A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) (22 page)

Which meant Lawrence knew exactly how many diamonds were in that black velvet pouch. Not bowing to that temptation may have saved me from being fitted with a pair of cement shoes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Zack.

I squeezed his hand and said, “I’ll tell you later.”

Lawrence left shortly after making his confession. As soon as Zack closed the front door behind him, he laced his fingers through mine and quickly marched me to the bedroom. However, I knew romance was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. He closed the bedroom door and spun me around to face him. “What happened at the condo this evening?”

I retrieved my purse from where I’d tossed it on the bed earlier and dug out my phone. After accessing the photos, I held up the phone to him and swiped across the passport photos. “This is part of Lawrence’s insurance policy.”

“How did you get these?”

I explained my lock-picking escapade. “The lock box also contained a few million dollars worth of diamonds—the temptation Lawrence mentioned—and a gun that makes yours look like a water pistol.”

“How did Lawrence find out that you’d broken into the lock box?”

I frowned. “When the urge to snoop overtook me, I didn’t realize that spying takes a certain amount of pre-planning. I made a couple of novice mistakes.” I explained how I hadn’t been able to lock the box afterwards and had forgotten that I left the paper clips I’d formed into picking tools on the desk.

Zack combed his fingers through his hair and huffed out a breath of frustration. “Look, I don’t know exactly what Lawrence is mixed up in, if anything, but I can’t help thinking this visit was more than a way of explaining what you discovered.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it may also have been a warning to you to stop snooping around his life.”

“Because he has connections and has ways of getting things done?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you believe his story about Nevada?”

“It makes sense, but there are easy enough ways to check it out.”

“I discovered something else. Lawrence may not be aware that I saw these since I was able to lock the file cabinet.” I scrolled to the bank statements. “Benini wasn’t the only family member in the mob. These are but a few of the dozens of bank accounts, all from different banks and in the names of different companies. I didn’t have time to photograph all of them.”

Zack stared at the last image on the phone and whistled under his breath. “I think you discovered what Lawrence is mixed up in. He’s laundering money for the mob.”

“That was my guess. Possibly in exchange for those new identities he secured for himself and Cynthia.”

“That’s certainly a logical assumption.”

“I figured as much. After all, how often does the mob do a favor for someone without expecting something in return?”

Zack didn’t have to say anything. We both knew the answer to that question was
never
.

SEVENTEEN

Mr. Sandman decided to skip my house that night. I lay awake for hours, sick with worry over my mother. Part of me wanted to tell her both what I’d learned and what I suspected about her new husband, but when I played out every possible conversation in my head, each scenario concluded in ways I’d rather not imagine. Unfortunately those scenarios still succeeded in etching themselves into my brain.

Mama was definitely better off living in blissful ignorance. Lawrence had fooled quite a few people for a very long time. Better that Mama never learned she could now add Mafia Princess as another royal connection on her family tree.

Zack slept peacefully beside me. Figuring at least one of us should be able to get some shuteye, I fought the urge to toss and turn to avoid waking him. I forced my body to remain perfectly still and tried first to count sheep, then meditate myself to sleep. Neither worked. My brain refused to power down.

Still wide-awake at three in the morning, I slipped out of bed and silently made my way into the kitchen. After warming a cup of milk, I curled up on the couch in the den. As I sipped the warm milk, I surfed the TV for some mindless program that might bore me enough to put me to sleep.

Instead, I flipped from a cat food commercial to
The Godfather
just as Moe Greene took a bullet to his eye. I stared at the television as my sleep-deprived brain began playing tricks on me, suddenly morphing Moe Greene on a massage table in Las Vegas to Betty Bentworth sitting on her couch in Westfield. Both killed in much the same way and neither saw it coming.

“Can’t sleep?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin as the remote flew from my hand and the mug toppled onto my lap. My bathrobe took on the role of sponge, quickly sucking up the remaining milk. Luckily, I’d drained all but an ounce or two before Zack nearly gave me a heart attack.

Once my heart started pumping again, I slipped out of the wet robe and scowled at him. “Jeez! You scared the crap out of me.”

He stepped into the den, stooped to pick up the remote, and glanced at the TV before clicking it off. “Me? You’re the one watching Michael Corleone eliminate his competition.” He pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around me.

“I was searching for something mind-numbing to help me sleep.”

“Multiple Mafia executions? Poor choice.”

“I’ll say.” But after making the analogy between Moe Greene’s and Betty Bentworth’s murders, something now niggled at the edges of my brain. I frowned as I searched for the puzzle pieces just beyond my grasp.

Then it hit me. “This can’t be coincidence.”

“What?”

“All the murders.”

“
The Godfather
murders?”

I shook my head. “No, the ones over the last week. There
is
a connection that links them. Pablo. Betty. Carmen.” My synapses were firing so fast and furiously in my head, I felt like my brain could supply power to half of New Jersey.

Zack lowered himself onto the coffee table in front of the sofa. Our knees touching, he reached for my hands and clasped them in his. A concerned look creased his brow. “Want to back up and clue me in as to what’s spinning around in that brain of yours?”

“While you were off doing your spy thing in Greece—”

“You mean my photojournalism assignment in Amphipolis?”

I waved away the difference. “Whatever.” We’d have to agree to disagree on that until Zack chose to come clean with me. “Anyway, Mama invited Ira and his kids here for dinner. During the meal, Ira received a phone call from one of the detectives investigating Cynthia’s death. Afterwards he blurted out in front of his kids the manner in which Pablo was killed, and Isaac said it was just like a scene from
Breaking Bad
.”

“Ira let his kids watch
Breaking Bad
?” Zack shook his head. “Talk about poor parenting skills.”

“I know, but forget about Ira for now. Pablo was strangled with a bicycle lock, certainly not a common murder weapon. Isaac said someone on
Breaking Bad
was killed the same way. And when we were at Carmen’s house, Lupe said her mother was stabbed while taking a shower—”

“Like the scene in
Psycho
.”

“Exactly. And Betty’s murder—”

“Is similar to the killing of Moe Greene in
The Godfather
. I have to agree with you, this seems awfully coincidental, but it could be just that, nothing more than a weird coincidence.”

“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced. “At first I thought Spader was crazy when he kept asking me if I’d pissed anyone off recently, but maybe he’s not as off-base as I thought. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it appears I’m the connection that ties all of these murders together.”

“But you never met Pablo. How would his death have anything to do with Betty and Carmen? They occurred clear across the state.”

I shook my head. “Not just Pablo’s death. Maybe Cynthia’s death as well.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Humor me. Can you think of any movie or TV episode where a murder is made to appear like a drug overdose?”

Zack pondered for a moment. “I can think of a couple of older movies—
Michael Clayton
and
The Juror
. No recent ones come to mind—at least none I’ve seen.”

“I know this sounds crazy, but what if Spader is wrong about Carmen and Betty being murdered by two separate killers? What if it was the same person using different methods to throw off the police?”

“That’s certainly possible, but how do the murders of Carmen and Betty have anything to do with Cynthia and Pablo? Other than you knowing three of the four victims, what could possibly tie them together?”

I fought without success to stifle a yawn. “I don’t know, but maybe Detective Spader needs to have a conversation with the homicide detectives investigating Cynthia’s and Pablo’s deaths in Hunterdon and Camden Counties.”

Zack pulled me to my feet. “Call him tomorrow to discuss your theory. For now I’m taking you back to bed.”

~*~

The next morning, after a quick stop in the break room to grab a cup of coffee and an oatmeal apple muffin, I placed a call to Detective Spader. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Pollack?” he asked after coming on the line.

“I need to speak with you about Carmen’s and Betty’s murders.”

He expelled a sigh of annoyance. “You know I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing cases with you.”

“Even if it might lead to an arrest?”

That caught his attention. “Is there something you haven’t shared with me? I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that withholding evidence is a criminal offense.”

“I haven’t withheld anything from you, Detective; I just figured this out last night.”

“Figured what out?”

“I think you’re dealing with one killer.”

“How did—” He stopped himself short. Then he said, “Not possible. The M.O.’s are completely different. You’re wasting my time.”

“We really need to talk, Detective. If I’m right, the killer is responsible for two more murders.”

“What murders?”

“One in Hunterdon County about three weeks ago and another in Camden County two weeks later.”

He let loose a not so mild expletive. “Where are you, Mrs. Pollack?”

“At my office.”

“Give me the address. I’m on my way.”

For someone who moments earlier complained I was wasting his time, Spader had certainly executed a lightning speed about-face. I mulled that bit of information over as I took another bite of muffin.

“Skip breakfast again?” asked Cloris, popping into my cubicle.

I nodded, my mouth full of muffin, then washed it down with a swig of coffee before speaking. “I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. It was either breakfast or arriving at work on time. I figured I could count on you to provide me with morning sustenance.”

“Rough night?”

“I’m operating on less than three hours sleep.” I then proceeded to tell her everything that had transpired since I left work yesterday. I finished by adding, “Spader’s on his way over here now.”

Cloris stared wide-eyed at me, shaking her head. “Your life is more far-fetched than some zany mystery novel. Mafia, murders, and money laundering—not to mention a swatting incident—same-old/same-old in the everyday life of
American Woman’s
intrepid crafts editor sleuth. Maybe I should start taking notes. I could be the next Janet Evanovich.”

“Don’t forget the communist mother-in-law and the Shakespeare-quoting parrot.”

Cloris rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid! How could I possibly forget Lucille and Ralph?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “If it weren’t my own life, I wouldn’t believe it, either.”

“I’m serious about the book. If you don’t want to write one, I will.”

I waved Cloris away. “Have at it. I don’t have time for breakfast most days. When would I find time to write a book?”

~*~

Forty-five minutes later the receptionist called to say Detective Spader had arrived. I met him in the lobby and led him upstairs to the conference room where we could talk without interruption.

He wedged himself into one of the butternut faux-leather upholstered chairs lining our well-worn walnut conference table. Even though our building is new, except for the custom designed fourth floor offices of the bigwigs, the Trimedia bean counters had saved a bundle by moving all our crappy old furniture from lower Manhattan to our new digs in the middle of a Morris County cornfield.

“So why am I here, Mrs. Pollack? What’s this about other murders?”

Where to begin?
I inhaled deeply, expelling the air slowly while I paced back and forth to gather my thoughts. “Bear with me, Detective. This is going to take some explaining.” I then began to tell him about Cynthia’s body being found in the canal and Pablo turning up dead in Camden.

He looked up from his notepad and asked, “What’s your connection to these murders?”

“Cynthia was married to my husband’s half-brother Ira. Her father married my mother. You’ve seen them. They arrived at my house the night I discovered Betty’s body.”