Peggy Sue Got Murdered Read online

  "You and what cop?"

  "Take your pick. There's my buddy in Homicide, Lieutenant Beamis. Or maybe you'd like to meet the guys in Fraud. They'd probably like to meet you." She glanced around the office. "What is it you sell here, by the way? Bargain vacations?"

  Rick sank, glowering, into his chair.

  "We're in the right mood now, are we?" said M. J.

  "I don't know nothing."

  "Peggy Sue quit her job six months ago. Is that right?"

  Rick grunted, a sound M. J. took to be a yes.

  "Why did she quit?"

  Another grunt, coupled with a sullen shrug. Communication worthy of a caveman.

  "Was she mad about something?" asked Adam. "Did she give you a reason?"

  Maybe it was the fact a man was now asking the questions; Rick finally decided to answer. "She didn't tell me anything. She just walked off the job. Called a few days later to say she wasn't coming back. She had something better going."

  "Another job?"

  "Who knows? The bitch was flaky, you know? One minute she's at her desk, working the phone. Then I get back from lunch and there's a note on the door sayin' she's outta here. No explanation, just-poof! Here I am, paying rent on two rooms, and I can't get anyone to man the other desk."

  "She had her own office?" said Adam.

  "That room over there." He pointed to a doorway. "Her own private space. Didn't appreciate it none."

  "May we see the office?" asked Adam.

  "Go ahead. Won't tell ya nothin'."

  The adjoining room was like the first, but without a computer. There was a window that looked down on a grim back-alley view of broken glass, trash cans.

  Adam opened and closed a desk drawer. "Not much in here," he said.

  "She took it all with her," said Rick. "Even the pencils. My pencils."

  "No papers, no notes." Adam pulled out the last drawer. "Nothing." He shut it.

  "See?" said Rick. "I told ya there wasn't anything to look at. Just a desk and a telephone." He glanced at M. J., who was gazing down at the alley. "And a window," Rick pointed out. "I was generous. I let her have the view."

  "And a lovely view it is," said M. J. dryly.

  "Okay, so it's not the seaside. But it faces south and you get some sun. And Bolton's a quiet street so you don't get blasted away by traffic noise."

  "Well," said Adam. "I guess there's not much more to see in here."

  "That's what I said. You satisfied now?"

  M. J. was still gazing out the window. In the alley below, a man appeared, lugging a trash bag. He dumped it in a can, slammed down the lid, and retreated back up the alley. Something was still bothering her. It had to do with this window, with Peggy Sue Barnett and the reason she'd left her job so abruptly six months ago.

  She turned to Rick. "Did you say that was Bolton Street out there?"

  "Yeah. Alley comes off it."

  "What are the nearest cross streets?"

  "To Bolton?" Rick shrugged. "Radisson's to the east. And west, that'd be, uh…"

  "Swarthmore," said M. J. softly. It came to her like a lightning flash of memory: the name of the street. Its significance.

  Bolton and Swarthmore. That's where my partner went down. Drug bust went sour, got boxed in a blind alley…

  M. J. swung around to look at Adam. "My God, that's it. That has to be it!"

  Adam shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

  "There was a cop killed there! In that alley!" She glanced at Rick. "When did Peggy Sue quit her job?"

  "I told ya. Six months ago-"

  "I need the exact date!"

  Rick went into the front office, pulled out a ledger book. "Let's see. Last call she logged was October second."

  "I have to use your phone," snapped M. J., grabbing the receiver.

  "Hey, no long distance."

  "Don't worry, it's a local call."

  Adam was shaking his head, trying to catch up with her leaps of logic. "A dead cop? How does that fit in?"

  "It was blackmail," she said, punching in the phone number. "That's where Peggy Sue's money was coming from. She saw a cop get killed in that alley. And she was squeezing the killer for cash…"

  "Until he refused to be squeezed any longer," Adam finished for her.

  "Right. So he arranges to have a little poison slipped her way. Courtesy of the local drug dealer, Nicos… Hello? Ed?"

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded harassed, "M. J.? I'll call you back, I'm already late-"

  "Ed, one question. That cop, Ben Fuller. The one who arrested Esterhaus. Where was he killed?"

  "Somewhere out in Watertown."

  "The date?"

  "That's two questions."

  "The date, Ed!"

  "I don't know. October sometime. Look, the parade starts in twenty minutes and I gotta get out to the limo-"

  "Was it October second, Ed?"

  A pause. "Could've been."

  "I want you to find out one more thing."

  "Now what?"

  "The name of Ben Fuller's partner."

  "I'd have to check-"

  "Then do it."

  "Yes, ma'am!" growled Ed and hung up.

  She looked at Adam. "It was Ben Fuller who died in that alley. The police called it a drug bust gone sour. I think he was murdered. By another cop."

  They stared at each other, both of them shaken by their conclusions. By what they had to do next.

  Adam took her arm. "Let's go. We're taking this straight to the police commisioner."

  "He'll be in the parade. So will everyone else."

  "Then we head for City Hall. The sooner we unload this bomb, the sooner we can stop watching our backs."

  "You think he knows we're on to him?"

  "Are you kidding? Ed's probably griping to everyone in earshot about his ex-wife and her wild theories. The word'll be out."

  "Hey!" called Rick, as they headed out the door. "What's all this with the cops? Am I gonna have trouble?"

  "Not to worry," said Adam. "You, Rick, are of absolutely no interest to anyone."

  "Oh. Well, that's good," said Rick.

  They left the office and headed down the stairs. Their descent had suddenly taken on the panic of flight. We know too much, M. J. thought. And it could get us killed .

  By the time they reached the ground floor, her hand was sweaty against the banister. They emerged from the building, into the gloom of an impending storm. From the Atlantic, black clouds were roiling in, and the very air smelled of brine and violence.

  Adam glanced up and down Bolton Street, his gaze quickly surveying the shabby buildings, the windblown sidewalks. Across the street, a man emerged from a bar, hugged his coat, and trudged away. At the intersection, a car stood idling, music booming from its radio. So far there was no sign of danger. Still, she was glad when Adam reached for her hand; the warmth of his grasp was enough to steady her nerves.

  They started up the street. Her car was right around the corner, on Radisson. As they reached it, the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall.

  M. J. pulled out her keys; Adam reached over and took them out of her hand. "I'll drive," he said. "You look shaken up."

  Their gazes met. She was shaken up, and there he was, to steady her. Unlike any man she'd ever known.

  She nodded. "Thanks."

  He unlocked the passenger door and helped her in. Then he circled around and slid into the driver's seat, bringing in with him the comforting scents of damp wool, of skin-warmed after-shave. He pulled the door shut. "We'll get this over with," he said, "and then I'm taking you home."

  She looked at him. "I think I'd like that," she said softly. "I'd like that very much."

  They smiled at each other. He reached down to put the key in the ignition. Her gaze was still focused on his face. Only vaguely did she register the shadow moving alongside the car, closing in on her window. She glanced to her right just as the door was yanked open.

  A blast of chilly ai
r swept across her face; colder still was the icy gun barrel pressed against her temple.

  M. J. jerked taut. "No! Vince-"

  "Not a muscle," growled Shradick. "Got that, Quantrell?"

  Adam sat frozen behind the wheel, his gaze locked on M. J. "Don't," he said, panic seeping into his voice. "Don't hurt her."

  "Into the back seat," Shradick ordered. "Move it, Novak."

  On wobbly legs, M. J. stepped out of the car and climbed through the rear door into the back seat. Shradick slid in beside her and slammed the door shut. The gun barrel was still pressed to her head.

  "Okay," said Shradick. "Drive."

  Adam turned to look at them. "Leave her alone! There's no reason for this-"

  "She knows. So do you."

  "So does the DA!"

  "He doesn't know crap. Far as he's concerned, it's a nuisance case. And his ex-wife's a pain." Shradick clicked back the gun hammer. "Which she is."

  "No!" cried Adam. "Please-"

  "Then drive."

  "Where?"

  "Up Radisson."

  Adam threw M. J. a desperate look. He had no choice. Then he turned and started the engine. As they pulled into traffic, she could see his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. There was nothing he could do; one false move and Shradick would blow her away.

  She said, "They'll figure it out, Vince. Ed knows you were Ben Fuller's partner. He's already wondering what really happened to Fuller. How could you do it to your own partner?"

  "He wasn't a good sport."

  "Meaning what? He wouldn't play along? Wouldn't take the payoffs?"

  "Goddamn Boy Scout. God, honor, country. That stuff doesn't pay the bills. Ben and I, we just never came to an understanding. No common ground, see."

  "Not like you and Peggy Sue Barnett," said Adam.

  "Hey, Peggy Sue, I could sorta understand. Bitch saw an opportunity, she grabbed it. Trouble is, she started getting greedy. More money, always more."

  "So you had Esterhaus pass along some poison. Something you thought couldn't be identified," said Adam.

  Shradick gave a grunt of surprise. "He talked?"

  "He didn't have to," said M. J. "We knew about his arrest. You were Fuller's partner at the time, weren't you? You would've heard all about Esterhaus. And his troubles."

  "Yeah. Those Miami boys." Shradick laughed. "He was scared to death of them."

  "So you two cut a deal. He got you the drug. And you didn't call Miami."

  "Hey, it worked."

  "Except for one detail, Vince. Zestron-L killed a few too many victims. One body, the ME might overlook. But four? That was a trend."

  They pulled to a stop at a red light. Shradick glanced at the street sign. "Turn right," he said.

  "Where are we going?" asked Adam.

  "The docks."

  Adam flashed M. J. a backward glance. Keep your cool, it said. I'll get us out of this somehow .

  He turned right.

  Three blocks east took them to the wharf. The rainswept docks were deserted. A series of piers jutted out, most of them long since abandoned to disuse. A single fishing trawler rocked in the gray water, straining at its moorings.

  "That warehouse up ahead," said Shradick. "Drive there."

  "The pier won't hold the weight," said Adam.

  "Yes it will. Go."

  Adam pulled off the pavement and slowly guided the car onto the pier. They could hear the wood creak under the weight, could feel the thump of the tires over the boards. At the warehouse entrance, they rolled to a stop.

  "Okay," said Shradick. "Out of the car."

  M. J. stepped out. The wind whipped her hair and lashed her face with sea spray. She stood with the gun shoved against her back, her heart pounding.

  "Quantrell! Open the warehouse door," ordered Shradick.

  "Two more murders," said Adam. "What's it going to get you, Vince?"

  "My freedom, maybe? Open the door."

  Adam reluctantly set his shoulder against the sliding panel. "You killed Fuller," he grunted, pushing against the door. "And Esterhaus. And Peggy Sue Barnett." Slowly the panel slid open, revealing a seemingly impenetrable darkness. "Where's it going to end?"

  "With you two." Shradick waved the gun. "Inside."

  There was no arguing with a bullet. They stepped out of the wind's assault, into the gloom. The darkness smelled of dust and sea rot.

  "Beamis will figure it out," said Adam. "He'll find us-"

  "Not for a while. See, this particular warehouse belongs to Vito Scalisi. And his sentence runs till 2003. By the time they open the building again, the rats'll have taken care of things. If you catch my drift."

  Meaning our bodies , thought M. J. with a rush of nausea. Quickly she glanced around and saw, through the shadows, a jumble of old crates, wooden pallets. Overhead, ropes dangled from a catwalk. And high above, rainwater dripped steadily through a hole in the roof. There were no other exits, no way out.

  Adam was still trying to buy time. "People saw you at the burial, Vince-"

  "I was there in the line of duty."

  "They saw us, too! They'll put it together-know you followed us-"

  "Me? I went home to bed. This damn virus, you see." He raised his gun. "Both of you, against the wall. Don't want to have to drag you. Not with my bad back."

  Adam moved close to M. J. and wrapped his arms around her. She felt his breath warm her hair, felt his lips brush the top of her head. "Get ready," he whispered. "When I move, you run."

  In bewilderment she stared up at him, and saw the unbending command in his gaze: Don't argue. Just do it.

  "Skip the tender farewells, okay?" barked Shradick. "Against the wall."

  There are so many things I want to tell you , she thought, still gazing up at Adam. And now I'll never have the chance.

  He pressed one last kiss to her forehead. Then, with a nudge, he pushed her away, placing himself between her and Shradick. Calmly, he turned to face the gun.

  "You know, Vince," said Adam. "You've neglected a few vital details. The car, for instance."

  "Getting rid of the car's easy."

  "I'm talking about my car." Adam took a step forward, so small it was scarcely noticeable. "An abandoned Volvo at the cemetery…" He took another step toward Shradick. Toward the gun. "It'll raise a lot of questions."

  "I can take care of that, too."

  "And then there's the matter of Peggy Sue Barnett's boyfriend."

  "What?"

  "You think she kept her little gold mine a secret?" Another step. "You think he didn't ask where all her drugs, all her cash, was coming from?"

  Shradick was poised on the verge of finishing off the whole bloody business, but new doubts had been stirred. His hand wavered, the gun barrel dropping a fraction of an inch.

  Adam was still ten feet away, too far to make his move. But he might not get a better chance.

  M. J., standing behind Adam, could almost sense the tensing of his muscles, the last coiling up before the spring. Dear God, he's going to do it.

  Adam's body would take the first bullet, and probably the second as well. By that time she could be on Shradick. It was a last-chance gamble, one they were almost certain to lose, but the alternative was to go down like sheep in a slaughterhouse.

  She leaned forward, poised like a sprinter on the balls of her feet, waiting for Adam's move. Any second now…

  The piercing beeps of Shradick's pocket pager suddenly seemed to trap them in an instant's freeze-frame. Pure force of habit made Shradick glance down at the pager looped to his belt. In that split second of inattention, Adam sprang.

  He was halfway to Shradick when the first shot exploded. The thud of the bullet into his flesh scarcely slowed his momentum. Before Shradick could even squeeze off a second shot, Adam hurtled against him. Both men toppled to the ground.

  M. J. scrambled forward to help, but the men were rolling over and over in a confusing tangle of limbs, grappling for the gun. Another shot went off, this one wild-the
bullet whistled past M. J.'s cheek. Adam's hand shot out to grab Shradick's wrist. He managed to grunt out: "Run!" before Shradick, roaring like a bull, flung Adam aside.

  M. J. attacked, clawing for the gun, but Shradick had too firm a grip. Enraged, he swung at her, his fist slamming into her jaw. The blow sent her flying. She tumbled across the floor to land in a pile of damp burlap. Through eyes half blinded by pain, she saw Shradick turn and walk over to look at Adam, who now lay motionless.

  He's dead , she thought. Dear God, he's dead. Fueled by grief, by rage, she staggered to her feet. Even as blackness gathered before her eyes, she struggled desperately toward the warehouse door, toward the far-off rectangle of daylight.

  Just as she reached the doorway, Shradick turned to her, raised his gun, and fired.

  The bullet splintered the frame, and fragments of wood stung her cheek. She flung herself through the doorway, into the driving wind.

  With Shradick right behind her, a few seconds' head start was all she had. Still dizzy from the blow, she was moving like a drunken woman. The car was parked a few feet ahead. Beyond it stretched the pier, barren of any cover. Running was futile. It would be a single shot, straight into her back.

  No escape, she thought. I can't even see straight.

  Just as Shradick came tearing out of the warehouse, M. J. ducked around the rear of the car. He fired; the bullet pinged off the rear fender. M. J. scurried alongside the car and yanked the passenger door open. One glance told her the keys weren't in the ignition. No escape in there, either-the car would be a trap.

  Shradick was moving in for the kill.

  She heard the creak of the planks as he moved along the other side of the car, circling to the rear. Ahead there was only the warehouse, another dead end.

  She took a deep breath, pivoted away from the car, and leaped off the pier.

  15

  The stomach-wrenching plunge hurled her into icy water. She sank in over her head, into a frightening swirl of brine. She floundered to the surface, gasping, her eyes and throat stung by the salt. One breath was all she managed; the zing of a bullet through the water sent her diving once again into the depths.

  Frantically she stroked her way under the pier and surfaced again to cling at the foundation post. Windblown waves churned and thrashed against her face. Her hands had already gone numb from cold and fear, but at least her head was now clear. She glanced toward land, saw that the only way to shore would mean a clamber across exposed rocks. In other words, suicide.