Deadly Intent (22 page)

But as she brought the car to a stop in front of room 11, she remained silent. Mentioning the letter, and then explaining why Abbie had to have it, was just too risky.

She would have to take her chances that it would never

surface, or hope an opportunity would arise for Abbie to go through Ian’s effects herself.

Sitting beside her, Rose reached for the two shopping bags in the back seat. “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done,” she said to Abbie. “I would have been lost without you.”

“I’m glad I could help.” She motioned to the bags in Rose’s arms. “Do you need help with those?”

“I’m fine. And you have to get back to work.”

“I’ll see you at the cemetery on Wednesday morning, then.”

Rose nodded, but made no movement to get out of the car. Instead, she opened the large tote bag at her feet and started digging into it, obviously searching for something. “When I was going through Ian’s clothes the other day, I found something.”

Abbie held her breath.

“A letter.” Rose pulled out a folded sheet of stationery, yellowed by age. “Your mother wrote it a long time ago.” She kept her tone matter-of-fact, as if the letter held no importance. “I’m not exactly sure what it is, or why Ian had it.” She finally looked up and handed it to her. “But I thought you should have it.”

Lost for words, Abbie took it, feeling both relieved and scared at the thought that she was now holding the one piece of evidence that could further implicate her mother in a cold-blooded murder. “Thank you,” she said in a whisper.

She thought of giving Rose an explanation she would buy, then changed her mind. Rose wasn’t stupid and she had just done a very nice thing, no questions asked. To make up a phony story at this point would be both insulting and unfair.

“Rose—“

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Rose said. “It’s none of my business.”

“Just this one thing.” Abbie dropped the letter in her purse before looking up. “I didn’t kill him, Rose. You have to believe me.”

Rose smiled, a gentle, totally trusting smile. “I do.”

Then she opened the door, struggled a little with her packages and got out.

As Abbie had expected, the press had quickly picked up the scent of a titillating story and ran with it. By the time the Mercer County News hit the stands on Saturday morning, news of Ian McGregor’s death and his connection to Abbie DiAngelo had made the headlines with a caption that made Abbie wince: Local Celebrity Chef Connected To Murder Victim.

The article went on describing Ian’s life of crime, his recent release from prison and his hopes of reuniting with a sister he hadn’t seen in twenty-eight years. Just what she needed in a community that placed respectability and good breeding above everything else.

Thank God, Brady had talked to the staff; by the time Abbie arrived at the restaurant, each worker was doing his or her best to treat the day like any other. Not so in the dining room, however, where the atmosphere was charged and the glances openly curious. Acting as naturally as she could under the circumstances, Abbie made her rounds, greeting first timers and habitues with a smile, grateful the headlines had not kept customers away.

The only exception was Professor Gilroy. The moment Abbie approached his table, he stood up, looking as saddened as if he had suffered a loss.

“Abbie,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I am so sorry about your brother.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Gently, she pulled her hands free. “But as I’m sure you’ve heard, I hardly knew him.” If that sounded cruel, she didn’t care. She refused to put on a show and pretend to be grieving when she wasn’t.

“Yes, I did hear that.” Professor Gilroy sat down. “But the shock of being reunited with a long-lost relative and then hear he had been brutally murdered must have been a terrible shock. How is Ben?” he added. “Does he know?”

“Yes, I talked to him. And he’s fine, really.” She couldn’t quite keep the impatience out of her voice. “Ian McGregor was a stranger to him.”

The professor’s face took on a pained look. “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry.”

Great, Abbie. You ‘we just insulted your best customer. “No, Professor, I’m the one who is sorry. My nerves are a little frayed today. It’s been a difficult twenty-four hours. Please forgive me.”

“No need to apologize. I understand perfectly.” He was smiling again. “And perhaps you’ll allow me to be of some help.”

She frowned, not understanding.

“I’m accompanying a group of young boys from FitzRandolph Academy and four teachers to Northlandz next Saturday. I was wondering if Ben might like to join us.”

The name rang a vague bell. “Northlandz?”

“The railroad display just north of Flemington,” he reminded her. “We’re planning to meet in the parking lot of FitzRandolph Academy at ten on Saturday morning and return at three. Lunch will be provided.”

Now she remembered. Not too long ago, Professor Gilroy had described in great detail the large railroad display, with its intricately carved canyons, thousands of hand

crafted buildings, suspension bridges, and of course, the trains, more than a hundred of them, running through villages, tunnels and mountain passes.

“Thank you, Professor,” Abbie said. “It’s very kind of you to want to include Ben. Unfortunately, he has baseball practice on Saturday. And you know that nothing will make him miss that.” She didn’t add that although Ben found the professor’s gifts “cool,” he wasn’t that big on trains anymore, and would have probably turned down the trip to Northlandz.

The professor was clearly disappointed. “Another time, then,” he said curtly.

Not wanting to commit herself, or Ben, Abbie said goodbye and moved on to the next table.Twenty-Three

John sat at his desk with his lunch in front of him—a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich, both from the vending machine out in the lobby. Between bites, he read over the various lab reports that had been brought to his desk earlier.

The tire casts taken at the crime scene had been matched with tread files furnished by various tire manufacturers. They showed that the tires were Goodyear, the kind commonly found on sport-utility vehicles, and had been manufactured in the last couple of years.

Officer Wilcox had been right about the shoe prints. Those found throughout the parking area did not match the victim’s. They were much larger. And since the footprints and tire tracks seemed to have been going in the same direction, it was safe to assume that someone other than Ian McGregor had had a confrontation with the SUV.

John took another bite of the sandwich and chewed it slowly as his mind worked out several possibilities. Had the driver surprised the killer and tried to stop him? Or had the killer spotted the truck and attempted to kill a potential witness? Either way, the driver of the SUV should have come forward and reported the incident. So why the hell hadn’t he?

He brushed the crumbs off the page and flipped to another. Several sets of fingerprints lifted in McGregor’s motel room had been identified as belonging to Arturo Garcia,

a convicted felon who had served an eight-year sentence for running a drug distribution center in Toledo, Ohio, and whose residence was listed as El Paso, Texas.

Upon being questioned earlier, the maintenance man at the Clearwater Motel had remembered seeing a battered green pickup truck with Texas tags in the motel parking lot on the afternoon of the murder. That statement, combined with the manager’s admission that a man answering Arturo Garcia’s description had been looking for the victim, left John no doubt that the owner of the green pickup was Arturo Garcia.

He leaned back in his chair. After ten long years, it appeared as if Garcia had finally caught up with the snitch he had sworn to kill. Whether or not he had kept his word still had to be proven. Evidence, though circumstantial, pointed to him as the killer, but there were still too many questions that remained unanswered. Such as why had the two men walked over to Lake Carnegie in a downpour? Why not kill McGregor at the Clearwater, with no witnesses to worry about? And for that matter, why had the two men hung around in the motel room for hours, eating pizza and drinking beer as if they were the best of pals? The teenager who had delivered the pizza had identified Ian as the man who had opened the door and paid him, but Arturo must have been there too, unseen by the delivery boy.

Earlier, at John’s request, Detective Otis Bloom of the Toledo Police Department had sent mug shots of Arturo, a copy of his rap sheet and an El Paso address and phone number.

A call had confirmed what John already suspected. Garcia wasn’t there. According to a woman who said she was his mother, Arturo had gone west to visit some friends. No, she had told John a little pointedly, she didn’t know where

he was staying or how to get in touch with him, adding that her son was forty years old and had stopped accounting for his whereabouts long ago.

After hanging up, John had put an APB out for Garcia and his truck, making sure his ugly mug appeared on the front page of every newspaper in the area and was shown on every TV newscast. At the 7:00 a.m. briefing this morning, Captain Farwell, who headed the PTPD with an iron fist, had speculated that Garcia and his truck were probably hundred of miles from Princeton by now. John, however, wasn’t dismissing the possibility the man was still in the area.

Setting the lab reports down, John picked up the autopsy folder and read the dead man’s statistics along with a list of old injuries. Those included a healed shoulder fracture, a broken nose, most likely sustained in a fistfight, surgery on the left knee and four fairly deep punctures on the left forearm, made by what Dr. Wang believed was a fork. There was also a more recent wound—a scratch on the throat, possibly made by a sharp blade, and deep enough to have bled.

The time of death had been narrowed down to between 9:00 and 11:00 p.m. Cause of death: massive internal bleeding brought on by multiple stab wounds. Killer was left-handed, a detail he was pleased to note excluded Abbie DiAngelo as a suspect, even though she had never been one. The lady was right-handed.

He was going over what the victim had been wearing, when Tina walked in. Fatigue and disappointment were etched into her fine features. In the space of ten days, she seemed to have aged ten years. She walked straight to his desk, dropped into a chair and took his coffee cup.

“You don’t mind, do you? I badly need this.”

“Rough morning?”

“Frustrating. I thought I had a lead on the pedophile but it turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Still no clue, huh?”

She shook her head and took another sip of coffee. “The bastard knows what he’s doing.”

“Have you questioned everyone on your list?”

She gave a weary nod. “Questioned and requestioned—from the widowed uncle who visits once a year to the gardener who has known Eric Sommers since he was a baby. All have been cleared.”

“The man’s not going to stay incognito forever, Tina. Sooner or later, he’s going to make a mistake. And when he does, you’ll be there to catch him.”

Dark, probing eyes caught his. “Let’s hope I don’t have to wait until another boy is killed before that happens.”

“Ours is a tough business.”

“I know, I know, and if we don’t have the stomach to take the bad with the good, we should get the hell out and give a chance to somebody who will do the job right.”

He hated it when she felt that way. “You’re doing the job right, Tina,” John said sincerely. “Don’t let anyone tell you different. This case is a little more grim than most and this guy’s slippery as a snake.” He shut the file on McGregor. “Anything I can do?”

Tina put the cup back down on his desk. “Yeah. Why don’t you guys spring for a coffeepot? This stuff is awful.”

At two-fifteen that same afternoon, the desk sergeant on duty brought a copy of the Mercer County News to John’s desk. “Is that what you were waiting for?” he asked, handing him the paper.

“Yup. Thanks, Luke.” John nodded approvingly as he saw Arturo Garcia’s mug shot on the front page. The accompanying article included a detailed account of his life

of crime, his suspected whereabouts and a description of the pickup truck. Princeton was a small town and Princetonians peace-loving citizens. The news that a dangerous criminal was roaming their fair city would be enough to make everyone who read the article alert and willing to help.

John glanced at his watch. Abbie DiAngelo would be closing her restaurant just about now. If he hurried, he might catch her before she left. After all, he had told her he’d keep her informed of the progress on the case and he was nothing if not a man of his word.