Deadly Intent (11 page)

The Manhattan Towers was a seventy-two-story hotel that catered mostly to businessmen and women, judging from the busy lounge at the far end of the lobby. The fact that it was the middle of the week didn’t seem to stop New Yorkers from one of their favorite pastimes—conducting business over chilled martinis.

After a few minutes’ wait, Ian found a table, ordered a beer and watched his sister behind the bar, serving drinks with a smile that would have melted Antarctica.

He had to admit she looked a lot better than the last time he’d seen her. She had finally lost those fifteen pesky pounds, and though she was far from the size six she used to be in her younger days, she looked trim and fit. The narrow black pants and the snug white shirt even made her look sexy. Her blond hair was now slick and blunt cut and

styled in a way that hid that ugly scar on her right cheek. Why she had kept that damn thing when her rich rocker husband could have paid to have it removed was beyond him.

She wore little makeup, just some blush and a hint of lip color. The results made her look younger than her forty five years. She had never needed makeup anyway. She was one of those fortunate women who looked great the moment she woke up and only got better as the day went on. That’s why she had been such a hit with the guys at school.

He kept watching her, chewing on the trail mix the waitress had brought him, and wondered how Liz would react once she realized he needed money again. Knowing her, she’d probably laugh in his face and remind him of all the other times he had borrowed from her and never paid her back.

But then again, she might surprise him. Liz was a strange bird, a loner who didn’t talk or complain much, not even when their father had married Irene DiAngelo. Ian had had plenty to say about that, but Liz, though not pleased, had taken it all in stride. She just wasn’t the type to get emotional about stuff like that.

On her eighteenth birthday, Liz had pocketed what was left of her share of their father’s inheritance and moved to New York City. There she met and married Jude Tilly, the lead singer of a band so hot at the time, all five members had become instant millionaires. Liz and Jude had lived the high life for a while, jet-setting around the world, entertaining in their Manhattan penthouse and spending, spending, spending.

And then one day, the band broke up, and Jude’s hopes of staying on top of the charts on his own fell flat. Hit hard, he started drinking and doing drugs, and within a couple of years, the guy was broke. Desperate to help him get his

life back on track, Liz decided that a baby was just what her husband needed. Then came more bad news. Liz couldn’t have children.

Instead of comforting his wife, Jude chose that time to file for divorce. After ten years together and more abuse than she deserved, all Liz got from her marriage to the famous rocker was a summerhouse in upstate New York. Or was it in the Berkshires? Ian wasn’t sure because he had never been invited.

Without Liz to keep Jude out of trouble, the singer’s life began to spin out of control. Three months after the divorce, he died of an overdose.

For a while, Liz had been inconsolable, but eventually, her survivor instincts had kicked in and she had rejoined the living.

Looking at her now, the way she mixed, shook and poured, he would have sworn she had done that all her life. But then, why should he be surprised? Liz was the type of person who could do anything once she set her mind to it.

And if she was so good, she was probably raking in tons of tips.

He took another sip of his beer, then, reaching into his pocket, he brought out a piece of paper and a pencil, wrote a short message and signaled the waitress.

“Another beer, sir?” she asked.

“Not yet.” He handed her the note and gave her his most charming smile. “Do me a favor, will you, doll? Give this to the barmaid.” When she hesitated, he handed her a five-dollar bill. The tip was a little outrageous, but what the hell. Like the saying went, you had to spend money to make money.

He watched as the waitress handed Liz the note, pointing in his direction. His sister showed no reaction when she saw him, no sign of recognition, or irritation. She simply

took the note, slid it in her shirt pocket and took the next order.

He had to wait another hour, until another bartender came to relieve her, before she finally made her way to Ian’s table, carrying a glass and a bottle of mineral water.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking the chair across from him.

“Hello, Ian,” he said. “Good to see you. You’re looking swell.”

Ignoring his sarcastic tone, she poured half the water into her glass and took a thirsty gulp. “When did you get out of prison?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” He looked around him. “Nice place. Not like that dump you worked in years ago.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“Hey, I’m just happy you’re doing so well.”

“I bet you are.” She took another sip. “How much do you want this time?”

“Why do you always think I want something? Why can’t I be here to visit my sister? You know how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other?”

“Three years. I believe that’s when you came to my apartment asking to borrow—borrow” she repeated with greater emphasis, “two thousand dollars. Or was that the time you borrowed three thousand dollars and told me I’d double my money in a week’s time?”

“Hey, the deal fell through for me, too. I lost a lot more than you did.”

She kept sipping her water, looking completely disinterested.

“The truth is,” he continued, “I do need money, sis. Not much, just enough to tide me over for a few days.”

“Have you tried to earn it like the rest of us do? By working?”

He sensed a lecture coming and prepared himself for it. Everything came with a price. “I’ve done nothing but try to find work since I arrived in New Jersey,” he lied. “Problem is, nobody wants to give an ex-con a job.”

“Or maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Look,” he snapped, a little put off by her snotty attitude. “You haven’t walked in my shoes, okay? And until you do, you’ll never know what it feels like to be an outcast.”

She gazed into her glass, a small smile on her lips, as if she was having a private joke with herself or something. Then he got it. She must feel like an outcast all the time, with that scar of hers, but dammit, keeping it had been her choice.

It took her forever to look up. “Why New Jersey?”

“Because there’s an opportunity there I can’t afford to pass up.”

“Where did you find the money to get there?”

“Rose Panini.”

Liz laughed. ‘ ‘That poor woman is still carrying a torch for you? After all you put her through?” She shook her head. “She must be nuts.”

“She loves me, Liz. Is that so hard to understand?”

“Yes, but that’s only my opinion.”

He let the remark go. Getting Liz all riled up wouldn’t help his case. “I know I’ve done some dumb things in my life, but those sixteen months at Allen changed me. God, Liz, you can’t imagine how bad that place was,” he said, figuring a little exaggeration wouldn’t hurt. “You hear about it, you read about it, but when you see it, when you’re actually part of that hell, it’s a lot worse than what you could ever imagine. I was even in therapy for a while. I bet you didn’t know that.”

She brought the glass to her lips. “No. You seem so grounded.”

“Go ahead, be sarcastic. It won’t make me mad. I don’t get mad anymore.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you’re a changed man.”

“I am. Ask Rose.” He looked around him again before lowering his voice. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Prove it.”

Jesus. He had forgotten what an overbearing bitch she could be. “I’m thinking of starting my own business.”

“What kind of business?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Liz set her glass down. “If you think I’m going to finance a new venture, forget it. The bank is closed, buster. Permanently.”

He shook his head. “No, that part is covered. All I need from you is four or five hundred bucks to get me by until the deal comes through.”

“Ah, yes, another one of your deals.”

“Don’t look so skeptical. I’m about to make some serious money. Don’t you want to know how?”

“All right, I’ll admit I’m curious. What is it this time? You’re selling tickets for a trip to the moon? Or maybe you’ve discovered a gold mine somewhere and you’re looking for investors. Go ahead, Ian, tell me. Who’s the next sucker?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking forward to the expression on her face. “Abbie DiAngelo.”

Liz’s aloof smile faded. “Irene’s daughter?”

“Do you know any other Abbie DiAngelo?”

“Where is she?”

“Princeton, New Jersey. She owns a fancy restaurant there and is doing very well.” He snorted. “Although if you listen to her, she’s barely making ends meet.”

“’And she’s going to give you money to start your own business?’” Liz laughed. “Give me a break.”

“She’s going to give me the money,” he said in a low voice, “because she has no choice. I know something about Irene that can destroy her.”

“What are you babbling about?”

He had her attention. Good. Now all he had to do was be as convincing as he had been with Abbie. “Irene killed our father,” he stated calmly.

Liz’s expression turned stony. “What did you say?”

He told her everything he had told Abbie, almost word for word, and how it had been sheer luck that his old buddy, Earl Kramer, had seen Abbie’s interview on TV.

Liz listened quietly, her features tight, the tip of her tongue popping out from time to time to moisten her lips. He could tell the news had hit her hard. When he was finished, she lowered her gaze, staring into her glass and holding it in both hands.

“How come you never told me about that letter?” she asked at last.

“I forgot I had it,” he said truthfully. “And then when Earl called, I thought if I could find it, it’d make my case that much stronger.”

But Liz was shaking her head. “It won’t. Everyone knows Dad caused his own death with that disgusting habit of smoking in bed. It’s a wonder he didn’t set fire to the house sooner.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“How do you know your friend didn’t make that story up?”

“Because I know Earl.”

“And he’s willing to confess to the crime?”

“If it comes to that, but it won’t.”

Liz looked into the distance, her face devoid of expres

sion. “Irene,” she said quietly, as if talking to herself. “Sweet Irene. Who would have known?”

“I did. Under all that sweetness, I knew the woman was a bitch. You had to know, too, Liz.”

Liz played with her glass, turning it around and around on the small table. He could tell she was still skeptical. “You and your friend are criminals,” she said as if in answer to his thoughts. “Irene DiAngelo is a respectable woman. When she denies the accusations, who do you think the cops will believe? Two con men or Saint Irene?”

“But that’s the beauty, Liz. Irene is not in a position to deny anything. She’s loco.”1

“What?”

“The old lady is a couple of slices short of a pizza pie.” He paused before delivering the next bomb. “She’s got Alzheimer’s.”

Liz poured the rest of her mineral water into her glass. “I see you haven’t changed. You still have the morals of an alley cat.”

“Oh, and you’re just a paragon of virtue, aren’t you?”

“No, but I wouldn’t take advantage of a sick woman.”

“Well, I guess we’re different in that respect.”

“You’re going to end up in prison again, Ian.”

“How do you figure?”

“What if Abbie turns you in?”

“She won’t. That letter really shook her up. She isn’t about to put her mother through such a nightmare. Or her son.”

Liz’s thin blond eyebrow went up. “She has a son?”