The Dead Will Tell (8 page)

He nodded. “Talking crazy.”

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said. “Pudge. Murdered. My God.”

Snipe sat in the booth next to Jules, his elbows on the table. He wore a JCPenney shirt with a pair of khakis that were too long and baggy for his frame. “Have either of you been receiving notes?” he asked.

Brick nodded. “First one came two days ago.”

Jules looked from man to man. “Me, too. Two of them. Frankly, all of this is scaring the hell out of me.”

“Especially since Pudge turned up dead,” Snipe put in.

“Maybe we ought to go to the police,” Jules suggested.

Brick glared at her. “And tell them what, exactly?”

She looked away and didn’t mention it again.

The barkeep came over to their booth and took their orders. Snipe ordered whiskey. No brand. Jules asked for the house cabernet. Brick got a refill of cognac.

When the bartender was out of earshot, Snipe said, “Maybe Pudge wasn’t talking so crazy after all.”

Brick looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Snipe stared back, his eyes bloodshot and full of fear. “I saw her, too.”

Checking to make sure no one could hear them, Jules leaned forward and addressed Snipe. “What do you mean you saw her?” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw her,” Snipe said. “I swear to God. She was at my place. Three days ago.”

Jules’s pretty blue eyes went from Snipe to Brick as if wishing he’d intervene with some logic. When he didn’t, she said, “You couldn’t have seen her, Snipe. For God’s sake.”

“I saw her,” he maintained. “Standing in my driveway like she lived there. By the time I got the shotgun, she was gone.”

“You never could hold your booze,” Brick muttered.

Snipe looked from Brick to Jules, his expression telling them he’d known they wouldn’t believe him—but he didn’t give a good damn. “I know what I saw. She was there. Left tracks, too. I saw them the next morning when it was light.”

“So it was dark,” Jules said hopefully.

“Someone might’ve been there, but it wasn’t her,” Brick cut in. “Unless you believe in ghosts.”

Snipe glared at him. “So if it wasn’t her, who’s sending the notes? Who murdered Pudge?”

“Not her,” Brick snapped.

They fell silent when the bartender returned with their drinks. Snipe reached for his and downed it in two gulps. “I saw her out at the old Hochstetler place, too.”

The three of them exchanged meaningful looks.

Jules fingered the stem of her glass nervously. “God, I wish none of that had happened.”

“We all wish that,” Brick said. “Can’t go back. Can’t change it.”

Snipe leaned forward, his expression intense. “Look, is there some way she survived? That we’re wrong about what happened? That she’s alive and she’s come back for a little payback?”

“Is it?” Jules asked.

Brick sighed. “You didn’t see her,” he said. “No one did.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Snipe leaned back in the booth. “I know what I saw. And let me tell you something: She saw me, too.”

“What are you saying?” Jules asked, looking alarmed.

Snipe tossed her a nasty look. “Connect the dots.”

“Stop scaring her,” Brick growled.

“Better scared than dead.” Glancing over his shoulder, Snipe lowered his head and spoke urgently. “I’m not the only one who saw her. I was down at Ladonna’s Diner last Saturday, and I heard Tyler McKay say he saw her, too.”

“Tyler McKay is a drunk,” Brick said.

“Maybe we’re wrong about what happened. Maybe she survived.” Jules drank some of the wine, leaving a red imprint of her lower lip. “Maybe she’s come back.”

“Come back to do what?” Brick asked.

“To get revenge on us for what we did,” Snipe said.

“For what
you
did,” Brick snapped.

“We were all there.” Jules looked down at her glass of wine. “We’re all guilty.”

Snipe grimaced. “I heard Pudge was gut-shot and strung up in his barn like a side of beef.”

“Do the cops have any idea who did it?” Jules asked.

“No one knows anything,” Brick said. “We need to make sure it stays that way.”

“They’ll know about the calls he made to us,” Jules pointed out.

“There’s no law against old acquaintances calling to catch up on old times.” Brick looked from Jules to Snipe, wanting to make sure they understood what he was telling them. Snipe had never been smart, and evidently the years hadn’t changed that.

Jules nodded. “Okay.”

“All right.” Snipe leaned forward. “How do we keep her from coming after us, too?”

“Keep your imagination in check,” Brick said dismissively.

The words hung in the air, and for the span of several minutes, they drank in silence. “I know it sounds crazy,” Snipe said, “and I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I do know what I saw. I think she killed Pudge. And I got a feeling she isn’t finished.”

Jules pressed her hand against her chest. “Snipe … please.”

“Lots of people have seen her up to the Hochstetler place,” he maintained.

“Those are just … silly ghost stories,” Jules said.

“Silly until she sinks a knife in your back,” Snipe returned evenly.

Brick slapped both palms down on the tabletop so suddenly, Jules jumped. “Ghosts? Really? For God’s sake, Snipe, are you hearing yourself?” he asked in exasperation. “No one saw her. She’s not alive. And she’s sure as hell not back from the dead. You got that?” He divided his attention between Jules and Snipe. “She’s dead. She’s been dead for thirty-five years. People don’t come back from that.”

Jules stared down at her wineglass.

Snipe glared at Brick, but he didn’t speak.

After a moment, Brick sighed. “Anyone heard from Fat Boy?”

“I called him.” Snipe glanced at his watch. “He should have been here.”

“Figured he wouldn’t show,” Jules added.

“Never liked that two-faced, do-gooder punk,” Snipe muttered.

Brick picked up his glass and drank, enjoying the heat of the cognac on the back of his throat. “Do either of you know if the cops have any leads?”

Snipe shrugged. “Haven’t heard.”

“I’ll ask around at the gallery,” Jules offered.

Brick nodded. “Look, what happened to Pudge could have been a random thing. A robbery or something. He made all that real estate money back in the ’90s.”

He could tell by their expressions, neither of them believed it. He wasn’t even sure
he
believed it. Still, it was better than the alternative.

Across from him, Snipe finished his whiskey, set the glass down with a little too much force. “It was her.” He said the words without looking up. “Or someone else is a dead ringer and knows what went down that night.”

“Nobody knows what happened,” Jules whispered. “Except us.”

“The Amish kid,” Brick offered.

“He didn’t see our faces.” Snipe rubbed the back of his neck.

“What do we do?” Jules’s eyes searched theirs. “About the notes?”

“Lock your doors.” Having had his fill of ghost stories and nonsense, Brick scooted from the booth. “And hope she can’t walk through walls.”

He left without finishing his cognac.

CHAPTER 7

John Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at just before 3
P.M
. and took Interstate 77 north toward Cleveland. He assured himself he wasn’t going to do anything ill-advised. Just a little recon. He liked to know what he was dealing with, after all. A cop could never have too much information, even if he didn’t use it.

Regardless of his intentions—or lack thereof—he had to be careful. Three years ago, there had been rumors about John Tomasetti. Ugly rumors that after his wife and children were murdered, he’d gone rogue and taken the law into his own hands. Nothing had ever been proved. Cops made the best criminals, after all. Besides, everyone knew that certain kinds of people tended to have a short shelf life. Just because you had a reason to want someone dead didn’t mean you’d done the deed.

But Tomasetti knew that if anything happened to Joey Ferguson in the coming days or weeks or months, he would be scrutinized. He might as well have the word “motive” tattooed on his forehead. He hadn’t missed the way people looked at him this morning when he’d walked into the office. Some of his coworkers had gone out of their way to say hello and ask him how he was doing. Others had steered clear, as if maybe they were worried he might prove all those rumors true and snap. None of them had had the guts to ask him how he felt about Ferguson’s release.

Tomasetti wasn’t too worried about it. He had a better handle on the situation this time around. A more solid grip on himself. He’d had three years to deal with his losses, to climb out of that black abyss of grief, and to extinguish the wildfire of rage that had burned him from the inside out. He’d come to terms with the past and learned to accept the unacceptable. He was fine with a capital
F,
and everyone who mattered knew it. That’s what he told himself as he headed north to a city he’d avoided for the better part of three years.

He hit traffic on I-90, and by the time he arrived in Bay Village, an upscale suburb west of Cleveland, a lowering sky spit rain against the windshield. He exited at Clague Street, passed the tennis courts and baseball diamond in Reese Park, and headed west on Lake Road. Flanked on both sides by mature trees, the narrow, two-lane street cut through a fashionable residential area with Lake Erie just a few hundred yards to the north. There were older, well-kept bungalows and ranch homes to his left and pretty side streets lined with blue spruce and maples and Bradford pear trees that would be budding in a few weeks. The lakefront lots to his right were long and narrow, as if the developer had tried to squeeze in as many waterfront properties as possible. Many of the older homes on the lake—even those of historical significance—had been torn down and replaced by extravagant mansions with tennis courts and swimming pools and stunning views of the water.

He’d memorized the street number and slowed upon reaching the two-acre lakefront estate Joey Ferguson had inherited from his parents. Trees obscured the house from full view, but Tomasetti could see that the place was lit up like a football stadium. It looked like Ferguson was celebrating his newfound freedom.

He drove slowly past. Ten yards from the driveway entrance, a heavy wrought-iron security gate and post-mounted card reader warned off interlopers. He continued west on Lake for a hundred yards and then made a left into the parking lot of the Presbyterian Church, turned around, and idled past the estate a second time. From this vantage point, he could see the tennis court through the trees and a dozen or so cars parked in the circular driveway. He knew there were a pool and gazebo at the rear of the estate and a boathouse where Ferguson parked his parents’ thirty-four-foot Sea Ray. It was amazing what you could see from the sky without ever leaving the ground.

He had to hand it to the guy; Joey Ferguson knew how to live. He had a reputation for throwing world-class parties, hiring local chefs and bartenders, and shelling out plenty of cash for musicians or comedians. He lived in one of the most exclusive areas of the city, with a wine cellar filled with booze that cost more than Tomasetti earned in a year. Yes, Joey Ferguson lived his life to the fullest. He’d amassed most of his fortune back when he worked for the late Con Vespian. Before his untimely demise, Vespian had had his fingers in all the nasty pies. Extortion. Money laundering. Heroin. He’d been riding high—until the night they hit Tomasetti’s family.

He could barely remember the days and weeks that followed, but he knew something terrible had been unleashed inside him. In the end, Vespian paid dearly for his sins. For Tomasetti, the victory had been bittersweet, heavy on the bitter.

The Cuyahoga County prosecutor hadn’t taken it sitting down. John Tomasetti might have been one of their own, but that thin blue line went only so far when it came to murder. He’d been put before a grand jury. But the evidence was sketchy and the citizens of Cuyahoga County were sick of the bad guys getting away with murder. They’d handed down a no bill and Tomasetti walked away without so much as a scratch on his record. Chalk up one for the good guys.

Once the media coverage dropped off, Tomasetti quietly resigned his position with the Cleveland Division of Police and, with the help of one of the few friends he had left, landed a job with BCI. In the following months, he worked hard to put that dark chapter of his past behind. But he didn’t forget. A man never forgot something like that. The only question that remained now was if he was going to do something about it.

The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present. Not giving himself time to debate, Tomasetti turned into the sleek blacktop driveway, pulled up to the call box, and pressed the button.

“Name?” came a youngish male voice.

“John Tomasetti,” he said.

“I don’t see you on the invitation list.”

“Ferguson will see me.”

They made him wait nearly ten minutes. Two cars crowded against his bumper—a vintage Jaguar and a Viper—the drivers looking put out and anxious to get at all the swag awaiting them inside. Tomasetti was considering turning around and leaving when the gate slid open.

The asphalt curved right, snaking through a forest of tall, winter-dead trees. The Viper swept past, the passenger sticking her hand out the window and flipping him off. Tomasetti caught a glimpse of long blond hair an instant before the sports car skidded around a rococo fountain, swept through a brick archway, and disappeared from view.

He parked behind a black Escalade with darkly tinted glass and got out. He barely noticed the rain as he started toward the tall double doors. He could smell the cold, wet air of the lake now. The earthy scent of rotting foliage and the bark nuggets surrounding the boxwoods and blue point junipers growing on either side of the front door. He’d just stepped onto the Italian tile of the porch when the door opened.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Tomasetti. You’ve got balls showing up unannounced.”

“I like to keep things spontaneous.”

Joey Ferguson was thinner than he remembered. Tomasetti knew he was forty-six years old, but Ferguson looked closer to fifty.