“Why me?”
Stimmer pointed the MP5 at him. Morrie sighed, stood. Stimmer aimed at Lou again, their eyes locked on each other.
Morrie began pulling cash from wallets, dropping it on the table.
“Make sure you get it all,” Stimmer said. “Then sit down.”
Chance gave a short whistle from the corridor. She went out, saw him with the laundry bag between his feet, one end now bulky with cash. He’d taken Ricky into the bedroom, laid him down next to the banker.
Chance gave her a thumbs-up. Got it all. She cocked her head at the dining room. He nodded, went through. She went around the suite looking for room phones, found three. She unplugged the jack cords at both ends, shoved them into her pocket.
Back in the dining room, Chance was shoveling loose cash and cell phones into the laundry bag, the men watching him. He pulled the drawstring tight and hefted the bag, and she went with him to the front door. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall, a masked figure in black.
Chance took the second duffel, pulled it open, the rappelling gear inside. She ejected the magazine from the Glock, cleared the chamber, dropped gun and clip into the bag. Then she stripped out of the jumpsuit, stuffed it in after them. She was pulling at the mask when they heard the flat crack of the gunshot.
She looked at Chance. From the dining room, someone said, “Oh good Jesus Christ, no.”
She tugged the mask back down, swung around the corner into the dining room. The men had all pushed back from the table, some with their hands up. Gunsmoke hung in the air.
“Oh, Jesus,” the man in the cowboy shirt said. “Oh good Jesus Christ.”
Lou was sprawled back in his chair, the top of it wedged against the wall behind him, keeping him from falling. There was a black hole on the left side of his chest, the shirt blooming red around it. There was blood on the wall, on the felt, specks of it on the face of the man in the cowboy shirt. Lou slid lower in his seat, eyes half closed.
Silence in the room. She looked at Stimmer. He had the MP5 to his shoulder. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the breach. No one moved.
“He was reaching for something,” Stimmer said.
Lou tumbled slow to the left, out of the chair. The cowboy pulled away, let him fall. He took the chair down with him, thudded onto the floor, and lay still.
Stimmer tracked the gun over the rest of them. The cowboy raised a hand in front of his face. The Asians looked at Stimmer, patient. Sam had his hands up. No one looked at the body.
“Anyone tries to follow us gets the same,” Stimmer said.
She turned, moved quick into the hallway. Chance looked a question at her.
“It’s fucked,” she said. “We need to get out of here.”
He held the duffel open. She pulled off her mask, dropped it in. Stimmer came hurrying out of the dining room behind her. He engaged the safety on the MP5, closed the stock, slipped the gun into the bag, started to unzip his jumpsuit.
She didn’t wait. She opened the door, looked both ways. The hallway was empty. She stepped out, walked toward the stairwell, turning her face from the cameras, fighting the impulse to run. She passed the maintenance closet, the door propped open as Chance had left it.
On the ninth floor, she left the stairwell, went down the quiet hall to the elevators. She pushed the button, waited, heard the machinery inside. After a few seconds the door on her right opened. Empty. She got in, pushed G.
When the doors opened, she stepped out into the garage. To the left, the door to the maintenance area was propped open with a brick. The van that said NBS MAINTENANCE on the side was parked in a spot near the elevator, nose out. She considered walking past it, up the ramp and onto the street, but she didn’t know the area, would be lost around here on foot.
The passenger door was unlocked. She climbed up, leaned over, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught. It would save a few seconds. She pushed her glove back from her watch: 2:00 A.M. She looked back at the stairwell, kept a hand on the door latch, ready to pull it, do a runner if she had to.
A few minutes later, the stairwell entrance opened, and Chance and Stimmer came out, Stimmer back in street clothes, unmasked. They went through the maintenance door, and seconds later came out, Stimmer with the duffel, Chance with the laundry bag. They were breathing heavy from the walk down.
Stimmer pulled open the side door of the van, tossed the bags in, climbed in after them, slid the door shut. Chance got behind the wheel, his face white, pulled out of the spot without a word. She ducked below the dashboard as he drove up the ramp, turned left on Seabreeze and past the hotel. She stayed low as the van turned again, then a third time, the tires rumbling over metal plates, the bridge that led to the city itself.
On Los Olas Boulevard, she heard sirens, raised her head far enough to see a police cruiser streaking toward them from the opposite direction, lights flashing. It passed them, headed toward the beach.
They rode for another five minutes, making turns; then she heard tires on gravel, and the van came to an abrupt stop. She looked out, saw they were in a warehouse parking lot. Stimmer’s switch car, a gray Kia, was parked beside a Dumpster.
“Go on,” Chance said. “I need to get rid of this thing.”
She opened the door, got down, looked around the lot. A dark street, a long row of warehouses on both sides. She heard the side door open behind her, Stimmer getting out, shutting it. Chance pulled away, steered out of the lot.
“Give me the keys,” she said.
Stimmer looked at her.
“What?”
“Give me the keys. I’m driving.”
After a moment, he shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
He took the keys from his pants pocket, tossed them. She caught them in front of her face.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She got behind the wheel of the Kia, started the engine. He climbed in beside her, didn’t speak.
It was a twenty-minute drive to the bus station. There was a trio of taxis waiting at the curb. She drove past them, turned down a side street of darkened businesses, pulled to the curb.
“You’ll want to scrub your hands and wrists,” she said. “For powder residue. Even with the gloves.” It was the first she’d spoken.
“I will,” he said. He turned to her. “He was reaching for something. I had to do it.”
She nodded, turned the engine off, looked at him.
“What?” he said.
She hit him high in the left temple with her right fist, knocked his head back against the window. He grabbed at her, and she hit him again, a snapping backhand blow with her fist. He lunged across the seat, trying to get atop her, pin her hands. She put a gloved thumb in his eye.
He cried out, backed away against the door, a hand to his face.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She opened the door, got out. He was still leaning against the passenger door, hand at his eye. Blood dripped from a nostril.
“You’ll hear from us,” she said and shut the door, headed for the taxi stand. She didn’t look back.
THIRTEEN
Chance upended the duffel, dumped the cash out on the hotel bed. Most of it was banded. The banker had been neat.
He shook out the last of the loose bills, and they divided the money into two piles. They counted without speaking, Chance using a pocket calculator, Crissa doing it all in her head. She wore rubber bands on her wrist, slid one off to bind the bills whenever she reached a round number.
When they were done, they counted once more and compared figures. The total came to $418,320.
“Far cry from a million,” she said, “but not bad.”
It was 4:00 A.M. She was running on adrenaline, would stay awake, catch an 8:10 Amtrak north.
“Any trouble with the guns?” she said.
“I took the MP5 apart before I dumped it. The pieces went into three different canals. The cell phones, too. Fucking Stimmer
.”
She went through the money again, making three piles this time.
“That’s one hundred and thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and forty each,” she said. “Before expenses.”
“Fuck that. Let him take the expenses out of his share.”
“All right.”
“Be even better if we cut him out entirely. He deserves it.”
“I know. But we’re not going to.”
“Why not? That son of a bitch almost walked us both into a felony murder rap.”
“I’m as pissed as you are,” she said, “but if we give him his split, then he takes off, gets clear of here. Otherwise, he hangs around and runs the risk of getting caught, or comes after us looking for his money. Either way, he’s a loose end.”
“There’s another way to solve it.”
She shook her head. “No time. We’ll both be out of here by morning. Florida is the last place we want to be right now.”
She looked at her watch. “Call Stimmer. Tell him we’re on our way. I want to get this settled and get out of here. You still in your hotel?”
“I checked out already. My stuff’s in the car. I’m ready to roll.”
“Good.” She opened her suitcase on the other bed, began rolling cash into clothes and underwear, packing them back again. When she closed the lid, she had to press on it to lock it.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go see him.”
* * *
They drove past the bungalow twice. The blue pickup Stimmer was using was parked in the carport, lit by a single light over a side door. The yard was overgrown with palm trees and bamboo, the house half hidden. Light came through a jalousied front window.
“Find someplace to park, out of sight,” she said. “Couple of white people driving around this neighborhood this hour, cops’ll think we’re trying to score, pull us over.”
He found a spot a block away, an overgrown lot beside a boarded-up house. He killed the lights and engine.
“I should come in with you,” he said.
She shook her head. Stimmer’s share of the money was in a canvas knapsack at her feet.
“I don’t want any drama,” she said. “I’m going to give him the cash and leave. Way we left it, he’ll be happy to see me at all. I’ll meet you back here.”
“If you’re not back in fifteen minutes?”
“Do whatever you think is right. But if I were you, I’d get out of here.”
She hefted the knapsack, opened the door, and got out. A soft breeze stirred the trees. It was dead quiet, moonlight filtering through the clouds. She made her way down the street, staying in the shadows, away from the streetlights.
At the bungalow, she stood beside the front window, looked around the edge of the blind. Stimmer was in there alone, sitting on the couch, wearing a white muscle T-shirt, his head in his hands.
She moved to the carport, checked the truck. The cab was empty. Nothing in the bed except a tire iron and a length of chain.
The top panes on the jalousied side door were open and screenless. She tapped the frame twice. Insects buzzed around the light. A lizard scurried across the stucco wall.
Stimmer loomed up on the other side of the glass. He peered out at her, then undid the locks, opened the door.
“Hey,” he said. “Come on in.”
There was a wedge of cotton in his left nostril, distorting his nose. His right eye was bloodshot. He locked the door again.
She looked around the kitchen. On the counter was a can of Comet and a washcloth.
“You scrubbed your hands,” she said. “That’s good.”
He went past her into the living room, sat heavily on the couch. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, looked up at her.
“I don’t know what got into me. I panicked. I thought he had a gun.”
She set the knapsack on the coffee table.
“Your third,” she said. “Just shy of a hundred and forty K. We decided the expenses come out of your share, given the circumstances.”
“I fucked up,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry.” It was hot in there, and she could smell him, a thick, almost animal odor. Adrenaline and sweat.
“I don’t like getting caught in the middle of someone else’s drama,” she said. “Having a lot of planning go to waste because someone lost their shit.”
“I understand. I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say. There’s your money.”
He got up, went past her into the kitchen.
“I hate to leave it like this,” he said. “Let me get you something. A beer. Some water.”
“I’ll be going.”
He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Heineken, twisted the top off.
“Remember to wipe this place down for fingerprints before you leave,” she said. “Everything.”
“I will. Where’s Chance?” He sipped beer, the refrigerator still open.
“See you around,” she said, and started for the door.
“Wait a second.”
When she turned, he had the beer in his left hand, a black automatic in his right. He pointed it at her.
“Best-laid plans, huh?” he said. “What’s that you always say? ‘Nothing for it’?”
He put the bottle on the counter.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Don’t make things worse.”
She reached for the doorknob. He cocked the gun.
“Where is he?”
She met his eyes.
“You’re not half as tough as you think you are,” he said. “I put a bullet through your knee, that money’s not going to seem so important.”
Stay calm, she thought, feeling foolish, angry she had walked into this, let it happen. A mistake Wayne would never have made.
“I’m guessing he’s somewhere nearby,” Stimmer said. “Looking at his watch. If I keep you here long enough, he’ll come looking for you. Even quicker if he hears shots. One way or another, I’ll get that money.”
She looked at the gun, then at his eyes. He lowered the muzzle to her crotch.
“I could start there,” he said. “See how that feels. This thing doesn’t make much noise, and in this neighborhood, no one would give a shit anyway.”
He shut the refrigerator door. “I’m guessing you two were getting ready to book. Probably as soon as you settled up with me. So odds are he’s got the rest of the money with him, right?”
“Wrong.”
“If it’s not here, it’s close. We can cut a deal. You for the money. Come back inside, sit down. Let’s talk.”
She didn’t move. He pointed the gun at her forehead.
“You want it this way, Crissa, that’s the way it’ll be. I’ll put you down right here, wait for Chance to show up, then start all over with him.”
If he was going to kill you, he would have done it already, she thought. He won’t do anything until he gets the money.
“Go on,” he said. He cocked his head at the living room.
“He won’t go for it,” she said. “No reason to. He’s probably miles away from here already.” Wondering if it was true.
“I bet not. Go on, sit down.”
He backed away, kept the gun on her as she went past. She moved around the coffee table and sat on the couch, looked around. The louvered panes in the front door were closed tight, the door bolted and chained. All the blinds were drawn.
He followed her in, plucked the bloody cotton from his nostril, flicked it at her face. She batted it away.
“I ought to do you right now,” he said. “For putting your hands on me like that.”
A tiny lizard ran from beneath the couch, crossed the room, and disappeared under the bedroom door. Stimmer stepped back so he had an angle on both the front and side doors. The gun was still pointed at her.
“How long should we give him?” he said.
“He’s not coming.”
“Then take a good look around this room. It’s the last one you’ll ever see. Because i
f I—”
The side door exploded, glass flying in. Something hit the floor and slid along it. The tire iron.
Stimmer turned, pointing the gun at the door, and she kicked the table with both heels, sent it into his shins, knocking him off balance. The gun went off, the shot punching a hole in the side of the refrigerator. She bent, grabbed the table legs, lifted it like a shield and barreled into him, putting her weight behind it. She kept her head down, drove him hard across the room and into the wall, heard the breath go out of him.
The gun fell to the floor. She kicked at it, missed. The front door rattled in its frame, panes of glass falling in to break on the floor.
Stimmer shoved back hard, and she let the table fall, bent for the gun. He swung at her, caught the side of her jaw, and she fell back, landed on top of the gun. She got her legs up to kick at him, and he grabbed her calf, twisted hard, then fell on her with all his weight, drove the breath from her.
Behind him, she saw the front door fly open, the chain broken, Chance coming in.
Stimmer caught her throat with one hand, cocked the other back to hit her. His eyes were wild. She drove the heel of her right hand into his nose, snapped his head back, and then Chance was looming over them, swinging something. Stimmer went over with a soft “Ugh,” his weight coming off her. She kicked him away, scrambled across the floor, got to her feet.
“You okay?” Chance said. He had a foot on Stimmer’s back, pinning him there. A leather slapjack dangled from his hand. Stimmer wasn’t moving.
“Yeah.” Her legs were unsteady, and the left side of her face was numb. She touched it, and pain jetted through her jaw.
Chance bent, picked up Stimmer’s gun. He stuck the slapjack in a hip pocket, checked the gun, then aimed it at the back of Stimmer’s head.
“Don’t,” she said.
He looked at her. Stimmer groaned.
“Not here,” she said.
“Why not?”
“We can’t leave the body here, and we won’t have time to get rid of it.”
“Same canals I put the guns in.”
“No time.”
He took the gun away. “We can’t just leave him like this.”
“We don’t need to kill him. Just slow him down, give him something to think about.”
Cold Shot to the Heart Page 9
