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  Duffy, who had ostensibly been unconscious when Barry and I were discussing Michelle’s murder, decided to use that to clarify the situation. “You shot Damien Mosley, didn’t you?” he asked. “Why did you take him to the park in North Bergen? You could have shot him in his apartment.”

  Barry made a noise to indicate Duffy was less brilliant than he might have imagined, which was probably true but beside the point. “I didn’t have the gun with me when I went to the Jersey apartment,” he said. “I figured I knew where it was because Damien always kept his stash of weed in that little crevice in his Poughkeepsie ceiling. I needed proof he shot Michelle, and I found it right there. So I took it and went back to Jersey and used it on him just like he deserved.”

  Duffy clearly didn’t feel comfortable with having led Barry to admitting the crime. In his mind, the confession has to come willingly, unforced. Barry could—I could hear it in Duffy’s thought process, which let’s face it, I made up—have been bragging to impress us and never have shot Damien at all. Duffy coughed as we approached the upper level of the bridge walkway.

  “What?” Barry said. He seemed quite annoyed at having to deal with these pesky questions.

  “The footprints at the scene of Damien’s murder seem to indicate his killer was a woman,” Duffy lied. “I’ve seen the photographs, and the shoes from the second set of footprints were not your size.”

  “You’re wrong,” Barry said. We walked out onto the bridge. There was no one around; the place closes down at dusk, and we were easily past that. Barry gestured with the gun pocket that we should start walking out away from Poughkeepsie and across the Hudson. “There was only one set of footprints. I made Damien take his shoes off. I doubt his bare feet were leaving much of a mark.”

  That had puzzled me from the time Duffy had shown me the pictures. “Why did you do that?” I asked.

  “I was hoping there would be sharp rocks or glass on the ground,” Barry answered with a very unpleasant tone in his voice. “I wanted his last steps to be painful.”

  I didn’t ask any more questions after that. But Duffy, whose readings of people’s feelings is actually quite sensitive except when it gets in the way of his investigations, wasn’t thinking about Damien Mosley’s feet.

  “Damien’s car was parked near the scene of the shooting,” he said. “It stayed there after he was dead. How did you get away?”

  “I took the bus. I was standing far enough from Damien that I didn’t have any blood or anything on me, so there was nothing to notice. I had exact change ready. It wasn’t a problem. Okay, stop here.”

  We were almost at the exact center of the span across the river. I was starting to get a really queasy feeling about how Barry was planning on the next few minutes to take shape.

  He looked right and left again to ensure no witnesses were present on the bridge. Certainly there would be police patrols at regular intervals, but probably not very often. He knew this wasn’t going to take a lot of time. He took the gun out of his pocket.

  “This looks like a good spot,” Barry said.

  “I’m not crazy about it,” I told him. “I mean, it’s right in the middle of the bridge. It looks staged. Too perfect. No, I think we should keep walking, don’t you?” I took two steps before he shouted.

  “No! Stop right there and don’t move, get it?” He’d segued from Auric Goldfinger to Edward G. Robinson. Stress makes men less genteel.

  “There is no reason to harm us,” Duffy attempted. “We didn’t witness you killing Damien Mosley. We don’t pose a threat to you at all.” That was a stretch, and he knew it.

  Barry grunted. “You know what happened to Damien Mosley. Five years later, and you had to stick your nose in it. Even when I got you arrested, you wouldn’t stop. What did I ever do to you, anyway?”

  Duffy and I looked at each other because we had no answer to the question. Finally, Duffy said to him, “Why did you need me out of the way this afternoon? I assume that’s what the subterfuge with the fingerprints was about.”

  “It was just a delaying tactic. After you got in touch and we had our lovely Skype chat, I needed time to get here and figure out what to do with you and get ready. It was easy enough to keep you off the trail for a few hours. I would have preferred them keeping you overnight, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  “But Ben and I kept asking questions,” I said weakly. There was no answer. That’s how significant Ben and I were.

  Barry smiled, which did not make me feel better. “I’m not going to harm you,” he said to me, ignoring my protest. You’d think that would be good news, but the look on his face indicated otherwise. He pointed the gun at me. “Your partner here is going to shoot you, and then he’s going to jump off the bridge in remorse. The cop you had with you will never even know I was here.”

  Nobody moved a muscle. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” Barry said. He raised the gun while standing next to Duffy, just far enough away that Duffy couldn’t reach him. He pointed it at me.

  I’d like to say my whole life flashed before me, but basically I was just thinking about who my publisher would hire to finish the terrible Duffy Madison book on my hard drive. I hoped it was someone I liked.

  “Wait,” Duffy said. “Shoot me instead.”

  My eyes, which I had not noticed had closed, opened. And Barry looked almost as incredulous as I felt. He actually lowered the gun. “What?”

  “Shoot me. Let Rachel shoot me. You’ll be doing me a favor.” Duffy looked at me. “I’ve never really known who I am. This way I can just be over. I can stop wondering and just be at peace.”

  To say I was stunned would be like saying Raymond Chandler wrote a couple of okay books. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t make a coherent sound. I think I actually held out my hands to Duffy, but I didn’t move my feet to get closer to him. After all this, he was finally opening up about his pain, and it was too late. I wanted to give him a hug and tell him it was going to be okay, that we could work through this now.

  But it wasn’t going to be okay. Barry looked at Duffy, and his eyebrows met in the middle. “You heard the part about where you jump off the bridge, right?” he said.

  “You don’t have to hurt Rachel,” Duffy told him, still oddly wary of the gun. “She doesn’t have any evidence against you; only I do. You give her the gun and let her shoot me, and you’ll be helping us both. I’ll be free, and she’ll be free of me.”

  “Duffy,” I managed. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t a burden, that I didn’t want to lose him this way.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s true. I’ve done nothing but place you in dangerous situations since we met, and you haven’t blamed me for it, but it was my fault. You don’t need me, Rachel. Take the gun from Barry and shoot me, just once, right between the eyes. Like Hercule Poirot.” He probably should have put a spoiler alert ahead of that, but it was in conversation. What can you do?

  “I was going to shoot her myself and get your fingerprints on the gun,” Barry said, attempting to regain control of the situation, not entirely understanding what was happening. “She doesn’t have to shoot you. I can do it.”

  “No. It’s symbolic. Rachel should be the one. She created me, and she can end me.”

  Now Barry was really in over his head. “She’s your mom?” He asked with a surprised tone.

  “Just give her the gun,” Duffy said.

  “No chance. She’ll shoot me instead of you. I know how these things work.”

  Duffy walked toward me before Barry could react. “Do exactly as I say, Rachel,” he said. “Take the gun and shoot me right between the eyes. Point-blank. There won’t be any chance for you to shoot Barry because I’ll be directly in front of you. It’s what I want.”

  He reached a point so close to me that I thought he wanted us to tango. “Here,” he said more loudly to Barry. “I’ll be here. You can stand wherever you like. Let Rachel shoot me, and then let her go
.”

  “Go?” I said incredulously. “How can I go? You want me to kill you and then go get dessert?”

  “It’s what I want,” he repeated quietly. “Just fire once, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want to shoot you!”

  “I want you to,” Duffy said.

  I should at least have been torn. I mean, Duffy had been nothing but a source of anxiety and tension in my life since I’d met the flesh-and-blood version. I’d wished I’d never met him. I should have been feeling some curiosity about what it would be like to have him gone.

  But now, faced with that scenario, the last thing I wanted was to lose Duffy Madison. And to be the one to pull the trigger and make him die? I wanted to throw up.

  “You two are both nuts,” said Barry. He appeared on my right and dropped the cartridge of bullets out of the gun. “You only have the one in the chamber. You can’t shoot me after you shoot him.”

  He handed me the gun and then hurried behind Duffy to a steel wastebasket only ten feet away and half-crouched down behind it, sticking out just enough that he could see the entertainment in front of him. Even if I’d wanted to shoot him, I wouldn’t have been able to see him clearly.

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered to Duffy.

  “Yes, you can. Trust me. One shot right between the eyes.” We were nose-to-nose; I actually would have to back up to aim the gun. “Trust me, Rachel.”

  Duffy was all about tactics and ways to keep me alive. I was feeling like a little girl at a scary movie. I didn’t want to look, and I just wanted it to be over. “He’s going to kill me after you’re gone,” I said. “He won’t keep his word.”

  “Yes, he will.”

  “No talking!” Barry shouted. “Just shooting!”

  “Do it,” Duffy said. “Now.”

  “Did you used to be Damien Mosley?” I asked him. If I had to say good-bye . . . no! I wasn’t going to do this!

  “If you want to think so, certainly. Shoot me.”

  I took a step back and raised the gun just to buy time and show Barry he didn’t have to intervene. “Duffy, what’s the gag?” I said very quietly. Duffy always has a way out.

  “Pull the trigger, Rachel. Help me. This is how to help me.”

  “Shoot him now, or I’ll do it!” Barry said. “And then I’ll reload and shoot you!” He actually took a few steps out toward Duffy.

  The gun was pointed directly at Duffy’s forehead. I figured I could aim above his head and maybe just singe his scalp a little. It might give us the time we needed to subdue a seated Barry. I aimed over Duffy’s head.

  “He’ll see,” he said. “Lower the gun. Right between the eyes. Now!”

  Barry stood up. “That’s enough,” he said, taking a step forward.

  “Please,” Duffy murmured.

  I closed my eyes but held the gun up. A tear fell from my left eye. But you must forgive me. I took a breath and pulled the trigger. Right between the eyes. Or where I thought that would be. I didn’t want to look.

  The gun clicked, and there was no loud report. I opened my eyes. I have never been so relieved to still be in danger in my whole life.

  Duffy took the moment to twist and dive backward, landing flat on Barry and immobilizing him. Barry, shouting and struggling, was no match. The fight was over before it began.

  “Come here, Rachel!” Duffy shouted. “Reach into his pocket and get your cell phone.”

  I ran to them, the gun at my side forgotten, and did as Duffy instructed even as Barry was complaining that he, Duffy, should be dead on the ground now so Barry could have picked me up and thrown me off the bridge. He had promised not to shoot me, after all.

  “I don’t understand,” I said to Duffy. “How did you know the gun wouldn’t be loaded?”

  Duffy had positioned himself so that his knees were on Barry’s legs and his hands were holding Barry’s straining arms to the pavement. “I stumbled onto him coming out of the car,” he said. “I couldn’t grab the gun out of his pocket, but I could eject the bullet in the chamber. Once Barry took out the clip, it was even easier.” He looked down. “Bad move, Barry.”

  Barry said something I won’t repeat, but by then I was calling 9-1-1.

  Chapter 31

  “So let me get this straight.” Ben Preston leaned on his crutches as I packed his bag for the ride home. I did not look at what I was packing since Ben had clearly not done so when he had left. Everything that was in the bag—since Ben hadn’t unpacked when we’d gotten to the hotel room—was clean. Everything I was stuffing into it now was at the very least questionable. “Damien Mosley killed Michelle Testaverde.”

  Once the Poughkeepsie police, the ambulance (presumably for Barry Spader, who wasn’t terribly hurt but did seem mightily embarrassed to be defeated so easily—he thought it had been easy to pull that trigger!), and the county cops showed up, allowing Duffy the opportunity to stand up and remove himself from Barry, I’d taken the opportunity to check my phone for missed messages. I’d been worried about Ben after he failed to show up and rescue me.

  It turned out I had every reason to be concerned, but not for Ben’s overall safety. No doubt while I was being driven to my supposed doom on the footbridge, Ben had texted: Fell over park bench. Think I broke my foot. Cops there yet? I’d turned the ringer off, so I hadn’t heard anything the phone did while it was in Barry’s pocket. My laughter at reading the text probably wouldn’t have buoyed Ben’s spirits anyway.

  The other texts were all from Paula: Spader spent time in rehab after leaving Poughkeepsie. Then, Spader not listed in Arlington, VA. Then, You might want to look @ Spader. Finally, Are you OK? I texted back to her that everything was all right now and I’d talk to her in the morning.

  “Yes,” Duffy said now to Ben’s question. He, of course, had nothing to pack—he hadn’t even gotten to a clothing store tonight, what with being hit over the head and abducted—so he was free to watch me take care of Ben’s stuff (and my own). His feet and hands were working, yet he did not seem moved to pitch in.

  What with his having saved my life—again—it seemed impolite to bring all that up.

  Technically, I wasn’t sure Duffy had actually saved my life. Barry had been so inept about trying to kill us—handing me the gun, hiding behind the guy I was supposed to shoot—there was a decent chance he was going to mess it up no matter what Duffy had done. But the intent was certainly there, and the only action I’d taken was to raise a gun to Duffy’s forehead and pull the trigger. I was still wrestling with that moment, and I would be for quite some time. Therapy would probably be required. That moment on the bridge was as awful as I’ve felt in my life.

  “Apparently Damien was consumed with jealousy when he found out Michelle, who never married him, was involved with Barry Spader,” Duffy continued. “He shot her in a rage, raided her closets, and made her appear to be a homeless woman, then left her body under a railroad pass where it was discovered without ID. Apparently, Michelle was not in touch with any family since she was never reported missing. Her friends all believed, as Damien told them, that she had married him after many proposals and then moved into the apartment. He hired a van to move her belongings and actually did bring them to West New York. He lived there very briefly.”

  Ben looked at me as I zipped up the bag he’d brought. He looked sheepish, at least, which was a start. “So from what you told me Barry said, he didn’t believe Michelle had left him for Damien, and he tracked them to West New York, then forced Damien into admitting what he’d done.”

  I hefted the bag, which wasn’t terribly heavy, and threw it at Duffy. “You take this one,” I said. He looked a little startled as he caught it but didn’t argue.

  We were heading for the door (Ben hobbling along on the crutches) to begin the trip home when there was a knock. I looked at the two guys, who shrugged. I reached into my purse for my pepper spray, just in case, and opened the door.

  Walt Kendig, head down and shoulders bobbing in some kind of expr
ession of shyness, glanced at me and the two men. “I heard there was an arrest,” he mumbled. “Wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “We’re fine, Walt,” I assured him. “I was going to text you from the car. But I’m sure your sources in the police department have already given you most of the juiciest facts.”

  Walt looked up just for a moment, still subdued. I couldn’t figure out why he was suddenly so worried about seeing us—or me. “I heard some,” he said. “I was at the station getting back my car. Turns out Barry Spader stole it to use around town that night because he knew where I lived, and he didn’t want to use his own car in case he was spotted. People would think it was me, right? Then he ditched it on a side street when he needed the bigger car to, you know, drive you guys around. Can I come in?”

  “We’re just leaving,” Ben said, and we moved through the doorway into the hall in an attempt to make it to the elevators.

  Walt followed along. I felt for the hotel key in my pocket, looked over the room one last time because I always feel like I’m going to leave something behind, and closed the door firmly behind us. Wouldn’t want someone sneaking in and stealing one of the beds on my watch.

  “I called a few people from our high school class and found Damien Mosley’s mom, Dorothy,” Walt said.

  Everybody stopped walking. “What?” Ben rasped.

  “Yeah. She’s in an assisted living home in Jersey. Said she’s going to have to sell the place in West New York to pay her fees there. Probably go on the market within a month.”

  We all looked at each other. “You’re a big help, Walt,” I said.

  He blushed. “Really?”

  “Really.” We started walking again.