Pretend You Don't See Her (40 page)

 
          
Later
she realized that it was the presence of evil, creeping, insidious, enveloping
her, so real it was almost tangible.

 
          
She
had felt this same chill when she hid in the closet as Curtis Caldwell came
down the stairs after killing Isabelle.

 
          
Then
she heard it again.
The faintest of sounds, but still very
real.
It wasn’t her imagination! She knew that for certain now, and her
heartbeat accelerated at the realization. There was someone on the staircase!
I’m going to die, she thought.

 
          
She
saw terror creep into Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes, so she put a warning finger to her
own lips, urging her to remain quiet. He was coming down the stairs so slowly,
playing cat and mouse with them. Lacey looked around the room— there was only
one door, and it opened just next to the stairs. There was no way out. They
were trapped!

 
          
Her
eyes fastened on a glass paperweight on the coffee table. It was about the size
of a baseball, and it appeared to be heavy. She couldn’t reach it without
getting up, something she was afraid to risk. Instead, she touched Mrs.
Hoffman’s hand and pointed to the paperweight.

 
          
The
staircase became exposed to Lacey’s view halfway down. That’s where he was now.
Through the wooden spindles, she could see his one well-polished shoe.

 
          
A
frail and trembling hand grasped the paperweight and slid it into Lacey’s hand.
Lacey stood up, swung her arm back, and, as the assassin she knew as Caldwell
came into full view, threw the paperweight with all the strength she could
muster, at his chest.

 
          
The
heavy piece of glass struck him right above the stomach, just as he prepared to
move quickly down the remaining steps. The impact caused him to stumble and
drop the pistol. Lacey immediately lunged to try to kick it away from his
reach, just as Mrs. Hoffman, with faltering steps, made her way to the front
door and flung it open. She screamed.

 
          
Detective
Sloane rushed past her into the entry hall. Just as Savarano’s fingers were
closing on the pistol, Sloane lifted his foot and smashed it down on Savarano’s
wrist. Behind him, Nick Mars aimed his pistol at Savarano’s head and started to
pull the trigger.

 
          
“Don’t!”
Lacey screamed.

 
          
Sloane
whirled and slapped his partner’s hand, causing the bullet intended for
Savarano’s head to go through his leg instead. He let out a howl of pain.

 
          
Dazed,
Lacey watched as Sloane handcuffed Isabelle Waring’s murderer, the sound of
approaching sirens shrilling outside. Finally she looked down into the eyes
that had haunted her these past few months.
Ice blue irises,
dead black pupils—the eyes of a killer.
But suddenly she realized she
was seeing something new in them.

 
          
Fear.

 
          
U.S.
Attorney Gary Baldwin appeared suddenly, surrounded by his agents. He looked at
Sloane, at Lacey, then at Savarano.

 
          
“So
you beat us to him,” he said, grudging respect evident in his voice. “I was
hoping to beat you to him, but no matter—it’s a job well done.
Congratulations.”

 
          
He
leaned over Savarano. “Hi, Sandy,” he said softly. “I’ve been looking for you.
I’m preparing a cage that’s got your name on it—the darkest, smallest cell at
Marion, the roughest federal prison in the country.
Locked
down twenty-three hours a day.
Solitary, of course.
Chances are you won’t like it, but you never know. Some people don’t stay sane
long enough in solitary for it even to matter. Anyway, you think about it,
Sandy.
A cage.
Just for you.
A tiny,
little cage.
All your own, for the rest of your life.”

 
          
He
straightened up and turned to Lacey. “You all right, Miss Farrell?”

 
          
She
nodded.

 
          
“Someone
isn’t.” Sloane went over to Nick Mars, whose face was
chalk
white. He took his pistol, then opened his partner’s jacket and took out his
handcuffs. “Stealing evidence is bad enough. Attempted murder is a lot worse.
You know what to do, Nick.”

 
          
Nick
put his hands behind his back and turned. Sloane snapped Nick’s own cuffs on
him. “Now they’re really yours, Nick,” he said with a grim smile.

 
          
JIMMY
LANDI DID NOT
EMERGE
FROM HIS OFFICE ALL afternoon.
Steve Abbott looked in on him several times. “Jimmy, you okay?” he asked.

 
          
“Never
better, Steve,” he said shortly.

 
          
“You
don’t look it. I wish you’d stop reading Heather’s journal. It’s just getting
you down.”

 
          
“I
wish you’d stop telling me to stop reading it.”

 
          
“Touché.
I promise I won’t bother you again, but remember
this, Jimmy—I’m always here for you.”

 
          
“Yes,
you are, Steve. I know.”

 
          
At
five o’clock, Landi received a phone call from Detective Sloane. “Mr. Landi,”
he said, “I’m at headquarters. I felt we owed it to you to fill you in. Your
ex-wife’s murderer is in custody. Ms. Farrell has positively identified him.
He’s also being charged with the death of Max Hoffman. And we may be able to
prove that he was the one who ran your daughter’s car off the road, too.”

 
          
“Who
is he?” Jimmy Landi had the fleeting thought that he wasn’t feeling
anything—not surprise, not anger, not even grief.

 
          
“Sandy
Savarano is his name. He’s a paid hit man. We expect him to cooperate fully in
the investigation. He doesn’t want to go to prison.”

 
          
“None
of them do,” Jimmy said. “Who hired him?”

 
          
“We
expect to know that very soon. We’re just waiting for Sandy to come to Jesus.
Of much less magnitude, by the way, we have a suspect in the theft of your
daughter’s journal.”

 
          
“Suspect?”

 
          
“Yes,
in the legal sense, even though he admitted it. But he swears he didn’t take
the three unlined pages you thought we lost. I guess your partner was right. We
never had them.”

 
          
“You
never had them,” Jimmy agreed. “I realize that now. My partner seems to have a
lot of the answers.”

 
          
“Miss
Farrell is here making a statement, sir. She’d like to talk to you.”

 
          
“Put
her on.”

 
          
“Mr.
Landi,” Lacey said, “I’m awfully glad this is over. It’s been an ordeal for me,
and I know it’s been terrible for you as well. Mrs. Max Hoffman is with me. She
has something to tell you.”

 
          
“Put
her on.”

 
          
“I
saw Heather at
Mohonk
,” Lottie Hoffman began. “She
was with a man, and when I described him to Max, he was so upset. He said the
guy was a racketeer, a drug dealer, and that no one suspected him, least of all
Heather. She had no idea that …”

 
          
Even
though she had heard it all before, it was chilling to Lacey to consider the
appalling crimes committed after Max Hoffman warned Heather away from the man
she was dating.

 
          
She
listened as Mrs. Hoffman described the man she had seen that day. Clearly it
was no one she knew, Lacey thought with relief.

 
          
Sloane
took the phone from Mrs. Hoffman. “Does the man she described sound like anyone
you know, sir?”

 
          
He
listened for a moment,
then
turned to Lacey and Mrs.
Hoffman. “Mr. Landi would be very appreciative if you’d stop by his office
now.”

 
          
All
Lacey wanted to do was to get home to her own apartment, get in her own
Jacuzzi,
dress in her own clothes, and go to Kit’s house to
see everyone. They were having a late dinner, and Bonnie was staying up for it.
“As long as it’s just a few minutes there,” she said.

 
          
“That’s
all,” Sloane promised. “Then I’ll drive Mrs. Hoffman home.” Sloane was called
to the phone as they were leaving the station house. When he returned, he said,
“We’re going to have company at Landi’s. Baldwin is on his way.”

 
          
The
receptionist took them upstairs to where Jimmy was waiting. When Lottie Hoffman
admired the handsome furnishings, Jimmy said, “The restaurant used to be half
this size. When Heather was a baby this was her room.”

 
          
Lacey
thought that there was something in Landi’s even, almost indifferent, tone that
made her think of an unnaturally calm ocean—one in which an underwater current
was threatening to turn into a tidal wave.

 
          
“Describe
again exactly the man you saw with my daughter, please, Mrs. Hoffman.”

 
          
“He
was very handsome; he …”

 
          
“Wait.
I’d like my partner to hear this.” He turned on the intercom. “Steve, got a
minute?”

 
          
Steve
Abbott came into the office smiling. “So, you’re out of your cocoon at last,
Jimmy. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”

 
          
“Interesting company, Steve.
Mrs. Hoffman, what’s wrong?”

 
          
Lottie
Hoffman was pointing at Abbott. Her face was ghastly white. “You’re the one I saw
with Heather. You’re the one Max said was a drug dealer and a racketeer and a
thief. You’re the reason I’m alone …”

 
          
“What
are you talking about?” Abbott said, his brows knitting fiercely, the mask of
geniality momentarily fallen from his face. All of a sudden, Lacey thought it
was possible to imagine this handsome, debonair man as a killer.

 
          
Accompanied
by a half dozen agents, U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin came into the room.

 
          
“What
she is saying, Mr.
Abbott,
is that you are a murderer,
that you ordered her husband killed because he knew too much. He quit working
here because he had seen what you were doing and knew his life wouldn’t be
worth a plug nickel if you knew. You’ve been dropping the old suppliers like
Jay Taylor and buying from mob-owned businesses, most of the stuff stolen.
You’ve done it in the casino, too. And that’s only one of your activities.

 
          
“Max
had to tell Heather what you are. And she had to decide whether to let you keep
cheating her father or tell him how she found out about you.

 
          
“You
didn’t take the chance. Savarano told us you called Heather and said Jimmy had
had a heart attack and she should get right home. Savarano was waiting for her.
When Isabelle Waring wouldn’t stop looking for reasons to prove Heather’s death
wasn’t an accident, she became too dangerous.”

 
          
“That’s
a lie,” Abbott shouted. “Jimmy, I never …”

 
          
“Yes,
you did,” Jimmy said calmly, “you killed Max Hoffman and you did the same to my
daughter’s mother.
And to Heather.
You killed her. Why
did you need to mess with her? You could have had any woman you wanted.”
Jimmy’s eyes blazed with anger; his hands formed into giant fists; his cry of
agony exploded through the room. “You let my baby burn to death,” he howled.
“You … you
… .”