Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [88]
“So Scalzo threatened you.”
“He didn’t have to. If word got out about my affair with Jack, I’d lose my job, my nurse’s license, and probably my marriage. I had a sword hanging over my head, and Scalzo knew it.” She lifted her eyes. “There’s your friend again.”
Gerry glanced over his shoulder. Eddie Davis was siting on the other side of the room, peeling the plastic off a cafeteria sandwich. Gerry looked back at Gladwell.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“I think the word is petrified,” she said.
“I can make this nightmare go away.”
“Right.”
“I’m being serious.”
“How can you make it go away?”
Gerry leaned forward, this time making sure no drinks were in striking range. “Tell me Jack’s secret, and you’ll never hear from me, the police, or George Scalzo again. That’s a promise.”
“How do I know you’ll keep this promise?”
His eyes scanned the cafeteria, and when he was certain no one was watching, he reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist. She did not resist his touch. “You and I share one thing in common. We both loved Jack. So when I tell you that on my friend’s grave I can fix this situation, you’ve got to believe me.”
Gladwell shuddered from an unseen chill. She drank what was left in her cup, grimacing again.
“All right,” she said.
40
Four o’clock in the morning, and Skip DeMarco lay awake in his king-sized hotel bed, his sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling. On the other side of the room, his laptop made a gurgling sound. Its screen saver was an underwater scene, complete with coral, bright tropical fish, and sound effects. Hours ago, he’d gone onto the Internet and found the Web site of the law firm where Christopher Charles Russo, the man claiming to be his father, worked. The site had a section with photographs of the firm’s lawyers. His laptop’s screen was sharp, and he’d planned to enter the section, click on Russo’s picture, then raise the laptop to his face, and take a look at the guy.
It hadn’t happened.
He’d gotten cold feet and slipped back into bed. He was twenty-six years old and had lived with his Uncle George for twenty-one of those years. But he still remembered the first five. The memory of his mother was particularly strong.
But he had no memories of his father. Not one. Maybe Russo wasn’t his father, and the story the woman had told him was a lie. Maybe Russo was a scammer, or a crackpot, or someone he’d beaten at cards looking to pay him back in the cruelest possible way.
DeMarco had spent hours lying in bed, weighing the possibilities. Finally he’d come to a decision. The only way he was going to know for sure was to look at the guy’s picture, and try to find a resemblance. That wasn’t so hard.
Only he couldn’t do it.
He was comfortable living with his Uncle George. The house they shared was huge, the third floor practically his. He had his own bedroom, private gym, music room, study, and a maid and cook downstairs willing to do his bidding. And his uncle was easy. DeMarco had brought girls up to his room and smoked dope and his uncle had never said a word. It was a sheltered existence, his uncle having convinced him that the real world was not for him. In the real world, he was a victim. At home, he was a king.
He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He imagined he was at home, listening to music with the headphones on. It didn’t work, and in frustration he kicked off the sheets and sent them to the floor.
At four thirty, he climbed out of bed and shuffled across the room. Sitting down at his laptop, he made the screen saver disappear. He needed to be a man about this. He’d take a look at Russo’s picture, then decide what his next step