by Diane Capri
The best option was the alley behind his garage. He’d give them a chance to walk away, but if things developed as expected, he could leave them in the back for the garbage collector.
But his angle of approach was wrong. He was behind the sedan. He wanted the two goons to see him, follow him.
He turned right at Simon Street and hustled west along the abandoned alley to the opposite end of the block. He turned left and headed east along the sidewalk toward his house facing the sedan parked at the curb.
He walked purposefully. He didn’t hurry. He gave them plenty of opportunity to notice him. He was five steps away from the vehicle before the driver nodded in Flint’s direction and said something to his partner.
Flint closed the distance. He stopped on the sidewalk and tapped on the passenger’s window with his door key protruding between his fingers from inside his closed fist. A key made a good weapon if it came to that.
The sedan’s window slid down. The passenger spoke first. “Michael Flint?”
“Who’s asking?” Flint stepped back for a better view inside.
Close up, the goon in the passenger seat looked like he’d lost a dozen fights against a top-ranked heavyweight. His eyelids drooped and a chunk of his right ear was missing below scruffy brown hair. The ragged cartilage suggested the ear had been torn off a while back by a pit bull’s teeth.
The driver’s knobby head was shaved and his full cheeks were pockmarked with acne scars. Both of them would scare small children in the daylight, but Flint had seen worse.
“Let’s go inside.” The knobby-headed guy opened the driver’s door and stepped onto the pavement. “We need to talk about Laura Oakwood.”
“Sorry. I’m running late.” Flint backed up another step to the sidewalk. “Another time, maybe.” He walked along the sidewalk to his concrete driveway and turned left, leading them toward the back of his property. He heard the driver’s door click shut and then the passenger door open and close.
Heavy boot steps hit the concrete behind him.
When Flint reached his garage, he kept going around the side and toward the stockade fence that separated his backyard from the alley. Both men followed.
“Hold up!” Baldy shouted. “We just want to talk.”
Flint passed through the gate into the alley.
He dropped his bag to one side and stood behind the open stockade gate until the two goons came close enough. Through a crack in the boards, Flint saw that Baldy held a Taser in his right hand. His partner likely held another.
Sure. Just talk. With two Taser X26c units charged up and ready to fire. Talking was the last thing they had planned.
Flint wondered why Shaw would send these two his way. It didn’t make sense. But he had no time to work it through. He’d deal with Shaw later. He was in the crystal-sharp zone where everything seemed to move slowly and time felt without end.
Earless walked through the stockade fence gate first and looked the wrong way, to the right, eastward down the alley.
Baldy came right behind him. Halfway across the threshold, Baldy turned his head to look left.
Flint leaned on the stockade gate and shoved. Hard.
The gate swung fast with Flint’s entire weight behind it and smashed Baldy’s face and flattened his bulbous nose. Blood spurted everywhere. He howled like an outraged bull. He dropped the Taser and raised both hands to his pulped flesh.
The noise drew his partner’s attention. Earless turned quickly, pivoting on his left foot, slightly off balance. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten the Taser in his hand.
Flint stepped farther into the alley, away from the stockade gate, for room to move.
Both goons advanced toward him, emboldened by weapons and outrage. Baldy’s busted nose forced him to breathe through his mouth as blood ran down his face and dribbled from his chin onto his shirt.
Flint let them come at him, to get momentum established. And then he moved, too, just as fast as they were moving. Force and bulk set to collide and explode.
Flint threw a left hook at Baldy and caught him hard on the ear and his head snapped sideways.
Flint was already throwing a right uppercut that landed solidly under the second guy’s chin. His head went up and back and he lost his grip on his Taser. The weapon dropped and bounced on the pavement.
Both goons wobbled and stumbled backward, leaving their chests unprotected.
Flint pounded home a hard right to Baldy’s solar plexus. Baldy’s eyes widened, his mouth formed an O, he doubled up and crouched and held his knees.
Before Earless had a chance to react, Flint carried through and delivered the same blow to his solar plexus. He folded up the same way and fell on his side on the ground near Baldy.
Flint retrieved the first Taser. He pressed the trigger, aiming fifty thousand volts at twenty-six watts for five seconds straight at Baldy’s bare neck. The Taser performed perfectly as it was designed to do. Instant loss of neuromuscular control. Baldy flopped to the ground and twitched like a fish with uncontrollable contractions of his muscle tissue.
Flint turned the Taser on Earless and touched his exposed skin with the live device, stunning him. Flint quickly located the second Taser, aimed, and fired the maximum charge at the already-stunned Earless.
The fight lasted not more than twenty seconds, start to finish. Both men were coiled unconscious in fetal positions on the asphalt. Flint was barely breathing hard.
He stood over the two for a couple of moments. He checked pulses. Not dead, but they wouldn’t be coming after him again anytime soon. Now that his adrenaline had slowed to a manageable level, he wondered again why they’d come after him in the first place. It was one of the first questions he planned to ask Shaw.
Flint stepped back and pulled out his smartphone, snapped photos of both men, and returned the phone to his pocket. He tossed the spent Tasers into the bushes behind the house next door, stepped inside the stockade fence, and pulled the gate closed. He locked the gate securely.
When they regained consciousness, disoriented, sore, and bleeding, it would be a while before they found their way back to the sedan.
He’d be long gone.
But he expected to meet them again. They didn’t seem the type to give up after the first round. Next time, they’d be better prepared.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reviewing Scarlett’s summary files on the plane from London last night had suggested a few leads. He’d begun work on the first before he landed in Houston. After dealing with Crane and the two goons, he didn’t have time to pursue the leads any further before the meeting with Shaw. Inside his house, he took a quick shower and dressed in clean work clothes: jeans, boots, shirt, and leather jacket. He collected cash, credit cards, and disposable cell phones from the safe behind the flat-screen TV.
He hesitated before grabbing his Glock and slipping it into his pocket. Patted down to confirm his passport and personal phone. He didn’t plan to leave the country, but he rarely left the house without his passport. Life, he’d learned long ago, was unpredictable.
He glanced at the clock. Drake would be waiting at the park in ten minutes. He let himself out the front door, fired up one of the burner cell phones, and made the call as he hurried toward the Navigator. His source picked up immediately.
“What did you find out?”
“You were right,” his source said without preamble. “A girl. August 16, 1989. Six pounds, four ounces.”
Which meant Laura Oakwood had given birth to an heir. Did she keep the child?
His source said, “The baby’s father is listed on the birth certificate as Rosalio Prieto.”
He nodded. Laura Oakwood and her high school sweetheart became parents just six weeks before she disappeared. Rosalio Prieto was the second lead he planned to follow as soon as possible.
“Don’t suppose there’s any cord blood or anything else for DNA?”
“The birth was 1989. In rural Texas.”
“Right.” He ran a p
alm over his head and cupped his neck. “Anything else noteworthy?”
“Eyes brown. Hair black. Daughter’s name is Selma Oakwood Prieto.”
“Selma? Wonder where that came from?” He waited for the traffic light. Drake was already parked at the curb across the street.
“Do you want me to find out?”
“Please.” He was a few steps ahead of Shaw and Crane and his goons on the baby’s existence. He wanted to stay that way. “Can you alter or wipe the records?”
“They’re old records. Not electronic. You’ll have the originals by courier within the hour. No copies exist.”
“Excellent work.” The traffic light changed and he stepped into the crosswalk, moving swiftly. After a couple of beats, he drew in a quick breath. “Anything unusual about the baby?”
“Unusual?”
He didn’t have time for chitchat. “Birthmarks? Six toes? Eyes different colors? Anything I can use to identify her twenty-seven years later?”
“Nothing like that, no.” His source paused. “But her newborn screening test was positive for low normal hemoglobin. The parents were advised to retest at six weeks. There’s no record of that retesting in the hospital files. If she gave the baby up for adoption, the follow-up could have happened somewhere else.”
“What does low normal hemoglobin mean? For the baby. I know what hemoglobin is. Red blood cells.”
“I’m not a doctor. Do you want me to find out?”
“As soon as possible. I’ll call you again when I can.” He pressed the button to end the call. He’d reached the Navigator and stepped inside. While Drake drove the few blocks to Shaw Tower, Flint dismantled the burner phone and threw bits out the window onto the busy streets.
He processed the new information he’d learned since he landed and filed it away in his head. Crane could have tracked his flight data from London. But more likely he was watching Scarlett and monitoring her calls. Which was how he’d found Flint this morning after Drake dropped him at the park. Shaw and his goons might be monitoring, too. Shaw was the client. He had a right to know everything, anyway. But not until Flint decided to tell him.
Normally, he’d have called Scarlett with the information about the baby at this point. This was her case they were working, and they were on a tight deadline.
He gave his head a quick shake. They both had plenty to do. This baby angle could be another dead end anyway. He would tell her when, and if, the lead turned into something useful.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Houston, Texas
Sunday, 10:15 a.m.
Sebastian Shaw Tower, the tallest skyscraper in Texas, rose like an obelisk from the pavement near the center of downtown Houston. It was a monument to the man. A marvel of modern engineering, the shining reflective bronze-glass building appeared to be twisting its way from the center of the earth into the stratosphere like oil gushing to the sky.
Flint recalled clearly when Shaw had purchased an entire city block and demolished the historic buildings over protests and a public outcry. Not that he let that stop him, of course. Shaw had even successfully insisted that the FAA reroute air traffic to accommodate his whims.
Shaw was a man used to getting everything he wanted, every time. Which was too damn bad, because Flint was nobody’s sycophant. Never had been, never would be. The sooner Shaw figured that out, the better.
After a nauseatingly fast elevator ride to the penthouse eighty stories from the lobby, Flint stepped into the sky high above Houston and glimpsed Shaw’s breathtaking view of the city.
Scarlett waited, arms folded, frowning. She wore a black suit with a short skirt and her hair was cinched tame by a wide silver barrette. Red lipstick emphasized her tight-lipped disapproval. “You’re late,” she said, as she walked away, red spike heels tapping on the granite floors.
“Nice to see you, too.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and hustled behind her. “Go ahead and lead the way. I’ll catch up.” His sarcasm didn’t faze her, or slow her stride. Situation normal.
The penthouse office suite, maybe twenty-five thousand square feet of it, seemed to be devoted to Shaw alone. Aside from the required structure around the central elevator bank, the massive space contained no walls. The effect was like standing on a platform suspended in the air.
Artfully placed furniture pods revealed the intended use of smaller areas at a glance. Flint’s sight line included three groups of office furniture with desks, several seating areas with and without big-screen TVs, a lounge with a bar, and a dining room that might originally have been located in a European palace.
Art was limited to items that could stand alone on the floor or rest on flat surfaces. Only the views adorned the floor-to-ceiling glass walls.
Scarlett kept walking. She didn’t speak and neither did he. Eventually they arrived at a monstrous desk and credenza flanked by low chairs and tables. Behind the desk, leaning back in an oversize green leather chair, sat the unmistakable master of all he surveyed. He looked exactly like the five glossy publicity photos Flint had seen in his quick internet search. Which probably meant the man was perpetually posing. Good to know.
Shaw’s body was fit and his mind sharp, by all accounts. He must have been a real lady-killer in his youth because even now he was long on movie-star good looks. He wore the luxury surrounding him as comfortably as an old bathrobe.
“Baz Shaw, this is Michael Flint,” Scarlett said.
The men shook hands and exchanged nods. Scarlett sat in one of the client chairs and Flint took another. Shaw walked over to an elaborate bar cart as he talked.
“Laura Oakwood. Missing twenty-seven years. Hell, she could be dead. Probably is.” Shaw poured Scotch into crystal whiskey glasses He handed one to Flint, one to Scarlett, and raised the third in a silent toast. It was 10:20 in the morning, too early for Scotch. But they drank anyway. Shaw leaned against the desk, facing Flint. “What makes you think you can locate her when no one else has?”
“I can find anybody, dead or alive.” Flint didn’t boast. Simply stated the facts.
Shaw’s lips parted to reveal wide teeth, too white for a sixty-year-old smoker. Not a smile because his eyelids relaxed and his gaze held steady. “What about Jimmy Hoffa?”
“Nobody can disappear forever.” Flint lifted his Scotch, sipped, and rested his hand across his knee. “Are you hiring me to find Jimmy Hoffa?”
Shaw threw back his head and laughed. He opened a small box on top of his desk and pulled out a cigar. He offered the box to Flint and to Scarlett. While they prepared to smoke, Shaw puffed to get his draw going.
“I’m sure you’ve read the files. Katie can answer your questions, if you have any.” He took a quick look at his watch. “About forty-nine hours left now. Every resource I have is at your disposal. Whatever you need, let Katie know and she will make sure it happens.”
Flint grinned. This job might be fun. It wasn’t often Scarlett took orders from him. In fact, he couldn’t remember a single instance since she’d held him facedown in the dirt all those years ago. She saw the grin and scowled at him.
“Where will you start?” Shaw asked, still puffing the cigar, which seemed unwilling to draw properly.
“According to the summary in the file materials Scarlett sent to me, Laura Oakwood was almost nineteen years old in 1989 when she participated in a convenience store robbery. Her boyfriend, Rosalio Prieto, was a year older. He was shot and killed by the store clerk, and a customer also died. The clerk was wounded.” Flint steepled his fingers and narrowed his eyes. “The clerk’s story was that the boyfriend shot first and wounded the clerk. He says he then shot the boyfriend and killed him in self-defense. He says he wounded Oakwood, too. Then the clerk fell behind the counter and passed out. At that point, he says, Oakwood shot and killed the customer before she grabbed the cash and ran.”
“That’s what we think now. And it’s almost what the clerk told the local cops at the time, yes.” Scarlett paused and inhaled the way she did when she’d bee
n stretching the truth. “But the clerk didn’t know the second gunman was female.”
Flint raised one eyebrow. “So the summary you sent me varies from the police reports, then?” He’d acquired the forensic reports from his source after reading Scarlett’s summary, but he hadn’t bothered to acquire the police reports since they weren’t computerized and Scarlett had already summarized the case for him.
“That’s right. These police reports are brief and sketchy and not particularly helpful for our purposes, but I’ll send them to you if you want them. Based on our investigation, the store clerk’s error seems to have been the mistake that allowed Oakwood plenty of time to get away. Although she probably would have escaped anyway, given how long it took to identify the dead gunman as her boyfriend.”
“Which means Oakwood had a strong motive for hiding back then,” Flint said, and nodded. “Makes her exponentially more difficult to find. No wonder your routine searches turned up nothing.”
“Going back to Wolf Bend, getting the local police to identify the boyfriend, and chasing his records down through to the robbery where he died was a breakthrough of sorts for the Oakwood case.” Scarlett resettled in her chair. “The store clerk’s statement to the police was that during the robbery, both gunmen were wearing ski caps with masks over their heads and faces. The second gunman was tall but not skinny, and the way she was dressed—jeans and a sweatshirt—the clerk thought she was a man. Oakwood was calm and controlled at all times, he said. Two guns were recovered at the scene, but she took the third gun with her and it was never found. Oakwood took the cash with her, too. About thirty thousand dollars. Of course, it was a while before the cops arrived out at that location, so she was long gone by the time they showed up. Forensics eventually backed up the store clerk’s story. There was no reason to question his identification.”
