“I don’t wish him dead or anything,” she said. “But Ken is…” She sighed. “Ken is not a part of my life anymore. I mean, there’s not a day goes by I don’t think about him or the terrible things he did to me. But.” She paused and showed a bittersweet smile as the memories danced across her face. “There were some good times, too. In the beginning.”
I nodded.
Then she said, “I’ve heard he’s gotten treatment, and I’m glad. I hope he’s okay. I hope he finds peace.”
I nodded again.
I had already finalized a plan for handling the Ken and Janet situation, and now I realized I’d been right all along not to involve her in it.
We had a wonderful dinner, and afterward, my driver took us to her place and she invited me in. Home for Kathleen was a modest duplex cottage with faded green siding. Her side of the duplex had three rooms: a kitchen, living room, bedroom-and a bath. A small stack of books sat on one end of a threadbare couch in the living room. She picked up the books and stacked them on the coffee table so we’d have room to sit.
“I’m sorry it’s not nicer,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s just, everything is so expensive here.”
“It’s wonderful,” I said.
And to me it was. When I’m in Virginia, I sleep in a prison cell. When I’m anywhere else for more than a day or two, I generally break into the homes of strangers and sleep in their attics. Sometimes I’ll live in an attic for weeks at a time. By comparison, Kathleen’s duplex was a palace.
“I can offer you a gin and tonic, bottled water, a hot chocolate with skim milk,” she said, “or a diet coke.”
I asked, “Do you have an attic?”
“What a strange question,” she said.
“No, I just meant, there’s not a lot of room for storage.”
“I have half an attic and half a basement,” she said. “Does that win me some kind of prize?”
I placed my hand to her cheek, and we looked at each other. “Don’t ask me to show them to you,” she said. “The attic is totally junked up, and the basement has rats, I think.”
I asked if I could kiss her. She said, “Okay, but just once. And not a movie kiss,” she added.
CHAPTER 10
“I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Mr. Creed.”
“Why should you be the exception?” I said.
It was morning, a few minutes past eight. I was in the hospital coffee shop chatting with Addie’s Aunt Hazel.
“And just how is it you’re connected to Addie?”
“She’s my friend.”
After learning how special Addie was to Kathleen, I’d come to the hospital to check on her. During a discussion with one of the nurses, I learned that Addie’s father, Greg, had won ten million dollars in the New York State Lottery six months ago. I also learned that Hazel and Robert Hughes had originally planned to adopt their niece after her release from the hospital but had changed their minds after learning the money was gone. So when Aunt Hazel showed up, I ambushed her in the coffee shop.
“We’re not wealthy people, Mr. Creed,” Hazel had said. “Addie will require specialized care for the rest of her life, and yes, we were counting on the inheritance to provide it.”
“Perhaps your interest in Addie’s welfare extended only as far as the inheritance,” I’d said, and that’s when Aunt Hazel told me she didn’t appreciate my tone.
“What happened to the lottery money?” I asked.
“Greg used part of it to pay off the house, the cars, and credit cards. The balance, more than nine million, was placed in an annuity.”
I had a sudden revelation and immediately began experiencing a sick feeling in my stomach.
Hazel said, “The annuity was supposed to provide a huge monthly check for the rest of Greg and Melanie’s lives. But the way it was structured, the payments ended with their deaths.”
“Can you recall some of the specific provisions?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But the whole business sounds crooked to me.”
“Who can tell me?” I asked.
She eyed me suspiciously. “I suppose Greg’s attorney can give you details.”
She rummaged through her handbag and gave me the business card of one Garrett Unger, attorney at law. I put some money on the table to cover our coffees.
“I’ll have a talk with Unger and let you know if anything develops.”
“We can’t afford to pay you,” she said.
“Consider it a random act of kindness,” I said. “By the way, can you give me the address of the house? I may want to poke around a bit.”
“Now who are you, exactly?” she asked.
“Someone not to be trifled with,” I said.
Hazel gave me a look of concern, and I smiled. “That’s a line from a movie,” I said.
“Uh huh.”
“The Princess Bride,” I added.
“Well it doesn’t sound like a wedding movie to me,” she said. I pulled out my CIA creds and waited for her to ooh and ah. Instead, she frowned and said, “This looks like something you’d find in a five and dime.”
“What’s a five and dime?”
“Like a Woolworths.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. As I said, I’m a friend of Addie’s. I met her through Kathleen, one of the volunteers here. I want to help.”
“What’s in it for you?”
I sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me.” I took out my cell phone, called Lou. When he answered, I said, “There was a fire two weeks ago at the home of Greg and Melanie Dawes.” I spelled the last name for him. “Both adults died in the fire. Their twin girls were taken to the burn center at New York-Presbyterian. I need the address of the house that burned down. No, I’m not sure of the state. Try New York, first.” I got our waitress’s attention and asked her to bring me a pencil and paper. By the time she fetched them, I had the address. I hung up and smiled at Aunt Hazel.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Inigo Montoya.”
CHAPTER 11
Valley Road in Montclair, New Jersey, runs south from Garrett Mountain Reservation to Bloomfield Ave. Along the way, it borders the eastern boundary of Montclair State University’s sprawling campus. Coming west from NYC, you’re not supposed to see any of this on your way to the fi re station, but if you make the wrong turn off the freeway like I did, you get to see the sights. While I was doing so, my cell phone rang. Salvatore Bonadello, the crime boss, was on the line.
“You still alive?” Sal said.
“You call this living,” I said. It was still morning, not quite ten. I’d left the coffee shop, and Aunt Hazel, less than two hours earlier.
“I been hearing some things,” he said. “You stepped on someone’s toes big time.” He waited for me to respond, playing out the moment.
“Joe DeMeo?” I said.
Sal paused, probably disappointed he hadn’t been the one to break the news. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of DeMeo,” I said. “Big, tough, hairy guy like you?” I turned left on Bloomfield, heading south east.
“I don’t gotta fear the man to respect the power. And I got-whatcha call-compelling evidence to respect it. Whaddya mean, hairy?”
“Figure of speech,” I said.
I hadn’t been certain that arson was involved in the Dawes’ house fire but figured if it was, DeMeo was responsible. The fact DeMeo knew I was looking into the fire confirmed my suspicions. Still, I was shocked at how quickly he’d gotten the word. “How long you think I have before the hairy knuckle guys show up?”