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Poor Richard |
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Chapter 1 Poor Richard "UNCLE VINNIE. Please, Uncle Vinnie, you’ve got to help me!" Vincent Collins sat up in bed as he recognized the woman's voice on the phone."Olyvia!—What's going on?" "It's Richard, Uncle Vinnie. He's dead. I just killed him!" The little red numbers on his nightstand clock told Vincent that it was nearly 2:00 AM. "What are you talking about? What happened?" Olyvia's fingers tightened around the cell phone; she glanced across the room at the body. "Richard. It's Richard." Her voice broke over the syllables. "He's dead. I just killed him." She heard her uncle inhale sharply. "You told me that, Honey. How did it happen?" He only hesitated a few seconds, then went on. "Never mind that; you can tell me later. Where are you?" "At my house. We came up here after we left your place. Richard was acting strange all evening. I thought he was trying to work up his nerve to propose to me. But—but—" "Slow down, Honey. You can tell me later." "I sure got that wrong. . . . He said that he knew about Daddy and about the guns. He thought Daddy hid them somewhere and that I knew where they were." Vincent heard nothing for several seconds. He began to think Olyvia was gone when she continued. "Didn't the Baroski brothers get those guns and ship them to Europe, or somewhere—?" “I'll come and get you. You can tell me about it when I get there." Olyvia stared at Richard's body for a moment, and she felt nausea rising in her throat. She hurried on, as if talking faster would take away some of the horrors. "We left early, you know. Richard said he needed to talk to me about something important. That's why I thought—" She concentrated on the phone in her hand, trying to turn her thoughts from what had just happened. Instead, she caught a glimpse of Richard's twisted neck and the pool of blood gathering around his head. Tears came again. "I thought he loved me. . . ." Her voice broke into a tumble of sobs. "Easy, Honey." She forced her eyes away again. "Richard didn't want to talk about marriage. He wanted to talk about Daddy and the weapons. He said that he knew all about it—except, he thought—he thought—I knew where they were hidden." The sobs spilled over and cut off her voice altogether. "Livy, you don't have to do this now. I'm on my way. You can tell me when I get there." "I thought he loved me!" Olyvia pounded her fist onto the back of a large chair. "Damn, damn, damn." Vincent, held the phone against his ear with his shoulder, as he slipped on his trousers, then grabbed his keys. "I'll be there in a few minutes." "I thought he loved me!" Her voice cracked again as it squeezed between her clenched teeth. "God, Uncle Vincent. He must have been planning this all along. He must have known before he ever met me!" She forced her eyes back to Richard's body, taking in every broken, bloody inch. "You son of a bitch!" she shouted. "You son of a bitch! You tracked me down. You weren't interested in me at all. You were just trying to find those damn guns!" "Olyvia, calm down!" Vincent yelled. "Stay there. Do you hear me? Stay right where you are. I'm on my way." "What made him think I. . . ." She giggled, the sound broke into a string of sobs. "Hang on, Honey. Don't let your nerves get away from you. Are you sure he's dead?" "Oh, yeah. He's dead, all right. He yelled at me and yelled at me, demanded I tell him where Daddy hid the guns. I started yelling back and told him that I didn't know what he was talking about. That's when he went nutty. He pulled out a gun. I guess he thought he could scare me into telling him. And—and—You know those karate lessons you bought for me? "I didn't even think about it. I just grabbed his hand and flipped him, like they taught me in the self-defense classes. He went over the banister and landed on his head. I never dreamed I'd ever actually do any of that karate stuff." Olyvia crammed her eyes closed, trying to shut off the images that flooded back into her mind. "If you're sure he's dead, Honey, don't do anything." Vincent turned his car onto the interstate, accelerating to just under the speed limit. "Don't call the Police! Don't call a doctor! No nothin'! Don't call anyone else. Don't do anything to draw attention to this. You just wait till I get there. Everything will be all right." "Please hurry, Uncle Vinnie." Olyvia drew in enough air to make it through the sentence. "Hurry. You'll know what to do." She took another deep breath, trying to make sense of what Richard had done—and what she had done. "You'll be all right,” her uncle assured her. “Just don't do anything until I get there." "I'll be all right." "I'm almost halfway. Hang in there, Honey." "Uncle Vincent?" "I'm still here." "How did he know that I was Mario Martinelli's daughter?" "I don't know, Baby, but we'll find out." Olyvia's panic subsided for the moment. It was as though some force she couldn’t resist dragged her eyes back to Richard, one more time. Still holding the phone, she moved around the edge of the room to the other side of the body where she could see the gun, half-hidden under him. She kneeled down for a better look, even considered picking it up, but she didn't. Richard Austin lay sprawled on the tile floor, his left arm curled above his head, one broken hand crumpled under his wrist. Except for the grotesque angle of his neck and the pool of blood, she might have imagined he was still alive. She looked at the outstretched arm and saw that the bone had snapped in the lower forearm. He must have thrown out his hands to catch himself before he hit the floor. Trembling, she ran her fingers through her hair, then stopped in a shock of pain. Her fingers came back wet with blood. She stared for a moment, and then remembered that Richard had struck her and smashed her head against the door casing, just before she grabbed his arm to throw him off balance. Olyvia staggered to her feet, ignoring the pain, and lurched away from the body. As she did so, her shoulder hit the large mirror on the wall behind her. The glass tilted askew and leaned toward her on its hanging wire. Her reflection swaying back and forth. Was this really her, the glamorous Olyvia Collins? The brilliant business-woman—mogul of makeup—fashionista extraordinaire? Her dark circled eyes glared back at her from the wild tumble of hair. Lipstick smeared, eye shadow streaked across her cheek; a black smudge of mascara below each eye. A view of Richard's body reflected from the mirror too, but she turned her eyes away from it and focused on herself. My God! Who wouldn't believe this was the face of a cold-blooded murderer. "Uncle Vinnie, you're right," she said into the phone. "I don't dare call the police." The red, low battery warning light was the only response. That is the real Olyvia Collins, isn't it? She'd built her business to a multi-state enterprise worth millions in only a few years and no one even knew who she was. That is, no one except Richard—and whoever sent him. Her employees loved her, her customers loved her. But, Richard didn't love her, and he was the only one who really knew who she was. Shrieking, Olyvia slammed the mirror aside. It flew off the wall and shattered on the floor next to Richard's body. She slid back into the chair, the warm flood of tears washing the remaining makeup from her eyes. It ran down, spreading a greasy stain on her blouse. Vincent found her there, a few minutes later, a blubbering mess. * * * ABOUT NOON THE NEXT DAY, Olyvia awoke at her uncle's house, still exhausted and still terrified. Across the foot of her bed, she saw a bathrobe Aunt Vivian had left for her. After slipping it on, she rushed downstairs to the living room. "Olyvia? Is that you?" Aunt Vivian called from another room. "I'm in the kitchen, Honey. Come in and get some coffee." Standing captivated by the image of burnt outbuildings on the television screen, and dumbfounded by the newscaster's voice, Olyvia didn't answer. In local news—27-year-old Olyvia Collins, owner of Olyvia's Beauty Supply, was killed overnight, in a fire at her Gunderson Road home and business. Investigators say the fire was apparently accidental, caused by an electrical short circuit in a rear storage area. The fire spread rapidly through the structures by exploding aerosol products. The inferno completely destroyed all three buildings on the site, including the residence. A spokesperson for the Fire Department tells Channel 6 they see no reason to suspect foul play. "Oh my God!" Olyvia gasped and put her hand to her mouth. "That's my place." She walked in a little circle wringing her hands for only a moment, then dashed into the kitchen and reached for Aunt Vivian's landline phone. "They think I'm dead!" she said to her aunt. "I've got to call the police or the Fire Department or someone and let them know that I wasn't in there." "No, no, Honey," Vivian almost shouted. She stepped closer and placed her hand over Olyvia's on the phone. "Vincent told me this might happen and said that you have to stay out of sight. "He told me what happened at your house last night. He and Charley will take care of it, Livy. Don't you worry about a thing." "Did he tell you about Richard?" "Well, no, not exactly, but he told me Richard died, and that there was a problem. He says you have to stay out of sight. Don't worry, Livy, everything will be all right." "Where is Uncle Vinnie." "He and Charley are in the office. They're doing something on the computer. Sit down, Honey. I'll make you some breakfast." "Not now, Aunt Vi," Olyvia turned down the hallway, toward the office door. "I've got to find out what's happening." Charley looked up from his keyboard as she entered. "'Mornin' 'Livia. Lord, you had one hell of a time last night, didn't cha. Hope you're feelin' better." "Good morning, Charley—Uncle Vinnie—What happened? I mean, at the house? The TV said the place burned to the ground and that I was in it!" "Looks like they got a couple of things wrong. Huh?" Her uncle grinned, as he rolled back his chair. "Come on in and have a seat, Honey." "What happened? I mean—I saw on TV about the fire, but what happened?" Olyvia said, as she eased herself into a chair next to her uncle. "Everything's gonna be all right." Vincent took Olyvia's hand. "Charley and I went back last night, after you got to sleep. I wanted to see what we could do about—about—you know—Richard. "We saw that you had just got a truckload of hair spray. That stuff burns hotter than hell; way worse than gasoline and it's all under pressure, too. So we got this idea that it could be just what we needed. You had a dehumidifier right next to where they unloaded the shipment. Charley tinkered with the wiring so it would overheat. I taped down the nozzle on one of the cans of hair spray, and that's all it took. In five minutes, it was going up like a Roman candle. "We had put Richard in your bedroom, but I knew there wouldn't be anything left," her uncle said. "So, unless they do an autopsy, they'll never know if it was a man or woman. From what they've said so far, it doesn't look like they're going to do anything." "But, what am I going to do? About . . . I mean about Richard and my business. . . . It's completely gone. I can't just stay here and hide!" "No, no, Honey. Your business isn't gone. Charley has already contacted your employees. We gave them space in one of my warehouses and they're setting up new offices right now. Before the day is out, they'll have called all your customers and let them know that business will go on as usual. I'm your next of kin, so I'll inherit and your income will be safe. Wherever you go, the money will keep coming in." "You mean, I'm going to have to stay dead!" "Look, Honey. Richard knew who you are. That means that whoever sent him, also knows where you are. You have to disappear. The reason I brought you here in the first place and changed your name was because the Baroski brothers were looking for you. The word was they had put up a big reward for you. We never knew why, but maybe, even then, they thought you knew where Mario hid the shipment." "That's silly. I never even heard of Daddy selling weapons." "But," her uncle cut in, "if the Baroskis think he did, that'll be enough for them. From what I heard, that shipment is worth a lot of money. Money like only a government or an oil sheik could come up with. So they're going to keep after it." "But if they found me here. They can find me the next place I go." "Maybe not this time. Charley's been searching all morning for information about Richard and who he's connected to. So far, he hasn't found anything except that we think his name is not Richard Austin. There are plenty of men named Richard Austin around. But, none of them lead anywhere. "Charley did find one thing, though. He was able to track you down, using Olyvia Martinelli's social security number. When you file your taxes, you are still using the same one. He found you in a few minutes." "One other thing, Boss," Charley interrupted. "Someone else had accessed that record before I did." I think it might have been a government agency of some sort." "What makes you think that, Charley?" Vincent slid his chair closer to see the computer. "There's nothing on the screen, boss. But behind the scenes, that site has what we call a Firewall Sentry. What it does is record the IP address of anyone who comes onto the server, whether they're legitimate or not. Most hackers can't even detect a Firewall Sentry, but whoever this was, walked right through it. He not only found it but he stuck a phony address into it, too, just like I did." "Oh, my, God! What can I do about that? Can I get a new social security number?" "Not without leaving a trail a mile wide. We're thinking that we need to set you up outside the US, where you won't have to use an American social security number." |
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