Because I'm Watching Page 28

  “They?”

  “Andrew and his girlfriend.”

  “He told Maddie he didn’t have a girlfriend.”

  “That female’s been visiting him for a couple of years. I think she’s some kind of businesswoman. She wears black suits and carries a briefcase. Shows up a couple of times a month for a little poontang, then she’s off again. Nice-looking. Tall. Built.”

  “Damn. I was hoping to take care of this now.” Jacob glanced at the blank windows, wondering if he could break in without setting off an alarm.

  “After he locked himself out once, Andy gave me a key. Let me get it.” At his own stately pace, Mr. Caron returned to his house and went inside.

  Jacob blessed his luck.

  Still moving slowly, Mr. Caron exited his home, came down the walk, out the gate, down the sidewalk, into the gate at Andrew’s house.… He started talking before he reached Jacob. “So … Korea, huh?”

  “Yes. Korea.”

  “Suckhole of a frozen wasteland. I couldn’t wait to see the back of it.”

  “Me, too, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be that young man who helped those smart kids escape that North Korean hellhole, would you?”

  “That would be me.”

  Mr. Caron looked at him sharply. “It’s a hard thing coming back to real life. Spent a couple of years on the streets after I got stateside. Then my wife got fed up and came and got me.” He glanced toward the house. “She’s a firecracker, that one is. She’ll be after me to tell her all about Maddie’s man.”

  “Tell her I’ll keep Maddie safe.”

  “That’ll be what she wants to hear.” Mr. Caron fitted the key in the lock. “Let’s go in and see if Andrew left a note for his housekeeper. Not that I’ve seen her around lately. Andrew has gotten very sloppy about his home maintenance. He’s in trouble with the neighborhood association.”

  “Do you know why he’s getting sloppy?”

  “He’s been holed up in the house a lot, and when I do see him and ask what he’s been up to, he says working. On his computer—I see the light from his office all night sometimes.” Mr. Caron stepped inside and disarmed the alarm. “Here you are … My God, he really has let the place go.”

  Jacob followed Mr. Caron into the dim house. The smell struck him first—musty, moldy, a house neglected. The home had originally been beautifully decorated and probably well kept, but now the floors were filthy, strewn with papers covered with calculations. Dust sat thick on the furniture, and if Mr. Caron hadn’t seen Andrew leave, Jacob would have worried he was going to find Andrew upstairs on the bed dead of a heart attack or an overdose.

  Mr. Caron watched Jacob wander into the living room. “I wonder what his problem is. Got money. Got a beautiful girlfriend. Got a sister he doesn’t appreciate. Something must have gone sour.”

  Jacob picked up a glass that might once have held milk, looked inside, looked up at Mr. Caron, and nodded. “Definitely sour.” He picked up a piece of paper and studied the calculations that covered it. They made no sense, but Jacob wasn’t an investment adviser.

  Mr. Caron wandered down the hall, pieces of paper crinkling as the wheels of his walker ran over them. “Here’s his office,” he announced. “Used to be a nice place.”

  Jacob walked into the room. A minimalist desk sat against the wall, an open file cabinet had spewed its guts on the floor, and more of those scribbled papers hung on the walls, pierced by colored stickpins.

  “People say Maddie is crazy. Maybe they have the wrong sibling.” Going to the answering machine, Mr. Caron pushed the blinking button.

  You have four new calls.

  Beep.

  Andrew, this is your editor. Where are you? You’re supposed to be starting your book tour with an interview on Denver Today and they called in a panic. Don’t do this, Andrew. You know how important this kind of local exposure is for book sales. Andrew? Pick up!

  Beep.

  Mr. Hewitson, this is the station manager at KDPG, Jean Majure at Denver Today. I made a place on the show for you today. Could you please let me know when you’re going to arrive?

  Beep.

  Mr. Hewitson, this is Latest Greatest Murder Bookstore. We’ve got your books and a line of devoted fans waiting to have them autographed. Can you tell us when you’re going to show up?

  Beep.

  Andrew, this is your editor. You’re a feckless beast but I’m starting to get worried. You didn’t show up for Denver Today and you didn’t show up for your book signing. If you don’t answer the phone soon, I’m sending the police over to check on you.

  Beep.

  Jacob looked at Mr. Caron. “Did she?”

  Mr. Caron shook his head. “Never saw them.”

  Jacob went to the computer and turned it on. He opened Andrew’s writing program. He had no files labeled with the current book; the program wasn’t updated to the current version. Jacob could barely contain his sarcasm. “Doesn’t look like he was getting much done on his book.”

  Mr. Caron pulled out the seat on his walker, sat down, and squinted at the screen. “My wife never did believe that story about him writing the books. She said he was too pretty and smooth to write scary stuff.”

  “Who did she think was writing it?”

  “Why are you asking? You know who is doing it. Our little Maddie.”

  Jacob was impressed. “No one else has figured it out.”

  “The Hewitsons, the parents, were our neighbors. We lived here when Maddie was born. We saw those kids grow up. We know her, and we know Andrew. He’s got a good heart, but the man’s as weak as ditchwater.”

  Jacob opened the browser. The home page came up—to a gambling Web site. He checked the history: more gambling sites.

  Mr. Caron was reading over Jacob’s shoulder and right away he knew what he was seeing. “I had friends like this in the service. Got paid, went to the poker tables, were broke before midnight. The card sharks raked it in.”

  “I knew those guys, too.” Tucked among the online loan sites, Jacob found a United Airlines reservations page. Following a hunch, he opened the mail program and looked for a confirmation e-mail. He found it: two tickets to Las Vegas, one for Andrew Hewitson and one for Barbara Ulrich, leaving two days ago at 6:20 A.M.

  Mr. Caron said, “Looks like Miss Ulrich wanted to get in on the action, too.”

  A bad feeling stirred in Jacob’s gut. “First-class return tickets for Wednesday.”

  Mr. Caron pointed a shaky finger at the screen. “Five nights at the Bellagio for a monster-size suite. Andrew must have had some luck.”

  Jacob popped up another few e-mails. “It looks like he’s run through a lot of money already. Careless of him to leave his bank account unencrypted. Anybody in the house could snoop and find out that he … wow! He blew over one hundred grand in the past month.”

  Mr. Caron put his hand on his chest and started wheezing. “My God, boy. Don’t tell me that stuff. At my age, I could be dead of shock in a blink of an eye.”

  Jacob shot him a glance. “I’d guess it’s going to take more than that to kill you.”

  The aged veteran stopped faking it. “Probably.” He pointed a shaky finger at the screen. “Although if you open that e-mail, that may finish me off.”

  Jacob opened the e-mail from the White Shoulders Wedding Chapel with the subject line Reservations Confirmed.

  There it was: a date and time, twenty-four hours ago, for a wedding to be performed for Andrew Hewitson and Barbara Ulrich. “It does look as if Miss Ulrich wanted to get in on the action.”

  “Looks like. But why would any woman want a husband with an out-of-control gambling habit and a mound of debt?”

  “For the book royalties.” Jacob pulled out his newly charged cell phone. “Looks like I’m traveling to Vegas.”

  It’s not hard to kill a human being. I’ve done it before.

  No, I don’t mean I intend to kill her. Don’t read things into my words. You don’t understand me.
>
  You have never appreciated my efforts on your behalf.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  As soon as Jacob disembarked in Las Vegas, the noise and lights of slot machines assaulted him. They jangled and shouted as he walked down the concourse, gripping his duffel bag. As soon as he got outside, it was 4:00 P.M. and dry heat and bright desert sunshine blasted him. He fumbled for Moore’s sunglasses, slid them on his nose, and got in the cab line.

  This was a return to modern life with a vengeance.

  He called the Bellagio and asked for Andrew Hewitson’s room. He was informed they had no guest registered under that name.

  Of course not. That would make this too easy.

  He called Maddie and asked if she’d heard from her brother.

  She hadn’t, and she hadn’t been able to get ahold of him. Jacob told her nothing except that he thought Andrew had gone to Vegas on business. She already sounded worried and scared and there wasn’t much he could do to reassure her except to tell her he was on the case and hoped to find out exactly what was going on.

  Hell, he was worried and scared. Maddie was alone, someone had it in for her, her miserable piece-of-shit gambling manipulative brother had acquired a wife, and the two of them had disappeared. Perhaps they had gone on a honeymoon. Perhaps they had returned to Colorado Springs while Jacob flew to Las Vegas. Perhaps they had fled the country. If he could find Andrew, he would put a stop to this systematic exploitation and harassment of Maddie … but he was starting to think that when Andrew had hired someone to kill Maddie’s fiancé, he had tapped into bigger problems than he could handle.

  In the cab, he gave the name of the wedding chapel and said, “Hurry.”

  The cabbie whipped into traffic. He glanced at Jacob, grinned, and asked, “Meeting her there?”

  “Trying to stop a friend from making a bad mistake.”

  “Good way to get yourself killed.”

  “True. But I’m not worried about him. It’s all about the bride.” Bride of Frankenstein.

  “Women are the deadliest sex.” The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror. “It is a woman?”

  “I think so,” Jacob said cautiously.

  “Oh, it’s like that.” The cabbie hit light speed down the Strip, slammed on his brakes in front of the chapel, took Jacob’s cash, leaped out, and opened Jacob’s door. “Want me to wait in case you need to make a fast getaway?”

  “Sure. Do that.” Jacob suspected this wouldn’t take long.

  Inside he leaned across the counter to the elderly receptionist. He thought how best to get information out of—he glanced at the nameplate—Betty. He looked pitiful and asked, “Did I miss my friend’s wedding?”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Andrew Hewitson.”

  Betty smirked. “Boy, are you in trouble. We married him and his bride two days ago at three in the afternoon.”

  “I am in trouble. I was supposed to be the best man. Was it a beautiful wedding?”

  “It was! Want to see the pictures?” She turned the monitor around so he could see a line of photos for “Andrew and Barbara’s Wedding.” The bride was tall, taller than Andrew, and by the style of her dress and sweater, rather frumpy. In every shot she was looking at Andrew or hiding behind her bouquet or twirling in ecstasy while Andrew grinned stupidly.

  Jacob stared at her. Squinted and scrutinized and wondered—who was she? Why was she hiding from the camera? And why, oh, why, did Andrew look as if he were intoxicated/on drugs/had taken enough Viagra to rob his brain of blood? “Andrew was … drunk?”

  “Well.” Betty widened her eyes as if the thought had just occurred to her. “Perhaps he celebrated prematurely … with different substances. Many people do, you know.”

  “I know…” Weak as ditchwater, Mr. Caron had said. “Barbara’s a healthy-looking girl.”

  “A handsome woman.” Emphasis on handsome.

  Jacob wasn’t quite sure she wasn’t a man. Apparently Betty had the same doubts. “Did Barbara change her last name to his?”

  “She insisted on it.” With the bright tone of a high school cheerleader, Betty said, “Isn’t that refreshing to find a modern bride who isn’t hyphenating or keeping her own last name?”

  “Refreshing.” Or a good way to conceal your identity. Everything was getting frightening and complicated. More frightening. More complicated. “I know they were staying at the Bellagio.”

  “I believe so. He was quite the high roller.”

  Jacob smiled winningly. “How long were they going to stay to celebrate their honeymoon? Do you think I can catch them and take them out to an ‘I’m sorry I was late’ dinner?”

  “My, yes. They were going to stay for three more days. Just call before you knock on their door.” She winked. “While they were here, he was trying to rip her clothes off. She was very forceful and pushed him away.”

  “Did she?” He looked right at Betty. “Anything else you want to share?”

  Betty shook her head. Stopped. Glanced around. Wet her lips. “She dodged the camera. What kind of bride doesn’t want her picture taken?”

  So Betty had realized how off Barbara’s behavior had been. “That is odd.”

  “She had a knife with her. In her bag. Sharp. Pointed.” Betty measured the size with her fingers.

  Oh, shit. Exactly what he feared. “Betty, you’ve been a lot of help.”

  “You won’t repeat what I said?”

  “Never. Let me catch my cab before it gets away.” He stepped outside into the blast of heat, hurried down the sidewalk, and climbed in the backseat. “The morgue,” he said.

  “That must have been one disaster of a wedding,” the cabbie said.

  “I think we can safely say it was.”

  You’re gone. She’s alone. She’s finished the book. Now I can do the job without you whining. Andrew, your sister will be with you soon.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  On Monday, Maddie spent hours in Jacob’s bedroom, sitting on his bed and working on her laptop, while out in the living room construction workers sawed and sanded and nailed and cursed. She snuck out once when they were at lunch, to use the restroom, but if they knew she was there, they never acknowledged it.

  They left at 7:00 P.M. She raced out to use the restroom again—six hours between potty breaks was too much—then tiptoed out to the living room. She checked the locks to make sure they were secure, heated up a frozen dinner, and then got the highlight of her tense and lonely day; a call from Jacob. He had met Mr. Caron and together they were searching Andrew’s empty home. He would call again when he made contact with Andrew, and he asked her to remain at his house. He sounded tired, and worried about her, and although she badly wanted to go home, she promised. She returned to his bedroom, shoved furniture around to block the door, reclined on the bed in her clothes and waited for morning. She slept in increments, jerking herself awake at every creak and groan of the old house, and rose before dawn to shower and change, eat breakfast and work on her story.

  The construction workers arrived at 9:00 A.M. Their presence made Tuesday a repeat of Monday, except that when Madeline nodded off the noise and the knowledge that they were out there allowed her sleep hard for three hours. Again the workers left at 7:00 P.M., and again she raced out to use the bathroom. But this time, she didn’t return to the bedroom. Instead, she strapped on her pistol. She pulled on her denim bomber jacket and buttoned it at the waist to ensure coverage. She hesitated over her computer, but with no Wi-Fi, no thumb drive, no way of backing up the contents, and a solid suspicion that her tormentor could follow her to the ends of the earth to hurt her, she didn’t dare leave it. She tucked the laptop under her arm, got her house keys, and peeked out the front door.

  She needed to go home. Just for a second, long enough to grab the work on her graphic novel. This morning, in her hurry to get to safety, she had rashly abandoned her painfully drawn sketches, and she couldn’t leave them to be burned. Or otherwise destroyed. Or seen.

&nb
sp; Tattered clouds slipped up over the horizon, and the breeze off the ocean smelled like incoming rain. The street was eerily empty; the neighborhood seemed to have died with Mrs. Butenschoen. Maddie crept across the porch, then hesitated in the shadows.

  Dr. Frownfelter’s house was dark. The Franklins had their windows open; the kids were playing a game, shrieking with laughter. If Dayton Floren was home, he was hiding like her, but hey—he was guilty of his crimes. She glared across at his house. Damn him; he had made her life more difficult. She was innocent, and today it had seemed as if knowing that let her breathe more easily.

  With a last look around, she scampered across the street, unlocked her door, and swung it open. She looked inside; with boxes and belongings strewn everywhere, the living room looked dim and battered, but no different from when she had left.

  She didn’t trust that. She didn’t trust what she saw or heard.

  She did trust Jacob. She trusted his warnings, his concern, and his earlier cautious call that assured her he was tracking Andrew to Las Vegas.

  Why Las Vegas? That worried her. Andrew and Las Vegas … that could not be a good combination.

  Pulling the revolver from the holster, she felt the click as she eased the safety off. Holding it in her right hand, she rested the butt on her left palm. Arms extended, she let the barrel lead the way the first few steps into the living room. With her foot, she shut the door behind her and walked the house, checking each room, each closet, until she was satisfied she was alone. Only then did she lock herself in, return the revolver to safe, holster it, and go to her desk.

  The drawings lay untouched in the drawer. With fierce delight, she gathered them together, stacked them carefully—and jumped when her cell vibrated in her pocket.

  She dropped the drawings and the computer on the desk, grabbed the phone, and saw it was Jacob. At last. She answered. “Jacob? What did you find out?”