Primed for Murder (26 page)

“Why are you telling me all this, Artie?” Toby asked.

“Because I need your help, Tom. I’m willing to pay for it.”

“I’m a little slow today. Better spell it out for me.”

“I need an edge. I need ammo to use against Dezi when we break up officially.”

His dark eyes drew Toby’s gaze. “Best thing would be to find a guy she’d go for who’d take her off my hands, permanent. Second best would be to catch her in bed with a guy. Then she’d be half to blame for the split and I’d be off the hook. See?”

“You want me to be that guy?” Toby’s voice was mouse-sized.

“Why not? Take your pick: get her to fall for you or just fall into bed with you. She’s ripe for it, I can tell.”

“Why me? Plenty of other guys would jump at the chance.”

“It was hearing you two laugh, seeing you together that gave me the idea.” He spread thick hands in appeal. “There’s nobody else I know, nobody else I trust that isn’t connected somehow to the boss.”

“You trust me? You don’t even know me.”

Artie rose. “Let’s put it this way: I’m willing to buy your trust.” He opened a side door of the desk and looked to be fiddling with a safe dial. He produced a fat bundle of bills. “How’s five thousand?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Was there something in the air that people kept offering him large sums of money?

“You don’t have to really care about her. Hell, you don’t even have to sleep with her if you don’t want. This is just business, won’t bother me either way—your call. Just get in bed with her long enough for me to snap some photos.” Artie added another stack of currency. “Ten thou?”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Dead serious, Tom.” Another inch of money was laid out. “Fifteen.”

Toby was tempted. The opportunity to curl up alongside Dezi Colangelo was inviting: unlike Artie, Toby had a weakness for slender women. Besides, the money could open all sorts of doors. But how would he feel about it afterwards? Could he look at himself in a mirror again? What would Dezi think of him? More to the point, what would her ruthless mobster dad think of Toby, the wedge that supposedly drove his precious daughter and her husband apart? How would the old man react? What was it that his dead father used to say? “Deal with the devil and you’re bound to get burned.”

“I can’t,” Toby said. “It’s not right.”

“Would twenty thousand make it right?” Artie’s bandaged hand brought forth more money as if there was an inexhaustible supply readily available. “It’s important to me, Tom. If I get a nice, smooth separation from Dez, I can hang onto my job with the company. And I can be with Annie out in the open.”

“Annie?”

“My girlfriend. We been seeing each other in secret for seven years now.” Grinning, Artie drew a thick-waist hourglass with his hands. “A nice, big, comfy girl.”

“I’d like to help you—”

“Twenty-five.” A note of pleading crept into Artie’s voice. “Think, Tom, how long would it take you to earn twenty-five G’s painting houses. And you’d have me as a friend for life.”

That was the clincher for Toby. Who needed friends like Artie? “What would you do if I declined the offer?”

Artie blinked, as if he hadn’t considered that possibility. “I’d have to think of something else. Thirty thousand?” It was a half-hearted offer, as though he knew he’d already lost the deal. “Fifty thousand?”

Toby knew every man had his price and he didn’t want to stick around to see what number would buy him. He put his glass on a corner of the desk and rose. “I can’t.” He started for the door, half-expecting Artie to stop him, but the other man didn’t move. “Sorry, no matter how much you offer, the answer’s always going to be the same. No.”

Artie stopped stacking money and nodded. “I understand. I respect that.” He flipped a small card and Toby caught it. “That’s my cell phone, in case you change your mind. Call anytime, Tom.” He lifted his injured hand in a dismissive wave.

Toby could scarcely believe he was being allowed to leave in one piece. “Thanks for the drinks.” The snap when he unlocked the door startled him like a gunshot. He made it into the hall, hands trembling, knees shaking, back cringing in anticipation of a bullet.

Somehow, he managed to climb into his truck and pull away from the curb without running over anything. Toby drove around in a fog, trying to sort out everything that had just happened. He spotted a bank of pay phones at a supermarket and pulled over to call the police. French and Dixon were out, so he read phone numbers he’d collected from the Colangelo house to someone at the other end who had a problem confusing “five” and “nine.” The man kept saying he didn’t get what this was all about and did the detectives think he was their personal secretary, or what?

Feeling the need to lighten his load before looking for a place to call home for the night, Toby dropped into an Onondaga Savings branch. He rented a medium-sized safe deposit box, into which he crammed the bric-a-brac from Mrs. Cratty and James Puterbaugh’s reconstituted manuscript. He left with yet another key to hang on his chain. It was getting crowded, with the truck ignition key, three to his old apartment and garage, others for Dezi’s home and the Buckley Road house.

Nice place, that old house. Why should he give it up, scramble for a new bed, just because somebody had made a crank call? To hell with them! He was tired of all the moving he’d done the last couple of days. Tonight, he’d sleep where he pleased and damn the consequences.

Having made up his mind, he treated himself to Chinese at a high-class restaurant on Erie Boulevard East, then headed north.

In the mailbox at the Buckley Road house were an original and a carbon of a typewritten rental agreement. It allowed Toby to live there a month at a time and promised the return of his deposit if he didn’t destroy the place. A stick-on note, written in large, friendly letters and signed by Luci with a little heart over the “I,” advised him to sign and return one copy. A stamped, addressed envelope was provided.

Inside, nothing had changed. No time bombs. No booby-traps. Nobody was waiting in a closet to spring out and pop him. Toby checked everywhere, tiptoeing from room to room with a hammer ready in one hand, a linoleum knife in the other. After finishing the top-to-bottom search without incident, he felt foolish. Better safe than sorry, though. He put his possessions where they belonged in the house, locked doors and windows, brushed his teeth and went to bed.

He slept restlessly, writhing in the folds of sweat-dampened sheets and dreaming that snakes were coiled around his body.

Chapter 22

At nine o’clock next morning, after receiving no answer to his knock, Toby let himself into the Colangelo house and announced his presence. Nobody home—maybe Dezi had gone out of town as she’d suggested. Just as well: a man could resist only so much temptation.

He used the opportunity to finish bugging the place. All rooms upstairs had plug-in outlets but not all had phones. The modern, multi-line desk unit in Artie’s office had different numbers than the TV room phone downstairs. The only other phone was part of a realistic-looking New York Giants football helmet behind the closed door of a sports-motif bedroom, obviously young Art’s. The phone wasn’t plugged in, but French had said to get them all. This one had yet another different number written beneath the handset. Gently working the blade of a tiny screwdriver back and forth in the crevice where the receiver’s plastic halves snapped together, Toby scanned the room. It had been half-prepared for painting. A welter of team pennants sat heaped atop a child-sized desk. A Jets wastebasket was stuffed with tennis balls, football, soccer ball and baseballs. Curled posters, formerly taped or tacked to walls, lay on the stripped single-bed mattress. Framed, autographed photos stood on the shelves of a small bookcase. Toby looked at the pictures: a high-scoring Rangers forward, a big-name Yankee, now retired, the Giants’ current quarterback and the Knicks’ All Star center. Somebody had pull.

He called the police, using the office phone—damned if he’d duck out to perform this chore—to report new phone numbers he’d collected. Dixon and French were out again and a man who took the information didn’t know when they’d return.

Toby went to the third-floor game room where he sanded mudded joints smooth, brushed walls free of dust and slapped on the first coat of paint. Then back down to the second floor where he set to work covering the beige walls of a large, square bedroom with primer. He worked steadily, pausing only for a brown-bag lunch he’d fixed, and by four o’clock had all but the office, the master bedroom and the two upstairs bathrooms ready for final coats.

Quitting time.

As he was cleaning up he heard the door open below. Voices of a man and woman filtered up. Footsteps sounded on stairs. A moment later, Dezi appeared in the doorway of the room where Toby was dunking brushes and rollers in thinner. She had on a lightweight off-white summer dress and her hair was up. “Hi, Toby,” she said coolly. “Done for the day, are you?”

Over her shoulder appeared a good-looking guy with shaggy blond hair, a couple years younger than Toby. He wore a pastel-blue tank top that matched his eyes and showed off muscular chest and arms. He had a tattoo of a dragon on one biceps, a human skull wearing a crown of barbed wire on the other.

“This is Mark.” Dezi gestured to the blond. “Mark, Toby.”

Mark smiled and raised a callused hand in greeting. “Isn’t that little lisp the cutest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Dezi smirked. “Oh, you.” She patted Mark’s well-padded pectoral. He made a big production out of pretending to be hurt.

Toby said, “I’m done priming all the empty rooms on the upper floors. If the furniture’s cleared out of the office and master bedroom and the baths are emptied, I can start on those tomorrow while the first coat’s drying.”

“I’ll try to get someone to handle it,” Dezi didn’t seem concerned.

“I’m in the trades, too,” Mark volunteered. “Plumbing.”

“Artie sent him over early this morning to take care of a leak in the master bath,” Dezi said. “I didn’t even know there was one.”

So, Toby thought, Artie had gone with Plan B—same as Plan A, but with different personnel—and had rounded up a willing stud. For a second he considered informing Dezi of her estranged husband’s plot but kept his mouth shut: not his problem.

Mark gazed around as if he could see hidden troubles. “These older houses have lousy wiring, bad plumbing, crappy sewers. You never know what’s going to crop up.”

“We discussed details of the job over coffee.” Dezi gazed up at the man beside her. “Mark finally agreed to perform the work.” Out of the corner of his eye, Toby saw Mark spread a large hand over Dezi’s butt and squeeze. She didn’t pull away. “Let’s look at that pipe now, shall we?” Dezi walked out of sight, heading towards her bedroom. Her voice drifted back. “See you, Toby.”

Mark lingered long enough to say, “I’d stay and talk shop but I got heavy plumbing to do.” He winked and flashed a broad grin, revealing what looked like a hundred perfect teeth, then whisked after Dezi.

When Toby walked into the hallway minutes later, the master bedroom door was shut but he heard water running. He shook his head, daydreaming of missed opportunities, and slouched from the house.

Somebody hissed at him as he exited the gate. Toby turned his head towards the sound. Artie Colangelo, in light-colored slacks and formfitting lime-colored short-sleeved knit shirt, beckoned from the corner of the garage. Toby thought of jumping into his truck and speeding away, but knew he’d be caught in a couple blocks if Artie were on to him. On the other hand, if Artie happened to be still in the dark, he’d only become suspicious if Toby took flight.

It was a no-win situation. Toby swallowed a sigh and slumped to where Artie hid.

Beside the ape-shaped man hulked a tall, skinny customer with dark, lanky hair, wearing sneakers, greasy black jeans, a faded T-shirt and sunglasses. The skinny man held an expensive-looking camera fitted with a zoom lens. He adjusted the neck strap, peered through the viewfinder and fiddled with settings.

“You see them, Tom?” Artie said. “Dezi and Mark?” He didn’t bother introducing the second man.

“They just went into the master bathroom to check a leak.” Toby wanted to bite his tongue, feeling like he’d betrayed Dezi.

“We’ll give them time to get comfy.” Artie’s gaze was glued to the house. “Then surprise!” He glanced at Toby, put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Could’ve been you in there, Tom, shagging Dezi for a pot of money. Least you can say you don’t come cheap. I bought Mark’s services for a measly five thou. Better him than you. You got principles, Tom, whatever they’re worth.”

Artie studied the face of a gold watch circling his wrist. “Let’s go,” he snapped to the man with the camera. The skinny man nodded wordlessly and came out of the shadows to slink toward the front door. Artie gave Toby a polite shove. “Better blow, Tom. I don’t recommend sticking around for the fireworks.”

Toby didn’t have to be told twice. He beat a hasty retreat to his truck parked in front of the Colangelo house. As he started the engine, he couldn’t resist a last glimpse. The two men tiptoed across the porch, one short and broad, the other tall and skinny. Artie used a key, swung open the door and waved the skinny cameraman inside. The door closed and Toby hit the accelerator, nearly creaming a passing Cadillac. He burst into sweat as he began driving fast in no particular direction. His hands felt numb on the wheel. It was tough to concentrate on the road.

He wondered what would happen. After snapping compromising photos of the faithless wife and her lover to show his father-in-law, Artie the practiced murderer, might change the script and shoot Dezi dead. Would Artie try to hide his crime or claim he’d done it in a fit of jealous passion? He’d have to kill Mark, too, to make it look good. And maybe knock off the cameraman as well, once pictures were developed, to make sure no witnesses talked. According to the police, he was good at that sort of thing. Whatever happened, Toby was well out of it.

He thought of relaying his suspicions to the cops. But what could they do? It was probably too late to save Dezi and the others if Artie had homicide in mind. He felt depressed at his helplessness, his cowardice. The only cure for that was good food and drink.