Accused: A Rosato & Associates Novel (39 page)

Mary hit the gas, expecting to see more houses and stores any block now, but her mind was on the murder. Her gut tensed when she started to think of how easily Neil or a family member could have committed the crime. The inner circle would have known that the presentation ceremony would have been at nine o’clock, so everybody would have been busy preparing for the event and security would have been distracted, too. The killer could have lured Fiona upstairs to the second-floor conference room in a number of ways. He could have simply asked her to meet him, at any point in the evening, making up some pretext. He could have told her it was a detail about the presentation ceremony or about anything else, for that matter. If it was a family member, it would have been simple—and appalling.

Mary remembered that Fiona’s cell phone was never found, and she felt something click in the back of her brain. Neil and the Gardner family would have known Fiona’s cell phone number, so they could even have texted Fiona and told her to come upstairs. Fiona would have run upstairs, leaving her girlfriends behind or maybe even Tim Gage, who was at the party around that time.

The windshield wipers flapped frantically, and Mary kept traveling down the road, sickened by the horrifying scenarios running through her mind. Meantime, the neighborhood was getting worse. There were no people with umbrellas on the sidewalk, and the rowhouses had morphed to vacant lots, cyclone fencing, and empty storefronts. A single car traveled behind her, so at least she wasn’t completely alone. She decided to go a few more blocks and if she didn’t see more lights or activity, to go the other way. Some sections of West Philly could be as confusing to navigate as the warrens of South Philly, and she must have gotten turned around somehow. Evidently, Feet wasn’t the only one with a bad sense of direction.

Mary accelerated despite the weather, her thoughts returning to Fiona’s murder, with a powerful sense of dread. The murder weapon had been a common kitchen knife, and the killer could have obtained that anywhere, even from the kitchen in the office that night. He could have been waiting in the conference room and when Fiona entered, he could simply have walked up to her and plunged the knife into her chest.

Mary felt tears come to her eyes, picturing Fiona breathe her last few breaths, shout with pain, shock, and betrayal, then fall backwards on the floor, terror etched forever into her beautiful young face. The killer would have collected the knife and her cell phone, because he would have known they could incriminate him, then he would have left the room quickly and gone downstairs, without an ounce of suspicion.

Mary drove down the dark, deserted blocks, ahead of the other car, trying to figure out the last piece of the puzzle. She remembered that Lonnie had gone upstairs because he’d heard a woman’s shout, and she pictured him running up to find Fiona and trying to resuscitate her, just after the killer had left. That would have been consistent with Lonnie’s testimony at trial, as well as what he’d told Mary when she’d interviewed him at Graterford Prison.

She cruised ahead in the rain, scanning for a place to turn around, becoming convinced she was heading the wrong way. She wondered if the car behind her was lost, too, because it was still there. Then she had another thought about the case, which struck her as a revelation. If Allegra had been right, that Lonnie knew Fiona and visited her while she was babysitting Allegra, then it was possible that the killer had seen Lonnie at the Gardner house, because Neil and the family worked in the cottage and could have spotted Lonnie on the property, even if the kids had stowed his car in the garage, because the main house was visible from the cottage.

Mary reached the end of the block and took a right turn, putting on her blinker for the car behind her, which seemed to be a dark SUV. She wouldn’t mind leaving it behind, because it was beginning to give her the creeps. She cruised down the narrow street, then took another right turn around the block, preoccupied.

She realized that if Neil or the family member had known that Fiona and Lonnie were seeing each other in secret, then he could have guessed that Lonnie’s phone number would be in Fiona’s cell phone. The killer could have knifed Fiona, picked up her cell phone, and texted Lonnie, telling him to come upstairs and meet her in the second-floor conference room. Lonnie wouldn’t have known that the text hadn’t come from Fiona and he would’ve gone upstairs in a flash. He would have tried to resuscitate her, then run out in a panic, as he had, never realizing that he had just been framed for murder.

Mary hit the gas, glancing in the rearview mirror. The big headlights of the dark SUV popped into view, which seemed strange, unless its driver had gotten lost, too. She hoped she’d get out of the neighborhood soon, and if she’d been driving a nicer car, she would’ve been worried about getting carjacked. She told herself she was paranoid, undoubtedly because she was envisioning an awful murder.

The more Mary thought about her theory of the crime, the more sense it made, and she felt sick to her stomach as she drove. Neil or a Gardner had set up Lonnie Stall for Fiona’s murder, and Lonnie had played into his hands by denying his relationship with Fiona, probably for fear of providing the Commonwealth with a credible motive to murder, which they could use against him. Mary felt the truth of her conclusion with a certainty that resonated within her chest. It wasn’t Tim Gage who had paid Lonnie off, it was Neil Patel. The open questions were who had killed Fiona and why, and Mary was determined to find out, but she would have expert help from now on. She had learned enough about the guilty plea for Gloria Weber to reopen the investigation.

“WHAM!”

Suddenly Mary felt a huge jolt from behind, and everything seemed to happen at once. She flew out of her seat but was caught by the shoulder harness. The Altima leapt forward on the slick asphalt, hydroplaning out of control. She screamed in shock and fear. The airbag exploded, shoving her backwards and hitting her in the face.

She slammed on the brakes, struggling to react. The Altima skidded into a telephone pole, striking the front fender on the passenger side. The crash threw her against the door. Her windshield cracked into a million shards. Her brain rattled, her teeth banged together. The airbag deflated into a saggy mess of warm plastic.

Mary tried to collect her thoughts. She had been in an accident, struck by the SUV. She could hear the loud idling of its massive engine. Its high beams blasted the Altima interior with light, blinding her. The SUV must still have been stuck on her bumper. She remembered she didn’t have a phone to call 911. She hoped the SUV driver would or already had. Otherwise no one else would call, because the block looked dark and deserted in the rain.

She unfastened her shoulder harness, numb with shock. Her head hurt too much to think. She panted, slumping in the seat. Her mouth was oddly dry. She didn’t know if she’d been injured and looked down. She didn’t see any blood or broken bones. Her knees hadn’t hit the dashboard. Her blazer was covered with whitish powder from the airbag. The windshield had shattered but not fallen apart. She hated that she’d crashed Rita’s car. She wondered if the SUV driver was injured. She reached for the door handle, to get out of the Altima and check on him.

“WHAM!”

The SUV crashed into the Altima again. Mary flew forward without the harness. The Altima smashed into a parked car. Her face hit the deflated airbag over the steering wheel. Pain arced like electricity through her nose and mouth. Her thoughts fogged, but she realized it was no accident.

Someone was trying to kill her.

Chapter Forty-seven

Mary glanced in terror at the rearview mirror. The driver’s side door of the SUV was opening. A figure got out of the car, a tall, dark shadow in the downpour. She guessed it was Neil Patel but she wasn’t waiting around to find out. She had to run for her life.

She yanked the key out of the ignition, hit the panic button on the fob, and clambered over the console to the passenger seat. The car alarm went off and the Altima burst into sound. She grabbed the door handle, shoved open the door, and scrambled out of the car. She hit the street running.

“Help!” Mary screamed, though the rain drowned her out. She raced past a darkened warehouse, as long as a city block. Adrenaline coursed through her system. Rain drenched her face and body. Her breath came in ragged bursts. She prayed somebody would respond to the car alarm, but she knew better. She was on her own.

She slipped on the slick pavement but kept her legs churning. She could barely see a foot in front of her. She glanced over her shoulder.

The shadow was chasing her, raising his right arm in a way that could only mean that he had a gun and was taking aim. A red flare burst from its muzzle.

Mary bolted forward. The crack of a gunshot echoed faintly in the rain. She prayed the bullet wouldn’t hit her. He must have missed because she kept running as hard as she could, pumping her arms and legs.

She looked wildly around for a place to hide. There was nothing but the wet brick wall of the warehouse. She didn’t dare run across the street, giving him a clear shot. The blare of the car alarm grew more and more distant. No one was coming, no one was around.

“Help!” she screamed, frantic. She raced to the end of the block. Up ahead was another warehouse, but she spotted a light in one of the rowhouses on the cross street. She prayed somebody inside would hear her and call the police. She veered right around the corner and ran flat out for it, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Crack!
Another gunshot exploded but she was already on the cross street. She raced to the rowhouse. Rain flew into her eyes. She couldn’t see if anybody was home. She couldn’t take a chance and slow her pace or stop. Nobody opened the door of the rowhouse. There was no movement or people in the window.

Suddenly she noticed a vacant lot behind the rowhouses. It was her only hope. She glanced behind her. He hadn’t turned the corner yet. She stopped screaming so he wouldn’t know where she was. If she could reach the lot, she had a chance of hiding. Unless he caught up soon, he wouldn’t be able to see her in the rain.

She accelerated, summoning every ounce of strength, ignoring the pain in her lungs and legs. She reached the vacant lot and fell forward onto the rubble, glass, and other trash.

She scrambled to her feet and flattened herself against the wall, gasping for breath. She tried to think through her terror. She squinted in the darkness for anything on the ground that she could defend herself with. It was too dark to see. She threw herself down on all fours, felt around desperately, and came up with a brick.

Crack!
sounded another gunshot, so nearby that Mary almost cried out in fright. The sound told her that he was approaching. She couldn’t hear his footsteps in the rain, but she spotted his shadow on the pavement, in the light from the rowhouse. His shadow was getting larger, so he was getting closer.

Her heart thundered. She panted in fear and exertion. She couldn’t run forever. She couldn’t outrace a bullet. She couldn’t be defensive. She had to attack. She waited until the shadow loomed impossibly large, then she leapt from behind the wall and swung the brick as hard as she could at his face.

“Arg!” he cried out, in pain and surprise. It was Neil Patel, and the brick had struck only a glancing blow to the back of his head. He staggered backwards, losing his balance. His arms windmilled. He dropped the gun.

“You bastard!” Mary felt a surge of fury and slammed the brick squarely into his nose, hearing it crack.

His hands flew up reflexively. Blood geysered from his nose. He stumbled backwards, collapsed, and fell to the hard pavement, clutching his face.

Mary dropped the brick, picked up the gun, and aimed it at him. Neil was lying on his side in a fetal position. Blood spurted from his wound and ran in watery red rivulets over his face, making a horrifying mask. The gun had a lethal heft, but Mary was a lawyer, not a vigilante, and she needed answers that only Neil had.

“Who killed Fiona and why?” Mary shouted, keeping the muzzle pointed at his temple. “Why did you pay Lonnie to take the fall?”

Suddenly the blare of police sirens cut through the rain. Neil’s head turned away from her, and blood ran into his mouth, darkening his teeth. “I want a lawyer,” he said weakly, then closed his eyes.

“Neil, tell me!” Mary leaned over him and caught the faint ringing of a cell phone. On impulse, she flipped aside his jacket.

“No!” Neil’s arm flailed for the phone, but he was too weak to make contact.

Mary reached into his inside pocket, took his BlackBerry, and looked at its lighted screen, which read,
RICHARD GARDNER
. She pressed Answer and held the phone to her ear.

“Neil?” Richard asked, his tone tense. “Tell me it’s over.”

Mary felt heartsick. Richard had to be talking about Neil’s killing her. So Richard had to be involved in Fiona’s murder, in the slaughter of his own niece. Mary wanted to scream at him in revulsion, but she didn’t answer because she didn’t want to tip him off. He had the money to flee or even leave the country. So she pressed End and said nothing, but she was dying to say:

It’s not Neil, it’s Mary. And it’s not over. It’s just beginning.

Chapter Forty-eight

Mary hurried into the bustling Homicide Squad room at the Roundhouse, Philly’s Police Administration Building, with a uniformed cop who had taken her here from the scene. Her jaw hurt, and she felt shaken and wet, but she wasn’t about to delay giving Weber a statement. Neil Patel had been arrested at the scene and taken to the hospital, but Mary had declined treatment, for the time being. She was the only one who knew about Richard Gardner and she’d made sure that the cops bagged Neil’s BlackBerry, to use as evidence against him. Tonight’s attack had transformed her from lawyer to fact witness, and she prayed that her statement could free Lonnie Stall.

“We should’ve gone to the hospital first,” the cop said, for the umpteenth time. “This isn’t procedure.”