| |
WHEN THE SURPRISING text arrived, Southgate knew it had been routed through several intermediaries. Not from Wong, but probably one of her minions. He’d already heard about Detweiller’s demise.
>Coat hanger?! Clean up your own mess. Meet in ten, or you’re done.
He slumped in the front seat of his car and dropped his face into gloved hands. He’d set up Angela’s death to look like suicide, but slipped up somehow. He shook out an antacid, then two more, and chewed all three. Delay. Deflect. Think. He could still make this work. He had no time for this!
<Ten not possible. Tomorrow better.
Southgate stared through the fogged windshield at the entry into the gated community where he lived. Roxanne expected him for a holiday meal with her parents. They’d driven in special for an early Christmas celebration. Even the kids—Paul from Notre Dame and Sharon from her law job in Chicago—had set aside busy schedules for the rare family gathering.
>Clock’s ticking. Cops on the way. Nine minutes.
“Damn!” Decisions from the past left indelible marks on the future. He didn’t regret the path chosen. Those with weaker stomachs missed opportunities he’d embraced to get ahead. Look where it got him, successful beyond his parents’ wildest dreams. He’d overcome every roadblock, helped make others wealthy along the way, and now Angela would derail everything from beyond the grave.
No.
Southgate took deep, pained breaths, and silently fumed. His face heated and his hands tightened on the leather-padded steering wheel. He imagined revenge scenarios before dismissing them out of hand for the indulgent fantasies they were. He couldn’t touch Wong or her organization. She could have him swatted out of existence. But his message about Detweiller—actually a warning to her—granted him room to save his own life, and maybe his reputation. He texted back, lips curled in a snarl.
<Where?
He sucked in a breath when the reply came. Angela Day’s house. Clear across town. No way could he get there anytime soon, especially with the weather. “What the hell, I’m screwed anyway.” He dialed the number and expected to be ignored.
The phone picked up before the second ring. “Shut up and listen. Your faked suicide won’t stand. You’ll take the fall, and raise uncomfortable questions for our mutual employer. So fix it, or I will. Permanently.” The voice, obscured by some sort of electronic masking, was quickly disconnected.
Southgate immediately redialed, but got a recording that the number had been disconnected.
He hit the dashboard with his fist. Hell! He wasn’t a professional killer. What did they expect? He hadn’t planned to hurt Angela. How was he supposed to fix things? Southgate shoved the car in gear and drove as quickly as he could without sliding off the road, mind spinning.
Nearly twenty minutes later, he arrived. Bright police lights strobed the snow, painting the ground bloody. Busy professionals trampled the front lawns and sidewalks of Angela’s block, and rubber-necking neighbors huddled in coats on nearby porches. Southgate had to park a block away and limp in. The bruise from the dog’s bite had left his leg tender. He composed his features as he hunched shoulders against the cold, mentally rehearsing a plausible story.
“Sir? Sir, stop, you can’t go in there.” The police officer stopped him, as expected.
Southgate raised his voice, wanting to be heard by those in charge. “But this is Angela Day’s house. She’s my client, what happened? I was just here, did something happen to her?” He’d slipped up somehow, better to let them know they’d find innocent evidence of his presence. He allowed his voice to break. “Please tell me she’s okay.”
The police officer stood aside as the detective in charge stepped up. “Your client? And who are you, sir?”
“George Southgate.” He stuck out his hand. “And you are...?”
“Detective Franklin Steele. Of course, I know who you are, Judge. What brings you out in this weather?” He gestured back at the house. “Someone you knew?”
“Oh no, what happened?” Southgate cleared his throat, his shaky voice no longer an act. Detective Steele had a reputation for clearing investigations that stymied others. “Angela Day is a family friend. Her late husband Peter and I knew each other for years.” He blinked when he finally took in the state of the house. The splintered remains of the garage door gaped open, offering glimpses of the interior.
Steele registered Southgate’s surprise, and indicated the battered building. “Somebody didn’t bother opening the door. In a hurry to get away from the place.” He grimaced. “I used to work with their son, Detective Chris Day, before he died. The whole department takes this personally. I’m sorry to tell you that Angela Day is dead.”
Southgate let his jaw drop open, then turned away. He didn’t want to overdo it. Steele would recognize theatrics. “How awful.” His voice cracked all by itself.
“Looks like she hung herself. With a coat hanger—pretty bizarre. When did you see her? Recently, you say, as a client.”
“More as a friend.” He corrected the man, mind racing. Thanks to the texts, Southgate knew the suicide wouldn’t stand. But Steele wouldn’t know he had reason to doubt the obvious conclusion. Maybe best to play both sides. He took a big breath, and gave his prepared spiel. “Yes, she’d been depressed, but I didn’t think to the point of suicide. Her husband died not long ago. And this week’s the anniversary of her son’s death. She seemed more angry than sad.” He baited the hook, and waited.
“Angry? How so?”
“She called me for advice to deal with an unwelcome visitor. Her former daughter-in-law invited herself to visit, making trouble.” He paused, as if debating whether to share, and concluded in a rush. “Angela blamed this woman for her son’s death. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since his funeral. Bad blood, there.” He turned to look deliberately at the shattered garage door. “I wonder if she drove off in Angela’s car. I’d like to ask her some questions myself.”
“So would I. What kind of car, do you know?”
“It’s a blue sedan, and it’s wrapped around a utility pole three blocks over. Thank God you’re here!”
Southgate whirled at the voice and squinted into the night. A dark-haired woman stumbled into view, cradling an oversize belly.
Steele brushed past Southgate to head her off. “And just who are you?”
One of the neighbors called out. “She’s the one crashed Angela’s car out of the garage. Told us to call 911.”
Southgate gaped, then quickly recovered. “It’s her! Detective, that’s the woman I told you about, Angela’s daughter-in-law. She must have done something. Why else did she run?” He shouted, pointing a shaking finger with outrage.
She ignored him, focused on the detective. Her arms shifted and a cat’s face—a cat?!—poked out of the neck of her jacket. “I’m September Day, Detective Steele. We need to talk.”
Steele looked nonplussed. The beginnings of a smile evaporated when a black flash of fur dodged past the outer circle of the police perimeter.
The detective drew his weapon. Nearby officers followed his lead, all taking aim at the German Shepherd pelting toward them.
