Running Scared

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Ian said, smiling as he climbed the two low steps onto the porch. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m searching for a young lady by the name of Cherelle Faulkner. The woman in the apartment across the street and down a ways said that someone at 113 Oasis Lane might be able to help me.”

  As he spoke, Ian pulled out the pictures and presented them to the old man, who took a long time to fish half-glasses from his shirt pocket and settle them onto his nose.

  The hound didn’t stir at the interruption. Not so much as a quiver.

  Ian wondered if it was stuffed.

  “Ay-ah. She comes around a couple times of year,” the man said in a scratchy Northeast accent. “Lives with that sweet lady’s no-good son.”

  “The sweet lady next door?” Ian asked, gesturing toward 113 Oasis Lane.

  “Ay-ah. Mrs. Seton.”

  “Is this her son?” Ian asked, tapping the photo of Socks.

  The old man shook his head. “He’s the bastid that drives the fahting purple car.”

  Ian swallowed a laugh by clearing his throat. “Do you know when Mrs. Seton will be back? Cherelle’s grandmother really wants to see her granddaughter before she dies.”

  “Mrs. Seton didn’t say. Just dumped Pitty Pat on me and took off in that black limousine yesterday afternoon.”

  Ian was almost afraid to ask. “Pitty Pat?”

  “My Siamese. Cat likes the Widow Seton better, ’cause old Barks A Lot chases her, so she’s always going and hiding next door.”

  “Barks A Lot?”

  “My hound.” He nudged the big animal stretched out at his feet.

  The hound didn’t move.

  “Chases Pitty Pat,” Ian said.

  “Ay-ah.”

  “Cat must have a helluva long memory.”

  “Ay-ah.”

  “Did you see anyone with Mrs. Seton?”

  “Can’t say. Car pulled around to the back to pick her up. I know she’s gone, though.”

  “How?”

  “Pitty Pat stayed here. Soon as Mrs. Seton comes back, Pitty Pat will run off again.”

  Ian folded a twenty-dollar bill and put it into the old man’s pocket along with a business card that had Ian’s cell phone number on it. “If anybody comes back here, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Don’t want to bring trouble down on the widow. She don’t much like that Cherelle. Heard ’em arguing more than once.” He shook his head. “Poor Mrs. Seton. Cherelle is what we used to call coarse.”

  Ian bet people still called it that.

  Chapter 44

  Las Vegas

  November 4

  Midafternoon

  Risa and Shane drove by Shapiro’s business, which was located close to the failing downtown and its downscale casinos. It was an area of small businesses that aspired to middle class and didn’t quite make it. Shapiro’s show windows were barred, the blue neon sign advertised payday loans, and the storefronts on either side were taken by a travel agent and something called Woman’s Needs, which could have been anything from a sex shop to a free clinic.

  Shane darted into a parking spot on the street a block away from Shapiro’s business. The red Lexus that had been following them had no place to hide, no choice but to roll on by while Shane memorized the license plate. Without taking his eyes off the car, he keyed a number into his cell phone, waited until someone answered, and read out the plate number.

  A slanting sideways look was Risa’s only comment, but curiosity got the better of her. “Was that Factoid or one of your own computer moles?”

  “Factoid. No point in duplicating his efforts. He’s cracked every motor-vehicle registration bureau in every state of the union. Canada, too. He’s working on Mexico but claims the system is so corrupt that no one drives the vehicle the plate is issued to. I told him he just doesn’t understand the system yet.”

  Shane looked back toward Shapiro’s business. If there were any lights on inside, they didn’t show up against the glare of daylight.

  “It looks closed to me,” Risa said.

  “Yeah.”

  He keyed in another command on his hand unit, checked the numbers that had called him, and accessed Ian’s message. It wasn’t chatty, but it was long. Phone to his ear, he listened with growing intensity.

  Watching Shane’s face, Risa wondered what had gone wrong. She knew something must have. Other people might not be able to see past Shane’s impassive expression, but she could. With rising impatience she waited until he put the cell phone down.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Joey Cline was murdered.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “Not directly, but whoever killed him left bloody marks from the pawnshop murder site to 113 Oasis Lane, and whoever lives at that number knows Cherelle. My guess is that Cline bought the gold and turned it to Shapiro, who turned it to Covington, who turned it to Smith-White.”

  Risa forced herself to breathe. “You’re sure about Cherelle. She’s linked to a murdered man.”

  They weren’t quite questions. Shane answered them anyway. “A neighbor on Oasis Lane recognized Cherelle from the photo. A man called Socks—the one you call Bozo—was also recognized. Mrs. Seton, who is probably related to the man who killed Cline and left bloody marks in the alley, lives at 113. Her no-good son visits occasionally, according to the neighbor. Cherelle comes with the no-good son.”

  “Seton,” Risa said, remembering the brochure Cherelle had left behind. “Tim Seton. He’s Cherelle’s partner in the channeling business.”

  “What about Socks?”

  “Bozo?” Risa laughed shortly. “He wasn’t mentioned in the brochure.”

  “He drives a purple car with a loud muffler.”

  Risa’s fingers drummed on her thigh. She didn’t like what she was hearing. She liked what she was thinking even less. “All right. So we have Socks in a purple car, Cherelle probably in an old Bronco, and Tim at the motel and then at the house on Oasis Lane. What does Mrs. Seton have to say for herself?”

  “She isn’t home. A black limo came for her yesterday afternoon. From what Ian could gather, Cline was probably killed yesterday. Rigor mortis had already come and gone.”

  Risa grimaced. “What about the guy who left bloody marks? Where is he?”

  “Ian will check the house tonight, but I’ve got a hunch it was Tim who was hurt, so his mama loaded him into a limo and took him somewhere for some real quiet doctoring.”

  “A hunch, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The kind that made you into a multimillionaire?”

  “Yeah.”

  She blew out a breath so hard her hair shivered. She couldn’t think of a single comforting reason for Tim crawling away from the site of a murder covered in blood. The memory of Cherelle’s full, wild laugh when she found out how much Shane’s collection of Celtic gold might be worth was equally uncomfortable.

  Damn it, Cherelle. Why didn’t you come to me? I could have helped you. You didn’t have to get tied up with . . . whatever it is you’re tied up with.

  Then Risa realized that Cherelle had come to her, and in doing so had sicced a thug on her.

  Maybe she didn’t have any choice.

  Risa’s mouth turned down. You always had a choice.

  And sometimes the choice you made was bad.

  “Why wait for night to check the house?” she asked.

  Shane looked at her with jade green eyes that had both comfort and shadows in them. “Because Ian doesn’t have a key.”

  “Then why not phone in an anonymous call for help from that address? Or tell the cops that whoever killed Cline went there?”

  “Ian will do just that after he makes sure there aren’t any more gold artifacts inside the house.”

  “But—”

  “Dana’s orders,” Shane said, ignoring the interruption. “She doesn’t want the artifacts scooped up or lost in the bureaucratic shuffle by a system that doesn’t haven’t the faintest ide
a of the gold’s cultural worth.”

  “ ‘Buy, Sell, Appraise, Protect,’ “ Risa said, remembering Rarities’s motto. “The art comes first and the client second.”

  “I knew that when I signed on. It’s why I signed on.”

  Smiling faintly, she leaned her head against the leather upholstery. “But you work very hard to look like a sleazy collector. You aren’t.”

  “Would crooks approach a Boy Scout with stolen cultural artifacts?”

  “No, but most people care too much for their reputation to ruin it by looking dirty.”

  A lift of Shane’s shoulder told her how much he cared about his good name.

  Risa went back to drumming her fingers against her thigh. “What if someone comes back to the house before dark?”

  “Ian is watching it.”

  “Do you think Cherelle is there?” Risa asked before she could stop herself. “Do you think she’s hurt? If she is, shouldn’t we . . . ?” Risa closed her eyes and took a careful breath. No matter what Cherelle had done, it was hard to sit and do nothing while her friend might be in pain. Or worse. “Shouldn’t we break in?”

  Shane took Risa’s hand to still its restless motions. Her fingers were cool. He warmed them between his palms while he waited for her to settle. He knew what was worrying her. She was imagining her friend on the run, hurt, hiding, needing help. All those warm and fuzzy feelings left over from childhood running smack up against the cold edges of adult reality, and not a damn thing to be done about any of it.

  “I’m okay,” she said on a sigh. “Really.” Her attempt at a smile turned upside down. “But one way or another it’s been a big ol’ bitch of a day. What really grinds on me is that it’s not over yet.”

  Slowly he smoothed her fingers against his cheek. “The neighbor didn’t see anyone but Mrs. Seton come or go. If Cherelle and Mrs. Seton didn’t get along—and, according to the neighbor, they didn’t—it’s not real likely that Cherelle would go there if she was hurt.” He kissed Risa’s fingers and released them. “Especially when she had a friend like you to go to.”

  “You mean stupid?”

  “No. Generous.” More generous than Cherelle deserved, but he wasn’t going to add to Risa’s unhappiness by saying it.

  She shifted and raked her fingers through her short black hair. “Damn, I hate not knowing. Wondering. Waiting. She could be hurt.”

  “It’s far more likely that no-good Tim is the one who left his blood on the pawnshop floor.”

  Risa knew that was true. It just didn’t make her feel any better.

  “Come on,” Shane said. “Let’s see if Shapiro is home.”

  “The sign says ‘closed’.”

  “Shapiro lives above the shop,” Shane said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You don’t want to know,” he said, thinking of a spectacular piece of Mayan gold he had bought from Shapiro in his upstairs quarters. After hours, of course. Shapiro did his most profitable work then.

  “You sure I don’t want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  Risa shut up and followed him toward the shop that was closed up tight in the middle of the business day.

  Without so much as looking around to see if anyone was watching, Shane sauntered past the shop, around the corner, and into the alley where full trash bins awaited pickup. In addition to a secondhand-clothes store, a used-office-furniture store, and a shoe-repair shop, there were two cafés and a taco stand opening onto the alley. The trash bins gave off odors that flies found irresistible.

  Shane wrapped his hand in his jacket and tried the back door of Shapiro’s Loan and Pawn Shop. It wasn’t locked. He pushed it open, pulled Risa though, and shut the door again. Voices came from somewhere overhead.

  The smell wasn’t any better inside. If anything, it was worse.

  “Shit,” Shane said very softly. “Stay here.”

  “But—” Her objections dried up when she saw the gun in his hand.

  The stairway risers were covered with linoleum that had been worn through to the black underlayer and from there right down to the boards. He went up them quietly, keeping to the side of the steps where they were less likely to creak.

  Shapiro was in front of the TV. A tipped-over, empty quart of expensive bourbon lay on the couch next to him. The actors on the afternoon soap opera were humping tastefully beneath the sheets. When their choreographed cries faded, the action cut to an ad for toothpaste. Shapiro didn’t react.

  Shane thought the man was dead. It certainly would account for the smell. Then he heard the faint bubbling of a snore and realized that Shapiro was dead, all right.

  Dead drunk, so out of it that he had filled his pants like a baby.

  Chapter 45

  Las Vegas

  November 4

  Late afternoon

  Shane’s office was cool, well furnished, and smelled like glory after hours spent on the dusty streets and in the ripe alleys of Las Vegas. Risa sat with her head resting on the back of a sea green brushed-leather couch and tried not to worry about Cherelle.

  “So far,” Shane said to Ian and Niall, “we’ve got one dead bottom feeder, and he’s the only one that matters. He’s the point where the gold entered the system. We’re assuming it went from Cline to Shapiro but can’t prove it because Shapiro says his computer crashed and took all his records, and that’s why he got drunk.”

  “Do you believe him?” Niall asked.

  Shane laughed.

  “Want me to squeeze him?” Ian asked.

  “Short of beating the crap out of Shapiro—”

  “Dana frowns on that method,” Niall cut in.

  “—we’re stuck. Like Covington, he has deniability, lawyers, and has been around this track before,” Shane finished.

  “Don’t forget Frank Firenze,” Ian said.

  “The one who was following us in the red car?” Risa asked.

  “Yeah. By the time I got his name, he wasn’t following you anymore. I called and asked him why he was following you. He didn’t know what I was talking about, his car had been in the shop, he wouldn’t follow you in the future, good-bye.”

  “If you see him tailing you again,” Niall said to Ian, “let me know. Otherwise . . .” He stretched and rubbed his short, dark hair. Even the corporate jet cramped his long frame, but Dana wanted the gold and that was that. “We’ll concentrate on the three other bottom feeders who are running around with the kind of treasure that the British Museum is screaming is rightfully theirs.”

  Risa was still flinching at the description of Cherelle as a bottom feeder when the rest of Niall’s words sank in. She sat up in a rush. “What? I missed that part. When did the British Museum get in on the act?”

  “As soon as we put out pictures on the Net,” Niall said, “the Brits jumped on them with both feet, yelling ‘Mine, mine, mine!’ The Irish leaped in right after, then the Austrians and—”

  “The Austrians!” Shane interrupted.

  “Hallstatt and La Tène,” Risa said. “Right?”

  “Right,” Niall said.

  Shane snorted. “Nice try. Doesn’t fly.”

  “Hey,” Ian said, “when it’s an international pissing contest, all that matters is volume, not quality.”

  “You’re brighter than you look, boyo,” Niall said to Ian.

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” Shane muttered.

  Ian flipped him off without real interest.

  “As Dana would say, ‘Shut it, children.’ “ Niall bent down and pulled a sheaf of printouts from a battered canvas map case that was older than he was. “Rap sheet on Timothy Edgar Seton, Cherelle Leticia Faulkner, and Cesar Firenze Marquez, street name Socks.”

  “Firenze?” Shane said. “Interesting.”

  “Any relation to Frank Firenze?” Ian asked.

  “Probably. The Firenze family was supposed to be Mob in Vegas back in the bad old days,” Shane said. “But they’re superclean now. The Gambling Control Board wouldn’t have it an
y other way. John Firenze—the head of the family—has a business degree and all the right political connections.”

  “Maybe that’s what Frank was after—Socks and the gold,” Ian said to Risa. “When he saw you looking in all the wrong places, he gave up on you.”

  She barely listened. She was still reeling from hearing Cherelle’s middle name for the first time. “I didn’t even know she had one.”

  “One what?” Niall asked.

  “Middle name,” Shane said before Risa could. “Cherelle’s. Leticia.”

  Ian looked from Shane to Risa and shook his head sadly. “It’s already started.”

  “What has?” Niall asked.

  “Finishing each other’s sentences. Reading each other’s minds.” He glanced at Niall. “Like you and Dana. Enough to make a man swear off women.”

  “Your sentences could use some finishing,” Niall retorted, scanning the first printout for the highlights. “This Socks is the kind of boy who keeps the penal system in business. In and out since he was ten. He’s been on the streets a whole eighteen months now.”

  Risa rubbed her temples. “Will wonders never cease.”

  “Hey, it’s a record,” Niall said. “Most time he’s spent on the outside since he graduated.”

  “High school?” Ian asked.

  “Juvie,” Niall said. “Once he turned sixteen, he started going away for longer times as an adult. Hard time.”

  Shane went to the wet bar, pulled a bottle of sparkling water out of the small refrigerator, and handed it to Risa. She gave him a surprised look that told him she’d just figured out she was thirsty and wondered how he’d known.

  Ian gave her an I-told-you-so smile.

  “Is that where Socks picked up Seton?” Shane asked. “In jail?”

  Niall nodded and scanned the page rapidly. “Cellmates. Socks is suspected of shanking an old guy in prison. No proof. No charges.”

  “Shanking?” Risa asked.

  “Killing him with a homemade knife,” Shane said.

  She grimaced as she unscrewed the bottle top. “Nice guy.”

  “Oh, he’s a sweetheart,” Niall agreed. “Armed robbery the last time out. Assault and battery before then. Burglary. Attempted rape. And after his dance through the Golden Fleece, you can add kidnapping, burglary, assault, and attempted murder. Car registered in Nevada. Nevada driver’s license suspended for driving under the influence. No wife. No kids to speak of. No home address. Mother dead. Father a drunken small-time crook whose specialty was drying out in county jails in between running cigarettes from Indian reservations and selling them out of his trunk at swap meets. But that was only when he wasn’t breaking legs for loan sharks.”