Brad Acton stood there, in his nice suit, with his nice hair, smiling. No one could smile like Brad.
Dogan raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The first shot splattered that handsome head. He pumped bullet after bullet into the body, as it lay on the Persian rug.
He stumbled down the lawn. He needed a drink. Was he out of beer?
A Mercedes slid to the curb, beside the parked Harley. A large black man, in a white suit and fedora, climbed out. He glanced at the motorcycle, then spotted Joe Dogan weaving toward him. Joe carried a gun. In the moonlight, Mister Man could see the slide was back and the weapon was empty.
“I’m on my way home and I see that this human garbage has blown into Haddonfield. They don’t allow your punk-ass kind here.”
“I killed Brad again,” Dogan said.
“Do tell. A lotta killing going around.”
Mister Man pulled his Glock out of its shoulder holster and blew a large hole in worthless Joe Dogan’s chest. The fool fell backward onto Brad Acton’s fine lawn and began to bleed on it.
Mister Man turned to his car, then stopped when he glimpsed the silhouette of a man up in the Acton house. A tall man standing in an upstairs window, taking in all that had happened on the moon-bright lawn. A witness.
Was it Stagg? Mister Man had better find out the state of play, before the neighbors called the cops. Of course, the lots here were far apart and the refined folk nearby may not have heard the gunfire. Or if they did hear, they wouldn’t know what it was. This was Haddonfield, not H Town. He had a little time, he figured.
Mister Man loped up the lawn, Glock at the ready. The tall fellow in the window waved. He was blond, well-dressed and familiar. Then he stepped out of sight.
The front door gaped open. Mister Man stepped gingerly inside.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
A pajama-clad Robert Stagg lay on the fine carpet, in a lake of blood. His bald head was a mass of goo. Bullet holes riddled his globular body. He was as dead as Camden’s hopes.
“You can’t come in here. This is Brad Acton’s house.”
A woman’s voice. Mister Man looked up.
Diana Acton, lovely in a diaphanous nightgown, stood in the hall. She held a Luger in a two-handed grip. It was pointed at Mister Man.
He held out a conciliatory hand and advanced toward her, speaking low. “Let’s be cool. I was in business with your husband. Both of them.”
Diana opened fire. Mister Man keeled over and landed on Stagg’s body. The gangster twitched a few times. The blood stained his white suit. Whether it was Stagg’s blood or Mister Man’s own blood was hard to tell. She dropped the gun.
Robert Stagg, Joe Dogan and Mister Man were all dead. Diana was pleased. Brad always kept a promise.
Diana turned. She had heard a voice say her name. “I’m coming, Brad, darling,” she called with a radiant smile. “I’m coming to bed.”
She ran up the stairs.
LISA JACKSON
Lisa Jackson is known for her legion of fans and for her fascination with the motives of her characters. Her stories explore the puzzle of complex relationships and the clues that can only be found in the rich personal histories of her protagonists. In a way that makes her novels as moving as they are thrilling, she confronts the fear faced by her victims and doesn’t shy away from the harsh truth that terror and madness touch far too many lives in the real world.
Nowhere is that skill more evident than in “Vintage Death.” Here we have a story that is classic Lisa Jackson—a perfect blend of romantic suspense and danger that creates empathy and suspicion for the characters in equal parts. She shows us the complexity of family relationships and how important—and dangerous—families can be.
VINTAGE DEATH
“Don’t go.”
The words rang through the vestibule, an anxious plea, but then that was my mother, always the worrier, forever on the verge of a breakdown. That her voice trembled was no big deal. The original drama queen, that was Mom.
“I have to go, okay?” I yelled my response through the closed bathroom door in the upper hallway. I wasn’t going to put up with her overhyped paranoia. Not that she didn’t have a reason to be frightened, terrified even, but, hey, someone had to get the job done and that someone had to be me. No one else was volunteering.
“You should call the police. There was that nice detective…what was his name? Kent something? I can’t remember.”
Noah Kent, I thought, Noah way. Noah police. Not this time. “Forget it, Mom.”
“He’s still on the force.”
Of course he was. Noah Kent was a lifer—married to his job. Even after the accident that nearly cost him his badge. Just ask his ex-wife.
“Then call Lucas. You’ve got to still have his number?”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Lucas Parker.
Ace detective.
Handsome as sin.
And a major prick.
Of course I still had his number.
Oh, yeah, that’s what I’d do. Give Parker a call. “I’ll handle this on my own.” I wasn’t about to be budged. I put on my bra, which, gently padded, added two cup sizes to my breasts, giving my slim frame a little bit of a curve…like hers.
Then I slipped on a sleek black dress, one with a nipped-in waist and wide neck. A little on the sexy side for my taste, but tonight it would do nicely, I thought, critically eyeing my reflection in the vanity mirror. And besides, the invitation had indicated everyone was to wear black. Just as there were those “all white” parties, Silvio D’Amato had gone with a black theme. All the better.
After pulling my hair away from my face and securing it, I donned a dark auburn wig, which curled softly under my chin and brushed my shoulders. Spidery eyelashes much longer than my own highlighted my eyes, which were now a deep shade of brown, compliments of tinted contact lenses. A little padding tucked into in my cheeks helped with the transformation. My teeth were a little off—nothing I could do about that but keep my mouth closed. I added a tiny spot of color under my cheekbones and blended it with my foundation, making my complexion appear seamless. Carefully, I brushed on a touch of smoky eye shadow.
The effect was amazing.
I was barely recognizable.
No one at the party would suspect my true identity. Which was perfect.
I stepped out of the bathroom, made my way down the hall in three-inch heels, then discarded them for a pair with a shorter heels that didn’t pinch my feet so much. Besides, they were easier to walk in. Considering the fact that I’d be holding a glass of champagne while mingling with the other guests on uneven flagstones, the second pair just made more sense.
Especially if I needed to run.
And, of course, I snagged a pair of leather gloves that I tucked into my purse.
Once in the hallway again, I paused for a second at the open door to Ian’s room. A cold sense of déjà vu settled over me like a shroud. Everything was as it had been. A set of Transformers action figures displayed upon a bookcase with a few Legos, picture books, his twin bed, perfectly made, the dinosaur motif evident in the curtains of the wide window…Oh, God, the window…
My throat tightened as I stared at it, the innocent-looking panes overlooking the garden and farther away, over the tops of other houses on the hill, the bay with its blue waters turning dusky as night approached.
I closed my eyes.
Leaned against the doorjamb.
Thought of him. Ian…only five…poor, poor baby.
“Are you all right?” Mother’s voice floated up the staircase from the floor below. I had to pull myself together. No matter how much pain blackened my soul, tonight, I had to act as if I were carefree, as if I truly was the woman I was pretending to be.
I took a deep breath before clearing the thickness from my throat. “I’m fine, Mom,” I lied, sounding cheery. “Be down in a second.”