1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (27 page)

The ladies' room felt like a sauna. Warm air blasted down from
a vent in the ceiling. I removed my stadium coat and draped it
over the hook on the door.

In the stall directly across the aisle, a woman cajoled a recalcitrant child to go potty. To my right, another woman multi-tasked.
While doing her business, she gossiped on her cell phone in a voice
loud enough to be heard in the parking garage. As I withdrew
bound stacks of hundred dollar bills from the duffel and placed
them in the tote, I learned more than I cared to about someone
named Eileen, her bladder, her intestines, and her philandering
husband.

Eventually, both my neighbors left and others took their place,
but Ricardo still hadn't called. I pushed up the sleeves of my
sweater, swiped the perspiration from my forehead, and fanned
myself with the folded shopping bag.

More women came, flushed, and left. I glanced at my watch.
Nearly an hour had passed since I first entered the ladies' room.
How long was I supposed to wait?

After another ten minutes I grabbed my packages and coat and
headed for the sink to splash cold water on my face, neck, and
arms. Then I walked out to the lounge.

Another woman, dressed in a pink and purple running suit and
white Reeboks, exited the ladies' room behind me. She scanned the
room before taking up a position several feet away from me.

The couple with the baby and toddler were gone, but the
primper remained in front of the mirror, a good indication that she
was the designated lounge cop. She wore a pair of black jeans, a gray
Columbia University sweatshirt, and a pair of black Nikes. For
someone who had spent the last hour in front of a mirror, her face
was decidedly devoid of make-up, and her hair was pulled back into
a no-nonsense ponytail. Definitely a cop.

I watched her watch me as I deposited my bags and coat on
one of the overstuffed chairs and settled into the one beside it. Uncertainty played across her face. I had revised the script, and I suppose she wasn't sure how to proceed. Too bad. Unless Ricardo was
a fly on the wall, he wouldn't know the difference. Besides, I
couldn't deliver his money if I fell victim to an overdose of blast
furnace heat.

The primping policewoman took a seat as far away from me as
possible but positioned herself in such a way that she had a bird'seye view of me, along with everyone who entered and exited the
lounge. She and the purple-clad woman exchanged glances.

I pulled out my cell phone and stared at the blank display. Ring,
dammit! But will as I might, the frigging phone failed to comply.

More people came and went. Some sat for a few minutes before
leaving. They made phone calls or rearranged shopping bags of
purchases or just rested from having shopped until they dropped.
Others headed straight for the ladies' or men's rooms, then hurried back out into the mall. Several times the two shoppers from
Burberry walked through the lounge to the men's room, then left
as quickly as they'd come.

I continued to check my watch and the display on my phone.
The minutes crept by in slow motion. By eight-fifteen I'd had
enough. I waited until only the purple-clad woman and the
primper remained in the lounge, then announced, "He's jerking
me around."

They stared impassively at me.

"You can drop the surveillance mode," I told them. "We know
why we're all here."

"You shouldn't be speaking to us," said the primper, glancing
around as if she expected Ricardo to materialize from behind one
of the potted plants.

I rose. "I'm not spending all night here. It's obvious he's not
going to call, and even if he does, my cell phone travels with me."

"You can't leave," said the other woman.

"Watch me." I shoved my arms into my coat sleeves and picked
up my purse, the empty duffel, and the money-laden Burberry
tote, but I hesitated. I'd already sustained two break-ins at home.
The last thing I wanted was fifty thousand dollars of police money
sitting in my house all weekend.

I proffered the Burberry bag to the cop in the purple running
suit. "You can give Batswin and Robbins back their money. I don't
want to be responsible for it."
"

I don't think that's a good idea," she said, refusing to accept
the tote.

"I think it's an excellent idea."

"What if the perp comes to your home for it?" asked the
primper.

"I'll tell him I brought it to the bank for safekeeping when he
didn't call as planned."

"The banks are already closed for the night," said the purpleclad cop.

I dropped back into the chair and pulled out my phone and
Batswin's business card. "I'm calling Batswin"

"Don't. I'll call for instructions." The primper pulled out a cell
phone of her own and punched in a number. After apprising the
person at the other end of the situation, she hung up and turned to me. "Take the money home with you, Mrs. Pollack. We'll have
someone follow you and keep an eye on your house."

I didn't like the sound of that, but with both cops refusing to
accept the money, I had no other choice. Leaving fifty thousand
dollars sitting in a mall lounge wasn't a viable option.

I adjusted my purse, the tote, and the empty duffel over my
shoulders. Clutching them tightly against my body, I turned to exit
the lounge. The two women cops showed no signs of tagging
along. "Aren't you going to escort me to my car?"

"Someone else will keep an eye on you," said the primper. "We
don't want to tip our hand in case the perp is lurking somewhere
in the mall."

In other words, my safety took a back seat to their completing a
successful sting. Anger emanating from every pore of my body, I
yanked open the lounge door and headed for the parking garage.

Several times I had the feeling someone was following me. I
hoped it was one of the cops. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed no one paying any attention to me. I quickened my pace
anyway.

Once in the garage, I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy footsteps. This time, instead of taking a look, I broke into a sprint for
the last twenty yards.

After several shaky attempts, I managed to unlock the car. I
threw the bags onto the passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel,
and locked the door before starting the engine.

Taking the circular exit ramp as fast as I could without plowing
into a concrete pylon, I peeled out of the mall and made the normally twenty-five-minute trip back to Westfield in under fifteen. If Ricardo or the police were following me, they were sure taking
their bloody sweet time about it.

I arrived home to a dark house. Totally dark. Not a single light
casting a warm glow from any window. Every hair on my body
jumped to attention. Even though the heater in the Hyundai refused to exhale anything above a piddling lukewarm whisper of
heat, perspiration trickled down my cleavage-challenged chest.

As I parked the car, I tried to convince myself we'd had a power
outage, but the well-lit homes of my neighbors belied that theory.
Unless the main circuit breaker had tripped, and no one knew
how to reset it. I held onto that glimmer of hope even though the
logical half of my brain told me my resourceful kids knew how to
reset the circuit breakers, and even if they had forgotten, they
would have gone next door for help.

Grabbing the flashlight I kept in the glove compartment, I quietly eased out of the car, locked my purse and the fifty thousand
dollars inside, and crept toward the back door. Along the way, I
arced the light across the side of the house to check the basement
windows. All appeared still boarded. At the back door I turned the
knob and found it locked.

I decided to check the windows on the other side of the house
before entering. Fifty-year-old azalea and rhododendron bushes,
planted by the original owners, flanked the east side of the rancher.
In order to check the windows, I had to squeeze between the dense
shrubbery and the house.

By the time I had inspected both basement windows and
fought my way out of the prickly bushes, I was covered with a wintry mix of icy twigs and dead leaves. I considered it a small price to
pay for the satisfaction of knowing no one had broken through my
make-shift Home Depot security system. But if someone hadn't
broken in, why was the house dark? I headed for the front door to
find out.

As I rounded the house, a blaze of searchlights blinded me.
Someone yelled, "Police. Freeze! Hands above your head!"

"WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU guys a few minutes ago?" I yelled at
them.

"Mrs. Pollack?"

I recognized Fogarty's voice. "Mind dousing the glare, Fogarty?
You're blinding me."

"Kill the spot, Harley."

I blinked into the darkness and waited for my eyes to adjust.

"What were you doing prowling around your own house?" he
asked, advancing toward me.

I told him.

"So you decided to play detective?"

"What would you have done? Blithely walk in on who-knowswhat? The creep who's broken into my home twice could be holding my family hostage in there at this very minute. Meanwhile
we're out here playing Twenty Questions."

"You should have stayed in your car and called 9-1-1 on your
cell phone," he said.

"I was going to. As soon as I checked all the windows." Except
my cell phone was in my purse, which was locked in my car, but I
decided not to admit that mistake to Fogarty. Instead, I opted to
go on the offensive. "What are you doing here?"

"We got a call to keep an eye on your place. Seems you're making quite a few enemies, Mrs. Pollack."

More and more, I was convinced I had only one sleazeball
turning my life upside-down and inside-out, but now was not the
time for a discussion on investigative theories. My kids and Mama
could be in danger. And Lucille.

I waved toward my house. "What about my family? They could
be bleeding to death in there."

He walked back to the cruiser to confer with Harley. A moment
later both men approached, guns drawn. Harley carried a flashlight.

"Give me your house key," said Fogarty.

I placed the key in his outstretched palm.

"Stay here," Harley told me. "We'll check things out first."

Fat chance. I was right behind them as they unlocked the door
and stepped into my foyer. My extremely frigid foyer. Without
electricity, the furnace didn't kick on. The power must have gone
out several hours ago for the house to have gotten this cold.

"The switch is to the left," I said, indicating the wall switch
plate with the light from my flashlight, even though I knew it
wouldn't work.

Harley spun around, shining his flashlight directly into my
eyes. "I thought I told you to stay outside."

Ignoring him, I reached for the switch, clicking it up and down
several times. No lights. "The electric panel is in the basement at the bottom of the stairs," I said, pointing the way with my own
flashlight. "A few feet down the wall on the right."

"Wait here. Or I'll cuff you to the banister," said Harley as he
headed for the basement.