The Nosy Neighbor Page 23

  “There are all kinds of ways to coerce a signature out of someone. Trickery is something Banks probably excels at. She probably thought she was signing something else the way a lot of people do when their intended or their spouse asks them to. I’ve done it, and don’t tell me you haven’t either. Your wife says, sign the tax form, and you sign it because she’s the one who took everything to the accountant, then picked it up because you were too damn busy, and all she wants is the refund, and the sooner the better.”

  “Then that makes her a lousy lawyer in my opinion,” Agent Lawrence said, speaking for the first time.

  Sylvia eyed her two weary colleagues, knowing she looked as awful and as tired as they did. The three of them had been wearing the same clothes for almost three days. The storm had caught them all unawares, and they’d been lucky to secure the suite of rooms, with Lawrence sleeping on the sofa, Mason on a roll-away, the bed falling to her. For that she was grateful.

  They’d been sniping at one another for the past twenty-four hours, ever since the call came through alerting them to Banks’s arrival at Kennedy Airport and the fact that he had disappeared. Mason punched his fist into the pillow he’d been sleeping on. His face was full of anger. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” Mason said. “My wife is going to have a fit when I don’t make it home. We have a thirty-pound bird and are expecting twenty-two people.”

  Sylvia Connors sniffed. “I think your wife and kids will be eating that bird by themselves. There are no open roads. And just to keep the record straight, we have a woman’s life at stake here, and showing up for a turkey dinner seems kind of insignificant compared to that. I think Lucy Baker would agree.”

  Agent Mason had the grace to look embarrassed.

  Agent Lawrence frowned as he clicked on his cell phone. “It’s dead,” he said, disgust ringing in his voice. “And the charger is in the car, probably frozen. Mason’s went out last night. How’s yours, Connors?”

  “The battery is low, but it’s still working. If I’m lucky, ten, maybe eight minutes of airtime. For now, we use the hotel phones.”

  Lawrence walked over to the window. His voice was almost a whisper, when he said, “It looks like the end of the world out there. What’s that saying, ‘not fit for man or beast’?”

  “I assume the beast you’re referring to is Leo Banks. No sane person would be out in that…that…stuff. When this case is wrapped up, I’m putting in for a transfer to San Diego. They have almost perfect weather,” Mason said.

  “Why are you so certain Baker is clean on this deal, Sylvia?” Agent Lawrence asked.

  Senior to her two partners, Sylvia locked her gaze on Mason first, then Lawrence. “No cold, hard facts if that’s what you mean. I agree that everything points to her as being his partner, but it’s more than that. I saw the way her eyes kept going to that pile of wedding invitations. We destroyed her world. We barged in there and ripped it up one side and down the other. She had no clue. And, do you remember Conover telling us she was wearing this sparkler on her ring finger that was as big as a headlight? When we saw her, she wasn’t wearing it. That means she took it off because of what she was told about her fiancé. I’ll bet you lunch at Burger King that she hasn’t put it back on, either. See, that’s what you have to understand about women. Unless she can be certain we have the wrong man, unless we can prove without a doubt to her that the guy she was planning on marrying is not a global crook, that ring is never going to see the light of day again.

  “In addition, an engagement ring is a commitment. Lucy Baker is no longer committed. The commitment ceased the day Conover and his partner talked to her. Bottom line, she’s telling us the truth, and we have to protect her.”

  Both agents stared at Sylvia, aware of her past record and her climb up the ranks. She had more citations than the two of them put together, and that’s why she was the leader of their team. Both men shrugged. It was as much as she was going to get from either one of them.

  “Assuming you’re right,” Mason said grudgingly, “how the hell did he get here from New York. Everything is shut down tight. Where is he holed up?”

  Connors ran her fingers through her thick hair. She realized she needed a haircut. “If I knew that, I’d tell you. I’m assuming a hotel or motel somewhere. There are a hundred or so from Newark down to Edison. The only thing that gives me even the littlest bit of comfort is that Lucy Baker is at Wylie Wilson’s house. There’s another man there, too, some academic. And, let’s not forget the dogs. Dogs are a powerful deterrent to someone with evil intentions.”

  “We’re powerless to do more than we’re doing, which is nothing,” Lawrence grumbled. “The switchboard here at the hotel is swamped. I’ve been trying for hours to get an outside line. There’s no way to check the hotels and motels. If we knew which hotel or motel he was staying at, we might be able to figure out how he could get to Baker’s house from there. We’re five to seven miles away. He could be less than a mile away. If he’s desperate, he might take a chance on foot. Tell me what you want me to do, Connors, and if I can do it, I will. If you’re right, I don’t want to see her harmed or killed. I’d like a notch in my belt by apprehending him. Hell, who wouldn’t?”

  Sylvia Connors looked down at her Ferragamo shoes, then over at the other agents’ feet. Both wore tasseled loafers. Their clothing was winter clothing but not blizzard attire. There was nowhere they could pick up suitable outerwear, not at that point in time. Three raging cases of pneumonia coming up.

  “The weather report said the snow was to stop around midmorning. I have an idea. Mason, I want you to go down to the desk, ask for the manager, tell him when the snowplow comes through, we want to be on it. See if you can make arrangements for the driver to drop us off at a spot where the Edison plows can pick us up. They have to pay attention to the request, we’re FBI. If necessary, we’ll commandeer the plow.”

  Lawrence looked across at Sylvia, a new respect showing in his gaze. “Good idea. Guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

  Sylvia Connors snorted. Overworked and under-paid was more like it. “It’s the only thing I can think of. Just keep trying for outside lines and check the hotels and motels. Check the ones closest to where Baker lives. Better yet, go down to the manager’s office and, unless there is some kind of emergency, take over the phones. I don’t think they’ll give you any trouble. If they do, come and get me. Since it’s my turn at the shower, I’ll be doing that while you do what you have to do.” God, I hope there’s some hot water, Sylvia thought as she made her way to the bathroom.

  Inside, after she locked the door, she sat down on the edge of the tub and dropped her head into her hands. She was worried witless about Lucy Baker. And, right then, there was nothing she could do about it. Not until the storm abated. She hoped that wouldn’t be too late.

  She’d tried hard during the initial meetings with the lawyer to be cool and professional, almost to the point of not caring. It was a facade, though, because her stomach had churned, her heart had pounded, and her head throbbed. Because…once, light-years ago, she’d been in a similar situation.

  During her senior year at Northwestern University, she’d worked at a bank part-time as a teller. Within a month of starting work, she’d met Daniel Westport, a suave, preppy young man going for his master’s. So, he’d said. Like everything else he’d told her, it was a lie. His name wasn’t even Daniel Westport, and he wasn’t a student. The truth was, he’d said a lot of things. Things she’d loved hearing. His only flaw as she saw it back then was his obsession with the banking profession. He’d ply her with wine until her tongue loosened, and she’d answer all his questions without a second thought.

  Until the day the bank was robbed while she was working. The three robbers wore ski masks. Everything had been synchronized down to the last sync. They knew where all the security buttons were, knew the backgrounds of the employees, knew where the vault was. In short, they knew everything because she’d told him, albeit unwittingly, never suspe
cting a thing. What she’d never been able to put behind her was the senseless killing of the guard by the front door, an older man due to retire in less than six months.

  Until the police showed up at her apartment and started asking questions, she’d been just like Lucy Baker, she didn’t know anything, didn’t suspect a thing, never knew her fiancé had a past, or that he’d changed his name. She’d been in love.

  She left her job at the bank and started to waitress at a cocktail lounge. The tips were better, and she wasn’t home in the evenings. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t regain the old feeling she’d had with Daniel. He sensed it, and he also sensed her aversion to being touched by him. She did her best to break it off, even moved from her apartment to one with two other young women.

  Daniel had started to stalk her. She bought a gun, enrolled in martial arts classes, but she was still fearful. The day she couldn’t take it anymore she went to the police and told them she suspected Daniel was the brains behind the robbery, but that she didn’t know if he was the one who killed the guard or not. She didn’t stint on what she considered her involvement either.

  Two attempts on her life later, she’d cut and run, Daniel on her trail. One of the detectives, a fatherly man, had been watching over her, on his own time, unbeknownst to her until that fateful day. Five more minutes and she would have been dead, a victim of a random shooting. That fatherly detective with honed instincts had fired off a shot and killed Daniel. Now when she thought about it, she didn’t know who was more stunned, the detective or herself. She learned later that it was the first time the detective had ever fired his gun. He’d called her girlie when he put his arms around her. Even now, she remembered how he’d trembled and yet he’d tried to calm her down, turning her face away from the man he’d killed who had been intent on ending her life.

  Five minutes.

  Every year, from that day on, no matter where she was, no matter what she was involved in, she flew back home and took Detective Janson to dinner on December 17.

  Not only did she owe her life to Detective Donald Janson, she owed her career to him as well. He was the one who persuaded her to apply to the FBI when she graduated from Northwestern third in her class. Every time there was an award ceremony, he was in the front row, cheering her on. As an orphan, it meant the world to her.

  Right that instant, she’d give anything to have enough minutes on her cell phone to call him. She’d tried earlier to get through the switchboard, but was unsuccessful. She just wanted to talk over the case with him, to see if he had any insights she might have missed.

  Donald Janson was the one who taught her to go by her gut instincts. That’s half of all investigative work. Screw the manual, screw procedure, go with your gut instinct. Later, you can worry about the manual and procedure.

  It wasn’t that she ignored the manual and procedure. She stayed true, playing by the rules but always with a clear understanding that if her gut instinct reared up, that’s what she paid attention to.

  It was in high gear now. She knew that Lucy Baker was that close to having her life snuffed out.

  “Not if I can help it,” she muttered as she stepped under the shower. The water wasn’t hot, it wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t freezing cold either. She hoped she could work up a lather with the hotel shampoo.

  The only thing that consoled Special Agent Sylvia Connors, even a little bit, as she stood under the shower was, if she couldn’t get to Lucy Baker, neither could Leo Banks. “Wherever you are, Leo Banks, I’m coming after you, so watch out,” she murmured to the cool spray beating on her body. “I’ll find you, too. You can count on it.”

  • • •

  Spiros Andreadis, aka Jonathan St. Clair, aka Leo Banks, prowled through Nellie Ebersole’s house searching for clothing. He’d slept for five hours and woke when it was dark. His body ached from head to toe. The medicine cabinet held a variety of headache tablets. He gulped three Advils and washed them down with ice-cold water. He didn’t feel one bit better. On top of his aches and pains, he had a thundering headache.

  Hoping food would ease the pounding in his head, he rummaged till he found a pound cake in the freezer and a package of freeze-dried coffee. He devoured the whole cake, which he spread with strawberry jam that he found in a kitchen cabinet, and consumed the contents of the four-cup coffeepot. An apple pie was thawing on the kitchen counter. For later.

  Nellie Ebersole was a neat, tidy person, he would give her that. Everything appeared to be geometrically aligned. The hall closet held an array of winter clothing, two long coats, three short coats, a lined raincoat, four umbrellas hanging on special hooks. On the floor, next to a rack holding clogs and rubber boots, was a basket that held neatly folded scarves, wool hats, leather gloves, and wool gloves. He could wear the hat and scarf, but the gloves and boots were too small for him. The top shelf held boxes of catalogs for her popcorn ball business. He took a minute to admire the bright colors before he shut the door. He moved on to the guest bedroom and struck pay dirt. The scent of mothballs was strong. It became overpowering when he opened the closet door to see what he surmised was Nellie’s deceased husband’s clothes. He tried to breathe through his mouth while he rummaged. The man must have been big, tall like himself but with a huge waist. Okay, that’s why leather makers manufactured belts. Lucky for him Nellie hadn’t been able to part with her husband’s belongings. Maybe knowing they were there gave her comfort. Now, where in the hell did that thought come from? he wondered.

  There were shoes, ankle-high boots, sneakers, sandals, slippers, and a pair of dark green knee-high Wellingtons. He knew just by looking at them that they would fit. He smacked his hands together in glee.

  The dresser drawers gave up everything he needed, warm, wool socks, underwear, and tee shirts. One drawer held nothing but thermal underwear. Jonathan’s fist shot into the air.

  A smaller drawer held a box of cigars and three packs of cigarettes, one pack opened. Obviously, the faceless, nameless Mr. Ebersole had been a smoker. He wondered when the man had died. How stale was the tobacco? Like he cared? When he made his next pot of coffee he’d either smoke the cigarettes or the cigars. Whatever he was in the mood for at the time. Not that that mattered either.

  Because he was a thorough person, Jonathan kept opening and closing drawers. He poked and prodded at the deceased man’s belongings. He couldn’t believe his luck when he moved a thick argyle-patterned sweater to see a gun along with the paperwork that meant Nellie’s husband came by the gun legally. A box of clips sat next to the gun. Everybody has guns these days, he thought smugly. What is this world coming to? The gun felt comfortable in his hand. Familiar and comfortable.

  Jonathan kept searching but found nothing else that interested him. He looked around at the house he was inhabiting. It was all so…so middle-class.

  Jonathan took a full minute to wonder if it would bother him to wear a dead man’s clothes. He decided it wasn’t going to bother him at all, just as it wasn’t going to bother him to use the man’s gun to kill someone. It wouldn’t bother him to use his smokes either.

  He continued rummaging through the small house for other things that might benefit him. He walked back down the steps to a small room off the dining room that Nellie obviously used as an office for her popcorn ball business. Everything in the room was neat and tidy, as well as colorful. The deep wine-colored chair was ergonomic as well as comfortable. The file cabinets lining the room were every color of the rainbow. Above the file cabinets hung framed pictures of popcorn balls wrapped in brilliant-colored cellophane. Cheerful, he decided. Old people must like bright colors. He himself was a beige/navy blue kind of person. Conservative.

  Because he had nothing else to do at the moment, Jonathan riffled through Nellie’s files. His eyebrows shot upward a few times when he saw what a lucrative little business the old lady ran from her home. No overhead. She contracted out the making of the popcorn, contracted out the wrapping and shipping, paid Lucy a small salary, and still ban
ked—after taxes—over a hundred thousand a year. He looked at her income tax records and saw that she also collected $1400 a month in social security benefits plus six hundred a month from her husband’s pension and another $1600 a month from her own pension fund.

  Nellie Ebersole was solvent.

  Jonathan was about to pick up the phone to dial Lucy’s number when the cell phone in the breast pocket of the pajamas started to vibrate. He opted not to answer it. Instead, he followed through with his intention to dial Lucy’s number. He let it ring seven times before he hung up. He then dialed her cell phone number and listened when a metallic voice said the person he was trying to call was either out of roaming range or the phone was turned off. “You can’t avoid me forever, darling Lucy,” he said softly as he turned on Nellie’s computer.

  • • •

  A Mickey Mouse clock on the wall over the computer said it was eight-thirty. No time for fun and games. He had to get down to business. He bustled then, going upstairs to change into Nellie’s husband’s clothes. He was back downstairs in minutes, fully clothed, and out in the garage.

  Goddamn snow! Was it ever going to stop?

  Even though he had tucked the heavy corduroy trousers down over the Wellies, he could feel snow inside them. Snow stung and beat at him as he struggled to cross the yard to the house that sat between Nellie’s and Lucy’s houses. He tried to remember if Lucy had ever told him who lived in the middle house. When he couldn’t remember, he decided she had never told him.

  As he forced his body to move, he felt like he was swimming against the tide, caught in a pool of Jell-O. His already tired body started to protest again. He was at the edge of Nellie’s property. He knew it was the edge because he was prevented from going farther by a chain-link fence as high as his waist. If he wanted to get on the other side of the fence, he had to lean over and fall into the snow. With the height and weight of the snow, it was the same as stepping over a log, or so he thought. He ordered his mind to comply and did his best to step over the fence. He fell facedown, snow going up the arms of the heavy jacket and down under its collar. He was exhausted when he finally managed to get to his feet. He froze in his tracks when he heard fierce barking from the dark house looming ahead of him. He didn’t like dogs because he didn’t trust them. What he was hearing was a deep, belly bark that made his nerves tingle.