Читать книгу Killer Headline - Debby Giusti - Страница 13

Clay wasn’t as convinced as Officer O’Reilly had been about tonight’s perpetrator running scared. If the guy took orders from the mob, he’d be back. This time, Clay would be waiting.

He parked down the street from Violet’s house where he had a full view of her property, including the garage in back of the house and a portion of the surrounding yard.

Violet turned on the rear flood lighting before the house lights flipped off.

“Sleep well, honey,” he whispered.

The backyard was swathed in brightness, which should deter anyone approaching from the alley. The night was still, and the sound of a car engine would travel in the frigid air. Clay’s mind wandered as the hours passed. He thought back to the foster home and Eloise who had tried to talk him into accepting Christ into his life.

He’d taken the first steps and had become somewhat comfortable dialoguing with the Man upstairs until Eloise’s situation had taken a negative spin. Didn’t take long for Clay to reconsider his opinion of the Lord.

A few bad choices only compounded Clay’s feeling of alienation. Married too young and divorced before he knew what being a husband was all about added to his hesitancy to depend on anyone, even God.

Now he faced at least two more weeks of probation until the board of inquiry made their decision. “Slam dunk,” most of the guys on the force had said, slapping his back and praising him for the way he’d handled Cameron.

Not what they would have done, of course. But then none of them had an ex-wife who had been pimped and mainlined with heroin until she didn’t know the difference between right or wrong.

Clay let out a frustrated breath.

After all that had happened, Jackson’s request had surprised Clay almost as much as hearing Violet’s voice the other night. Hard to imagine the FBI would want him to pay the sassy reporter a visit and that Chicago P.D. would let Clay go. Of course, every law-enforcement officer in the Windy City knew Special Agent-in-Charge Jackson McGraw usually got what he wanted.

Clay’s cell phone chirped. He flipped it open, read the caller ID and smiled. “I was just thinking about you.”

Jackson chuckled.

“What’s up?”

“I contacted the local chief of police after your last call. His name’s Walter Howard. Wanted him to know you were in town.”

“Did you mention Violet?”

“He knows her. They’re from the same hometown. I told him we were concerned the Mafia might be spreading its muscle into his neck of the woods.”

“Which probably caught his interest.”

“He said he didn’t need or want any more trouble. Seems the local P.D. has a retention problem. Slots vacated by older officers who’ve retired haven’t been filled. Younger guys sign on for a few years then transfer to better-paying lines of work. He’s understaffed and worried.”

“Sounds typical of a lot of areas of the country.”

“Despite the low recruitment, the chief said to call if you need anything. He sounds competent. Don’t hesitate to contact him, Clay.”

“What about the Martino family?”

“More activity at their compound. Change is definitely in the air. Just wish we had a better handle on how it’ll go down.”

“Might be time to put a task force together.”

Jackson’s silence was telling.

“Okay. I get the picture.” Clay smiled. “You’ve already got one in place, right?”

“Just proves, we think alike. I haven’t mentioned it before, but there’s a safe house in the local area. Worst case scenario, of course. Just keep her safe. I don’t want another woman killed in Montana.”

Clay flipped his cell closed, the gravity of Jackson’s statement hung heavy on his shoulders. Clay had a job to do no matter how attractive Ms. Kramer happened to be.

The sound of a car engine caught his attention. Clay trained his eyes on the road ahead. Headlights approached from a distance.

The car swerved as it rounded the corner. A late-model SUV. The vehicle made a large swath around Clay’s car then pulled to a stop at the far corner. The driver cut the engine.

The door opened, and a man dropped to the pavement. Illuminated for a moment by the interior lighting, Clay made note of the guy’s jeans, dark sweatshirt zipped over his chest and a beanie pulled low over his hair. He appeared close in height to the man Clay had chased earlier. Could he be the same guy, returning to drive home the point he’d tried to make with Violet?

The man eased the driver’s door closed then glanced at the row of houses, his gaze lingering longer on Violet’s home than the other modest dwellings on the street.

Clay’s gut tightened.

Beanie-man headed for the shadows. The guy was definitely up to no good.

Clay grabbed his cell and placed a call to police headquarters. The dispatcher said she’d notify a cruiser in the area.

Silent as a cat, Clay crawled from his car and grabbed the guy from behind.

“What the—” the punk groaned. He jerked but couldn’t pull free from Clay’s grasp.

He shoved him toward the street and slammed him against his car. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, man.” He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen.

Clay tugged at his arms. “Don’t lie to me, kid. What’s your name and who are you working for?”

“Jamie…my name’s Jamie Favor.” He shook his head. “I don’t work for no one.”

A siren screamed in the distance. The sound grew louder. Flashing lights broke through the darkness as a cruiser turned on to the street and braked to a stop in front of Clay’s car. O’Reilly got out just as a second police sedan approached from the opposite direction.

“Hey, man, I didn’t do nothing wrong,” the punk moaned.

“Did you plan to break into someone’s house?” Clay demanded. “Frighten someone? Steal a few valuables?”

The kid shook his head. “No way.”

“Got yourself a live one, eh, Clay?” Officer O’Reilly said as he neared.

Clay nodded toward the SUV. “The kid parked down the block then headed this way. He hugged the houses, staying in the shadows.”

“What are you doing, young man, this time of night?” O’Reilly asked.

“Visiting my girlfriend.”

“She lives on this street?” The Missoula cop feigned surprise.

Jamie nodded. “I thought she did.”

O’Reilly patted him down.

“Look what I found.” He yanked an automatic from the punk’s waistband.

“Ah, man,” the punk lowered his head.

Pulling out handcuffs, the officer rattled off Jamie’s Miranda rights then clicked the cuffs in place. “Let’s get you down to headquarters, Jamie, and see what else you might want to tell us.” O’Reilly passed the kid on to the second officer who herded Jamie into the backseat of the cop car.

Clay slapped O’Reilly’s shoulder. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“No problem. You think he’s the guy who broke into 518 earlier?”

Clay followed the cop’s gaze to Violet’s house. “Hard to tell. Instinct tells me that first guy was bigger, but I didn’t get close enough to know for sure. Find out if Jamie has ties with anyone in Chicago. The Mafia’s caused some problems in Montana. The FBI suspects they’re interested in someone in-state.”

O’Reilly pursed his lips. “And the reporter? How’s she play into the mix?”

“Ms. Kramer’s a bit more inquisitive than she should be for her own good. The mob doesn’t like anyone on their heels. She’s gotten a little too close.”

“I’ll have the guys on patrol keep watch on this neighborhood. There’s been rumor of someone dealing drugs a block over. Jamie may have been heading that way. If he talks, we may be able to close down the operation. Appreciate the help you provided tonight.”

Clay gave the officer his cell-phone number. “Call me when you find out what the kid was doing.”

“Roger that. Stop by headquarters later, if you’ve got time. I’ll tell you what we learned.”

Clay appreciated O’Reilly’s invitation.

Two men up to no good in one night. Every cop knew coincidences didn’t apply to law enforcement.

Trouble had found Violet Kramer twice. In Clay’s opinion, that was two times too many.

He turned at the sound of a front door opening to see Violet step on to the porch. Her hair swirled around her oval face in tiny ringlets wound as tight as she seemed.

She wore jeans and a parka and a pair of hot pink, fuzzy bedroom slippers that slapped down the stairs and sidewalk as she stormed toward him.

“What in the world is going on, Clay? Sirens and flashing lights in the middle of the night? How can anyone sleep?”

She glanced at the crowd of neighbors, many of them senior citizens, who gathered on the opposite side of the street and were watching with interest. One sweet older lady waved. Violet smiled a greeting before she turned back to Clay, the smile gone.

He stepped toward her. Did the woman have no fear?

“Everything’s under control, Violet. No need to worry. The police have the perpetrator. They’ll get to the bottom of what he was doing on your street.”

“And what was he doing, Clay?”

He heard the sharpness in her response. Probably due to the late hour or maybe the number of folks who were watching and wondering about her involvement in the drama.

“He appeared to be casing the neighborhood. Officer O’Reilly’s checking on any ties he might have with Chicago and the mob.”

“The mob?” She stared into the patrol car, squinting her eyes against the flashing light. “He looks like a kid.”

“The mob isn’t comprised of only old men. They recruit teens whenever they can.”

Her mouth pursed as if she didn’t appreciate his condescension, then her expression softened. “Have you been out here all night?”

He nodded, noting the confusion that instantly clouded her face.

She hugged her arms. “It’s got to be below zero.”

“Actually, it’s a bit warmer. The weatherman on the radio mentioned five degrees above zero about an hour ago.”

She let out a long sigh. “Then I should offer you my thanks.”

“A cup of coffee would help.”

She smiled and the night warmed.

“One cup and I promise I’ll let you get back to sleep,” he said.

“Come on, then.” She turned about-face and slapped her slippers up the steps and into the house.

Clay followed, noting the scent of vanilla as she lit a candle on the coffee table and hurried toward the kitchen. Working quickly, she poured coffee into the basket of the dripmaker. The smell of fresh grounds mixed with the candle into a rich blend as he pulled a straight-backed chair from the table and slipped into the seat.

He eyed her makeshift attempt to secure her back door with one of the chairs. For all her external bravado, the earlier break-in had bothered her.

Violet placed cream and sugar on the table and poured two mugs with the hot brew.

“Thanks.” He raised his mug and eyed her through the steam. Her lips were swollen with sleep and her cheeks puffy. Sitting across the table from her, Clay felt that Violet had lowered some of her earlier barriers.

“You think the second guy had ties to the mob?” she asked, her voice filled with question.

Clay shrugged. “Hard to say. But he didn’t belong on this street. Plus, he was packing an automatic.”

Her eyes widened. “A gun?”

“That’s right. A gun.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Missoula’s had problems, Clay. A bad element has infiltrated the city, and the police are struggling to handle the increased crime.”

“They responded both times we needed them tonight,” he said in their defense.

“Well, it’s been a problem.”

“How’s Stu feel about law enforcement in the city?”

“He thinks they’re handling the situation the best they can, but—” She hesitated.

“But you don’t?”

“I have a natural concern about the tactics they use.”

“What kind of answer is that, Violet? You’re either for the cops or you’re not. Has there been graft or corruption?”

She shook her head.

“What about racial profiling?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Sounded as if the main problem with law enforcement was Violet.

Clay took a sip of coffee, allowing the stillness to settle around them. “When I left you earlier, I saw a scrap of paper outside your back door.”

She cocked her brow.

“The words Back off were typed on the note. The guy may have dropped it as he ran away.”

“Wouldn’t Officer O’Reilly have seen the paper when he was checking outside the house?”

“Easy enough to miss a scrap of paper.”

She looked down and nodded. When she glanced back up at him, her face was pulled tight with concern. “So, you think the break-in was a warning from the Martino family?”

“They may have contacted someone local to put pressure on you. As I mentioned, Violet, my advice is to stop making any inquiries into mob activity. Lie low until things die down.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to be frightened off from doing my job.”

“You’ve got to use some common sense. Let the FBI and the cops handle the mob. They’ll bring the Martino family down, but it will take time and good investigative skills.”

“Which you’re saying I don’t have?”

“Of course not.” He wasn’t getting anywhere tonight. He glanced at the wall clock. Four-fifteen. Violet needed to crawl back into bed, and he needed to head over to police headquarters. He wanted to learn what O’Reilly found out about Jamie Favor. The cops would keep watch over Violet for the rest of the night. Besides, dawn would be here soon enough.

He placed the mug on the table and pushed back his chair. “Coffee hit the spot. Thanks.” He glanced at the chair wedged against the doorknob. “As I said earlier, might be a good idea to have dead bolts installed.”

“I will.”

She followed him out and waved goodbye as he walked down the front steps. Violet Kramer was stubborn and from what she’d said tonight, evidently, she didn’t like cops.

That didn’t put him in good stead. He wasn’t one to let things bother him. But for some reason, Violet’s opinion was important.

Violet was still thinking about everything that had happened the next morning. A break-in and another man apprehended in her front yard. Were both incidences tied with the mob? Surely not, no matter how much Clay West tried to convince her they were.

The Chicago FBI wanted her out of the picture, and Clay was determined to scare her into backing down. He’d learn soon enough that she didn’t scare easily.

Violet finished writing a short article on the Missoula Women’s Circle and their philanthropic work, which Stu had requested last week. Hopefully, he’d find the information to his liking.

Task completed, she checked her old college Web site where she kept hoping someone would leave a comment with information on Aunt Lettie’s long-ago murder. But just as always, that in-box remained empty. Violet opened her working e-mail and found it void, as well.

Her phone rang.

She pulled the receiver to her ear, wondering if she’d hear Clay’s voice. Not that she was interested, of course.

“Hey, Vi, it’s Ross Truett. I got my hands on that photo you requested. Should arrive in your e-mail momentarily.”

She smiled. “I owe you.”

“Let me buy you dinner and we’ll call it even. I’ve got business in Missoula on Friday.”

“Sounds great. Call me when you get to town.” Violet hung up and drummed her fingertips on her desktop, waiting for the incoming e-mail.

Ross was a college friend from a moneyed family who had rapidly worked his way up to assistant editor of the Yellowstone County Reader. The young editor had everything going for him. At least that’s what her mother would say. She’d also say how happy she’d be if Violet connected with Ross on a permanent basis. Correction. Her mother would be thrilled. But as far as Violet was concerned, he wasn’t Mr. Right.

Clay West came to mind.

Talk about Mr. Wrong.

Hopefully, he’d be heading back to Illinois in a few days. Cute as he was, the detective had a cocky, smug attitude. She’d teach him a lesson or two about trying to change a woman’s mind when she had her course set. Once she had gathered enough evidence to complete the Mafia story, Clay would realize she played hardball.

Then she had another thought. What if she wasn’t the reason Clay had come to Montana? What if law enforcement suspected a third woman would be murdered? Made sense they’d want their undercover cop in place when surveillance learned of an another impending Mafia hit in the Treasure State. Perhaps this time in Missoula. The cops and the Feds wouldn’t want Violet snooping around for fear she’d interfere with their operation.

And the next victim? Shouldn’t she be warned?

Clay would probably remind Violet she was in danger, too. But the Mafia hadn’t found her yet. Despite what he had said.

The message from Ross appeared on her screen along with an attachment. His comments were almost identical to what he’d said over the phone. Dinner the next time he was in Missoula. Attachment for your eyes only. Keep the photo under wraps.

Violet saved the file to her flash drive then glanced around the newsroom. The others—occupied in their own work areas—either chatted on their phones or had their eyes focused on their monitors.

Clicking on the attachment, she watched the photo unfold across her screen. A woman lay on the floor, her neck scraped and bruised. Death by strangulation was never pretty.

Carlie Donald. May she rest in peace.

Would there be a third victim? If so, God help her, as well.