Well, Sarkisian’s presence provided one bright spot. I’d have no trouble getting the bottles. I might even have help carrying the damned things.
The huge garage-like doors that allowed the paneled trucks to drive inside for both shipping and receiving remained firmly closed, but the smaller entry, which stood at the top of the ramp and led to the catwalk that ran around the bay, stood ajar a few inches. I ran up the ramp, shoved the door wide and stepped inside, out of the cold and wet.
A single fluorescent light cast a dim glow over the cement floor area below. The walkway encircled it, with several offices and storerooms on the side opposite me. One of the doors stood open, and a light showed within. Boxes and handcarts lined the wall below, but no trucks awaited loading. Only Tony’s motorcycle stood in a corner, out of the rain. I stared at it, surprised. Tony? Had he been promoted to night watchman? With his background? Or was he cleaning that office?
I started around the walkway toward the light. No one emerged, even as I rounded the end of the bay and circled back on the other side, nearing the room. “Tony?” I called, “Ow—Sheriff?” I’d nearly called Sarkisian by his first name, and that was something I was not going to allow myself to do. “Anyone down here?”
The light in the room snapped off.
“Tony?” I called again, and was annoyed that my voice sounded a bit shaky. The complete silence was giving me the creeps. Why didn’t he answer? If, in fact, it was Tony in that little office. If not—or for that matter, if it was— My suspicions—and uneasiness—surged to the forefront.
A dark shape emerged, and fear, like a rod of icy steel, shot through my chest and stomach. I held my ground simply because I had frozen where I stood, unable to move.
“Annike?” Adam’s voice. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the dinner?”
“I didn’t see your truck.” Relief flooded over me and I swallowed. I’d let my damned imagination get the better of my common sense. Still, I wanted to get out of here as quickly as I could. With an effort, I focused on the matter at hand. “I forgot about the liqueurs. Dave was going to bring a few bottles. Do you know if he ever set them aside?”
Adam shifted, bringing something on the floor behind him into my line of sight. Something large and dark. Something…
“I’ll check.” He eased himself through the narrow opening.
His movement allowed the dim light past him. A small area of the office’s linoleum floor glistened. Liquid? Then the whole shadowy shape resolved itself into a person—at least, I prayed it was a person and not another body. I could just make out the pepper-and-salt curling hair of Owen Sarkisian.
And that dark, glistening puddle was blood.
Chapter Nineteen
The sheriff’s hand twitched. He wasn’t dead, at least not yet. Then a muffled cry sounded, as of someone gagged. It hadn’t come from Sarkisian but from somewhere beyond him, back in the farthest corner. Slowly I raised my head and looked at Adam.
He just stood there, shoulders sagged, shaking his head. “Damn it, Annike, why’d you have to see that?”
“See—see what?” I tried, in that stupid way most people have of trying to lie themselves out of a jam. If I ran, did I have a chance of getting to safety? Of reaching the sheriff’s car and radioing for help for him? Sarkisian…
Adam just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Annike.” He took a step toward me.
I backed away. “Why?” I asked. Keep him talking, if I could just keep him talking, anything to delay his disposing of me…
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Do you know how much this stuff is worth? I know a guy who’ll give me a hundred fifty bucks a case, seven cases a month. That’ll pay for a lot of the things Lucy wants.”
“But—” I shook my head. Theft was one thing, murder another.
“Brody?” he asked as if reading my mind. “He called me from your aunt’s house, said he had a little business proposition for me. Do you know, he actually wanted me to take twice as many cases? And give him two-thirds of the money? If my buyer could have handled that many, I’d have already been doing it.”
I was still shaking my head. He had decided to kill me, too, or he wouldn’t be talking. Possibly he delayed doing the inevitable. I couldn’t believe he was a man who killed easily. But I could no longer deny he was a man who could kill. Well, delaying suited me just fine. “Stabbing isn’t your style,” I managed at last. “If he’d been bashed over the head with something…”
His mouth twisted. “I’m not dumb. I had the drive over to Gerda’s to think about how I wanted to handle him. Lucy’d never come back if I went to prison, so I had to silence him. And I had to do it in a way to divert suspicion. And I’ve taken every opportunity to start a fistfight since, so people would think just what you did.”
“And Dave?” I could only bless the impulse that seized him to talk, to confess. He wasn’t an evil man. He honestly seemed to want me to understand why I was going to die.
He made a toss-away gesture with one hand. “He was on the verge of killing himself, you know. But he kept backing out of it, said he couldn’t face the idea of pain. So I just—helped him along, a little. That should have made everyone think he’d killed Brody.”
“But Sarkisian realized it was another murder.”
Adam nodded. “That made it damned awkward.”
“Look, he knows it was you. He told me. He told others. You can’t get away with this.”
“That’s where I got lucky.” Adam fell silent for a moment, then continued. “He didn’t have proof. He knew that. Hell, I knew that. I was damned careful.”
“Then why…” My gaze returned to Owen Sarkisian’s hand. It no longer moved.
“He’s too tenacious, like a dog refusing to let go of a favorite toy. For all I knew, all that tenacity might have paid off, and he might have found some little detail I overlooked.”
“But there wasn’t any!” I tried. “You never even deposited the money from the liqueurs.”
Adam nodded. “That was the first thing anyone would check for, if they ever realized the inventory’d been changed a little. I’m smart enough to know that.”
“So where did you hide it?”
“In the house. In cash. And I made sure I paid for all the repairs by check, from money that could be traced to paychecks.”
“Then you were safe!” I almost wailed the words. “There was no need for…” I broke off, waving toward the office and Sarkisian’s limp form.
“You honestly think he’d have just shrugged his shoulders and forgotten about two murders if he had trouble finding proof?” His tone dripped scorn. “He’d have kept at it. So I set up a solution that will satisfy Goulding.”
“A… No. Sarkisian knew it was you. He’d never have walked into a trap.”
“Not if he suspected I set it, no. So I didn’t. I had Tony spring it.”
Tony. Tony’s motorcycle, just inside the garage doors. He had to be here, somewhere. But… Then I remembered that mumbling sound.
I swallowed to ease the dryness of my throat. “Tony was helping you?”
“Let’s say he looked the other way for a few dollars. And it was easy enough to get him to play along with a practical joke on the sheriff. I had him call and say he’d found something while sweeping up that might be of interest. I also had him say I wasn’t here, that I’d already gone home. So our good sheriff came, just like I’d wanted.”
“And Tony?”
Adam sighed. “If ever there was a pawn just made for sacrifice, it’s that sniveling little bastard. He’s tied up and gagged.” He jerked his chin to indicate the room behind him. “He’ll be shot by the sheriff’s gun, and the sheriff will be shot by an untraceable one with Tony’s prints. The sheriff will have caught him stealing cases—I’ll set a convincing stage, don’t worry—and they’ll have killed each other. Sarkisian will have been wrong about me. All neat and tidy. And now,” and his voice took on a note of genuine regret, “I’m sorry, Annike. I really am. I never wanted you involved. But I promise, you’ll be unconscious before you go over the ravine. You’ll never feel a thing.” He started toward me.
I turned and ran, back the way I’d come. And that was my mistake. Adam vaulted to the cement floor below. Before I’d rounded the second corner, he’d reached the exit himself and slammed it. He wedged something in the jamb, and I knew that even if I got past him, it would take time to get that door open. And time was something that was rapidly running out for me.
So if I couldn’t go that way, I’d go up. I scrambled through the passage that led to the production floor, then ran for the metal stairs that would take me to the office level, the reception desk, the front door, and freedom. But I was still weaving between rows of fermentation tanks when the night lights flickered off, plunging me into pitch-black.
No windows, no skylights. Nothing. Just me and the dark and literally tons of fermenting brandies and liqueurs in copper stills, just waiting for me to bump into them and set their instruments clattering. The least sound would give away my whereabouts.
“You can’t get out.” His voice sounded calm, reasonable. “I’ve cut the main power switch. That seals the door from the reception area.”
At least he didn’t try to convince me I was safe, that he wouldn’t harm me. I cringed down below the level of the cabinets in front of me. Had he just told the truth or a lie? I tried to recall the door but couldn’t. For all I knew, it did have some sort of emergency lock. It might be a fire precaution. This much alcohol would create a horrendous explosion if it ever caught a spark.
“Aren’t you going to promise not to tell anyone? Give me all the reasons why I shouldn’t kill you?” He sounded disappointed.
I was so desperate that for a moment I thought he might be serious, that he might honestly believe we could both get ourselves out of this. Then logic took over. If I spoke, I’d give away my position. That was all he wanted.
I could hear his own progress as he searched for me. Then a light flickered on. The beam of a flashlight. The production floor was large, with lots of tables and cabinets, but it wouldn’t take him that long to find me. I had to get away…
The light brushed across the stairs. I fixed the location firmly in my mind and inched toward it. I would not believe in the safety lock. I could not. That would be to admit I hadn’t a chance in this world of getting out of this mess alive. I had to cling to some scrap of hope.
His light darted toward me, and I ducked, fast. It passed by, swung back, then continued toward the far corner of the room. I slithered away, every step taking me nearer to safety. Or so I kept telling myself. I had to keep my spirits up somehow. He was coming closer, ever closer. I fought against panic. I wouldn’t have time to reach the stairs, let alone climb them.
My hand that followed the ledge of the cabinet brushed against something that moved. I froze, then allowed my fingers to search with extreme caution. A pen. No, not “a”. Two. The beginnings of a plan took root in my mind. All right, it wasn’t a very good one, but it was all I had. With luck he’d fall for it, simply because it was too unbelievably trite for me to actually try it.
I inched closer to the stairs, then waited, not wanting to get too close. The beam swept back. I ducked, but fixated on the place where the light had touched the metal steps. I could do this. I kept telling myself that my appalling aim, this time, would work, that for once I would throw something that would fly for more than ten feet.
The light swept in the other direction. Now or never. Well, now or I could crouch here like the coward I was until he caught me.
Without giving myself a chance for dithering indecision, I heaved one of the pens, missed the stairs and banged it instead against a copper still several feet from my target. Typical.
Adam reacted at once, though, with all the lack of reason I could have prayed for. He charged toward the sound, oblivious to the fact I could never have made any such noise by accident. But I wasn’t going to complain. I slunk backward, praying he would concentrate his search in the general vicinity of the pen.
His light focused, moving in slow circles, directed just where I hoped he would look. The outer fringe of it brushed the passage into the docks. And it had a door, too, one that could be closed and possibly even blocked behind me. I dove for it, banging against tables, heedless now of everything except reaching that opening before Adam.
I didn’t make it by much, but I did make it. I slammed the door shut, then wedged the other pen beneath it. It might hold him back for a few seconds, long enough for me to free the outer door, maybe even reach my car…
I had thrust my keys into my pocket when I’d entered the building. I dragged them out now, wanting them ready, wanting nothing to slow my escape. Adam already tugged and swore at the door I’d just blocked. It wouldn’t hold long. But would it be enough?
I pelted along the walkway in the dark, bumping against the railing, gasping for breath. I collided with the door, and sure enough, it wouldn’t open. Desperate, I felt along the edges until I found something wedged. I dragged at it, then bit back a cry as something sharp sliced my hand. Swearing under my breath, I felt it with more care. A pocket knife, open. The blade had been shoved in the door. But it was on my side, not like the pen I’d used to hold Adam at bay. If I could just pull it out…
I’d been so scared, I’d taken his word for it that he’d locked me in. But when I yanked at the knife, it came loose in my hand. I dragged open the door, then bolted through as Adam freed himself from my petty hindrance. I slammed the door behind me and shoved the knife into the space between the edge and the jamb, as he had done. I’d only run four steps before I heard it hit the ground.