The Prodigal Son(90)
“Chez deserves to die as much as Emily did.”
“Well, first we had to get him here, that meant Emily. He would have died, Max, my love. Now?” She shrugged. “I will have to reconsider my options.”
Chez arrived while Max was still on the phone to his lawyers, and found Davina in the throes of cleaning the kitchen.
“What’s this?” he asked, sitting down. “Val told me some crap about Uda’s being arrested.”
“That is correct,” said Davina, turning on the dishwasher. “For Emily’s murder. Nonsense, of course, but I suppose the police think her incapable of fighting back. Officials always pick on the defenseless.”
She was looking magnificent, like a snake in the glory of a brand-new skin. As if she’d thrown off a layer she felt she would never need to wear again … For such a feral, acquisitive man as Chez, this flight of fancy was extraordinary, but her image this morning was so strong, so reptilian, so enigmatic. Just how much did she know about what was going on, about the ramifications of these murders?
Casting his mind back, he’d known the right moment to stop with the extortion, yet he hadn’t wanted to let go of Davina and Uda either. Envisioning no place for them in his Florida schemes, he had decided to bank them like any other valuable assets, and that meant introducing them into Emily’s sphere. Em would keep an eye on them, he could trust her for that. It had been Em’s idea to introduce her to Max Tunbull, Chez’s to set her up in a graphic design business; he had good reason to know that she had talent in that line of work, and would leap at the chance to go legitimate. What neither he nor Em had counted on was a marriage — Em had been bedside herself — but Chez had seen its advantages at once, and Em had been pulled into line. He’d be repaid his loan, and Davina inserted like a time bomb into this rich and eminent man’s intimate life. So that, if blackmail ever became an option, he still had Davina in play.
Only he should have visited to see for himself what this marriage to Max had done to Davina, what kind of person she had turned into. Having her in his mind still as that frightened, bullied young immigrant easily disciplined by a threat to her twin sister. Instead, she was powerful, dominant, brilliant and ruthless. That first meeting at Major Minor’s coffee shop had shown him looming difficulties — and made him wonder about Em’s murder, the one that didn’t fit.
Looking at her now, his inchoate doubts suddenly crystallized into a rock-hard conviction: one of the Savoviches had killed Em!
“Uda killed Emily?” he asked. “Uda?”
“The police think so.”
“Where’s Max?”
“On the phone, arranging Uda’s defense.”
“He should be arranging your defense. You killed my Em.”
“As bait to get you here, yes,” Davina said coolly. “You’re the real target, Chez. Payback for using Uda and me, torturing us like animals, which is all women are to you. But I have lost Uda temporarily, so for the moment you’re safe,” she said, fearless and vicious. “Don’t sleep too soundly. You will die.”
“It might be you who dies,” he said, snarling, putting on his most menacing face.
She laughed. “Rubbish! Your nasty glances don’t work on me any more, Chez. I’m kill-proof. All men have to sleep. Hurt me or mine, and you’ll wake up singing soprano — if you wake up at all. Emily is dead and I killed her to get at you. Don’t hang around, climb into that hired Cadillac and drive to La Guardia or Kennedy, then climb on a plane for Florida.”
“Cops don’t frighten me,” he said, trying to swagger.
“This isn’t Florida. These are very smart cops, if you like that word. I prefer police.”
Max appeared, shuffling, quenched: Chez stared, astonished.
Davina helped her husband solicitously to a chair, gave him coffee. “Is it arranged?” she asked.
“Yes. I waited until Bill Wilson called me back. Anthony Bera will be at Uda’s arraignment.”
“Excellent!” She didn’t sit. “Chez is just going, darling. He came to say goodbye. Some urgent business in Florida has come up, and he must leave immediately.”
“I’ll be watching,” Chez said, following her.
She held the door open, saw him into the tiny foyer where coats resided and the cold outside air stopped.
“I’ll get you for killing Em,” he said.
“It’s snowing,” was her answer. “Zip your jacket, you sad, ageing thug. You couldn’t operate in a cold climate.”
His last memory of her as he trudged away was of a figure radiating power, triumph, invulnerability. Like a victory goddess he’d seen in a movie. He’d be driving I-95 out of Connecticut as soon as he packed his bags. Only the arrival of the cops had saved his neck; Vina and Uda had killed Em to lure him here so they could kill him. All his schemes of exacting revenge didn’t matter a scrap; Vina had called him a has-been, and she was right. He couldn’t hold a candle to this new and snaky Davina Savovich. Kill her for killing Emily? It would be far easier to go to the Moon.