Finding Jessica Page 10

  “I have no doubt,” Rose said, “that if you cooperate with the FBI and testify against Beach, the government will protect you.”

  “Rose Chandler,” Thorne said aloud, “I think I love you.”

  “But remember this,” Rose said, her voice low and menacing. “Despite what happens in the FBI’s case, if I find out you had anything to do with Hal’s death, I won’t stop until you’re brought to justice in a court of law and pay for his murder.”

  “God damn it,” Thorne said aloud, “enough about the murder,” but he saw Amber shiver as if she’d caught a chill. That scared her. Good.

  “I don’t know anything about the murder,” she said, “and I can’t talk about anything else. I can’t.”

  “There’s time to change your mind,” Rose said quietly, “but don’t wait too long.”

  “I just want you to know,” Amber said, fixing her eyes on Rose, “despite what you might think, I appreciate everything you and Cameron did for me.” Thorne’s mouth went dry as he watched her loop her hair behind her ears. He wondered what she looked like under that jumpsuit. “You gave me a job, you welcomed me into your family, and I appreciate it, I really do.” He couldn’t wait to put the handcuffs on her and take her with him back to Boston. “I never had a normal family, my mother was a mess, and when she died …” Her voice trailed off, and then she buried her face in her hands, but it didn’t sound as if she was crying. “I’m sorry,” she said, lifting her head. He was right. There were no tears. “I know I’ve disappointed you. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d care so much.”

  “About what?” Rose asked.

  Amber rubbed her forehead. “You,” she said, “Haven, even the crazy Lamarche sisters.” Thorne had no idea who the Lamarche sisters were, and he didn’t care. He had the crazy thought that someday he’d like to introduce the girl to his mother. She smiled a little. “Keep an eye on them. You never know what might go missing.”

  Thorne blinked. He needed to focus on Operation Haven. Resolving the case was all that mattered. He couldn’t afford to sacrifice his ambitions for any woman, not even one as desirable as the doe-eyed one he was staring at on the screen. He had a dream to one day sit behind that large metal desk in Franklin’s coveted corner office with Marcus Thorne etched in black on the nameplate screwed into the door.

  Rose’s face was stony, but when she spoke her voice cracked. “I’ll do that,” she said.

  Thorne rolled his eyes at the monitor, the pain in his side easing a little. “Well, isn’t that peachy sweet.” He took the handcuffs out of his pocket and headed for the door. “But you’re mine now, cupcake.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’m not happy about any of this,” Sandy Beach stroked Princess, his six-pound Yorkshire terrier, who was growling at the angry tone of his voice. “I’m sitting on a hot painting with no way to move it, the buyer’s breathing down my neck, and now the feds have Amber.”

  Sandy Beach was deep under Manhattan’s meat packing district, sitting across from Nicky the Knife in his preferred booth at Zu-Zu, one of his favorite billiard clubs out of the forty-five he owned. He’d had his designer transform the old subway station into a cozy retreat of hardwood floors, cherry billiard tables, stocked liquor bars and low lighting. Jazz played softly from hidden speakers. With no windows to the outside world, it was easy to lose track of time. He had to glance at his watch to see that it was almost 8:00 p.m.

  “I need you to tell me everything is under control,” Beach told Nicky.

  Nicky was filing his fingernails with a long silver file. “Everything’s under control.” He scowled at Princess. “The feds just got lucky.” Nicky was a small man, painfully thin, with a pitted face, slick gray hair and cold black eyes. “All they know is Amber’s got a bogus ID, but they won’t be able to trace it back to you.”

  Sandy nodded. In anyone else’s hands the silver file was a harmless tool, but in Nicky’s it could be a lethal weapon.

  A waitress in a very short skirt set a plate of steak on the table. She ignored Nicky. The staff knew he never ate or drank in public, and no one wanted to talk to him anyway. The steak was rare and bleeding, just the way Sandy liked it. “You ask me,” Beach cut into the meat, “those boys at the Bureau couldn’t find their shadows on a sunny day.” Sitting at attention on his lap, Princess stared at Sandy’s dinner and whined. He tried to ignore her. He didn’t want the little dog to get fat. “What about Rose Chandler?”

  Nicky finished the nails on his right hand and started on the left. A subway train roared by, and the table vibrated. “I got the same info we got on her when Amber started working there. She moved to Haven five years ago, opened a PI office and married the owner of Mountain Arts. She’s been managing the place since he died last year in that motorcycle accident. Before that, there’s nothing on her, and I mean nothing.”

  “How’s that possible?” Beach sipped his wine. “You checked with the computer hack?”

  Nicky nodded and watched Princess pawing at the table. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she bared her teeth. Sandy petted her head. “I wish you two got along,” Beach said.

  Nicky picked up his glass of water. “Wish all you want,” he said.

  “What about that detective, Rhodes?” Beach asked.

  “He’s letting Chandler work with him to find Cappodecci’s killer,” Nicky touched the tattoo of a woman on his neck. He’d once confided to Beach that it was a portrait of his mother. When he was sixteen, he’d killed her with a kitchen knife after she’d threatened to turn him over to the cops for joining a gang.

  Beach cut off another piece of steak. The knife was sharp and sliced through the beef like butter. “We need a plan to get the next painting to the buyer.” He pointed the knife at Nicky. “I’ve got a lot of money riding on this, so if you’ve got to get tough with someone, then do it.”

  Nicky finished his nails and slipped the file into his jacket next to his favorite combat knife. “Boss,” he said, “can I speak frankly?”

  Princess barked again, louder this time. Beach hated to see her unhappy, and he gave in and dangled a small piece of steak in front of her nose. She snatched it, almost biting his fingers. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Amber.” Nicky straightened the lapels on his jacket. “I think she knows too much.”

  Beach picked up his wineglass and took a sip. He spotted one of his ladies in waiting sitting at the bar across the room. She was on a high stool, her legs crossed provocatively, coloring her mouth with dark lipstick. She glanced at him. “Amber’s a lot like her mother,” he said. “She’s loyal, and unless she’s got a death wish, she won’t say anything.”

  Nicky nodded. “She owes you.”

  “Damn right she does,” Beach said. He wouldn’t admit it to Nicky or anyone else, but he’d been grooming Amber to be a higher up in his organization. On the outside she was all silk and hair and sweetness, but she was tough as steel, and Beach thought sometimes he should dump his lush of a wife and see if Amber could take her place. A young broad like her on his arm would give him even more clout, and she’d come into the business with him instead of trying to shop panties to bored housewives.

  Nicky ran a finger over his thin mustache and watched the woman walk across the club, her hips sashaying in time to Snake Davis’s “Harlem Stroll.”

  “It’s going to take some time to find another gallery.”

  “We’re gonna have to move the painting to the Pigeon’s place.” Beach pushed his plate away.

  “I’d think twice about that, boss,” Nicky said. “I don’t trust him.”

  The woman looked a lot older up close, but Sandy hadn’t called her over for himself. Beach pointed his chin at Nicky. He had no luck with women. The woman’s eyes swiveled nervously to the sharp-edged man. None of them were wild about cozying up to The Knife.

  “Go on.” Beach sat back in his chair. “Have a ball.”

  When Nicky got up from the table, Princess snapped at him, and Beach had to hol
d her so she couldn’t leap out of his arms.

  As soon as Nicky was out of sight, Princess settled down on Beach’s lap, her paws draped comfortably over his arm. He kissed the top of her silky head. “You know, baby, it’s a fact,” he said, “that a person will always do what you want when they’ve got secrets to keep.” He picked up his cell phone. “Nicky don't like her, but let’s see what Jess has to say. Maybe she can find us another art gallery.”

  Chapter Twenty

  After dropping Emily off at the library, Rocky sat down at Table Talk’s counter and ordered the lumberjack special. He could feel someone looking at him, and when he turned on his stool, there was no mistaking Bjorn Toorun, sitting next to him. His hair was so blond it looked almost white. “Detective Rocky Rhodes,” Rocky stuck out his hand. “Bjorn, right? I saw you at Chad Connor’s house yesterday.” Bjorn gave him a wimpy handshake. Up close Rocky saw he was a lot younger than he’d thought.

  “Dude,” Bjorn raised his eyebrows at Rocky’s Hawaiian shirt and clicked his tongue pierce across his front teeth. “That shirt is so ugly it makes my eyes sore.”

  “My wife says it makes me look like a giant pineapple.”

  “Yeah, like one of them fruit cocktails my ma used to make me eat.” He put ketchup on his eggs. “You should ditch it, dude.”

  Rocky stirred milk into his coffee and studied the pink nautical star tattoo on Bjorn’s hand. Heidi was taking orders at the other end of the counter, but she kept glancing over at them. “I did a little checking up on you,” he said.

  The kid started spreading the jam on his toast and stared at him. His eyes were unnaturally blue, almost as white as his hair.

  “Chad says you were visiting from Boston, but your car is registered in New Hampshire.”

  Bjorn flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you, dude.” He kept spreading jam. “It’s not registered in Mass ‘cause I just moved to Boston.” He looked sideways at Rocky. “Guess I better do it soon. I don’t want you sic’ing them Mass-hole cops on me.”

  Rocky sipped his coffee. “You’ve got a long record for such a young man.”

  He noticed Bjorn was drinking a root beer float.

  Bjorn rolled his eyes and spooned vanilla ice cream out of the float. “I did my time.” He touched the shark tooth on the ratty string around his throat. “And I been righteous since I got out of prison.”

  Rocky nodded. The thought of drinking a root beer float for breakfast was sort of interesting. He’d never thought of it before. “You and Chad seem like an odd fit.”

  Bjorn spooned the ice cream out of his float and put it in his mouth so when he talked his lips were foamy white. “So what?”

  “So how long have you known each other?”

  Bjorn’s eyes shifted from his float. “I don’t know, a while.”

  “How long’s a while?”

  “Dude, like less than a year, okay?”

  “How’d you meet?”

  Bjorn speared his bacon. Rocky wondered if he’d always eaten one food group at a time or if it was something he’d learned in prison.

  “Speedy’s Car Wash. I detailed his car.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned at Rocky. One of his teeth was chipped.

  Rocky reached into his pocket and took out a picture of Hal. “You ever seen this man before?” He put the photograph on the counter and slid it over to Bjorn.

  “Nope,” Bjorn barely glanced at it before sliding it back.

  “This man was murdered at a cabin on Two Isle Lake.” The waitress buzzed by and slammed Rocky’s lumberjack breakfast on the countertop. Pancakes threatened to topple over onto eggs, but Rocky saved the stack by sticking his fork into it. He reached for the maple syrup. “Cabin’s called Solitude. You know the place?”

  “Solitude?” Bjorn laughed. “Sounds like a golden oldie.” He jabbed a finger in his ear. “I hate the music in here, but the grub is good.” He clicked his tongue pierce again.

  Rocky found this supremely annoying. He cut into a pancake, light and fluffy, just the way he liked it. “You sticking around Haven long?”

  Bjorn pushed his empty plate away. “Dude, why all the questions?”

  “Just being friendly.”

  “Bullshit,” Bjorn said. “Cops ain’t friendly.” He stood up, took out his wallet and tossed a ten on the counter. “It’s been a blast. Gotta go.”

  Rocky watched Bjorn saunter out of the diner. Young and arrogant with a string of burglaries under his belt, he’d probably move on to armed robbery at some point, or worse. They all thought they were invincible.

  Heidi tossed Bjorn’s dirty dishes into a plastic bin. “Who’s that surfer kid you were talking to?” The Coasters were belting out “Yakety Yak,” and he had to lean across the counter to hear her. Her voice was like sandpaper. Rocky wondered if she was smoking more cigarettes than usual.

  “Bjorn Toorun, a friend of Chad Connor.” Rocky finished the pancakes in two swift bites.

  Heidi balanced the plastic bin on one hip. “A sumo wrestler with a hideous Hawaiian shirt.” She gave him a quick smile. “That’ll scare ‘em.”

  Rocky wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m a gentle giant.”

  Heidi was about to say something, then stopped abruptly and looked at the front door.

  Veronica Montrose was pushing her way through the waiting crowd. “Quick,” she said breathlessly, “someone’s been hurt.” Her huge eyes swam behind her glasses. “In the alleyway.”

  Heidi threw down her rag.

  It was almost ten, and the streets of Haven were busy with window-shopping tourists. Veronica walked like a drunken woman, weaving from side to side. It occurred to Rocky that she was in shock. The alleyway was hardly big enough for a small car to squeeze through and darkened by the diner on one side and a consignment shop on the other. Table Talk’s dumpster was crowding the opening, and Rocky smelled rotting garbage and the faint odor of gunsmoke.

  He saw the flip-flops first, then the rope bracelet around one tan ankle and the frayed edges of the jeans. A single gunshot wound oozed dark blood across very white hair, but it wasn’t until he saw the hand that he was sure. The pink nautical star tattoo looked bright, almost cheerful in the shadowy space. Rocky reached across the shark’s tooth to check for a pulse, but Bjorn Toorun’s body was already starting to cool.

  He heard Heidi light a cigarette and glanced at the other end of the alleyway, where a split rail fence led to an abandoned lot. The Hunter’s Game Lodge used to sit there before it was burned to the ground in a fire. Farther out was the embankment to Highway 3. Whoever it had been might have hidden a car on the highway and then high-tailed it across that lot, or they could have blended into the morning crowd, it was impossible to tell.

  “Is he dead?” Veronica’s voice quavered behind him. She’d wrapped both arms around her stomach.

  Rocky sat back on his heels and nodded. Bjorn’s voice came ricocheting out of his memory. Yeah, like one of them fruit cocktails my ma used to make me eat. He took out his cell phone and called the station.

  “You gonna be okay?” he asked when dispatch put him on hold.

  “I think so.” Veronica was staring wildly around at anything but Bjorn.

  “Did you see what happened?” He stood up slowly and kept his voice low and gentle, but his legs were shaking. In a town that hadn’t seen a murder in six years, he was now dealing with two in a couple of weeks. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “No, no, I didn’t see … I didn’t see it happen,” she stammered. Tears filled her eyes. “I parked my car over there,” she said, pointing down the alley toward the street, “and I heard a popping noise like a firecracker going off, and then I walked by, and I just looked over. I don’t know why I did, but well, you know, I looked over, and I saw him.”

  “How many popping noises did you hear?”

  “Just one.”

  “Okay,” he said. He turned around and saw Heidi on her knees next to the body. When she l
ooked up, her face was pale, but her blue eyes were steely. He thought she looked angry. “Heidi, he’s dead,” he told her. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”

  She got up and dusted off her pants. “Come on, Veronica,” she said. “I’ll take you back to the diner.” She took Veronica by the arm, and Rocky watched them walk around the dumpster and disappear around the corner. Sirens sounded close by. He looked down at Bjorn Toorun. His eyes were open in surprise, and Rocky saw that he didn’t look like an arrogant ex-con anymore. He looked like a lost little boy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  William Franklin tapped on his keyboard without looking up at Thorne. “I told you I wanted results.” Franklin’s large desk was littered with newspapers and stacks of file folders. Loose papers spilled out of his in-box, and pink message slips were piled up by the telephone. “Instead, what do I get?”

  Thorne knew this was rhetorical. Franklin would make his point when he was good and ready, and in the meantime Thorne would be forced to stand in front of his massive desk like a tin soldier reporting for duty, not an easy thing to do with a chili dog burning a hole in his stomach. He should have eaten the tuna salad sandwich his mother had packed for him, but he’d passed the Dare You Dog hot dog vendor on the street, and it smelled so good he couldn’t resist.

  “An hour ago I had a phone call from Detective Rhodes.” Franklin stopped typing and turned to scowl at him. With his huge round head, bulbous nose and bushy mustache, he looked like a live version of Mr. Potato Head. “It seems there’s been another murder in Haven.”

  Thorne couldn’t believe it. How dare Rhodes go over his head. “He shouldn’t have bothered you,” he croaked. Gaseous chili vapors turned somersaults in his esophagus. “Who was killed?”

  “Young man by the name of Bjorn Toorun,” Franklin said. “Rhodes thought he might’ve been one of your informants. Was he?”

  “Never heard of him,” Thorne replied. “Why did he think he was a snitch?”