Deception

Deception by CHRISTIANE HEGGAN

“What do you say, Jill?”

Dan flashed her a disarming smile. “Will you let me help you for old time’s sake?”

“If I do agree to let you help me,” she said cautiously, “and I’m not saying I will—we work together. I’m not going to be shoved aside because some hotshot detective has entered the picture.”

“Fair enough. I’ll probably need an assistant’ anyway.” She laughed. “In your dreams, Santini. This is an equal partnership. I’d like to make something clear, though. There will be no strings attached to this deal.” “Of course not,” He smiled.

“After it’s all over, we both go our separate ways.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jill looked at him for a long measuring second. “In that case… we have a deal.”

“Christiane Heggan weaves a tale that will leave you breathless.”—Literary Times

Also available from MIRA Books and CHRISTIANE HEGGAN

SUSPICION

Watch for Christiane Heggan’s newest blockbuster

TRUST NO ONE

available September 1999

Only from MIRA Books

CHRISTIANE HEGGAN

Deception

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

ISBN 1-55166-466-6

DECEPTION

Copyright C 1998 by Christiane Heggan.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher,

MIRA BOOKS, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

The characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States latent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

Printed In U.S.A.

To the two newest men in my life,

Zak and Alek,

with all my love

And to Bob, who makes everything perfect

Since a novel is never the work of just one person, I

would like to thank the following people:

David W. Doelp, senior project architect,

Kling Lindquist, for answering my many questions with patience, understanding and great wit. Any errors made or liberties taken in the interest of fiction are my own.

Rosemary Rys, Director, Corporate Communications,

Kling Lindquist, for giving me the grand tour and supplying me with tons of information.

Bridget McQuate, Communications Director, MA Philadelphia, for her marvelous profiling of some of today’s most talented women architects.

Robert G. Martin of Bell Atlantic Properties, for an exciting and comprehensive tour of one of Philadelphia’s most impressive skyscrapers.

Bob Clarke of Livingston Manor, New York, for sharing his thoughts and knowledge of this beautiful area of the Catskill Mountains.

And last but not least, a million mercis to my editors, Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore and Laura Shin for their unparalleled support and enthusiasm.

A pelting rain struck the asphalt, turning the narrow mountain road slick and dangerous. Moving too fast for the conditions, a Jeep spun around a bend, pulled up in front of a dark-colored sedan parked alongside a deep ravine and skidded to a stop.

A man in a blue ski jacket jumped out of the Jeep. Rain beat on his head and shoulders as he hurried toward the sedan. Reaching inside, he flicked on the high beams and ran back to the Jeep.

Not a movement was wasted as he opened the rear hatch, reached inside, pulled out a limp body and dragged it to the driver’s side, grunting with each step.

He didn’t stop to catch his breath, though he needed it badly. Instead, he hoisted the body behind the wheel, struggling to keep the dead weight propped up while he strapped the seat belt in place. When he was done, the man reached for the gearshift and slid it into drive. Then, straightening, he slammed the door shut.

Angled against a steep slope, the Jeep immediately began to slip toward the ravine, slowly at first, then faster as it picked up momentum. Following a straight path, the car hurtled through the guardrail, leaped over the stony bank and plunged, nose first, into the deep valley below.

The sound of the crash, though expected, made the man flinch. For a moment, he stood frozen, oblivious of the rain, which ran down his face and pooled at his feet. Except for his heavy breathing and the look of sheer hatred in his eyes, he might have been as dead as the man he had just disposed of so neatly.

As the car exploded and a huge fiery ball soared toward the dark, stormy sky, he closed his eyes as if in prayer. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I hope to God you burn in hell.”

Looking relieved, as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, he turned away from the edge, ran back to the sedan and jumped behind the wheel. He had just strapped his own seat belt when a second, louder explosion rocked the night. As calmly as if he had just finished a round of golf, the man put the car in gear and slowly drove down the winding, treacherous road.

One

Standing in front of his bathroom mirror with a towel knotted around his hips and one half of his face covered with lather, Dan Santini cut through the thick foam with an expert hand while mentally running through the tests he would be handing to his students an hour from now.

Because his class was relatively small, he had allowed its members to stretch their preparation time until today, which meant that he had only one day to grade the tests and post the results before winter break.

Though a few would claim the extra day still wasn’t enough, Dan had no doubt they would do fine. His was an exceptionally bright group, ten young men and women who showed great promise and made him proud to be their professor.

It was three years ago this month that he had begun his teaching career at Glenwood College in Oak Park, a small Chicago suburb ten miles north of the city. At first he’d had doubts as to whether he was cut out to be a professor, to teach rather than practice. But after only a few days, he had realized that his students not only valued his frank discussions but respected his opposing views. The give-and-take was energizing for everyone on either side of the classroom desk.

He didn’t even miss New York. Or the force. No, that wasn’t quite true, Dan thought as he lifted his chin and let the blade glide along his neck. There were times when he missed his job as a homicide detective, missed the methodic process of gathering clues, leading the hunt and questioning a suspect.

Especially questioning a suspect. Few things in life were more fascinating, more challenging than the human mind and its behavior when under pressure. It was because of his passion for exploring the many varieties of deviant criminal behavior that he had agreed to teach this particular course.

Applied criminal psychology was a catchall term for anything that dealt with the criminal mind. It was a subject Dan had studied and practiced for nearly all of the ten years he had worked as an NYPD homicide detective. But it wasn’t until the arrest of one of New York City’s most notorious serial killers in 1993 that Dan had emerged, much to his dismay, as something of an overnight celebrity because of it.

Gossip at the precinct had held to the view that he would make lieutenant within a few years, a prediction that was never tested. In 1994, during a murder investigation in a lower Manhattan tenement, the suspect Dan and his partner had been tracking had suddenly sprang out of nowhere, an Uzi in his hand, and begun spraying the room, seriously injuring two police officers. He had just turned on a third when Dan shot him. When the blood bath was over, Dan had learned the age of the dead boy-fourteen.

For weeks afterward, the thought that he had killed a child had played heavily on Dan’s conscience. That

Eddy Delgado was a street punk with a mean temper and a rap sheet a mile long had done little to alleviate the guilt Dan felt at this senseless loss of a young life.

Two months later, in spite of his superiors’ protests, he had resigned from the force and begun looking for another job. A Brooklyner born and bred, leaving New York and his family hadn’t been part of his plans. But when the president of Glenwood College, impressed by Dan’s police experience and his master’s degree in psychology, asked him to come to Chicago for an interview, Dan saw the request as a chance to make a truly clean start.

By the end of the day, he had been offered an associate professorship, a handsome salary and a chance to teach a course Dan knew and loved better than anything else-applied criminal psychology.

He had never regretted his decision.

His task finished, Dan ran water over his face and patted it dry. He was pouring a few drops of aftershave into his cupped palm, when the phone rang. He smiled. Only one person ever called him this early-his mother.

He was right, but instead of the cheerful hello he was accustomed to, Angelina Santini greeted him soberly. “Oh, Danny,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Did you hear about Simon Bennett?”

Dan hadn’t heard from his former father-in-law in years. “No. Something happened to him?”

“He’s dead, Danny. He was on his way home from the Catskill Mountains and his Jeep went off the road. They say he was killed instantly.”

Stunned, Dan shook his head as if to deny what he had just heard. Not Simon. It couldn’t be. The man was virtually indestructible. “When did this happen?” he asked.

“A few days ago. I would have called you sooner, but I didn’t find out until just now. Joe and Maria were in Ohio all last week, visiting Maria’s mother, and I was so busy taking care of the boys, I didn’t pay much attention to the news.”

Dan felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Jill. She must be devastated. She had adored her father.

“I’m going to call Jill a little later,” his mother continued. She paused. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you, too, Danny.”

Dan knew better than to argue with his mother, especially on the subject of Jill Bennett. “I’ll call her, Ma.”

After he hung up, Dan stood looking at the phone. He and his ex-wife hadn’t spoken a word to each other since their divorce in June 1985. He was probably the last person she wanted to hear from right now, yet he couldn’t let Simon’s death pass without some sort of acknowledgment.

From memory, he dialed the number of Jill’s loft, the same loft they had shared years ago. At the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked on and Jill’s cheerful voice came through, causing something deep within him to stir.

“Hi there. Sorry I can’t take your call, but you know the drill, so do your thing and I’ll get back to you ASAP. Bye.”

Not waiting for the beep, Dan hung up. Those damn machines. He never knew what to say into them, especially at a time like this. He’d wait a day or two and call back. Or better yet, he would send Jill a card. That would eliminate the very definite possibility of her hanging up on him.

Because, deep down, he was still a cop, Dan picked up the address book he always kept near the phone

* and flipped through the pages. Maybe Wally would be able to give him details of the accident. Wally Becker was the police constable of Livingston Manor, where the Bennetts owned their Catskills summer home, and a close friend of the family. Dan had met him thirteen years ago, the day he’d married Jill, and the two men, bound by their career as law enforcement officers, had formed an instant friendship.

Wally answered on the first ring. As usual his tone was gruff. “Becker.”

“Wally. It’s Dan Santini.”

The constable’s tone turned immediately friendly. “Dan, you old son of a gun. How have you been?”

“Richer now that a certain cheating buddy of mine no longer cleans me out at poker.”

There was a low chuckle at the other end of the line. “Cheat, my ass. I always won fair and square. You were just a sore loser.”

The two men were quiet for a moment. When Dan broke the silence, his voice was grave. “I just heard about Simon.”

Wally made a sound with his tongue. “Terrible thing, isn’t it? One moment the man is full of life, and the next he’s at the bottom of a cliff, burned beyond recognition.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“The dental records confirmed it.”

“What happened, Wally? Simon could have driven that road in his sleep.”

Dan heard the older man expel a long breath and could picture him running his hand through his coarse gray hair. “Bad weather on December 1 is mostly to blame, I’m afraid. That and the fact that Simon was drinking rather heavily that night.”