by Ana Barrons
“Oh, yeah? Remember who works for who, slime ball.”
Perelli blew out a long puff of smoke. “Wouldn’t that be ‘for whom’?”
“Fuck you. Shut up and let me think.”
Ned dropped into a chair on the periphery of Catherine’s vision. For a long time, he sat there, not speaking, while Perelli smoked cigarette after cigarette. The skin on her wrists and ankles burned and everything else ached with an intensity she wouldn’t have thought a human being capable of bearing. The pain and fear were agonizing.
But she wanted desperately to live.
“I can finish her quick,” Perelli said after a while. “No blood. No pain.”
Catherine tilted her head back far enough to see the haunted expression on Ned’s face. He must have felt her gaze on him, because he looked straight at her. She pleaded with him silently.
He turned away.
“No more killing,” he said quietly. “It’s gone on long enough. Too long. I can’t be a part of this anymore.”
“Your boss won’t be happy to hear that.”
“There are other ways to deal with the situation.”
“Do me a favor,” Perelli said. “Let’s step into the other room. If you insist on letting her live, that is.”
“Fine.” Ned sounded defeated. Weary.
They stepped into the sitting room and closed the door. She was alone.
Think!
There had to be a way to save herself. Forcing herself to ignore the pain that racked her body, she lifted her head a couple of inches off the floor and scanned the room. The telephone on the desk was several feet away, and she would have to pull it onto the floor and dial 911 somehow. Most of the room was lined floor to ceiling with bookcases. What book had Perelli been referring to? She couldn’t speculate on that now. Books weren’t going to do her any good.
Close to the double oak doors stood a tall hutch with glass doors enclosing crystal glassware. Maybe when they came through the door she could push it on top of them. It was a crazy idea, and she probably didn’t have the strength to pull it off, but what else did she have? With her hands and feet tied there simply weren’t a lot of options.
She began to inch herself toward the hutch, gasping from the pain of a million tiny knives poking at every nerve ending in her body. Once she reached the hutch she would lie on her back and push with her feet. Her mind told her it wasn’t going to work, but still she kept moving toward it, unwilling to simply lie there and wait for Perelli to “finish her.”
She had a few more feet to go when the door opened and Ned walked in.
“How did you get here?” he asked, as though she could actually answer. There was a hardness to his tone that hadn’t been there before. Had Perelli convinced him that killing her was the right thing to do? As though he’d read her mind, he knelt beside her again and stroked the hair off her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Catherine.”
Once again, she appealed to him with her eyes, and once again he turned away. Perelli hadn’t come into the room—had Ned gotten rid of him? Surely he would untie her now. He clasped and unclasped his hands, gazing into them as though they held the answers.
“I wish things had been different,” he said. “I never wanted you hurt. You have to understand, we didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t sit back and wait for the police to figure it out. And they would have, if I hadn’t contacted Sadler. I didn’t kill him—I didn’t kill anybody, and I wish to God I’d never gotten involved in this business.” He wiped his hand over his mouth. “You shouldn’t have come here tonight. How did you know about the book? I didn’t think Sadler had actually told Joe.”
She shook her head slowly, painfully, and grunted at him. She wanted to tell him Perelli was lying. He was the one searching for the book—the evidence Sadler was trying to sell to Joe. But what book?
“Your sister was the most indiscreet person I’ve ever known,” he said. Catherine stopped moving and stared. “She wrote everything down. Damn thing read like Who’s Who in Washington Politics. Sadler must have picked it up at the apartment, when Blair first disappeared, and realized immediately what he had. The bastard held onto it, figuring he could make himself some big money on it.” He scratched his head and stared at his hands some more. “I didn’t even know about it until he tried to sell it to Joe.”
The reality of Ned’s confession suddenly hit her.
He’s going to let Perelli kill me.
That’s why he was telling her all this, because she wasn’t going to be alive to tell anyone. From her throat came the squeal of a cornered animal. She began to wiggle away, and he didn’t try to stop her, just followed her with those haunted eyes. When it hurt too much to move anymore she began to sob.
“Forgive me, Catherine,” Ned whispered. “I’ve loved her for so many years. I couldn’t let them take her.”
Her? A woman had killed Blair? Surely, it couldn’t be... But if Blair had been having an affair with the vice president, it stood to reason.
Catherine’s last conversation with Joe, probably the last they would ever have, floated through her consciousness.
Ned’s the one who’s obsessed with Suzannah, not me. Why do you think he hates me so much?
“It won’t last with Sam,” Ned was saying. “Not after he’s out of office. And maybe then, down the road...”
She tuned him out. This had nothing to do with love.
Her sister had died because Suzannah Mitchell couldn’t stand the competition.
* * *
Hall watched the new Ford Taurus pull into Campbell’s driveway. He rolled down the driver’s side window quickly so he could hear, but he couldn’t see behind the tall bushes. There it was—the telltale click of a trunk being popped. This was what he’d been afraid of—somebody was planning to take Catherine Morrissey for a ride.
Was he already too late?
He waited while the man got out of the car and walked in the front door. Damn, he couldn’t see the guy’s face. A few seconds later, Campbell appeared. He leaned out, scanned the street in front of the house and shut the door quickly.
If body language were admissible in court, Ned Campbell would be tried and convicted on that action alone.
Hall called his partner twice, but got no answer either time. Fear crept into his gut. These people had proved themselves to be ruthless. What if Dan was in trouble? He put in a call for backup and sent a car over to Rossi’s to check on his partner. God help them all if they’d messed with Dan. He would personally hunt them to the ends of the earth.
Less than thirty seconds later, Hall climbed the steps of Ned Campbell’s townhouse and pressed the doorbell.
* * *
Perelli was about to roll up Catherine in the blanket when the doorbell rang. He met Campbell’s eyes. “Who the hell is that?”
“How do I know?” Campbell said. “Good God. What if it’s the cops? They might have followed her here.”
He hadn’t thought about that. Careless. “It’ll look bad if you don’t go to the door,” Perelli said. “Go get rid of them. I’ll wait here with her.” He smiled down at her. Oh, he was going to enjoy her before the night was over.
“No,” Campbell said. He sounded out of breath. “Go out the back. I don’t want you doing anything stupid like killing a cop, okay?”
What a candy ass Campbell had turned out to be. Did he really believe he was the boss? What a joke. Dale let Campbell believe that to satisfy his big ego, but Dale called the shots, like always. And that was okay with Perelli, because Dale paid real well and didn’t interfere.
“Give me the book for safekeeping,” Perelli said. “Just in case.”
Ned glanced to his right for a split second, long enough for Perelli to be certain the book was in this room, either in the cabinet with the little blackmail tapes or in the bookshe
lves he hadn’t gotten to when the bitch showed up. Perfect.
“Are you insane?” Campbell said. “I’d never entrust something like that to you.”
He’d expected that. Well, he’d come back for it later. “Fine. I’ll wait out back until whoever it is leaves.”
The doorbell rang again and Campbell about jumped out of his skin. “Go, goddamn it!”
Perelli glanced between Catherine and Ned, and warning bells went off in his head. He could take them both out right now, in case Campbell got some crazy-ass idea about freeing her so the cops would go lighter on him.
But no sense pissing off Dale.
If worse came to worse, he’d take care of Ned later. And get the book at the same time.
He left through the pantry, but he didn’t go out through the patio doors. Instead, he climbed the steps to the third floor, where he had stashed the Steyr SSG-P Special long-range sniper rifle, scoped out the streets below and pulled out his cell phone. He explained the situation quickly, efficiently.
And hung up smiling.
Chapter Forty-Three
As soon as the pantry door closed behind Perelli, Ned knelt beside Catherine.
“I promise to untie you as soon as I get rid of whoever’s at the door,” he said. His eyes were wild. “I would never have let him hurt you, you have to believe that.”
She grunted, trying to form words, begging him in the only way she could to set her free before the beast got to her.
“I’ll be back.” He rose to his feet and moved toward the doors, but then stopped and focused on something across the room. He seemed to debate, then walked quickly to his desk and rifled through a drawer. After a few seconds of glancing between the credenza and the oak doors, he left the room, locking the doors behind him. She heard him open and close the sitting room door as well.
The book. Blair’s appointment book, from the sound of it—was in the credenza. She was sure of it. The killer’s name had to be in there. If she could only get her hands on it.
She tried to picture the entry in her mind.
Suzannah Mitchell—Roosevelt Island.
How could Suzannah have gotten Blair out there? And where were the Secret Service agents that guarded the second lady? Surely they hadn’t sat back passively while she committed a murder?
So many questions and not a single answer. The police needed to see what was in the book, even if she died tonight. Somehow she had to let the person at the door—she prayed it was the police—know she was in here and needed help. Her eyes went to the hutch again. If she couldn’t push it over, if she could shake it enough to rattle the crystal...
Grinding her teeth against the pain that threatened to drag her under, she inched toward the hutch.
* * *
“Who the hell are you?”
Hall smiled at Campbell, standing there in his Georgetown T-shirt and black sweatpants. There was a pretty good chance that the next time he saw him he’d be wearing an orange jumpsuit and leg irons. He pulled out his badge and held it up for Campbell to see.
“Detective Marcus Hall, Metropolitan Police.”
“State your business, Detective. I have an early day tomorrow and I don’t appreciate—”
“May I come in, Mr. Campbell?”
“No, you may not. Are you going to tell me what you want at this ungodly hour?”
“I’d like to speak to Miss Morrissey.” Hall leaned around Campbell, trying to peer inside. “Is she awake?”
“There’s no one here but me.”
“Well, that’s funny. I saw her walk in this door over an hour ago and I didn’t see her leave. Maybe you should check again.”
Campbell swallowed. “She, uh, left a little while ago. Through the back door. What did you want to see her about?”
“And another gentleman walked inside less than two minutes ago,” Hall said. “Why don’t we ask him whether he’s seen Miss Morrissey?”
Campbell pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, who goes in and out of my house is none of the police department’s business. Maybe you ought to be monitoring your own staff, Detective. You’ve got some dirty cops on the force.”
“Thinking about anyone in particular, Mr. Campbell?”
“Don’t play games with me. Joe Rossi’s in jail because of his connection to Sadler.”
“And how did you hear about that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, now, that’s damn strange, considering how closely I’ve guarded that information. The media doesn’t have the story yet, and if the White House were keeping tabs on the investigation, I would be the first to know. Oh, wait.” Hall snapped his fingers. “Blair Morrissey. That’s why the White House is so interested.”
Campbell’s head jerked back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, Ned,” Hall said, his voice low and menacing. He was tired of screwing around. Catherine Morrissey was in that house and he wasn’t leaving without her. “You and Blair were good friends.”
Campbell averted his eyes, all his earlier bluster completely gone now. “It’s late, and I don’t like where this conversation is—”
“Yes, it is late.” So late that he couldn’t wait for his backup any longer. He got up into Campbell’s face. “And I’d like to see Miss Morrissey. Now.”
“You have no—”
The crash was sudden and terrifying. Hall shoved Campbell out of his way, his GLOCK 19 drawn. He kicked in the first door he came to and raced through the room to a pair of huge oak doors. Campbell was fast on his heels, shouting about his rights. Hall yanked on the doorknobs but couldn’t budge them.
“Open this fucking door!” he shouted.
Campbell was backing up. “I didn’t touch her. It was Perelli. I found them in here, but I—”
Hall grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “I said open the fucking door!” He pushed Campbell against it. “Unlock it!”
“I didn’t— You have to—”
With a roar, Hall tossed him aside and put his mouth close to the door. “Catherine, if you’re in there, move away from the door. I’m going to shoot the lock open on a count of three. One. Two. Three.” He blasted the lock with two shots, stuffed his pistol in its holster and pulled open the door...and stood there, disbelieving.
“Bastards,” he said between clenched teeth. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911, then barked instructions and an address into the phone as he stepped over broken glass and around a mahogany cabinet lying on its side, praying that the bound woman lying naked and bleeding on the floor was still alive.
* * *
Police cars and ambulances pulled up to Campbell’s house. Perelli watched from his perch in the tall oak tree across the street, at the far end of the neighbor’s yard. Groups of neighbors in robes and slippers gathered on lawns, but didn’t approach the scene. The silencer would make it slightly more difficult to be accurate at this distance, but he couldn’t get any closer and still have a prayer of getting away.
The doors at the back of the ambulance opened, and two medics raced up the front walkway with a stretcher. He hunkered down on the branch, his eyes through the scope never leaving the front door, using his peripheral vision to scan for anyone looking in his direction. Lady Luck had better be smiling on him tonight, because he had to take out the targets, even if he died trying. Dale had made that perfectly clear.
A minute passed. Two.
His nose itched, but he didn’t move to scratch it.
Come on, come on...
The medics reappeared in the doorway—the one in front holding an IV bag in one hand as they half rolled and half lifted the stretcher out the front door and started down the steps. He flexed his finger on the trigger. Behind them, a large man in a dark suit pulled Campbel
l roughly through the door and damn near threw him down the steps. His hands were cuffed behind his back, but a uniformed officer had his hand on Campbell’s other arm and stopped him from falling. The big man said something to the medic, who nodded and then proceeded down the walkway toward the waiting ambulance. He shoved Campbell again, and again the uniform managed to keep him upright. Campbell hit the street as the medics shifted the stretcher to the side and prepared to load Catherine Morrissey in.
Perelli smiled and pulled the trigger.
Before anyone had a chance to react, he pulled it again.
Chapter Forty-Four
“Put down the gun, Suzannah.”
Joe whirled around at the sound of Sam Mitchell’s voice. The vice president was standing in the doorway, flanked by a stocky man with a mustache and a buzz cut holding a gun.
“Go away!” Suzannah shouted. Joe glanced back and was shocked at the wild expression on her face. She had completely lost it. “This is between me and Joe, goddamn you.”
“Please throw the gun down in front of you, Mrs. Mitchell,” the stocky guy said. “We don’t want anybody to get hurt.”
Her face twisted into a sneer. “Oh no? What about that police detective, Dale? Or that doorman? Aren’t they anybody?”
“That’s enough, Suzannah,” the vice president barked. “Don’t you say another word.”
How must Sam Mitchell feel, talking to his wife while standing in another man’s bedroom? Joe’s gut twisted into a knot.
“Why don’t I leave you two to work this out,” Joe said, and took a step toward the door.
“You stay right where you are, Joe,” Suzannah snapped. “Or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Mrs. Mitchell,” Dale said.
“Put your hands up,” she ordered Joe, her voice harsh. All traces of her refined Southern accent were gone.
Joe raised his hands slowly. “For Christ’s sake, Suz, put the gun down, okay?”
Suzannah’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you ‘Suz’ me, you bastard. You used me.”
