1
Village Pizza Inn was small, cozy, and uncrowded at such an early hour on a Thursday. They sat at a table covered with red checked tablecloths. After a deep perusal of the menu, Shelley decided on an eight-inch veggie pizza. Then she pinned Ray with a stare. “Jesse was missing this morning. Is he home yet?”
“Not as of three o’clock, when I was last at the house,” Ray said.
“Do you have any leads?”
Ray seemed nonplussed by Shelley’s language. “She watches a lot of police shows,” Nicole told him.
Shelley nodded. “NYPD Blue is my favorite. Are you conducting a search for Jesse?”
Nicole was glad Ray looked at the child without a trace of condescension. “No, Shelley, we aren’t as of yet. Today we were working on other things. Besides, he hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours. It’s also our belief that Jesse will come home in the next day or two.”
“Do you know who killed the two men?”
Ray’s dark eyes shot to Nicole. “I told her,” she said. “She took it very well, like the brave, grown-up girl she is.”
Shelley rolled her eyes. “Mommy, you’re making me sound like a dork.”
“Excuse me,” Nicole said wryly. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“I know.” Shelley looked at Ray. “Well?”
“You’re more demanding than my lieutenant.” Ray smiled. “No, Shelley, we don’t know yet.”
“Any leads?”
“No, ma’am.”
Shelley sighed. “After twenty-four hours, the trail gets cold.”
Ray burst into laughter. “Shelley, you’re a pistol.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means you ask too many questions,” Nicole said, getting irritated with the child’s demanding tone. “Give him a break and be quiet.”
“It’s all right,” Ray said. “Shelley, I meant you’re very smart. Do you want to go into police work?”
“I’m not sure.”
“She’s torn between police work and acting,” Nicole explained.
Ray nodded. “Just go to college like your mother did. That would help you in either field.”
“But if I don’t know which I want to do, how will I know what classes to take?”
“You could have a double major in criminology and drama,” Ray said. “It would be unusual, but possible.”
“I guess,” Shelley said without enthusiasm. Not many nine-year-olds were planning their college majors. “Did you go to college, Sergeant DeSoto?”
“Yes. And why don’t you call me Ray?”
Shelley looked at Nicole. “Is that all right?”
“Yes, if he says it is,” Nicole said, glad that although the child spouted police terminology like an adult, she at least remembered her childhood manners.
“Where did you go to college, Ray?” Shelley asked sweetly.
He leaned back in the booth, seeming to be enjoying himself. “I went to college in New York City.”
“That’s far away,” Shelley commented.
“I’d spent my whole life in Texas,” Ray said. “I lost my mother when I was young and I was raised poor. I’d never even been on a vacation, so when I got some extra money and it was time to leave for college, I wanted to see a different part of the country.”
“I bet you’re a real good policeman.”
Ray smiled. “I hope so.”
After they ordered, Shelley asked for money to play the jukebox. Ray and Nicole each offered a dollar bill, and Shelley headed toward the machine.
“She’s quite a kid,” Ray said.
“That’s an understatement. I’m sorry she’s so persistent tonight. She’s scared about the murders, and especially about Jesse. She’s not usually so annoying.”
“She didn’t annoy me. She’s just precocious.”
“I know. She gets that from her father. Roger is brilliant, although his behavior has been less than exemplary lately.”
Ray looked into her eyes. “I’m sure most of her intelligence comes from her mother.”
Nicole smiled slightly. “Thank you, but believe me, I’m not brighter than Roger. He’s been running circles around me for the past year.”
“In what way?”
She didn’t want to tell Ray about Roger talking her into a move to Texas so he could follow his girlfriend. It was too humiliating. “He just is, believe me.” Ray’s eyes probed hers, and she dropped her gaze, sipping her lemonade. “Can you tell me what you found out about the murders today?”
Ray looked over his shoulder, making sure Shelley was still out of earshot. “Don’t worry. For Shelley, picking the correct songs is like choosing which wire to cut on a bomb. It’ll take her forever.”
Ray laughed. “Okay. For one thing, we did find your house keys in Izzy’s pocket. That wasn’t a surprise.”
“But what about the other man? The one who killed Izzy?”
“There’s no trace of a second person having broken in. Maybe he came in with Izzy, although that doesn’t sound very likely. Maybe he followed Izzy in.”
“That doesn’t sound very likely, either, unless he was following Izzy.”
“I know. We’re still working on that. Anyway, both Izzy and the cop were killed with the same gun.”
“An automatic?”
“Yes. Your revolver will be returned to you. We didn’t find the murder weapon.” A song by Hootie and the Blowfish began to play. “The cop had only one wound—the gunshot to the temple. He died instantly. Izzy wasn’t so lucky. All the blood in your hall probably came from the wound in his back.”
“His back?”
“Yes.” Ray pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket and began reading. “According to the autopsy, he was stabbed with a four-inch blade. We didn’t find the knife, either. Anyway, it penetrated through an inner space in the lower dorsal spine, transecting the spinal cord.”
“Transecting the spine. That would have paralyzed him.” Ray nodded again. “But certainly he would have cried out. Why didn’t I hear anything?”
“There were terry-cloth shreds in his mouth. The killer must have stuffed a washcloth in it before Izzy got over the shock of the stabbing. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she managed, swallowing hard. “It’s just so awful.”
Ray’s expression didn’t change. “Keep in mind that Izzy might have killed you if someone hadn’t gotten him first. In fact, we think that’s what he intended to do. We found a small roll of eighteen-gauge wire in his pocket. Ten years ago he tried to strangle his father with wire. He probably intended to do the same to you.”
Nicole was astounded and repulsed. “Why wasn’t he in prison?”
“For the attack on his father? He was a juvenile and they claimed temporary insanity due to drugs. He was out in the streets in no time. We had another, similar murder a couple of years ago, which I think Izzy committed, but we couldn’t prove it.”
“But why would he want to kill me? Just so he could rob the place? There’s nothing of any real value in my home.”
Ray hesitated, his gaze shifting from hers to the window beside them. “Nicole, we found three thousand dollars in Izzy’s room. We haven’t had any robberies in the past few days where that much cash was taken. Nor was Izzy at any of the pawnshops lately. Besides, the money couldn’t have been there long or he would have spent it on drugs. We believe he was paid, probably yesterday, to kill you.”
“What?” Nicole blurted, ignoring the couple across the room who turned to look at her. “But who…”
“Your husband is the most likely suspect.”
Nicole stared at him for a moment, then shook her head violently. “No. Roger and I certainly aren’t having an amicable divorce, but he would not do something like that. Besides, you don’t have any proof this Izzy person was paid to kill me.”
“Believe it or not, Izzy had a girlfriend. Glorious young lady by the name of Jewel Crown. Honest to God, that’s her real name. I think her mother knew she’d grow up to be either a hooker or a stripper. We questioned her today. She told us about his being paid for a hit. I quote,” he said, his voice suddenly changing, becoming high and nasal. “ ‘On somebody’s wife—she’s a teacher or somethin’. She’s got a kid, but Iz wouldn’t hurt no kid. Just the wife.’ ” Ray resumed his normal voice. “Now, as I said, this young lady is a prostitute. She’s also a coke addict. She’s not your ideal witness, but still…”
Nicole couldn’t take it in. She felt cold, stunned, but stubborn. “Ray, I’m telling you, Roger wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Are you sure?”
Her mouth went dry as she thought of how he’d tricked her into coming to San Antonio, of how erratic his behavior had become, of how determined he was to get full custody of Shelley. “Three thousand dollars isn’t a very high price to kill someone.”
“For Izzy, three thousand was probably a fortune. We’re checking your husband’s bank account for any recent large withdrawals,” Ray said, just as their drinks were delivered.
Nicole took a gulp of her lemonade, wishing it were something stronger, although after last night her stomach rebelled at the thought. “I still can’t believe it,” she said finally.
“Who else might want you dead?”
“No one. Except maybe…”
“Paul Dominic?”
Nicole took another sip of her drink, then said slowly, “When I first thought Paul was back, I believed he might want revenge for my wrecking his life.”
“But now you think Dominic killed Izzy to protect you?”
“Maybe.”
“And the patrolman watching your house, Nicole? His name was Jason Abbott, he was twenty-six years old, and he had two little kids. Did Dominic kill him to protect you, too?”
Nicole drew back, the breath flooding out of her. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I feel like it is, especially if Paul did it because of me…”
“You’re not responsible for Dominic’s actions.”
Nicole knew any good psychiatrist would say the same thing, but as Shelley returned to the table, she thought of the young patrolman Abbott’s fatherless children. She’d never been convinced Paul killed Magaro and Zand, but if he had, it had been to avenge and to protect her—they had almost killed her, and if given the chance, they might have tried again. If Paul had killed Izzy Dooley, he had probably saved her life. But Abbott? Would Paul have killed an innocent man to maintain his own safety and anonymity?
“Mommy, you don’t look so good,” Shelley commented when she returned to the table.
“I’m fine, sweetie.”
But as she forced down her food, everything tasted like cardboard that wanted to stick in her throat. Someone, maybe more than one person, wanted her dead. And she had a terrible feeling one of them would be successful.
2
Jewel Crown was on her way home after a long, disappointing evening. Not one john. But she supposed she understood it. She wasn’t putting her heart in her work tonight. Izzy hadn’t exactly been a girl’s dream, but he’d cared for her. When she had a bad week, he’d always given her money to get by, to buy enough food and coke to keep her going. And he always said she was pretty. Not like the Johns did because they wanted sex. Just because he meant it. Now he was gone.
Jewel hadn’t liked talking to the police about his death. Hell, what hooker did like talking to the police? And the way Izzy had died. God, it made her sick to think about it. It also made her sick that the police took the three thousand dollars Izzy was paid, even though they gave her a little something for her story.
Jewel knew she shouldn’t be afraid. She’d told the truth—Izzy had been paid to kill a woman, a teacher. He said she was a horrible person, a crazy woman who was hurting her kid, otherwise he wouldn’t do it, and Jewel had understood. She didn’t like it when kids got hurt by their parents the way she had. The only problem was that she wasn’t supposed to know who’d paid Izzy, but she did. Iz had told her. Of course, she hadn’t told the police who that person was. They couldn’t have dragged the name out of her, no matter what they did. But maybe the person who hired Izzy didn’t believe that. Maybe they thought she’d blab everything. Maybe they thought that just because she was a working girl, she was stupid. Or greedy, planning on blackmail. Jewel Crown was neither stupid nor greedy.
She turned her foot on a spike heel and cursed. Her feet hurt and her leather skirt and gold mesh top felt tighter than usual. She stopped and took off the shoes. There was nothing she could do about the skirt and top unless she wanted to walk home naked because she didn’t wear underwear. The pavement felt cool under her bare feet. She’d elected not to wear the black fishnet stockings tonight. They were Izzy’s favorite, but she was in mourning for him, so they remained in her dresser drawer.
Jewel turned down a dark street. She was tired, more tired than she could ever remember. She hadn’t slept last night. Tonight she would sleep deeply and she knew Iz would understand. She was on her own now. A few more bad nights like this one and she’d be in trouble. She needed rest to get rid of the circles under her eyes and put some spring back in her step, give her the attitude that made her so popular with her clients.
Something whizzed past her face and buried itself in the sandstone building beside her. Jewel stopped, stunned, until a sharp pain pierced her left shoulder. Her right hand jerked up to the shoulder at the same moment she realized someone in the car opposite her was shooting at her. She dropped to her knees and crawled behind some garbage cans lined against the building. Another shot rang against the metal and she squealed, cowering lower, crawling forward. There were only three trash cans, and the last shot had pierced the one beside her. The next one could—
Voices. “Hey, what’s goin’ on out here?” one voice shouted. “Shots! Someone’s firin’ a gun!” yelled another.
The shots stopped. Tires screamed. Headlights disappeared as the car went tearing down the street.
Jewel, shivering and crying and bleeding, huddled behind the cans for twenty minutes before she finally crawled out and ran into the night, leaving her prized spike heels behind.
3
Ray watched until Shelley and Nicole were safely in their rooms. He knew he’d really shaken Nicole by telling her he thought someone had paid Izzy Dooley to kill her, but she had to be told. She had to be convinced that her life was in danger and that she shouldn’t trust anyone, at least not Roger Chandler or Paul Dominic.
He had no doubt that Roger Chandler was having a nervous breakdown. His research confirmed what Nicole told him—Chandler was indeed brilliant. But a fuse seemed to have shorted out sometime last year. Ray didn’t really believe Roger was so crazy about Lisa Mervin he’d do anything to get out of his marriage. After all, Nicole wasn’t contesting the divorce, or to his knowledge, demanding anything except modest child support. Even the house was rented, not paid for by Chandler. But the man was determined to possess his daughter. Nicole would never acquiesce to that, and given his behavior, Ray couldn’t imagine a judge giving nun even joint custody. The only way Chandler could have his daughter to himself was if Nicole were dead.
And tonight he’d learned about a man named Miguel Perez. While Shelley ran ahead to jump in the car after their meal, Nicole told him about the man who’d stood outside Shelley’s school-ground, who had waved to her, and whom she had described as looking like Miguel. She’d also told him about her meeting with Perez in her office, when he’d made clear his romantic feelings. Ray told her he didn’t know why this man might want her dead, but he’d certainly check him out because if he weren’t behind the mess with Izzy, he still might be causing trouble.
Then there was Paul Dominic. Although in front of other people Ray downplayed his belief that Dominic was around—he wanted to appear cool and objective—he knew in his gut Dominic was alive, here, and following Nicole. The question was why.
At ten o’clock, two hours after he’d left Nicole at the motel, it hit him—that sickening feeling that danger was near. Ever since he was a boy, he’d experienced waves of near nausea whenever peril lay close by, and he’d always been right.
He headed back for Nicole’s motel and stopped the car in the parking lot, pulling into the shadows. He had a clear view of Nicole’s second-floor room in his rearview mirror. The draperies were drawn, but he could see light around the edges. She was no doubt unable to sleep. Maybe she was watching television or grading papers. Although it was only ten-twenty, there was little movement around the motel. Someone pulled in, went into the office, then drove to the end of the lot and carried luggage into a first-floor room. A man came out of another room with an ice bucket, went into the alcove where Ray had already located the ice and soft-drink machines, then returned to his room.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary. But something was wrong.
Slouching down in his seat, Ray mentally prepared himself for an evening of surveillance. He could have requested a patrolman, but tonight he felt like handling things himself, even though he’d had a long, tiring day.
He’d thought he was wide awake. Then he saw his mother. She was smiling at him, her beautiful face alight, kneeling and holding out her arms. A little boy, he ran toward her, but the closer he got, the more her features blurred and coalesced until they were no longer beautiful and loving, but heavy and disdainful. His real mother was gone, and another had taken her place, her hand raised, waiting to slap his face or give him a painful pinch.
He jerked awake, sweating. He hadn’t had the dream for years. He thought he’d left it behind with his youth. Disappointingly, he hadn’t. Or maybe it had occurred only because he’d been thinking about his past this evening when he told Shelley about going to college in New York City. That had been his escape, his first step to freedom.
He looked at his wristwatch. Eleven-thirty. He’d been asleep, over an hour. He was furious with himself as he sat up abruptly, looking at Nicole’s room. Was that a shadow near the door? He squinted. The lighting was horrible here.
Ray frowned. Damn, he could swear there was something near her door, but it wasn’t as tall as a man. A kid playing around? Someone crouching, trying to peek in. No. A dog. A big dog sat outside her door.
He grabbed his gun and bolted out of the car. “Dominic!” he shouted, turning in a quick circle, gun raised, and seeing nothing. “I know you’re here, goddammit. You’re not going to get away this time.” He started toward the steps leading toward the second-floor balcony, gun raised, as he saw a few lights flicker on in various rooms. “Dom—”
Something crashed down on the back of his head. Brilliant light flashed before his eyes as he dropped to his knees. He tried to lift the gun again, but consciousness slipped away. He never even felt his head scraping against the concrete parking lot.
4
Nicole turned restlessly in the unfamiliar bed. In her mind, she went over everything Ray had said. Izzy Dooley’s girlfriend claimed he’d been paid to kill someone—a wife, a teacher. Would Roger really go so far to get rid of her?
Moonlight sliced through a crack in the draperies. She stared at it, her mind still racing. She’d told Ray about Miguel because she thought he may have been in her house last night. Izzy had her keys, but it was quite possible Miguel had duplicates. He might have killed Izzy Dooley. He might have killed the patrolman Abbott. But why would he have put on Paul’s cassette to play over and over until she awakened? To mislead her? To make her believe Paul Dominic had killed the men? But how would Miguel know she thought Paul was back unless he too were following her and spotted Paul? It wasn’t as if photos of Paul were hard to find.
But what did all this have to do with her father? Who had been sending the mysterious letters and the photograph of Paul to Clifton Sloan? And what in the name of God could have been in those letters to throw Clifton into the tailspin he’d suffered the last weeks of his life?
Shelley moaned a couple of times in her sleep, tiny, pathetic sounds that tore at Nicole’s heart. Each time she got up and bent over her daughter sleeping in the other double bed. Her small, lovely face looked troubled, and Nicole feared she was dreaming of two murdered men or of her little lost dog.
Nicole tucked the covers up to Shelley’s chin, as if that would protect her from harm, and crawled back into her own bed. She looked at the clock. Eleven-ten. In nine hours she had to be ready to teach a class. Three classes on Friday, and she couldn’t get away with writing assignments. She had to get some sleep, which seemed impossible.
Twenty minutes later she was sleeping soundly. No tossing, no dreams. Later she was amazed that she’d been able to slip through REM sleep into the deep sleep of dreamlessness. Maybe that’s why it took her so long to respond to the ringing phone. Shelley had already picked it up and was shaking her vigorously on the shoulder when she finally roused.
“Mommy, there’s a man on the phone,” she said.
“Who?” Nicole managed without opening her eyes.
“I don’t know. I never heard the voice, but I don’t like it. It’s mean.”
Good Lord, what now? Nicole thought before taking the receiver. “Yes?”
“Ah, little bird,” a rough voice said in her ear. Nicole thought her heart would stop. After fifteen years she knew that voice as if she’d heard it yesterday. “Daddy’s not around to protect you anymore, is he? And I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything you put me and Ritchie Zand through. And you’ll pay, little bird. It won’t be quick, it won’t be painless, but it’ll be final, both for you and your puta daughter.”
The caller hung up. Nicole lay on the bed, frozen, shaking. “Mommy. Mommy, what is it?” Shelley demanded, her young voice rising. “Who was it?”
“Luis Magaro,” Nicole said through chattering teeth. “A dead man.”