A Dead Issue (36 page)

The backpack slid out of the back end of the scanner and Dusty nodded at the guard. As he pocketed his wallet, he glanced at us and slung the backpack over his shoulder. With one last shit-eating grin and a thumbs-up, he turned and walked off toward the boarding gate. We watched until he was out of sight.

Outside, a chill wind swept down Access Road as we waited to cross over to the parking garage. We were both quiet. Losing a quarter of a million dollars makes you introspective. I wondered what I could have done differently. If I had a passport, I'd be on the next plane.

In the parking garage, I headed toward the BMW in section G. Tony's Mustang was parked two rows closer and Liza drifted toward it. We stopped at the trunk. “I'll leave this here,” she said. “Make that son-of-a-bitch come down here and pick it up.”

I said nothing, realizing for the first time that she had no idea Tony was dead. My face must have told her something wasn't right. She looked at me expectantly.

“Tony's not going to be coming down for his car—is he?”

I shook my head.

She seemed momentarily stunned by the news and then she seemed to relax. She was free. I could see the joy seep into her as she shook off the weight of Tony's oppressive existence in her life.

“Then his sister can come and pick it up,” she said with a smile. “But first, some Gypsy magic.” She stuck out her hand. “I'll need your backpack.”

She popped the trunk open with her remote and tossed my backpack in among a pile of blankets. Headlights swung around the corner and Liza said, “Shit. It's the cops.” The car drove by. It was a family—a man, wife, and a teenager just in from Florida or someplace. I looked at Liza, puzzled by her needless paranoia. When the car was
out of sight, she grabbed the backpack.

“It's that easy,” she said, handing it to me.

I opened it and saw the pillowcase bulging with bricks of bills.

She reached into the trunk and flipped back a layer of blanket exposing my backpack and covered it again. “The one Dusty has is Tony's,” she said. “Tony bought it when he followed you to Wal-Mart—gearing up for the old pigeon drop.” She took the money backpack and threw it in the trunk next to the covered bundle. Then, like turning the pages of a book, she covered it with the blanket, exposing mine in one easy move.

“Tony had this all set up, ready to go.”

“Why would he want to switch backpacks?”

“Tony was always thinking four moves ahead. This is just in case. I think he was going to let you see him put the money in his car. Then he'd do the blanket flip so the fake backpack would be exposed. If something happened, you'd take the wrong backpack. You'd run off thinking you got your money back. Tony gets time to make his escape while you're making yours, and you don't discover that you've been had, until it's too late—like when you're on a plane to Brazil.”

I reached in and flipped the blanket a few times. It was like a magic trick that loses its power to awe when the secret is revealed.“When we left the Crow's Nest, Dusty put the backpack in the trunk. I saw the way the blankets were arranged and knew Tony had set it up. Dusty looked up to see if anyone was following us and I flipped the blanket just before shutting the trunk.”

We stood silently for a moment before Liza pulled out my backpack and closed the trunk lid.

“Dusty's on his way to Brazil with a backpack full of Tony's dirty laundry. I wonder how he ever managed to slip shitty undies past security.”

“Speaking of security, I can't believe you left that in the trunk.”

“You're right,” she smiled, reaching into her pocket, and pulling out brass lock—its mate keeping Tony's underwear secure. She worked the loop of the lock through the zipper pulls and snapped it shut. “There,” she said with a nod of
satisfaction, “all safe and sound.” She held up the key. “Poor Dusty won't be able to open his backpack until he gets to his hotel room. I wish I could see that.”

CHAPTER 67

We drove the BMW to the Airport Marriot a few minutes away. I got a room on the third floor and held the door open for her. She went past me without talking and dropped her suitcase into the closet by the door. As she walked toward the bed, she shed clothes and I followed, leaving a trail of shoes, shirts, and socks in case we wanted to find our way home—someday. We stood naked, facing each other and her eyes locked onto her crucifix still hanging from my neck. I pulled it over my head and held it out to her. She shook her head.

“I don't need it anymore,” she said and we slipped into bed. We made love, showered, and did it again, this time with less urgency, savoring every touch and taste. Exhausted, we cuddled up to talk.

“You first,” she said.

“No, you.”

“Tell you what. Whoever—”

“OK, OK” I cut her off, “I'll go first.”

It didn't take long to tell my side of the story. I spared her from the graphic details, giving her a sketchy outline of what happened. She seemed more saddened by the death of Stomp than the death of her own husband. The fact that Tony had shot him without provocation, merely to make a point, didn't seem to surprise or shock her. It was something she expected from the sleaze ball motherfucker.

Liza was silent for a long time after I told her my side of the tale. Finally, she snuggled up real close and began quietly. “Stomp followed you up to the observatory a few minutes after we heard you going down the hall, giving Tony the tour. I don't know what he was thinking, but he wasn't stupid. He knew there was more money floating around than his lousy ten Gs.” She paused. “Dusty had his nose in the Boscov's bag when we heard the shot. He jumped a foot and a half. He said, ‘The shit has hit the fan,
I'm outa here,' and headed for the door, letting the
shopping bag slide off the backpack. That's when I knew he pulled a switch on you.”

“It was Cash,” I said. “That was his backpack in the shopping bag. He was looking at the money when you saw Tony coming. I watched Cash put the money back in. Then we went to the window. Cash must have held back long enough to make a switch.”

“You should have marked your bag,” Liza said.

“I did. I left that little plastic price tag thing in the strap. It was there. I checked.”

“So did Cash,” Liza added. “Anyway, Dusty started to leave with the money. I told him to wait.” She hesitated. “He showed me his gun and I knew he was not going to let me stop him. I said, ‘I'm going with you.' He seemed to like the idea. I grabbed my suitcase and purse and ran after him to his car. I told him to take Tony's so we'd make it without a tow truck. That's when I saw the pigeon drop all set to go. The money never left the car after that. Dusty drove and talked all the way, jabbering about Brazil, Rio, Carnival—the guy's a walking encyclopedia. He should work for Brazil's tourist bureau.”

We were silent for a while. I finally said, “So my trip wasn't really necessary.”

“No, it wasn't,” she snuggled against me and wiggled, “but I'm glad you came.”

“Twice,” I reminded her and she poked me in the ribs.

“And I could have dropped Dusty off with his bag of crap and told him I changed my mind. I mean what could he do? Kidnap me? And what would he do when he discovered that he didn't have the money—take a bus back to Fannett Meadow and demand the quarter mill he tried to steal from you? Not likely.”

“So why didn't you do that?” I asked her.

“Because it was so much fun. I mean—he tried to steal a quarter of a million dollars from you. The least I could do is get him on a plane to Brazil with no money. Payback's a bitch.”

“There's more to it,” I added. “Isn't there?”

Liza looked down, uncertain. When she looked up, her eyes were moist and sincere. “I think Devereaux's theory about the land got me going. I started to have doubts about you.”

I said nothing, thinking about Dusty's Gypsy comment.

“It's funny, but I never have doubts. Maybe it's because it was the first time I cared about anything—or anyone. But I needed to know if you wanted me . . . or the land. The money at the airport was the test.

“Did I pass?”

She smiled and nuzzled up under my chin.

EPILOGUE

As we drove up Cameron Road, a limo passed us going the other way, and I knew my father had returned from Chicago. I dreaded this first meeting even though the money had been recovered. I had violated his trust and put a huge amount of money at risk. I couldn't undo that.

My father burst out of the house as we pulled up to the garage. Rage radiated from him like waves of heat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he walked toward us like his first move would be a right cross to my jaw. As he neared, his eyes flicked to Liza and back to me. Eventually, he stopped, his face inches from mine.

“What the hell did you do?” His voice a steady rumble through clenched teeth.

I waited for him to grab a handful of my shirt. It seemed like the next logical step, but we were frozen in that moment. I did not know what to say so I said nothing.

“I trusted you to look after the place so I wouldn't get ripped off, and you let some asshole walk off with a quarter of a million dollars! Jesus Christ, what were you thinking?”

“That asshole was my brother,” I said softly.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It's not that bad,” Liza broke in.

My father took a step back and turned his head toward her. Liza stood firmly planted, backpack slung over her shoulder, ready for the stare down.

“And who the hell are you?” My father scowled at her.

“I could end up being your daughter-in-law, so watch your fucking mouth. Sheesh.”

His head jerked back as if he had been slapped, and in the moment of silence that followed, the word ‘daughter-in-law' slowly registered in my head. Was that a proposal?

“She has a lot of money,” I added confidentially. She slid a thumb under the strap of the backpack and held it up. “A quarter of a million,” she said, “in cash.”

My father's rage cooled to angry suspicion.

“By the way, how did you come into all that money?” I asked.

“I scammed it from some asshole before he got on a plane to Brazil.”

My father's eyes bounced back and forth between Liza and me. We were jerking him around and he seemed unsure how to take it.

“Watch your mouth,” I said. “That asshole might end up being your brother-in-law.”

“Not if you're only interested in my money.”

“I'm interested in you,” I said, playing into her script, but feeling it in my heart.

“Then I'll give it away.”

She held the backpack out to my father. He reached out slowly and she looped the strap over his wrist.

“Dad, this is Liza Lovell—Jonah's granddaughter.”

Liza extended her hand and my father took it tentatively, allowing the backpack to slip to the ground. I sensed his turmoil as several issues swirled around him—his money restored, a possible marriage, and a young woman's loss of a grandfather.

He said nothing, but took her hand in both of his. It was a gesture filled with warmth. It expressed his thanks, condolences, and an apology.

There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Liza perked up. “Oh,” she said. “I almost forgot.” She scrabbled around in her purse, finally withdrawing a small brass key. “You'll be needing this.”

My father looked at the frail little lock on the backpack.

“But it's going to cost you,” she warned.

“How much?” My father was smiling, feigning mistrust with a tilt of his head.

“Lunch. I'm starving.”

We went to the Barcelona to eat, and it took most of the afternoon and two bottles of wine to tell the story. I started with DiNuccio's traffic stop and my wallet. As the story worked its way through Devereaux's investigation, and the appearance of Tony, I watched my father. When Liza spoke he was all attention, and I knew he was falling in love with
her—in a future father-in-law kind of way. And what wasn't there to love? She was bright and beautiful. She
had rescued his money and she owned one hundred and seventy-three acres of prime real estate right next to the Cameron Estate—not that that would influence my father's feelings for her. What really won him over was when she took his hand, placed it on her heart, and told him that she knew he was a good person.

 

The End