Ugh, what else was new? She should’ve traded that old clunker in years ago. Except . . . What on earth is she doing at the old vacuum cleaner factory? I paused outside the car, debating what to do. She probably figured the deserted industrial area was the safest place to hide out until the heat died down. A gray-haired, white senior with a black teen hanging out at the mall or Forest Park would attract unwanted attention. And she had to know Mom wouldn’t stand for a fugitive in the house, so she couldn’t call Dad about the car, let alone roadside assistance. Unless . . .
What if car trouble was code for trouble with Ty?
The cops in the car at the corner sat up and took notice of my hovering outside my car.
Terrific. I’d have to lose them before I saw to Aunt Martha. I climbed in my car, my mind racing. With any luck, the trip to the marshal’s office would convince the cops that tailing me was a waste of time. But what if Aunt Martha wasn’t just being her usual dramatic self and needed me now? It would take me half an hour, minimum, to get Tasha squared away.
I took a deep breath. Okay, this isn’t a ticking clock that can’t tell me if it’s a bomb. I can just call her already. “I’ll just be a minute,” I said to Tasha and dialed Aunt Martha’s number.
The call went immediately to voice mail.
I texted her back. Can you give me 45 minutes? I reversed out of the driveway and tipped an imaginary hat to the pair of cops at the corner as I passed.
Aunt Martha’s response—No. I need you now—came in as I was about to notify dispatch I was transporting a suspect.
I hit Redial, but my call went to voice mail again. At the stop sign, I fired back another text. Why aren’t you answering your phone? I wavered at the corner. This sounded more serious than car trouble. Did she not want Ty to overhear her on the phone? Or someone else?
Sorry. Have the ringer off.
But she got the text alert? This was starting to feel fishier than the ticking clock.
I don’t feel well. Might need to go to the hospital.
Wow, okay, major red flag. Aunt Martha loathed going to the doctor. This had to be code for “I can’t talk, but you need to get your buns over here.”
Only . . . it was the why she couldn’t talk that had me antsy. Especially when I needed to unload Tasha. I couldn’t exactly ask the cops now trailing behind me to take over the transport. It’d probably make them so suspicious they’d keep following me with Tasha in tow. And it’d take just as long to call in another agent or marshal to pick her up as to take her myself. I made a quick turn and then another. The factory was five, six minutes away, tops. I could drive by first, and if the situation looked dicey, I’d pull back. If it was nothing, the pit stop wouldn’t matter. If it was something, I’d be glad I went. But first I needed to lose Starsky and Hutch trailing behind me.
Of course, backup would be good. Just not them. I veered into a mini-mart lot and stopped behind a delivery truck. As the green sedan sailed by, my thumb hovered over Tanner’s name in my contact list.
No, it was one thing to put my job on the line by failing to turn Ty in. I couldn’t ask Tanner to take the same risk. Nate?
He’d be game to help. But . . . the thought of him finding out I knowingly let Aunt Martha harbor a fugitive didn’t sit so well. I bypassed his name and kept scrolling through my contact list. Malgucci. Of course. Helping a fugitive wouldn’t compromise his morals one iota. Especially a fugitive Aunt Martha was fond of.
I clicked on his name and pressed Call, then scouted the street for the green sedan and turned back toward the factory.
“Why are those men after you?” Tasha asked.
“Who knows?” I said. She’d been surprisingly quiet while I did my disappearing act. From the way she was chewing on her lip, she was probably relieved by the delay.
“Carmen here,” he answered on the second ring.
I quickly brought him up to speed on what was going on and the potential trouble I thought Aunt Martha might be in, beyond “car trouble.”
“On my way,” he said without questioning me.
I smiled. He was the third cousin, twice removed on his mother’s side, to one of the most notorious crime bosses in the country, and purported to have his fingers in the business. Although Aunt Martha claimed he just enjoyed flaunting the persona. Either way, it was handy to have him on speed dial.
“We need to make a quick stop before we go to the marshal’s office,” I said to Tasha.
“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked.
“Tell the truth and be as cooperative as possible, and I imagine the prosecutor could be persuaded to be lenient.” Considering we had no physical evidence, as far as I knew, tying Ted to the murder scene, it was far from a done deal that even her testimony would clinch that conviction.
My phone rang. Tanner. I tapped it on.
“Where are you? I’m outside the Hoffemeier place, and your car’s not here.”
Right. I’d forgotten he said he’d meet me there when he got done. “Uh, I’m taking Tasha to the marshal’s office.” In a roundabout way. “I’ll meet you back at headquarters. I asked Benton to put surveillance on Ted. Could you look into it? See where he’s at?”
“Sure. See you in a bit.”
I swiped a sweaty palm down my slacks. Omitting mention of the pit stop I was making en route wasn’t really lying. Was it? My heart twinged.
Or maybe my conscience.
It’s not like I don’t plan to encourage Tyrone to turn himself in. I just don’t think he’s guilty, and if I can prove it before he goes in, it’ll save him a lot of undeserved grief.
I slowed as I neared the industrial park that housed the now-defunct Cleaner Carpets Vacuum factory. I squinted at the rooftops, down the side alleys. My chest tightened. “You see a car anywhere?” I asked Tasha. “It’s powder-blue.”
As we coasted past the next building, she jutted her chin toward the lot behind it. “There. At the back.”
The car was parked facing away from the road, overlooking a steep hill littered with garbage of every description. Aunt Martha was in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, but there was no sign of Tyrone.
I drove a little farther to scout the area. Seeing no signs of anyone lurking nearby, I turned and slowly crossed the parking lot.
Aunt Martha’s head whipped around, and the panic in her gaze sent my heart slamming into my ribs.
“It’s a trap!”
27
Before I could ram the shifter into reverse and stomp on the gas, my car door burst open and a rifle muzzle plowed into my cheek.
“Get out. Nice and slow,” the gunman said in a gravelly voice.
Okay, I had to admit losing those two plainclothes cops who were tailing me was not the brightest move. But . . . my gun was holstered on my right hip next to the seat-belt latch, and Rifleman looked egotistical enough to think I wouldn’t give him any trouble. Holding up quivering arms, I babbled hysterically to aid the impression.
“Out,” he ordered.
The ever-obedient hostage, I meekly unlatched my seat belt, then discreetly palmed my gun.
The rifle came down hard on my arm, knocking my gun to the floor.
“Ow!” I screamed at an ear-bursting pitch and grabbed the rifle barrel with my other hand. I jerked hard.
The gunman toppled toward me, but before I could wrestle the gun out of his hold, a second guy reached across Tasha and snatched it from the both of us.
I scrambled for my Glock, but just as my fingertips grazed the steel, the first gunman grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out of the vehicle. The second guy pocketed my gun and hauled Tasha out the other side of the car.
Inside her car, parked just ahead of us, Aunt Martha screamed like a wild woman. Her head bobbed frantically from side to side, but strangely she didn’t jump out of the car, didn’t even let go of the steering wheel.
As the jerk holding my arm slammed me face-first against the hood, I saw why. They’d duct-taped her hands t
o the steering wheel.
“Who are you? What do you want? Why are you doing this?” I demanded.
“We ask the questions.”
I surreptitiously scanned the area. Rusting equipment littered the parking lot. Foot-high weeds pierced the cracked pavement, testifying to the lack of traffic. The closest warehouse was four hundred feet away, and based on the number of missing windowpanes, it’d been abandoned long ago. The good news was, there was no sign of any other bad guys skulking in the shadows.
And these guys weren’t expecting Malgucci to show up any minute.
Hopefully packing.
“Do you know who I am?” I squinted at the guy holding Tasha and instantly recognized him from the surveillance stint at the Boathouse—one of Dmitri’s goons. One of the ones Tyrone had been spying on.
Rifleman yanked my face off the hood of my car, his hot, stinky breath slithering down my neck. “I said, we ask the questions.”
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. I clearly should’ve paid more attention to the niggling voice that gave me such a hard time over keeping Tanner in the dark. And a buzz cut would’ve been smart too. “I’m just trying to help,” I said, all innocence. But somehow pointing out that if they killed a federal agent, they’d have the rest of the agency breathing down their necks for the rest of their lives didn’t seem as if it would faze them.
The second guy held my Glock to Tasha’s temple. “Tell us where you put Capone’s package, and we’ll let you walk.”
Black mascara streaked Tasha’s ashen cheeks. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look, lady, we had a nice business going with Capone before you waltzed in. Be happy we don’t pop you for that alone.”
“She didn’t kill him,” I said.
“That’s not the story her boyfriend tells.”
Tasha gasped. “Ted told you I killed that man? He’s lying. He’s crazy.”
“Look, he didn’t have it. And it wasn’t in Capone’s apartment after you offed him.”
“I didn’t off him!”
The guy twisted his fist in her hair and got in her face. “Whatever. It wasn’t there. And no one’s going anywhere until we get it.”
“What does this package look like?” I asked, stalling for time. Where was Malgucci?
The guy holding Tasha, who seemed to be the spokesman for the pair, squinted at me. “Documents, photographs, tapes maybe. I don’t know. Trust me, we would’ve offed him ourselves after the stunt he pulled, if it weren’t for that package.”
“So these documents? They’re incriminating?”
“I said, we’re asking the questions,” my handler bellowed, twisting my hair in his fist.
I gritted my teeth against the pain. If I wasn’t expecting Malgucci any minute, the creep would’ve learned what a hoof to the kneecap felt like, followed by an elbow to the nose and capped with a knee to the groin. Out of the corner of my eye, I could make out Aunt Martha working at the duct tape binding her wrists to the steering wheel, and she seemed to be talking to someone. Herself? Or was Tyrone still hiding in the car?
“I don’t know anything about any package,” Tasha wailed.
“Ted says you went through Capone’s desk and grabbed some stuff.”
“The photo of my mother’s painting. That’s all.”
So she’d been at Capone’s apartment with Ted, after all. So much for her truthfulness.
The creep twisted his gun—correction, my gun—in front of Tasha’s face. “I don’t believe you.”
Mascara-streaked tears streamed down Tasha’s face.
“Why would she lie?” I screamed.
A cruiser raced into the parking lot, but my elation quickly deflated when it whipped around in a dust-stirring donut before squealing to a stop in front of us, and the bad guys didn’t blink an eye.
Pete jumped out of the car, showing no emotion, save for a flinch in his cheek when his gaze landed on his sister.
“Pete! How did you find us? Tell these guys I don’t have what they’re after,” his sister screeched.
Pete offered me a nod, which I responded to with an icy glare. Clearly he was in the organization’s back pocket. “What’s going on, fellas?” he said.
“This broad is your sister?”
“That’s right.”
“You got a problem with us roughing her up?”
Pete shrugged. “We’ve never been close.”
“Pete!” Tasha wailed. “What are you saying? You know me. I don’t have what they’re after.”
Pete’s voice turned caustic. “You stole a painting from your own mother. I don’t know you at all.”
“I’m sorry. I told her I was sorry.”
He shook his head, looking disgusted by her begging.
My stomach revolted at his coldness. And at the realization that, unless Malgucci brought reinforcements, we’d be seriously outgunned. Worse than that, Pete was a dirty cop. And now that I knew it, there was no way on earth he’d let me live.
“How’d you get them here?” Pete asked.
“We followed the old bag in the car from her apartment to the drop-in center”—the guy hitched his chin in my direction—“and saw her exchange a hug with Jones and figured she’d be the ticket to lure her to us once we got word Jones had the woman.”
Pete nodded. “Good work. But if you’d called me sooner, I could’ve saved you the trouble and gotten her myself.”
Tasha let out a strangled sound.
“Sorry, Tash, I’m in a tight spot here. I was counting on the money from the painting you swiped. Then you had to go and compound the problem by killing Capone.”
“I didn’t kill him,” she wailed.
“How could you sell your soul to a guy like Dmitri?” I hissed at him.
Pete cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I think Jones here knows a lot more than she’s been saying.” He pulled his gun and grabbed my arm, and with a jut of his chin, signaled my captor to release me.
“You kill a federal agent, Hoffemeier, and the agency will hunt you down for the rest of your life, if these guys don’t throw you under the bus first.”
He laughed. “Big talk for a woman in your position.” He raised his voice. “You lost the cops tailing you. Bailed on your partner.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Give me something to work with here, Jones. I’m on your side. Stall for time.” His voice exploded louder. “Who’s going to know? Huh?”
I blinked. Searched his eyes. Was he playing me?
“Talk to me,” he barked. “Where’d Capone hide the documents?”
“Maybe they’re behind one of his paintings,” Tasha blurted. “Like you used to hide those girly photos behind your band posters on the wall.”
Pete actually blushed as he tossed a glare at his sister.
My mind bobbed to the conversation with Tyrone’s mom—the painting she’d mentioned Capone giving her. Could that be where he’d stashed the evidence?
Pete squinted at me as if he sensed I was connecting the dots. Then he shoved me back at my captor and opened the door of Aunt Martha’s car. Pointed his gun at her head. “Tell us what we want to know.”
“Pete, no!” Tasha screamed. Struggled to break free of her captor’s hold.
Aunt Martha gnawed at the duct tape binding her hands, then shot her leg out sideways and caught Pete in the knee.
“Ow,” he yelped. Then, scowling at her, he stepped back a half pace, his gun still pointed at her.
Aunt Martha babbled something I couldn’t make out as Tasha continued to wail.
Pete swung his attention back to me. “You have three seconds. One . . .”
“I don’t know anything,” I said with a stony calmness that belied the frenzy in my mind. Was this an act for the bad guys’ benefit? What did Pete really expect me to do? Was he playing with my mind?
“Two . . .” Pete said louder.
Aunt Martha frantically strained at the duct tape binding her wrists, babbling at the rearview mirror
.
I fought against the creep holding me. “Pete, you can’t do this. You’re not a murderer.”
“Shoot her,” the guy holding Tasha barked. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He pressed a gun to Tasha’s temple. “Tell us what we want to know.”
Pete’s finger slipped inside the trigger guard. “Thr—”
“No, wait!”
He paused, cocked his ear as if to say, I’m listening.
“Capone has a booth at the flea market. Maybe the evidence is stashed there,” I blurted, praying it wasn’t.
“We already checked there,” the other guy grunted, which explained why all the paintings had been askew. He raised his gun as if he intended to shoot Aunt Martha himself.
“No!” I screamed, and Pete glared at him.
But the instant the guy lowered his gun, Pete’s gaze narrowed on me. “Three.” He fired.
“No!” I rammed my elbow into my handler’s gut. I never thought Pete would shoot. Not an unarmed victim. Not Aunt Martha.
28
Pete swung his gun in my direction. “Tell us. Or the next one goes in her head.”
I froze. Blinked.
Aunt Martha was ranting at him, still struggling to break free.
He shot the dirt. He shot the dirt.
Then suddenly there was a second person crawling up between the seats, reaching for her duct-taped wrists. Ty. He must’ve hidden in the trunk. So far, no one else seemed to notice him.
Hoping to keep it that way, I screamed, “Okay, okay!” and allowed my fuming captor to grab my arm once more.
Malgucci materialized behind Pete, looking every inch hard-core Italian mob. He had a long-barreled pistol pushed into the front of his waistband and one in each hand at his sides. “I don’t recommend that, son. It would be suicide,” he said with a cool aloofness that left no doubt he’d see to it. His gaze skittered over each of Dmitri’s guys. “You mess with her—you mess with the whole Malgucci family.”
A hint of a smirk flitted over Pete’s lips as he raised his hands and flattened his trigger finger along the side of his weapon.
I stilled. Was he on our side? Or not?
Another Day, Another Dali Page 25
