10

THAT EVENING’S GATHERING around the lobby’s ill-tuned piano—despite the sugar cookies and the cider, the out-of-tune singing and the cloyingly cheerful camaraderie— could do nothing to lift Dan’s dark cloud of doom and gloom. And lingering embarrassment. Thus, he was happy that the milling, buzzing, visiting beehive of a crowd, made up of virtually everyone else staying at the lodge, was ignoring him over here in his little corner of the room on the big couch all by himself.

To prove that he didn’t care, he slouched down on the thick cushions, crossed his arms over his chest and evil-eyed the throng. He didn’t want to sing, anyway. And he sure as heck didn’t want cookies and cider, not even if they were offered to him. Least of all did he want any part of the sharing of personal tales, all that snowed-in bonding. Furthermore, he really didn’t like any of these people. And he wanted to go home. To Grandpa and Old Shep. The guys.

Speaking of guys, what about this middle-aged Romeo with the Groucho Marx eyeglasses, eyebrows and matching mustache? Was he for real? His appearance aside, what bugged Dan more was the way he bird-dogged Joan’s every step. If Groucho didn’t knock it off, Dan silently threatened, he’d have to pull his gun and shoot the yutz from here. Drastic? Yeah. But any other course of action involved getting up off the couch. Which might mean he’d have to trade pleasantries—before and after the shooting. He focused inward, checked his mood. No. Definitely precluded making nice.

Since when did you start having moods, Hendricks? Oh, about two days ago, he answered himself, playing his life in reverse from right now on the couch to all the way back to Interview Room 3, and then forward again to now. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what he used to do with his time, pre-Joan. Great. She’s taken over. Hot-tied and domesticated, that’s me.

A sudden and cryptic vision of himself in another six months—standing in a mall, lost, holding a bunch of packages and Joan’s purse while she shopped, and himself wearing a Have You Seen My Wife? T-shirt—made mingling, in the interest of police work, very attractive. Very macho. As if he really had a choice, given that the phone lines had never come back on. Which meant the guests remained who they said they were, that he had to accept them at face value. Or he could use the human approach—talk to folks, see what he could glean from their words and attitudes.

Thinking along those lines, Dan glanced around the crowded room at the cheerfully milling people across the way and realized that the piano’s ivories were no longer being tortured. No reprieve, then. Time to chat up the strandees. Up and at ‘em, Dan. His antisocial grimace deepened as he started to pull himself off the couch. But he wasn’t quick enough. He never even had a chance to get out of the way before Joan startled him with her apparitionlike appearance. Just poof—she was there and merrily plopping down beside him on the couch, a mug of hot sloshing cider in one hand, a fistful of cookies in the other. “Howdy, stranger,” she greeted him.

“Howdy, yourself.” Dan grabbed her arm, extending it and her dripping mug out over the flagstone flooring. “Let’s not add third-degree burns to our excellent adventure, shall we?”

“Especially not to any sensitive areas, huh?”

“Especially.” He mugged a grimace, but couldn’t hold on to it, not in the face of her big grin. All right, so he couldn’t stay mad at her. Hiding the sappy giddiness that her nearness caused him, Dan let go of her arm to brush her bangs out of her eyes. “What became of the screechalong?”

“Refreshment break,” she cheerfully supplied, sticking a fistful of cookies under his nose. “Want one?”

He pulled back, brushing at her hand. “No, thanks. Aren’t you afraid your new friends will be mad at you if they see you over here talking to me?”

“I would be, if I was in the seventh grade.” Then, sounding as cheerful as a spring robin, she asked, “So, how long are you going to sit here behaving like a six-year-old who didn’t get what he wanted from Santa?”

“Is that how it looks?” He glared at her jokingly. “What’re you laughing at? Where’s your boyfriend?”

Grinning, Joan eyed him and scooted back, settling herself right up against him. She crossed her legs on the cushions and took a particularly loud slurp of cider. “You mean Scott?”

“Aw, man.” Dan chuckled. “That’s low.” His knees spread, his hands folded together atop his abdomen, he rolled his head until he could look into her teasing green eyes. “Not Scott. I’m talking about your current boyfriend.”

“Oh. Groucho? I gave him the slip at the cider bowl. What a persistent little twerp.” She leaned forward to set down her mug and the cookies. Then she swung back to him, leaning into his chest to rub noses with him, give him a quick kiss and whisper, “Kinda reminds me of you.”

With her body pressed against his, Dan felt a quickening in his hinterland, but feigned being unaffected as he loosely held her to him, “We’re talking about the persistent part, I hope. And it’s lucky for you I am. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know the truth. And if I hadn’t held you hostage out in that blizzard, I’d never know how you feel about me. Or worse yet, just how you feel.”

“There you go, being bad again.” Joan chuckled as she pulled away and sank back into the cushions. “I guess you know I had my hands full convincing all these nice people that my life was not in any danger from you. Just as I feared, they were ready to mob you and lock you in a utility closet until the snowplows come through.”

Veeing his eyebrows down over his nose, Dan sat up to pluck a sugar cookie off the table. Taking a bite, wiping crumbs off his freshly laundered denims, he talked with his mouth full. “Speaking of this afternoon, see if I have events straight. While I’m in Mark’s office on the phone—busting my hump to clear your name—you slip away to attend a meeting of the Ken Thompson hate club, right?”

Joan chuckled and mouthed, “Uh-huh.”

“Then I turn around, and you’re gone. I’m looking all over for you, I’m frantic, I can’t find anybody. So I take the stairs like an Olympic sprinter and hightail it to our room, praying you’re not hurt or worse, when—picture this—I draw my gun and burst into our room, yelling I’m the cops, put your hands up. Only to scare the hell out of three blue-haired little old ladies going through our stuff.”

Joan clamped a hand over her mouth, but her laughterfilled eyes gave her away. She made sounds like she was choking.

“It’s not funny,” Dan warned, fighting a grin himself. “So there we are, they’re yelling, I’m trying to calm them down, they’re trying to get by me or kill me—I still don’t know which. Then I realize I still have my gun drawn, which isn’t helping, so I holster it, ask them what’s going on. Big mistake. They trade looks and then start—now, here’s the good part—undressing me and shouting how they need to do a load of laundry. Need to, mind you. Like the fate of the free world hinges on them rinsing out my boxers.”

Joan eyed him and then collapsed on herself, holding her sides and giggling uncontrollably. Chuckling now, Dan leaned over her and persisted with his version of events. “Obviously I chose not to roam the halls wearing your undies and the shower curtain. So tell me, how did those ladies get elected by the club to keep me in the room while you chaired your meeting?”

Joan flopped over on her back, a sensual picture with her auburn hair fanned out around her, and grinned at him. “They got the short straws. See, I knew you’d come looking for me, so we sent the three cutest ones to take you on. They were supposed to cry and make you feel bad and get you to cooperate with them. Worked, didn’t it?”

Dan forced a pained expression onto his features. “Oh, yeah, it worked. They’d didn’t leave me a stitch. I’m yelling where are you, they’re yelling she’s fine—she’s with the men, she’s with the men. I didn’t find that fine at all. Then I get shoved into the bathroom. So there I am—stripping in fast-forward time, throwing my unmentionables out. the door, trying to strip before they start that crying again. Or worse, barge in to finish the job.”

Joan zipped upright, as if she’d been pulled forward, and leered at him. “Ooh, you should’ve let them. They might’ve liked that”

Dan sobered, painfully so, as he wagged his remaining bit of cookie in her face. “Let’s not sear that image into my brain. It would render me incapable of…performing. I’d have to become a monk. And you—you ought to be ashamed. These are little children’s grandmas we’re talking about.” With that and a glare, he poked his cookie into his mouth and seriously chewed it.

But Joan the Bad met his gaze evenly. “So, tell me, just how do you think they got to be little childrens’ grandmas, huh?” She batted her long eyelashes at him, managing to convey both innocence and wantonness.

Dan grimaced. “Don’t even look at me like that. Or this afternoon in the library will be nothing to what these old folks will see right here.” Joan’s eyes widened and she wiped the wanton look off her face. Seeing that, Dan called a halt to the fun. “All right, O’Leary, move it. I need to go mingle and see what I can learn. See who in our little circle here is really who he says he is.”

“Unlike us…right, Ken?” With that, she moved over—with a little more shoving help from him. And then leaned right back into him, whispering, “If you’ll give me a kiss and promise to be in a better mood by bedtime, I’ll tell you a story about a naughty female prisoner who seduced her sheriff—”

“Mercy.” Dan did his best to ignore the tightening bulge in his jeans and shoved to his feet, leaning over her. “I’ll wait for the movie to come out.”

“Will you?” She gripped his shoulders and pulled him down to her.

Dan smacked a kiss on her sugarcoated, puckered mouth. Then, faking distaste, he ran his tongue over his lips. “Yuck. Cider.” And cut off any response on her part with another kiss, this one deeper, more soulful. When he straightened up this time, she flopped limply, comically, onto the cushions.

“Another satisfied customer,” Dan quipped as he, the very image of the strutting male, hitched at his denims and glanced around the crowded room. “So, who do you think I should drill first?”

A sustained silence from the couch had him pivoting to see her eyebrow-raised expression. He thought about what he’d said and amended, “Drill—in the sense of questioning closely.”

“Well, now I have to change my answer.” She sat up and surveyed the milling throng. “Let’s see…okay, start with Groucho. The last I saw him, he was at the refreshment table Bogartin’ all the cookies.”

“You mean the few you left behind?”

She poked out her tongue at him and warned, “Now, look here, Sheriff—”

But he couldn’t. Because that was the last he saw of her. At least, clearly. Because the electricity blinked off. No warning. No drama.

One second, all was light and happiness. The next, warm air no longer whooshed from vents, and all was deep blackness. Gasps of shock greeted this event. Instantly alert, Dan drew his gun and put a hand out to signal Joan to stay put. In that same instant, the lodge’s automatic front door, around the corner and thus hidden from view, slinked open.

Dan, along with everyone else, turned in that direction. He tightened his grip on his gun but stayed where he was, fearing that this could be a diversion to get him away from Joan. A blast of cold air rushed into the room, and then the doors closed with the slow hiss of pneumatic smoothness.

The silence thickened like a fog as they all waited to see who would round the corner. But no one did. Folks shifted, tension mounted. The unspoken conclusion was…someone had just left the building. And it wasn’t Elvis Presley, in all likelihood.

In the next whispering seconds, eyes adjusted to light cast by the leaping flames in the fireplace. Bursts of red and yellow lit the cathedral-ceilinged room and threw distorted shadows along the walls, giving the overall scene a hellish quality. Fearful questions bounced around the lobby, mingling with pleas for calm, calls of nothing to worry about, we’ll just check the breaker fuses, this happens all the time.

Yeah, right, was Dan’s reasoned response. He scanned the room for possible trouble headed his way, saw none, and then glanced down at Joan, telling her, “Stay right there. Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry,” came her immediate, whispered response. “Why do I think this power outage has nothing to do with the weather?”

“Probably for the same reason I don’t.” Then to the room at large, he called out, “Nobody move. Just stay calm, and don’t anybody try to leave this lobby. Mark? Where are you?”

“Right here, buddy,” he answered from somewhere across the room and over the worried murmurs of It’s him! That crazy young man from South Bend? The one married to that poor girl? Oh, dear, he has a gun. Do you suppose he did something to the electricity? We’re all going to die.

Dan made a face, hoped Joan could see it in the reflected firelight because it had her name on it. Then he again addressed his congregated fellow strandees. “Listen up, everyone. My real name is Dan Hendricks, and I’m a deputy sheriff of Taos County. Mark, verify this, please.”

Again Mark called out, “He’s telling the truth. I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s not crazy, either. Well, not as crazy as you were led to believe.”

Repeated murmurs had Dan rolling his eyes. “Thanks, buddy. Now, here’s what’s going to happen, ladies and gentlemen. You’re all going to stay here where you can be accounted for. Look around, see who’s missing. I’m going to need names. Mark, you check the circuit box and have your people get flashlights, candles, whatever we can use for light. And someone keep the fire going in here.”

“You got it, Dan. But the emergency generator’s outside. I’ll need to get my coat and go check it, see why it’s not up and running. It might’ve been tampered with.”

Mark’s assessment renewed the fearful whisperings in the room. Dan huffed out a breath. “Okay, but get me a coat, too. I don’t want you going out there alone.”

“I don’t want me too, either,” Mark assured him. In the next second, his footsteps could be heard crossing the flagstones. His voice carried as he called his employees to him and assigned them tasks to carry out Dan’s orders.

Just when Dan thought everything was under control, from another corner of the room came, “Hey, young fella, you need any help? I’m armed, and I’m your man.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Julius. You most certainly are not anybody’s man—except mine. Other than that, you’re an old codger on vacation.”

And that would be Ethel, the missus. Dan grinned into the darkness, answering, “Thanks, Mr. Garrison, but she’s right. You’re a civilian. I can’t involve you. And why are you armed?”

“Not to worry. I’m licensed to carry. Armed and primed, I am. Already got mine in my hand. I expect it’s bigger than yours, got more notches on it. Been around longer, that’s for sure. May as well put it to good use before it quits working on me altogether.”

A tug on his jeans had Dan looking down at Joan, who whispered, “We are still talking about guns, aren’t we?”

Dan huffed out his breath. “I sure as hell hope so.” Then he called out, “I’d be happy for the help, Mr. Garrison, as long as you understand the risks. Just move over here by me, toward the fireplace. The rest of you, take a head count.” As they set about obeying, Dan watched the crowd alertly to make sure only Mr. Garrison separated himself from the throng.

He did. To Dan’s relief, the older man indeed clutched in his hand a gun. And only a gun. When the gutsy old gentleman stopped in front of him, Dan spoke so only he could hear him. “I’m thinking this power outage is deliberate. What’s your take?”

The rumpled little man raised his wicked-looking, long-barreled pistol—Yep, bigger’n mine, Dan conceded—and began checking it over as he said, “I take it you’re right. If it was the snow’s weight, this would’ve happened yesterday.” Then he added, “This happenin’ because of Miss O’Leary here?”

Wide-eyed with watching the crusty New Englander’s fumbling, arthritic hands all but mishandle such a powerful weapon, Dan at first missed the man’s words. Then the old guy’s conclusion caught up with Dan’s hearing. He jerked his head up, met Mr. Garrison’s steady gaze. “How’d you know she’s—”

“Joan O’Leary? Seen her picture in the papers a while back. She’s the one arrested for that LoBianco murder. I told the missus I thought I recognized her. But don’t worry none—I kept it to myself. Except for the missus.”

Dan could only stare. Then he accused, “You’re like someone else I know. You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

Something blunt kicked Dan’s booted ankle. He grunted, suspecting it was the toe of Joan’s shoe. He looked down at her, but immediately shot his gaze to Mr. Garrison when the man directed a question her way. “You didn’t kill that mob fella, did you, young lady?”

First, silence met his query. Dan’s expression went grim. Then, “No, I didn’t, Mr. Garrison.”

Dan exhaled and then recaptured the older man’s attention. “Try to keep everyone calm. Make them stay here. But especially keep an eye on Miss O’Leary for me. And please, don’t shoot yourself or anybody else with that cannon.”

Mr. Garrison nodded. “Never have shot anybody yet that didn’t need it. Now, after you check that generator with your friend, what’s your next move? I’d hate for you to just pop back in and surprise me, causing me to ruin my clean shootin’ record.”

“Yeah, I’d hate that, too,” Dan retorted, frowning as he ran a hand over his jaw and took in Joan’s anxious expression. Better keep his next move to himself. He turned back to his pistol-packin’ deputy. “I’ll be right back inside after we check the emergency power.”

Mr. Garrison nodded, mimicking Dan by rubbing his gnarly-fingered hand over his stubbly jaw. “That’s one way. But if it was me, I’d be hunting who it was who just left and finding out why he did. But I’d already know it was the real murderer and that he meant to draw me out, to get rid of me so he can get her.”

“Thanks,” Dan deadpanned. “Now she’s really going to—”

Joan jumped up and clutched him. “Dan, you cannot go out there. Please. Don’t do this.”

“Worry,” he finished to Mr. Garrison. Then he turned to Joan, gently gripping her arm with his free hand. “I can’t let Mark go out there alone. No more than I can allow whoever’s out there to get tired of waiting for me and come in shooting. Look around. I’ve got a roomful of innocent, helpless people. What would you have me do—sit on my hands?”

Her grip on him tightened, but she shook her head no as tears sprang to her eyes. In the next moment, she rested her forehead against his chest. Dan smoothed his hand over her hair, kissing the top of her head. She pulled back, raising a tear-stained face to him. “Be careful.”

A tenderness he’d never before experienced claimed Dan’s spirit. He smiled at her, smoothing his knuckles across her soft cheeks as he wiped away her tears and said, for her ears only, “I will. It’s going to be okay, Joan. Do you believe me this time?”

She lowered her gaze, but again she nodded. “I do.”

Dan tucked a finger under her chin and urged her to raise her head, to look into his eyes. “Good.” So much conveyed with so few words. Dan couldn’t believe it. And yet, he was beginning to believe. In himself. In Joan. In what was between them, and tugging them together.

Just then, footsteps reentering the lobby caught everyone’s attention. In no more than a split second, Dan had Joan turned away from the possible danger and his gun aimed in that direction. Mr. Garrison stood stiffly at his side, his gun also leveled at the intruders. A grim smile of respect for the old guy’s courage crossed Dan’s features. He then called out, “We’ve got you covered. Stop and identify yourselves.”

The footsteps stopped. “It’s us, Dan. We got the coats and the other stuff, like you said.”

Dan wilted with relief and turned it to vexation. “Dammit, Mark, I almost shot you. Just wait there. I’ll come to you.”

So, all was in readiness. There was nothing left to do but to do it. Dan exhaled, ignored the tightness in his chest, and again looked at Joan, memorizing her face. Then he kissed her and turned to Mr. Garrison. “You’re in charge.”

The older man nodded, saying, “We’ll be fine. You just watch yourself out there. Wouldn’t want you to get eaten by a bear.”

Dan’s chuckle joined Joan’s, watery as hers was. He winked at her, and made a mental note to tell Mr. Garrison one day why that was so funny.

JOAN WATCHED Dan’s retreating figure, never taking her gaze off him as he donned the heavy coat Mark handed him, never glancing away as he headed for the lodge’s front doors around the corner. She even remained staring at the empty space he’d just occupied, until she heard the doors hiss open, and close behind him. Then she rounded on Mr. Garrison. “I’m not going to sit here while he’s out there alone. We’ve got to do something.”

“And we will, Miss O’Leary.” With that, he turned on his heel, put two fingers to his mouth and pierced the air with a high-pitched, eardrum-popping whistle that made Joan’s teeth itch. An immediate hush settled over the room, all heads turned his way. “All right, you know your assignments,” he called out. “It’s time. Battle stations!”

Joan had time only to mouth Battle stations? before flashlights flicked on, lighting the crowded room like Hollywood spotlights on Oscar night. Murky shadows moved restlessly about, seemingly at random. Then they sorted themselves out, became familiar old folks, all of whom came up with coats and—shock of the century—guns. Of every make and model and year since the advent of gunpowder, it seemed to Joan’s untrained eye.

Joan grabbed Mr. Garrison’s wiry arm, capturing his attention. “What in the name of all that’s holy is going on?”

“We’re going to help your young man. I lied to him about not telling anyone who you are. I told everyone who you are. And we feel just terrible for you. We knew you couldn’t have done it, a nice girl like you. So when that Mark fella said the snowplows are coming through tomorrow, we feared the real killer would try something tonight. So we came up with a plan—”

“You know about the hit man? How?”

“I didn’t. Just thought like he did and figured out what I’d do in his place.”

Joan stared at him. “Who are you—I mean, really?”

“Julius J. Garrison, brigadier general, U.S. Air Force, retired. And so’s everyone else here. Retired military, that is. We all kept our ranks and formed a gun club to travel together. Go on maneuvers. Take part in war games. It’s not much, but it keeps us active.”

Joan absorbed his words, still staring at him. “And your plan?”

“Well, after we got you to leave the meeting today, we ironed out the details. Now, here’s what we—”

Joan jerked her hand up. “There’s no ‘we’ to it. There’s just me. And I’m going outside—with a gun you’re going to give me.” Joan looked from the man to his elderly, armed-to-the-teeth geriatric army, and back to him. No one offered her a gun. “Give me your gun, and don’t try to stop me.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” the retired general chirped as he gripped her arm and escorted her through the crowd, which melted back at their approach and then stepped along smartly behind them. Across the lobby they doddered. Why did she suddenly feel railroaded? Joan wondered as she peeked repeatedly over her shoulder.

When they drew even with Mrs. Compton, that sweet little dear hoisted a lethal-looking old musket onto her shoulder and smiled. Plopping her flashlight in Joan’s hand, she said, “Major Edna Compton here, dear. Take this. You’ll need it. It’s dark upstairs.”

Major? Upstairs? Joan stared at the device as if it had simply materialized in her grip, and then mumbled “Thanks” over her shoulder as Mr.—General Garrison resumed her forced march to the darkened stairwell. Once there, he said, “Get your coat. We’ll wait here. We’d just slow you down.”

Joan nodded as if she understood what was going on. She flicked on the light, gripped the handrail attached to the stucco wall and pretended she was still in charge. “Okay, I guess we’re in this together. You better wait for me.”

“We will,” he assured her with a curt nod. Several others flanking him also murmured their assurances. Mr. Garrison added, “You’re our bait.”

Joan’s chin dipped down. “Say that again.”

General Garrison repeated, “Our bait. For the hit man.”

Her chin dipped farther. “There is no part of what you just said that I like.”

“I suppose not. Now, go and get your coat. There’s not much time.”

Thus urged, Joan took a step, but immediately stopped when the muted pop-pop-pop of outside gunfire sounded, and had them all staring at each other. “Dan!” Joan shouted as she tried to get past the army blocking her way. Two old men looped her waist with surprisingly strong grips and halted her. “Let me go,” she cried. “I have to help him.”

General Garrison gripped her shoulders. “How? By rushin’ out there and gettin’ yourself shot? Listen to me—that was his gun you heard. So your Dan is doing the shootin’. That means he’s alive. Now hurry along. Let’s see if we can keep him that way.”

Joan recovered and jerked around, pulling away from him and leaping up the steep stairs. “Where will you be?” she called over her shoulder.

“I’ll be postin’ guards and checkin’ all the exits. Be careful up there.”

“I will,” Joan yelled back, leading with the flashlight’s beam as she rounded the landing and flew up to the second floor and then the third. Finally on the fourth floor, she flashed her light ahead of her, didn’t see anybody and quick-stepped her way to her door. There, she tucked the flashlight up under her arm and shoved her hand in her jeans’ front pocket, searching for and finding her room keys.

Shaky with fear and from her flight, she needed three fumbling attempts to get the dead-bolted door open. Finally, she succeeded and lurched inside, where she swept the darkened room with the flashlight’s narrow beam until it showed her the quilted orange coat draped over that pink chair by the closet. “Yes!” she muttered, striding stiff-legged to it and snatching up the coat.

Now she could get outside and help Dan. She jerked around—and came near to dying of muscle-locking fright right then and there. Because she’d just caught in her beam of light a short, heavyset man.

Too late she realized she hadn’t closed the door behind her. The man’s almost comical face, when unevenly high-lighted like this, gave him the appearance of a spook-house phantom. Standing not twenty feet from her and silent as a tomb, he took another step her way. The lenses of his blackrimmed eyeglasses reflected her battery-powered light and hid his eyes.

Groucho. Joan went weak with relief, but grimaced her exasperation. “Look, you have really bad timing here. I’m flattered by your attention, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re all involved in a life-or-death—”

“Yeah, yours. On both counts.” His voice—it wasn’t the gravelly one he’d used at the sing-along. But where had she heard his real one? It was familiar. He shoved up a sleeve of his turtleneck sweater, revealing on his forearm…a tattoo of a native chieftain in full headdress.

Joan’s eyes widened, her heart pounded. She shook her head, whimpering, “You. You killed Mr. LoBianco.”

He shrugged. “It was business.” And removed his glasses, tossing them aside, then peeling off the fake eyebrows and mustache, which he flicked away, too. Revealed now was a broad, craggy face, like a bulldog’s. He pulled from his waistband a really big gun, which he pointed at her. “Sorry I gotta do this. You’re a nice girl and all. But you’re just too smart.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Joan blurted. “I’m actually very stupid.”

“No, you ain’t—you figured out Tony’s numbers was all wrong. See, I went through them books you dropped. Not that I was in Taos to check up on you. I was supposed to off Tony before he ratted out the boss to the cops. But Tony begged, said I could have the money he’d skimmed if I’d let him disappear. I said how much money. He said he didn’t know because you had the books.”

Figuring as long as he was talking, she was breathing, Joan kept up her end. “So…you waited for me to show up?”

“Yeah. But then Tony got wise that I was going to keep the money and kill him. And you, too. He went nuts, said you was an innocent, said I wasn’t goin’ to touch you. Then he came at me with his own knife. I had to kill him.”

A tremor of guilt and sadness shook her. Mr. LoBianco, a mobster and murderer and all-around rat-fink, had died trying to protect her life? The shock…she couldn’t absorb it. She stared helplessly at her would-be assassin. “And then I came along and saw you do it.”

“Yeah, so I couldn’t leave you alive. The boss wouldn’t be none too happy. I guess you should’ve called in sick that night, Miss O’Leary. ‘Cause now…I gotta kill you.”