The Death Dealer

Page 47

“You killed your father, you killed William Morton and at the very least you contributed to the death of Bradley Hicks. You also murdered Lori Star and attempted to murder Sam Latham.”
“No!” Jared cried.
His horror and his fierce frown of denial certainly seemed real, Joe thought.
“Jared, I just came from Virginia, where you rented a Poe costume.”
“What?” Jared asked, sounding truly confused.
“Look,” Joe told him. “I can get the cops in here now, and they’ll take your confession and help you work out a deal with the D.A. to avoid the death penalty.”
“The death—what are you talking about?” Jared said. “What does renting a Poe costume in Virginia have to do with murder?”
For once, he didn’t look like a cocky rich kid, Joe thought. He looked genuinely frightened.
An act?
“Jared, we have proof,” Joe said, knowing he was stretching the truth pretty much to the breaking point.
“Proof?”
“Proof that you used your father’s card to rent a Poe costume, then drove out to William Morton’s house and killed him.”
Jared shook his head, staring wildly. “My father liked William Morton. He thought he was brilliant.”
“Is that why you killed him? Because you were jealous that your father thought more of Morton than he did of you?”
He was stunned when Jared suddenly burst into tears. “Look, I was…a jerk. I didn’t think I had to pay my tickets. But I didn’t kill anyone. I sure as hell didn’t kill my father, I swear it. I wasn’t even there when he died. I was working, and then I went down and bought a hot dog from the vendor outside the office. You can talk to him if you want.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about the hot-dog vendor before?” Joe asked.
“I…I didn’t think of it.”
“What about the Sunday Lori Star was murdered?”
“I was at home.”
“Sure you were.”
“It’s true.” He reddened. “There were drugs involved. I admit it. But I was home.” He brightened. “I saw someone then, too!”
“Who?”
“The window washer. I know he’ll remember me. I had just poured myself a drink when I saw him out there, and I was joking around, pretending I was going to pour him a drink, too.” “Why the hell didn’t you tell the police about this before?” Joe demanded.
Jared shook his head. “Because…because I’m Jared Bigelow. I shouldn’t have to make excuses. I shouldn’t need an alibi. I’m Jared Bigelow,” he repeated in a small, defeated voice.
Disgusted, Joe turned away. Dammit. He believed the bastard. His story would be easy enough to prove. His building would have a contract with a window-washing service, and it would be easy enough to find whoever had been working there on a Sunday, of all days. No doubt the hot-dog vendor could be found and questioned, too.
But if it hadn’t been Jared…
It had to have been someone with Jared. With Thorne.
That left two people.
Mary Vincenzo. But did Mary have the strength to do what had been done to William Morton and Lori Star?
Or…
The butler.
Or there had been two killers. A woman and a man, working together.
One with the strength to strangle someone. And one who could slip into a hospital room in a nurse’s uniform, and not be noticed.
He suddenly remembered something. Something that had struck him as interesting a few days ago and then been forgotten in the welter of events.
Joe.
Someone had spoken his name, and it wasn’t Jared Bigelow.
And he recognized the voice.
He looked up.
Matt, or a semblance of Matt, was there. Matt, his cousin and best friend.
His dead cousin. His dead best friend.
Joe, she needs you. For the love of God, hurry!
Fear and urgency set in. If Jared wasn’t the killer, then the killer was still out there. And if Matt was urging him on…
She needs you, Matt repeated.
Joe ran past the officer on duty outside the door without bothering to explain why he was in such a hurry. His cell phone was in his hand as he sprinted for the street. Genevieve didn’t pick up at her apartment, and she didn’t answer her cell. He tried Eileen’s number as he wondered why the hell you could never find a cab in New York when you really needed one.
“Joe!” Eileen said, pleased. “Are you joining us?”
His heart leaped. “Genevieve is with you?”
“No, but she may show up later.”
“Who’s with you?”
Eileen told him, and when she didn’t mention one name in particular, he knew he had just figured everything out at last, knew what had niggled at him since the funeral until he’d remembered it just a few minutes ago.
He didn’t want to panic Eileen, so he just said, “Ask Gen to call me if she shows up, all right? And don’t leave O’Malley’s.”
He hung up. Where? Where the hell would the killer have taken her?
Where else, but…
He was within walking distance, but he didn’t walk.
He ran.
Genevieve woke up slowly. Her head was pounding as if a thousand trucks were running through it. Worse than that, though, her arms hurt, as if there was a dead weight pulling on them.
Wherever she was, it was stuffy and it smelled funny.
She realized that there really was a dead weight on her arms. When she tried to move them, she heard what sounded like chains rattling.
It was chains.
She blinked, and her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. But she was chained, and the weird smell was…
Mortar.
Someone was bricking her up behind a wall!
She fought back panic, reminded herself that she had been locked up underground by a maniac for weeks, and she had survived that. She had used her wits, and she had survived.
But this…
She heard the trowel moving in the concrete mixture, heard the telltale sounds as another brick was shoved into place.
Should she scream? Would there be any hope for her if she did?
Once the last brick went in, how much time would she have?
“She’s awake, I know it,” said a female voice.
Not Mary Vincenzo’s.
It was familiar, but it sounded different, more confident than she had ever heard it.
“Yes, she’s awake. Join us, won’t you, Genevieve?”
A man’s voice, and it was familiar, too.
She fought the panic setting in, trying to figure out the best way to play for time.
Time?
Time for what?
For help to arrive? What help? Joe was at the police station, convinced that all clues led to Jared Bigelow.
“Bennet, what a surprise,” Gen said flatly.
“Bennet? Come, come. You know my given name. Why not use it…Miss Genevieve.”
She lifted her head. The bricks that would eventually cover her face hadn’t been laid yet.
“All right, Albee,” she said. “I don’t get it. Or maybe I do. I suppose you’re furious because Jared gets the Bigelow money, even after you put up with Thorny for all those years.”
Feminine laughter rang out, and Barbara Hirshorn popped her head up behind Albee’s. “Don’t be silly.” Barbara had lost the Poe mustache she had been wearing, and though she still had on a man’s nineteenth-century suit and a black wig, her sharp features were now easily recognizable. “It’s not that at all.”
“Okay,” Gen said, frowning. “Then explain things to me. How did you do it? And why?”
“You really don’t understand anything, do you?” Barbara demanded.
“She should. After that trip to Richmond and Baltimore,” Bennet said.
How the hell had he known where she’d been? Gen didn’t ask the question, but Barbara answered it anyway.
She giggled again, as if she were the most clever creature in the world. “Your mother told me where you were, of course. I mean, who would worry about what they said to poor, meek little nobody Barbara?”
Albee Bennet had stopped laying bricks for the moment, too busy grinning at her. Beaming with pride and pleasure. “We really are very clever, Barbara and I,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Gen said. “But I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t? You really don’t?” Bennet asked her.
“No.”
He smiled, setting his arm around Barbara’s shoulders. “Actually, taking care of Thorne the way we did was Barbara’s idea.”
“Poison in the wine,” Barbara said proudly. “My idea.”
Her mother had been the one to say it first, but they’d all agreed that, statistically speaking, poisoning was a woman’s method of murder.
“So clever,” Bennet said again.
“It was nothing,” Barbara said, blushing.
“He needed to die. It was justice, really. Just like those other two blowhards,” Bennet explained. “Best of all, there’s no way for anyone to prove that I had anything to do with it.”
“I’m sure there is a way. They just haven’t figured it out yet,” Genevieve said as confidently as she could.
Barbara just rolled her eyes. “Bennet is the genius, don’t you see? He knew Poe. He loved Poe. He can be Poe—far more effectively than I can. Once Thorne understood just how much Bennet knew about Poe, how he empathized with Poe, comprehended his work and everything about him, he would make Bennet come down for discussions. And everything Bennet said found its way into Thorne’s work. He used him! My brilliant Bennet. Thorne was horrible. He deserved to die.”
“What about Lori Star?” Genevieve demanded. “What about Sam Latham? He’s just a nice guy with a wife and two little kids.”
“Ah, yes, Sam.” Bennet sighed. “It couldn’t look as if we were only trying to kill Thorne, could it? I just happened to be on the road when I saw him pass me. I suddenly realized how easy it would be to engineer his death, so I drove like a bat out of hell to catch up. Unfortunately, he survived.”