No Reservations Required (20 page)

“Why didn’t you call me? I could have sent a squad car.”

Now Bram was outraged. “I told you about Chris this morning. You said I had to wait twenty-four hours before it became a police matter.”

“Baldric, you are a true work of art, you know that? Tell me what the gun looked like.”

“It looked like a gun. It was metal. Ugly. Like I said, it was lying on the front seat next to a plastic Coke bottle. There were a couple of other Coke bottles scattered on the floor. The guy’s a pig. What can I say. Maybe he used them for target practice.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the bottoms were blown out.”

Al exploded. “Jesus, Baldric. Why didn’t you say that right away?”

“Say what?”

“Hang up the damn phone and bring the woman in.”

“Are you going to take care of the storage garage?”

“I will as soon as you hang up!”

Bram cut the line. He returned to the car a few minutes later with a cup of hot coffee and a couple of candy bars. “Sustenance,” he said, handing it all to Chris.

“You’ve got to hear this,” said Sophie.

“Hear what?” said Bram, climbing back in the front seat.

Chris began slowly. She seemed calmer now, but dazed. “He only married me so I would give him an alibi.”

“Chris—” said Bram.

“It’s okay. I know I’m a fool. I guess I’ve known it all along.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Sophie.

“No?” She looked out the window. “Then who should I blame? I was making us some breakfast this morning when Phil must have knocked me out. Next thing I remember, we were in my car and I was all tied up. God, I was so scared. Phil was silent all the way to the mini storage place, but once we got inside the garage and he’d closed the door, he slipped back into the front seat and started talking.

“He told me he’d killed Ken Loy because Loy killed his sister, Valerie. The lawsuit he’d filed against him wasn’t going anywhere, and besides, he said, it was too slow. He’d been watching Loy for months. He knew all his habits. He was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment. And then we went to that movie. I chased Phil out, told him to go sleep in the car. But when he got outside, he took off. He drove to the mini storage lot. He keeps one of his construction company trucks there. It’s fairly close to where Loy lived. Maybe he planned that, too. I don’t know. Anyway, he found Loy riding down Shepard Road, so he pulled up next to him and shot him. He was feeling really pumped about what he’d done, so he cruised over to Bob Fabian’s place to tell him the good news. Apparently Bob didn’t feel the same way Phil did. He tried to call the paramedics, but Phil shot him before he could finish the call. Then he drove back to the storage garage, exchanged the truck for his car, and headed back to the theater.”

“So it
was
Phil,” said Bram, feeling vindicated. “I knew the police had arrested the wrong guy.”

“But see, there was a problem.”

“Irazarian?” asked Bram.

“Right. Seems he’d just learned that day that he was about to be fired. So he went to Bob’s house that night to talk to him. But as he was about to ring the doorbell, he heard a muffled gunshot. Next thing he knew, Phil was charging out the back door. Irazarian followed him all the way back to the storage unit. It didn’t take him long to put it all together. That’s when he called Phil, tried to blackmail him with what he knew. That was a big mistake. Phil said he met Irazarian yesterday morning and agreed to pay him a bunch of money to keep his mouth shut. He was supposed to deliver it last night around nine. But he got to the motel early.”

“Phil murdered Irazarian?” asked Bram.

Chris nodded. “He told me he hadn’t decided what to do with me yet. That he’d be back. I knew he couldn’t keep me around, not after telling me everything he’d done. But it was like . . . like he was proud of it. Like he needed to crow about it. And the only person he could safely tell was somebody who wasn’t going to be around long.”

Sophie put her arm around Chris’s shoulder. “It’s over now.”

“Is it?” asked Chris. She shook her head. “I wish that were true. But until they find Phil and put him behind bars, my life isn’t worth two cents. And even then, I have a feeling Phil’s reach is a long one.”

33

On Friday morning, Andy was informed he was no longer under arrest. As he was being processed out, he noticed that there were a number of reporters milling around outside in the hallway. Some he recognized. Others just had that lean and hungry look. The clerk on the other side of the counter shoved a bag of Andy’s belongings across to him and asked him to check to make sure everything was there. Cell phone. Car keys. Wallet. Watch. Wedding ring. He signed the receipt.

Nobody was waiting for him and that was probably for the best. Ray Lawless had left a message saying that he’d be in touch later in the day to discuss Andy’s questions. Andy didn’t have any questions— at least, none that a lawyer could answer.

Once out on the street, he hoofed it to the Times Register Tower. It was only a short walk, a matter of a few minutes. It felt good to breathe fresh air after being locked in a cell all night. The secretary in his office looked surprised to see him when he sailed through the door. He nodded to her, but didn’t stop to talk. He had business to take care of and didn’t have a lot of time.

For the next few hours, a steady stream of staff entered and left his office. Everyone congratulated him, insisting they knew all along that his arrest had been a mistake. The men slapped him on the back; the women smiled. A few wanted to shake his hand. Andy was an officially innocent man. And with that innocence came the realization that he was now the true owner of the paper. All power resided in him. Under other circumstances, Andy might have enjoyed the chorus of cleverly camouflaged sucking sounds that emanated from his staff. Everyone wanted to have a drink with him, or coffee—or invite him to dinner. By noon, he’d seen everyone he needed to see. Arrangements had been made.

On the way out the door, he told his secretary to take the rest of the day off. Next week would be exceptionally busy and he needed her to be well rested.

Hailing a taxi out on the street, he headed home. Thankfully, the driver wasn’t the talkative type. Andy leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but after only a few seconds, he opened them again and looked down at the wedding ring on his hand. When the clerk had given him his belongings, he’d wondered if he should just put it in his pocket. But that had seemed so wrong. His hand felt naked without it.

After paying the cabdriver, Andy stood for a moment in front of Bob’s house. He’d realized now that he’d been wrong to insist on moving here. The place was too big, too Bob in every sense. The furnishings were sleek and modern, and looked as if they had been selected by an interior designer for a power life. The house was in perfect shape. Every window opened with ease. All the caulking was exact, every room clean and tidy. Andy was more comfortable with flaws and human disorder.

Once the front door was closed and locked behind him, the silence in the house pressed hard against him, making him almost gasp for air. He tossed his suit coat over a chair, loosened his tie, and proceeded into the living room. Snapping on the radio, he listened for a moment as some government official talked about the war in Iraq. But it was too far away from what was going on here and now. Andy turned up the sound, but zoned out the words. He had his own war to fight, and to win it, he needed total concentration.

On his way out of the living room, he paused next to Bob’s graduation photo from West Point. He looked young and strong, clear-eyed and ready for whatever life threw at him. “I’m sorry,” whispered Andy, setting the picture back down on the piano. “I tried, but I could never measure up.” He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar, then bounded up the stairs to the bedroom.

Opening the double doors onto the upper balcony, Andy stepped outside. The smell of dying vegetation filled his nostrils with a kind of instant nostalgia. Autumn always made him feel gloomy, made him ache for something he’d never had. It was a beautiful late October day, sun filtering through the nearly leafless trees, the damp, decaying leaves forming a kind of pentimento on the back lawn.

Andy stood there with the sunshine warming his face, feeling naked under the limitless sky. The earth was off its axis today. Somewhere out there Andy believed that pigs were probably flying and that hell had suffered a hard freeze. All his life, he felt as if he’d been involved in a fruitless battle. Had he wanted too much? Hadn’t he tried hard enough? Was he simply weak? Worthless?
Had
has father been right all along?

Remembering the bottle of vodka in his hand, he unscrewed the cap and took several swallows. The liquid burned as it went down. He hated liquor, hated anything and everything that reminded him of his father. But after what he’d done, a little booze seemed like a minor infraction. He leaned against the rail and downed half the bottle before finally returning inside.

Once back in the bedroom, he bent down and slipped a briefcase out from under the bed. He manipulated the rings on each side of the handle until the proper numbers popped up, then opened the case and dumped dozens of plastic prescription bottles on top of the bedspread.

The room seemed cold after the warmth of the afternoon sunlight. But it didn’t matter. Cold was better than fear. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been afraid.

Removing a pen and a piece of paper from the briefcase, he sat down on the bed and wrote:

I love you with all my heart, Anika. Even before I
met you, I warmed myself with the hope of you. Forgive me. Andy.

He cracked open the bottles and downed the pills with the rest of the bottle of vodka. He didn’t know how many there were, but it was enough.

34

Bram breezed into the kitchen and kissed Sophie on the top of her head. “They released Andy and they’ve got Chris in protective custody. Oh, and the cops have impounded everything in Phil’s mini storage garage.”

“How’d you find all that out?” asked Sophie. She was cleaning up their lunch dishes. Bram had prepared one of his famous omelets.

“I just got a call from Al on my cell.”

“Did he say anything else?” She was worried that they might be charged with burglary—or breaking and entering at the very least.

“You mean about us? We’re off the hook, Soph. Al released a story to the papers that said we were at the mini storage place last night because we have a storage unit there. And that while we were driving by one of the double units, we heard a woman cry out for help. Not only are we free and clear, but we’re heroes. I intend to talk about the whole thing on my radio show this afternoon.”

Sophie turned around, slipping her arms around his waist. “My husband, the hero.”

Bram flashed his eyes and adjusted his tie. “If the shoe fits.”

“What about Phil?”

“They’re looking for him. Ballistics matched the gun in his truck to all three homicides.”

“Did Al say that
precisely
?”

Bram narrowed an eye. “He said the gun that was used in Bob’s shooting was the same one used to murder Loy and Irazarian.”

“See. He said ‘shooting.’ ”

Bram sighed. “Yes. Shooting. As in
murder.
”

“But he didn’t say that. Not exactly.”

“You’re splitting unbelievably tiny hairs.”

“But I’m not wrong.”

“Look, you add a charge of felony kidnapping to the murders and Phil won’t see the light of day for the rest of his natural life.
That’s
the bottom line. Oh, and get this. In all three murders, he used a plastic Coke bottle as a silencer. They found two of them— one at Bob’s place, and another at Irazarian’s motel room, but they never gave that bit of info to the newspapers. That’s why Al went nuts last night when I told him what I saw in the front seat of Phil’s trunk. It must have been the one he used when he shot Loy.”

“What an evil man,” said Sophie, leaning back against the counter.

“He’s a classic sociopath, sweetheart. Sociopaths don’t grow up; they metastasize. But he’ll be in custody soon.”

“What if they can’t find him?”

“They will. Every policeman in the state is on alert.”

“He could run to Canada.”

“I suppose it’s possible, but for Chris’s sake, I hope they nail him soon.”

Sophie couldn’t begin to imagine what that poor young woman had gone through, and now here she was, scared for her life, waiting for Phil to be caught. There was one bright spot. With all the forensics the police were probably developing, the case wouldn’t rest solely on her shoulders.

“What are you up to today?” asked Bram. “Fomenting more conspiracy theories with Mother?”

Sophie folded her arms across her stomach. “I thought I’d stop down to see Anika on my way to my office. Oh, and I have to run over to the Times Register Tower for a meeting late in the day.”

Sophie assumed Margie hadn’t spoken to Bram yet about the verbal assault she’d received from Sophie’s dad yesterday morning. Just thinking about the conversation warmed Sophie’s heart. But while her dad probably figured the tongue-lashing was the end of the story, Sophie knew better. Margie never took criticism in stride, probably because, in her own mind, she was never wrong. She was undoubtedly on the warpath, just waiting to explode all over a cozy evening, or a romantic breakfast. “Did you talk to your daughter yesterday?”

“No. Well, she did leave me a voice-mail message. She sounded sort of sniffy, like she’d been crying. I didn’t have time to deal with it. I’m sure we’ll talk today.” He tipped Sophie’s chin up. “Do you know what it was about?”

She shrugged, wiping any trace of amusement off her face. “You know Margie. Could be anything.”

Sophie listened outside Anika’s door for a few seconds. When she heard the TV switch off, she gave a soft knock.

Anika appeared a few moments later, still wearing her bathrobe.

“I assume you heard what happened,” said Sophie. It had been all over the morning news.

Anika brushed a shock of blond hair off her forehead. “Come in.”

Sophie entered hesitantly, judging by the grim look on Anika’s face that the news hadn’t changed anything. Sitting down on a chair next to the couch, she said, “Andy’s been released.”

Anika perched on a chair next to the desk. “You know that for a fact?”

“Bram talked to the detective in charge of the case.”

She nodded. “Of course, I’m incredibly relieved. I never believed Andy could murder someone in cold blood. I suppose he went back to Bob’s place.”

“I would think so,” said Sophie.

Anika seemed to ponder the situation. “He hates being alone. Even on a good day, that house feels like a tomb.”

“It’s certainly big.”

Anika thought a few more seconds, then turned a hard gaze on Sophie. “You know the situation. If I go back there, he’ll get the wrong idea. He’ll think I’ve changed my mind, that I’m coming back to him.”

“Possibly.”

“But that’s not going to happen. I mean, how can I do that to him, get his hopes up just to crush them? I can’t stand much more of this myself.”

Sophie could tell she was in pain.

Looking away, Anika said, “You think I should go see him, don’t you.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It does.”

“Well then,” said Sophie, choosing her words carefully, “yes, I think you might want go see him. He’s been terribly wounded by the arrest. You can explain that you’re not staying, but that you just wanted to be with him for an hour or two, just to make sure he’s okay. I’m sure he’d understand, and that he’d appreciate it.”

“If I didn’t still love him . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I am
such
a mess. I don’t know how I could help anyone.”

“It’s up to you,” said Sophie. “Just . . . don’t completely rule it out until you give it a little more thought.”

An hour later, Anika hurried up the walk to Bob’s front door. Pressing the key in the lock, she entered to find the local MPR station blaring from the living room. Feeling relieved that her husband must be home, she took off her coat and walked into the living room.

“Andy?” she called, snapping off the radio. “Where are you? Andy?”

He didn’t answer. She wondered if he’d gone outside. Stepping over to a long row of windows overlooking the backyard, she did a quick search. When she didn’t see him, she decided to check upstairs. Maybe he was taking a nap. He was no doubt tired from spending the night in a jail cell.

Up on the second floor, she saw that the door to the bedroom was open. She couldn’t exactly call it their bedroom because they’d only spent two nights in the house, and one of those nights she’d slept alone in a guest bedroom.

As she entered, she saw that he was asleep. His head was at an odd angle on the pillow, but he was a restless sleeper. Thinking that he must be cold, she grabbed a quilt off the top shelf of the closet. As she draped it over him, she noticed the empty pill bottles. Dropping the quilt, she started to count them. Eight. Ten. Fourteen.

“My God, Andy! What have you done?” When she bent over him to check his pulse, she kicked something with her foot. Looking down, she saw an empty bottle of vodka lying on the floor. “Damn you!” she screamed, backing up. She stared at him a moment, then leaned her ear close to his nose. He was breathing, but just barely.

Grabbing the phone off the nightstand, she punched in 911.

One ring, two—“911 emergency.”

“This is Anika Gladstone—my husband’s just taken a bunch of pills! He’s breathing, but it’s shallow! You’ve got to help us! Please! Right away!”