It’s just the sort of thing Carlos would do,” Landi replied. “I never liked the guy in the first place.”
“And then he was our waiter again on Friday night when Mona talked about Lacey joining a new health club. One with a squash court. It seems to me more than a coincidence that somebody showed up at that club looking for her a few hours later. You just have to put two and two together, right?”
“Hmmm,” Jimmy murmured, “it sounds like maybe Carlos was working to earn more than a tip Friday night. I gotta go, Alex. Talk to you soon.”
64
ED SLOANE COULD TELL THAT SOMETHING WAS SPOOKING his partner. Even though it was cold in the car, Nick Mars was giving off an acrid odor of perspiration. Shiny droplets of sweat covered the forehead of his babyish face.
The instinct that had never failed him told Sloane that something was going terribly wrong. “I think it’s time we go in and collect Ms. Farrell,” he said.
“Why do that, Ed?” Mars asked, surprised. “We’ll pick her up when she comes out.”
Sloane opened the door of the car and drew his pistol. “Let’s go.”
Lacey wasn’t sure if she actually heard a sound on the staircase. Old houses seem sometimes to have a life of their own. She was aware, however, that the atmosphere in the room had changed, like a thermometer suddenly plum meting. Lottie Hoffman felt it too; Lacey could see it in her eyes.
Later she realized that it was the presence of evil, creeping, insidious, enveloping her, so real it was almost tangible.
She had felt this same chill when she hid in the closet as Curtis Caldwell came down the stairs after killing Isabelle.
Then she heard it again. The faintest of sounds, but still very real. It wasn’t her imagination! She knew that for certain now, and her heartbeat accelerated at the realization. There was someone on the staircase! I’m going to die, she thought.
She saw terror creep into Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes, so she put a warning finger to her own lips, urging her to remain quiet. He was coming down the stairs so slowly, playing cat and mouse with them. Lacey looked around the room— there was only one door, and it opened just next to the stairs. There was no way out. They were trapped!
Her eyes fastened on a glass paperweight on the coffee table. It was about the size of a baseball, and it appeared to be heavy. She couldn’t reach it without getting up, something she was afraid to risk. Instead, she touched Mrs. Hoffman’s hand and pointed to the paperweight.
The staircase became exposed to Lacey’s view halfway down. That’s where he was now. Through the wooden spindles, she could see his one well-polished shoe.
A frail and trembling hand grasped the paperweight and slid it into Lacey’s hand. Lacey stood up, swung her arm back, and, as the assassin she knew as Caldwell came into full view, threw the paperweight with all the strength she could muster, at his chest.
The heavy piece of glass struck him right above the stomach, just as he prepared to move quickly down the remaining steps. The impact caused him to stumble and drop the pistol. Lacey immediately lunged to try to kick it away from his reach, just as Mrs. Hoffman, with faltering steps, made her way to the front door and flung it open. She screamed.
Detective Sloane rushed past her into the entry hall. Just as Savarano’s fingers were closing on the pistol, Sloane lifted his foot and smashed it down on Savarano’s wrist. Behind him, Nick Mars aimed his pistol at Savarano’s head and started to pull the trigger.
“Don’t!” Lacey screamed.
Sloane whirled and slapped his partner’s hand, causing the bullet intended for Savarano’s head to go through his leg instead. He let out a howl of pain.
Dazed, Lacey watched as Sloane handcuffed Isabelle Waring’s murderer, the sound of approaching sirens shrilling outside. Finally she looked down into the eyes that had haunted her these past few months. Ice blue irises, dead black pupils—the eyes of a killer. But suddenly she realized she was seeing something new in them.
Fear.
U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin appeared suddenly, surrounded by his agents. He looked at Sloane, at Lacey, then at Savarano.
“So you beat us to him,” he said, grudging respect evident in his voice. “I was hoping to beat you to him, but no matter—it’s a job well done. Congratulations.”
He leaned over Savarano. “Hi, Sandy,” he said softly. “I’ve been looking for you. I’m preparing a cage that’s got your name on it—the darkest, smallest cell at Marion, the roughest federal prison in the country. Locked down twenty-three hours a day. Solitary, of course. Chances are you won’t like it, but you never know. Some people don’t stay sane long enough in solitary for it even to matter. Anyway, you think about it, Sandy. A cage. Just for you. A tiny, little cage. All your own, for the rest of your life.”
He straightened up and turned to Lacey. “You all right, Miss Farrell?”
She nodded.
“Someone isn’t.” Sloane went over to Nick Mars, whose face was chalk white. He took his pistol, then opened his partner’s jacket and took out his handcuffs. “Stealing evidence is bad enough. Attempted murder is a lot worse. You know what to do, Nick.”
Nick put his hands behind his back and turned. Sloane snapped Nick’s own cuffs on him. “Now they’re really yours, Nick,” he said with a grim smile.
65
JIMMY LANDI DID NOT EMERGE FROM HIS OFFICE ALL afternoon. Steve Abbott looked in on him several times. “Jimmy, you okay?” he asked.
“Never better, Steve,” he said shortly.
“You don’t look it. I wish you’d stop reading Heather’s journal. It’s just getting you down.”
“I wish you’d stop telling me to stop reading it.”
“Touché. I promise I won’t bother yo
u again, but remember this, Jimmy—I’m always here for you.”
“Yes, you are, Steve. I know.”
At five o’clock, Landi received a phone call from Detective Sloane. “Mr. Landi,” he said, “I’m at headquarters. I felt we owed it to you to fill you in. Your ex-wife’s murderer is in custody. Ms. Farrell has positively identified him. He’s also being charged with the death of Max Hoffman. And we may be able to prove that he was the one who ran your daughter’s car off the road, too.”
“Who is he?” Jimmy Landi had the fleeting thought that he wasn’t feeling anything—not surprise, not anger, not even grief.
“Sandy Savarano is his name. He’s a paid hit man. We expect him to cooperate fully in the investigation. He doesn’t want to go to prison.”
“None of them do,” Jimmy said. “Who hired him?”
“We expect to know that very soon. We’re just waiting for Sandy to come to Jesus. Of much less magnitude, by the way, we have a suspect in the theft of your daughter’s journal.”
“Suspect?”
“Yes, in the legal sense, even though he admitted it. But he swears he didn’t take the three unlined pages you thought we lost. I guess your partner was right. We never had them.”
“You never had them,” Jimmy agreed. “I realize that now. My partner seems to have a lot of the answers.”
“Miss Farrell is here making a statement, sir. She’d like to talk to you.”
“Put her on.”
“Mr. Landi,” Lacey said, “I’m awfully glad this is over. It’s been an ordeal for me, and I know it’s been terrible for you as well. Mrs. Max Hoffman is with me. She has something to tell you.”
“Put her on.”
“I saw Heather at Mohonk,” Lottie Hoffman began. “She was with a man, and when I described him to Max, he was so upset. He said the guy was a racketeer, a drug dealer, and that no one suspected him, least of all Heather. She had no idea that...”
Even though she had heard it all before, it was chilling to Lacey to consider the appalling crimes committed after Max Hoffman warned Heather away from the man she was dating.
She listened as Mrs. Hoffman described the man she had seen that day. Clearly it was no one she knew, Lacey thought with relief.
Sloane took the phone from Mrs. Hoffman. “Does the man she described sound like anyone you know, sir?”
He listened for a moment, then turned to Lacey and Mrs. Hoffman. “Mr. Landi would be very appreciative if you’d stop by his office now.”
All Lacey wanted to do was to get home to her own apartment, get in her own Jacuzzi, dress in her own clothes, and go to Kit’s house to see everyone. They were having a late dinner, and Bonnie was staying up for it. “As long as it’s just a few minutes there,” she said.
“That’s all,” Sloane promised. “Then I’ll drive Mrs. Hoffman home.” Sloane was called to the phone as they were leaving the station house. When he returned, he said, “We’re going to have company at Landi’s. Baldwin is on his way.”
The receptionist took them upstairs to where Jimmy was waiting. When Lottie Hoffman admired the handsome furnishings, Jimmy said, “The restaurant used to be half this size. When Heather was a baby this was her room.”
Lacey thought that there was something in Landi’s even, almost indifferent, tone that made her think of an unnaturally calm ocean—one in which an underwater current was threatening to turn into a tidal wave.
“Describe again exactly the man you saw with my daughter, please, Mrs. Hoffman.”
“He was very handsome; he...”
“Wait. I’d like my partner to hear this.” He turned on the intercom. “Steve, got a minute?”
Steve Abbott came into the office smiling. “So, you’re out of your cocoon at last, Jimmy. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”
“Interesting company, Steve. Mrs. Hoffman, what’s wrong?”
Lottie Hoffman was pointing at Abbott. Her face was ghastly white. “You’re the one I saw with Heather. You’re the one Max said was a drug dealer and a racketeer and a thief. You’re the reason I’m alone...”
“What are you talking about?” Abbott said, his brows knitting fiercely, the mask of geniality momentarily fallen from his face. All of a sudden, Lacey thought it was possible to imagine this handsome, debonair man as a killer.
Accompanied by a half dozen agents, U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin came into the room.
“What she is saying, Mr. Abbott, is that you are a murderer, that you ordered her husband killed because he knew too much. He quit working here because he had seen what you were doing and knew his life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel if you knew. You’ve been dropping the old suppliers like Jay Taylor and buying from mob-owned businesses, most of the stuff stolen. You’ve done it in the casino, too. And that’s only one of your activities.
“Max had to tell Heather what you are. And she had to decide whether to let you keep cheating her father or tell him how she found out about you.
“You didn’t take the chance. Savarano told us you called Heather and said Jimmy had had a heart attack and she should get right home. Savarano was waiting for her. When Isabelle Waring wouldn’t stop looking for reasons to prove Heather’s death wasn’t an accident, she became too dangerous.”
“That’s a lie,” Abbott shouted. “Jimmy, I never...”
“Yes, you did,” Jimmy said calmly, “you killed Max Hoffman and you did the same to my daughter’s mother. And to Heather. You killed her. Why did you need to mess with her? You could have had any woman you wanted.” Jimmy’s eyes blazed with anger; his hands formed into giant fists; his cry of agony exploded through the room. “You let my baby burn to death,” he howled. “You... you... .”
He lunged across the desk and wrapped his powerful hands around Abbott’s throat. It took Sloane and the team of agents to pry his fingers loose.
Jimmy’s racking sobs echoed throughout the building as Baldwin took Steve Abbott into custody.
Sandy Savarano had completed his bargaining from his hospital bed.
At eight o’clock, the driver Jay had sent to pick up Lacey at her apartment called to say he was downstairs. Lacey was frantic to see her family, but there was a phone call she still had to make. There was so much to tell Tom, so much to explain. Baldwin, now suddenly her friend and ally, had told her, “You’re out of the loop now. We’ve plea-bargained with Savarano, so we won’t need your testimony to get Abbott. So you’ll be okay. But keep a low profile for a while. Why not take a vacation until things settle down?”
She had replied only half jokingly, “You know I do have an apartment and a job in Minnesota. Maybe I should just go back there.”
She dialed Tom’s number. The now familiar voice sounded strained and anxious. “Hello,” he said.
“Tom?”
A whoop of joy. “Alice, where are you? Are you all right?”
“Never better, Tom. And you?”
“Worried sick! I’ve been going out of my mind since you disappeared.”
“It’s a long story. You’ll hear it all.” She paused. “There’s just one thing. Alice doesn’t live here anymore. Do you think you could possibly get used to calling me Lacey? My name is Lacey Farrell.”
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Mary Higgins Clark, Pretend You Don't See Her
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