Murder on Sagebrush Lane (26 page)

72

Ginger filled her coffee cup again from the pot in the break room. She headed back to her office and checked her watch. What is keeping that girl?

“Hey, Caroline,” Ginger popped in to their assistant’s office. “Did Harrie say anything to you about stopping somewhere before she headed over here?”

Caroline shook her head. “No, she planned to take the suitcases home and make a grocery list. I asked if she intended stopping at the store, and she said not until after work today. I gather the two of you are going together.”

Ginger nodded. “Yeah, I told her I needed to make a trip to the market, too. We’re supposed to head over to Costco right after work. She thought that would be fun.”

“Want me to call her?” Caroline reached for the phone.

“No, thanks, I’ll do it.”

When she sat at her desk, she placed the coffee cup on a coaster that read, “I’m not Bossy, I just know what you should be doing.” She chuckled. It was a gag gift she’d received from Harrie on her last birthday. Her reputation as Bossy Boots went all the way back to junior high school when they first met. It didn’t really fit Ginger any longer. Since those days, Harrie had become far more independent—and far less likely to be bossed around by Ginger or anyone else.

She dialed the number at Harrie’s house and let it ring ten times. No answer, and since her answering machine was still out of commission, Ginger couldn’t even leave a message. She dialed Harrie’s cell number. No answer there, either, and Ginger clicked off before it went to voice mail. She drummed her fingernails on the desk blotter.

Ginger wasn’t the type of person to panic over small things. However, she didn’t think this qualified as a small thing. Harrie should have been here by now. She didn’t answer either phone, and Ginger’s “Mom” alert went off. She had to take action.

She picked up the phone again and called Lt. Swanson. When he answered, Ginger said, “Swannie, do you still have people posted at the Rinaldi home?”

“And hello to you, too, Ginger. You sound agitated.”

She said, “Sorry, Swannie, Harrie hasn’t arrived here yet, and I’m worried. I thought if you still had a guy at the Rinaldi house, maybe he could go to Harrie’s and check on her.”

“What makes you think we still have Rinaldi’s house staked out?”

“Because when we went to see Winnie Devlin yesterday, we saw a car in front of the Rinaldi’s house. We assumed you were still conducting your investigation there.”

“Did you see the car when you left, too?”

“Yes, why?”

At first Swannie didn’t speak, then he said, “I’ll send a car to Harrie’s house right away to check on her. This isn’t good.”

Ginger’s alarm bells went off. “It sounds like I should be worried more than I am, Swannie. What’s wrong?”

Swannie hesitated. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained.

“I pulled out the surveillance two days ago. We locked that house up tight, and no one should have been there.”

73

Harrie swallowed but her mouth had no moisture. When she opened her eyes she saw only darkness. Where was she?

She sat propped against a wall, and when she reached out, her hand touched things hanging all around her. It felt like coats and jackets. The floor seemed hard and lumpy. She ran her hands over the lumps and discovered she had been sitting on shoes. Obviously she was sitting in a closet. The odor of cleaning fluid permeated the stuffy enclosure. She let her nose follow the smell, and her hand touched cloth. She picked it up, sniffed it, and felt herself get woozy again. She quickly tossed it back on the floor. That was what had covered her face when she passed out.

Harrie squinted in the darkness and saw a faint line of light seeping under the door. She had no memory of how she got here, nor any idea of how long she might have been unconscious. If only her watch had an illuminated dial. She pulled herself up and eased herself along the floor, being careful not to trip. When she made it to the door, she twisted the knob, but it didn’t budge.

Harrie had never experienced claustrophobia before, but now got a taste of what it must be like. The walls seemed to close in on her, even though as closets went, this one was not as small as others she’d seen. In fact, it seemed rather deep. She leaned against the door and tried to think things through.

As far as she could tell, this was still the Rinaldi house, and she was stuck in one of the closets. Why the door wouldn’t open puzzled her. Closet doors normally didn’t have locks, but obviously this one did. Another strange thing in a long line of “strange” she’d encountered this week.

Harrie felt in her pocket for the phone normally carried there, and instead found the key ring. Great. Her phone must still be on the desk at home. Frustration engulfed her, and she pounded on the door with a fist. As soon as she did, it occurred to her how bad an idea that might be. Pressing her ear to the door was useless. There was nothing to hear. For all she knew, whoever did this had gone, leaving her locked in a closet. What were the odds anyone would find her? She was an idiot and should have listened to DJ.

Then she remembered why she came here in the first place. What had happened to Winnie Devlin? Maybe she should have gone next door first to check on her. If she had, she wouldn’t now be in this mess. But that thought stopped her. Who could have threatened Winnie Devlin, and why? Did she have anything to do with the murder? Winnie was the biggest gossip Harrie had ever met, but surely that didn’t make her a murderer.

Harrie pressed her ear to the door again and now wished for a person, anyone, to be on the other side. She didn’t understand why this had been done to her. She didn’t deserve to be stuffed into a closet. Panic rose in her chest. She made a concentrated effort to calm down and focus on getting more air. She emptied her mind and willed herself to relax. Slow, deliberate breaths were what she needed. After a minute or two, her heartbeats evened out, and her breathing became easier. She sat back on the floor and leaned against the wall.

That’s when she heard what sounded like footsteps somewhere above her head. She drew in her breath and strained to hear. Whatever happened next, she’d better be ready.

She took the keys out of her pocket and threaded one between each of her four fingers. Then she balled her hand up into a fist, with the jagged points of the keys poking out. It was all she had.

It had better be enough.

74

Falcon walked toward the closet. He put his ear up to the door and listened for any sound indicating the woman inside was awake. His nerves were shot. This damned scheme, which should have been his easy way out of a bad situation, now had the potential to take him down, once and for all. Everything that could go wrong, had. Now, he had yet another loose end to handle. Where this Nosey Nellie had come from he didn’t know, but he had to get rid of her. She could be a friend of that incredibly annoying Devlin woman. Worse still, he was running out of time.

His brain churned, struggling to think of a way out. He thought about his original plan and wondered when and how it had gone wrong. The thumb drive should have been on Weber’s body. It was only after he’d killed Weber that he discovered it wasn’t. So he figured Rinaldi must have had it. Now there were three dead bodies, and he still hadn’t accomplished his task. If only he could find that damned thumb drive.

He hurried upstairs again and went to the only room he hadn’t searched. It had to be in here—he was out of ideas. It wasn’t in Vince Weber’s apartment because he had thoroughly searched it and found nothing. He was now almost certain that Rinaldi had ended up with it and hidden it. That had to be the most ironic twist of all. He’d thought he could beat the information out of him. But Rinaldi hung on until the bitter end. He regretted he’d had to dump his dead body out there in the desert, because now he’d probably never be found. But maybe the buzzards would get a meal out of this mess.

Falcon stood in the middle of the room and shook his head. There were book shelves, a desk, a sewing machine, and a work bench—dozens of nooks where a thing as small as a thumb drive could be hidden. But he had to be careful not to leave a mess. He had to find the thumb drive and make his own contact with the buyer. He needed that money now more than ever. When Rinaldi’s body was discovered, if it ever was, he hoped it would look like Rinaldi had killed Weber for the thumb drive. Then it would look like an accomplice had murdered Rinaldi out in the desert. With any kind of luck the authorities would figure that Weber and Rinaldi had been involved together in the security breach at the Lab.

He searched several more minutes, growing increasingly frantic. It was becoming obvious the damned thumb drive wasn’t anywhere in this house. He felt himself sweating, even with the cool air flowing through the vents. It was harder to breathe, and he could feel his heart pounding harder. Then he heard a loud noise downstairs, and he froze.

He’d heard it three times, in succession, and then it had stopped. Maybe it was the nosey woman. He thought he’d used enough chloroform on her to knock out a moose for at least three hours. Damn. He certainly didn’t need this.

He raced back downstairs and went to the closet. He hit the door with his fist.

“Come on you dumb broad, you’ve caused me enough trouble today.” He moved the chair he’d jammed up under the knob, and pulled the door open.

“It’s bad enough I had to deal with Vince Weber, and Michael Rinaldi. Now you come barging in here, interrupting me.” He peered into the dark closet.

“Where the hell are you?” He stepped inside the closet and moved a few coats.

At that moment, Harrie struck out with the makeshift weapon in her balled-up fist. She connected hard with the man’s face. He screamed like a stuck hog, and staggered back out of the closet. A deep ugly wound blossomed where Harrie’s car keys had gouged a hole in his cheek. Blood ran down his face.

He grabbed at his injury, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Harrie shoved him. He fell backwards, and she bolted down the hall.

In her haste to reach the front door, her foot hit the edge of a throw rug at the end of the hall. As she went down, she stuck her arms out straight, trying to break her fall, but they couldn’t hold her. She landed on her stomach with a thud. Pain shot up her arms, and she rolled onto her side, the breath knocked out of her. She pushed herself up on her knees and reached for her keys.

Behind her, the attacker cursed, and struggled to get up. She pushed her body to a standing position and lunged at the door. She twisted the knob but it didn’t move. Too late she realized the deadbolt was engaged. She grabbed it and twisted hard. To her relief, it gave way, but as it did, her attacker grabbed her from behind.

He lifted her up and away from the door. Harrie kicked him and flailed her arms at his head. He half carried, half dragged her into the Rinaldi living room. She kept struggling. He lifted her up and heaved her body onto the sofa. He pinned her down with her legs drawn up to her chest.

His face was contorted in a mixture of anger and pain. The gaping hole Harrie had inflicted on him still dripped blood. He reached for one of the pillows on the sofa to cover her face. But he had to briefly let up on the pressure needed to restrain her.

At that moment Harrie heard DJ’s voice in her head, instructing her: “It’s not over until the other guy loses.” It was all she needed.

She had enough room to kick out with her feet. The reinforced toe of her running shoes connected hard with that most vulnerable space between his legs. The man gasped with fresh agony and moaned. He crumpled to the floor, curling into a fetal position. Harrie wasted no time. She scrambled to her feet, hit the floor running, and didn’t stop until she cleared the front door. The next thing she heard was his voice.

“You bitch!” he screamed at her. She turned and saw him limp through the door. The murderous, demented look in his eyes sent a chill throughout her body.

75

Detective Sgt. Cabrini Paiz pulled her SUV up in front of the address she’d been given. She knew it was the home of Special Agent Scott and his wife, Harrie—the woman she’d impersonated twice this week. Lt. Bob Swanson had asked Sgt. Paiz to do a welfare check on Mrs. Scott.

She walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and then knocked. She waited a moment and repeated the process. She tried to peer in the front windows but drapes covered them. She walked all around the outside of the house, but she heard nothing and saw no activity.

When Sgt. Paiz returned to her vehicle, she noticed an EMT van, a fire truck, an ambulance, and a police cruiser turning onto the street. It was headed down the block south of Harrie’s house. The EMT van turned into a driveway. Sgt. Paiz’s internal radar went up immediately, and she backed out of the Scott driveway and went to investigate.

She pulled up and snagged a parking spot in front of the house next door to where the emergency vehicles had stopped. As Sgt. Paiz got out of her car, a woman ran out the front door of the house. The woman saw Sgt. Paiz and ran toward her.

“Help me!” Harrie screamed as she rush toward Sgt. Paiz.

“Harrie, what’s wrong?” Sgt. Paiz started toward Harrie, ready to help. At that moment, a man staggered out of the same door, yelling obscenities. Blood streamed from his face.

Sgt. Paiz stepped in front of Harrie, drew her sidearm, and pointed it at the man. “Stop where you are! Get down on your knees, and put your hands behind your head.”

“That bitch tried to kill me,” he screamed.

“Get down now and put your hands behind your head,” Sgt. Paiz repeated, more forcefully this time. She walked toward the agitated man. A police officer, who had arrived in response to the emergency next door, walked across the lawn and joined her in front of the bleeding man. He pulled out his service weapon and trained it on agitated man.

Falcon sank to his knees, sobbing, his bald head glistening with perspiration. “She tried to kill me.”

Sgt. Paiz holstered her weapon and handcuffed the pathetic man.

Harrie said, “You have to call Lieutenant Swanson. When I got here, this man was in Michael Rinaldi’s house. He attacked me.”

She explained to Sgt. Paiz about the strange conversation with Winnie, Harrie’s subsequent call to 9-1-1, and her decision to have the policeman stationed at the Rinaldi home check on Winnie.

“When I arrived, the front door was open, and I went in, calling to the police officer I thought was still on duty. This creep,” she said, and turned to motion at Falcon, “put a rag over my nose and mouth. It was soaked with an awful chemical, and I passed out. Then he locked me in a closet.”

She paused to take a breath, and Sgt. Paiz took her by the shoulders. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll take him downtown as soon as the EMTs take a look at him. I think you took him out of commission for now.”

Harrie pulled away from Paiz. “Hey, how come I didn’t hear any sirens? I thought a 9-1-1 call would send a response team with sirens blaring.” She still felt on the raw edge of the adrenaline rush. Never thinking she’d be capable of attacking someone that way, Harrie’s brain was churning, trying to remember all the details of the last few minutes.

Sgt. Paiz smiled. “We don’t usually run sirens on a 9-1-1 call unless there’s some reason for urgency. Perhaps they didn’t think it was necessary. Listen, Harrie, you’ve just been through a very bad experience. Let me take you back to your house.”

Harrie shook her head. “No, I don’t want to go home right now. You don’t understand. It’s more than that. He’s the one who murdered Vince Weber.”