Connor's Gamble (24 page)

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Alyssa nodded and whispered, “I'm ready.”

“Excellent.  Let's get this party started.”

Chapter Thirty

Sunday

C
onnor pulled off the Blues Highway at the first exit outside the city limits north of Baton Rouge.  He pulled into a fast food restaurant parking lot and sat with the engine idling, afraid if he turned it off he'd never get it started again.  Hot-wiring a car—not on the list of qualifications needed for being a firefighter.  Slumped in the seat, he stretched within the confines of the car.  Thankfully he'd stolen a behemoth with loads of space.  A quick glance at the gas gauge, yep, riding on fumes.  Another quick stop and he pumped gas into the still running car.  Dangerous, yes, but what option did he have?

“Call, dammit.”  His muttered curse filled the air as he stood outside the open driver's side door.  The cell phone mocked him from its place on the front seat, the lights off.  No text, no ring—nothing.  Maybe he should call Remy, see how far away he was.  He decided against it, knew Remy would call him the minute he hit the city.

Patience may be a virtue, he thought, but it sure as hell isn't one of mine.  Why don't they call, text, do something?

As if hearing his silent plea, the lights on his cell phone lit as the text message alert chirped once, followed almost immediately by the ring tone.  He snatched it off the seat and hit the button, answering before the first ring had time to end.

“Connor Scott.”

“Connor?”  Alyssa's hushed tones, barely above a strained whisper, sounded faintly in his ear.

“Lyssa, honey, where are you?  Are you all right?”  Connor kept his voice calm but the effort it took had his fist clenched, rage racing through him with such force he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs.  He needed calm because—she needed him.

“You should have just received a text message.  You are to follow the instructions exactly.  Connor, she's Julie Jamison.  Bethany is—”

A roar of outrage sounded over the phone before the line went dead.

“Lyssa!  Answer me!” he screamed, oblivious to the people who stood in the open doorway of the gas station.  The phone dropped from his numbed hand, falling onto the ground at his feet.  Connor's knees buckled and he slid down the side of the car, landing hard on the asphalt with a resounding thud.  With his back pressed against the rear door frame, his head rested against his folded arms braced on his knees as his whole body shook, rocking back and forth.

Julie Jamison.  How did he know that name?  The first Jamison to pop into his head was Cap, but Cap was dead, had been for ten years.  Jamison . . . Jamison.  Wait a minute, Cap had a daughter.  He'd met her once at the station.  Sullen Goth chick, a teenager.  Straggly dyed black hair, heavy eyeliner, black lipstick.  Dressed in all dark clothes. 
Crap, what was her name?  Had it been Julie?
  He'd been in the hospital for Cap's funeral, so he hadn't been allowed to attend.  Heard she'd gone to live with some distant relative.  Not sure though, ten years was a long time to try to remember somebody he'd barely spoken two words to.

Alyssa started to say something about Bethany.  What, damn it?  What about Bethany?  Did she know about what happened to his gran?

Gotta call Remy.  Get Max checking on Julie Jamison.  If she was Caps' daughter, things were starting to make a whole lot of sense. 
It was a lead, granted, not much of a lead but more than he'd had.

Wait, she said they'd sent a text.  There wasn't any text message.  He double-checked.  He'd heard the alert, but it wasn't there.  Nothing.

He picked himself up from the hard ground before flopping onto the car seat and hit Remy's speed dial number the second his hand connected with the phone.

“Alyssa called.”  Those were the first words he spoke when Remy answered.

“She okay?”

“Don't know.  She tried to warn me but she got cut off.”

“Oh, crap. That doesn't sound good.  How much did you get from her?”  Connor heard the undercurrent of concern lacing Remy's words.

“Her exact words were—Connor, its Julie Jamison.  She started to say something about Bethany and the line went dead.”

“Jamison?  Oh, hell no!”

“What, do you know her?”

Remy didn't answer and Connor knew whatever it was, it couldn't be good news.

“Do you know her, Connor?  Think really hard.”  Remy's question just raised more questions for Connor.

“The only Jamison I remember is Cap.  He had a daughter, but I don't remember her name.  Could've been Julie.  I'm not sure.  It's been a lot of years.”  Connor's clipped tone filled the silent interior of the car and he slapped his fist on the steering wheel.  Frustration with a giant helping of anger settled into its regular slot in the pit of his stomach, familiar and unwelcome at the same time.

“Lemme call Max, get him and Theresa digging into this woman.  Bet they'll come up with something before I even catch up with you.”  Remy's reassurance did little to alleviate the chainsaw gnawing at the pit of Connor's stomach.

“Hang in there, Connor.  We'll find Alyssa before you know it and you can tell her you love her.  You'll work it out.  I have faith in you, my friend.”

“Thanks, Remy.  I . . .”  The words froze in Connor's throat, emotion choking him.  “Thanks.”

He hung up, knowing Remy's brother, Max, would find everything there was to be found on Julie Jamison ASAP.  One of the good guys, relentless when he worked a case, Max dug with a fervor, unbending and unwavering until he got the answers he needed.  That made him the man to turn to now with Alyssa's safety, maybe her life, hanging in the balance.

Parked at the gas station, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching his cell phone, waiting for the damnable text, Connor did something he hadn't done in a very long time.  He prayed.

Chapter Thirty-One

Sunday

D
etective Taglier stood as Esther Shapiro was ushered into the interrogation room by a NOPD uniformed officer.  Her no nonsense, formal bearing was in full force, her spine ramrod straight, though she glared down her Roman nose with disdain at the well-worn carpet and battered furniture.  She'd have squashed him underneath her heel in a heartbeat if he'd been a bug and wouldn't have a moment's remorse in doing it either.

She's one cool customer.  Wonder how long it'll take to break her?

“Mrs. Shapiro, please, have a seat.”

She did, the rod straight spine barely touching the chair back.  Taglier shook his head, ready to dig right into the questions.  He wanted this whole thing over and done with.  Waving his hand, he indicated the video camera.

“For you protection, Mrs. Shapiro, this interview is being videotaped.  You are aware you may have an attorney present while we talk, are you not?”

At her nodded assent, he began.  “I've been talking to Mrs. Trudy Miller—”

“She's a notorious liar.  You ask anybody from Whispering Pines—they'll tell you.”  The words were clipped and precise, a heavy New Jersey accent coloring her speech.  “The woman couldn't talk a straight line if you gave her a ruler.  Whatever she told you, trust me, it's either a lie or a total exaggeration.”

Wow, way to throw your roommate under the bus, lady.  Some friend you are.

“That's interesting.  She actually sang your praises, Mrs. Shapiro, told me you are like a sister to her.”

“Humpf.”  She ratcheted her chin higher, her bold stare meant to intimidate.  It didn't work.  Better men than her had tried and failed.  Taglier didn’t back down or run from a challenge and Esther Shapiro wasn't a challenge.  Hell, she was barely a blip on his radar.

“Anyway, I needed to clarify a few things from your earlier statement, Mrs. Shapiro.”

Taglier made a show of pulling out his tattered spiral notebook with his stubby pencil.  For whatever reason, people seemed less concerned when they saw the little dollar-store pad and not any official-looking paperwork.  Didn't matter to him one way or another. He kept meticulous notes; never missed a thing.

“You stated before that you and Mrs. Trudy Miller visited with the deceased, Mrs. Abigail Spencer, prior to her death?”

Esther heaved out an exasperated sigh, heavy on the melodrama.  “I told you, Detective Taglier, when you questioned me in Alabama. Yes, we saw Abby the night before her body was found.  We both went in to see her at the same time and we both left at the same time.  And, yes, she was very much alive when we finished our visit.”

“Was your visit cordial?”  If possible her spine straightened even stiffer at his question.  Huh, look at that, he thought.

“What kind of question is that, detective?  Of course our visit was cordial.  We had a nice chat after dinner, talked about the accident and how it wouldn't keep us off the road for too long.  This trip is the highlight of our year.  We couldn't wait for the replacement bus to get there so we'd be on our way to the casinos.”

“So, there wasn't any animosity amongst any of you, no hard feelings?  Nobody mad at anybody?”

“Most certainly not.”

“Okay, Mrs. Shapiro.”  He leaned forward, glaring at her.  “I'm going to be blunt.  Did you push Mrs. Abigail Spencer, causing her to lose her balance, fall, and hit her head?”  Taglier slammed the notebook onto the table, deliberately raising his voice louder, barking his words through clenched teeth.  It was a tactic he used often with good results.  He watched for any telltale signs of lying.  Most people have a tell, a habit or maybe a nervous tic, when they're lying.  You just need to read their body language well enough to see it.

With Esther Shapiro it was her solid steel backbone.  The more nervous she got, the stiffer her spine.  Right now she was as malleable as a statue and just as flexible.  “No.  Why ever would you ask something so preposterous?  Wait a minute . . . did Trudy tell you I pushed Abby?”

Taglier smiled widely, displaying all the warmth of a shark ready to snatch up his prey.  He wasn't a heartless man, but he also wasn't going to let this woman walk away Scott free without consequences for her actions.

The door to the interrogation room burst inward, slamming against the wall a forceful shove.

“Esther Shapiro, don't you lie to this policeman!  You did push Abby.  You did!”

“Shut up, you stupid cow.”

Trudy Miller sucked in an outraged gasp at Esther's words.  Taglier couldn't decide whether she'd burst into tears or claw Mrs. Shapiro's eyes out.  Either way, now they were finally getting somewhere.  He'd had an officer escort Trudy Miller back into the interrogation room.  He'd heard them outside the door, and timed his question so she'd hear Mrs. Shapiro's answer which totally conflicted with her own.

“Detective, Esther and Abby were fighting, like I told you.  Abby wanted in on our plans at the blackjack table and Esther refused.”

“Shut up, Trudy, you're ruining everything.”

“No, Esther, it's over.  Tell him the truth, all of it.”  Trudy slumped down into Taglier's empty chair across from Mrs. Shapiro after he moved to stand at the end of the table, close enough to intervene if things got even uglier.

He watched as Esther Shapiro seemed to deflate before his eyes.  Her ramrod stiff spine curved and her shoulders slumped.  Her entire posture spoke of defeat.

“Okay, Trudy.  I'm sorry I called you a cow.  I didn't mean it.  You know that, right?”

“I know.”

Esther drew in a deep breath and turned toward him.  “Detective, I did push Abby.  I didn't mean for her to fall and hit her head, I swear.”  She paused, looking toward Trudy again.  “You told him everything about the casino, I presume?”

At Trudy's nod, Esther continued.  “Abby could be a real bitch sometimes.  Always wanted whatever anybody else had.  It didn't matter what, if she wanted it, she'd find a way to get it.  She found out about my knack with numbers.”

“You mean card counting?”

“Yeah, but it was more than that.  I can almost predict the next card coming up, every single time.  Trudy and I figured it out when we were in Atlantic City last year.  It started out really small.  Just ten or twenty dollar bets at a time and we worked up to fifty.  I can't explain it . . . it seemed so easy.  The numbers just made sense in my head.”  She paused and smiled at Trudy.

“You've been around Trudy.  I'm sure you've noticed she's a bit like a bull in a china shop.”  Taglier winced at the description, but Trudy nodded her head as if she'd heard it a thousand times before.

“Anyway, Trudy works as the distraction, and I watch the dealer and the cards.  People always pay more attention to Trudy, especially when she gets a bit . . . clumsy.”  Esther smiled fondly over at Trudy, reaching across the table to pat her hand.

“It works really well.  Even those plainclothes guys who watch the floor for cheats never notice me.  I'm an old woman playing blackjack.  Win three or four hands, lose a couple, then win a few more. Then we take a break and move to another table and start all over again.”

“Don't people notice you both ending up at the same tables?”

“Oh, no,” Trudy interjected excitedly.  “People always recognize me.  I mean, look at me, I tend to stand out in a crowd.  But, Esther, she can look different when she needs to.”

Esther agreed.  “I go up to our room, change my blouse, change my hair, leave it down if it'd been up earlier, or pile it up if I'd worn it loose.  No one ever caught on.  Trudy'd set up a table, then I'd come over fifteen or twenty minutes later.”

Taglier ran the scene through step-by-step in his head as she spoke.  Unless somebody was specifically looking for it, their plan could work in the short term.  Most people's attention would be focused on Trudy.  Put the two of them in the same room for a few minutes, all eyes would inevitably be drawn to the overweight bumbling woman, not just because of her size but because she had a smiling, sunny disposition.  Mrs. Shapiro blending into the background seemed ideal for their plan.