May 18
Allen Correctional Center
Lima, Ohio On his forty-third birthday, which nobody gave a crap about, Ian McGregor decided he'd had it with prison life. He came to that realization as he and nine other inmates walked from Cell Block 11 to the prison rec room, dragging their feet and shoving each other, for no other reason than to piss off the guards. Ian had spent half his adult life in and out of prison. While most of his offenses had been minor-drunk and disorderly, attempted burglary, bad checks-this last stint, sixteen months for breaking and entering, had been the pits. Thank God, ten days from now he'd be a free man, and this time, by God, he would stay free. No more stinking cells, no more pervert inmates, and no more prison riots, the last of which had left him with four ugly puncture marks on his arm where some goon had stuck him with a fork. Unfortunately, freedom was about all he had to look forward to. He had no money, no job prospect and no place to call home, unless his long-time, on and off girl friend, Rose Panini, took him back. He wouldn't blame her if she didn't. With his track record over the last twenty years, he wasn't exactly what women called a catch. Simply put, Rose was fed up. She had made that plain the morning of his last sentencing, swearing she never wanted to see him again. So far, she had kept her word. His pleas for her to visit him had remained unanswered, as had his letters. But Ian was optimistic. Once she saw him standing on her doorstep, repentant and oozing with charm, she'd take one look at him and forgive him. Rose was no prize, but she had a big heart. Not to mention a steady job. His second problem was a little more serious. And it came with a name--Arturo Garcia--one of the meanest s.o.b.'s he'd ever had the misfortune to know. Ten years ago, Ian had worked for the man, delivering meth and cocaine to night clubs throughout the Toledo area. The job had been fairly easy and the money good until the cops, who had been watching Ian, had apprehended him in the middle of a delivery and hauled him off to jail. But just when he thought he'd be spending the next decade behind bars, the D.A. had offered him a deal that was almost too good to be true-his freedom for the goods on his boss. Ian hadn't thought twice. He should have, because in addition to ratting on Arturo, Ian had walked off with thirty thousand dollars of his money, and that had made the drug distributor even more enraged.
On the day of his sentencing, which Ian had been dumb enough to attend, Arturo had to be dragged out of the courtroom, kicking and screaming as he fired a volley of obscenities at Ian. "This ain't over, you lousy snitch," Garcia had shouted. "When I get out I'm gonna find you and gut you like a fish." Fortunately, by the time Arturo was getting out of prison, Ian was going in for the B & E job, a twist of fate that saved him from a sure and painful death. The word was that Arturo had returned to his native town of El Paso where he and his younger brother Tony helped their widowed mother run the family grocery store. But who knew if that was really true. For all Ian knew, Arturo could be cooling his heels outside the prison gates right now, waiting for a chance to kill him. Ian's thoughts were interrupted by a vicious whack behind the knees. "Move it, McGregor. What do you think this is? A funeral procession?" Ian was tempted to yank the guard's baton out of his hand and shove it up his ass. The thought, satisfying as it was, went no further. That kind of behavior would only get him a week in solitary and suspension of his TV privileges. He didn't mind the solitary part, but he hated to be deprived of his nightly hour of television, especially now that
Baywatch had gone into syndication and was being shown every night. There was nothing like a bunch of stacked babes in tight bathing suits to get a man's blood pumping. As always, the recreation hour crowd was divided into two groups-the hard core poker players, who never got the game out of their system , even when they played with fake money, and a handful of TV aficionados. Tonight, Ian and his tube-addicted buddies were in for a treat. Instead of a full hour of their favorite program, they had elected to watch the last half hour of a local beauty pageant, followed by the last thirty minutes of
Baywatch. Taking a seat in the first row, Ian kept his eyes glued to the screen where six shapely girls, all finalists in the Miss Columbus pageant, pranced across the stage in skimpy bikinis, their boobs bobbing up and down and threatening to spill out of their bras. Ian and his friends clapped and cheered every time a contestant got close to the camera and gave them a mouth-watering view of her firm round ass. Even the guards joined in, whistling and ogling the girls as if they'd never seen skin before. "Hey," the inmate next to Ian said when the pageant was over. "Somebody tape that?" Larry Warmath made a goofy face and wiggled in his seat like an idiot. "I'd like a replay at my next jammy party." Laughter erupted, but Ian was no longer paying attention to the banter. Remote in hand, he was flipping through the channels in search of
Baywatch when two women on the screen, a skinny blonde with too much make-up, and a brunette in a white apron, caught his eye. The slim, rather petite brunette wasn't exactly his type, but he had to admit she was a looker. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties until she smiled, then she looked much younger. Her dark brown hair was pulled back from her face and held with a white ribbon at the nape of her neck. The eyes were very nice, big and gray and unwavering, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. It was full, lightly tinted and conjured up all kinds of fantasies. The two women appeared to be in a restaurant, empty at the moment. His eyes on the brunette, Ian listened. "Today," the blonde was saying, "we are talking to Abbie DiAngelo. Ms. DiAngelo is the owner and executive chef of the French country restaurant, Campagne, right here in Princeton." Ian sat up. Abbie DiAngelo? He had known an Abbie DiAngelo once. His stepsister. She was eight the last time he'd seen her, so he couldn't be sure it was her, but how many Abbie DiAngelos could there be? "Gimme this!" Warmath tried to take the remote from Ian, but Ian kept it out of the man's reach. "We ain't interested in no news, man. We want
Baywatch."
"This ain't the news, so chill out, Larry, okay?"
"Then what the fuck is it?"
"Two good looking broads. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" He winked at the others who were already snickering. "Casanova?"
"Hell, no." Warmath, who wasn't too bright, wet his lips and settled in his chair. He didn't have much of a choice anyway. Ian had the remote control and he wasn't about to let it go. The other three men didn't seem to mind watching the two women.
"Ms. DiAngelo," the reporter continued, "is a graduate of the New York Culinary Institute and is well known to Princeton area residents. Prior to opening her restaurant, she owned and operated a popular catering service, aptly named DiAngelo Catering."
She turned to the young woman. "And now you have just returned from Lyon, France, where you were awarded one the world most coveted culinary prizes--
Le Bocuse d'Or. This is an incredible accomplishment for an American chef, isn't it? Until now, no one from this country had ever received such an honor." Leaning against one of the tables, Abbie DiAngelo ignored the camera and focused her attention on her interviewer. "No, and frankly, I never thought I'd be coming home a winner. I would have been happy enough to place in the top ten, especially since this was my first time as a competitor."
"How did the French react when they heard you had won?"
Abbie DiAngelo laughed, and there, in her left cheek, Ian thought he recognized a dimple. "The same way they reacted when Lance Armstrong won his first
Tour de France. Feigning a shocked expression, she cupped her cheeks with both hands. "
Une Américaine? Mon Dieu! C'est pas possible."
The reporter laughed but Abbie quickly turned serious again. "Actually, they couldn't have been nicer, before, during and after the competition. A local reporter nicknamed me
La Petite Américaine--the little American. Somehow, the name stuck and when it was all over, all the contestants were thrilled for me."
"What does winning this award mean for you, Abbie?"
Abbie's eyes lit up. "Well, for one thing, it's doing wonders for my ego."
"I'm told you don't have one."
five star hotel in Valkenburg She laughed again. "Don't be so sure. A chef without an ego is like a soufflé without air. It will never rise to the occasion. Seriously," she continued, "for me, the real reward is to have been part of such an elite group for an entire week. Working with world renowned chefs, sharing tips with them, comparing techniques and then cooking under such pressure for three days, convinced me that no matter what challenge comes my way now, I'm ready for it."
"The menu you prepared for the judges was impressive. Will you be adding any of those dishes to your current menu?"
"I already have. All have been a big hit."
Leaning toward Abbie but winking at the camera, the reporter said, "Is that the reason it's so difficult to get a reservation at Campagne these days?"
"Oh, I don't know," Abbie replied with a smile. "You might try using your connections."
Next to Ian, Warmath jabbed him in the ribs. "Hey, what's with you and that broad, man?" He wiggled again and said in a singsong voice, "You in love, McGregor?" Ian kept his eyes on the screen. "No, I just think I know her."
"Oh, yeah?" The inmate barked out a laugh. "Well, then, why don't you introduce us? We'd like to know her, too." He turned to his buddies. "Ain't that right, fellows?"
"Shut up, will you?" Ian tuned them out, fascinated by what he was hearing, almost certain the woman on the screen was his stepsister.
"Did you always want to be a chef?" the reporter asked.
Behind her, a waiter in black pants and a white, short-sleeved shirt, moved from table to table, placing silverware beside each plate. "Actually, I wanted to be a ballerina."
It's her, Ian thought, remembering the ballet posters in Abbie's room, the dancing lessons she had taken twice a week, the recital he and his sister Liz had been forced to attend. It's really her. Son of a bitch.
The blonde's gaze followed the waiter for a couple of seconds before returning to Abbie. "When did you change your mind?"
"I'm not sure. My mother was, and still is, a wonderful cook. That had a lot to do with my decision to go into the food business."
ERROR MSG So Irene was still around. That wasn't surprising. She had only been in her mid-thirties when she had married Ian's father.
"Thank you, Abbie, for taking time from your busy schedule to talk to us. And again, congratulations on your award." The reporter turned to the camera and flashed her pearly whites. "We've been talking to chef Abbie DiAngelo, the new recipient of the prestigious
Bocuse d'Or. For CBS, this is Loraine Grant."
Warmath gave Ian another jab. "Maybe we should get that broad to come here and cook for us. That prison grub they're feeding us is carving a hole in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon."
But Ian wasn't listening. He was thinking. Though not religious by any stretch of the imagination, he believed that finding Abbie after twenty-eight years was no accident. It was a sign from up above-one he couldn't afford to ignore. A moment ago he had been wondering where his next buck would be coming from and now everything had changed. Yes, siree, at long last the gods were smiling on Ian McGregor. And he owed it all to a twist of fate-or in this case, a punch of the remote. Who said miracles were only for the believers?
* * *
May 28
Stateville Prison
Aron, Ohio The first person Ian went to see when he walked out of Allen Correctional Center ten days later wasn't Rose, but an old buddy of his, a death row inmate who had been awaiting his fate at Stateville for the last six years.
Ian and Earl Kramer had met in San Francisco more than a decade ago. Both men had been partners in a venture to bring in illegal aliens from Chinamen and women so desperate for a better way of life, they were willing to pay ten thousand dollars each for a safe passage to the United States. Before Ian and Earl could make a single penny from their investment, however, the third partner had split with their money.
Broke and bitter, Ian and Earl had drifted apart, each looking for the next get-rich-quick scheme. A couple of years later, Ian heard Earl was back in jail, this time for killing a cop, and had been sentenced to die.
Ian wouldn't have given Earl a second thought except that he had hatched up a clever little plan regarding Abbie, and he couldn't put it into action without his old buddy. Getting in to see him, however, hadn't been easy. Even though Stateville wasn't a maximum security prison, only immediate members of the family were permitted to visit death row inmates. It wasn't until Earl's wife, Anna, had told prison officials that Ian was an old friend, practically one of the family, that he had been allowed in.
After a thorough search, both of his body and his belongings, he was escorted down several narrow corridors and into a room with two booths separated by a pane of thick glass. A telephone hung on each side of the partition. Choosing the far booth, Ian sat down and looked nervously around him. The atmosphere was different in this wing, quieter and more somber. You could almost hear a clock ticking, even though he didn't see any. Maybe the eerie feeling came from knowing that somewhere on this floor was the death chamber, patiently waiting for its next occupant. Ian shivered.
He had begun to sweat profusely when he heard the rattle of chains approaching. A few moments later, Earl walked in, escorted by two guards. Surprisingly, in spite of six long years on death row, the man had held up remarkably well. His hair had turned a dull gray and was sprouting out of his head in spiky clumps. He was also heavier than Ian remembered, more solid under the faded blue prison suit.
His hands and feet shackled, he shuffled to the booth and sat down. That's when Ian noticed the small black book Earl had brought in with him and laid on the table-a bible. He had heard that some death row inmates turned to God when all else had failed, but he had never pegged nasty, foul-mouthed Earl as a believer. Worried his hopes for some quick and easy money would collapse like a deck of card, Ian searched the man's face for a moment, waiting to hear the words "fooled you" coming out of Earl's mouth. But if Kramer sensed his old partner's anxieties, he didn't let on.
Ian waited until Earl had picked up the phone with both hands before speaking into it. "How you're doing, buddy?"
Earl glowered at him. "I'm on fucking death row. How do you think I'm doing?"
Ian relaxed. Now that was the Earl he knew. "I guess that was a stupid question."
The half-hearted apology seemed to go over Earl's head. "What the hell you doing here anyway? I thought after what Garcia threatened to do to you, you'd be halfway across the country by now."
"I will be soon." Ian glanced at the two guards standing by the door. They were watching him but looked more bored than suspicious. He lowered his voice. "I have a proposition for you."
"You're gonna spring me out?"
Ian laughed. "I thought a man with your connections would have already figured a way to get out of this place."
"Connections don't come cheap."
Ian grinned. "In that case, you're definitely going to like my proposition."
Trying to appear as though they were having an ordinary conversation, Ian lowered his voice another notch and laid out his plan.
