The Last Victim (23 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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Bridget didn’t see them. She wondered if the creepy little man had stashed them in his pocket. She looked back at the old Volkswagen again. He was still in the front seat, grinning at them.
She turned toward Clay again, and noticed something in his hand.
“They should be around here some place,” he said, checking around his feet.
Maybe he wanted her to look down at the ground too, but Bridget didn’t take her eyes off that shiny thing hidden in his hand. At first, it looked like a silver pencil. Then she saw the sharp, slanted end glisten in the VW’s headlights.
He was holding an Exacto-knife.
“You aren’t helping me look,” he said.
Tightening her grip on the wrench, she backed away. She heard the Volkswagen’s engine starting up. Bridget glanced back as the old minibus pulled back onto the freeway. A tow truck, with its amber roof-light flashing, rolled in to take its place behind Bridget’s vehicle.
“Well, your friend is gone—finally,” Clay said. “I guess I can put this away now.” He showed her the Exacto-knife, then flicked a switch on the side so the razor tip disappeared inside the cylinder. “It doesn’t seem like much protection, but if you hit the right artery, you can do a lot of damage. Here. You keep this.” He held out the Exacto-knife for her. “My sister carries one around for emergencies—like when you have a flat tire on a cold, rainy night and the wrong guy comes by.”
Bridget hesitated.
“Go ahead, take it,” he said. “You never know when you might need it.” He set the Exacto-knife in her hand, then waved at the tow truck.
A stocky woman emerged from the driver’s side. She started toward them.
“We’re almost done here,” Clay called to her. “We just can’t find where this guy who was helping earlier put all the lug nuts. We could use another set of eyes.”
“I’m Julie from Triple-A,” the woman said, approaching them.
“Hi, I’m Clay,” he said. “I just stopped by to help. . . .”
Bridget barely heard him. She was studying the Exacto-knife in her hand. She flicked the switch and watched the razor pop out.
Usually, Bridget called from her cell phone about a mile from Gerry and Leslie’s house. Then she could pull into the driveway and wait. No need to honk the horn. They knew she was out there, and she never had to wait long for David and Eric to come out of the house. It was a pretty good setup. Bridget didn’t have to make small talk with Gerry—or God help her, Leslie. She didn’t have to see the inside of their designer home or even go up to the front entrance. She’d managed to miss that—until now.
After Clay and Triple-A Julie had finished changing the tire, Bridget had tried to call Gerry, but her cellular had run out of juice. The irony didn’t escape her that she’d been using
a low battery
as her excuse for using pay phones so often during the last two days.
Bridget had thought Clay might linger on after Julie’s departure. Instead, he set out to leave while Julie was still filling out forms inside her tow truck.
“Well, thank you for stopping,” Bridget told him, leaning out her car window. “And thank you for the razor-thingee.”
“You bet,” he said. “I’ll vote for your brother. I hope he wins. I’ll see you.” Then he ran back to his car.
Julie from Triple-A had advised her to replace the spare in the morning. “From the looks of that flat,” she added, “I think someone must have slashed the tire. It’s a very precise puncture.”
Bridget numbly stared at her.
“We’ve had a lot of flat tires like this lately,” Julie continued. “And I’ve noticed something in common among many of them. The cars all have Corrigan-for-Oregon bumper stickers. Looks to me like a pretty dirty campaign. At least one side has a lot of crazy supporters.”
Bridget felt sort of reassured to know that she might not have been singled out by a stalker this time. Maybe this was just someone who hated her brother. Still, as she drove to Gerry and Leslie’s house, she almost felt like a moving target with that campaign sticker on the back of her minivan.
Gerry and Leslie’s “cozy” two-story stucco had a courtyard atrium front entrance that seemed more suited for Southern California than Portland. Bridget walked up to the wrought-iron gate and noticed the lit flat-stone pathway through a garden area that included a Japanese maple, some sea grass, and other plants. There was also a rock garden waterfall. She could hear the water gushing. David and Eric had told her that their father and Leslie had a waterfall in their front hallway, and now Bridget knew what they meant.
The gate was locked. Bridget rang the bell. After a minute, the inside door opened and Leslie stepped out to the atrium. Bridget had met her a few times when Leslie and Gerry were still just “coworkers.” But Bridget had managed to keep a cordial distance ever since Gerry had moved in with her. She was pretty, with blond hair that came down just above her shoulders. Gerry always liked curvy blondes. And Leslie fit the bill. Her tight jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt showed off her opulent figure. A catty woman might call her borderline chubby. But she had the kind of body most guys went nuts over. And Gerry was one of those guys.
“Bridget, is that you?” she called, from the doorway.
“Yes, hello!” Bridget waved.
Leslie ducked back inside and the gate buzzed. Then she reappeared in the doorway. “Well, come on in,” she said, trotting down the lit pathway to meet her. “You threw me for a minute there. Gerry said you had a flat, you poor thing. We were all worried. We’ve been waiting for your usual call—the one you make when you’re about a mile away. Gerry and the kids call it your ‘five-minute warning.’ ”
“Well, my cell phone’s dead,” Bridget explained, stepping into the atrium. She tried to smile. “But the tire got changed. Um, are the boys ready?”
“They will be—in a jiff,” Leslie said, turning toward the front door again. “C’mon in. You haven’t seen the inside of the house yet, have you? Would you like to take the ten-cent tour?”
“Maybe some other time, thanks,” Bridget said. Leslie was doing her damnedest to be perky and friendly and upbeat. Bridget didn’t hate her. She just didn’t need Gerry’s girlfriend patronizing her.
She stepped inside and got a look at the front hallway. It was stone-tiled with a dramatic, modern stairway that curved up to the second floor. And the boys weren’t mistaken about a waterfall in the front hall. Alongside the stairs was a rock wall with water gently cascading down to a pond below the stairs. And damn it to hell, they had several big goldfish in the pond. Eric had talked about how he liked to feed the fish at Daddy’s house, and Bridget had imagined a little aquarium in Gerry’s study or something. No, the fish were in a goddamn pond under the goddamn movie-star stairs. And the pond was lit, of course.
Bridget wondered if Leslie had patterned the layout after a lobby in a Las Vegas hotel. It had that cheesy, expensive look.
“Hey, guys!” Leslie called. “Your mom’s here to take you home! Time to hustle! Move it or lose it!”
Bridget peeked into the living room—more Las Vegas chic. The carpet was a plush shag. In the corner sat a big gold Buddha. Over the red sofa with leopard-skin pillows were three Chinese fans, each in an ornate black and gold frame. The frame was much simpler for the photo portrait of David and Eric on the black-and-gold-inlay end table. Bridget imagined the boys’ photo was the closest they’d ever get to setting foot inside the pristine showcase of a room. The place was dripping with money—money that used to be in her joint account before Gerry secretly transferred it all under Leslie’s name.
Leslie turned to Bridget and smiled. “Oh, they’re still in the den. We can’t tear them away from our big-screen, high-definition TV. C’mon.”
Bridget shook her head. “Um, thanks, Leslie. But I’ll just wait right here by the door—”
“Don’t be silly. You haven’t even seen the house, and—”
“No, thank you,” she said, more firmly. “I’d really be more comfortable waiting here, Leslie. It’s been a long day, and I’m very tired. I just want to get the boys home and put them to bed.”
Leslie’s smile seemed to stiffen. “Sure, whatever,” she said.
At that moment, Gerry stepped into the hall. He looked handsome and relaxed in his jeans and crew-neck jersey. Leslie went to him, grumbled something under her breath, then retreated to their state-of-the-art kitchen.
With a sigh, he frowned at Bridget. He almost looked ashamed. “The boys will be ready in a minute.”
“Thanks,” Bridget replied. “Please tell Leslie that I didn’t mean to be rude. I just really need to get out of here.”
He nodded glumly. “I understand. She doesn’t. But I do.”
Beep.
“Listen, it’s about ten-fifteen, and I know it’s late, but call me as soon as you get this. Your cell isn’t answering, and I’m starting to worry.”
It was the third message Brad had left. Bridget glanced at the stove clock: 10:40.
The boys were getting settled upstairs. Bridget took the cordless to the kitchen table and dialed her brother’s number. He answered, and good thing too, because she was in no mood to talk with her sister-in-law. Bridget explained to him about the flat tire.
“You just had a flat last week,” he said. “I don’t like this.”
“I’m not exactly gaga about it either. According to the woman from Triple-A, she’s changed many a flat for people with Corrigan-for-Oregon bumper stickers. I guess there are some crazy pro-Foley folk out there. Slash-happy.” She sighed. “Better our tires than our throats, I suppose. How’s Janice?”
“Well, she was determined to stay the night at the hospital—at Dad’s bedside. But I managed to convince her that it wouldn’t do the baby any good, and she came home with me. Anyway, those sedatives Reece recommended must have done the trick, because she’s asleep right now. We’re going to have Pop stay here with us for the next couple of weeks. Janice practically insisted on it. Is that cool with you?”
“Sure,” Bridget said into the phone. “Brad, I . . .” She hesitated. He’d said yesterday that their phones might be tapped. She didn’t dare discuss the risks her sister-in-law was taking with Brad’s unborn baby, not when friends of Foley might be listening in. “I need to talk with you tomorrow about a—a personal matter. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “Are you okay? Should I be worried?”
“It’s just something we’re better off not discussing on the phone.” She paused. “Oh, by the way, I got a hold of that old high school chum we were talking about the other day. I called her—from a pay phone in Salem.”
“Really?” Brad said, obviously getting her drift. “How is she?”
“She’s fine,” Bridget said. “She wasn’t exactly friendly. But the good news is, she doesn’t seem to have that—
bug
that’s been going around. None of the symptoms.”
“I told you,” Brad said. “You were worried for nothing. I ran into Zach Matthias at the hospital after you left.”
“Yeah, I saw him there too. We talked. He was in Salem earlier today, covering my speech. He asked me out to lunch.”
“Maybe you ought to accept,” Brad suggested. “You should go to lunch with him, find out what he’s after.”
“You told me the other day he was
poison
,” Bridget pointed out. “You want me to sit down and have lunch with
poison?
”
“Dad used to say, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ ”
“Dad never said that,” Bridget whispered. “Marlon Brando said it to Al Pacino in
The Godfather
.”
“Actually, it’s from
The Godfather Two
, but let’s not quibble. The idea is a good one.”
“Well, if you think it’s such a terrific idea, why don’t you have lunch with him?”
“Because he didn’t ask me. And I’m not the one he had a crush on back in high school. He’ll have his guard up with me, but he might let it down with you.”
Bridget wondered if she would be able to keep
her
guard up. She didn’t trust Zach. And she didn’t trust herself around him.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, finally.
After she hung up with her brother, Bridget emptied out her purse until she found Zach’s business card. Then she clicked on the phone again and dialed his number. A machine answered, and Zach’s recorded voice came on the line: “Hi, thanks for calling. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Beep.
“Hi, Zach. It’s Bridget Corrigan calling. Sorry about the late hour. I—I’m free for lunch tomorrow—if you’re still interested. Maybe we can try the fare in the hospital cafeteria—or somewhere else close by. Why don’t you call me sometime tomorrow morning?”
Bridget gave him her number, then clicked off the line.
Some contents from her purse were in a pile on the breakfast table. She started to load them back in her bag.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the kitchen window. Bridget gasped. Then she realized she’d caught a glimpse of her own reflection. She had the jitters.
She thought back to that time after Andy Shields and the Gaines twins had been missing and presumed dead. She’d slept with a baseball bat at her bedside, and tried to ignore Olivia’s comment about someone out there bent on murdering twins.

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