The Death Dealer (11 page)

It was enough.

They made love again then, heedless of everything dangerous that might be lurking in the night.

He couldn’t help it; he had to ask.

“If you’re so psychic, how come you didn’t see this coming, huh?”

The girl hadn’t been part of his original plan, but she hadn’t given him any choice. She’d wanted her moment in the public eye, her fifteen minutes of fame.

Well, now her name would be blazoned across dozens of headlines. She would make the news again, this time in a spectacular way. She should really be thanking him.

She hadn’t been the one slated to die this way. He’d intended to go after someone else. Someone not only young and beautiful, but with a name and face so easily recognizable that the city would be in an absolute uproar.

“You will go down in history, my dear,” he told her. She had been such an easy mark, her desire for fame and fortune blinding her to any possible danger.

She didn’t look at all grateful for the favor he was doing her, though.

Her eyes were bulging, and she kept making little mewling noises behind the gag. He was actually a little bit sorry, but not sorry enough to stop.

He had an agenda, and he couldn’t let her get in the way of it any more than she already had. Now it was time. Time to finish her off.

She kept struggling, but he’d been careful. No one would ever find any of his DNA under her fingernails, nor would they find his fingerprints, even if they could actually lift them off skin these days. Every killer left something behind or took something away, they said.

Not him.

He knew how to be careful.

Still…poison was much better. And so easy. You simply slipped it into the bastard’s wine, he drank it and then he died.

Strangulation, on the other hand…

He’d never figured it would be so hard. Everything leading up to it had been easy. She’d fallen for the idea that they needed to keep their meeting secret. She’d been willing to slip into the dark with him, go wherever he wanted to go. Even getting on his boat and going out on the water…

Such a sap. Such a fool.

She’s jumped at the offer when he’d suggested the champagne to seal their deal, but she hadn’t gotten as drunk as he had thought she was. She wanted to live. He had her bound and gagged, but she was still struggling, and…

Those eyes!

He thought he might see her awful, bulging eyes forever.

And then, at last, they closed.

She stopped struggling, and the rest was easy. Distasteful, but easy. He hadn’t done so well the last time, hadn’t been able to carry out his literary parallel to the full extent he would have liked to. In this day and age, walling up old Thorne wouldn’t have been easy.

He couldn’t really use Poe as his road map. Not without chancing being caught.

So he would just do his best to follow the master’s model.

In this case, Genevieve O’Brien would have made a much more appropriate victim. She was far lovelier than the original cigar girl, Mary Rogers, not to mention Lori Star. But Lori had been too nosy, and though he didn’t believe in psychics, someone else might, so she had had to become his Marie Roget.

Finally he was done, and he sent to her body to a watery grave. Of course, she would be discovered. It was, in fact, absolutely necessary that she be found.

As he headed back to the hustle and flow of life in New York, he contemplated the fact that he hadn’t done a bad job. In fact, he was feeling quite satisfied with his efforts, even gleeful.

This was going to be fun.

Then he paused, arrested by a flash in his mind’s eye. Those bulging eyes.

But for a minute, they hadn’t belonged to the whore, the would-be psychic, Lori Star. They had been
her
eyes. The eyes of the beauty he had originally intended to take the victim’s part in his reenactment of Poe’s brilliant original. They had been the eyes of Genevieve O’Brien. Beautiful and blue.

Watching him.

Seeing him.

Knowing him for who—and what—he was.

Genevieve!

She was at his side, Joe told himself. There in her bed.

Sleeping.

He, too, had been asleep. No, it hadn’t been a dream, it had been a nightmare, a look into the hellish pit of his imagination.

He had seen her face, and she’d been looking at him with those brilliantly blue eyes of hers.

Looking at him…in accusation.

And then those perfectly blue eyes had begun to bulge, her face growing red as it was suffused with blood, her throat darkening with the deep black and blue of bruises.

She was choking. Being choked. By the hands he could see around her throat. Powerful hands, squeezing, tightening, stealing her breath…stealing her
life.

It had only been a dream, he told himself again. They were still in her bed, and she was next to him.

But she wasn’t sleeping. She sat up suddenly, staring ahead blankly into the shadows of the room.

“Gen?” He was bathed in sweat, but already the Technicolor horror of the dream was fading.

She didn’t hear him at first.

“Gen?” he said again.

She blinked, then shuddered and turned to him. Tousled hair framed the delicate features of her face, and she smiled. “Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” he said back.

She lay down beside him again, as if nothing were wrong in the world.

Was
anything wrong?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, but she sounded hesitant as she added, “How about you?” He realized instantly that she was referring to what had transpired between them, that her question had nothing to do with what had been
his
nightmare. After all, people didn’t share their dreams, their nightmares, not even if they had been intimate.

He shook off the dream. It was just a result of stress, he told himself. Just like thinking he’d heard the dead speak. No matter how embarrassing it was, he was going to have to go see a shrink. How many cases had he worked on in his life? How many corpses had he seen? So why now?

Yeah, a shrink was definitely in order.

He reached out, slipping his arms around her. “I’m fine. I haven’t been so fine in a very long time,” he said.

Her smiled deepened. “Can you stay…through the night?” she whispered.

“Just try to get rid of me,” he told her.

Her eyes, so deep, so blue, so
trusting,
were on him.

He held her closer, and for a moment there was nothing between them but warmth. Contentment. Closeness. There was something so good about just being together, touching.

Later in the night, they made love again. And when they slept again at last, it was as if they were meant to fit together. The only thing that marred the feeling for him was…

Fear.

Dear God, he thought, please, don’t let me lose her, too. We’ve come through so much. She’s survived so much. Please…

Jared Bigelow was waiting when Joe entered his office.

He had a floor in a Midtown building where Bigelow, Inc., ran its investment business. Most of the family money had been in real estate, but online investigation had shown Joe that Thorne had weighed other options and diversified into computers and several other high-tech concerns. He’d been president, but apparently he’d left most of the day-to-day management to his son for many years. He’d allowed himself the freedom to indulge his love of Edgar Allan Poe and to write the book that had brought him so much acclaim. And possibly led to his death.

A secretary let Joe in to see Jared, who indicated, without rising himself, that Joe should sit. There was a long sofa across from Bigelow’s desk, but Joe opted to pull over a chair from the far side of the room; he wanted to be close enough to read the man’s eyes.

“What is it? Why are you here?” Jared asked.

“To talk about your father’s death,” Joe said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I’m assuming you want his killer caught,” he went on easily.

“Of course, I do,” Jared snapped.

“Then you shouldn’t mind helping me out.”

Jared sighed, and for a moment he didn’t look like such a blustering jackass, Joe thought. “Look, my father was
murdered.
The police questioned me for hours. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m obviously the first suspect on anyone’s list. I inherited his money and this company, for one thing. But I loved my father,
and
we worked well together. You can question everyone from now until eternity, and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

Joe nodded. “Look, I know you talked to the police. And I know it has to be hard to lose your father, then have to deal with all the questions, knowing that people suspect you. But it will help me a lot if you just go over everything one more time. Everything that happened once you found him.”

Jared Bigelow sat back in his chair, tapping a pencil against his desk and looking up at the ceiling, as if he could better recreate what had occurred.

“We were supposed to go to dinner.”

“You, your aunt and your father.”

“Yes.”

“And your aunt was with you when you got to your father’s house?”

“Yes, I picked her up first.”

“She lives closer to you than your father did?”

“Different direction,” Jared said. He shook his head, then shrugged. “We got there. I have a key, so I unlocked the door and went in. I called for my father, but he didn’t answer. I went into his office and…he was slumped over. I thought at first that he’d just collapsed…maybe had a heart attack. I went a little crazy.”

“You tried CPR?”

“Yes.”

Joe was still trying to figure out how Thorne had ended up slumped over when the paramedics arrived, given that Jared had admitted to trying CPR on him, but he decided not to derail the man by asking about it now.

“And your aunt called 9-1-1?”

“Yes, I guess.”

“You didn’t call them, right?”

“I don’t…I don’t think so. I remember seeing my father…my aunt being there…and then Bennet coming down. And sirens, and then a lot of people.” He looked at Jared. “That’s all I remember,” Jared said.

“Where was the wineglass?”

“What?”

“Your father’s wineglass. Where was it?”

Jared frowned. “It was…on the desk. His desk.”

“Where?”

“On the left, near the edge. What the hell does it matter?” He sounded aggravated again.

“I’m not sure.”

Jared cleared his throat. “Well, then, if that’s it…I have to get through today, and then his memorial service is tonight.”

“And his burial?”

“He’s being cremated.”

“I see.”

“So?” Jared Bigelow asked impatiently. “Is there anything else?”

“Just one more question,” Joe said.

“And that is?”

“How long have you been having an affair with your aunt?” Joe asked easily.

The pencil dropped from Jared’s fingers. His face turned a mottled shade of crimson and he stood up, enraged. “Get out. Get out of my office, and don’t come back.”

“It had to be a man,” Lila Hawkins announced.

She had decided to drop in on Eileen Brideswell for lunch. And Genevieve hadn’t been about to let Lila Hawkins anywhere near her mother without being present herself. It didn’t matter that Bertha was going to be preparing the food, and that she wouldn’t leave Eileen alone for a minute. Genevieve intended to be there.

From there, it had somehow turned into a ladies’ lunch. Lou Sayles and Barbara Hirshorn were both there, too, as they all congregated around Eileen’s balcony table. Henry and Bertha hovered nearby, determined to keep an eye on Eileen at all times.

“Lila, he was poisoned, so why are you so sure his killer was a man?” Eileen asked.

“And why do we have to keep rehashing this?” Barbara asked.

“We haven’t even held Thorne’s memorial yet,” Lila said. “I think it’s only natural that we’re talking about it.”

“Well, I still don’t see why you think he had to be murdered by a man,” Lou said.

“A man did it. I just know it,” Lila said.

“Pity you don’t know what man,” Genevieve said, drawing one of Lila’s reprimanding stares.

“Lila, historically, women who commit murder often use poison,” Eileen said.

“Really?” Barbara Hirshorn demanded, looking horrified. “That’s just too terrible. I can’t believe a woman could have hurt the poor man.”

“Killed him,” Lou corrected.

Lila shook her head. “It was Larry Levine. He’s always been jealous of Thorne. You know, sees himself as the real writer, while Thorne was just a businessman. Poor Thorne. It’s a pity he ever wrote that book. It was his downfall.”

“Lila, it’s reckless of you to accuse Larry this way,” Eileen said firmly. “And we have no idea if Thorne’s book was really a factor or not.”

For a moment they all paused, looking at one another awkwardly.

“Do you think that…Mary Vincenzo…could have…?” Barbara asked in a whisper.

“No,” Lila said firmly. “I don’t. I think they need to look at Larry. Hard.”

“Does Larry know that you think he’s the killer?” Barbara asked nervously.

“Oh, good heavens, I’m not foolish enough to accuse him publicly,” Lila said. “What I’m saying here is just between us…and Genevieve, of course. Although I strongly suspect some of our words will be repeated to that private investigator you hired.” She pointed a finger at Genevieve. “All right, maybe I’m saying this because I
know
it will be repeated, and there’s where he should be looking. Tell that young man he needs to tear apart everything in Larry Levine’s life. I promise you, Larry is—or was, anyway—viciously jealous of poor Thorne.”

Genevieve held her tongue. Lila had talked about
pompous
Thorne when he’d been alive, but now he was
poor
Thorne.

“I’ll tell Joe what you suspect, Lila,” Genevieve said. “And I’m sure he’ll investigate Larry.”
Along with everyone else,
she added silently.

Lila nodded, as if pleased, and things were just as they should be. “Keep an eye on him at the service tonight. Keep a close eye on him,” she warned gravely.

“Of course, Lila,” Genevieve said.

At first, the service for Thorne Bigelow could have been any memorial. The prayers were said, and the mourners looked duly sad.

Both Raif Green and Tom Dooley were there, but they remained at the rear of the church, just watching.

When the prayers were over, Jared tearfully talked about his father’s brilliance and his love for literature. Then Mary Vincenzo spoke about her brother-in-law’s philanthropic work. Afterward, Jared stepped back to the podium and invited any of the mourners who had something to say to come up, starting with those who had been in his father’s beloved society.

And with that, the service turned into a Poe convention.

Brook Avery came up and read from “Annabelle Lee.” Then Don Tracy did a dramatic reading of “The Raven.” Nat Halloway, though awkward and stiff, announced that he was reading from a story that was a favorite of his, as well as Thorne Bigelow’s, “The Masque of the Red Death.” Larry Levine was just as awkward, but he stumbled through a passage from “MS Found in a Bottle.”

Lila Hawkins came up and briefly said that the community would mourn such a colorful man, and that the perpetrator of the crime must be caught. Lou Sayles spoke fondly of a man she would miss. Eileen was just as kind and brief. Sam Latham, though he remained in the hospital, sent his condolences through a coworker.

Barbara Hirshorn was shy and hesitant, but she commended Thorne Bigelow on all he had done for the literary community. When she finished, there was only scattered applause, because by then people were getting tired, and some had even slipped out.

Joe noticed, however, that one person was soundly clapping.

Albee Bennet, the butler.

He caught Joe watching him and smiled sheepishly. Later, as they were filing out of the church, he stopped Joe, who was with Genevieve and Eileen, and said, “That poor shy woman. I had to clap. I mean, the whole place went crazy over that egomaniac Don Tracy, but she was the one who really deserved the applause.”

“That was very kind of you,” Eileen told him sincerely.

And then they were all outside. Raif and Tom had respectfully disappeared before the end of the service, Joe noticed, as he watched Jared escorting Mary toward a limousine. Jared turned and stared back at Joe, and it was a bitter and resentful stare. Then he and Mary got into the limo, which drove smoothly away.

But Joe noticed that, as it started down the street, it was being followed.

Apparently the cops were still keeping an eye on Jared and his aunt.

He made a mental note that tomorrow he would try interviewing Mary Vincenzo. She never appeared quite as assured as Jared. She might well be the one to give him a clue to Jared’s guilt or innocence.

“Thorne would have been horrified,” Lila Hawkins announced, coming to stand beside them.

“Why?” Eileen asked, surprised. “I thought it was a lovely ceremony. A bit long, but Thorne would have enjoyed all the readings in his honor.”

“I meant he would have been horrified that Jared isn’t having a reception, that he isn’t inviting people back to his father’s house.”

“Maybe he’s still too upset,” Eileen suggested.

Lila let out a snort and turned to Gen. “Did you mention Larry Levine to Mr. Connolly?” she asked, then looked meaningfully at Joe.

“There hasn’t been time,” Genevieve said, then quickly told him about Lila’s suspicions.

“Is there some reason why you suspect him, especially?” Joe asked.

“He was always so jealous,” Lila said.

“I’ll certainly look into Larry’s whereabouts at the time,” he said.

“Good. And now, since nothing is on offer, I’m off,” Lila told them. “Good night.”

“Did you gain anything from this?” Genevieve asked him as they walked over to his car together.

“Maybe,” he told her.

“What?”

He grinned. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll have to see.”

“Lila is very suspicious of Larry, but…”

“But?”

“Well, I think it was my mother who mentioned that women tend to use poison to commit murder.”

“Historically speaking, that’s true. Poison is generally thought of as a woman’s weapon,” Joe agreed.

“So do you think…?”

“I wish I knew what to think,” he told her softly.

They drove Eileen home. Henry and Bertha were there to see that she got safely inside. When they got to Genevieve’s apartment, Joe parked and went with her to her door. Once there, he hesitated.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked softly.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he told her.

“I don’t,” she said, and smiled.

It was incredible, being with her. She was an exquisite lover, giving, exciting, tender, wild. He cared about her deeply, had been in danger of falling in love with her from the moment he had first seen her, as traumatic as it had been. Now, on only their second night together, they had already slipped easily into a close relationship, as if they were longtime lovers. He was physically exhausted and emotionally content when at last they slept.

There was no reason for the dream—the nightmare—to come again, but it did.

He was looking at her face, the perfect, sculpted beauty of it, and into her eyes. Those eyes, bluer than blue, filled with vibrancy, brilliance and life.

And then…

Then everything changed. Her eyes were suddenly huge and bulging, the red of broken capillaries spilling out around the blue, and bruises, blue and black, circled her neck, taking the form of handprints against the pale flesh of her throat….

“Joe!”

He heard her calling to him, but he was gasping, desperate to stop her murder but unable to figure out how. He couldn’t see who was threatening her; he could only see the certain death that was facing her. He could only see her death…

As it happened.

“Joe!” she called again.

He awoke with a start. She was next to him, her hands on his shoulders as she shook him awake.

He stared at her for a long moment before registering the fact that he was awake, and she was alive and well and at his side and that he had been experiencing a nightmare once again.

He didn’t speak at first, just put his arms around her and pulled her against him. He felt a thundering and knew that it was his own heart.

“Joe,” she repeated again, struggling to free herself enough to look up and meet his eyes. “Joe, what is it?”

I keep seeing you die,
he thought, but he had no intention of saying the words aloud. Instead, he shook his head to clear it. “Nightmare,” he told her gruffly.

She seemed perplexed. Her hair spilled around her face, like soft flames in the shadows. “Maybe I should fire you,” she said.

He shook his head, his eyes dead set on hers. “You can fire me if you want to, but I won’t leave.”

She smiled. “You…you really
are
incredible, Joe.”

“Thanks. I’m good out of bed, too.”

Her smile deepened, and she settled down at his side. As he drew her closer to him, she said, “Joe, I’m worried about you.”