Picture Perfect (22 page)

“Andrew, there's something I want to talk to you about. I've been thinking that maybe I should go home after all. That I could be of more use there than here. There's a flight around ten tomorrow morning. What do you think?”

“I think that's a good idea. Mr. DeLuca assured me I would finish with my testimony by noon so I'll take the one-fifteen flight. I'm pleased you're going, Sara. I think it's important that, when Davey finds his way back, you're there for him.”

Not for anything in the world would Sara let Andrew know that she was going back because of Roman DeLuca's implied threat. No, it hadn't been implied, it had been clearly stated and she had to deal with it. “I'll go with you to the courthouse and see that you're settled in, then leave from there. I want to be sure that you're all right before I go.”

“That's not necessary, Sara.”

“Maybe it isn't, but it's what I want to do.”

“Is there anything else on your mind, Sara? You haven't been yourself since DeLuca arrived. I know he upset you with all that eye-contact nonsense, but now that you're going home it's hardly important.”

“You always see right through me, don't you, darling? Yes, something has been bothering me. It's about your testimony this afternoon. I can't be certain, but I think there's a small problem we've overlooked. Remember when we were in school and had to learn the answers to a long list of questions? I don't know about you, but I always had the answers down pat as long as the questions were asked in order. Once the questions were out of sequence, I failed miserably. I heard Mr. DeLuca going over your testimony with you. Everything was in sequence, and you had all the facts down perfectly. But what would happen if those questions were asked out of sequence?”

“By whom?” Andrew asked.

“Anyone. The attorney for the defense—anyone. It could rattle you, Andrew. It could rattle anyone!” she added, touching his shoulder lightly. “Darling, I have every confidence that you'll be wonderful. But perhaps it wouldn't hurt to have our own rehearsal. I'll go over the questions with you, just like Mr. DeLuca did, only I'll mix them up so you'll be prepared for any eventuality. Darling, in an hour or so, you'll be letter perfect. Remember that old saying, ‘Anything worth doing is worth doing well'? Andrew, you've put too much time and effort—and, yes, sacrifice to yourself and our family—not to be the best possible witness you can.”

Sara waited, hardly daring to breathe, for his answer.

“Darling, I think you're right. You've hit the nail on the head. But why didn't Roman DeLuca warn me? Why didn't he think of it?”

Sara shrugged.
Because, dear Andrew, Roman DeLuca is part of the syndicate. He's a hoodlum and a crook, and with the help of “certain friends” he wants to buy himself the governorship. Roman DeLuca knows that without me in the courtroom he can make you appear a fool and your testimony worthless. If the State doesn't win a conviction for this murder, there will be no connection with the syndicate. And it will all seem as though it's your fault—the absentminded professor. That's why I have to go back to New Jersey and rescue our son. But I'll have both, Andrew darling—Davey and my pride in you. I'll have won!

“Sara? You didn't answer me. Why didn't DeLuca think of asking me the questions out of sequence?”

Sara smiled warmly. “Who knows why lawyers do the things they do? Your job is to get on that stand tomorrow and be a credible witness. Now, let's get down to work. I want you to make me proud. I want to pick up the evening paper and see that you've proven yourself to the court. I want no sly innuendoes about my husband being an absentminded professor. Now, darling, here's the first question.”

Sara mercilessly drilled her husband, making him word-perfect, unshakable, no matter what tack her questioning took. Hour after hour she pounded away, refusing to hear Andrew's complaints of weariness. At last, his responses were clear, confident and, above all, honest. None of her grilling had removed his spontaneity. Roman DeLuca was going to be in for a big surprise when Andrew took the stand; he would do an excellent job. Her husband wasn't going to be intimidated by some glib attorney, not if she had anything to do with it. DeLuca's mistake had been to underestimate her. He hadn't realized how important Andrew was to her, or to what lengths she would go to be certain he appeared first-rate in the public eye. Sara smiled in the early morning light. It always paid to know one's adversary. A pity DeLuca hadn't applied that rule to her.

“Enough, darling, you've got it down pat. There's no possibility of becoming mixed up now. Truth is on your side, and you've shown me a confidence I hadn't realized you possessed. Each day, darling, I love you more. I'm so proud of you.”

Andrew returned Sara's smile as he basked in her praise. He did feel confident now, able to handle anything. Sleepily, he reached out to his wife.

“Darling, you still have time for a short nap,” Sara said. “I'm going to shower and pack for us. I'll lay your suit out so you can sleep till the last minute. I want you bright and relaxed when you enter the courtroom.”

“I'll be so relieved when you get back to Jersey, Sara. If anyone can find Davey, it's you. You're so capable. I have every faith you'll know exactly what to do. All these hours I've been thinking about testifying, and I haven't given Davey much thought. I can't understand why we haven't heard anything . . .”

“Hush, darling, everything will be fine. You'll see. I don't want you worrying about Davey, or anyone. You have your civic duty to perform and you'll make me proud. I know it. Now, close your eyes and don't think about anything or anyone.”

“Hmmm,” he answered, closing his eyes obediently and nodding off.

Poor baby, he looked so tired, she thought. A nap would refresh him then, within a few hours, he'd rock DeLuca back on his heels and the attorney would be powerless to do a thing about it. She would have followed orders by returning to New Jersey, and Andrew would have testified in the service of justice, making himself a hero.

Roman DeLuca was a loser. He had counted on Andrew making a poor showing, something he must have depended upon from the first because Andrew had been a hostile witness. When Andrew had made his deposition with the State Attorney's office in New Jersey, it had been too late for DeLuca to do anything other than base his case on Andrew's testimony. And it certainly would have looked strange if Andrew refused to testify because she or Davey was threatened. No, DeLuca had to go along with appearing to be on the side of the law, while secretly undermining Andrew's testimony. But he hadn't counted on Sara, which was why he was forcing her to return to New Jersey.

But Sara could handle Roman DeLuca. He was nothing more than a scab on a sore, and scabs could be pulled off. In a few hours, that's exactly what would happen. She leaned back on the pillows, folding her hands primly on her rising bosom. She would sleep now and shower later.

Precisely twenty minutes later the alarm on her watch beeped softly and Sara woke instantly, ready for the day ahead. She climbed carefully out of bed and began to move about the hotel suite, putting everything in order. Noticing that Andrew was huddled beneath the covers, she adjusted the thermostat in the room. She looked around to see if she had missed anything. Satisfied that everything was in order, she stepped out of her nightgown, folded it neatly, and placed it on top of her other clothes. She walked naked into the bathroom and stared at her reflection with clinical interest. For her age, she had a firm, supple body. High, round breasts, narrow waist, flat belly. Long, slender legs that, when flexed, were like steel springs, or so Andrew said. She smiled.

Turning to adjust the showerhead and regulate the water, she wondered briefly what kind of women Roman DeLuca liked. Probably fleshy, big-bosomed women who wore heavy makeup. He had strong hands. Would those hands be gentle or savage on a woman's body? Her tense muscles relaxed as the steam spiraled upward in search of the vent. What kind of words would he whisper into a woman's ear? Her eyes narrowed. She could almost imagine. He would be a demanding lover, uncontrollable when driven by lust. An animal, savage in his intent, and even more savage as he pounded against his prey.

Sara shook her thoughts away as she stepped beneath the spray. She didn't want to think about that handsome, leonine head, the profile that could have been minted into an ancient Roman coin. The width of his shoulders, the slimness of his waist, the length of his thighs, the power of the man—the challenge.

The needle-sharp spray hit her breasts, erecting her nipples. A sudden intake of breath brought with it a mouthful of water. She doused her head, struggling to control her traitorous thoughts.

He was there with her, watching her, his eyes touching her with their glinting desire. He was inches away from her, just outside the shower spray. She could feel the heat from his naked body, hotter than the shower, touching the most intimate parts of her with the flaring licks of a blast furnace. He watched her, face impassive, eyes devouring, as she soaped her breasts, lifting them, displaying them for him, knowing that the drumbeat of his desire was quickening to wildness.

She was mad with her own sense of power over this man who had become her enemy. She was returning his gaze brazenly, impudence lifting the corners of her mouth. If she wanted, she could reach out and touch him, sending him beyond the parameters of sanity. She was preening beneath his gaze, perpetuating his madness for her.

A growing ache was voicing an appeal between her strong, supple thighs. Her skin felt pink, shining from an inner glow. Her breasts were heavy, hard, thrust high on her torso in a silent petition to be crushed beneath his hands.

As she was watching him, his hands dropped to his loins, holding himself. Taking her cue from her fantasy, her own fingers slipped between her legs; she was surprised by the heat that rivaled the steamy spray. She threw back her head, the water pelting the full length of her nakedness. As a low, throaty moan came from her throat, she recognized the need building in her. The misty steam was fast obliterating her fantasy image. Spasm after spasm racked her body. Her knees crumpled beneath her as she sank to the bottom of the tub, doubling over in a paroxysm of seemingly endless joy.

I
t had been a long day. One of the longest Stuart Sanders could remember. How had he allowed himself to get so caught up in this case? A case should stay a case, and a kid a kid. But it wasn't like that this time.

His stomach rumbled ominously. He'd taken one look at the peppers and steak on the airline tray and pushed it away; he had no desire to tempt his ulcer. Lorrie led him to her motor home where, over a glass of milk and a turkey sandwich, Sanders had her tell him everything that had happened since breakfast.

“So Davey knew you'd be leaving soon to go to the laser show?” he asked.

“Yes. He knew, and he was very excited. He promised to stay close.”

“Do you consider him responsible—I mean, as responsible as a kid his age can be?”

“Davey is very responsible,” she answered. “He's had to be because of his medical condition.”

“Right,” Sanders said, nodding his head. He'd wanted to talk to Lorrie and get her take on the whole thing because she would have a different perspective from the cops.

“You think he was kidnapped, don't you?” she asked.

“I don't know what to think, Lorrie. There are too many pieces to this puzzle, if you know what I mean. They can't all fit.” He got out from behind the table and took his plate and glass to the sink. “I'm going to go outside and walk around. Do I go left or right around the lake to find the grave?”

“There's a path that sort of veers to the right. It's a couple of hundred feet away. You can't miss it—there's a deep gully. You're not going to be able to see much and, from the sound of the wind out there, you might get blown away.”

“Are you going to be up for a while longer?” he asked.

Lorrie gave him a watery smile. “You don't really think I'd go to bed while Davey's still missing, do you?”

“No, but . . .”

“I'm not Sara,” Lorrie said, voicing his thoughts. “I know she would think it advisable to get some sleep so she'd be refreshed and ready for anything, but I'm not so logical or so . . .”

“Cold,” Stuart inserted, without thinking. He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I have no right to criticize your sister.”

“You don't have to apologize. I agree with you completely. There's no better word to describe Sara, except maybe for . . . heartless. I don't understand her and, even if I did, there's no excuse for the way she treats her own son.”

Looking at Lorrie, knowing the guilt and pain she was suffering, made Stuart want to take her in his arms. As if reading his mind, she reached out and touched his cheek. “I know if there's anyone who can find him, it's you.”

“I'll do my best.” He put his arms around her and pulled her close.

“That's all anyone can do,” she whispered.

Regretfully, Sanders left the motor home, the white beam of his flashlight guiding his way. He stopped as he neared the pond, sensing a presence. He turned and was about to reach for the gun under his armpit when he looked down into the pool of light and saw Duffy.

“How goes it, Duff? Kind of late for you, isn't it? You're supposed to bark when you see someone. Some watchdog,” Sanders said as he dropped to his haunches to fondle the dog's ears. Duffy rolled over and let her paws go straight in the air, her signal that she wanted her belly scratched. Sanders obliged. “What happened, Duff? Where's the kid? Where's Davey? Jesus, if only you could talk.”

At the sound of Davey's name Duffy woofed softly. She waited expectantly for Sanders to get on with his brisk massage. “You're one of those safe dogs that are meant to be good companions for little boys. I'm not blaming you, you understand. Hey, what's this?” Sanders's fingers encountered a swelling in the dog's groin. Duffy yelped and rolled over. “Let me see what that is.” Obediently, the little dog came back to the crouching man. It was apparent that she trusted him as she started to nuzzle his ankle and whine. Sanders could feel the dog tremble as he gently ran his hands over her body. There weren't any other swollen areas but there was a small cut on her face. “Did somebody hurt you, Duff? It's okay, girl. No one is going to hurt you anymore.” He picked up the fuzzy bundle. “We're going for a walk, Duffy. We're going to that grave and maybe you can tell me something in your own way.”

Sanders unzipped his vest and held Duffy close to his chest, making sure the dog was comfortable. “I can't take any chances on you getting lost. You've been hurt and you deserve a ride.” Duffy yipped, then buried her head in the man's warm shirt.

The wind whipped through the trees, whistling and shrieking. A three-quarter moon slid from behind a cloud, lighting the way for Sanders.

Duffy growled low in her throat. “Gotcha, girl. We're close, is that it?” Some familiar scent teased at Sanders's nostrils. It wasn't the leaves or the pine needles; it was something more commonplace, something he smelled only once in a while. He wrinkled his nose, trying to place the faint aroma. Christ, it was mothballs. Cautiously, Sanders approached the gully, the flashlight held straight in front of him. Duffy cowered against his chest, whimpering and whining. He hunkered down and peered into the gully.

Duffy jumped out of his arms. At first the little dog's bark was fretful. She approached the yawning gully then backed away, growling ferociously. Gaining her courage against some unseen or remembered terror, she used her front paws to dig into the soft earth. Sanders lowered the flashlight, illuminating the spot where Duffy was digging. Nosing and pawing, she made high-pitched whining noises, finally breaking into a howl, stopping only to stare up at him, waiting.

Sanders sifted through the dirt, looking for whatever the dog wanted him to find. The small, round pellet felt rock hard as he fingered it. It was a mothball! No bigger than the gumballs that kids got out of candy machines. “Good dog, good Duffy. I know this means something, but for the life of me I can't imagine what it is.”

Sanders spent another half hour walking around, searching the area near the gully. He found nothing. Aside from the mothball in his pocket, it was a dry run, a bust. What had he hoped to find? Davey, of course. Always Davey.

Duffy backed off a step and barked. She planted her feet firmly on the soft earth. Her ears were straight up when she barked again.

“You got something in mind?”

Duffy backed off.

“Okay, show me.” Duffy was swift as she turned to follow Sanders's order, and he was hard-pressed to keep up with the terrier in the dim light of the flashlight. Too much high-calorie food and too many cigarettes. He was breathless when he stopped next to Duffy. In all the time he had spent guarding the Taylors, he had never seen the dog so agitated. He lifted the flashlight higher into the leaves of the low-branched trees. A covered garbage can and a picnic table told him they were at a campsite.
The
campsite, if he was understanding Duffy correctly.

“Good girl,” Sanders said, squatting down. “You've gotten me this far, now what? Where's Davey? What happened here?” He didn't feel foolish talking to the dog. Duffy whined then howled. Sanders swallowed. “I need more than that, Duff, if we're gonna find Davey.” Duffy stared at Sanders, continuing to whimper and whine. The noise set the agent's nerves on edge. “Look, I get it—we're at a campsite. But what does it mean? Was Davey here? Were you here?” Duffy cocked her head as though she understood every word the man was saying.

Then she barked once, twice, a mean, chilling bark. Sanders watched as the dog dropped to her belly, shimmying toward him. When she was within five feet of him, she lay down then rolled over, belly up. Sanders reached out to touch Duffy, to touch the tender groin. Duffy let loose with a low growl and then leaped to her feet. Playfully, she pranced around Sanders, circling him Indian fashion.

“Son of a bitch!” Sanders exclaimed as he scooped up the little dog. “The bastard who was camped here is the one who hurt you. Kicked you, probably. Is he the one who has Davey? Show me, Duffy. Davey, where's Davey? What happened to Davey?”

Sanders lowered the beam of his flashlight to the ground. He squatted down and was able to make out tire tracks in the hardpacked ground. The truck with the pop-up had camped in this spot. It wasn't a startling discovery—any of the police officers could have told him if he'd asked. What was interesting was the way Duffy kept circling the back end of the campsite, where the pop-up had rested. To his mind, it suggested that Davey had been in the pop-up. He squinted in the yellowish light at the panting dog. “Davey was in the pop-up. You got hurt here and made it back to the motor home. But Davey wasn't that lucky, was he?”

Sanders kept walking around the back end of the campsite, trying to envisage what had happened to Davey Taylor. “You got hurt and probably ran off to lick your wounds. I'm not saying I blame you but the question is, did Davey hide in the pop-up or did the couple grab him and keep him in the truck with them? I think he hid. What do you think, Duffy old girl?”

The terrier whined in answer, nuzzling Sanders's leg. Satisfied that the agent was watching her, she lay down, her head on her paws. Sanders frowned. “Are you tired, Duffy?” The dog lay quietly, staring at him with wet brown eyes.

“I see, you're sticking with your story. That's good enough for me. C'mon, you deserve a ride back.” He held out his arms to the little dog, allowing her into his shirt where she nestled her head on his chest.

He was walking back to Lorrie's RV when he saw a mothball laying on the ground. Thinking it was the mothball from the gravesite, that he'd somehow dropped it, he bent down and picked it up. “I'm getting careless in my old—” He broke off when his hand dipped into his pocket and discovered the first mothball still there. “Well, I'll be damned!”

Mac Feeley was waiting for him outside the motor home, an evil-smelling cigar clamped between his teeth. Sanders wondered what the agent looked like without the cigar. Jesus, probably naked.

“Everything's taken care of—the kid's picture will be in all the morning papers. Nothing's going on here. What say we get some shut-eye?” Feeley's tone was hopeful but he was resigned to what he knew Sanders's answer would be.

“I have to call headquarters. But first I want to talk to Officer Ordway.”

Feeley grinned. “The guy's a piss, Sanders. He's combed his hair four times in the half hour I've been standing here.”

Sanders chuckled as he approached the young, blond policeman. “Officer Ordway, isn't it?” he asked. “I'm Stuart Sanders, FBI. Were you around when they dug up Lombardi's body?”

“Yeah, and I'm still around. Pulling double duty is no way to spend your life, if you know what I mean,” the young man told him.

“Did you see the body? Was there anything unusual about it?”

“Yeah, if you consider that bodies don't grow in the ground around these parts,” came the flip reply.

Forcing himself to keep a cool head, Sanders persisted. “Were you at the scene?”

“I wasn't the one who dug him up, but it made the ones who did pretty sick. We don't have much crime down here. Drunks, petty thefts—this is a small town. Ever since Wild Adventure was built, things have picked up a little. Hired two new policemen last year, and there's room in the budget for another one this year. My brother's got a bid in for the job.”

Sanders listened with pretended interest. “Sharp guy like you, you could go far. You look the type who keeps on his toes. Bet you've got it all over these locals. You should set your sights higher; maybe I can do something for you with the Bureau.”

“No, thanks. If this is the kind of case you guys deal in every day of the week, I'll just sit back and collect a salary for traffic control. A few weekend family squabbles, a couple of buzzed-out teenagers, an occasional robbery—that's my speed. Don't get dirty that way.” He picked an imaginary speck of lint off his uniform jacket.

“I heard digging up that body was real dirty work,” Sanders tried again.

“The worst. The stench was awful. Don't think I'll ever be able to smell that stuff again without remembering.”

“What stuff?” Sanders asked, getting to the point.

Ordway stiffened as if realizing he'd spoken out of turn. “Ah, you know—the smell of death.”

“Oh, sure,” Sanders nodded. “But I thought Lombardi had been dead only twenty hours or so. Bodies don't usually start to stink that soon.”

Ordway shrugged expansively. “Yeah, well, twenty hours or not, that son of a bitch stunk.” He turned back to the magazine he was reading, apparently determined not to say any more on the subject.

Sanders grinned wryly. He'd figured the local police would hold back. It was always the same story—the search for glory. They wanted to be the ones to come up with the answers, and the only way to do that was to withhold information. It was a fact of life that Sanders understood, and he'd come up against it before. But what he had to do was make a definite connection between Balog and the dead man, and he could have what he needed right in his pocket. Lorrie had been there when they'd dug up the body. Maybe she could shed some light on things.

 

Lorrie was sitting at the table, staring out the window when Sanders opened the door to the RV. “Did you find anything?” The look on her face was hopeful.

“I'm not sure. You tell me.” He pulled the two mothballs out of his pocket and set them on the table. “I found one of these at the gravesite.”

“There were dozens of them in the grave with the body,” she confirmed, then glanced up at him. “You say you found one of the mothballs at the grave. Where did you find the other one?”

“At a campsite.”

“Was there litter all around it?”

He nodded.

“That's where the couple with the pop-up were parked.”