SIXTEEN

 

Although always jammed with shoppers, on Friday nights and throughout the weekend, the Westfield Trader Joe’s always turns into a zoo. Not any run-of-the-mill zoo, though. A zoo during the debut of twin baby pandas. Traffic backs up in each direction down both Elm and Prospect Streets with cars waiting to enter the parking lot from either entrance. A continual crowd of cart-pushing shoppers, often with children pushing mini-carts, stream in and out of the store, clogging the aisles, and queuing up a dozen deep at each of the checkout lines. Any one of those customers may have slapped that piece of paper to the side of my milk container as I shopped or dropped it into one of my shopping bags while I loaded my groceries into my cart or hauled the bags into my car. I never would have noticed.

I removed the note from the pile before tossing the junk mail into the recycling bucket. My hand trembled as I stared at it. Give it up before someone else gets hurt.

The message, written in blue ink, now blurred from the condensation on the milk jug, frightened me enough, but what ratcheted up my fear to extreme levels was the realization that someone had tailed me throughout the day. Someone knew where I worked and had followed me from the office to Trader Joe’s. How long had this person shadowed me? Days? Weeks? And why hadn’t I noticed? Was he parked outside right now?

I walked into the living room and glanced out the window but saw nothing unusual. No loitering strangers. Not a single car parked on either side of the street.

I checked the security app on my phone, scanning through the recorded video from this morning, starting with when the boys left for school. I watched myself leaving for work, Jesse and his crew arriving, and Zack heading out for his meeting in the city. I saw the mailman delivering the day’s mail, my sons arriving home, and the workmen leaving for the day. In-between, a few delivery trucks had pulled up to the curb, their drivers jumping out to deposit packages at neighbors’ front doors before they hurried back to their trucks and drove away. All activity on the street appeared completely normal.

Headlights shone down the street as a car turned onto Central Avenue. The headlights grew brighter as the vehicle approached. I stepped out of view behind the drapes but breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized Zack’s Boxster pulling into the driveway.

Having no intention of springing this latest development on him the moment he entered the house, I darted back toward the dining room, grabbed a sandwich bag, and placed the paper inside. Then I dropped the bag into one of the drawers of the china cabinet. I’d show him the note later after Lucille had decamped to the den for her nightly reality television binge and the boys were buried in homework.

I returned to the foyer and greeted Zack at the door by wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him in a way that I hoped masked the worry consuming me. “You’re in time to join us for dinner,” I said.

He returned my kiss. “As long as it comes with a shot of bourbon. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate bureaucracy?”

Did that mean Zack really wasn’t secretly working for one of the alphabet agencies? I thought of posing the question but decided against it. Instead, I said, “Not that I recall.”

“There was absolutely no reason for all of us to sit on that train for so long, but the conductor refused to unlock the doors.”

“How far away was the car fire?”

“More than a mile down the tracks.”

“But you had to wait until they removed the remains of the vehicle. That takes specialized equipment, doesn’t it?”

“The car is still there. It’s an active crime scene.”

“Then how did you get home?”

Zack laughed. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“I ran into Bert Levy on the train.”

“The state senator? I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“We first met years ago at a charity auction. Our paths cross every so often. He finally got so annoyed that he called the governor. Five minutes later, the doors opened, and we were allowed to leave the train. Five minutes after that, one of Bert’s aides arrived to pick him up. He offered me a ride back to the train station parking lot to pick up my car.”

“Good thing he was on the train. Otherwise, you and everyone else might have had to spend the night.”

Zack shook his head. “No way. Bert or no Bert, a rebellion was brewing.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I already have one family member constantly fomenting rebellion.” I then changed the subject. “How was your meeting?”

“Proposal accepted. How about your day?”

I hesitated for a split second before saying, “I came up with an idea for my presentation Monday.”

The corners of Zack’s mouth tipped downward. “Anything else?”

“Cloris and I went out to lunch,” I added, then cringed at the forced brightness I heard in my own voice.

From the sober expression on Zack’s face, I knew he wasn’t buying what I was working too hard to sell. “And?”

I sighed. No way would I have made it as a member of one of the alphabet agencies. No matter how much I tried otherwise, I not only wore my emotions on my sleeve, but on my face and every square inch of my body. “I’ll tell you the rest later. Meanwhile, I suggest you make that bourbon a double.”

Zack said nothing, only shook his head as he made his way toward the apartment. By the time he returned, carrying two tumblers, each filled with ice and a splash of bourbon, Lucille and the boys had taken their seats at the dining room table.

When Zack handed me one of the glasses before joining us, Lucille glared at me as she grunted, then mumbled something under her breath that questioned my character. I ignored her.

I couldn’t ignore my sons, though. Their mother rarely drank hard liquor except in girly umbrella drinks loaded with fruit juice and garnished with pineapple wedges and maraschino cherries. Otherwise, I drank wine.

Both Alex and Nick cast furtive, worried glances in my direction. I offered them a smile of reassurance I didn’t feel. Hopefully, my ability to pull the wool over their eyes worked better than my attempt at fooling Zack.

Even Ralph and Leonard seemed to pick up on the tension in the room, Leonard taking a protective stance, inches from the side of Nick’s chair, while Ralph silently surveyed the situation from his perch atop the china cabinet.

After Lucille pushed away from the table and harrumphed her way toward the den, Alex said, “Whatever’s going on with you two, Nick and I will clean up so you can deal with it.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” said Nick. “I don’t like being in the dark.” With worry plastered across his features, he turned to me and asked, “You’re not breaking up, are you?”

“We’re not breaking up,” I said. “And nothing’s going on.”

Alex stared pointedly at both Zack and me. “Could’ve fooled us,” he said. “We’ll clean up anyway, won’t we, Nick?”

Nick tossed him a scowl. “Sure.” He then turned to me and Zack. “But afterwards, I want to know whatever’s not going on.”

“Your mother and I will discuss it,” said Zack. “Privately.” He placed his hand at the small of my back, urging me toward the back door. Ralph took flight and landed on Zack’s shoulder. As we passed the china cabinet, I stopped, opened the drawer, and grabbed the plastic bag with the note that had sent me into a tailspin. Zack eyed the bag but said nothing until we had arrived in the apartment.

He closed the door behind us and asked, “Am I to assume, this conversation involves whatever is inside that plastic bag clenched in your hand?”

When I nodded, he continued, “And would this conversation require more bourbon?”

I handed him the bag with the note. “You be the judge.”

While Zack concentrated on the blurred message, Ralph flew off his shoulder, perched on the arm of the sofa, and squawked once before saying, “In this I’ll be impartial; be you judge of your own cause. Measure for Measure, Act Five, Scene One.”

Still staring at the note, Zack reached into his shirt pocket and presented Ralph with a sunflower seed. Then he asked, “Where did you find this?”

“In one of my grocery bags. It was stuck to a gallon of milk.” I sighed as I sank onto the sofa. “I keep trying to come up with an explanation that has nothing to do with us and what happened last night, but I’m at a complete loss.”

“Have you called Spader?”

“Not yet. I only found the note shortly before you arrived home.”

Zack pulled out his phone and placed the call.

~*~

Spader arrived a short time later. He took one look at me, shook his head and said, “Just when I think I’m in for a relatively quiet night, I can always count on you to liven things up, Mrs. Pollack.”

“Should I take that as a compliment, Detective?”

“Only if it helps solve these murders.”

I pointed to the coffee table where Zack had placed the bag with the note. “Someone dropped that threat in one of my grocery bags earlier this evening.”

Spader scooped up the bag and read the note. “Why does the paper look like it landed in a puddle?”

I explained how I came to find the note. “I thought it was a shopping list someone had dropped. I was about to toss it in recycling.”

“Meaning I can expect your fingerprints are all over it?” he asked.

“Guilty,” I said, “but in my defense, I thought it was trash.”

Spader grimaced. “If this keeps up, I suggest from now on you travel with a set of rubber gloves in your purse.”

“I keep hoping this new and unwelcome gig doesn’t keep up, Detective. I never asked to morph into Nancy Drew.” He opened his mouth to say something, but before he uttered a single word, I threw my hands onto my hips and added, “And if you say I’m too old to be Nancy Drew, you might have to arrest me for assaulting an officer.”

Spader let loose a belly laugh. “I refuse to answer under the grounds that it may incriminate me.”

He then sobered and changed the subject. “I’ll see if we can get a hit off the note, and I’ll have our techs go over the security camera footage at Trader Joe’s. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open, and call me if something or someone looks suspicious.”

As soon as Spader left the apartment, I collapsed into Zack’s arms. “What makes me a mobster magnet?”

Zack leaned his chin on my head and said, “When I find the answer to that, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t take too long. This has grown really old. I want it to end.”

“That makes two of us. But first we have a more pressing issue.”

I stepped out of his arms, stared up at him, and said, “I know. Alex and Nick. I hate worrying them further, but we need to tell them for their own safety.”

“Don’t forget Lucille,” said Zack.

I groaned. “One step at a time.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted the boys to join us in the apartment. “We’ll deal with Lucille afterwards.”

The boys had gotten so accustomed to close encounters of the murderous kind that hearing about the note didn’t faze them. Or if it did, they’d inherited their ability to mask their emotions from their father. That bothered me almost as much as receiving the note. My kids should neither have to accept murder and mayhem as a normal part of their lives, nor bottle up their emotions for fear of worrying their mother.

Zack and I followed the boys out of the apartment and into the house. I girded my loins for the expected confrontation with my mother-in-law.

After I explained the situation to her, Lucille, in typical Lucille fashion, blamed Zack and me for everything. I had promised myself I wouldn’t let her rile me. Instead, I reminded her no one was forcing her to remain in my home. “You’re free to leave at any time.”

“You’d both like that, wouldn’t you?” she said.

Frankly, yes, but I bit another hole in my tongue rather than allow her to bait me.

As we left the den, she said, “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you’ve concocted all of this nonsense about mobsters and murders to force me out of my son’s home.”

“If only that were true,” I muttered under my breath.

Before we got into bed, Zack said, “I armed the security system to send an alert to my phone if anyone walks onto the property, not just if someone opens a door or window.”

“Are you expecting that will help me sleep tonight?”

“It’s part of the plan. I have a few other tricks up my sleeve as well.”

Unfortunately for Zack, I was so emotionally drained from the events of the last two days, that I fell asleep the moment I snuggled into his arms.

~*~

Three hours later, I was startled awake by the sound of the security notification on Zack’s phone. Disoriented and with adrenalin pounding through my veins, I groped for the lamp on the nightstand.

Zack reached over and grabbed my hand before I found the switch. “Don’t turn the light on,” he whispered. He was sitting up in bed, staring at his phone. “Look.” He held the phone out toward me.

I pulled myself into a sitting position and blinked my eyes into focus. Two men, both with shovels, had entered the backyard. We watched as they split up, one heading toward the plantings behind the house, the other toward the side of the garage under the staircase. “Do you think one of them is the guy who was with Murphy Wednesday night?”

“Makes sense. Looks like he’s come back to find what Murphy was after, and he’s brought help.”

“Wouldn’t he figure the guy who killed Murphy had already found the jewelry?”

“Only if it had been buried behind the garage, which it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t buried anywhere,” I reminded him.

“But Murphy’s henchman doesn’t know that.”

“Right. Assuming Doyle told Murphy about the jewelry to buy himself time, he would have only said it was buried somewhere in the yard. Not that it helped him since Murphy killed him anyway.”

“We don’t know exactly what happened to Doyle,” said Zack. “Remember, his body showed up in the Mercedes last Sunday, three days before Murphy and his henchman arrived to dig in the backyard. We don’t know what led Murphy to believe the jewelry was buried on the property.”

While we continued to watch the video, Zack placed a 911 call. Then we both dressed in the dark to wait for the police.

Unfortunately, we hadn’t accounted for my mother-in-law. We watched in horror as she exited the house through the back door. Brandishing her cane, she screamed at both men. “Get off my son’s property!”

I gasped. “She’s going to get herself killed.”

Zack reached for his gun as the two men dropped their shovels, pulled guns, and raced toward Lucille. One of them tackled her to the ground, then forced her to her feet and back into the house.

“Now what?” I whispered.

“We play it by ear and bide our time until the cops arrive.”

“What if the boys wake up?”

“We hope they’re a heck of a lot smarter than their grandmother.”

“That’s a given, but it’s not much of a plan.”

He grimaced. “It’s all I’ve got right now, sweetheart.” He placed a whispered call to the police, alerting them to the changed circumstances.

From the living room we heard one of the men say, “Sit down and shut up.”

“What gives you the right?” demanded Lucille. A sane octogenarian would have complied, realizing her life was in danger. Not my mother-in-law.

“This gives me the right, lady. Now tell me where the jewelry is buried, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

“Go play pirates somewhere else. I don’t know anything about any buried jewelry. You have the wrong house.”

“You’re lying. I know the jewelry is here. I was with Cormac Murphy the night someone offed him while we were digging for it.”

“I don’t know any Cormac Murphy.”

“You don’t have to know him. He’s dead. Which is what’s going to happen to you if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

“Maybe she’s got that Al Heimer Disease,” said the other guy, speaking for the first time.

“Alzheimer’s,” said the first guy. “Jeez, don’t you know nothing?”

“I know I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this wild goose chase.”

“You didn’t think it was such a wild goose chase when you thought you were in for a fifty-fifty cut.”

“I’m just saying maybe the broad’s right. Why would jewelry from a Boston heist years ago be buried in a New Jersey backyard?”

“Because Johnnie Doyle said it was.”

“And you believed him?”

“Murphy believed him.”

“Maybe Murphy wanted to believe him. You got proof?”

“Doyle’s sister used to live here.”

“So?”

“Murphy pulled off a series of jewelry heists in Boston with Garrett Quinn. Quinn was married to one of Doyle’s sisters. The other sister lived here years ago before Doyle ratted out Murphy.”

“Still don’t make no sense, Vinnie. Doyle was just trying to keep Murphy from whacking him.”

“Exactly. Do you think Murphy would’ve spared him if he discovered Doyle had lied to him?”

“He didn’t spare him.”

“That’s beside the point, Bozo.”

“What if there are other people sleeping in the house?”

“They better keep sleeping. I’ll stay with granny here. You go back outside and dig.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it.”

A few seconds later, Vinnie spoke to Lucille again. “How many other people are here?”

“If my son were still alive, he wouldn’t let you get away with this.”

“I’m not interested in dead people, lady.”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“We’ll see about that. Let me introduce you to Mr. Griptilian.”

“What’s that?” I whispered to Zack.

“A lethal folding knife.”

I gasped. “We can’t let him torture her.”

“Stay here.” He slipped from the room. A moment later I heard him say, “Drop the knife.”

I grabbed one of Zack’s other guns and crept along the wall down the darkened foyer. Ahead of me, light bled into the foyer where it met the living room.

“You and what army’s gonna make me?” asked Vinnie. “It’s two against one, cowboy. My gun and knife to your gun. Odds are, I’m the one walking out of here alive. And with the jewelry.”

I inhaled a deep breath before stepping from the foyer into the living room and pointing Zack’s gun at the intruder. “I just changed those odds.”

Lucille sat cowering in the corner of the sofa. Vinnie stood over her, one foot planted on the floor, his other knee pressing into her thigh. In one hand he held a deadly looking knife, the point of the blade disappearing into the folds of my mother-in-law’s neck. With his other hand, he pointed a gun at Zack.

From the sound of his voice, a gruff bass, I had envisioned Vinnie as a stereotypical bar bouncer type with an acne-pocked complexion and tattoos covering muscular arms, a barrel chest, and a thick neck. Instead, with his wiry frame, oil-slicked hair, and pencil mustache, he bore a striking resemblance to the weasel characters in Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

Vinnie sneered. “You’d have me quaking in my boots if I believed you even knew how to use that gun.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You willing to try me?”

“I wouldn’t bet against her,” said Spader, stepping in from the kitchen. “Now, drop the gun and knife before I drop you.”