Intimate Betrayal (19 page)

The rest of the story detailed how he had later torpedoed the rival company by working his people overtime until they produced
a product that was superior to the one that had been stolen. But that was not the part that had stuck in Annie’s
mind. The words she kept hearing now were:
“I don’t forget and I don’t forgive. Sooner or later, I even the score.”

Francesca, his wife, had been unfaithful to him. Perhaps that in itself would not have been so great a sin, since Matt himself
had nearly strayed from his vows in England. But if there had been any other such occasions, he’d been discreet, since Annie
had never heard any rumors that he played around. Certainly he had never publically humiliated his wife the way she had humiliated
him on the night of her death.

Annie remembered the way Francesca had behaved that night—drunk, mocking, laughing acidly at what she described as their sham
of a marriage. It was a pattern he was used to, Matt had claimed. But that didn’t necessarily make it any easier to cope with.
Annie knew from working with her on the cathedral project that Francesca could be difficult. There had been a couple of times
when
she’d
felt like hauling off and smacking her. Carlyle, for all his self-control, was, she knew, a man of deep and passionate feelings.
Could he have snapped, finally, and killed her?

“The irony is that I occasionally did think about killing her.”

Matthew had said that, too. He’d admitted having fantasized about killing his wife.

“Haven’t you ever thought about it? Ridding the world of someone you hate? Or someone you’re angry with or jealous of? Someone
who deserves punishment for some evil they’ve done, but who manages to escape with impunity over and over again?”

That night at his monstrosity of a home, Matt’s account of what had happened on the night of his wife’s death had sounded
honest and convincing. She wanted to believe him,
to trust him. But she didn’t yet know him well enough to see into the corners of his soul.

Anyone could kill, Annie believed, if circumstances combined to drive them over the edge.

Matt Carlyle was no exception.

Annie found the next note on the windshield of her car.

She had spent most of the week at an interior design convention at San Francisco’s Moscone Center on Howard Street. There
on the huge show floor she’d seen exhibits and demonstrations of every imaginable kind of interior fitting, from ventilation
pipes and electrical wiring to New Age furniture and fabric. She had also attended seminars and had lunches and dinners with
prospective clients.

She had parked in an open lot a couple of blocks from the convention center. It usually had space if she got there early.
On the final day of the convention, when she returned to the lot, she saw the large square of paper under the driver’s side
windshield wiper. She thought it was an advertisement until she noticed that the paper was covered with a handwritten scrawl.

Annie felt a jolt of fear. Another note from the poison pen? Was he following her?

Grabbing the paper, she jumped into her car, and locked the door. She started the engine, then switched on the overhead light.
The note read: “Tonight, 8
P.M.,
Coit Tower.” There was no signature, but scribbled in someone else’s handwriting at the bottom were the words: “
PLEASE
come. P.”

She felt relief. This note looked nothing like the work of the poison-pen writer. The ’T,” she decided, stood for Paolina.

She glanced at her watch. It was now 8:30, and it would take her at least ten minutes to drive over to the other side of the
city and up Telegraph Hill. Would Paolina wait that long? Would she have Vico with her?

Annie paid the attendant and pulled out of the parking lot. She drove across Market to the heart of the city, up and down
the hills of San Francisco, wondering what sort of wild goose chase she was on.

This wasn’t a very private spot, Annie thought as she drove up the winding road that, during the day, was usually clogged
with tourists. Even at this time of night there was some traffic. The 210-foot Coit Tower, at the top of Telegraph Hill, was
one of San Francisco’s most famous landmarks. Named after a well-known philanthropist, the tower was a monument to the firefighters
who had battled the blazes that struck the city in the wake of the 1906 earthquake.

The site also commanded a stunning view of San Francisco. On a clear night the city was spread out in a mass of twinkling
lights set like jewels against the velvety darkness. Tonight, though, the sky was cloudy, the visibility poor.

Annie parked in the lot at the foot of the tower and looked around. Seeing no one, she got out of the car and leaned against
the door. Almost immediately she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see a young woman in jeans, a
peasant blouse, and Doc Martens walking toward her. Despite a fragile body, she was a bit thick around the waist. Her condition
was starting to show.

Annie bit back the impulse to simply put her arms around Paolina and hug her. She didn’t want to do anything that might spook
her. “Are you okay?” she asked. “No one’s been able to find you, and we’ve all been worried.”

The girl nodded. She cast a glance over her shoulder toward a beat-up old Chevy parked on the far side of the lot. Was Vico
hiding in that car?

“Where is he, Paolina?”

The girl pressed her hands together and rubbed nervously. “Who?”

“Look, no more games, okay? I’m here to help you, but please, you’ve got to be honest with me.”

She nodded slowly. “We don’t know what to do.” Her eyes darted about. “He is very upset. Giuseppe raised him, you see. He
was like his father. Vico’s real father died when he was a small boy.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“And now he is angry as well. He is frustrated because he must hide instead of taking action, taking revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

“For the murder, of course! He says it’s his duty to kill the person who murdered his uncle.”

“Paolina, the police think he did it himself.”

“Well, that’s a lie!”

Annie’s head was spinning. She was also cold. The city’s famous fog was rolling in from the Bay, and the moist, cool air seemed
to envelop them both. “Let’s get into my car,
where it’s warmer,” she said. “How are you feeling, Paolina? Are you taking care of yourself and of the baby?”

The girl nodded. “I’m fine now. I felt sick at the start, but that has passed. I’m not worried about myself.”

“So where is Vico?” Annie asked again when they were settled in the front seat with all the windows rolled up.

Paolina avoided her eyes. “I can’t say where he is. But he’s safe.”

“And you’ve been with him? Or did your father let you come home?”

She hung her head. “He let me. My mother convinced him, I think. But I don’t stay there much. Vico needs me.”

“Paolina, are you aware that he’s being hunted by the police? He must give himself up. If he’s innocent, his name will be
cleared.”

As she said it, she thought of Matt. He’d been a wealthy and highly respected businessman when he’d been accused of murder.
How much more likely to be charged was a young troublemaker like Vico?

“He can’t give himself up!” The girl said passionately. “He doesn’t want to die like his uncle did!”

“And how
did
his uncle die? Paolina, please. You know what happened, don’t you?”

She shook her head, looking panicked now. “I can’t talk to you. Vico said I could find some way to contact you as long as
it wasn’t while you were at work, so I followed you this morning and left the note. But he insists on talking to you himself.”

Annie nodded. That was fine with her.

“But first you’ll have to give me your promise that you
will not betray us. Vico says his life will be worthless if anybody finds out what he knows.”

Annie considered what she knew about Vico. During the several times they’d met, he’d struck her as a very intense young man.
She had a clear image of his dark brown eyes, which seemed to burn with deep and powerful emotion.

As for Paolina, she was angelic, and her delicate skin was lightly dotted with tiny freckles and skeins of strawberry blond
hair. There was something ethereal about her, and Annie could understand why these two young people were attracted to each
other.

“I’d be glad to talk to him,” she told the girl. “And I give you my word that I’ll tell no one of his location. But please
keep in mind that if Vico has evidence of a killing, he’ll have to go to the police at some point. And if, heaven forbid,
he is responsible for Giuseppe’s death, then I’m sorry, but he must answer for it.”

Paolina shook her head, obviously daunted by the prospect of explaining this to Vico. “He won’t talk to the police. He can’t.
Somehow you’ve got to fix things to keep the police out of it. Can’t you do that?”

“I don’t think so,” Annie said. “I work for an architectural firm. I don’t have any influence with the police.”

Agitated, the girl started to get out of the car. Annie put a restraining hand on her arm. “No, wait, please. I’m trying to
be honest with you, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t do everything I can to help you and Vico. Paolina, you were in the
cathedral when Giuseppe died, weren’t you? Do you know who the killer is?”

The girl bit her lips and looked away, squeezing herself
with her thin arms. “I don’t know. But Vico does. Now I’ve got to go. Don’t try to stop me.” With that she ducked out of the
car.

“Damn!” Annie flung open the door on her side. “Paolina, please, listen to me!” She was afraid that if Paolina got away without
telling her where Vico was, she’d never hear from the girl again.

The fog was even thicker now, and Paolina melted away into it. But Annie could dimly see the old Chevy there in the parking
lot, possibly with the boy hiding inside….

As she approached the car it started up with a roar and careened rapidly around the parking lot. As it whipped past her Annie
saw two people inside, one of them a dark-haired male.

Annie jumped into her car. She wasn’t sure what possessed her—maybe it was the night itself, dark and wet and secretive with
fog. It was the kind of night when strange things happen. She tried to tell herself that this wasn’t her business—that she
ought to forget about it and let the police find Vico—but she felt compelled. She
had
to know what Vico knew. If Paolina was telling the truth, he must have seen the killer.

They couldn’t get too far ahead on the hilly road that wound down from the Coit Tower. Heavens, how fast could he go?

Fast, she realized. Very fast.
Let me just keep them in view. He’s got a hideaway somewhere, and if I keep up with him, he’ll lead me to it.

In her concentration, Annie didn’t notice that the only other car in the Coit Tower parking lot nosed into the street behind
her. As Annie chased Vico westward through the city, she was followed by a gleaming dark sedan.

* * *

The fog lifted suddenly, as it was wont to do, but the improved visibility just encouraged Vico to drive faster, and at some
point Annie realized that she was no match for a macho teenage driver. Vico took risks with that old car that she would never
have dreamed of taking—risks that chilled her, considering the condition of his passenger. Maybe it was better just to let
them go.

At this rate, the impetuous Vico would either crash that car or hit a pedestrian or attract the attention of the very police
that he was trying to avoid.

As they roared into the Pacific Heights district, she fell back deliberately. Let them think they had lost her. Maybe they’d
slow down. Maybe she’d catch up with them if they did. And if that didn’t work, well, maybe Paolina would get up the nerve
to approach her again. She and Vico couldn’t hide forever.

The houses in Pacific Heights were large and lovely. Here, overlooking San Francisco Bay, were the stately homes of some of
the city’s wealthiest residents. Matt lived around here somewhere, she remembered. On the night she’d come, she’d approached
the area from the other direction. His place was on a cross street, no more than two or three blocks away….

Damn, she’d lost them. She came to an intersection and had no idea whether to go straight or to turn.

On pure instinct, she hung a left and accelerated. At the next intersection she turned left again, and up ahead of her she
saw taillights that looked like the ones on the Chevy.

They were moving more slowly now. The street they were on sloped steeply down toward the Bay. Annie fell back even farther.
Ahead, the taillights flashed bright red and remained
that way. She slowed to a crawl. She saw the car turn abruptly into a driveway in front of one of the houses in the next block
and vanish, presumably into a garage.

Annie stopped, confused. She wasn’t entirely sure that it was still Vico’s car she’d been following. But if it was, whom could
a poor boy from the Mission district possibly know in Pacific Heights?

She started looking for a place to park. Parking was always a problem in San Francisco. Street parking was almost always reserved
for residents, and many of the smaller houses had tiny driveways that only the owners were allowed to block.

It seemed that all the residents of this district were at work, their cars jamming the streets, driveways, and even the sidewalks.
But then a new set of red taillights up ahead alerted her to the possibility that somebody might be leaving. She depressed
the accelerator, her adrenaline rushing like a hunter’s. A parking place.
Yes!

Annie pulled up behind the exiting car, her left blinker flashing as she waited for the spot. Expertly, she parallel parked
in a tiny spot with only inches to spare, got out, and locked her car.

She walked along the street as the black mirror of San Francisco Bay reflected placidly at her from the bottom of the hill.

She was looking for a house with a short driveway that, presumably, led to a garage. There were several that fit the description,
but it was difficult to judge distances in the dark. They didn’t seem to be quite as far away as the place where she thought
Vico—if it had been Vico—had turned in.