9 Kill for Me

  “Susannah.” He swallowed hard. “I think Bobby is there with her.”

  Pete grasped Luke’s shoulder. “Breathe. What exactly did she say?”

  “That she and Talia were at her ‘Mama and Daddy’s’ and they had found all ‘Daddy’s’ records and were on their way back, but she was on her speaker phone because her hands were full of things she was taking away to remember her mama.”

  Pete swallowed. “Shit.”

  And then she said she loved me, like she’d never get the chance to say it again. “I was going to tell her about Paul Houston, but I didn’t know who was listening.”

  “Smart.”

  Luke nodded. “I’m going out to the Vartanians’.”

  “Not smart,” Pete said, then sighed. “So I’ll go with you.”

  Luke was already running. “Call Germanio, tell him to arrest Charles Grant.”

  Pete closed his car door as Luke peeled way, tires screeching. “What’s the charge?”

  “Start with murder of Judge Borenson.”

  “We can add extortion,” Pete said, tapping the notebook he’d brought from Grant’s house. “Charles has the dope on every rich man and woman in this town and they were all paying him through the nose to keep their nasty secrets.”

  “I’m not surprised, but I don’t think we can use that yet. That notebook isn’t covered by the warrant. Borenson’s murder is enough for now,” Luke added as Pete dialed.

  “Hank, it’s Pete. Pick up Charles Grant and bring him—” Pete frowned. “What the fuck do you mean you lost him?”

  Luke grabbed Pete’s phone, his foot punching the accelerator. “Where. Is. He?”

  “He left the cemetery,” Germanio said, “but headed out of town.”

  “And you didn’t goddamn call me? Fuck.”

  “I had him in my sights, but he pulled off to a side road and I had to pass him so I didn’t give myself away. When I doubled back . . . he was gone. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? You’re goddamn sorry?” Breathe. “Where are you now?”

  “About five miles from the cemetery, heading back toward town.”

  “No, turn around and head for the Vartanians’ house. It’s another few miles, an old antebellum mansion. Talia’s car should be parked out front. Approach silently and wait for me. Bobby’s inside with Susannah and Talia.”

  “All right.”

  “Germanio, listen to me. You wait for me, okay?” Luke handed Pete his phone. “Damn cowboy. Now Grant knows we know.”

  “He’s not the only cowboy,” Pete muttered.

  Luke shot him a glare. “What if Ellie were being held captive by a murderer?”

  Ellie was Pete’s wife, a tiny, little woman. Pete treated her like spun glass. “Why do you think I’m here?” he asked quietly. “Now focus on driving. I’ll call Chase.”

  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:35 p.m.

  Charles was pissed. He’d had a tail, some clumsy GBI guy who’d been child’s play to lose. But that meant he’d been discovered. They knew. Dammit.

  He’d known deep down that it was only a matter of time. He’d tried to stick his finger in the dike when he’d helped Daniel Vartanian catch Mack O’Brien. Mack had been calling lots of unwanted attention to Toby Granville and the other boys.

  But all good things must come to an end. He could leave behind no loose ends. Bobby was a loose end. So was his house. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that once the GBI started looking they wouldn’t find his records. Everything truly valuable he carried with him in his ivory box, but the house had to go. He’d tell Paul to burn the sucker down. He dialed Paul’s cell. “I need you in Dutton,” he said.

  “Well that’s good,” Paul said, “because that’s just where I’m headed. I’ve been trying to call you for an hour.”

  “I told you I couldn’t take calls at the cemetery,” Charles said sternly. “I told you to text me. Even Bobby got that part right.”

  “I can’t text and drive at the same time,” Paul said, clearly annoyed at the jab. “I got a call from your alarm system. Somebody’s in your house.”

  Charles drew a breath. “What?”

  “You heard me. I have the alarm system set to call me and not the security company. Somebody entered your house through the back door at 1:17.”

  “I just lost a GBI tail,” Charles said quietly. “They must be searching my house. It’s too late to burn it down. They’ll read my books, they’ll know what I’ve done.”

  “So where are you going?” Paul asked, a thread of panic in his voice.

  “Mexico, then back to Southeast Asia. But first, I’m going to the Vartanians’. Bobby is there. I need to be sure neither she nor Susannah survives to tell anyone about you. After I’m done, I’ll wait behind the house. You can pick me up and we can drive south. Once I’m in Mexico, you can go back to your life, or you can come with me.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Paul said. Of course, Charles had known he would.

  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:35 p.m.

  Pete closed his phone. “Backup’s coming. Now you need to know what’s in this notebook. You’ll be angry. Just keep your cool, all right?”

  “All right,” Luke said carefully. “You said Grant was extorting rich people. Who?”

  “Lots of people, but you really want the tale of two judges.”

  “Borenson and Vartanian,” Luke said grimly.

  “Yep. I found at least fifty of these notebooks in the hidden shelf behind Grant’s closet. They’re alphabetized. He has three V volumes, one for Simon and Arthur, another for Daniel and his mother. Susannah gets her own, and it’s nearly full. Listen.”

  Luke listened, his knuckles gone bone white as he clenched the wheel. Black bile churned within him, fury so intense he shook with it. It was unbelievable. Unforgivable. Inhuman. Susannah’s life had been ruined because both Charles Grant and Arthur Vartanian wanted control of a dickwater town that didn’t mean shit. Susannah had been a pawn in a high-stakes game she’d never understood. “My God,” Luke whispered.

  “Can we use the books?” Pete asked. “They don’t mention the bunker, but . . .”

  “We have to ask Chloe,” Luke said. Inside he burned. Each breath physically hurt. “Of course, should Charles Grant die in the meantime, it becomes a moot point.”

  Pete was quiet for a moment, considering. “So it does. I’ve got your back.”

  Luke swallowed hard, moved. “Someday I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

  Pete huffed a mirthless chuckle. “Not in this lifetime, pal. Drive faster.”

  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:45 p.m.

  “None of the Vartanian birthdays I remember are opening this safe,” Susannah said, flinching when Bobby jabbed the butt of the gun into the back of her head.

  “Shut up. Just keep dialing, little sister.”

  Susannah’s jaw clenched. She’d managed to unlock three of the six upstairs safes. One was empty, one held estate documents, and the third had held Carol Vartanian’s best paste diamonds. Bobby had thought they were real and had chortled over her good fortune. Susannah was not about to disillusion her.

  Bobby was storing her loot in Grandmother Vartanian’s tall silver teapot, which seemed critically important. Again, Susannah was not of a mind to try to understand.

  However, Susannah was of a mind to try to stall for time as she knelt on the floor of her parents’ bedroom trying unsuccessfully to open another safe. “I’m not your sister,” she said, gritting her teeth. “And I’m telling you this safe is empty. Daniel emptied it three weeks ago when he went looking for my parents.”

  “Then Daniel must have known the combination, which means you should. You seem to have the birthdays all memorized.” Bobby smacked her head with the gun butt again. “And I am your sister, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Susannah sat back on her haunches, blinking against the pain in her head. Where are you, Luke? She knew he’d understood her message. Never in her life
had she called Arthur “Daddy,” and the idea of taking anything to remember her mother made her sick to her stomach. She thought of Talia, bleeding beneath the stairs, and prayed Luke would get here before Talia bled to death or Bobby truly did blow their heads off.

  So stall. Give him time. “You are not my sister. You are not even my half-sister. We are not related.” And her head flew to one side when Bobby slapped her, hard.

  “Is it so damn hard to admit?” Bobby asked, her eyes flashing with anger.

  Susannah hoped giving Bobby the upper limbs on the Vartanian family tree might diffuse her anger. She worked her jaw side to side, her eyes stinging. “Yes, because it’s not true. Your father is Arthur Vartanian, but my mother did the same thing your mother did. She slept around. Arthur Vartanian was not my father.”

  Bobby blinked at her. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. I had a paternity test done. Frank Loomis was my father.”

  Bobby looked unsure, then threw back her head and laughed. “Sonofabitch. All this time, sweet Suzie Vartanian has been a bastard, too.” She then sobered meanly. “Dial the safe, Suzie, or I go downstairs and blow your friend’s head off her shoulders.”

  Susannah swallowed. “I don’t know the combination to this one. I’m not lying.”

  Bobby frowned. “Then get up.”

  Susannah obeyed, relieved, then went rigid at the sound of a car pulling up outside. Luke. Please be Luke. Bobby heard it, too, and, eyes narrowed, crept to the window.

  “Fuck,” she muttered. “We have company. Who is he?”

  Susannah stayed where she was, then cried out when Bobby yanked her hair, pulling her to the window. Hank Germanio was carefully approaching the house, his weapon drawn. “I don’t know,” she lied smoothly. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Oh, you’re good,” Bobby said softly. “Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Luckily Leigh Smithson told me about him, too. That’s Hank Germanio. He’s the impetuous type, a real one-man show. Go.” She pushed her to the top of the stairs. “Call for help.”

  “No,” Susannah said. “I won’t lure another person in here. You can kill me first.”

  “Oh, I will. After you finish opening all the safes. For now, I’ll pick the GBI guys off one at a time.” Bobby dragged her so that she stood in front of her on the top step, put her gun to Susannah’s temple, then screamed at the top of her lungs, “Help! She’s got a gun. Oh my God, she’s got a gun and she’s going to kill Susannah!”

  Through the side windows along the front door Susannah could see Germanio. He looked up, saw her standing on the stairs. Germanio hesitated.

  Susannah screamed, “No! Don’t come in. It’s a trap.”

  But it was too late. Germanio crashed through the front door and calmly, Bobby fired and Germanio’s head . . . came apart. He was dead before his body hit the floor.

  Horror and shock exploded into rage. “Fuck you,” Susannah screamed. “Damn you to hell.” She threw her handcuffed hands to the right and yanked Bobby’s wounded arm as hard as she could. Bobby howled in furious pain and Susannah kept yanking, throwing Bobby off-center. When Bobby stumbled, Susannah turned, throwing her weight into the bigger woman and sending them both down the staircase.

  They grappled on the stairs, Bobby grabbing at Susannah’s hair, dragging her down. Bobby’s hair was too short. There was nothing to hang on to, so Susannah kicked and scrambled back up the stairs. Bobby grabbed her leg, yanking her down.

  Where was the gun? Did Bobby still have it? No. If she did, she would have shot me by now. Susannah kicked with her other leg, twisting to look over her shoulder, trying for a glimpse of the gun. She saw it at the same moment Bobby did, on the bottom stair. There’s no way. I can’t get it before she does. She’ll kill me now.

  Bobby let go, crawling backward to where the gun lay, and Susannah scrambled up, her breath backing up in her lungs. Get away, get away.

  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:50 p.m.

  They were almost there. Luke pushed the anger aside, focusing on Susannah and Talia in Bobby’s hands. He’d deal with Bobby, then Charles Grant was a dead man, wherever the hell he was. Charles hadn’t gone home, so he was out there somewhere.

  Luke bore down on the accelerator, jumping when his cell buzzed. “Papadopoulos.”

  “Luke, it’s Chase. Where are you?”

  “About two minutes from the Vartanians’ house. Where is Paul Houston?”

  “He was headed toward Dutton, but took a detour.”

  Luke recognized the route. “That’s how Corchran told us to come in so we could avoid the traffic, but the opposite way. He’s coming here. Why, to help Bobby?”

  “Not Bobby. Charles. Put me on speaker so Pete gets this, too. Al Landers went to the prison to meet with Michael Ellis. Showed him Susannah’s sketch and Ellis broke. Paul Houston is Ellis’s son. Houston and Charles Grant killed Darcy, not Michael Ellis.”

  Luke frowned. “His son? Ellis took the fall to save his son? Why?”

  “And why would Houston set up his father?” Pete added.

  “Payback. Ellis was in Vietnam, in a POW camp, and so was Charles Grant.”

  Luke shook his head. “No, I checked. Charles Grant had no military record.”

  “Because he was Ray Kraemer, then. Kraemer was an army sniper, captured in ’67, met Ellis, and the two ended up escaping together. Ellis was desperate to get home. His girlfriend had his son, but gave him up for adoption. That was Paul. Ellis and Kraemer were down to the last of their food. Ellis shot Kraemer, stole the food, and left him in the jungle to die.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Luke murmured. “Obviously Kraemer didn’t die. What happened?”

  “Ellis said Kraemer resurfaced eighteen years later in Dutton, calling himself Charles Grant. He chose Dutton because that’s where the mother of Ellis’s child had moved after giving birth. Paul’s mother is Angie Delacroix. She’s one of Grant’s people now.”

  Luke blew out a stunned breath. “My God.” His mind spun, thinking about all the things she’d told them. “But she told us the truth. DNA showed Loomis is Susannah’s father and the tip on Bobby’s birth mother panned out. Why would she try to help us find Bobby? Bobby worked with Charles, too.”

  “That I don’t know yet. I had her picked up, but she isn’t talking. Ellis talked a lot, though, when Al Landers told him we knew about Paul being a cop. He said somehow Kraemer located Paul when he was eight. He became his tutor through an after-school volunteer program, but brainwashed Paul against his birth parents and his adopted parents. Paul ran away when he was ten, went to live with Charles. Looks like Charles has been molding Paul all his life. Ellis said Paul will be loyal to Charles to the death.”

  “So why did Ellis confess to Darcy’s murder?” Pete asked.

  “To protect Angie and Paul. Charles threatened to have Paul kill Angie if he didn’t.”

  “That’s Charles’s revenge,” Luke said, “owning Ellis’s son, using him against him, while Ellis sits in Sing-Sing. He pled guilty to killing Darcy, but he’s really paying for what he did to Charles Grant forty years ago.”

  “Exactly,” Chase said. “I’m about twenty minutes out, still following Houston. He’s still using his lights to bypass traffic, so he doesn’t know we know about him yet. I diverted most of our agents from the cemetery out your way. Wait for them.”

  Luke came around the bend, his focus immediately reverting to Susannah. Let her be alive. Don’t let me be too late. “We’re coming up on the Vartanians’.” Three Arcadia cruisers and an ambulance were slowly approaching from the other direction and Luke sent mental thanks to Sheriff Corchran. “We have backup. We’re going in.”

  Chase blew out a breath. “Be careful. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Luke was slowing to instruct the backup when he heard the shot. “That came from the house.” Susannah. He jammed the gas and flew into the driveway, screeching to a stop next to Germanio’s car, his heart in his throat. He started running, Pete rig
ht behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:50 p.m.

  Get away. Frantically Susannah scrambled up the stairs as Bobby scrabbled for the gun. The carpet was slick and her cuffed hands couldn’t hang on. A hand clamped on to her ankle and the sound of Bobby’s pleased laughter chilled her blood.

  “Got it,” Bobby crowed. “You’re dead, Vartanian.”

  A shot split the air and Susannah froze, waiting for the pain. But there was none.

  She twisted around, and for a second only blinked, stunned at what she saw. Bobby lay on the stairs, her chin propped on one of the stairs so that she stared up at Susannah, blue eyes wide, a surprised look on her face. A blood stain was spreading on the back of her shirt. Frozen, Susannah watched Bobby lift her gun once again. A second shot rang out and Bobby’s body jolted, then slumped, her blue eyes now blank.

  Nearly hyperventilating, her gaze locked with Bobby’s dead stare, Susannah crawled up a few more steps before looking up. Luke stood in the doorway, pale, breathing hard, the gun he clutched hanging limply at his side. Behind him Pete knelt next to Hank’s body. Stiffly, mechanically, Luke walked over to the stairs, reached over Bobby, and took the gun from her hand. He checked her pulse, then looked up to meet Susannah’s eyes, his dark and seething with fear and fury. “She’s dead.”

  Relief stripped the air from her lungs, rendered her boneless, and Susannah slumped against the stairs, shaking uncontrollably. Then Luke was lifting her up, wrapping his arms around her, his hold desperate, his whisper fierce. “Did she hurt you?”

  “I don’t know.” She burrowed into him, needing him, so scared, shaken. “I don’t think so.” The wave of terror ebbed enough so that she could draw a breath. She pulled back to see his face. “Hank is dead. She killed him. I saw him die.”

  “I know. I heard the shot. I thought it was you. I thought you were dead.” Luke’s dark eyes flashed, fury and grief combined. “Hank was supposed to wait for me.”