“He had the money with him?”
Celie swallowed. “Yes. He…he smuggled it back here.”
“She’s lying, man. She’s fucking lying !” The guy in back was bouncing on his seat now. “We searched the car.”
Celie darted a glance at him. His gray T-shirt was dark with perspiration, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked about ready to blow a fuse.
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” she said. “I swear. Just listen, okay? Robert had a stash of money. He told me that. He’d been living on it in Antigua. He came to visit me Friday night, but he’d called me earlier. From a motel.”
She locked eyes with guy in front. He seemed like the leader. Maybe if she could convince him to believe her, she’d have a chance.
He nodded slightly. He was listening.
“He told me he was in trouble.” Her voice shook, and her chest hurt. “He said he owed money to someone, but he didn’t have everything he needed to pay him back. I think he owed a lot. He said he had to return all of it soon or he’d be killed.”
Goatee Man was watching her intently with those brown-black eyes. He had a diamond stud in his ear. No tremors, no sweating. He seemed like a professional, but a professional what she was scared to contemplate.
She couldn’t tell whether he believed what she was saying.
The guy in back pounded a fist on the window. “Man, she’s lying !”
“Shut up!” Goatee Man swung his gun toward the backseat. “Did I tell you to talk?”
Celie bit her lip, praying a shootout wasn’t about to erupt.
“Where did he call you from? What motel?”
The gun shifted back now, and her attention locked on the black tunnel pointed at her face.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, just that he’d checked in and he planned to stay a few days.”
You know, you’re a terrible liar. McAllister’s words came back to her, and her stomach clenched.
“So why’d he come see you if you didn’t have the money?”
She licked her lips. They tasted coppery, like blood. She was bleeding somewhere. “I think he thought I could lend him what he needed. To pay back this guy.”
“How much did he need?”
“Fifty thousand.”
Goatee Man stared at her. Celie held her breath.
“And what’d you tell him?”
“I told him I didn’t have that kind of cash. But maybe I could get it. A loan or something. If he’d just be patient.” She cleared her throat. “But then he died, so…”
He glanced at his partner in back. Celie felt her heart thundering. Was he actually buying this? She had no idea. Maybe he planned to kill her no matter what she said.
Oh, God. She could describe him. Both of them. They hadn’t bothered to conceal their faces.
She had to think of something.
“This money,” she sputtered. “Saledo’s money? Robert said he thought someone might try to take it, so he was keeping it somewhere safe. Until he could pay it all back. He didn’t say where. Maybe his car or his motel or something.”
Her voice was so wobbly now, even she could barely understand herself. Sweat streamed down her neck, between her shoulder blades. She looked at the gunman, pleading with him with her eyes. “He took my car, too. I swear that’s all I know.”
“She’s fucking with us, man!” The man in back was practically vibrating now. “I say we cap her.”
The gun swung toward the backseat again. A flurry of angry Spanish ensued, and Celie knew she was about to die. They were going to shoot her. Right here in this alley. She thought of her mother and her sisters. What would they do when someone told them she’d been murdered?
She watched them arguing. Goatee Man’s head had been shaved recently. Short black bristles covered his scalp, except for a jagged, crescent-shaped white scar above his right ear. Was the scar from a knife? A beer bottle? Celie knew with certainty his haircut was meant to show off the scar, to make him look more menacing.
A horn blared behind them, and everyone turned in unison. A delivery truck was trying to get by, but the black pickup was blocking its way. The driver opened his door and climbed down from the cab.
“Fuck, man!” The man in back snatched his gun off the seat.
“Hey!” Goatee Man nodded at the weapon. “Chill the fuck out.”
He turned his attention back to Celie. “We’re not done with you. We’ll be back.”
Celie’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. The truck driver was striding past the pickup now, and he looked peeved. Celie prayed he wasn’t about to get shot.
“Hey!” Her attention snapped back to Goatee Man. His gun had disappeared, but the look on his face was every bit as threatening. “Talk to the cops and you’re dead. We’ll be in touch, bitch.”
Celie nodded.
An instant later, both men were out of the car. Celie watched in the rearview mirror as they approached the truck driver. Their hands were empty, and she could tell by the driver’s indignant expression that he had no idea he was confronting two armed men. After a brief exchange, the driver returned to his truck, and the other two got into their pickup.
She was free.
The breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her lungs. Her hands were trembling all over the place, but she managed to lock the doors and put the car in gear. She raced down the alley, bouncing over potholes, nearly sideswiping a Dumpster. When she reached the first cross street, she made a sharp right turn and stomped on the gas.
John perched atop Celie’s stepladder with a metal trowel in one hand and a tub of spackle in the other. He hadn’t repaired Sheetrock in years, but this little patch of ceiling had been a breeze. Now all he needed was a can of touch-up paint, and it would look good as new.
“You know if she keeps any of this paint around?”
Dax looked up from his Entertainment Weekly. “She doesn’t, but I do. Got it from maintenance after my last party.”
John climbed down from the ladder. Flecks of spackle dotted his army green T-shirt. “You burned up your kitchen, too?”
Dax smiled. “Red wine stain on the wall. But these units are ‘matte ivory’ top to bottom, so the paint works anywhere. I’ll go get some.”
He slid off the bar stool and headed for Celie’s front door, stepping back suddenly when it swung open.
“Hey, it’s just us,” Dax told her, confirming John’s suspicion that they were close. Celie’s good friends knew she didn’t like surprises.
Such as finding two men waiting for her in her locked apartment.
Dax kissed her cheek and took her backpack.
“Who’s ‘us’?” Celie peered over his shoulder. She wore sunglasses, so John couldn’t see her reaction to his being there.
“Just me and McAllister here,” Dax said brightly. “He dropped by to fix your ceiling, and I buzzed him up.”
John had come over on a hunch, and he’d been right. Celie had given Dax a spare key after the locksmith had left, meaning for the price of a little chitchat John had access to Celie’s apartment whether she wanted him there or not.
His second hunch had been right, too. Judging by Celie’s silence and the way she’d turned her back on him, she probably would have found an excuse to avoid seeing him tonight if he’d called ahead to ask.
She and Dax were murmuring back and forth by the door, so John went to the sink to wash his hands. He heard the door shut.
“Give me a minute.” Celie’s voice faded to the back of the apartment. “I’ll be right with you.”
I’ll be right with you. Like he was the cable guy or something. Like she hadn’t had her tongue in his mouth yesterday.
Shaking his head, he opened the fridge and searched for a beer. No beer, so he settled for a bottle of mineral water and leaned back against the counter. His ceiling repair didn’t look half bad. After the spackle dried, he’d finish up the paint, which would give him another excuse to come back here. Or maybe he wouldn’t need a
n excuse. Maybe she’d be grateful enough to invite her handyman to dinner. And dinner might lead to a nightcap.
She came into the kitchen and made a beeline for the fridge. Something was up with her face. Was that…?
“What the hell happened?” He reached for her, and she jumped back.
He stopped in his tracks. The look on her face was pure panic, and the bruise on her face twisted his guts.
“What the fuck, Celie?”
“Please don’t talk to me like that.”
Shit. He took a deep breath. “What happened?” He stepped closer and lifted her chin so he could see better. She had an angry red cut at the top of her left cheekbone, and the skin all around it was bluish-purple.
She averted her eyes while he looked at her.
“Celie?”
“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “Really. I was coming home from the rental car place and—”
“Yoo-hoo. You decent?” Dax strode into the apartment with a red tackle box. He plunked it on the counter and started rummaging through it.
Celie smiled weakly. “Dax said he’d fix me up. I’ll just take a sec, okay?”
Celie seated herself on the bar stool beside Dax. John crossed his arms and looked on while the younger man dabbed at her wound and put some sort of ointment on it. They murmured amicably back and forth over the box of bandages until John was ready to howl.
Finally, Dax packed up his gear and shot John a stern look. He knew something serious was going on. Maybe John’s desire to punch a hole in the wall was written all over his face.
“Make sure she ices it,” Dax instructed. “And the ointment should be reapplied before bed and then again in the morning.”
John nodded grimly, accepting the underlying message not to leave Celie alone tonight. As if there was a chance of that happening.
“I will be sure to do that,” Celie said, planting her hands on her hips. With ointment glistening off her face, the tough-girl act left a lot to be desired.
“I’m here if you need anything.” Dax kissed her uninjured cheek and slipped out of the apartment.
Celie turned to John. “We need to talk.”
No shit. “I think that’s a good idea.”
He followed her into the living room and waited for her to sit down on the sofa so he could take the seat next to her. She wasn’t nearly as rattled as she’d been when she first got home, but John could see the nerves beneath the surface. And then there was the way she’d looked at him earlier, like she was scared of him or something.
It made him sick. And angry. And more than a little worried about what she had to tell him.
She sat cross-legged on the sofa and put a throw pillow in her lap. Her eyelids were puffy, and he could tell she’d been crying. He’d never seen her cry, not for herself anyway. The few times he’d seen her shed tears, they’d been for other people.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay to me.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m all right now. Dax says it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” He reached his hand out to stroke her cheek, just under the bruise. He barely touched her, but he could feel her tense up. “Tell me what happened.”
She cleared her throat. “Some guys carjacked me on the way home from the rental car place.”
“You were carjacked ?”
“Not exactly.” She took his hand, which had dropped into his lap. “They made me drive into an alley so they could ask me questions about Robert. They had guns, so I did what they said.”
His heart clenched. “Did they hurt you?”
“Not like that.” She knew he was thinking of the last time she’d been forced into an alley by someone.
“What did they want?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as out of control as he felt. He wanted to kill somebody.
“They wanted money. I’m pretty sure Robert stole some money before he died. From Manuel Saledo.”
Fuck. He’d been afraid it was something like this.
“It was a lot. Two hundred thousand dollars. These guys thought I’d know where it was.”
“Why would they think that?”
She squeezed his hand. “Because I do.”
Rowe pulled up to Kate Kepler’s house and made a mental list of all the things he hated about it. Item one, lack of sufficient exterior lighting. Item two, overgrown hedges crowding entrance. Item three, yard sign touting security system provided by now-defunct company. Item four, shirtless male neighbor smoking home-rolled cigarette on the front porch next door.
Rowe got out of his car. Kate’s shiny black Beetle was parked in the driveway, which was nothing more than strip of shale next to her white adobe bungalow. She probably liked living in this eclectic neighborhood so close to downtown, probably thought it was charming. She most likely considered the homeless guy on the corner a “colorful character,” and maybe she hadn’t bothered to notice her house was five blocks down from a soup kitchen.
Rowe didn’t see her roommate’s car, but it hadn’t been there yesterday either. He walked across the weedy lawn to the entrance. The front steps were covered with blue and yellow Mexican tiles.
Item five, fake rock on top step containing hide-a-key.
Rowe rang the bell.
“Coming!” a female voice called from behind the door. It sounded like a perky version of Kate.
The door swung open, and there she was, wearing a smile that instantly turned into a frown. “What are you doing here?”
She had on tan cargo pants and a black tank top. No bra.
Rowe looked away. “You always open the door for strangers?”
“You’re not a stranger.”
“How do you know? I could be anybody. You didn’t ask.”
She crossed her arms and stared at him a moment, and then she seemed to decide not to get into an argument, which he easily would have won. “Would you like to come in?” she asked instead.
He stepped into the foyer and removed his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his suit jacket. He resisted the urge to loosen his tie, even though she kept her house at a stifling eighty degrees or so.
“What brings you here?” Her bare feet brushed softly against the tile floor as she led him into the main room. After his eyes adjusted, he took in the comfortable brown sectional, the low coffee table. He could hardly see the top of it for all the CD jackets scattered across it—U2, Feist, Green Day. His gaze veered toward the breakfast room, where no fewer than five computers sat in various stages of disassembly.
He walked over to the machines, sidestepping a knee-high stack of Wired magazines.
“Hobby of yours?” he asked.
She shrugged and walked to the back door. A mangy-looking tabby pawed at the glass.
Item six, sliding glass door.
“More of a side business,” she said, opening the door, which of course was unlocked. The cat darted inside and jumped on the counter. Kate wandered into the kitchen after it and filled a cereal bowl with water from the sink. She placed it on the floor, and the cat jumped down and lapped at it.
“You’ve got a lot of expensive equipment here,” he said. “Ever think about getting an alarm system?”
“I’ve got one.”
“Ever think about getting a real one?”
She smiled and motioned to the table covered with dismantled CPUs. “If someone thinks they can put all this back together and sell it, they’re welcome to try. Most people wouldn’t bother.”
“You seem to know how,” he pointed out.
She tilted her head and smiled smugly. “I’m not most people.”
This was true. Truer than he’d realized yesterday when he’d first interviewed her, but he’d had a chance to do some digging since then. Kate Kepler had an interesting background, especially for a twenty-three-year-old. She’d lied about her age by two weeks.
In addition to being a recent graduate of Rice University wit
h a double major in political science and computer science, she was the only daughter of James Kepler, the multimillionaire software genius who had designed one of the top-selling computer gaming systems in America. He owned a sprawling ranch on the outskirts of Austin, and he’d lived there like a hermit since a decade ago when he’d been investigated for tax fraud. The indictment never came down, but when word of the investigation leaked to the press, his reputation suffered permanent damage. Rowe was pretty sure James Kepler’s experience was the reason for Kate’s hostility toward federal investigators.
Her gaze skimmed over him. “Nice suit. Do they, like, make you guys wear those things?”
He ignored the question. “I read your article in this morning’s paper. Who’d you talk to over at the barbecue joint?” Someone—who of course wanted to remain anonymous—at a restaurant on Ranch Road 2222 had seen a man matching Robert Strickland’s description arguing with two guys in the bar just before his car wreck.
Kate smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t disclose my source on that.”
Rowe gritted his teeth. This was one of the many reasons he hated reporters. “We had an agent interview everyone on duty there. They all denied seeing anyone resembling the victim at the restaurant Friday night.”
Kate tilted her head to the side. “Maybe you guys need to work on your interview technique.”
“This is serious, Kate.” Shit. “Miss Kepler.”
“I agree.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “And so does the waitress who would probably lose her job if she admitted to law enforcement that she served a couple beers to a man who minutes later died in a car crash.”
Okay, so at least she’d told him it was a waitress. That was probably the best he was going to get on that topic. Rowe slipped some papers out of his pocket and unfolded them. They were pictures of pickup trucks, various makes and models, all from a rear view.
“We’ve found a gas station clerk who says a black pickup truck arrived at his store shortly after the estimated time of the crash.” He handed the pictures to Kate. “The lighting was good, and the clerk’s been able to provide a detailed description of the car. He also got a look at the vehicle’s occupants.”
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 9
