by K. A. Tucker
I can’t believe I’ve stooped to this level, but . . . fuck it. This is what they do. I’m merely helping to speed things up.
Cold black eyes narrow as they settle first on me, and then on Nate. He’s obviously not impressed, but his curiosity has been piqued. “Out,” he instructs, giving his girl a light slap across the ass as she shifts off of his lap. The other girls quickly pull their scant clothing back on and scurry out. “You too,” he orders, jerking his chin at Rick, and I can’t help but smile.
No one trusts Rick.
When the room is empty, two guys come over to search both Nate and me, stripping us of our guns.
“What do I owe this surprise visit to?” Mendez asks, leaning back into the couch as if completely at ease. The repetitive twitching of his foot tells me otherwise.
I tilt my head toward the camera.
“Rick knows better.” But after a moment’s pause, he nods in assent and waves a hand to the guy on my left. Within seconds, the camera lens has been smashed. “I don’t know why he even keeps those in here.” He gestures to the chair positioned across the coffee table, facing him.
I take the proffered seat, while Nate stands back. He never sits. It makes him feel vulnerable and, in this situation, where all of these guys certainly have guns and are eyeing his looming figure suspiciously, we are vulnerable.
“So, the famous Cain Ford,” Mendez begins, settling his arms behind his head. “My cousin watched you fight once, years ago, in L.A.”
“Yeah?” I throw one arm over the back of my chair as I lean back. It’s my own version of feigning relaxation. I may not be afraid but I’m no idiot. I’m sitting face-to-face with a cartel member, about to ask him for help. There’s nothing safe or smart about what I’m doing. “Did he win any money?”
“No, he bet against you and he lost.”
“I could have told him not to do that.”
Mendez’s low chuckle fills the room, the casual banter dispersing some of the tension. “Why are you here?”
I assume I have only minutes with him before we’re kicked out, so I get right to it. “There is a man by the name of—”
“Haven’t heard of him.”
I don’t let his abrupt cutoff deter me. It’s probably wise that I don’t say Sam’s name out loud, anyway. “He’s been taking a substantial chunk out of your business lately.” There’s no need be more specific. I’m sure it’s all Mendez has been thinking about. The sudden fire in his eyes is confirmation of that. He recovers quickly, though. “My paving contracts?”
I stifle my smile. They all have “legitimate” businesses in the forefront. Mendez will never admit to anything else. That’s fine. I can dance this little dance with him. “He’s in Miami right now. I don’t know for how long.” I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out the scrap of paper. On it is the code to locate the GPS that John affixed to the bottom side of Sam’s rental car. Next, I pull out the folded picture from my back pocket. With an odd sense of calm, I unfold and toss both pieces of paper onto the coffee table in front of me.
Mendez’s brow furrows for a second but he doesn’t touch them.
“Feds have been trying to nail him for years and they can’t,” I add slowly. “It’s like he’s untouchable.”
And as long as he’s alive, Charlie will never be safe. There’s no chance of her ever coming back to me. I desperately want her back. I’ll do anything. Sell my club, walk away from what I do.
Set the cartel up.
That is, if Mendez takes the bait. I’m counting on his greed, his arrogance, his sense of entitlement.
I finally see it.
In those near-black eyes of his, the wheels begin churning. He knows what I’m expecting he’ll do with this information. “Why?” It’s a simple question. A fair one.
I sure as hell won’t tell him why it matters to me. Information like that may cost me down the road. Standing, the only answer I give is, “Let’s just say that we’re both getting something out of this.”
I walk out of Sin City, telling myself over and over again that I made the right decision.
That there was no other choice.
* * *
“Do I even want to know?”
I push my front door closed behind Dan as he stalks into my condo. He’s never been here before. I’m guessing, by his overly calm tone, that he’s not looking for a tour.
“I don’t know. Do you?” I ask.
Dan stops halfway through the kitchen before spinning on his heels to settle shrewd eyes on me. “Sam Arnoni’s body was found in his hotel room this morning by a maid. Beheaded.”
I force myself to take a sip of my coffee, trying to hide the wave of shock that just crashed into me.
Twelve hours.
I walked out of Sin City twelve hours ago. I’ve got to give Mendez credit. He doesn’t waste a second. The guy was probably on the phone with one of his “people” as soon as the door clicked shut behind me.
“Are you sure?”
Dan nods slowly. “I just left the hotel. Saw the body myself.”
A prickle of guilt stirs inside me. “And no one else was hurt?”
Still watching me closely, he says, “No. Looks like a professional hit.”
Passing by Dan, I make my way to my living room to look out over the bay in a dreamlike state.
Sam is actually . . . dead.
And I helped kill him.
“I’m . . . Did . . . ” Dan begins to ask and then stops abruptly. “You know what? I’d ask you if you knew he was in town, but I don’t think I even want to know that much.”
“I was at Penny’s until five a.m. and then at the gym until eight. You can check surveillance if you don’t believe me. I’m not a professional hit man,” I mutter dryly, adding, “or a murderer.”
“I know you’re not, Cain. And it’s definitely a cartel hit, by the signature.” We stand side by side in silence as we watch a sailboat pass by. It probably wouldn’t take much for Dan to find out that I had been to Sin City last night. He could probably also demand to see my surveillance footage to confirm that Sam was at Penny’s last night. If he truly wanted to know.
“With Sam gone, Charlie’s free to come home, isn’t she?” Dan finally asks. I wonder where he’s going with this.
“If she knew that he was dead. If she knew she wasn’t going to be arrested for anything, then . . . yeah, I supposed she could.” I sigh. Home. Would she consider Miami home? Would she want to come back? “I don’t know how to reach her, though. Do you think this will make the news?”
His hand scratches his chin. “Local news for sure. Maybe New York. I’ll see what I can do. If she’s in some small town in Alaska, she’s not likely going to hear about this.” He smiles. “I know a guy who knows a guy . . . who knows a guy.”
chapter forty-six
* * *
CHARLIE
“See? Doesn’t it look like he’s wearing mascara?”
Berta has an obsession with a dark-haired reporter on our local news station.
“He probably is,” I confirm as I count the money in my small waitress apron. On average, I’ll make fifty bucks a night in tips. Seventy, on a really good night, Berta has promised. If she knew what I used to do, and how much money I used to make in one night, she’d have a coronary.
“And lipstick, too?” Her eyes squint as she studies the screen. “Yesterday, they were more peachy. Now they’re red. What kind of man wears red lipstick?”
“The kind who deals with harsh lighting and high definition, I suppose.” I quickly begin filling the salt and pepper shakers. The dinner rush is over, but it’s homecoming weekend. Molly and Teena, the day-shift waitresses, are pulling doubles tonight in anticipation of a late rush.
“Doug’s asking for you,” Teena whispers with a playful wink as she floats by, though it’s loud and raspy enough that half the diner probably heard her. Fortunately, the twenty-six-year-old mechanic is sitting in the far corner. Berta’s fantasy of marrying me of
f to her nephew was short-lived. She forced me to leave work for an hour last night to watch the parade with Doug.
His smile reminds me of Ben—broad and dimpled. But he’s not an obnoxious ass like Ben. He also kind of looks like him, with his blond hair and strong jaw. And he’s polite. He was a perfect gentleman last night, walking me back to Becker’s before it closed, offering nothing more than a “good night” head dip as he strolled away.
I wonder when this empty void inside my chest will shrink. It’s been a month, and some days I think it’s growing bigger. Isn’t time supposed to heal all wounds? Shouldn’t four weeks have given me some relief from the relentless pain and self-doubt?
I hold on tightly to the belief that I did the right thing. Still, the same regretful longing slams into me the second I open my eyes from a fitful sleep, coiling itself through my thoughts to linger throughout the day. It haunts me through the night, leaving dark circles beneath my eyes that concealer can’t quite cover. It curbs my appetite, my body shedding weight it doesn’t have to spare.
But the dreams . . . they are the worst. All variations of horror leading to the same outcome.
Cain, disgusted with me.
Cain, hurt by me.
Cain insistent on helping me, because of the man he is.
And ending up dead.
No . . . I did the right thing. The same cruel fate that brought us together was bound to rip us apart. It was only a matter of time. I knew it all along and yet I fell hard, all the same.
Berta’s raised voice pulls me from my thoughts. “See, Katie? I told you that you’re better off staying here instead of moving on to a big city.” Berta is convinced that I should settle down in Mobile, Alabama, and work with her until we’re both old and gray. “One of those movie-style drug murders. This time at a fancy hotel in Miami.”
A cold shiver radiates from my chest as my eyes flash to the television, dreading . . . waiting . . . The reporter is going on and on, but the words aren’t truly processing. “Execution-style . . . cartel . . . turf war . . . heroin . . . drug dealer . . .”
A picture flashes onto the screen.
I bite back a gasp. It’s the man who took me to the park on Sundays, who hoisted me onto my horse, who cheered as I stood on the podiums for my medals, who shouted “encore” as I bowed onstage.
Who used me as a pawn.
Who turned me into a criminal.
Who put me in danger.
Who stole my life.
My stepfather—the man who raised me—is dead.
I can hear Berta talking somewhere in the distance, but her voice is blurred. I can feel her arm on my shoulder, half soothing, half trying to break my sudden daze as I stare at the screen, watching his name—“Big” Sam Arnoni—flash across the bottom.
“Katie!”
My eyes finally snap to Berta. She’s staring at me with a wrinkled forehead. Without checking, I know I have the eyes of every single person in the diner on me right now. The feel of them turns my ears hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry!” I finally manage to get out with a weak giggle. “I thought that was my high school English teacher for a second.” I blow out a big gush of air, feigning relief. “That would have been weird.”
Berta starts chuckling. “You scared the bezeejus out of me, girl. Go and get some fresh air. We’ll clean up here.” Glancing down, I see the broken glass and scattered salt all over the floor. The shaker must have slipped from my hand. I open my mouth but she’s already ushering me past the counter toward the back exit, waving away my protests.
Thank God the back of Becker’s is empty. I lean against the deep red brick wall as a shaky exhale leaves my lungs. The fall air, though still warm by Long Island standards, is cooler in the evenings. It doesn’t require a sweater but, all the same, I wrap my arms around my chest.
“Sam is dead.” Those three words sail out of my mouth in a whisper. I let them hang out in the open, deciding exactly how I should feel about the sudden news.
There’s no doubt I’m in shock right now. I mean, in my mind, Sam was indestructible. I, Cain, and everyone else was at risk, but nothing could stop Sam.
Could it be a ruse? Could Sam have staged his own death to lure me back out into the water? No. Sam would never allow his face to appear on the news with a label of “alleged heroin drug dealer.”
Sam is dead.
I suspect that, at some point, maybe in an hour, or tomorrow, or next week, the reality of this will truly hit me, bringing with it genuine relief. Not relief that he is dead. Despite all that Sam had done, despite everything that he was, I must admit to myself that I never really wished him dead. No, it will be relief that I am truly free, that unfortunately his death was the only way that could happen.
Yet an underlying worry is working its way to the surface, bringing waves of nausea with it.
Sam came to Miami.
What if he found Cain? Would he have hurt him, even though I was long gone? Cain’s death wouldn’t make the Mobile, Alabama news. I could be pining over a dead man right now.
Rushing back into the restaurant, I grab my purse. “Can you tell Berta I’ll be about fifteen minutes?” I ask Herald and run out the door before I get his answer.
Now that Sam is dead, I’m obviously not worried about him finding me. But I don’t know how Cain feels about me. I asked Dan not to tell him about my note, but Dan doesn’t owe me anything.
What if Cain hates me?
What if he wants me held accountable for my crime?
All possible, all reasonable.
Doing this is risky. Still, I need to know that he’s alive.
The closest pay phone is four blocks down the street and I run the entire way, cursing myself for not buying a prepaid cell phone. I don’t know how pay-phone tracing works, but I’m hoping it requires more than two seconds of air time.
It takes every last bit of loose change and three attempts, but I finally manage to accurately punch in Cain’s cell number with my shaky hand.
It begins to ring.
I hold my breath.
A second ring.
A third ring.
A sinking feeling dips my stomach, knowing his voice mail will pick up by the fifth.
And then suddenly, “Hello?”
His deep voice steals the air from my lungs.
Cain is safe.
Sam didn’t find him.
I reach for the telephone hook to end the call but my hand freezes. I can’t will myself to pull it. To disconnect Cain from my life.
For just a few seconds, with this weak link, I feel like Cain is still a part of it. I can hear him breathing. I can imagine his phone pressed up against that hint of evening stubble that I’ve felt so many times against my skin.
“Hello?” he asks again, this time a touch of uncertainty in his voice.
My lips part just slightly as if to answer, but I can’t. I can’t even form a single word. And I still can’t breathe. All I can do is listen to him as the tears begin to roll down my cheeks.
Another second passes.
“Charlie, is that you?”
My fist slams down on the hook a second before the ragged sob escapes my lungs.
* * *
“New customer at table fourteen, Honey,” Berta calls out, rubbing my back as she passes.
“Great!” By her grimace, I’ve failed miserably at sounding cheerful. I should just aim for content, even though I’m far from that as well.
There’s a reason people say clean breaks are for the best. I had a clean break. It hurt like hell. And then I had to go and call Cain, to listen to his voice, to hear him acknowledge my existence. It was as if someone took a dull saw and hacked into my clean break to make it jagged and fresh. It’s the kind of pain that makes you pass out.
The kind that feels irreparable.
That was three days ago. Since then, I’ve grabbed my knapsack each morning, taken the city bus down to the Greyhound terminal, and bought a ticket to Miami.
And
sat on the bench, watching as the bus pulled away, telling myself that just because Sam is no longer a threat, it doesn’t mean Cain wants anything to do with me anymore. That I should let him be. That I’ve brought enough trouble into his life. That the memory of those wonderful weeks with Cain will need to somehow fill the gaping void in my heart, because things can never go back to the way they were.
Of course Berta knows none of this, because I’m back in time for my shift every night, plastering on a weak smile.
I make my way over to table fourteen. There’s a large man sitting there with graying hair and a round gut. Sliding a menu in front of him, I give him my best fake smile. “Hi, sir. Welcome to Becker’s. What can I get you tonight?”
“Oh . . .” He pats his belly, never bothering to open the menu. “A black coffee and a burger.”
“That’s easy.”
“I’m a creature of habit.” He grins, and the smile reaches his eyes. “And please, call me John.”
chapter forty-seven
* * *
CAIN
I can’t believe we found her.
Given the life she used to lead, I can’t believe she made such a rookie mistake. As I sit in my rental car and watch her take John’s order through the diner window, I think about how fucking thankful I am that she did.
I owe Dan . . . I don’t know what I owe him. A vital organ, perhaps. Through his connections, CNN picked up the murder story, sensationalizing it as part of a national drug problem piece. From there, it filtered out to a lot of smaller news stations.
After that strange call on my cell three nights ago, John had the number traced to a pay phone in Mobile, Alabama within minutes. He was on the first flight out the next day. I would have been, too, had he not convinced me to stay. He figured she had used a random pay phone and it would take him weeks—or longer—to find her.
But she didn’t. She used the one only four blocks away. And, thanks to John’s weakness for local diners, he stumbled upon her within forty-eight hours.
