Never Too Rich (66 page)

He was almost there now. He could practically smell
her in the tang of the salt air.

Her name echoed in his head like a staccato stadium
chant:

Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl . . .

Yeah. He was gonna show her who was boss.

Even things out a little.

No one, fuckin’ no one, crossed Snake.

He glowered.

The goddamn bitch
owed
him.

11:48 P.M.:

In a patrol car parked near the Sayville exit of the
Long Island Expressway, two highway patrolmen were sharing a
thermos of hot black coffee. “It’s dead out tonight,” the one
behind the wheel muttered without much concern. “Don’t know why we
had to set up the radar trap at this hour.”

“
It’s them complaints about them
drag racers.” His partner blew on his coffee to cool it. “Damn
kids.”

Suddenly a set of headlights streaked past them like
a speeding bullet; the red taillights receded almost
immediately.

“
Shit!” the one behind the wheel
swore as he sat up straight. “What the hell was
that?”
He
turned to his partner with wide eyes.

“
Dunno, but look at the radar
clock! That bastard’s doing a hundred and sixty! Must be soooome
car.”

The patrolman behind the wheel switched on the siren
and turret light, and outside the windows the night suddenly
flashed blue and red.

“
You’ll never catch him in this
heap,” his partner told him.

“
Oh, yeah? Ten bucks says I will—if
you’ll get your thumb out of your ass and radio him in. We can have
him headed off before he gets ten more miles.”

They dumped their coffees out the windows and, tires
screeching, took off in pursuit.

11:49 P.M.:

In his Ferrari, Duncan Cooper kept the gas pedal
floored. He had thrown caution to the winds and his face held an
expression of grim concentration. He was oblivious of the fast
beep-beep-beep
of the built-in radar detector. Fear gnawed
at his gut. Billie was in danger. What else could the cut-off phone
call mean? “I’m coming, Billie!” he vowed aloud, willing his
thoughts to reach her telepathically. “Everything’s going to be all
right, baby! I’m not gonna let anything happen to you!”

He glanced at the luminous green glow of the
speedometer and the dashboard clock. He’d covered sixty miles
already; he had another sixty to go. With luck, he’d reach
Southampton in under twenty minutes.

Twenty of the longest minutes of his life. And that
was with breaking every Manhattan-Hamptons speed limit—and
record—he knew of.

Distant flashing lights strobed in his rearview
mirror. “Good luck, Smokey,” he muttered to himself, and drew his
lips back over his teeth. “There’s no way you’re gonna catch this
baby!”

11:59 P.M.:

On the deserted Long Island Expressway, Fred
Koscina’s right-rear tire blew, and it was all he could do to
wrestle his speeding Dodge under control. After he pulled over and
stopped, he slammed his fist on the steering wheel in frustration.
Fuck!
Of all the times to have a goddamn blowout! He hadn’t
even left Queens yet, and even at this late hour, with the LIE
virtually deserted, it would take him a good hour and a quarter to
reach Southampton—and that was if he pushed the lousy car to its
limits.

Changing the flat would make him even later.

He grabbed the mike of his police-band radio and
took a chance that he could still get through to Central from this
far outside his precinct frequency. “Nineteen Charlie to Central,”
he called in. “Nineteen Charlie to Central.” Come on, he thought
impatiently. He had to get through. If he didn’t . . .

The radio was quiet. Dead quiet. Then a weak crackle
of static came and went. Koscina tried again. “Nineteen Charlie
to—”

And miraculously the dispatcher’s laconic voice came
through intermittent bursts of static.

“
Central, Nineteen
Charlie.”

Hot damn! He sat up straight. Now, this was more
like it! Maybe someone upstairs
was
looking out for him,
after all. “Nineteen unit needs a helicopter,” he said
tonelessly.

“
Sorry, Nineteen Charlie. All
available aircraft are currently searching the harbor for
small-craft survivors.”

Fred Koscina slammed his fist on the steering wheel
a second time. Just my luck. Why can’t I come up with two lucky
strikes in a row? And why is it that with this case, one thing or
another is constantly conspiring against me?

He sat there for a moment, searching his mind for a
solution. There
had
to be another way to get out to
Southampton fast. If his hunch was right, every minute counted—and
his hunch now told him that Billie Dawn and any other woman who
happened to be caught in the showhouse was liable to become—

I can’t allow myself to think of it; it’s too
hideous to imagine.

—
a scalped corpse.

Chapter 71

She had been wrong. The abrupt darkness held far
more menace than the eerie lights and stark shadows of a moment
before. Now, with her eyes yet to adjust to the blackness, and only
the lights spilling out from the mansion’s windows to guide her,
she felt immediately threatened. What should she do? Go back inside
the house? At least try the front door before making her way around
to the back?

She heard the snapping of another dry twig—this time
somewhere to her left.

She swiveled in that direction. “Who’s there?” she
called out again.

As before, the only reply Edwina got was the
rattling of branches, the rustling of leaves, the roaring of the
surf. And, from a pond somewhere on the other side of Meadow Lane,
crickets and cicadas shrilling mockingly.

Swallowing nervously, she tried once more. “Officer
Moody, please don’t play these games. They’re really not very
funny.”

She waited.

Still nothing.

Sighing, she shrugged her shoulders and carefully
felt her way along the uneven flagstone path. Twice she tripped and
nearly went sprawling.

Slowly her night vision came, and she could make out
the shapes of jet-black trees and bushes against the slightly paler
blackness all around. When she reached the end of the path, the
hard paving stones gave way to the softer asphalt of the newly
surfaced drive. She stopped for a moment, hands on her hips, and
looked around in the darkness.

Now what?

Look for Billie Dawn’s cops, she answered
herself.

But where would undercover cops be parked? Not
directly in front of the house; that would be too obvious a place
for plainclothesmen trying to keep a low profile. A little down the
road, then. Probably. Yes. At least it was a start.

The circular drive was short, no more than seventy
or eighty feet. She had nearly reached the end of it when she
thought she felt someone’s presence and heard soft laughter.

She stopped and whirled around again. She was facing
a bank of shrubbery. Leaves lifted as the breeze gusted.

“
Officer Moody?” Her voice
quavered.

Only the wind. Only the leaves scratched. Only the
crickets and cicadas shrilled.

“
Officer Moody, I told you! I don’t
find this funny!”

Again nothing.

Fear tripped the hammers of her heart. She couldn’t
remember ever having felt this frightened. It was as if every bone
and nerve ending, every muscle and circuit within her was on full
alert.

The urge to flee was overwhelming—and yet she knew
there was no concrete reason why she should feel this way. There
was nothing rational to explain it—yet. Just a scream and the
outdoor lights being doused. The front door being slammed. The
phone going dead. And yet the urgency to flee was overwhelming.
Everything inside her warned of danger.

Run! Run now! While you still have the chance!

“
No!” she told herself sharply.
“You are
not
going to chicken out. You are
not
going
to let anything scare you off. You are going to follow this
through.”

Futilely, she wished there was at least some
traffic. After the big noisy city, the utter solitude and quiet
were unnerving. She wondered how anyone could live out here. Well,
with a big family and enough servants and friends . . . maybe. But
of one thing she was certain. This wasn’t the type of place
she’d
want to live. Not alone. Not in this house. No, siree,
thank you very much.

Reaching the road, she stood there and looked first
one way and then the other. She squinted into the dark. Was that a
car way down there on the right, parked by the shoulder? Or was her
night vision playing shadow tricks on her?

Only one way to find out, old girl, she told
herself. And started toward it.

As she approached it, her steps quickened
purposefully. It
was
a car. No, not a car; there were two.
One parked behind the other.

When she nearly reached them, she could hear the
idling engine of the first and make out the rooftop arch of the
second. The strange shadow atop it was the turret light.

So it
was
Officer Moody! She had a good mind
to kill him for scaring her half to death! She was ready to
throttle him, really! In fact, she—

Reaching the first car, she pecked her fingernails
on the window of the driver’s side. When she got no response, she
cupped her hands against the cold glass and tried to see inside.
The window vibrated from the idling motor. She could just barely
make out the shapes of two men sleeping, their heads tilted
sideways.

So
these
are the guys who’re supposed to be
guarding Billie Dawn? she asked herself. Some cops to depend on! I
wouldn’t want to have to entrust
my
life to them!

She rapped again, this time with her knuckles:
harder. But they kept right on sleeping.

What was it with them?

“
Hey!” she yelled, slapping her
palms down on the car roof. “Wake up in there!”

When there was still no response, she tried the
driver’s door.

It was unlocked, and as she swung it open, the
overhead light clicked on inside. She started to lean in and give
the driver a good shake, when she suddenly drew back. The interior
of the car was a bloodbath; the copper stench of carnage assaulted
her.

“
Oh, God!”

A flapping slit, like an obscenely grinning mouth,
curved under the plainclothes cop’s chin, reaching from one ear to
the other. Sticky fresh blood soaked everything. Him. The seat. The
dashboard. Drying droplets, like rivulets of red rain, were
spattered all over the inside of the windshield.

She forced herself to stare at his companion.

Also dead. Also brutally murdered.

His throat identically slit.

She staggered back in horror, slammed the door shut,
and took deep, ragged breaths. Her legs were weak and trembly, her
ears pounding, her stomach churning. She tried to fight the rising
bile. Then suddenly she could no longer hold it in. She doubled
over, and everything came up in a rush.

Finally the worst of the nausea passed. Numbly she
stumbled to the rear of the car and propped herself against the
trunk. After retching, she found it difficult to breathe. Her mouth
tasted sour and her throat felt raw and swollen. Her eyes
watered.

She was facing the hood of Officer Moody’s patrol
car.

Officer Moody. She had to check . . .

No! She couldn’t! She just couldn’t!

She
had
to.

She staggered toward it and wrenched his door open.
Jumped back as he slumped out headfirst.

Oh, God!

Just then the landscape lights around the mansion
clicked back on. For a moment Edwina stared blankly down the road
at the floodlit house and grounds. She knew what the lights meant.
They were bait.

Someone is playing cat and mouse with me, she
thought. Someone murderously dangerous.

She didn’t want to go back to that house. Every
instinct told her to run in the opposite direction—and not stop
running until she got to town and found the police station.

But Anouk was in the house. And not only Anouk.
Billie Dawn too. And, above all, Hal.

She moaned aloud, panic threatening to crush
her.

Suddenly she straightened with a steely resolve. Her
eyes were like flints.
You bastard!

“
Over my dead body!” she said aloud
from between determinedly clenched teeth.

Without even thinking, she squatted down and
struggled to get at Officer Moody’s revolver. Grabbing the heavy
weapon, she hoped to hell it was loaded. Then she ran. Not toward
the town’s police station.

Straight back to the house.

In the deserted parking lot of the Queens Plaza
Shopping Center, Fred Koscina watched as the Bell Jet Ranger
helicopter belonging to
Eyewitness News
nosed down to a neat
landing. Ducking his head and doubling over to avoid the whacking
blades and gusts of rotor wash, he ran toward it.

Before he reached it, the door on the passenger’s
side opened and the familiar face of a copper-haired female crime
reporter leaned out. “Sure this isn’t a wild-goose chase, Koscina?”
She had to yell to make herself heard above the racket.

“
Shit, Babs, you know me better’n
that,” he hollered back. “How many times I ever steer you
wrong?”

“
It’s happened.” She gave him her
hard green-eyed-bitch look. “What is it this time?”

“
I’ll tell you on the
way.”

She shook her head of copper ringlets. “Tell me now
or we’re going after that missing small craft.”