Macho Cop held me by the neckline of my Donna Karan jersey top, which made some small part of me mad since it was a favorite. I cursed myself for my inability to stay focused on remaining alive, and concentrated on breathing and trying to salvage something other than clothing from the moment. If I was going to get shot, I’d at least capture some kind of confession on the phone in my pocket, assuming anyone out there was listening. “You killed Gabby, didn’t you, McManus? You shot Dermott, then framed him when you were sent to search his apartment. You hit my car, didn’t you,” I squeaked, “and followed me later. How much did you get paid for all this?”
“The car stuff? No way. That was his job,” he said, grunting as he dragged me along. “I do the shooting, he does the easy stuff. That’s why I get the big bucks and the babes, Rio style. No more hick town for me. ”
“But if he hasn’t paid you yet, you can’t kill him.” I choked and tried to ignore the ripping sound at my neckline.
“You think I’d risk it without getting the money first?”
Divide and conquer, as good an idea as any right now. “J.P., you trust this guy? He kills Gabby, shoots her husband to frame him. You’re sure he won’t shoot you?”
Score. The preppy polo player, novice blackmailer, and all around amateur crook pivoted, stuck his arm out straight and pointed his gun at McManus. “Not if I do it first. And I’ll have better lawyers.” His eyes were unnaturally wide open. He licked his lips and pulled the trigger.
McManus froze. I flinched. Nothing happened.
J.P. swore, grasped the gun harder and fired, sending a bullet flying somewhere but not hitting either of us. The sound was enough to unleash everything Bridgetown’s police department had, plus one desperate father. Before I could react, McManus spun toward me and hit me on the side of my head with his gun. I fell, breathless with shock, disoriented, as McManus dropped my arm. Dimly, I heard a loud crashing noise. Squinting from my place on the floor, torn between curling up in a ball and trying to find a way out of this hellhole, I scooted away from the killer and leaned against the far wall as the front door begin to splinter. McManus and J.P. both turned their guns in that direction.
“J.P., it’s me,” a voice shouted. Other voices were shouting other things and time seemed to slow down. I was willing myself not to squeeze my eyes shut and pretend it wasn’t happening, if only so I could try to dodge any further attacks.
“Go away,” J.P. screamed as his father’s face showed through the fractured doorway. Another hit and the door gave way. A uniformed policeman attempted to pull Vince away.
I jumped when there was a sudden shout next to me. McManus hollered loudly, “You can’t get out of here, Margoletti. Drop the gun. Don’t shoot her.”
Dimly, I heard J.P.’s father yelling “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” at somebody.
“Mr. Margoletti, you shouldn’t be here right now. It’s too dangerous.” McManus spoke in the same loud voice he had used on Dickie, his official voice, a good cop concerned for a citizen’s safety. I wanted to scream that he was lying, but no one would have heard me right then. There were shouts outside the door, and from inside the room, but they were beginning to recede from my consciousness. I was seeing bright spots and had a nasty feeling I was about to throw up.
The cop, who had been struggling with Vince, turned and yelled something over his shoulder. J.P. was screaming, “This is your fault. If you’d just given me the money.” His voice was ragged. He raised the gun with two hands and pointed it at his father.
Vince Margoletti started to speak but was stopped by the sound of a gun going off. J.P.’s face registered equal amounts of shock and horror as he threw the gun down. It slid toward me. I dimly registered McManus moving in front of me before another shot was fired. McManus’s foot appeared and kicked J.P.’s gun back in his direction. I was reeling from the sounds, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from Silicon Valley’s most powerful attorney. He looked surprised as a hole on the front of his beautiful suit jacket began to stain red. He fell backward out of the door, replaced by three or four swarming cops.
I looked at J.P., but he had crumpled to the floor. McManus began to yell, “He’s down, he’s down,” and the cops in the room converged on J.P.
What happened next took a nanosecond. McManus squatted down next to me and pressed his gun deep into my side. I thought he meant to kill me, but all he did was murmur, “I can always find you,” his breath hot and moist in my ear. I could hardly hear him, but I caught the malice in his voice perfectly. Then, standing and turning away from me, he said in a loud voice, “I had no choice. He was going to kill her next.”