by Lakes, Lynde
Zena! Rusti had thought the note was from Kirby!
What could Zena, the new star of the Egyptia, possibly want? And what did desperate mean? The note said she could be reached any time between 11:00 A.M. and 2:00 P.M. at the Egyptia for the next two days. But to call ASAP as it was urgent. It was almost 11:00. Rusti called the Egyptia on her cell phone.
Tony, the early bartender, answered. Rusti asked for Zena, and in a few minutes Zena came on the line.
“Oh, Rusti, thank God,” Zena said in a wavering voice. “I know who killed René.” She was whispering now. “It’s a conspiracy. They’re going to kill me too.”
“Who?” Rusti’s hands were clammy.
“Meet me here at the club. Oh, please, Rusti. I’m so scared and I have no one else to turn to.”
“Razor and I will be right there. He’s resting, but I know he’ll want to help you.”
“No! You can’t tell him.” Her voice broke. “Rusti, he’s in on it. If you tell him, I’m as good as dead.”
“You’re wrong about Razor,” Rusti said.
“I swear, I’m not. I know for a fact that Razor is a killer. I have proof.”
Rusti’s heart pounded. She had secretly feared this, yet with all her heart she didn’t want to believe it. If there was proof she had to see it for herself. Even if Zena was mistaken, the poor girl was afraid of Razor. It would freak her out if she showed up with Razor in tow, and she was already on the edge of hysteria.
Rusti didn’t waste any more time considering what to do. She had to know for sure about Razor. She knew instinctively that he loved her. And she loved him. Might as well own up to it. But even love could not survive the kind of duplicity Zena was suggesting. Suggesting? She said she had proof.
Rusti wondered if she should call Baxter. No, she needed more information first. She gave a fleeting thought to her own safety—it wasn’t as though she’d be alone. The bartender would be there, and some of the other staff. Probably even Mike.
It would be fine, she decided as she called for a cab. Then she grabbed her purse and jacket and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.
The traffic was heavy and the drive to the Club Egyptia took over half an hour. All she could think of was how gentle Razor had been that night on the boat, how kind he’d been to Petra’s parents, the way he was with her whenever she was scared or foolish. Rusti couldn’t believe she could love a man who had no scruples, or that an unscrupulous man could behave with such sensitivity. Still, he certainly played a convincing Razor Jones and he was skilled at deception. Hadn’t he put one over on a man who had befriended him, treated him as though he were his own son? That whole business was something she couldn’t comprehend.
She reached the Egyptia in as much of a quandary as when she left the hotel. No matter how she cut it, going behind Razor’s back didn’t feel right. Still, Zena deserved a hearing. Rusti paused when she saw Ben sitting at the bar talking to Kirby, who apparently hadn’t gone on duty yet. Ben had a sandwich and a beer in front of him.
“Hi Rusti,” Kirby called. Ben swiveled around on his stool and met her gaze with a puzzled expression. She waved to them and entered the dining room, feeling Ben’s gaze still on her back.
Zena was in the center of the floor in red shorts and a matching tank top rehearsing the Majai snake dance routine, and although she was very good it, she would never measure up to the famed Majai. René had made the routine her own, wrapped it in her mysterious personality, her unique sensuality. It could be copied, but that certain something would always be missing. René had done the snake-routine only once or twice a week for shock effect. No one knew which night she would surprise the audience with the snakes. Maybe that was a signal too. She would have to ask Razor about that.
When Zena saw Rusti, she returned the slithering king cobra to its cage. After turning off the taped music, Zena came toward Rusti with her arms open. “Oh, Rusti, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” They embraced, and Zena drew her to the nearest table and spoke in hushed tones. “René had a notebook. She used it to keep track of things that happened here at the club. I found it when I took over her dressing room.”
“May I see it?”
Zena covered Rusti’s hand with hers. “Of course. As far as I’m concerned it’s yours. I didn’t want the cops to confiscate it, so I took it home until I could get it to you.” Zena lowered her lashes contritely. “I shouldn’t have…but I read a few pages.”
Rusti hated to think of someone reading her twin’s private thoughts, but Zena was trying to do the right thing now.
“René was in love with Razor and was covering for him,” Zena said in a choked voice. “It’s all there in writing. She’s dead because of him.”
Rusti’s throat was dry. “Covering what?”
“He killed a man named Kincaid because the guy was on to him. René foolishly gave him an alibi. Said he was with her all that night.”
Kincaid, Rusti thought. He was the FBI man killed before René. “You said your life is in danger. What’s that about?”
“I think Razor killed René because she had second thoughts about giving him the alibi and was about to renege on her original story. Maria told me that Razor searched René’s things the day after she was killed. No doubt looking for the notebook.”
Rusti studied Zena. Her story was getting pretty wild now. “I want to see the notebook and decide for myself what it means.” Rusti knew she had to stay rational, but inside she was shriveling up. If the notebook confirmed Zena’s story, there would be nothing left of Rusti’s heart but a dry empty shell.
“I don’t live very far away,” Zena whispered. Her lower lip trembled. “Wanna go now?”
“The sooner the better,” Rusti said, needing to know one way or the other.
“Good.” Zena slipped off her leather belly dancing slippers and pulled on her jeans and black high-heeled boots. “I don’t have to come back for the show; tonight’s my night off. After you see René’s notes, maybe we can put our heads together and find a way to turn Razor in. I won’t feel safe until he’s behind bars.”
In spite of Rusti’s call to Buck Williams, she hadn’t really considered the reality of Razor being a double agent. Jerry had suggested that maybe Ben and Razor were double-crossing Terrilla. If true, the man she loved might very well end up dead. Or at the very least, behind bars. She searched for flaws in Zena’s story.
“Why haven’t you taken the notebook to the police, Zena? That seems to me to be the thing to do.”
“I thought of that, but I don’t know what connections Razor has. He may have a mole in the P.D. Those underworld guys always do, you know.” Zena wrung her hands. “I’m afraid to do anything.”
Zena was trembling, and Rusti touched her hand. Zena had never been very friendly to her sister, but René had chalked that up to professional jealousy and hadn’t held it against her. Mike’s story was that Zena suffered from psychological problems. She’d lost her mother at birth and was raised by a father who resented her very existence. The guilt he heaped on her for being the instrument of her mother’s death wasn’t rational, but Zena continually flagellated herself with it. Mike felt her father’s emotional abuse had warped her, turned her into a human piranha.
Now the unstable woman had been drawn into the same pit of fear that Rusti had lived with for nearly two weeks. All the poor girl wanted was a little understanding. Even if Zena was wrong, and Rusti hoped to God she was, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge her a little. Zena was right about one thing; there was a mole in the police department. Still, there was at least one honest policeman, her ally Carl Baxter. Even if Razor turned out to be the bad guy that Zena claimed, Rusti knew she could count on Baxter and Buck Williams to come to their rescue.
“I know someone who can help us,” Rusti said.
“Great, but first I want you to see the notebook.” Zena led her out the back door into the alley. She pointed at Bob Cane’s sleek black customized Chevrolet truck. “Bob loaned
me his wheels while my car is in the shop.”
Rusti nodded and followed her to the vehicle. Just as they started to pull away, Bob Cane came running out of the club. “Hey, Zena. Wait,” he called.
Zena expelled air from her pouty mouth in exasperation. “I hope he’s not reneging on the loan.”
“I need a ride to the copy shop up the street,” Bob said. “I can walk back.” He patted the hood lovingly. “Then this baby is yours for the rest of the day.” He slid in next to Rusti, his broad shoulders pinning her between him and Zena.
Before Bob even got the door closed, Zena stomped on the accelerator and they took off with the tires squealing. They zipped past the copy shop at a tremendous speed. Bob said nothing. His eyes were glassy, excited. Rusti’s neck prickled. Something about this was very wrong.
Zena skidded around a corner, laughing hysterically.
Bob was laughing too. “I told you this would be easy,” he said. “This little gal is too tender-hearted for her own good.” He pulled a gun from under his jacket and jabbed it into Rusti’s ribs.
Rusti’s heart pounded—she was wedged in between two crazies!
“I’ve never had such an adrenaline rush,” Bob said. “It’s almost as good as sex.” He looked down at Rusti with nearly believable sympathy in his eyes. “Tough that such a sweet kid has to be sacrificed.”
Rusti remained silent. Zena was a good six-feet-tall, and pencil thin. Rusti saw it all clearly now. Zena had set her up, and her doubts about the man she loved had made her an easy mark. The tall, thin, mute boss at the winery and the shadowy form who’d stabbed Petra was Zena. And she was probably the one who’d stabbed René as well.
Anger rose in Rusti, almost choking her. Now that she’d gotten herself into this fix, how could she get out of it and make Zena pay? “Don’t you feel any remorse for what you’ve done?” Rusti asked as she scanned the cab of the truck, looking for a weapon, or some way to attract attention.
Zena arched a brow and darted a sideways glance at Rusti. “Why? For giving you the thrill of your dull little schoolmarm life?” She gave an insolent toss of her wild black mane and switched lanes crazily, driving like the wind.
“Ease up, jungle cat,” Bob said. “You’re really wired.”
Zena laughed. “And you love me that way.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Rusti asked. “I don’t have anything you want.”
“No,” Zena said, her voice rising with scorn. “But now we have something Razor wants. You! And when he finds out, he’ll come for you. And that gives me power over him. And my father.”
“Your father?” Rusti asked.
“Don’t forget the money,” Bob added. “All the beautiful laundered money.”
Zena laughed, but her almond eyes narrowed, and she shot Rusti a malevolent look. “To back up his lies, Razor drummed up a story about taking this over-trusting schoolteacher to the Caymans with us. Can you believe it?”
Zena obviously had real doubts about Razor. And she intended to use Rusti to blow his cover. It seemed this web of deceit and greed had something to do with Terrilla. Was Bob working for Terrilla, too? “Don’t worry about it,” Rusti said. “I wouldn’t go anywhere with any of you.”
Zena laughed. “You don’t get it, Rusty Bucket. You have no say in any of this.”
After seeing Zena’s and Bob’s true characters and hearing the exchange between them, it didn’t take a whole shelf of encyclopedias to fall on her to realize that more than microfilm was involved. Zena wanted power over her father. Was this a revenge thing? Mike blamed Zena’s volatile and disagreeable nature on her unhappy childhood—her father’s abuse. But why did she want revenge on Razor? Was Zena Terrilla’s daughter? What about her last name—Matthews? No, Razor would have known if she was. But would he tell her? Bob had mentioned money. Did they plan to sell the microfilm to Terrilla? There were too many missing links. “What are you going to do with me?” Rusti asked.
Zena’s tawny eyes glistened with ill humor. “Depends on Razor.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
A knock at the door woke Razor. Damn. He glanced at the clock. After a twenty-four hour stakeout, he needed more than a couple hours of sleep. He ignored the knock and took a quick hot shower. It relaxed his muscles enough to improve his disposition. Rusti would be happy about that. He’d been a real grump earlier.
Before hitting the sack, he’d turned off his cell phone and told the hotel to hold any calls that might come through their switchboard—so he and Rusti could get some much needed rest. Quietly, so as not to wake her, he walked into the living room and saw a message had been slipped under the door. It was from Ben and marked emergency. Call me ASAP, it said. What the hell did he want?
Razor retrieved his cell phone from the bedroom and punched in Ben’s number. Ben answered on the first ring. “What the devil is Rusti doing down here at the Egyptia alone?” he demanded.
Razor’s throat went dry. She couldn’t be. She was sleeping just down the hall. “Wait,” he said. He ran to Rusti’s room and knocked. “Rusti?” No answer. He looked inside. The bed was neatly made. The bathroom door was closed. He banged on the door with his fist. Getting no answer, he barged inside, banging the door against the wall—empty.
“Don’t let her leave, Ben,” he said, buckling his belt and slipping on his shoes at the same time. “I’ll be right there.”
“Too late,” Ben said. “She just took off with Zena Matthews. Zena’s face was all puffy like she’d been crying. Rusti consoled her with a sisterly hug and they left the place together.”
Razor’s neck prickled. “Did they say where they were going?”
“No. But a few seconds later the bouncer, Bob Cane, followed them out the door.”
Sweat broke out on Razor’s brow. “Ask around. See what you can find out. You can get me on my cell. I have a hunch they’re headed for Terrilla’s—and so am I.”
He grabbed a jacket and his gun. Rather than wait for the elevator, he ran down the stairs to the parking garage. Burning rubber, he skidded around three turns and exited into sunlight.
Minutes later, Ben called and confirmed Razor’s hunch. “The Egyptia’s maid overheard Bob Cane and Zena talking,” Ben said. “They’d mentioned taking Rusti to Zena’s home to get a notebook.”
Razor thought a moment. That could mean Mike’s apartment where she stayed most of the time, or the mansion. With Bob Cane in the equation, the mansion was more likely. “I’m halfway there,” Razor said.
Zena! Razor shook his head. He’d discarded her as a suspect—thought she was only a wilful, spoiled rich kid who like to push her daddy’s buttons. But she was a dangerous killer—a lunatic. Terrilla had been covering for someone. It made sense now. He would only cover for family, for his only living child, Reba, alias Zena. The old Capo couldn’t stand the sight of her, but his feelings of guilt consistently overrode his common sense where that crazy daughter of his was concerned. Otherwise, she’d already have been eliminated. He sped toward Terrilla’s estate in Bel Aire, cursing his own stupidity every mile of the way. The early afternoon traffic worked against him. Although the weather had cleared, and the day was bright, he saw only dark despair. What had he done to cause Rusti to walk out on him—and into the killer’s waiting arms? With savvy to spare in that beautiful head, what made her do something so foolish?
His mistake was even more foolish. He’d underestimated Zena. Tall and slender. Rusti’s description of the dark figure leaving through the bedroom window that night fit Zena to a T. He hadn’t recognized the mute boss behind the kidnapping. But the description fit. The clues were clear now. What had lead him astray was the slight physical size difference—the black clad boss at the winery, although slim, was slightly heavier and had a flat chest. But taped breast and padding could account for that. Fear of giving her identity away explained why the killer never spoke—her voice would have been a dead giveaway. Jesus, it had been a woman’s strength pitted against Rusti in the hotel
fight, not some injured lightweight guy. Zena was right under his nose all the time, dancing at the Egyptia, running in and out of Terrilla’s mansion, raising havoc. The confusion of motives had thrown Razor off. Zena hated him, blamed him for usurping her father’s affections. He might expect her to engage in a personal vendetta, but not to mastermind a plot to expose a Fed sting. How much did she really know? And what could she prove?
Razor mentally shook himself. These were questions he should have been asking for days. He’d fouled up. Again. Maybe when this was over he should get out and do some other kind of work. He’d been Razor Jones for two years now, and a person can stand only so much filth. He felt like he’d crawled out from under a rock. He’d thought all along that slamming the jail door shut on Terrilla and his gang would make this past couple of years worthwhile. But not with Rusti in the mix.
Razor’s fear and apprehension grew with each mile. He got Baxter on the phone, briefed him and told him where he was headed. Then he called Buck. “We’re jumping the gun. I need Fed back up—now! Baxter has the film, but Terrilla’s daughter has Rusti.”
“Terrilla’s daughter?” Buck voice raised.
“It’s a long story,” Razor told him. “Brief you later. Just get me heavy backup.” Razor zigzagged in and out of the traffic, juggling his cell phone. He honked at a jaywalker who darted out from behind a parked car.
There was silence on the other end of the line and Razor could just imagine the chief rubbing his jaw as he mulled over this recent turn of events. “It’ll take time to arrange,” Buck said finally. “Know where they’re holding her?”
“I think at Terrilla’s,” Razor said. “I’m on my way. Baxter’s lining up helicopters. You and Baxter figure out the logistics.”
“Risky. How’ll you play it?”
Razor silently cursed the stoplight that blinked to red. He skidded to a stop and swiped a hand through his hair. “Same con. I’m banking that Terrilla still trusts me. If not, I’ll play it by ear.”
