Point of Betrayal (11 page)

“Where’s yours?”

She stared at the leather armrest. “In my nightstand drawer.”

“I see.” She paused and then said, “Molly, you’re an incredibly bright woman and we both know that my role here is just to get you thinking, but I won’t insult your intelligence. You don’t need me to connect those dots for you, so I’m going to change the subject. After you left Ari’s house, how long did it take you to quell the urge to drink?”

“About three frames,” she joked, and Dr. Yee looked at her quizzically. “I went bowling.”

It hadn’t been easy. She’d actually driven to Hideaway and hopped out of the truck. She’d had every intention of marching through the front door, pushing whoever was on her stool onto the floor and demanding Vicky serve her a scotch. But fate had interceded. Biz had walked out of Hideaway as she’d taken a step away from the truck. She’d hurried in the opposite direction toward the closest business, a bowling alley.

“You weren’t tempted to drink at the bar?”

“No, I know how bad the drinks are at places like that. It’s all watered down.”

“So you didn’t drink because it wasn’t appealing, not because you tempered the urge.”

She fidgeted in the wingback chair. “Not exactly. If I’d been really thirsty I would’ve downed anything.”

Dr. Yee stared at the ceiling. “What if the first business you’d seen had been a decent restaurant or another bar?”

“Rarely are there two bars in the same strip mall,” Molly commented.

Dr. Yee’s eyes narrowed. “You get my point.”

She nodded glumly, watching the clock hand move closer to the twelve. Somehow they always circled back to the topic she hated the most. “What does this have to do with Ari? She’s the one who—”

“Say it,” Dr. Yee said, leaning forward, her hands resting on her knees.

It was their code phrase, the one she’d heard endlessly during the first two visits as she’d ranted and raved about Ari’s indiscretion and her annoying perfectionist attitude, which she blamed as much for their break-up as the kiss.

“Say it.”

Her anger retreated like a child who’d been threatened with a swat. She’d learned it couldn’t survive against the truth.

“I’m an alcoholic.”

A buzzer went off and she glanced at the clock’s minute hand sitting perfectly on the twelve.

She stormed out of the office and drove to the bowling alley. Her accidental detour to avoid Hideaway might well be blossoming into a hobby. While she enjoyed hiking with her brother, she had found the feel of the ball flying from her hand and destroying the perfect array of pins completely satisfying. As a child she’d loved her family’s monthly trips to the bowling alley, mainly because she regularly beat her older brother by twenty or thirty points. It was the only thing she could do better than Don, Jr.

Ari had turned her nose up at bowling the one time she’d tried to get her to go. They’d just left a birthday party at Hideaway and she’d spotted the enormous pin glowing in the darkness. She’d started in that direction and Ari had protested, saying it was too late and insisting she wouldn’t be any good. She’d pulled Molly back toward the parking lot and they’d stumbled—or rather, Molly had stumbled—and they’d both fallen to the pavement. The bowling idea was abandoned when Ari cried out, having twisted her ankle. She’d been unable to stand and for some reason Molly couldn’t help her.
Why was that?
Somehow Jane had appeared, found them sitting on the curb and taken them home.

She parked behind a ’66 Mustang which she instantly recognized as Biz’s car. She imagined Biz was in Hideaway, probably putting the moves on another woman while Ari vacationed in California with Jane. She resisted the urge to throw her truck back into drive. It would be horrible to rear-end such a beautiful classic, even if it did belong to Biz.

As she got out, Biz emerged from Hideaway and saw her. She slowly sauntered across the parking lot wearing a friendly expression. She’d won, after all. Molly guessed she wanted to gloat.

“Hey, Molly.”

“Hey.”

“You’re looking great.”

“Thanks.”

Biz glanced at Hideaway. “I’m a little surprised to see you here. I thought you’d given it up.”

She stiffened and her hands balled into fists. “I have, but it’s none of your damn business.”

“That’s true, but I still care about you.”

She laughed heartily and shook her head. “You care about
me
? What you cared about was stealing my girlfriend!”

“I didn’t have to steal her,” Biz said with a wicked smile. “She crawled right into my arms.”

“You bitch!” she spat and took two steps toward her.

Standing toe-to-toe she towered over Biz, but the PI held her ground and said, “Besides, you’d already cheated.”

The truth stunned Molly into silence. Biz climbed into the car and leaned out the window. “It was only a matter of time before everyone knew, Molly, including Ari. You and the blonde put on quite a show in the backroom that night. Are you still seeing her?”

Biz drove away and she leaned against the side of her truck, staring at Hideaway. Her body was too weak to pick up a bowling ball, but she wasn’t too weak to lift a shot glass.

Biz edged the Mustang into a parking space at the other end of the strip mall to watch Molly, who was leaning against her truck and staring at her hands. It was clear she was on a precipice, debating whether or not to enter Hideaway, the place that had essentially ruined her career. She was hunched over almost as if she were praying.

Biz bit her lip.
Don’t do it
, she thought, though in the next moment she realized if Molly fell off the wagon it would be one more piece of insurance. Ari would never reunite with her as long as she was drinking. But what if she stayed sober?

She’d never looked better. She looked nothing like the haggard and slightly overweight detective Biz had known for years. Of course, she had always been attractive. Long ago, in fact, they had spent a few wild nights together. Molly was an exceptional lover who’d had her pick of women every night she partied, despite the slight flaws in her appearance and character. Now, though, the woman was drop-dead gorgeous. Freed of a stressful job that most likely had been the primary reason she drank and the cause of her weight struggle, she seemed like a completely different person.

For the first few months, thinking of Molly’s destroyed career and her role in its demise had sent Biz into a funk that usually lasted a few hours. She’d drop to the nearest couch or chair and wait for it to pass. Eventually she decided to focus her energies on winning Ari, erasing Molly from her mind, and forgetting all about Vince Carnotti and Sol Gardener. It had worked for five months—until Wanda’s blackmail note arrived and she was yanked back into the past.

Molly remained in a trance, leaning against her truck. Biz sighed. As much as she wanted Ari, she couldn’t wish any ill will toward Molly and her courageous fight against her alcoholism. “C’mon, don’t do it. Go home.”

Molly jumped and fumbled for her phone. She listened and gestured while she talked just like a cop. When she disconnected, she climbed back into the truck and pulled away quickly. Biz swallowed a knot in her throat, wondering if the phone call had anything to do with the past she was so desperately trying to erase.

* * *

Gaining access to Wanda’s fourth-story balcony wasn’t hard. Biz had picked locks since high school, and she had found it a necessary skill in her quest to incarcerate abusive boyfriends and husbands. Often she left illicit drugs or weapons in their homes, and when the cops searched the closets or under the bed after receiving an anonymous tip, the enraged batterer would usually take a swing at the cop, accusing him or her of planting the evidence. Then the scum had another charge to face, assaulting an officer.

The apartment complex was a virtual ghost town on a late Monday morning. Everyone was at their jobs, laboring for that next paycheck to support weekends of clubbing and partying. She’d checked Wanda’s parking space, verifying that the old Honda was gone and Wanda was busy greeting customers at the bank where she worked.

Recognizing she was fairly conspicuous, she slipped through the complex carefully, avoiding the handful of groundskeepers who were busy trimming the hedges and cleaning the pool. She glanced up at the eight apartments that formed Wanda’s building. Each floor held two units, the front doors facing each other. All of the blinds were closed and she saw no signs of life. She quickly circled the perimeter and checked the shed, finding its padlock still secured. She guessed it housed the riding lawnmower. Monday must not be mowing day. She certainly didn’t want a groundskeeper to see her up on Wanda’s balcony.

Seeing no one, she quickly ascended the steps to Wanda’s door, her lock picking set in her hand and a tool belt over her shoulder. Dressed in gray coveralls and a cap, she looked like any other workperson who might fix a light socket or change a filter. That was going to be her story in the event a nosy neighbor stopped her.

She rang the bell for good measure, just in case Wanda had acquired an overnight guest. When no one answered, she jimmied the bottom lock, which gave in an instant. The deadbolt was trickier. She threw a glance toward the sidewalk, willing it to remain empty.

It took nearly a minute, but she managed finally to finagle the tumblers and slide the deadbolt free. She quickly entered the apartment and locked the door behind her. She didn’t blink an eye at the clutter that covered most of the surfaces and the laundry that was strewn everywhere. Dozens of one-night stands had taught her women were just as slovenly as men; they just wouldn’t admit it.

She went to the sliding glass door and found it unlocked. Clearly Wanda felt unthreatened by hovering four stories above everyone else. She studied the cheap metal railing that separated her from a fifty-foot drop onto the concrete sidewalk. The railing was like every other one she’d ever seen. Four cement screws held the top and bottom crossbars in place.

She went to work and unscrewed the railing. She’d reasoned that the murmur of the electric drill was worth the risk if it meant finishing the job in less than an hour. She prayed no tenants would jog past and the workmen wouldn’t go to the shed.

Removing the screws consumed only a few minutes. It was harder to clean out the plaster holes that had held them in place. She went through three drill bits as she enlarged each one of the sixteen holes. By the time she finished the last one, sweat dripped down her face. She remounted the railing, satisfied. It looked exactly the same as when she’d arrived, but the first time Wanda leaned on it, as she had done the night before, the loose screws would pop out of their holes and she would careen over the side and down onto the pavement.

Biz closed her eyes for a moment, sickened at the thought. But it was the only way.

She swept away the plaster dust and collected her tools. It was nearly one. If she hurried, she could make a late afternoon flight and be with Ari by nightfall. She didn’t need to seeWanda fall to her death. In fact, she
couldn’t
see her fall. It would be too hard. It would be bad enough to read about it in the paper.

She hustled out the door—and stopped two flights down. Standing in front of her was a huge man with bulging biceps. He stared at her with a thin smile.

“Ms. Stone, Mr. Carnotti would like a word with you, please.”

* * *

She followed him out an employee gate and into a small parking lot. A black Escalade with tinted windows sat in the far stall, and she wasn’t surprised when the wise guy opened the back door. She would be getting in but he would not.

She took a deep breath and realized she might crumple to the ground. She’d only met Vince Carnotti twice. Usually she had dealt with middlemen like Sol Gardener, a situation that suited her just fine. Vince was scary, freaky scary.

He was staring out the opposite window. He wore an expensive dark suit and his white hair curled over his collar. Her gaze reflexively dropped to his enormous hands. He was rumored to have killed a snitch by squeezing the guy’s head between those hands.

“Join me,” he said softly.

She climbed into the buttery leather seat, avoiding his stare.

“I like you, Elizabeth,” he said. “You do good work.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean it,” he said more emphatically. “You’re one of the good guys, really. You take no-good sons of bitches like my daughter’s ex and you make them pay. I like that. You’re like me.” She glanced at him, surprised by the compliment, as his black eyes bored into hers. “I know what’s happening. I know why you’re here. My people have been following Wanda ever since that night. More than once I thought about popping her myself, but…” His voice trailed off as he smoothed the crease of his pants. “She’s not my problem, she’s yours. Right?”

She nodded.

“Unfortunately, I’ve come to the same conclusion. My contacts in the department are telling me that Jack Adams’s task force is being disbanded in a few days by the new hotshot chief. Wanda is the only lead they have. If she doesn’t disappear before they discover her or before the task force dies, we’ll all be in trouble. You understand that?”

She nodded again.

He checked his watch. “I have a busy schedule today, so I’ll be blunt. Your little plan won’t work.” She gave a surprised look, and he squeezed her shoulder, offering a fatherly grin. “People only fall over railings in the movies, kiddo.” His face hardened and her skin went cold. “She’s going to need a push.”

“What are you doing here?” Jane asked Rory. “I thought you taught college?”

She crossed her arms. “I do, but I also volunteer by working with some third-grade reading groups. I’m very
altruistic
,” she said slowly.

“I know what that means,” Jane hissed, “and altruistic people are usually not
ostentatious
about their activities
.
”

“Enough,” Ari barked. “A woman has died and you two are engaging in some sort of vocabulary foreplay, which I really don’t need to see.”