Sidney Sheldon's Angel of the Dark Page 24

  Jassal knew the streets well. But surveillance vans were not designed for high-speed chases. They were designed to stay parked for long, wearisome hours and to blend in with their surroundings. It was a tribute to Ajay’s skill that he managed to keep the smaller vehicle in sight at all, bouncing over cobblestones and careering precariously around corners, often into unlit streets. God knew what the ride was doing to their expensive audiovisual equipment.

  The catering van was taking them on a tour of South Mumbai’s most upscale residential neighborhoods: Walkeshwar Road, Peddar Road, Breach Candy, all of them distinctive for their British architectural leanings. The driver avoided the commercial thoroughfares such as Cuffe Parade or Carmichael Road, preferring to duck and dive through the quieter streets. Clearly, he realized he was being followed.

  After twenty minutes, much of it spent driving around in circles, the van headed north toward Wankhede cricket stadium. As they got nearer, the streets thronged with crowds of young men. The blazing stadium floodlights could be seen from miles away.

  “Must be a match night,” said Ajay Jassal. “I doubt if we’ll get much farther. Not by car.”

  Danny McGuire could hardly see the van now through the dark, heaving mass of bodies. Was Matt Daley planning to make a run for it? Danny looked at his watch. Eight forty-five. David Ishag’s dinner date would soon be over. They had to get back to the house.

  Without thinking, McGuire threw open the door of the surveillance vehicle and began pushing his way through the mob, shouting, “Police!” and grabbing shirts and jackets indiscriminately as he literally flung bystanders out of his path.

  Within seconds he’d reached Matt’s van. It too was empty, abandoned only a few yards from the gates of the cricket ground. Desperately McGuire looked around, scanning the crowd for Matt’s distinctive blond mop of hair. Nothing.

  Then suddenly he saw him, right at the stadium entrance, about twenty yards away. By the time Danny got there, Matt would be inside, subsumed into the crowd. Gone. Instinctively Danny’s fingers tightened around his gun, but he knew he couldn’t use it. Fire a shot here and you’d trigger a stampede. Just as despair began to wash over him, Danny saw Ajay Jassal sprinting past him, parting the crowds like Moses at the Red Sea, his long legs powering over the hard ground like a cheetah. There was a scream and a scuffle. Danny forced his way forward, waving his Interpol badge as if brandishing garlic at a vampire.

  Jassal had pounced, knocking Daley clean off his feet and pinning him to the ground.

  “I have apprehended the suspect, sir,” he panted.

  Danny McGuire wheezed up behind him. “Good job, Jassal. Matthew Daley, I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted—” He stopped midsentence.

  The man on the ground had turned to face him. His cheek was badly bruised and his brown eyes were wide with confusion and panic.

  He was as Indian as the Taj Mahal.

  DAVID ISHAG STARED AT THE BATHROOM mirror, clutching the marble countertop for support.

  This is it. Any moment now, she’s going to let him in.

  My killer.

  He splashed cold water on his face, willing the dizziness to stop. Remember what McGuire said. He’s right outside. All I need to do is collapse to the floor with chest pains the second the guy walks in. Easy.

  “David? Darling?” Sarah Jane stood swaying in the doorway. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”

  Swaying? That’s weird. Why’s she swaying?

  Spots began swimming before David’s eyes. “I…I don’t feel good.” Now the whole room was lurching, like a ship in high seas. All of a sudden he felt violently ill. Never mind a faked collapse. At this point he was about to have a real one.

  Then suddenly it dawned on him.

  “Do you like the soup? I made it myself.”

  She’s poisoned me! The bitch put something in my soup!

  He tried to look at Sarah Jane, but there were at least six identical versions of her leaning over him as he slid to the floor, clutching his stomach. “Why…?” he gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “It’s all right. Don’t panic. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  The sympathy in her voice sounded so real. But he couldn’t let himself fall for it, couldn’t allow himself to slip. He had to stay awake, stay focused. McGuire’s mikes were all in the bedroom. He had to get in there, let the SWAT team outside know what was happening. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he shouted, “Bed!”

  He could feel his throat muscles swelling up, his breath getting short. Soon he wouldn’t be able to speak at all.

  “Have to lie down. Please.”

  “Of course, darling, of course.” Sarah Jane helped him into the bedroom, a look of deep concern and worry on her face. Why is she still keeping up the charade? thought David. It makes no sense. Falling back on the bed, he clutched at his tie. He had to loosen it! He couldn’t breathe! He waved frantically to Sarah to help him, but she had turned her back and was heading toward the phone.

  “I’m calling 1298. Hold on, David. Help is on the way.”

  BACK IN THE SURVEILLANCE VAN, DANNY McGuire checked his seat belt and clutched the handrail above the door for support. Jassal was on clear, straight road now, his siren blaring. They must be doing ninety at least.

  Danny looked at his watch: nine P.M. He felt like a royal idiot.

  Matt Daley, of course, was still in the Ishag house. He’d known Danny was there all along and lured him away with a classic bait and switch.

  Had they done it yet? Had he and Sarah Jane—Azrael—killed David Ishag?

  In the seat next to Danny the sound engineer was struggling with the van’s complex radio equipment. They had to get in touch with the other members of the team, get inside the house before it was too late.

  Danny shouted at him, fighting to be heard above the screeching sirens.

  “Anything?”

  The man shook his head. “We’re in range, but I can’t get a signal.”

  The lights of Marathi twinkled in the distance. Soon the Ishag mansion itself would be in view.

  “Keep trying.”

  SARAH JANE HUNG UP THE TELEPHONE. “They’re on their way.”

  David drifted in and out of consciousness. What was I supposed to do again? Something about chest pains? It was so hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. Was Sarah really holding his hand? Mopping his brow? Or was that a dream? She seemed so loving…but wasn’t she planning to kill him?

  He closed his eyes again.

  When he opened them, a man was standing over the bed. He was masked and dressed from head to toe in black like the grim reaper. In his hand, glinting silver against the dark fabric of his pants, was a knife.

  David contemplated screaming, but his larynx seemed to have swollen shut, and in any case he wasn’t as afraid as he’d thought he’d be. He was just very, very tired. I’m probably dreaming. He’ll disappear in a minute.

  He closed his eyes and drifted away.

  “I’VE GOT THEM, SIR! VOICES. IN the master bedroom.”

  Danny McGuire punched the air with relief. “And the others?”

  “Yes, sir, we have contact.”

  “Demartin, Kapiri, do you copy?”

  The Indian policeman’s furious voice was the first on the line. “McGuire? Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Never mind that. Get into the house, now! They’re in the master. Get Ishag out of there.” Hanging up, Danny turned back to the sound engineer. “Can you hear Ishag? Is he alive?”

  The sound engineer clasped his headphones, closing his eyes in concentration. “I’m not sure. I can hear the woman. She—”

  Suddenly the man ripped the headphones from his ears. Danny McGuire didn’t need to ask why.

  Everybody in the van heard Sarah Jane Ishag’s scream.

  IN DAVID ISHAG’S BEDROOM, THE MAN in black pulled his mask off and smiled.

  “What’s the matter, angel?” he asked.
“Were you expecting someone else?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FROM HIS HIDING PLACE, HE COULD see them perfectly. The man in black and the woman now calling herself Sarah Jane Ishag.

  She could call herself whatever she liked. He knew who she was. And whose she was. She was his. His love. His woman.

  The urge to jump out at that very moment and grab her was overpowering. But he’d waited too long for this, invested too much time and effort. He had to see how the scene played out.

  The man in black pointed to David Ishag. “Is he dead?”

  David lay on his back on the bed, as still as stone. Sarah Jane leaned over him.

  “No. He’s still breathing.”

  “I didn’t expect him to go down so fast. You must have put too much in.”

  “Don’t blame me!” She was angry. “I followed your instructions to the letter. I told you we shouldn’t have drugged him first. What if he has heart failure? What if the police find the stuff in his system?”

  “Be quiet!” The man in black punched her hard in the face.

  From his hiding place in the closet, he could hear the sickening crunch of her cheekbone as Sarah Jane slumped to the floor whimpering. He watched as the man in black pulled her up by the hair. “Who are you to tell me what we should and shouldn’t do? You’re nobody, that’s who. Say it. SAY IT!”

  “I’m nobody,” Sarah Jane sobbed.

  “You have no life.”

  Her voice was barely a whisper now. “I have no life.”

  Hearing her recite the words seemed to pacify the man slightly. He let go of her hair. “We had to drug him or he’d have fought back. The others were all too old to defend themselves.” He held his knife up to the light. Nodding contemptuously at David, he said, “We’ll do him later. First it’s your turn.”

  Sarah Jane backed away, scrambling across the bedroom floor on her hands and knees like a frightened crab. “No! Please. You don’t have to do this!”

  “Of course I have to do it. The others were all punished, weren’t they? Angela, Tracey, Irina, Lisa. Why should conniving little Sarah Jane get off scot-free?”

  “Please,” Sarah Jane begged. The terror in her voice was unmistakable. “I did everything you asked…You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  But the man in black appeared unmoved by entreaties or tears. He wasn’t a man at all. He was an animal. With a feral snarl he pounced on Sarah Jane, pinning her to the ground. One hand tore at her skin while the other pressed the knife hard against her throat. Instinctively she struggled, kicking her legs vainly under the weight of him. He was pulling up the skirt of her dress, jamming her thighs open with his knee.

  The man in the closet could wait no longer. Bursting into the room, he hurled himself on the man in black, smashing the butt of his gun repeatedly into the back of the man’s skull. Blood gushed everywhere, warm and sticky and vital. In seconds the vile animal hand that had been clawing between Sarah Jane’s legs fell limp.

  Sarah Jane screwed her eyes shut, not daring to breathe. Was it really over? Was he really dead? The next thing she was aware of was the deadweight being dragged off her. Someone, her savior, rolled the man in black’s body onto the floorboards with a thud, like a sack of earth.

  Was it David, poor dear David, awakened from the effects of the narcotic, loyal and protective to the last?

  Or had the police finally figured it out, finally come to take them into custody and put an end to all the years of madness. To save her and her sister. To make it stop.

  She turned around and found herself gazing into familiar, loving eyes.

  “It’s all right, Lisa,” Matt Daley whispered. “It’s all right, my darling. You’re safe now.”

  MATT TOUCHED HER FACE, TRACING HIS finger lovingly over each feature. Her right cheek had swollen up like an overripe plum where the bastard had hurt her. He would never hurt her again.

  “Lisa…” Matt Daley started to cry. “My poor Lisa.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but the gunshot was so loud it drowned out her reply. For a second Matt Daley’s face registered something. It wasn’t pain. More like extreme surprise.

  Then his world softly faded to black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  RAJIT KAPIRI WAS IN THE HOUSE. Seconds later Claude Demartin and his three-man team joined him, followed by a breathless Danny McGuire.

  “Where are the servants?” Danny demanded..

  “In the kitchens,” said Kapiri. “I have six armed officers with them. They’ve barricaded the doors.”

  “Good. You and Demartin take the main staircase. I’ll go up by the servants’ route.”

  “How about two of my guys go with you as cover,” said Kapiri. It was a statement, not a question, but Danny didn’t object. They had no time for power struggles, not now.

  A gunshot rang out.

  The three men looked at one another, then ran for the stairs.

  “HOW COULD YOU?”

  “How could I?” The man in black clutched at the wound on the back of his head. He still felt dizzy, as if he might black out at any moment. “He left me for dead, Sofia, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Sofia Basta’s eyes filled with tears.

  “He was protecting me! My God, Frankie. You didn’t have to kill him.”

  Frankie Mancini frowned. It was unfortunate that he’d been forced to shoot Daley. The man was, after all, Andrew Jakes’s son. Technically that made him one of the children. One of the victims Frankie had devoted his life to avenging. It was even more unfortunate that the silencer on his gun had failed. A member of the household staff could come in at any moment. The police might already be on their way. They didn’t have much time.

  “Bolt the door,” he barked. But Sofia just stood there, watching Matt’s blood ooze into the rug. “For God’s sake, Sofia,” Frankie said defensively. “I tried to get him to leave Mumbai. I did my best. He shouldn’t have been here.”

  “He came here for me. Because he loved me,” Sofia sobbed. “He loved me and I loved him!”

  “Loved you?” Frankie Mancini scoffed cruelly. “My dear girl. He didn’t even know who you were. He loved Lisa Baring. And who was she? Nobody, that’s who, a character who I invented, a figment of my imagination. If Matt Daley loved anyone, it was me, not you. Now bolt the damn door.”

  Sofia Basta did as she was asked. She saw the madness blazing in Frankie’s eyes. Poor, poor Matt! Why did he come for me? Why didn’t he run, break free while he had the chance?

  “He didn’t deserve to die, Frankie.”

  “Be quiet!” Mancini shrieked, waving his pistol menacingly in the air. “I decide who lives and who dies! I have the power! You are my wife. You will do as I command you, or on my life, Sofia, your sister will be next. Do you understand?”

  Sofia nodded. She understood. Fear and obedience were all she understood. All she had ever known. For a few short, blissful months of her life, as Lisa Baring, in Bali with Matt Daley, she had been shown a glimpse of another way, another life. But it was not to be.

  “POLICE!” Danny McGuire’s voice rang out like a siren. Pounding footsteps could be heard behind him on the stairs. A second salvation.

  Mancini’s eyes widened in panic. He handed Sofia the knife. “Do it.”

  “Do what? Oh no. Frankie, no.”

  Her eyes followed his gaze to the bed. In all the drama with Matt, she’d momentarily forgotten that David Ishag was even in the room, but now she could see him stirring, the effects of the drug she’d fed him earlier beginning to wear off.

  “This is the end, angel. Our last kill. The sacrifice that will win your sister’s life.”

  “POLICE!” Fists pounded on the door.

  “It’s only right that it should be yours. Do it.”

  “Frankie, I can’t.”

  “Do it!” Mancini was screaming, howling like a mad dog. “Cut his throat or I’ll shoot you both. DO IT!”

  Images flashed through Sofia’s mind one
by one.

  Reading “The Book” with Frankie back at the orphanage. How beautiful he was then, and how gentle. “You’re a princess, Sofia. The others are just jealous.”

  Andrew Jakes, their first kill, with blood spurting from his neck like thick red water from a fountain.

  Piers Henley, funny, cerebral Piers, who’d fought back until they shot him in the head, splattering his brilliant brain all over the bedroom walls.

  Didier Anjou, pleading for his life as the blade sank into his flesh again and again and again.

  Miles Baring, collapsing instantly as the knife pierced his heart.

  Matt Daley, the one true innocent of all of them. Matt who had loved her, who had given her hope. Matt who lay dead and cold at her feet.

  She thought of the living. Her sister, her flesh and blood, out there somewhere. David Ishag, stirring groggily back to life on the bed.

  “SLIT HIS THROAT!” Frankie’s voice, excited, aroused as it always was by blood and death and vengeance.

  “POLICE!” Sledgehammers pounded against the door, splintering the wood.

  “I can’t,” Sofia said calmly, closing her mind to the clamor and roar as she let the knife drop at her feet. “Shoot if you want to, Frankie. But I can’t do it. Not anymore.”

  At long last the door gave way. Armed men swarmed into the room.

  “Police! Put your hands in the air!”

  David Ishag opened his eyes just in time to see Danny McGuire, gun drawn, panting in the doorway.

  “You sure took your bloody time,” he murmured weakly.

  Then somebody fired a single shot.

  And it was all over.

  PART IV

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ONE YEAR LATER…

  LOS ANGELES COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT JUDGE Federico Muñoz was no stranger to front-page homicide cases. Two years ago in this very courtroom, room 306 on the third floor of the Beverly Hills Courthouse, a jury had found a much-loved movie actress guilty of killing her violent lover after years of abuse. Judge Muñoz sent the actress to death row, to the outrage of her fans, family and many in the national news media. Not long afterward, the judge received the first of the death threats that would be made against him periodically for the rest of his life.