Dead Certain (6 page)

CHAPTER
FIVE

Whistling, Vince Giordano unpacked the bags from the local market and put away his purchases. He was filled with a sense of self-satisfaction. Here he was, in the first living space he had ever had all to himself—his prison cell aside, of course. Sure, it was small, but he didn’t need much beyond the few pieces of furniture that had come with the room. All he’d really wanted was a bedroom with a bath. The tiny kitchenette was a bonus. Besides, it wasn’t like this was going to be his permanent home. All he needed right now was a place to hang his hat for a while. Just till he’d done what he had to do. Then he’d be free to go wherever the road took him.

There were things he’d have to take care of before he could complete his assignment, as he liked to think of it. For one thing, he’d have to get rid of his red hair. People always remembered a redhead. So he’d driven all the way out on Route 413 to an out-of-the-way drugstore to pick up some brown hair coloring. Right now, first thing before he did anything else, he’d color his hair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and studied the hair on his arms. Should he do them, too? Was it possible to do that and not get the dye all over his skin?

Fuck it. He’d do the hair on his head and that was it. Besides, if anyone saw his arms, they’d be more likely to remember all the freckles than what color the hair was. He’d just have to stick with long sleeves for now and pray that the month of September would be cooler than August.

He slid two six-packs of beer into the empty refrigerator, then added the hoagie he’d picked up at a deli on his way into Carleton that afternoon. A small blue-collar community, Carleton would serve his needs quite nicely. For one thing, it was only nine miles southwest of Broeder. Close enough for him to keep an eye on his quarry, far enough away from his old life in Lyndon that he wasn’t likely to be recognized. The red hair, though, still had to go.

Right at one end of the block he now lived on was a food market, and at the other, a bar that laid claim to the best burgers in town. The bar looked like every neighborhood tavern he’d ever been in, and that was just fine with him. He could blend in there with no trouble at all. He knew the routine. By the end of the week, he’d be a regular.

As for his keep, well, he had enough money in his secret stash to last him for a long, long time, though he didn’t plan on being around Carleton for more than a few weeks. Once his assignment was done, he’d retrieve the rest of his money and head for someplace warm. Arizona, or maybe New Mexico. He’d heard there was a housing boom out there. He could start up a new construction company with the money he’d stolen from the last one and start life all over again. The irony just about killed him.

He debated whether to eat first, then decided against it. He’d take care of the hair first, just like he’d planned, then maybe he’d eat. Pausing to glance out the window at the street below, he noticed several women walking into the bar. It had been a while since he’d had any female companionship. Well, perhaps tonight might be the night.

Whistling again, he tossed the box of hair coloring up and down in his right hand and headed off to the bathroom. Tonight could be the night, indeed.

Less than two hours later, Vince Giordano sauntered into the Dew Drop Inn and slid onto a stool just three down from where a couple of ladies were deep in conversation over their beers.

“And I told him, look, I don’t need this shit. I have too much going for me—”

“Damn right, you do.”

“—to be putting up with this kind of shit. I mean, do I look like I need the hassle?”

“You know you don’t.” The woman shook her head vigorously. “You got it all going on, Dolores. You got a job—shit, you got your own salon. Half of it, anyway. You got a car, you got your own house. . . . You don’t need nobody leeching offa you.”

“That’s what I told him.” Dolores tossed her bleached blond hair over her shoulders and took a long and righteous drag off her cigarette. “So that is that. I have washed my hands of Mr. Doherty. Done.” She slid the palm of one hand over the other to show she was, in fact, done.

“Frankie, give Dolores another beer on me,” her companion called to the bartender.

“You got it, Connie,” Frankie acknowledged as he poured Vince’s beer from the tap and set it before him.

Vince sipped at his beer and pretended to watch the football game on the TV to his right at the end of the bar. The first Thursday night game of the new season had just begun. The ladies swung on their stools to watch the kickoff.

“Don’t it seem like football starts earlier every year?” Connie asked no one in particular.

“That’s a fact.” Vince nodded without turning around.

“I like football,” Dolores was saying. “Used to watch it with my dad and my brother when I was a kid. God rest their souls.”

“To be sure.” Connie nodded solemnly and made the sign of the cross in concert with her companion.

“Who do you like this year?” Vince asked the bartender, still careful not to pay too much attention to the ladies.

“Dunno. Too early to tell.” Frankie stared at the screen for a moment, then turned to Vince. “ ‘Nother beer?”

“Sure. And one for the ladies, too.”

“Aw, you don’t have to. . . .” Dolores protested.

“Aw, thanks, that’s so nice.”

“Hey, we’re gonna watch the game together, we have to toast the start of the new season, right?” He turned to them now for the first time and smiled his easiest smile.

“Right. To the new season.” Connie lifted her glass and leaned forward just slightly to get a better look at Vince.

“To the season.” Dolores did likewise. “To the NFL.”

“Long may she wave,” Connie giggled. “And long live those spandex pants.”

“Shhhh,” Dolores whispered to her.

“Hey . . . hey, what’s your name?” Connie called down to Vince.

“Vinnie. Vinnie Daniels.”

“Hey, Vinnie, you think those guys’ pants are made from spandex?”

“Not sure what they’re made from.” Vince pretended to be amused.

“You hush, Connie. He’s gonna get the wrong idea about you.”

“What, that I’m interested in those big thighs and those big butts and those big—”

“Connie!” Dolores slapped a hand over her friend’s mouth. “That’s enough.”

Red-faced, Dolores turned to him. “You have to excuse her, Vinnie. She gets a little mouthy when she drinks beer on an empty stomach.”

“Then let’s get some sandwiches out here.” Vince signaled the bartender. “Your sign out front says you got the best burgers in town. Let’s have a few of them while we watch the game.”

He turned back to the two women. “My treat, ladies. To celebrate my first day in Carleton.”

“Oh, you’re new in town?” Dolores asked.

“Just arrived this afternoon.”

“Where you from?”

He paused. Where was he from?

“Delaware.” He had no idea where that came from but it sounded okay.

“Oh, where? My sister lives in Delaware. At the air force base in Dover,” Connie said.

He avoided the question. “She in the air force?”

“No, her husband is. They been there for two years now. I should get down there one of these days for a visit.”

“Hey, look at that! A touchdown already.” Vince raised his glass. “Here’s to the first touchdown of the season.”

“Amen.”

“Cheers.”

Before the first quarter had ended, their burgers had been served. By the time his burger had been eaten, he knew everything he needed to know about Dolores Hall.

She lived alone.

She had no family in town.

She was a hairdresser who, along with Connie, owned a salon.

She had just broken up with her boyfriend.

She wasn’t too bright.

She was relatively passive, for all her mouthing off, and she was emotionally needy. He could tell just by the way she was looking at him that she had him pegged as a possible replacement for the now-scorned Mr. Doherty.

She was just the woman he was looking for.

All in good time, of course. For tonight, he’d buy her and her friend beers, watch the game, and make small talk. He wouldn’t come on to her—nah, he’d wait maybe even a whole week before he even asked her out, and then he’d take her to dinner. Someplace other than here. Someplace where he’d have to pick her up at her house and take her home, where he could come in and get the lay of the land. By then he’d be a new regular at the Dew Drop. He’d have a pattern established, an identity that no one would have reason to question. He’d no longer be a stranger, a loner. He’d give them information about himself, and they’d believe him. He’d belong.

It would prove an amusing interlude while he went about his business. Who knew how long it would take to do the job right? He sure as hell wasn’t going to rush into anything and blow his setup. For the past ten days the papers had been full of the story about the antiques dealer from Broeder who’d been found murdered in his car. Vince had bought every newspaper he could find and read them with fascination. He’d forgotten what a rush it was to read about your deeds in print. To be the only one who really knew what had happened; the only one who knew just how it really went down.

Vince had found England’s house after its owners had departed for Europe, as was announced in big red letters across the calendar that hung on a wall in the kitchen. Knowing that the house would be vacant for a few days gave Vince some time to relax in the comfortable home of his intended victim, time to plan how best to accomplish his goal. He’d left on the morning the pair was due back, and had returned later that night, at which time he’d planned to shoot both men. But then there had been England in the doorway, obviously going someplace. He’d turned to say something to the man behind him in the house, and Giordano had taken advantage of the opportunity to pop into the backseat of England’s car, where he’d stayed until they were almost to town, stopped at a light.

He could still see Derek England’s eyes as they widened at first with surprise, then with fear, when he saw Giordano’s face in the rearview mirror. The confusion when Vince told him to drive to the park. Felt the rush when he put the muzzle of the gun up close to England’s head and pulled the trigger, just like that.

Well, that was then.

This is now. And now he was sitting here in this bar, taking the first steps into this new life he was creating for himself with the new friends he’d share it with until his job was done and it was time to move on.

In the meanwhile, he’d have this fun little world, this new identity. He could be anyone he wanted to be. After all the time he’d spent in prison, a social life—and hot damn, if he played his cards right, maybe even a love life!—sounded pretty damned good.

And no one would ever connect the dark-haired Vinnie Daniels with the redheaded Vince Giordano.

Even his own mother wouldn’t put it together.

CHAPTER
SIX

Sean Mercer leaned closer to the window in an attempt to cut the glare so that he could see inside the neat three-story white clapboard Victorian house that Amanda Crosby called home, but the sun was behind him at precisely the wrong angle and he couldn’t see a damned thing.

He rang the doorbell for the third time, though he suspected that she’d have answered the door if she were there. She didn’t seem to be the type who would hide. Then again, she didn’t seem to be the type to put a gun to the head of an old friend and pull the trigger, either. It remained to be seen whether she’d done just that.

Curious, though, that her car was in the drive.

Maybe he’d just take this opportunity to look around the property. One never knew what one might find.

The front lawn was neat and newly trimmed, the flower bed mulched. Baskets of purple and white flowers—tired blossoms at summer’s end, in need of a watering—hung from the porch railing. Out back, black-eyed Susans grew in an unwieldy clump near the base of an apple tree that was long past due for a pruning, and daylilies with withered blooms grew in a patch along one side of the one-car garage. The lawn mower stood abandoned near the back porch, and the yard looked half-mowed, as if the person doing the job had been called away in the middle of it. He wondered what it was that had called Amanda from her yard work on this Sunday morning.

Peering through the glass panes in the back door gave him a view of the unlit back hall. As tall as he was, he could lean up to a high, small window to the right of the door and see into half the kitchen. It was a small square-shaped room, with a short row of cabinets and counters along the inside wall. The sink, stove, and refrigerator were just along the outside wall, the sink under the single window from which a wooden box of herbs had been hung. He reached up and grabbed a leaf, and crushing it between his fingers, held it to his nose. Spearmint.

It was an evocative scent. Mint had grown in the scrappy little garden his grandmother had tried to grow in the minuscule yard behind the Philadelphia row house they’d lived in when he was a kid. Nowadays, in some parts of the city, they called them town houses. He suspected that in his old neighborhood, they were still called rows. He couldn’t imagine that gentrification had arrived in that part of town. If it had, it could only have come kicking and screaming bloody murder.

For years, he’d avoided thoughts of that house, that neighborhood, that time in his life. Lately, he’d thought of little else. That’s what happened when the past unexpectedly collided with the present. He had a feeling that the rest of his day would provide ample proof of that.

He glanced at his watch. Almost noon. His stomach clenched. Only another hour . . .

He forced his attention back to Amanda Crosby and the results of the forensic testing that he’d found in an envelope on his desk when he stopped by the station last night. He still couldn’t figure out whether he was surprised by the findings. He just didn’t have a clear read on her yet.

The backyard was narrow but deep, with a koi pond complete with a lightly bubbling fountain and a stone bench near the rear boundary. At least, he assumed the post and rail fence marked the rear of the Crosby property. He wondered if Amanda spent much time back here. It was peaceful, serene, the sort of place one might seek out when the world got to be too much. He wondered idly what she might have on her mind those times when she sought some little bit of sanctuary.

For a moment, he was sorely tempted to sit on the bench and listen to the fountain and watch the koi for a while. But he had somewhere to go, someone to see. He walked straight down the drive and to his car. Later, maybe, after he’d done what he needed to do, he’d stop back to see Ms. Crosby. He couldn’t help but wonder just what frame of mind he’d be in by then.

“. . . and I just can’t help it, Manda. I know it’s silly, but I just can’t stay in that house right now.” Clark rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

“I don’t think it’s silly at all.” Amanda leaned over and patted his arm. “You’ve lost the most important person in your life. Of course you’re going to grieve. If you feel you will deal with this loss better someplace else, then for heaven’s sake, Clark, go. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

“Oh, I feel as if I do. I know that you and Derek were like sister and brother. I know how much he loved you.” He wiped his eyes with his napkin and tried to smile. “You know, there was a time, early on, when I was so jealous of you. I knew how close you two were, and I was always afraid . . . well, that someday, maybe . . .”

“You know it was never like that between us. Derek never had any real love in his life before he met you.”

“Thank you, Amanda.” Clark did smile at this. “You have such a generous spirit. I know it’s one of the things that Derek admired about you. He could be so . . . bitchy . . . at times.”

“It was part of his charm.” She reached over and took his hand and squeezed it.

She looked up just in time to see Chief Mercer slide into a booth on the opposite side of the aisle and up about four tables just as the brunch crowd at the Sawmill Inn had started to thin. She had to look twice to make certain that it was in fact the chief of police at the table near the window. For one thing, she’d never seen him out of uniform, and today he was wearing khaki Dockers, a blue-and-white-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and shoes without socks. For another, it was unusual to see any of the locals here on Sunday afternoon. The Inn was generally more popular with people passing through than with the residents who, if they were having breakfast out, tended to go early to the small café in the center of town or the diner just off Center Street. She wondered idly what brought him all the way out here on a Sunday afternoon.

Wonder if the results of any of the tests have come back. Wonder if he’d tell me if they had.

She’d just decided to excuse herself to the ladies’ room so that she could stop by his table and see what she could find out, when the door opened and a woman walked in.

Amanda noticed her the second she stepped into the room. Everyone noticed. She was impossible to miss.

In her late twenties, with pretty features on a soft, round face and rich auburn hair that cascaded halfway down her back in thick waves, the woman wore a plaid sleeveless shirt over a tank top that left little to the imagination and black capri pants. Her biceps and what Amanda could see of her calves bore tattoos of thin branches with thorns interwoven with roses that wound around, front to back, to form a complete circle. Her nail polish was deep red and she carried a large tote bag. Mercer stood at her approach and she embraced him, holding him tightly and closing her eyes. Amanda couldn’t see his face, but saw one of his big hands patting her somewhat awkwardly on the back.

When the woman sat across from him, there were tears in her eyes. She spoke softly, reaching out every once in a while to touch his hand. Feeling too much the voyeur, Amanda turned her attention back to Clark. There was something about witnessing such tender moments between others that made her uncomfortable. And just for a moment, there was a prickle of something that felt a lot like disappointment to find he was in a relationship. Not that she should care. After all, wasn’t this the man who wanted to put her behind bars?

“. . . so you won’t be upset if I stay with Chris and Tammy for a while? Maybe a few weeks, maybe longer. I just don’t know.”

“Oh. No.” Amanda tuned back in. “No, of course not. You just go ahead and do what you need to do. I understand perfectly.”

“I was hoping you would. I mean, if it bothered you, I wouldn’t go. I know you’ve gone through a lot, too.” He leaned forward just slightly. “I know those pesky police have been asking you a lot of questions.” He pretended to shiver. “Neanderthals, all of them.”

“Well, you don’t want to say that too loudly”—she lowered her voice to a stage whisper—“since the head Neanderthal just seated himself a few minutes ago four tables behind you.”

He swiveled his head around, then wide-eyed, turned back to Amanda.

“Is that him there with the tattooed lady?”

Amanda nodded.

“Oh, where are the fashion police when you need them?” He rolled his eyes. “Gorgeous eyes and hair to dye for—get it, hair to dye for?—but those tattoos . . . those clothes.” He groaned. “Everything about her just screams biker chick.”

Amanda giggled and sipped her iced tea. “Enough, Clark . . .”

“Oh, not by a long shot. I haven’t had this much fun in days.”

“Forget it. She’s with the chief of police and she’s—”

“He should charge her with assault on the sensibilities. Dressing with intent to offend.”

“Enough. You are wicked.” She laughed.

“Derek was wickeder. He’d be unmerciful if he were here.” His smile faded as he picked up the check the waitress had left on the table. He barely glanced at it. “Ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready.” They stood in unison. Clark took her arm as they walked to the cash register by the door.

“Did you want to stop by and say hey to the chief?” he asked as he paid the bill.

“No.” She shook her head and opened the door, held it for him while he put his wallet away. “I have the feeling I’ll be seeing him soon enough as it is.”

She couldn’t have imagined just how soon that would be.

The sun was out in full when she arrived home. Feeling sluggish from having eaten an unusually full meal in the middle of the day, Amanda decided the best remedy would be physical activity. She’d left the backyard half-mowed the previous evening when she’d turned off the mower and gone into the house for a bottle of water and stopped to check the answering machine. The two hang-up calls had spooked her. While she was debating what to do about them, she’d gotten a call from Iona, and spent the best part of an hour sitting on the back porch, chatting on the phone. By the time they’d hung up, it was dark, and the last thing she wanted was to be outside in the dark, alone, armed with nothing more than an old lawn mower.

On her way home from the shop tomorrow, she’d stop at the gun club and head out to the firing range for some practice. It had been two weeks since she’d dug out her .38 and shot off a few rounds. She liked to keep in practice, needed to feel sharp when it came to her handgun. She needed to know that if she had to use it, she could hit her mark. She hadn’t come this far to do anything but.

Thinking about the gun club seemed to nag at her. . . .

She rolled up the sleeves of her cotton shirt and started the lawn mower. By the time she finished the back section of grass she was in a serious sweat. She shed the shirt and tossed it onto the stone bench, then set out to finish the job in her tank top.

The feeling that she was being watched began to creep over her as she started on the strip of grass on the side of the house that linked the front and back yards, and the sensation grew stronger as she returned to the back and turned off the mower. The slamming of a car door out near the street drew her attention and she walked to the end of the drive in time to see Chief Mercer standing near the mailbox and studying the house.

Never one to wait for trouble, she walked down to meet him. She wondered how he’d managed to slip the tattooed wonder as quickly as he had.

“Hi,” he called when he saw her.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” She stopped at the sidewalk and folded her arms over her chest.

“That the advice of your lawyer, or your brother?”

“My brother.” She didn’t have a lawyer yet, but he didn’t need to know that.

He appeared to be debating with himself. Finally, he asked her, “Do you own a gun, Ms. Crosby?”

“Yes.” She nodded. It was no secret. Half the people in town knew she had taken lessons at the firing range on the outskirts of town. She’d written about the experience in one of her newspaper columns several months ago.

“When was the last time you fired it?”

She paused, and it came back to her. The gun club . . .

Uh-oh.

Her eyes met his, and before she could remind herself not to answer the question, he said, “I was just wondering, because the GSR results are back.”

“And?” She went cold inside. Her stomach flipped, then sank. She knew exactly what he was going to say and why he was there.

“You want to tell me the last time you fired that gun, or are you going to wait until I tell you what I found on the sleeves of the sweatshirt you gave us?”

Amanda sighed. She’d forgotten. Completely forgotten . . .

“I was at the range two Mondays ago. You can check with the gun club. They’ll confirm that. You have to sign in—”

“What kind of a gun do you have?”

“A .38. Everyone in the county knows about it. I’m surprised you don’t.” Her hands were on her hips now, defiant. Derek had been killed with a bullet fired from a .38. Everyone in the county knew that, too. “I wrote all about learning to shoot the damned thing for the
County Express
back in March.”

“Where’s your gun now?”

“It’s in the drawer in the table next to my bed.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for it.”

Amanda sighed. “I can make you get a warrant, can’t I?”

“Sure. But what would that do besides delay the investigation? If the bullet that killed your partner wasn’t fired from that gun, we’ll be able to confirm that right away. Like you said before, the sooner we eliminate you, the sooner the investigation can move ahead. I’d think you’d want to clear that up as soon as possible. I mean, with the finding of the GSR on your sweatshirt . . .”

“I wore the shirt to the range two weeks ago. I didn’t happen to wash it between wearings, so I imagine there would be residue on the sleeves.”

“Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”

“Because I wasn’t thinking . . . I wasn’t thinking about having shot off my handgun at the range as having to have anything to do, however remote, with Derek being killed.”

“You knew though that he’d been shot with a .38?”