by Jeff Abbott
Caught between the wolves hunting his mother at the hotel and Bucks. Lose them first, tell Eve where to meet him, or grab Eve then try and lose them? The wrong choice could mean death. In less than a minute.
On the phone he heard his mother scream.
He headed for the hotel, the steering wheel in a death grip. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty, veering hard around a truck.
Whit tore into the porte cochere at the Greystoke Hotel at thirty miles an hour. He sent one valet diving for safety. Whit nearly clipped a Porsche roadster, smashed an ornate potted fern, spraying the fragments across the flagstones. Screams and angry yells echoed behind him. He sped around the hotel’s corner, then around it again into the back lot. The Jag hadn’t pulled in after him. Waiting for him to pull out. Or blocking the exit around the other side of the hotel. A body lay before him in the parking lot.
Oh, God, no, he thought. But it was a man, not his mother, and he pulled up and leaned out to look. A man he didn’t know, two daubs of blood on his forehead, eyes wide and staring, mouth open, a grayish wad of gum on the lips like a withered tongue.
His mother’s red phone a foot from the guy, the screen broken and battered. The hat she’d worn atop her wig next to it. He opened his door, scooped up her phone and hat, stood by the car for a tense eternity.
‘Eve!’ he yelled. ‘Eve!’ Then, ‘Mom!’
Nothing. Him parked by a dead man, anyone could come around in a minute and see him with the corpse. He got back in the van and waited. Thirty seconds passed. She wasn’t here.
The Jag edged around the building, now behind him. No choice. He floored the van, swerved onto the narrow alley feeder that led back onto Westheimer, nearly side-swiping a parked truck, driving past the turn-in for the valet parking, the Jag revving hard, now near enough to ram him.
Pings sounded against the van’s back door and his driver’s side mirror broke. Shooting at him. He couldn’t outrun them, not in the van.
Whit ripped through a red light, barely missing an old Chevy pickup, and rocketed up the entrance ramp onto Loop 610, the vast highway that circled the heart of Houston. In the rearview mirror a man, the bookish one, leaned out of the Jag’s passenger window and emptied a rifle toward Whit, the cars around him braking and peeling away, drivers suddenly caught in a war zone. Whit jerked, as though he were hit, and the Jag slowed. A pickup truck and a Lexus SUV arced away from him, slamming into each other, spinning, barely holding onto the road, a Cavalier’s driver standing on his brakes, rear-ending the Lexus. Cars stopped, trying to pull over out of harm’s way, other drivers scrambling past them, not knowing about the battle in the lanes ahead.
Then Whit saw a patch of empty lane, spun the wheel with all his strength, prayed the van wouldn’t roll. The van turned 180 degrees, the burnt smell of smoking rubber and strained engine thickening the air.
He was now facing against traffic on a Houston highway, a suicide drive, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator. Straight at the Jag, stopped by the other collisions.
He saw Bucks’ face, the mouth working in shock, saying you crazy motherfucker.
The bookish guy opened his mouth in a scream, ducked back into the car, struggling to pull the rifle through the window. Whit stopped by the driver’s side, had his gun out and aimed at Bucks’ head.
‘Where is she?’ he screamed. ‘Tell me or I’ll kill you!’
Bucks wriggled, trying to get out of the line of fire and Whit thought shoot him. But he didn’t. A car missed the van by inches and he would die if he sat here, more traffic coming over the rise from 610 out of Bellaire.
A bullet tore into the trim above Whit’s head, Bucks firing wild at the bad angle through the open window, emptying the clip. Whit floored the van, vrooming into sparse oncoming traffic that hadn’t slowed, horns wailing. He yanked the wheel and suddenly he was on the grassy slide down to the frontage road at seventy miles an hour, hurtling downward into traffic, his head slamming against the roof, the van barely holding its wheels to the grass.
He swerved to move in the direction of traffic, roared down the frontage. He tapped his brakes at the red light at San Felipe, barreled over the curb, smacked through ornamental oleanders trimming the parking lot at a small shopping center, and drove back into the tree-lined quiet of River Oaks. No sign of the Jag in pursuit. He slowed his speed to the limit, checked the rearview mirror again and again and again.
Perhaps he’d been lucky and an eighteen-wheeler loaded with explosives had plowed into them, sitting on the highway, like a scene out of an overwrought action movie.
Or maybe Whit didn’t matter now. They had Eve. So they thought they would soon have the cash. They had Gooch. And odds were Bucks had the money.
Whit had nothing, nothing at all. He could go home. He felt dead. It was over. Insane. Insane of him to try and help her. He should have simply taken her to the police, turned her over. Talked her into it. Now he had nearly killed a man, put innocent lives at risk.
He picked up his cell phone, forced himself to take a steadying breath. Blinked, dialed.
‘Hello?’
‘Frank. Can you talk?’ Whit said.
‘Not at the moment. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.’ And he hung up.
Whit drove back to Charlie’s house, sticking to side roads, hoping that the shot-out mirror and any bullet holes in the van weren’t attracting attention. He pulled into Charlie’s empty driveway. Sat and waited.
The phone rang.
‘Yes?’ Whit said.
‘It’s Frank. Sorry, I was dropping Mary Pat off at the airport for Paul.’
‘Meet me at Charlie’s house.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Get here.’ He clicked off the phone, put his head down on the steering wheel.
Frank arrived about twenty minutes later, pulling up in the driveway behind Whit. Whit got out, thinking what do you know, have they called you, have I made a terrible mistake in trusting you?
‘They got Eve.’ He told Frank what happened. ‘They knew where we were, the hotel we hid at.’
‘Oh, God, no.’ Frank put a hand over his mouth.
‘They knew where we were.’
Frank heard the accusation in his voice. ‘I didn’t know where you were.’
Whit grabbed Frank’s shirt, pushed him against the van. ‘Eve didn’t tell you?’
‘I swear to God, no. If I’d betrayed you, Whit, I sure as hell wouldn’t show up to help you now.’
That was true. The Bellinis must have picked up their trail in another way. ‘Where will they take her?’
‘Probably the house here on Lazy Lane, with Gooch.’ His voice shook. ‘I can’t believe they haven’t called me to tell me they got her.’
‘You sure they haven’t?’ Whit said.
‘They haven’t. I’m on your side, Whit.’
Frank was his best hope, this glorified lounge singer. ‘Go back to the Bellinis. See if they bring her there. Then call me.’
‘Calling you may be difficult. If she’s alive, they’ll want me to talk with her, to reason with her. I can’t leave her to their mercies. Me being there might keep them from torturing her worse or killing her.’ Frank went ashen.
‘Frank, help me. Please.’
‘You’re her kid, aren’t you?’ Frank held Whit’s shoulders. ‘You’re not a regular wiseguy or hired thug.’
‘Yes. I’m her son.’
‘I knew it. I knew I saw a strong resemblance. Man, I didn’t even know she had a kid.’ Frank shook his head, looked at Whit like he’d never seen him before. Gave him a hard hug.
‘We hadn’t seen each other in thirty years,’ Whit said into Frank’s shoulder.
‘Oh, God, I never knew.’
Whit stepped back from Frank. ‘What about Gooch?’
‘Now that Paul has her, his value is nothing. They don’t need him.’
‘No; No.’
‘Whit, they’re gonna kill her, it’s practically guaranteed. Your friend, too. Lea
ve town.’
Whit said nothing.
‘Did you hear me? There’s nothing you can do. Go home and pray they don’t come looking for you. They can be animals.’
Whit’s eyes felt hot. No. There had to be a way. He slowed his breathing, tried to imagine a way through the maze. He needed a bargaining chip. Or a weapon.
‘Go back to the house,’ Whit said.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I can.’ And Frank turned and hurried back to his BMW, as though relieved suddenly to be on his way back to the Bellini fold. He hadn’t asked if Whit would call the police; he had to be afraid of that. But he got a bonus point for not asking. Whit watched him drive away.
Whit stumbled into the house, reached for his cell phone. The police. Call them, tell them everything. Claudia would help him.
The phone rang in his hand. Frank probably calling back, now really worried Whit was calling the cops. He said ‘Yes?’
‘You drive better than you bluff.’ Kiko Grace’s voice.
How would Kiko know … Whit closed his eyes. ‘What, you got Bucks to switch sides?’
‘I’m a persuasive man,’ Kiko said.
‘You have Eve.’
‘Yes.’
‘Like I told you, we don’t have the money. She can’t help you. Please don’t hurt her.’
‘I’m not interested in your sob story,’ Kiko said. ‘I’m interested in the money. Now. We can deal. Her for the money. And don’t tell me again you don’t have it. I don’t believe you. You say those words again, I jam a gun up her old ass and pump a couple of rounds. Better than fiber.’
Say anything, to buy time. ‘Fine. I’ll bring you the money. Don’t hurt her.’
‘Now we’re cooking. Now we’re smoking.’
‘It will take me time to get it. We didn’t hide it all in one place.’
‘Wise of you.’
‘You tell Bucks to call off any more killers he has. Working for you or for Paul.’
‘Paul’s plans are none of my business,’ Kiko said. ‘He got more problems than plans anyway.’
‘So Paul’s out of it? It’s just between you and me now?’
‘Far as I’m concerned.’
‘I’ll bring you the money,’ Whit said, panic rising in his throat. ‘Tomorrow.’ Bargaining for more time, anything he could get.
‘No. Tonight.’
He knew he couldn’t back up further. ‘Fine. Be five million poorer.’
‘You’re not in a situation to make demands,’ Kiko said.
‘I have what you want.’
‘And so do I,’ Kiko said. ‘But I’m not an unreasonable man.’
‘Tomorrow at sunset,’ Whit said. ‘At the Mecom Fountain on Main Street. You come alone. You bring Eve, I’ll bring the money.’ Mecom Fountain was about as public a spot as you could get in Houston, on Main Street in a traffic circle that was constantly busy, between the Montrose arts district and Hermann Park.
‘No. Pick another place.’
‘Then I’ll count the money myself,’ Whit said. ‘I’ll buy Eve nice flowers for her funeral. But I’ll have the money, not you.’
Kiko was silent. ‘All right.’ Whit could hear the tinge of greed in his voice. ‘I’ll send my associate José with Eve. I’m not doing any more public appearances.’
‘Mr Grace?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Watch out for Bucks. He turned on Paul, he’ll turn on you.’
‘I appreciate the concern,’ Kiko said. ‘Don’t get cute and call the police. I have friends on the force. Any word from them that my name’s been mentioned to anyone, and Eve dies. You got it?’
Probably a bluff but he couldn’t risk it. ‘I got it,’ Whit said. Kiko hung up without another word.
Whit sat down at the kitchen table. Bluster. He had nothing left but bluster. This mess was of his making and he had nothing left but the kind of bluster he used to whip kids in juvie court into shape.
But bluster made the world go round some days.
Whit went to Charlie’s gun cabinet, the source of one of Charlie’s jokes (‘When you’ve got clients like mine …’), but the guns looked deadly serious. Rifles, pistols, an antique German gun from the turn of the nineteenth century. Wicked knives in hand-stitched leather sheaths. Whit opened the cabinet, staring for a moment, letting the life he knew slip away like a mere shadow swallowed in greater darkness. He would be dead or different by sunset tomorrow. The thought left him cold but suddenly less afraid. He reached for the first gun.
Whit wondered if this was what it felt like for his mother, years ago, abandoning one life for another.
34
‘He doesn’t show for a meeting,’ Arturo Gomez said. He had a pleasant voice, one that rang in his chest, an actor’s tone. ‘He doesn’t sound particularly cooperative. Does he need the serious encouragement an arrest warrant offers?’
‘You’re jumping the gun. I’m concerned for Judge Mosley’s safety,’ Claudia said. ‘I’m afraid he’s in danger.’
‘Or he’s blowing smoke up your butt.’ Gomez shuffled through a file. Claudia and Vernetta Westbrook sat on the other side of his desk at HPD headquarters.
‘Frankly, sir, I don’t like the tone you’re taking,’ Claudia said. ‘Whit’s not hiding anything. He made an allegation to me, one he said he couldn’t prove. But he wouldn’t accuse another person lightly. And it’s entirely unlike him to miss a meeting with me. He’s a professional.’
Gomez locked his gaze on her, raised an eyebrow, as if asking what more do you know, never mind your friend?
‘Art, you got Advil? I don’t even know this friend of Claudia’s and he’s given me a bad-ass headache,’ Vernetta said. Trying to defuse the attention.
He pulled a bottle of aspirin from his desk, pushed it to Vernetta.
‘Given what Judge Mosley told me,’ Claudia said, ‘will you question Greg Buckman?’
‘On what grounds? Your tipster, who can’t make a simple meeting? I need cause. I need a boatload of cause before I approach anyone connected to the Bellini family.’
‘You have enough cause to question him,’ Claudia said. He’d taken a tone of speaking down to her, and she suspected it wasn’t his usual way of dealing with officers from other jurisdictions; he wanted her on the defensive, giving in to a rise. ‘And Whit is a respected judge, not a sleazy back-alley informant.’
Gomez studied her. ‘Chyme’s looking for Mosley’s mom, right? Mosley won’t come talk to you and instead points the finger at an Energis exec, which is synonymous with leper in Houston. So where’s the mom? Why hasn’t your friend brought you around to meet this mother?’
‘He said he hasn’t found her.’
‘Yet he can find all these people who are supposedly connected to her. Like this Greg Buckman,’ Gomez said. ‘Doesn’t ring true, and if you weren’t friends with this guy, you’d see that clearly.’
‘Perhaps the mom,’ Vernetta said, ‘doesn’t want to be found.’
Gomez nodded. ‘Because she’s committed a double homicide. Say she didn’t want to be found by her kid real bad. We’ve acted like Chyme was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it could have been he was the target and Doyle got in the way.’
‘Harry was looking for Eve Michaels,’ Claudia said. ‘We don’t know that she is Whit’s mother.’
‘Sure, I can bring in Buckman. Or Eve Michaels. They’re in with the Bellinis, they promptly shut up, get a lawyer who starts prepping for another harassment lawsuit against HPD, and we get nowhere.’
‘So you do nothing? Surely not.’
‘That’s not what Art is saying,’ Vernetta said, diplomacy warming her words. ‘Art, checking into any connection between Greg Buckman and the Alvarez family, or with Buckman or Doyle and Chyme, might bear fruit.’
‘Or the Bellini family,’ Claudia said. ‘Or Ms Michaels. I think it’s time to start looking hard for her, since Whit isn’t having luck.’
‘Fine. We’ll start making inquiries,’ Gomez s
aid. ‘Get your friend in here. Or I’m going to tell the TV stations that I’m looking for a judge who may be withholding information on this case. What do you think that will do to his career?’
‘You’d ruin him but tiptoe around the Bellinis. Are you so afraid of another lawsuit?’ Claudia asked.
Gomez shrugged. ‘Afraid? No. Aware? Yes. If Buckman killed Doyle and Chyme, or if he knows who did, we will absolutely bring him to justice. But I’m a realist, Ms Salazar. I have to be. That means anything connected to the Bellinis is handled carefully and with thought, so our asses are armored.’ He glanced at Vernetta. ‘We have found it very difficult to break into any information about the Bellinis. Tommy Bellini learned from his past. We don’t catch them committing crimes. We don’t find people willing to roll over on them. If they’re still breaking the law, they have been extremely careful. It’s frustrating when we can’t find a crack in the door to get a search warrant.’
‘I don’t envy you your job under these circumstances,’ Claudia said. ‘Thank you.’
‘If Judge Mosley doesn’t feel safe,’ Gomez said, ‘we could provide him with protection if he’ll come in.’
‘I don’t know that he’s in any danger, but this behavior isn’t like him.’
‘Is there another aspect to this case you’re not telling me?’ Gomez said.
He found, his mother and is protecting her. It would be easy to admit what she believed to be true. But she forced herself to be silent. Gomez and Vernetta might believe a man would do anything to protect his mother. Lie. Kill. They didn’t know Whit. She did.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Detective Salazar, don’t get a cute idea or two. You have no jurisdiction here.’
‘I’m absolutely aware of that,’ she said.
‘Absolutely is good,’ Gomez said. ‘Remember it and live it.’
They left, and she drove Vernetta home.
‘Claudia,’ Vernetta said, ‘go home. And I don’t mean back to the luxury of the Hampton Inn.’
‘Whit’s in trouble. I’m not leaving.’
‘Your friend’s not worth you getting involved in his extreme mess. You could be a police chief one day. Not a hint of improper procedural behavior, even as a private citizen, can hang over your head,’ Vernetta said. ‘Don’t screw with your career. You can always get a new friend.’ She paused. ‘Are you sleeping with this guy?’
