A Killer Closet (14 page)

Why
should
the cops be the first to know what's in that vault?
Irene asked herself that question over and over again, but she didn't dare answer it. Whatever she came up with would be a weak rationalization. She didn't want to deal with weak rationalizations. She wanted to find out what was in that vault.

She pulled the paper addressed to Adelle that she'd found at Mariposa from her purse and stared at the nonsensical message. Harriet hadn't been able to understand it any better than she had. Irene thought it odd that the message was meant for Adelle rather than Harriet, since it seemed obvious that Harriet was a closer friend to Susana. At least she and George had been invited to Susana and Miguel's lodge frequently, while Adelle had never been invited.

Irene doubted that Adelle would be able to decipher the message even if she were present. Adelle had never exhibited the patience for word games—no crossword puzzles, no Scrabble, no cryptograms in the Sunday paper. She'd rather spend her time watching the shopping channels on TV.

The longer she stared at the message, the more confusing it became to her, but she couldn't help thinking that if only she could decipher it, she might save her mother's life. That is, unless it was already too late. Once again she pushed that thought from her mind. She wouldn't think of Adelle as being dead, but she couldn't keep away a sense of desperation. She
had
to find her before it was too late.

She told Angel Sunday in the early evening just before the store closed that she'd made up her mind to go back to the Mariposa lodge so he could try his luck at opening the safe. He wasn't surprised. He said he'd already filled his gas tank and would pick her up at dawn.

They were on their way before dawn, but Irene had insisted they take her car.

“How long has it been since you had a gig like this?” Irene asked, as she sped along a nearly empty freeway.

“What? Safecracking?” Angel shrugged. “It's been a while since I've even tried. And I've never had a gig, as you call it. Just worked on that old safe my
compadre
had.”

“You sure you can do it?”

“Of course.”

Irene cut her eyes toward him without turning her head. He was staring straight ahead with a look of youthful confidence.

“Good,” she said, wishing she could feel equally confident.

They made their way through the village of Pecos without stopping. She spotted Rafael's pickup parked in front of a gas pump at the town's only gas station. He stood next to the hose that was filling his tank and waved at her as she passed by. Irene returned the wave, then stopped and backed up her car when she realized Rafael's hand gesture was more than a wave. He was signaling for her to stop. She stopped when she was even with his pickup.

“Irene!” Rafael said by way of greeting when she rolled down her window. He eyed Angel with a look of suspicion.

“I've been waiting to hear from you!” Irene was both irritated and angry—irritated because Rafael hadn't somehow miraculously produced Adelle, and angry at herself for hoping, against her better judgment, that he could.

“I was planning to go to Santa Fe later today to talk to you. Had to fill up first.” He gave the lever on the gas hose two clicks to overfill his tank.

“You have news?” Irene asked, as he replaced the hose on the pump. Her heart raced, eager to hear, yet afraid of what he might say.

Rafael walked toward her car and bent down so his face was close to the open window. “Can't talk here. See you in town tonight. After six. Your house. By the way, are you on your way to Mariposa?”

“Just tell me! Have you found her?”

“Stay away from Mariposa,” he said. “Nice to see you again,” he added, as he walked away.

“What was that all about?” Angel asked. He, along with Irene, watched Rafael climb into his pickup and drive away.

“I wish I knew,” Irene said.

“Want to go back home? In case he shows up early?” Angel asked.

Irene didn't respond at first, weighing what would be best. “No,” she said finally. “At least I have something to do up here rather than just sitting at home and waiting.” She started the car and drove toward the edge of town and the beginning of the wilderness.

The road that had been nearly impassable with mud the last time she'd been on it had now partially dried into deep ruts dotted with the occasional slick mud puddle. It made for slow, treacherous driving.

“You got to get a four-wheel drive if you keep coming up here,” Angel said.

“I have no intention to keep coming up here,” Irene said. “In fact, it would suit me fine if I never saw this part of the world again.”

“Yeah, I know. Bad memories. But it
is
beautiful.” He glanced at the thick pine forest that climbed a steep hillside punctuated with outcroppings of granite.

“I suppose.”

She was exhausted from the slow, precarious drive by the time they reached the lodge, but once she was out of the car, she walked with a long, quick stride toward the massive front doors, eager to get the deed accomplished. She unlocked the door with the key she had never returned to Harriett and stepped inside, followed by Angel.

“Wow!” Angel said, looking around at the enormous entry hall and the grand staircase. “This is some fancy digs!”

Irene moved away from him and opened the double doors leading to the trophy-filled living room.

Angel ignored the animal heads that lined the walls, and his eyes went immediately to the paintings. “The art! Oh, my God, the art! They're originals, I can tell. Can you imagine owning even one of these? It's like the Louvre of western American paintings.”

“Yeah, impressive.” Irene was already on her way to the door that led to the dining room and then the kitchen and the pantry.

Angel hadn't moved. He was still scanning the living room. “Too bad about the dead animals,” he said. “Almost ruins the mood of the marvelous paintings. Although nothing could ruin it completely. These are magnificent.”

“Come on, Angel. The vault's in here.”

His eyes moved once again to the taxidermy. “Not exactly what you'd expect from a couple of Santa Feans. You know, we're all supposed to be artsy and politically correct. Like, no trophies, no furs.”

“I guess if you have enough money you don't have to worry about being politically correct,” Irene said. “Now get your butt over here, I want to get this over and done.”

Angel hurried toward the dining room. “You nervous?” he asked, as he followed her into the kitchen.

“A little, I guess. No! More than just a little. What we are about to do isn't exactly legal, you know.”

“You gotta live dangerously.”

“Who says? I'd be perfectly content with a quiet life of running a store on the plaza.”

“Where you find dead women in your closet?”

“That I could live without.”

“What's that?” Angel said, pointing to a door in the kitchen.

“Follow me.” Irene opened the door and led the way into the pantry and to the back where the stairs went down to the basement and the vault.

“Wow!” Angel said. “That thing's huge. Looks like it belongs in a bank.”

“Is it going to be too much for you?”

Angel didn't answer. He walked with confidence toward the enormous steel doors and studied the lock. He placed his hand on the wheel and turned it several times. His only remark was “Hmm.” Opening the bag he'd brought along, he pulled out a stethoscope and a tablet of graph paper along with a pencil with an eraser on the end.

“You actually use a stethoscope? Just like in the movies?” Irene asked.

“Yes, just like in the movies.” Angel placed the stethoscope on his ears and the bell end on the safe. He turned the dial clockwise then counterclockwise, listening and moving the stethoscope bell minutely several times. From time to time, he made marks on the graph paper, then ripped the page out, crumpled it, and started a graph on another page.

Irene watched intently and had no idea how much time had passed when Angel pulled the earpieces away from his ears and spoke.

“This may take a while. There are some false notches to deal with.”

“What does that mean?” Irene asked.

“It means this thing was manufactured so that it's hard to crack.”

“You mean it's impossible.”

Angel shook his head. “Not impossible. Just not easy.”

Irene waited and watched again until Angel spoke once more.

“Go find something to do. You're making me nervous.”

She left, reluctantly, and searched around for something to read. She found several sports magazines as well as a stack of fashion magazines, an art catalog from a gallery in Phoenix, a few pages from a
Wall Street Journal
crumpled in the log box next to the fireplace. Nothing could hold her interest, no matter how hard she tried to concentrate. She was continually glancing over her shoulder, wondering why Rafael and P.J. had warned her to stay away from this place. Andy had warned her as well, but he was a policeman. It was his business to warn people away from crime scenes. She wandered the house until she found a library room, small and unimpressive. Nevertheless, it held a few fairly current novels she'd been meaning to read. She tried several, but she found herself only looking at printed words and not absorbing anything. Finally, after forcing herself to stay away from the basement for two hours, she gave up and went back downstairs to find Angel.

He was still hunched over the vault, still listening with the stethoscope. His face glistened with sweat, and there was a large damp spot on the back of his shirt. Several sheets of graph paper lay crumpled on the floor, and a half-eaten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich rested on a chair against the wall opposite the vault.

“How's it going?” she asked.

Angel didn't answer. He kept his eyes closed as he listened and moved away from the safe long enough to make a mark on the graph paper. Irene got a glimpse of the paper and noticed that it looked more organized than the other graphs he'd made. There was an
X
axis and a
Y
axis with dots where the two lines intersected.

Angel finally looked at her with an expression that suggested he'd only just noticed that she'd returned. He looked tired. “There's another sandwich in the bag if you want it,” he said.

Irene reached into the bag for the sandwich, grateful for something to satisfy the gnawing in her stomach. “You thought of everything,” she said. “I should have brought something, but it didn't occur to me that it would take this long.”

Angel didn't respond. He'd turned his attention back to the vault. Irene watched him for several minutes more, trying not to be impatient. In spite of the long wait, she was completely surprised when he pulled back from his listening position, grabbed the handle, and opened the vault.

In it were several flat wooden boxes. All of them were marked with four black stenciled letters:
FURS.

Angel gave her a puzzled look. “Susana had a lot of furs, I guess.”

“Not that many,” Irene said. “My guess is—”

She stopped speaking at the sound of footsteps on the main floor above them. The sound grew ever closer, and then she heard the door to the kitchen open. More footsteps until the door to the pantry opened.

Irene signaled for Angel to be quiet and reached for the switch to turn off the overhead light while she stood watching for someone to appear at the top of the stairs leading down to the vault.

There was a moment of silence and then the sound of footsteps moving away. Neither she nor Angel moved for several seconds. Irene strained to listen, trying to determine whether or not the front door opened and closed, but the walls were too thick and solid for her to hear something that far away.

Finally, Angel whispered, “Who could that have been?”

“Someone with a key to the house,” Irene whispered in response. “We did lock the front door when we came in, didn't we?”

“I don't know,” Angel said. “Did we?”

“I'll go see if there's anyone up there,” Irene said. They were each still whispering.

“No!” Angel pushed her out of his way. “I'll go. You stay here.”

Irene watched him in the semidarkness as he started up the stairs, but rather than staying where he left her, she followed him, feeling a surprisingly maternal need to protect him. She stayed several feet behind him as he crept through the pantry and into the kitchen and finally out of the kitchen. When he reached the dining room, he looked around with caution. He was startled when he saw her behind him.

“Madre de Dios!”
he said, forgetting to whisper. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Irene put her finger to her lips, indicating for him to stay quiet, then joined him as they made their way through the dining room, into the living room, and finally into the large entry hall.

Irene held up her hand silently, showing that she wanted him to wait while she went to the front door to open it, but Angel forced himself in front of her and opened the door.

The visitor greeted him with “Shit! You still here?”

Angel tried to close the door, but Rafael already had a foot over the threshold.

“Rafael!” Irene exclaimed. “What's going on?”

“I found Adelle.”

Irene rushed toward him, feeling as if she was going to faint. “Where? Is she all right? Rafael, tell me, is she—”

“She's okay,” Rafael said. “Least I think so, but I gotta tell you—”

“You
think so.
What's that mean?” Irene's voice was high-pitched and frightened.

“Last time I saw her she was still okay. By that I mean she was alive.”

“Where?” Irene grasped his upper arms.

Rafael pushed her arms away and glanced over his shoulder as if he expected someone to enter through the closed door. “I tried to find you in town, but when I saw your store was closed, I figured you'd be here. I told you to stay away. We gotta get outta here.”

Angel lunged toward him. “Tell her, asshole. Tell her where her mother is.”

Rafael deflected Angel's advance with his left forearm and shoved him back with a forceful push. Angel stumbled against the wall. “P.J. has her, you little prick, somewhere up here in the mountains. Now do what I say!
Vamonos
before they find us here.”

“P.J.?” Irene felt blood rush to her head. “P.J. kidnapped her?”

Rafael ignored her question. “There's someone out there!”

Angel glowered at him. “I didn't hear anything.”

“Because you was too busy falling into the wall,
pendejo
!” Rafael said. At the same moment a car door slammed. “Upstairs!” Rafael commanded, as he started for the stairs and signaled that they should follow him up.

Angel pulled Irene's arm and steered her toward he stairs. Irene tried to do his bidding, but a mixture of fear for herself and worry about her mother caused her to stumble. Angel helped her to her feet and herded her up the stairs. They had barely reached the top and turned into the hall out of sight of anyone in the entryway when the front door opened.

Irene heard a voice she didn't recognize. “That way!” the voice said. Then the sound of footsteps walking away.
More than one person walking,
she thought.
How many?
She wasn't sure. She glanced at Angel, who stood next to her, holding her arm, and then at Rafael farther down the hall. He signaled them with a finger pressed to his pursed lips.

They waited, hearing nothing. Irene was barely breathing. Who besides Harriet and her husband had a key to the Delgados' mountain lodge? Why would anyone be here, with Susana dead and Tomas incapacitated?

Silence dissipated with the soft sound of a shoe making contact with the bottom stair. Another quiet, padding sound, and then another, and another. Someone was creeping up the stairs, trying not to be heard. Irene, Angel, and Rafael all three pressed themselves closer to the walls of the hallway, hoping to stay out of sight.

Irene, standing closest to the landing, saw the gun first. It was pointed directly at her face, no more than an inch from her nose. The next thing she saw was P.J. holding the weapon. His eyes widened when he recognized her, and he lowered the gun.

A voice came from somewhere on the stairs. “Bailey! Anyone up there?”

P.J. raised the gun again. “Don't worry, I've got this.”

A man appeared behind him—short, with a stocky build and closely cropped dark hair. His eyes were gray beads in a tanned face. He spoke two words.

“Kill her. The kid, too.”

P.J. didn't move, but he had raised the gun and had it trained on Irene again. Irene cut her eyes sharply to the left and saw that Rafael was no longer in the hallway. He must have slipped into one of the bedrooms.

“I said kill!” the swarthy man said.

“I told you, no more killing unless it's unavoidable.” P.J. still held the gun in her face. “Two dead is enough.”

“Well, this is fucking unavoidable. Kill them or give me the goddamned gun and I'll do it myself.”

P.J. lowered the gun, holding it barrel down along the side of his leg as he turned toward the man. “I make the decisions. You do as I say or the deal's off.” He turned suddenly toward Angel when he sensed his movement, and the gun was now squarely in Angel's face. “Don't move, kid. I'll kill you if I have to.”

Angel backed away, but P.J. didn't lower the gun this time.

“What the hell are we going to do with all these people? That mouthy broad is bad enough, now we got two more?” the man asked.

“I'll take care of it, Sagan. But I'll do it discreetly. No more bodies in closets. You got that?”

“You sure as hell better take care of it!” The man he'd called Sagan said then added, “You check out all these rooms?”

“Get downstairs. Let me handle this,” P.J. said.

“You're full of shit. I'm checking these rooms myself,” Sagan said. He started up the hallway, kicking each door open and stepping inside with his gun drawn. P.J. kept his gun trained on Angel.

“Where's my mother? Why are you doing this?” Irene spat the words at P.J. in a low, trembling voice.

“Shut up!” P.J. said, and turned the gun on her.

“These rooms are all clear,” Sagan said. “I'll check that other hallway.”

As Sagan moved to the other wing of the house, P.J. jabbed the barrel of his pistol at Irene's ribs and barked a command: “Downstairs! Now!”

Angel took her arm and led her down the stairs while P.J. walked behind them. Irene could no longer feel the pistol pressed against her, but she didn't turn around to see whether or not P.J. still had it trained on the two of them. She was too filled with fear, but she was also angry at his betrayal.

“Where's my mother?” she demanded, speaking over her shoulder to P.J.

“Shut up!” P.J. shouted again. “Go to the kitchen,” he said in a quieter tone.

They moved through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen with Angel still holding her arm and with one of his arms behind her back in a protective manner. P.J. stayed behind them. As they entered the kitchen, Irene heard voices coming from the downstairs area of the pantry, where the vault was located.

“Greedy, that's all I can say.” The voice was female. Adelle's voice! Irene felt a flood of relief rush through her. “They had enough money. They didn't have to sell the skins of innocent little animals.” Adelle again—Adelle, who owned a mink coat as well as a silver-fox coat, each a gift from a husband. Now she was defending innocent little animals.

A male voice responded. “Do you ever shut up, you dumb bitch?”

Irene heard a thud and then Adelle's voice crying out. Her instinct was to run toward her mother, but P.J.'s voice held her back.

“Stop, Irene! Don't move until I tell you to.” He stepped in front of her and Angel, but still kept his gun trained on them while he looked over his shoulder toward the pantry door. “What's going on down there?”

“It's cool. Just the mouthy bitch, but she won't be squawkin' much for a while.” He laughed and added, “She'll be too busy spittin' out teeth.

Irene made another quick move toward the basement stairs, but P.J. raised his gun again and met her gaze with a stern expression. “Slowly,” he said. “Put your hands up and walk down those basement stairs slowly.”

Angel and Irene did as he'd commanded, but as soon as Irene saw Adelle's bloody face and the blood seeping through her fingers as she held her hand over her mouth, she ran toward her and dropped to her knees in front of her. A handkerchief suddenly appeared, dangling between them. Irene looked up to see that P.J. was holding the handkerchief by a corner as he offered it to them with the gun still trained on Angel.

“Clean yourself up,” he growled.

“Who the hell's this?” asked the man who had been guarding Adelle. He had the same olive skin as the man called Sagan, but his eyes were dark, and he was thinner and taller.

“Not important,” P.J. said.

“Thank God! You're here!” Adelle said, speaking at the same time. Tears dripped from her eyes, mingling with the blood from her mouth. “What took you so long? Get me away from these awful people, Irene!”

“She knows 'em,” the man said.

Adelle gave the man a disdainful look. “Of course I know her. She's vy daughter.” Her speech was distorted because of her swelling lip.

The man eyed Angel with caution. “Who's that?”

“Sonvone who works for vy daughter. His nane is Jesus, I think.”

“What the hell is this all about?” the man asked, looking at P.J. “Where's Sagan?”

“Upstairs. Checking the place for more people,” P.J. said.

“We got to get rid of these fuckers,” the man said. “How we going to load the goods with all of them around?”

Adelle whispered to Irene, “He's talking avout furs! See all those voxes? Furs! I think they stole then.”

Irene gave her mother a warning: “Shhh!”

Adelle ignored the warning and whispered again. “If we could get then, you could sell then in your store!”

“Adelle! For heaven's sake…”

“Shut up, you two!” the man commanded, as he stood and pointed his gun at the two of them. He glanced at P.J. “We got to get rid of 'em.”

P.J. snarled at him. “I told you before. Leave it to me. I'll take care of it when the time is right.”

“Yeah, like you took care of the old bitch. I shoulda killed her a long time ago. She's driving me crazy.”

P.J. took a menacing step toward the man. “What did I just say?”

The man backed away, holding his hands, palms out, in front of him. “I know, I know. You're in charge until the boss shows up. He ain't going to like all this extra company, though. I can guarantee you that.”

“That's for me to worry about,” P.J. said. “Did you check those crates?” he asked, motioning with his gun toward the boxes in the vault.

Irene watched him carefully, wondering if there was some way she could get the gun away from him. But the other man had a gun too. Maybe Angel could…No, too risky. One slip and they'd all three be dead.

“Why should I check?” the man asked. “I was with the boss when they was loaded up and delivered here. I know we're good. We'll ship 'em out tomorrow, like the boss said.”

“Check 'em,” P.J. said. “Open that top crate there. You know the buyers will check when we deliver. If it's not what they asked for, we're all dead men,” he said.

“Shit!” the man said. “Can't get a minute's rest with you in charge, Bailey. If I was the boss, I'd kick your ass out of this outfit.”

“But you're not the boss, are you, Webster?” P.J. said.

“Okay, okay,” Webster said. “I got a crowbar in the truck. Bring it to me.”

“Get it yourself. I'm staying here with the goods.”

“Shit!” Webster said again, and disappeared up the stairs to the kitchen. P.J. kept his gun trained on Irene, Adelle, and Angel until he heard the kitchen door open and close.

“Now, listen to me, you three,” P.J. said, lowering the gun. “I want you to—”

“It's all clear up there,” Sagan shouted from the top of the stairs. His footsteps sounded like rocks rolling down the wooden steps as he pounded his way down. “Where's Webster?” he asked, looking around as he entered the vault room.

“I sent him on an errand,” P.J. said.

“Okay, well, listen, I got a plan,” Sagan said. “Since nobody else is here. We can take these three out to the woods and off 'em. Nobody's gonna hear a gunshot in these boonies, and even if they do, it's like somebody's huntin' elk, you know what I mean? And the bodies? Piece a cake. Animals, man. Animals. They eat the evidence, man. Like you said, won't be no bodies in closets. Whatta ya say?”

“You're thinking, Sagan,” P.J. said. “Using the old noggin.”

“Yeah,” Sagan said, smiling broadly.

“Don't do it again.”

“What?”

“Leave the thinking to me.”

Sagan's face turned red with anger. “What are you? A pussy? Sometimes I think you're scared to kill somebody.”