“You gotta talk to me,” Tommy yelled through Angela’s front door, his words punctuated with his pounding on the door, then repeatedly ringing the bell. “I know you’re in there. Open up.”
In the kitchen, she picked up the phone and dialed 911.
“What’s your emergency?” came the calm voice of the dispatcher over the phone.
“A man is at my front door, demanding I let him in,” Angela said, then answered that yes she knew him, yes he was an old boyfriend, no she didn’t want him there, yes he was dangerous, no he wasn’t threatening her, but yes, she felt threatened. They promised to send someone right away.
Let them get here soon, she prayed as she hung up the phone.
Angela had never heard Tommy like this, upset to the point of being incoherent. Long gone was the guy who had once charmed her so many years ago.
The pounding at the front door abruptly stopped, and she headed into the living room hoping that he’d left. She didn’t see him, but a vehicle she didn’t recognize was still parked in front of her house, shrouded by the falling snow.
A second later, she froze as she heard glass breaking and heard the click of the lock, then the back door opening and closing. Brian was right, she thought through a haze of alarm and macabre surprise. She should have left.
Tommy appeared in the doorway between the living room and kitchen a second later, his corduroy sports coat askew, his hair standing on end and his eyes wild. They stood a long second staring at each other.
“Hey, baby,” he said, a lopsided smile not quite erasing his fierce, concentrated expression. He wagged a finger at her. “That wasn’t very nice of you to lock me out of the house.”
“It’s my house,” she said, backing away as he sauntered toward her. “You’re in here now, so what do you want?” Breathless. She didn’t want to sound all out of control like this. She faced him, trying to steady herself.
He raked a shaky hand through the hair falling over his eyebrow. “A beer.” The scowl returned. “But you’re Miss Goody Two-Shoes now, aren’t you? I bet you don’t have any beer.”
“No,” she agreed, her voice firmer now. “I don’t.”
His movements jittery, he came to a stop in the center of the room. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His pupils were constricted, and she realized he was high. She made a wide detour around him, going back to the kitchen. At least he wasn’t yelling now. That was something to be thankful for. But since he was under the influence, he also wasn’t stable, not by a long shot.
She looked toward the back door and slowly moved it into the kitchen. As soon as he turned his back, she’d make a run for it.
Part of her kept listening for the sound of approaching police. On one hand, the sound of a siren would mean help was near. And on the other, she knew he’d go off the instant he heard them.
Panic blossomed in her chest, and she told herself, “Breathe. Just breathe.”
She turned around to find Tommy sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, a hand pressed against his chest, his face contorted. When he caught her watching him, his lips stretched into a mean smile.
“Remember that sweet condo we had in Aspen with the granite counters in the kitchen and the big hot tub on the deck? All within walking distance of the finest shopping in Colorado.” He pointed a finger at her, then at himself. “What do you say, doll face? You and me. Enjoying the good times just like we used to?”
“That was a long time ago.”
He looked around the kitchen. “Don’t expect me to believe you enjoy living like this. I mean, look at this place. It’s ugly.”
“I like it.”
He stood, his eyes wild once more, and she backed away from him.
“You deserve more.” The gentle statement was at odds with his fierce expression and his fist once more pressed against the center of his chest.
Despite her resolve and her fear, tears welled in her eyes. “No, actually, I don’t.”
He looked at her, beginning at her slipper-covered feet to the sweat suit she’d donned to ward off the chill, and finally met her eyes. Nothing was left of the smile, his eyes as hard as she ever remembered them being. “Maybe you don’t, but I do. And I’m going to have it again. All of it. The nice places to live, the great cars.” He took a step closer and sneered. “And the babes, which you clearly aren’t anymore.”
“Fine.” She waved a hand. “Go get it all.”
Tommy shook his head. “Not until I get what you owe me. If you held out on Simon Graden, you held out on me.”
“I told you—there is no money, Tommy. There never was.” She laughed, the sound hysterical in her own ears. “In fact, when the rumor first surfaced I thought you were behind it. If that’s what you came here for, you’re flat out of luck.”
“There’s got to be money.” His voice rose to a ragged shout. “There has to be money or I’m a dead man. Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“I borrowed money from some very bad people. And they want it back. And you’re going to help me get it.”
“I don’t have any.”
He stepped forward suddenly and grabbed the cordless telephone from its cradle and thrust it into her hands. “There’s always money. You just have to ask.” He grabbed her hands and pulled her toward him. “And you’re going to ask. Call him.”
“Who?”
“Don’t be cute, doll face. Your new rich boyfriend.”
She pulled away. “You think Brian is a boyfriend? Are you kidding?”
“Yeah. Call him. Now.”
She shook her head.
“No is not an option. Dial the number.”
“I can’t.”
“Big difference between can’t and won’t,” he said, dragging her toward the counter where a small bulletin board was tacked to overflowing with papers and notes to herself. “He gave you a card—even I remember that. So it’s got to be here somewhere.”
“I won’t do it.”
To her surprise, he let her go. “Want to bet?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a snub-nosed gun and pointed it at her. “Lady’s choice.”
Trembling, she stared at Tommy a moment, hating him, God help her, and more frightened than she’d ever been. She dialed Brian’s home phone, the number he had dialed her from nearly an hour ago. Too late to remember his begging her to leave. Oh, how she wished she had.
“Hello,” came Nonnie’s soft voice over the phone.
“Mrs. Ramsey, hi, this is Angela.”
“Oh, my goodness, but it’s nice to hear your voice. I was just telling Philip how glad we were to have you here last night, especially since Brian told us that we might not see much of you now that Jasper’s training is nearly finished. How are you?”
“I’m looking for Brian,” she said.
“Well, he’s not here,” Nonnie said. “I don’t know where he is. When he gets home, though, I’ll tell him you called.”
“Yes, please do that,” Angela said, too aware of Tommy waving the gun in her face and asking, “Well, where is he?”
“Not at home,” Angela said after disconnecting the call.
“Then call his cell phone. You should have done that first. You’re stalling, and you know it.”
Halfway through dialing the number, there was a knock at the door.
Tommy’s head swiveled toward it. “You expecting anybody?”
“No,” she said.
He waved the gun. “Whoever it is, get rid of them.”
She hoped it was the police, so she was stunned when she cracked it opened and found Brian on the stoop and a taxi in the driveway.
“You’ve got to leave,” she said, pushing the door mostly closed so Tommy wouldn’t see him.
“Is he in there?” Brian demanded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And I did as you asked. Just go. Leave.”
“Talk so I can hear you,” Tommy demanded from behind her.
“It’s just a neighbor,” she called back, mentally crossing her fingers against the lie. She pushed against Brian’s chest, adding in a louder voice, “I can’t visit right now. Maybe tomorrow.”
He didn’t budge.
She stepped back, intending to close the door in his face, but he pushed hard, and the door bounced open. His white cane in hand, he unerringly stepped into the house.
“Well, well, well,” Tommy said, the sneer back in his voice. “You’ve been lying again. Look at who’s shown up just in the nick of time.” He waved the gun at Angela. “Get over here, doll face.”
To her horror, Brian stepped in front of her. “She’s not going anywhere. In fact, she’ll be leaving now. With me.”
Angela attempted to step around Brian, but was blocked by the half-open door on one side and his steady, reassuring arm on the other. “He’s got a gun, Brian.”
“I know.”
“You’re not fooling anyone with that white cane,” Tommy said, waving the gun in question. “You can see as well as I do.”
“If you say so,” Brian agreed, his voice a calm counterpoint to Tommy’s increasingly shrill tone.
Once more, Tommy pressed a hand against his chest as his face contorted and more beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “You write me a check for a half million dollars, and then I’m out of here.” He shook his head. “No, that’s not gonna work because you could call the bank and stop payment before I cash it.”
Brian took a step backward, pushing Angela toward the half-open door. She knew he wanted her to leave, but she couldn’t abandon him to face Tommy.
“I’ll tell you what,” Brian said. “Give me the gun and we’ll all go to the bank together in the morning.”
“You must think I’m stupid or something,” Tommy said, his agitation returning. He swerved, aimed the gun toward the living room window and fired a shot. It reverberated through the room, the window shattering.
Behind Brian, Angela cried out.
He surged forward, swinging his cane like a baseball bat. It hit Tommy squarely with a resounding thud. Tommy swore. Brian reached for him, guided by the sound of his voice and the sheer determination to disarm the man. Finding Tommy’s hands, Brian tried to wrestle the gun from his hand. They both fell, and Brian lost his hold on the gun. Brian grabbed once more for Tommy’s wrist, and the gun discharged again. When Angela screamed, Brian was sure the bullet had hit her.
He slammed Tommy’s hand to the floor again, then again.
Without warning, Tommy suddenly went limp and the gun clattered to the floor. Brian lay on top of the man a moment, unable to judge what had happened. He wasn’t ready to relax his grip on Tommy until he knew the man was no longer a threat.
The stench of blood and gunpowder sank into the room.
“Angela,” Brian called.
“I’m here.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, are you?” she answered while he asked, “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” she repeated, her voice closer.
“That shot didn’t hit you?”
“No.”
“Then where is all this blood coming from?”
He became aware of sirens in the background growing louder until the sound of them reverberated in his ears.
“Oh, no,” Angela said, suddenly next to him. “It’s Tommy. And I can’t find a pulse.”
Silence and a blank emptiness filled Brian’s head. He couldn’t have killed a man. He couldn’t have.
Then, an authoritative voice said, “Step away, and put your hands behind your head.”
The hours after that formed into a blur. Brian was separated from Angela, as he was handcuffed and put into the backseat of a police car. After sitting in the dark for what seemed like hours, he was driven to the police station. On the way, he kept asking about Angela, and the officers told him that she was being taken to the county jail. At the station, he was guided into the booking area where he emptied his pockets and gave them his belt, through the booking process where he learned there were no charges against him. That would have been a relief if he had been able to find out any information about Angela.
Several hours later, his attorney, Gil York, picked him up.
“What can you tell me about Angela?” Brian wanted to know as they got into Gil’s car.
“You should be asking what happened to Tommy,” Gil told him.
“Okay, I’ll ask, but I don’t care.”
“He’s dead,” Gil said flatly. “And your friend Angela is being held on suspicion of murder.”
“She didn’t touch the gun,” Brian insisted.
“That might be relevant if he’d died of a gunshot wound. We won’t know for sure until after the autopsy, but they think he had a heart attack caused by a cocaine overdose.”
“What does that have to do with Angela?”
“There’s a lot of evidence to suggest they were peddling drugs together, and that Manderoll was his own best customer. Likely, she’s an addict, too.”
“No,” Brian said. “She’s not.”
“And, given her history, my strong advice is to distance yourself from her. She’ll bury you and your foundation.”
Though it had been years since the last time she’d been booked, Angela remembered the process when she was delivered to the county jail.
She was allowed to make her phone call. Since it was the middle of the night and since she didn’t remember any phone number except Maisey’s, she finally settled on leaving Maisey a message on the Guardian Paws answering machine, requesting that she call Micah McLeod and let him know what had happened.
After Angela was placed in the holding cell, she sank down on the metal frame of the bed, staring at the bloodstains on her sweatpants and sweatshirt. She still couldn’t believe that Tommy was dead.
She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, remembering that she had reaped what she had sown. Still, she hadn’t expected this, to end up back in jail.
“You’re still here,” an officer said to her sometime later. “I would have thought someone would have come to bail you out by now.”
Angela looked at the clock behind the officer and saw that the time was after six. If she were lucky, she’d have only a few more hours before Maisey got her message and put into motion the wheels that would get her out of here.
“We’re going to have to transfer you to the jail, you know.”
“I know,” she replied.
“You made the front page,” the officer said, holding up a newspaper.
The bold headline above Andrew Brogg’s byline read The Felon and the Football Player.