“Yes.”
“And you’re certain he wasn’t meeting anyone nearby?”
“I’m not certain at all. But if he was, he didn’t tell me about it.”
“And you’re sure you only gave him twenty dollars? Even though he asked for several thousand?”
He’d hit her up for several thousand dollars? What a dickhead.
“That’s right,” she said. “That’s all I had in the house.”
“Do you have a habit of keeping large amounts of cash at home? Say, more than a hundred dollars?”
“No.” Her voice had become wary now.
“See, here’s the thing. For him to even ask that seems pretty unusual. I mean, most people are like you. They don’t keep big sums of cash lying around. So I’m wondering why Mr. Strickland even thought to ask.”
Silence.
“Ms. Wells?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you remember, back while you were married to Mr. Strickland, being in the habit of having large sums of money around?”
“No.”
“Do you know if your ex-husband might have kept money hidden anywhere?”
“I’ve been through all this before, with Agent Rowe. When Robert and I were married, I knew next to nothing about our finances. He was an accountant, for heaven’s sake! It seemed perfectly logical to me that he wanted to be in charge of all our money stuff. I was not involved with any of his illegal activities!”
“Over the past ten months, has Mr. Strickland ever asked you to give him money?”
“No.”
“Not even a loan? Maybe a small wire transfer?”
“No.”
“If he had, would you have given him one?”
Stevenski wouldn’t let it go. He evidently believed Celie had been funneling Strickland money while he was a fugitive.
“No,” Celie said firmly. “I’m sure you remember that he cleaned out our bank account before he left. I wasn’t feeling very generous toward him after that.”
Another pause while Stevenski shuffled papers.
“Well,” he said. “I guess that’s it for now. I’ll call you if anything else comes up.”
From the corner of his eye, John watched her walk him to the door. The agent gave Celie a big smile, and John got another one of his brief nods.
“Adios,” John said, waving.
Celie closed the door and turned around. John got up from the stool and walked over to her. She looked tired, and he wanted to rub her shoulders, but the look on her face told him that might not go over well.
“He doesn’t realize you’re a reporter. All that’s off the record.”
John shrugged. “I’m not writing about this, so it doesn’t matter.”
Celie watched him, and he could tell she was debating whether to trust him.
“Someone’s probably writing about it, though, right? Someone at the Herald ?”
“Probably,” he admitted. “Depends how much the homicide has to do with something bigger. Like the Saledo cartel.”
Celie looked away.
“Do you think Robert was murdered by someone working for Saledo? Maybe over an unpaid debt?”
It was a gamble, asking her point-blank like that. But he got the sense she was ready to open up.
“I have no idea.”
Or maybe not. Shit, maybe she needed more time.
“Celie, look. I’ve been thinking. You obviously can’t stay here tonight, so—”
Someone knocked on the door. She checked the peephole and immediately pulled it open. “Hi! I was just about to call you.”
A stocky guy walked in wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that looked like it had been ironed. He slipped off his sunglasses and kissed Celie’s cheek. “Hey, beautiful.”
John’s defenses went up until he noticed the guy’s eyes. Brown. Friendly. And definitely giving him the once-over.
“And who do we have here?” her friend asked, tilting his head John’s way.
“Dax Gillespie, meet John McAllister,” Celie said. “John’s a friend from home.”
Friend. Great. Only five o’clock, and already he had a strike for the evening.
“Dax is my neighbor,” Celie explained. “He lives just down the hall.”
John shook hands with Dax, taking the opportunity to slide an arm around Celie’s waist. “Good to meet you. I was just asking Celie to come get some dinner with me. Can you join us?”
Dax’s eyes twinkled. “I’d love to, but I’ve already got plans.” He grinned at Celie, like they were sharing some sort of inside joke. “You two enjoy.”
Celie stepped away from John’s arm. “Sorry, but I can’t do it either. I’ve got some reading to do tonight for one of my classes.”
Strike two.
“Hey, Dax,” she said, “I need a favor.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
John was pretty sure he knew what the favor was.
“Can I sleep on your sofa?” Yep. “Just for tonight? I’ve got to get a locksmith up here tomorrow, and until I do, I don’t really want to be here.”
Dax looked from Celie to John and back to Celie again. “Sure, no problem.”
Strike three. Just like that, he was out.
Celie stuffed clothes into her overnight bag and darted her gaze around the room. Someone had been here. She could feel it. She wasn’t sure what had tipped her off, but someone had definitely been in her apartment. Her hands felt clammy as she zipped the bag.
“May I say, just once, that you’ve lost your mind ?”
Dax stood next to her closet. She scooted him aside so she could grab her Nikes off the floor. Not that she intended to exercise, but it looked like she’d be stuck taking the bus to campus tomorrow morning, and her classes were a good hike from the bus stop.
“Are you listening? Mr. McConaughey just asked you out!”
She glanced at Dax, who looked horrified by her apparent lapse in judgment.
“He didn’t want to take me out,” she said.
Dax crossed his arms. “Hmm, as a matter of fact, I did just hear him. And he did ask you out to dinner.”
Celie rolled her eyes. “He didn’t want to take me out out. He wanted to take me home. So he could talk me into sleeping with him.”
Where had she put her prescription? She was almost guaranteed to get a migraine tonight. It was probably in the bathroom.
She glanced at Dax, who was staring at her like she was nuts.
“What’s wrong with that ?” he demanded. “The man is gorgeous. And nice, I might add. Not a homophobic vibe for miles. And yet totally, 100 percent manly man. His confidence level is off the charts.”
“That’s his ego.”
“And you know him from home,” Dax plunged on, undeterred, “so he automatically passes the crazy-psycho background check. And he’s totally into you.”
Celie brushed past him and went into the bathroom for her pills. As she walked through the door, the smell of nail polish nearly knocked her over.
“Oh, my God.”
Dax leaned against the door frame. “What?”
“Someone’s been here.” She stared at the traces of L’Oréal Gypsy Rose in the grout between the floor tiles.
“They were here. See?” She pointed at the floor.
“Who was here?”
Celie felt woozy. She had to sit down. She flipped shut the toilet lid and sank down onto it. She buried her head in her hands. This was so out of control. What was she going to do?
“Are you okay?” Dax picked up her wrist and started taking her pulse. “Here, put your head between you knees.”
Celie did. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the nail polish on her floor grout. She was so, so dead.
“Do you need an Imitrex?”
“No.” She sat up and tried to smile. “I’m fine, really. Sorry. I just…” What could she say? She didn’t want Dax involved. “I had a roach yesterday and I asked the building to send the exterminator up. I
think he broke a bottle of nail polish in here, and the fumes are getting to me.”
Dax looked around. “Well, somebody definitely broke something. They should have left you a note.”
Celie stood up. Her gaze landed on the medicine bottle sitting beside her toothbrush. She grabbed both off the counter and strode out of the bathroom.
“Almost ready!” Her voice was surprisingly chipper considering she could hardly breathe.
Oh God. Oh Lord. What was she going to do ?
Rowe looked up from his laptop as Stevenski walked into the break room Monday morning. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he told his partner.
“What?” Stevenski refilled his Styrofoam cup with coffee and walked over.
As of Saturday, Rowe and Stevenski had been working out of the Bureau’s satellite office in Austin. It wasn’t nearly as big as the field office in San Antonio, which was why Rowe’s laptop and files currently occupied the better part of a table in the lunch room.
“Here, take a look.” Rowe pivoted his computer so Stevenski could read the e-mail he’d just received.
A DEA agent in Mexico who was part of the task force had sent Rowe a transcript of a recent phone conversation he’d recorded. Saledo and his operatives were constantly switching landlines and cell phones to throw off investigators, but every now and then the surveillance guys caught a break.
“Whoa,” Stevesnki said. “Where’d we get this?”
“Mexico. Zapata’s crew just sent it over. I think they recorded it last night.” Rowe scanned the e-mail again. “Yeah, the call came in about ten-thirteen. They traced it back to a San Antonio pay phone.”
“You listen to the tape?” Stevenski asked.
“Nope. Caller was Spanish-speaking. Male. Zapata translated it for us and typed this up.”
The call had lasted only about three minutes, but it had revealed some crucial information. One, a couple of guys had taken out Robert Strickland, and two, they seemed to be looking for something that belonged to Saledo, but they hadn’t found it yet and neither had the cops.
The most startling part of the call was Saledo’s reaction to this news.
Surprise. Followed by outrage that someone was stealing from him.
Meaning whoever murdered Strickland hadn’t done so on Saledo’s orders. The killers were working for somebody else, someone who knew Strickland had “something” that belonged to Saledo.
“Damn, this is big,” Stevenski said. “It confirms your informant theory.”
Rowe nodded, feeling both vindicated and unsettled at the same time.
He knew he’d been right about a mole. Over the past three years nearly every sting operation the task force had undertaken had turned into a disaster. Three federal agents had lost their lives trying to bust Saledo. Many people at the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Bureau were convinced someone on the inside was feeding tips to Saledo and his network. Personally, Rowe believed it was someone on one of the local police forces who was supposedly “helping” with operations. Several years ago, an FBI agent had been planted on the San Antonio police force to try and root out the mole, but he and his SAPD partner, Paloma Juarez, had been killed by people with ties to Saledo.
Clearly Saledo still had someone on his payroll, and it looked like that person was in San Antonio.
“Zapata know what they’re referring to here?” Stevenski pointed place in the transcript about the killers looking for something.
“Nope,” Rowe said. “Most likely money or drugs. I’m thinking money, especially given the rumors Strickland had a stash somewhere. The guy went to his ex’s place looking for something, and I don’t buy it that she’d keep drugs around, at least not knowingly.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“So I’m thinking Strickland ran out of money and returned to the U.S. to recover his stash from his ex. She’d probably socked it away somewhere or spent it. If she still had it, maybe he got it back from her.”
“And then what?” Stevenski asked. “If the killers already found the money, why stick around?”
Rowe shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t find it. Maybe Strickland put it somewhere before his car crash.”
Stevenski looked skeptical.
“I wish we knew where Strickland spent his last hour.” Rowe leaned back in his chair and scanned the e-mail again. “We need IDs on these two guys, find out who they were working for.”
“You hear anything more from that gas station clerk?”
Rowe sighed. “Not yet. But there’s somebody else who might be able to help.”
Stevenski smiled. “That reporter? You planning to interview her again? I heard she’s hot.”
Rowe frowned. “Where’d you get that?”
“Hey, I’m an investigator. I check out anyone and everyone connected to our case. The girl’s one of our only witnesses.”
“Yeah, too bad she works for the media,” Rowe said. “Anything useful she knows’ll probably end up in the goddamn paper before we hear about it.”
“And are you sure you won’t be needing our supplemental collision policy?”
Celie forced herself to smile at the woman behind the Hertz counter. She wore a taxicab yellow golf shirt and had little pink and lavender Easter eggs painted on her fingernails. She was entirely too perky for Monday evening rush hour.
“No, thank you.”
The woman handed her a key with a Hertz tag attached. “Looks like you’re all set then!” She nodded toward the glass door. “That’s your car right there. Full tank of gas.”
Celie gathered up her purse and backpack and exited the office. “Car” was stretching it. The tiny orange Aveo sedan looked more like a Sunkist can on wheels. No wonder this one had ended up in the rental fleet. Celie stowed her things on the passenger seat, already homesick for her SUV. Oh well. This was only temporary.
Celie pulled to the edge of car lot and sighed. The five o’clock traffic was heavy, but a black pickup was nice enough to let her in. She waved a thank-you and glanced in her rearview mirror.
“Oh my God!” She slammed on the brakes. A man was watching her from the backseat.
CHAPTER
8
“Drive, bitch.”
Shrieking, she grasped for the door handle.
“Drive!” Something jabbed the back of her neck.
Celie froze. He had a gun. It felt hard against her skin. And warm, like he’d been keeping it close to his body. She could barely breathe, but she forced herself to replace her hands on the steering wheel. She looked in the mirror.
He nudged her with the shiny silver pistol. It looked fancy, like maybe it was plated with nickel or something. “Go straight for a while. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“You can have the car,” she croaked. “I’ve got some money, too. You can have whatever you want.”
“Shut up and move.”
She obeyed.
She glanced at the mirror. The man was young, probably early twenties. Was he Robert’s killer? He had close-cropped dark hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. He was scowling, which made it look like he had one thick eyebrow stretched all the way across his forehead.
Her palms felt slimy on the steering wheel. Had anyone noticed she’d been carjacked? She looked around, but everyone around her was creeping through traffic, immersed in their own little worlds.
Where was he taking her? The black pickup was still behind her, and it was following too closely. It stayed right on her bumper through three traffic lights, until they’d almost reached the edge of downtown. Celie thought about ramming into a utility pole, but she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. And what if the gun went off?
“Turn here.” The tip of the gun caressed her neck. “Left.”
Celie’s heart hammered. She turned left down a narrow alleyway—barely wide enough for two cars to pass. There wasn’t a person in sight, just potholes and Dumpsters. Thank God it was daylight. But where were the people ? The alley was empty. No pedestrians, no vagrants, not even
a stray dog.
The black pickup turned in behind her, effectively trapping her in. Now the only way out was straight ahead.
“Stop here.”
Celie’s throat constricted, and suddenly she felt dizzy. This could not be happening again. It could not. She’d rather take her chances with a bullet than go with him behind one of those Dumpsters.
“I said stop !”
Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as she put her foot on the brake. Oh God. Please, please, please…
Suddenly the passenger door opened and another man got in. He shoved her backpack to the floor and then yanked a big, black gun out of his pants and pointed it at her face.
Her blood turned to ice.
“Here’s how this goes.” His voice sounded calm. Celie struggled to listen, but all she could think about was the gun just inches from her nose. If he pulled the trigger, would she feel anything?
She tore her gaze away from the gun and looked at his face. He resembled the guy in the backseat, except his head was shaved and he had a black goatee.
“…give it to us, and we don’t hurt you,” he was saying. God, she’d missed the rest of it. Give them what?
Celie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She nodded dumbly.
“Where’s the money?”
The money. She gulped. Robert’s money.
“I don’t have it.”
Pain seared through her as the pistol butt connected with her cheekbone.
“Wrong answer.”
Something wet trickled down her face. She choked back a sob.
The goatee guy leaned over the console. She pulled back as far as she could until her head was pressed against the glass window. “I s-swear. Robert had the money. He had it in Antigua. Then he brought it back to the States so he could return it to someone.”
“Fuck, man.” This from the back.
Celie glanced over the seat. The man there looked agitated now. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and his hands were shaking. Thankfully, his gun was on the seat beside him, not pointed at her neck.
She slid her attention back to the man in front. His gun was still aimed right at her face. Some kind of strange graffiti covered his knuckles. His hands were steady, and he looked eerily calm.
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 8
