Slow Burn (30 page)

He set the pages down and rubbed his eyes, then clicked the intercom. “Reva, would you mind getting me some coffee?”

His sister's soft chuckle sounded as if she was right next to him. “
Café cubano,
brother? Something to keep you up?”

“Anything with lots of caffeine.”

“Coming right up.”

“Thanks.”

He clicked off and studied the clippings again, then flipped through his files on the case.

Vichy had killed his wife. David was certain of that. But it had been a damned near perfect crime. Vichy had been at the yacht club at the time of death the coroner set. Dozens of witnesses had seen him there.

But David didn't care where Vichy had been. He had ordered the crime and paid for it. Unfortunately, he'd done such a careful job of planning it that no one—not the police, the D.A.'s office, or the private investigators Vickie's family had hired—had been able to prove it. The day he was attacked, Danny had been coming to see David to talk about Vichy and see what they could come up with together.

David was rubbing the back of his neck as Reva came in with his coffee. “You look like death warmed over,” she told him, perching on the edge of his desk.

He took the coffee from her, a small cup of rich, thick, syrupy Cuban coffee. It could warm the blood. Maybe it didn't even go into the stomach. Maybe it shot caffeine straight into the veins.

Whatever. It tasted damned good right now. He swallowed it down in one quick gulp.

“You know,” Reva told him, “you keep thinking you can solve this overnight, but you need to be realistic. Look at all the time that's gone by since Danny died. You've got to face up to the fact that his death may never be solved.”

“It has to be.”

“Why?”

“Because Spencer won't be safe until it is.”

Reva hesitated. “Spencer won't be safe, or the two of you won't be able to get on with your lives?”

He looked at her. He started to deny her words, then shrugged. “Both,” he told her.

Reva turned to leave his office. “David?”

“Yeah?”

“A long time ago, I said some not-too-nice things about Spencer.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I take them back, that's all.”

She walked out of the office. David smiled and turned to his work, but the words seemed to run before his eyes. Suddenly he picked up his phone and punched in Oppenheim's number. He had to wait several minutes to get the lieutenant.

“What now, Delgado? When men quit my team, they usually leave me alone!”

“Do me a favor. Get Vickie Vichy exhumed.”

“What?”

“Do it, Lieutenant, please. Somehow.”

“For what? She died because her head was smashed in by a blunt instrument. The weapon was found right by her body, covered with blood and brains, for Christ's sake! We hardly even needed the autopsy.”

“But they weren't looking for poisoning. Maybe something very obscure.”

Oppenheim was silent. “If we don't find something, Gene Vichy will probably sue the whole damned city.”

“I've been going through Danny's personal papers,” David said. “And I've got a hunch. I think he was on to something.”

“Vichy paid a killer. We all know that. We just can't prove it.”

“But I think he did that because she wasn't dying fast enough his way and he didn't dare hurry the process along. Lieutenant, please.”

“I'll think about it, David.”

“Think fast, will you?”

A click was his reply. He had just barely replaced the receiver before Reva buzzed him.

“Willie the Snitch on line two,” she said tensely, well aware that David had been trying to find the man.

“Yeah, Willie! Where the hell have you been?” David demanded. There was silence. For a sinking moment, David thought Willie had hung up on him. “Willie, damn it, you there? I hung around under that damn bridge for hours looking for you, so you'd better be there!”

“Why'd you do that?” Willie asked, perplexed.

“Why? I need information.”

He could almost see Willie shrugging. “From what I hear, you're tight with Huntington's widow. She knows how to get me.”

“What?” David said. His head was suddenly pounding.

“Yeah,” Willie said huskily. “Danny and I were close. He must have made sure she knew how to get me. Maybe she helped him sometimes, I don't know.”

“She contacted you recently?”

“Sure,” he said proudly. “How do you think she knew to go to that cemetery?”

David groaned inwardly, glad Spencer wasn't there right now. He wanted to shake her. But shaking would be bad for her. For her and the baby.

Off the subject! he warned himself.

“Why are you calling me now, Willie?”

“Why were
you
trying to get
me?
”

“You first.”

“I need money,” Willie admitted. “And I've got some information.”

“All right.”

“When do I get paid?”

“You know I'll pay you.”

“Mrs. Huntington pays better.”

“Yeah? Well I'll break your teeth if you don't answer up and accept my meager wage scale,” David warned him.

Willie thought that over; then he sighed. “You're persuasive, Delgado. What I know is this—Ricky Garcia has had a man watching the Huntington house ever since Spencer Huntington moved back into it.”

David clenched his teeth. “I know that, Willie. The man is dead.”

“You killed him?”

“No. He died in jail.”

“How?”

“Hanged himself.”

“Yeah, well, maybe.” For a moment Willie sounded worried. “But what you should know is that Ricky wants
you
dead. He's mentioned it a few times, and you know how that works.”

“I can take care of myself. What else?”

“Well, sources say he just wants to talk to Danny's widow. That he has information he'll give to her but not to any cops.”

“I'm not a cop anymore.”

“Doesn't matter. You still smell like pork to Ricky.”

“That everything?”

“Yeah. You keep an eye on her, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean a good eye. All the time.”

“All right. Willie—” David began, but the line went suddenly dead. He stared at the receiver.

A good eye. All the time.

Even with Jimmy on the job, he suddenly felt uneasy. He stood up, knocking half the papers off the desk, and left his office quickly, telling Reva on the way, “I'm going over to Montgomery Enterprises. I'm not sure how long I'll be. If you need me and I'm not there, try the car phone or Spencer's number.”

He was out of the office and in his car in a matter of moments.

He hit the school traffic. By the time he reached Montgomery Enterprises, neither Spencer's car, nor Jimmy's, was in the lot.

He leaped out of his car quickly and rushed inside. He stopped in front of Audrey's desk.

“Where's Spencer?”

“Really, Mr. Delgado, doesn't Mrs. Huntington deserve
some
privacy? Anyway, one of your watchdogs is already on the case,” Audrey told him, then frowned. “Is something wrong? Perhaps I can find her for you if you'll explain to me what's happening.”

Sly was standing by his office door. He had heard the whole exchange and didn't seem to need explanations. “She went home to meet with her realtor. She had to change a few of her financing plans.”

“Thanks,” David said, starting out again.

“David!”

David turned at Sly's concerned call.

“
Is
anything wrong?” Sly asked.

David grinned. “Nope. Just thought I'd get back on the job myself and give Jimmy a break.”

As he started out, Jared emerged from his office. “Something wrong, David?” he asked.

“Nope,” David replied lightly, offering a smile and a dismissive wave. He never quit walking, his pace becoming quicker with each stride.

David didn't believe in hunches. But he'd been a cop for a long time. He
did
believe in gut instinct. And right now his gut instinct was somehow urging him on.

He swore at the traffic all the way to Spencer's house.

As he drove up to her place, his heart began to pound deafeningly in his ears, and his palms began to sweat. He jerked the wheel, screeching his way onto the embankment in front of her house, drawing his gun.

And then he started to pray.

B
eing at the office just hadn't felt right. Not after Jared's confession. All she could think about was Danny's office back at the house.

David had thought the files there were important, but he hadn't taken all of them. Maybe she could put something together from what was left.

She reported to Sly and Audrey, then walked out to the parking lot. Jimmy was waiting. “Hey, Jimmy. Back to the house.”

“Okay.”

She hesitated. “Don't you get just about bored silly watching me all the time?”

He grinned. “Naw. I've had much worse cases.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I've had to watch some really ugly women.”

“Oh,” Spencer said.

“It was just a joke,” Jimmy assured her.

“Okay, then. Home, James.”

She drew out into traffic. A school bus was in front of her, but it didn't matter. She was in a fifteen-mile-an-hour zone, and she wasn't in any kind of hurry.

The school bus started forward and Spencer followed. Then another bus drew up behind her. She was sandwiched between the two, with Jimmy stuck somewhere behind her.

The traffic began to inch forward once more and she inched ahead with it.

Finally she was able to turn off onto her own quiet street. She drew into her driveway, frowning as she got out and noted that Jimmy hadn't caught up with her.

A new-model black Mercedes drove up behind her, blocking her in.

Spencer looked around. The neighborhood was silent. Dead silent. There were no gardeners around. No children playing outside. Her neighbors were still at work.

She stared at the Mercedes, then started backing toward her house. Her keys were in her hand, but she would never make it to the door and open the lock in time.

Two men got out of the Mercedes and began walking quickly toward her. Spencer started to scream, then turned and ran, determined to make it through the door or wake the dead, one or the other.

She wasn't exactly tackled. Each man simply caught one of her arms. She struggled but found herself turned around anyway, facing a third man.

Slim, well-dressed. He was decent enough looking, but somehow slimy.

“Don't be afraid. I've only come to talk with you, Mrs. Huntington,” the slim man said. “I am Ricardo Garcia, and I know that you have heard of me. You will get in the car now.”

Spencer inhaled. “No!” she said succinctly. She was shaking like a windblown leaf, terrified, and her knees were threatening to buckle.

But she wasn't going anywhere with him. If he was going to kill her, he was going to have to do it right here, and she was going to claw the skin off of someone and leave the cops something to work with.

“Mrs. Huntington, I only want to talk. I want to help you, and then I want to be left alone to pursue my business.”

“Your business is murder.”

“Sometimes men need to die,” he said regretfully. “But not your husband.”

“Where's Jimmy?” she demanded.

“The young man who was following you? He met with an accident.”

She swallowed hard, tears stinging her eyes. “If you've hurt him—”

“A
minor
accident, Mrs. Huntington. His wheel blew out. His car has merely run off the side of the road. He will be fine. Now, I have offered you good faith. You will please come along with me.”

“I will not—” she began. She stopped when Garcia moved closer.

He was exquisitely dressed in a beige silk suit, and his voice was as soft as the fabric when he said, “I said please.” Then he drew a large revolver from a shoulder holster beneath his jacket and brought it to her temple, indicating that his men should step away.

“
¡Madre de dios!
You
will
come with me!”

The other men hurried to the car, one opening the driver's door, the second opening a back door. Garcia urged her to follow them.

Just as she was about to be forced into the car, she heard a screeching sound. David's car careened onto the embankment in front of her house, and he leaped from the vehicle, both hands on the gun he was leveling at Ricky Garcia.

“Let her go!” he shouted.

Garcia paused, then said something in Spanish very softly. Both his men aimed guns at David.

“I'll kill you, Delgado,” Ricky Garcia said in English, just as softly. “Alfonso will put a bullet through your head. Louis will tear open your heart. Now, get out of my way.”

“Let her go!” David repeated furiously.

“You'll die!”

“Then I'll fucking die, Garcia, but so will you. You know me. I can pull this trigger while those assholes of yours are still thinking. I'll hit you right between the eyes before you can twitch, and you damned well know I can do it.”

“You'll still die.”

“And I won't give a damn! Let her go! Do it!”

Spencer barely dared to breathe, crushed against Ricky's side, feeling the metal of his gun against her temple. She was going to fall any second, she thought, whether she was shot or not.

Garcia's hold on her suddenly eased, and he shoved her forward, right into David's arms. She was trembling so hard that she could barely walk but she forced herself to dredge up some strength, knowing she couldn't falter.

David shoved her behind him, his gun still trained on Ricky.

“You got something to say, Garcia, say it now!” David demanded.

“All right, I'll say what I know!” Garcia spat out. He smiled, looking at Spencer. “I didn't kill your husband, Mrs. Huntington. But my life has been hell ever since he died! Ever since you came back to town. So, yes, I have watched you. Carefully. Your husband was a smart cop. But not smart enough. You are not looking close enough to home. You want to know who killed Danny? Start looking around you. ¡
Comprende,
eh, Delgado?”

Ricky turned then and slipped into his car. The other men kept their guns trained on David, who kept his on them, as they got into the black Mercedes.

The car's souped-up motor was gunned. It spat and roared, and the Mercedes shot out of the driveway.

“You all right?” David asked her huskily.

Spencer nodded. Good God, he was always coming to her rescue. She gasped, “I'm all right, but Jimmy…! Garcia said he was alive, but there was an accident—”

“Let's get in the house,” David told her.

She tried the front door, her fingers shaking. He started to take the keys, but she managed to make the right one work, and they went inside.

David headed straight for the phone. Spencer watched as he dialed.

“Who are you—”

“Jimmy's car. No answer. Shit!” Then there was a pounding on the door.

“Spencer. Oh, Jesus Christ.
Spencer!
”

She had opened the door by then. Jimmy, a bruise on one cheek, streaks of sweat sliding down his face, stood on the porch. panting.

“I ran,” he told her. “Oh, God, I ran—”

“It's all right,” David said, stepping past her.

“How the hell did you know to come?” Jimmy demanded, staring incredulously at David. “I couldn't call you. The phone was smashed. The whole damned side of the car was smashed. If I'd had a passenger…”

“I'll call the cops,” Spencer said. “They can look for Garcia.”

“It was Ricky Garcia?” Jimmy asked, still breathless. “Oh, God—”

“He's gone now,” David said.

“Oh, God!” Jimmy repeated.

“It's all right!” Spencer told him. “You did your best.”

“Not good enough.”

“Jimmy,” she murmured, “I'll call the cops. Some poor fellow on the beat will go crazy when he finds your car and no driver in it.”

“I'll take care of it,” David said. He took the receiver from Spencer's hand. “They're getting very accustomed to crazy calls coming from me.”

“I'll, uh, get Jimmy some water,” she said.

 

Later David started prowling through the files again, and Spencer did the same, but they didn't speak much.

Jimmy had gone with the cops to see that his car was towed and to describe the accident. David had already given an account of their run-in with Ricky Garcia.

Jerry Fried had come out on the call, reminding Spencer of a very tired, sad Eeyore from
Winnie the Pooh
as he listened and wrote in his notebook. “I may be able to have him arrested for assault, but he's got sharp lawyers. I won't be able to keep him very long.”

“I know. Just do your best.”

“I'm still homicide, you know. This isn't really my beat.”

“This
is
homicide! It's about the death of Daniel Huntington.”

“By the book, Delgado, it was an assault.”

David snapped. “It was attempted kidnapping as well. Fried, do what you can. Just remember, it was your partner who got killed that morning.”

Now the light was fading, and Spencer and David were alone. She was already cramped from sitting on the floor, but it was the best way to spread things out.

“What's this?” David asked her suddenly.

Spencer looked up. “What?”

“There's some scribbling on this clipping—it's from the Living section of the paper, on a benefit performance by the ballet. Vickie Vichy was in attendance. But Danny wrote something here. I can't quite make it out, but the main number for Montgomery Enterprises is written next to it.”

Spencer rose and stared at the clipping, intrigued, filled with hope. Then she sighed, disappointed. “It just says, ‘Audrey.' My secretary. He must have been calling me. The number is where I work, and Audrey is how you get me.”

“Oh.” David set the paper down and stretched, easing the cricks in his neck. Then he leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. “Back to the drawing board,” he murmured.

“David?”

“Yeah?”

“I—I was terrified when Ricky Garcia had that gun to my head today. But more than that, I'd never felt more helpless.”

He looked down for a moment, then met her eyes. “Spencer, I swear, I'll never let you be alone like that for so much as a minute again.”

“David! No one can promise that. If you tried, it wouldn't be fair. I—I want you to teach me how to shoot.”

“Spencer, you've never held a gun. They can be dangerous when you don't know—”

“That's the point. I want to know. David, I need this. Please.”

He stood up. He wasn't getting anywhere with the files. “All right. Let's go. You got a weapon?”

“Danny's Glock. I think I was supposed to have returned it, but I left town.”

“Get it.”

He thought about bringing her down to the police target range. Despite regulations, he could probably slip her in. He decided against it and took her to a gun club out west on Eighth Street.

She listened. She did well. But he wasn't happy about the situation.

“This child could be born with hearing problems,” he joked, trying to dissuade her.

She didn't miss a beat, just aimed and fired. “But at least it might have a chance to actually
be
born this way.”

“Ricky Garcia told you to look closer to home,” he said suddenly. “Who close to you might have been involved with Danny's death?”

This time, her aim was off. Way off.

“Spencer?”

She shook her head. “Ricky Garcia is a murderer and a thief. Why would I believe anything he has to say?”

“I don't know,” David said smoothly. “So why do you?”

“I don't!” she exclaimed.

He took the police Glock from her, checked the safety and steered her from the target area. “Enough for tonight. It's late.”

As he drove to her house, something kept playing on his mind. He couldn't quite touch it. Maybe that was good. It kept him from brooding about his relationship with Spencer.

He went into the house with her and locked the door. “Maybe you should stay away from work this week.”

“I can't stay away all week. I've got meetings. Sly needs me.”

“Sly needs you safe and alive.”

“But, David, if I completely stop my life, whoever killed David has won.”

He was quiet.

“David, I was good with that gun. I'll keep it with me at all times.”

He sighed. “I drive you. Everywhere you go.”

She nodded.