Murder by Candlelight (28 page)

One block.

Two blocks, before the Jag's lights came
on.

Good lights. Low. Focused.

It wasn't until the sleek blue car had
turned on Antioch -- the second of the Northland's two brightly
lighted North-South streets -- that Z risked turning on his own
lights.

After that, their roles reversed, it was Z's
turn to stay as far behind the Jag as possible without losing
it.

The absence of traffic --
which had been in Z's favor earlier -- was now against him, hardly
any vehicles on the road around midnight but delivery trucks. Plus
a few cars driven by the kind of insomniacs who did their shopping
in all-night groceries. And lovers, looking
for
or returning
from
a place to "park."

Adding difficulty to the game of "cat and
mouse" was the certainty that the Jag's driver would recognize Z's
Cavalier if he should notice it. Z could only hope the man was
tired. Or that, as the "hunter," he'd overlook the fact that he,
himself, could be the hunted.

Going north, they passed through blacked-out
residential sections, an elastic string seeming to join the two
cars.

Sixty-ninth. Sixty-ninth Terrace.

Finally to the brightly lighted, but doing
little business, Hy-Vee.

Almost caught napping when a change of light
at 72nd pulled the Jag up, Z ducked into the Hy-Vee lot, swinging
out again when the light changed and the Jag accelerated.

Continuing north, they drove into darkness,
winding along the new, four-lane road recently cut through a thick
forested patch of mostly Maples.

All the way to Barry Road.

After another stop sign had protected them
from the completely phantom traffic of the twelve o'clock night,
they turned left, going uphill, topping the rise to drive past a
semi-circle of new, two-and-three-story buildings of brown brick
and green tinted glass. Maple Woods College; the name derived from
the "Maple Woods" they'd just been driving through.

After the college, slowed by speed signs
outriggering increasingly developed land -- houses, apartment
complexes -- they passed strip malls and gas stations on the
approach to North Oak.

Right-turned again, they drove through land
that was increasingly rural: farms-soon-to-be-eaten-by-the-city.
And, finally, another right, took them into the most expensive of
"far north" developments: New Haven.

Passing a Doric-columned
marble gateway, they wound through pretentious, three-story houses
built too close together atop too little ground; skirted an
artificial lake, eventually turning right to drive across the
lake's small dam. (Big money could make a housing addition a
very
private kind of
place.)

Z still trailing as far as he dared, lights
off when he could see by other means, Z braked sharply as the lead
car took a left hook into the semi-circular concrete drive of a
pricey three-story.

As Z switched off his engine to drift to the
curb a house away, he saw a light as a huge garage door lifted, the
car purring inside the far left "hangar." At a second electronic
command from the sport's car, saw the three-car garage door
grinding down again.

The Jaguar was in its den.

And something else. Z had seen another, even
smaller car, engulfed by the right stall. Could be one of the new
Neons. Or a Miata. Z hadn't seen it long enough to tell.

Parked a short way down
the street -- the Cavalier a shabby addition to
that
neighborhood -- Z's first
reaction was surprise that the flashy mansion lacked
any
"old world" touch.
Was "American" all the way. New. Lavish. Expensive. And (except for
the inflated price) completely ordinary.

Maybe what you heard was
true. Forsaking "family values," the younger mafia types had
evolved into hard-eyed businessmen -- CPA's, MBA's -- the
"organization" itself in the process of forsaking poor-paying blue
collar crime for more lucrative
white
. Johnny Dosso had said as
much.

Z wondered if this upper-class tough lived
alone, a second car not necessarily indicating a second occupant.
(Enough room in the "cave" for a troop of gypsies to set up camp!)
The size of most modern houses representing wealth and status
rather than family need. So, what else was new?

The sensible course for Z,
was to back off, at least for the night. What he
should
do was take his
time following the man, as the man had scouted Z; learn the thug's
habits, see if anyone else was living in the house.

And Z
would
have done that ... except for
Susan. Susan needed a normal life; a life lived without threat. And
she needed it
now
.

Sitting there in the post-midnight dark, Z
delayed thought by ... concentrating on the weather, the night air
thick with moisture, the blackness as silent as a grave. Even the
insects had gone to sleep. (Or, perhaps, were forbidden to take up
residence in this rich man's paradise.)

Z also realized that clouds had canceled the
moon and stars, crafting a night as dark as the worst men's
souls.

Good. For what Z had to do, the darker the
better.

Rousing himself, Z got
down to mental business. First, he needed to check the house for
security: far from an easy task these days, in particular, since
the hood had the money to purchase the latest and the best. Not
that the gangster's alarm system would be patched into the
police.
Certainly
not, would be Z's guess.

Since Z also installed security, he knew
something about electronic devices. "Interrupter" beams,
pressure-sensitive ...

Z didn't get to finish his review because of
a suddenly motor noise, at the same time Z seeing a line of light
at the bottom of the garage door.

What he'd heard was the now familiar whine
of the electric garage opener, the door continuing to come up,
followed closely by a car starting, the door now fully up to show
the second, smaller car, beginning to back out.

Classic MGB. British-racing green.

Prompting the quick question: had the man
switched cars for some reason?

The answer, a quick no.

The person driving the MG was much smaller
than the man in the Jag.

As the car thumped into the street to make
its turn (fortunately backing Z's direction,) the reflection of the
access light gave Z a glimpse of the driver's head before the
garage door closed all the way.

A woman's head.

Though it was true that today's men
sometimes had long hair, the driver was definitely female. From Z's
fleeting impression, a knockout.

Wife of the hood. More likely,
girlfriend.

What puzzled Z was that the girl would be
leaving just as her "friend" returned. What kind of relationship
did they have, anyway?

It didn't matter. Z was grateful she was
gone. His job was hard enough with the man in the house; more than
twice as difficult with a second party.

Back to the job of breaking in ....

"Move, and I blow your head off!"

A total surprise, that harsh voice! Also the
cold, circular feel of a gun barrel poked through the Cavalier's
window and into the hollow at the base of Z's skull.

"Hands on the wheel! Don't look at me!" Z
put his hands on the steering wheel, Z stupid maybe, but not
crazy.

There was the quiet clunk of the door latch
release, the gun barrel leaving Z's neck, the door carefully swung
out. Looking forward, Z couldn't see the man but had a good idea
who he might be. Somehow, the punk who'd been following Z had seen
Z trailing him. Easy to pick up Z's Cavalier in late night traffic,
Z taking a calculated risk tailing the mobster. Z had already
figured the man was bright, the fact that the man had caught him,
not the best way to confirm that judgment.

"Come out slow or you're dead."

An easy task with a bum knee.

Standing in the quiet street for the "pat
down," Z could see that the other man's shadow shape was
formidable. Shorter than Z, but ... bulky.

Putting it all together,
the hood had spotted Z tailing him. When getting home, had ordered
his wife/girl to leave the house so the man could deal with Z in
private, something
Z
had planned except for the variation of who would be
"playing."

Satisfied Z wasn't "carrying," the thug shut
the car door. "'Round back," the man ordered. "Don't wanna shoot
you and wake the neighbors." A sensitivity to the feelings of
others with which Z heartily concurred.

And that's what they did: Z in front, the
man following so closely Z could feel the gun barrel bump his
spine.

First slanting down the street to enter the
thug's yard, Z was shoved down the side and around back, Z able to
see by the soft flame of front and backyard gaslights. At least
well enough to walk.

Passing behind the garages, crossing a deep
patio, they came to a back door.

"Open it," the man ordered, Z turning the
knob, going inside.

Utility room.

Nudged to the left, fumbling around, Z
opened another door; stepped up into a lavish, lighted kitchen,
Italian tile on the workstation in the center, huge refrigerator
with ice and cold water available through the door. Two Viking
stoves. Two microwaves. Out-sized dishwasher. Double sinks in
stainless steel. Cabinets and more cabinets, breakfast bar with
short, three-legged stools under it.

Z was then "directed" through the kitchen
into a formal dining room featuring a cathedral ceiling, elegant
walnut table and chair set, crystal chandelier, and glass
breakfront displaying Waterford crystal.

Marched through a plaster arch into a
fireplace-dominated study, Z's apparent destination was a chair
near a small lamp table.

The house, the furnishings -- all "toys" of
the successful executive. Except, the place smelled of .....

* * * * *

Z had difficulty thinking. His mind
sticking, except to register a dull pain high on the back of his
head. He tried to open his eyes, the light hurting them. He tried
again; managed to keep them open -- little good it did him with his
sight so fuzzy.

He was aware he was
sitting in a chair.
Slumped
in a chair, he corrected himself, his mind
functioning a little better. After blinking his eyes and
concentrating, his vision was also clearing.

He felt .... numb. Except for the pain in
the back of his head.

He was in a chair. Overstuffed chair.

Fireplace to his left. Sofa. Other
chairs.

Uncomfortable.

Because ... he was leaning back against his
hands.

When Z tried to get his hands out from
behind him though, he ... couldn't.

Because they were ... tied behind his
back.

No.

Taped.

It was coming back to Z, the sore spot on
his head helping him to piece together what had happened.

He remembered he'd been surprised out front.
Taken at gunpoint into the house. Into this room. Then ....

Zapped.

Z had to admire the man's thoroughness. He'd
done just what Z would have under the circumstances.

Except for the tape. Z had never trusted
tape. He was from the old-fashioned "rope school" of bondage.

Wiggling around as best he could, Z could
tell he wasn't fastened to the chair. Nor were his ankles taped
together. The man had knocked him out -- and Z hurt enough to guess
the man had done it with the steel butt of his gun -- taped Z's
hands behind his back, and sat him in the chair.

Exploring with his fingers, the tape felt
like the gray duct tape everyone used for everything except the
tape's intended purpose -- sealing the seams of galvanized steel
air ducts.

Where was the villain of the piece? A little
sloppy to be out of the room when Z woke up.

Not that Z was eager for the "fun and games"
to start.

For the only thing that made sense was that
Z was about to be questioned about the whereabouts of Johnny D.

Z knew he'd be roughed up some, but probably
allowed to live. The man who'd been following Z -- undoubtedly the
same one who'd snatched Z off the street -- had demonstrated
patience; didn't seem to be the crazy killer type. Just another
indication the mob had turned into a "professional" organization.
Or, at least, was trying to. Meaning, Z hoped, they didn't kill any
more folks than they had to these days, extra bodies bad for
business.

Z's best defense was to play dumb, something
Susan seemed to think Z did rather well.

A squeak of floor. The man entering.

A dark-haired man with thick brows joining
above his nose. Dead, black eyes. Wide cheekbones. Narrow nose and
mouth. Broad chest. Muscles. Indeterminate nationality.

"Piece of shit," was the man's evaluation on
finding Z awake. "Spendin' all this time on a piece of shit like
you."

Z kept his mouth shut, judging this to be
one of the better times to do that.

Pulling his gun from a back holster, the man
walked over to Z, standing over him, looking down, unfortunately,
staying too far back for Z to kick the legs out from under him.

Dangerous.

That was the only word Z could think of for
the man.

The hoodlum -- Z still didn't know his name
-- was casually dressed in a light blue silk shirt, gray slacks,
and black loafers. He had an expensive-looking watch on one wrist,
a heavy gold "identification" bracelet around the other and a pinky
ring that flashed a diamond the size of a faceted marble.