Killer Summer, Lynda Curnyn [books suggested by bill gates .txt] 📗

“I had nothing to do with that. I was at a block party over on Pine. Ask anybody who was there.”

“And what about the night Maggie died? You weren’t on the dock that night?”

“Not the Kismet dock, no.”

“Oh, but you were at one of the docks on Fire Island. Maybe Saltaire? I understand Dolores has a nice little house in Saltaire. Maybe you parked your boat in her slip? So to speak.”

His face turned beet-red as he realized his error. “Look, I may have been on Fire Island that night,” he said, glancing back at the deck, “but I had nothing to do with what happened to Maggie. 1 loved Maggie.”

“Did you love her enough to forgive her for going to Tom about your affair? Or the fact that you were skimming profits out of his business?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Donnie, don’t bullshit me,” I said, feeling very glad Myles was beside me. “We know about the jackets you were pulling off all those shipments.”

“Jackets? I have no idea what you’re—”

“Look, you animal, don’t play innocent. We have evidence. Shipping invoices with jackets ordered that are nowhere near the number of skins paid for. And the invoices all have your signature on them.”

He shook his head. “Now you’re talking crazy. I don’t fill out the invoice, and if I alter it, I need to get a signature from my boss to do so. If receivable is showing less coats than the purchase order indicates I should have, then that’s someone in manufacturing. Only they can alter the invoice before the shipment. Not me.”

“Manufacturing?” I asked now.

“Yeah, the factory—where they make the coats,” he said, looking at me as if I were some sort of a dimwit. “Whatever happens in China, I have nothing to do with.”

“China?”

“Yeah, that’s where the factories are. And that’s where the shipments come from. Only someone in manufacturing has the authority to change an invoice.”

I looked at Myles and I knew with a glance he was thinking the same thing I was.

Vince Trifelli.

Chapter Forty-seven

Nick

Busted, part two. And this time I think I’m going down.

It had to be a nightmare. There was no other explanation for the fear that crept over me at the sound of Tom’s voice, shouting my name.

Dammit. I squeezed my eyes shut, rolling over in the bed and making contact with a soft, warm body. Francesca, I realized, opening my eyes and remembering where I was. In the purple room. Francesca’s room. We’d come here for round two and I must have fallen asleep.

“Nick, where the hell are you?”

Oh, shit. This was no nightmare. I sat up, jostling Francesca awake as I did, not sure whether to run for my boxers or for cover.

I didn’t get a chance to do either.

The door popped open. “Francesca, have you seen—” Tom began, then stopped, his eyes widening. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Daddy!” Francesca squealed. I glanced at her. For all her past shenanigans, she looked as scared as I felt. I suppose there was some comfort in that.

But not much.

“Get your ass out of that bed. Now!”

I wasn’t sure who he was talking to at that point, but at least I had the sense to grab on to the top blanket when Francesca leaped off the bed, taking the sheet with her.

“Francesca, go to your room!” Tom shouted, his face turning a shade redder when he remembered she was in her room. With me.

He shook his head. “Never mind. You stay here. And you,” he said, turning his gaze on me, which I swear, was like a fucking madman’s, “come with me!”

He had barely slammed out of the room before I pulled on my shorts, hurrying for the door as I did. I glanced back at Francesca, whose eyes were wide with the first emotion I had seen out of her. And it was genuine fear.

A curl of protectiveness wound through me. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll get us out of this.”

If I survive this, I thought the minute I stepped into the kitchen and saw Tom standing by the kitchen island, shaking with fury.

But Tom wasn’t looking at me. He was rifling through a briefcase he had laid on the counter.

For a moment, I swear to God, I thought about making a run for it. I’d seen enough Bond movies to know that briefcases were the perfect hiding places for guns. But Tom didn’t pull out a gun, just a single slip of paper, which he proceeded to wave furiously in my face.

“What the hell is this?”

I leaned in as close as I dared, squinting to make out the writing on what looked like a check. A canceled check. I couldn’t make out the payee, but I didn’t have to. I knew exactly what it was. And who it was from.

“I can explain—” I began.

“Oh really?” Tom replied, a sickly smile crossing his face.“Then why don’t you start with a damn good reason why my wife gave you a check for twenty-five thousand dollars not three days before she died!”

I sucked in a breath, suddenly realizing what this looked like. And it wasn’t good.

The phone began to ring and I stared at it, praying whoever was on the other end might somehow save my sorry ass.

“Um, don’t you think you should get that?” I asked, when I realized Tom wasn’t even making a move for it.

“Never mind that. Now start talking.”

I stared at his angry eyes as the phone rang and rang, like some kind of death toll. Tom must’ve turned off the answering machine.

And then it stopped.

Swallowing hard, I began to babble. “Look, Tom, I know how this looks and all, what with Maggie’s murder and everything—”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”

Shit. Now I’d really fucked up. “It was just a crazy theory of Zoe’s. This thing between Maggie and me had nothing to do with that. She was interested in my label and wanted to put up