Ray knew this as well as I did.
He snatched at my sleeve, swayed on his feet. “Corinne’s sisters haven’t seen her. She’s not answering her cell. I can’t get a hold of Bran—”
“Listen to me, Ray.” For Corinne’s sake, I needed to raise the topic I’d been avoiding all weekend. “You said Bran was into Monique Wells. Is there a chance he was into Corinne, too?”
Ray’s face puckered like a prune. “No!”
“Could Bran have been making advances that Corinne rejected?” Marc asked.
Marc, without a long history as Ray’s protégé, could be the voice of reason here.
And I was grateful for that.
But Ray shook his head. “No, no, Bran’s done nothing like that. Why would you say such a thing?”
Because Monique Wells hadn’t recognized Bran’s name. Because when she finally figured out who Bran was, she’d denied any kind of romantic or sexual involvement with him. And because I’d witnessed a half-naked Bran sneaking down Ray’s stairs while Corinne, dressed only in her bathrobe, had tried to divert me—but I wasn’t going to confront Ray with any of this right now.
“Corinne said Eddie Jepson tried to break in,” I reminded him. “What about him, or the heavies who followed Corinne through town? Why would they do that?”
Ray shook his head again, wheezing audibly. I, however, knew a guy that employed men who made a game out of terrorizing women. So I said his name.
“Hunch Nevis doesn’t play nicely with others. Are you sure you didn’t go after his gotcha list? Are you sure he didn’t send those goons or Eddie after Corinne?”
At the mention of Hunch Nevis, Ray opened his mouth to answer. But his eyeballs rolled back in his head. Clutching his arm, he collapsed.
“Ray!” I shrieked.
I thrust a hand under his elbow, tried to ease him to the decking. Dropping to my knees beside him, I rolled him onto his back. Gasping for breath, he clawed at the collar of his button-down shirt, so I ripped it open.
“Ambulance is on its way,” Marc announced, sliding his cellphone into a pocket and kneeling on the deck beside me.
“Stay with Ray,” I ordered him.
I dashed into the house, whipped open the kitchen cabinet where Ray kept his medicines, and behind a forest of amber bottles, found what I’d hoped for: that simple compound that experts said could prevent further damage during a heart attack, and maybe even stop a stroke in its tracks. Snatching the bottle of aspirin from the shelf, I darted onto the deck again. My hands shook so hard I could barely get the cap off the container, but I did.
I bit into a pill, cracked it between my teeth. Its bitter flavor filled my mouth. I plucked it from my lips and slipped it beneath Ray’s tongue.
“Let it dissolve,” I urged him. “Let it do its work.”
But Ray had other things on his mind.
He rasped, “Swear you’ll find Corinne. Swear you’ll help her with the baby—”
“Don’t talk. The aspirin—”
“I did everything to protect her. Swear you’ll help her.”
Tears stung my eyes. I grabbed his hand. His palm was clammy and his fingers were as swollen as sausages.
“I don’t like where this conversation’s headed, Ray.”
“I’ll flag down the EMTs,” Marc said. He bounded from the deck and ran up the lane.
“Swear…”
“I swear, okay? I swear.”
Ray heaved a strangled sigh. His eyes closed. And his face went slack.
“Ray?”
His carotid artery leapt in his neck. I leaned close to him. His faint breath feathered my cheek. He was alive. But he wouldn’t be for long.
The ambulance screamed down the drive. It bucked to a halt on the lawn behind us. Two paramedics, kits in hand, bounded up the steps.
“Hurry!” I cried. “Please hurry!”
Marc gathered me to him, drew me out of the way.
“Breathe easy, babe. Your friend’s going to be just fine.”
But Ray had been more than a friend to me. He’d been the dad I should’ve had. Because of Ray, I’d found the courage to step out of the shadow of my actual, overbearing father. Because of Ray, I knew I was capable of great things. Because of Ray, I knew who Jamie Sinclair truly was.
While I watched, the paramedics clamped oxygen over Ray’s nose. They ran an IV and shot him up with hypodermics full of meds. They lifted Ray onto a stretcher and rushed him to their waiting ambulance.
“Are you the daughter?” an EMT asked.
“Yes, she is,” Marc said. “Go with them, Jamie. I’ll meet you there.”
In the back of the ambulance, I shriveled into a hard, cold knot in the corner of the vehicle. Ray seemed to doze, but he looked so close to death. With shaking hands, I texted Barrett.
SKIPPED MY FLIGHT.
CORINNE’S GONE MISSING.
ON MY WAY TO HOSPITAL WITH RAY.
HE’S HAD AN APPARENT HEART ATTACK.
I received no reply, but then I hadn’t expected one. Barrett had his hands full with tracking down terrorists. To get the job done—and to keep our nation safe—silence was often the sacrifice soldiers had to make.
I tried to call Corinne, too. Her cellphone rolled to voicemail each and every time. And I didn’t have the guts to leave her a message describing what had just happened to her husband.
At the hospital, I trotted behind Ray’s gurney as the EMTs and ER staff rushed him into treatment.
A nurse snagged me when our caravan reached a particular set of swinging doors.
“We’ll get you set up in the waiting area,” she said. “You can fill out some paperwork.”
Like a sleepwalker, I let her lead me to an alcove with a green vinyl couch. In the corner, a TV droned on about the search for the Mississippi Gulf Coast Bomber. When the nurse went in search of a clipboard, Marc appeared in the doorway.
I’d never been so glad to see him. But right behind him came someone else. Right behind him was Bran Laurent.
“Jamie girl, what’s going on? Ray left some crazy message on my phone and when I got to his house, I saw y’all leaving with the ambulance—”
I charged Bran like a mad mama bear in the Canadian wilderness. Grabbing the front of his shirt, I shoved him to the wall. He was taller than me, stronger than me, but that didn’t keep me from kicking him squarely in the shin.
“If you have any idea what’s happened to Corinne,” I spat, “you’d better tell me right now.”
“What do you mean?” Bran’s eyes were as wide as the Beauville wetlands. “What’s happened to Corinne?”
I drew back my foot to kick him again. Marc’s arms cinched my middle. He picked me up, turned me away.
“That’s not going to locate Corinne,” he grunted, setting me down again.
I supposed he was right.
“Ray called me in a panic,” I told Bran. “Corinne disappeared sometime after her party last night. Ray collapsed when he couldn’t find her.”
“It looks like a heart attack,” Marc added.
“If you know anything about her whereabouts, you’d better spill.”
Bran ran his hands through his blond hair as he sank onto the arm of the ugly green sofa.
I folded my arms across my chest, loomed over him as best as I could. “Come on, Bran. Corinne told me she thought Eddie Jepson was trying to break into the house the other night. And she said you wouldn’t let her call the cops. So I want to know. Was Eddie really there? Or did you get Corinne to bluff so you could break into Marc’s car?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I’d pinched Ray’s old casebooks. They’re full of notes about the time we busted Jepson fifteen years ago. And for some reason, you wanted them back.”
Bran planted his hands on his knees. He looked me straight in the eye. “Ray didn’t want Corinne to call the cops that night. He told me so himself. And I never went near anybody’s car. I didn’t even know you had Ray’s
notes.”
Well, somebody knew it, because somebody had broken into my room and clocked Barrett to get them—and I’d bet my life that same somebody knew where Corinne was right now.
I turned on my heel and stalked from the waiting room.
Outside, under the overhang shielding the emergency room entrance, Marc caught up with me.
I said, “Have you noticed how Bran’s stories never match Ray’s?”
“How so?”
“Bran says Ray sent him to track Monique. But Ray says Bran was into her. Bran says Ray wants Nevis’s gotcha list. Ray says Bran’s after it for Monique. The only thing they agree on is that Eddie and some guys have been bothering Corinne. And they both say they’re on it.”
“What does that tell you?” Marc asked.
“It tells me Eddie may be holding all the cards. I’ve just got to get him to tip his hand.”
“Well, you know where he’ll be.”
“That dump on Water Street? What makes you so sure?”
Marc reached for me. He ran a gentle knuckle along my cheek. “Because, babe, he has nowhere else to go.”
Chapter 28
“Give me your keys,” I demanded as I stepped just beyond Marc’s reach.
“What are you going to do?” Marc asked warily.
“You know what I’m going to do.”
I scanned the parking lot, spotted Marc’s rental in the third row. I struck out in that direction. Marc stuck to my side.
I said, “I’m going to pay a little visit to Eddie Jepson. I’m going to find out who put him up to bombing the Lady Luck. I’m going to find out why he’s been so interested in Corinne and I’m going to make him tell me who else has an interest in her, also.”
“Jamie.” Marc caught my arm, stopped me in my tracks. “What are you going to do if he doesn’t tell you what you want to know? Get tough with him?”
“I won’t have to. He’s too soft for that. Eddie looks out for Eddie.”
“Exactly. And what if he’s afraid of someone bigger and badder than you? That’ll keep his mouth closed.”
Marc had a point.
But I had an idea.
I said, “What if I convince him that I’m big and bad? Have you got a crowbar in your trunk?”
“What for?”
“For Eddie.”
“You can’t be serious.”
But I was.
Deadly serious.
“Marc, I won’t risk Corinne and her child just for the sake of law and order.” I blinked back sudden tears. “I’ll get answers from Eddie. If he thinks I’ll beat them out of him, he’ll give them to me.”
Marc sighed. He wrapped his arms around me, drew me to his chest. I squirmed against his calm embrace. If I relaxed, I’d let go of my anger. And I couldn’t afford to do that.
Against my hair, Marc murmured, “What if he calls your bluff? Have you ever beaten the truth out of someone?”
“No.”
“It’s not the same as fighting off an attacker in self-defense.”
I pushed my way from the circle of Marc’s arms. “I won’t have to beat the truth out of Eddie. Mark my words.”
“Then I suggest we put that cash Nevis sent with you to good use and pick up a few things that will get his attention.”
“We?” I asked.
“We,” Marc said.
There, in the parking lot of the hospital, while Ray struggled to survive inside, Marc and I put together a shopping list. When he suggested he complete our errands so I could visit Ray one more time, I gladly accepted. But Ray wasn’t in the emergency room anymore.
He’d been moved to the cardiac unit.
I found Bran at Ray’s bedside. Ray’s face was as white as the sheet that covered him and he had more tubing running into and out of his arms than a twelve-cylinder engine. But he was conscious, and he mumbled in Bran’s ear as the younger man leaned over the bed.
“He’ll be all right,” Ray’s doctor told me, appearing at my side.
She and I stood elbow-to-elbow in the hallway, peering through the window that offered a view into Ray’s tiny room. Visitors were limited to one at a time. A sign on the glass said so. But I didn’t mind. I needed a moment to get my emotions under control before coming face to face with Ray.
“Mr. Walther suffered a mild myocardial event,” the doctor explained.
“A heart attack,” I translated.
“Angina, triggered by extreme stress.” She scribbled a note on the chart in her hand, flipped the folder closed. “I understand the police were called to his residence this morning—and that his pregnant wife is missing?”
I didn’t trust myself to reply.
“That,” the doctor said, “is extreme stress. We’ll keep him here, keep him calm, give the police time to work. In a day or so, Mr. Walther can go home.”
I nodded.
I only hoped Corinne would be there to greet him.
The doctor wished me well, went about her business. Bran caught sight of me then. He said something to Ray, rose, and joined me in the hall.
“You did good, Jamie girl. You got him here in time.”
“Are you disappointed about that? If something happens to Ray, you inherit his share of the business.” And maybe Corinne. But I kept that comment to myself.
Still, Bran’s mouth turned hard. “Ray gave me a chance when plenty of others wouldn’t, and the firm isn’t exactly a goldmine. I’ll stick with the partnership, thanks.”
Bran stomped away. And that was fine with me. I didn’t want an audience when I talked to Ray.
Ray’s eyes were closed as I entered his little cubicle and drew near his bedside. The steady beep of his heart monitor seemed overly loud and his breathing was way too quiet. The rise and fall of Ray’s chest, though, was a comfort, and I sat next to him, taking his coarse hand in mine.
Ray’s eyes fluttered open, only to drift closed again. “Corinne?”
“Eddie Jepson will tell me who’s got her,” I promised. “I’m sure of it.”
“That shit-rat,” Ray mumbled.
“Yeah, well, I saw him aiding and abetting Monique Wells this morning. I know where he is. And I’ll get him to talk. About everything.”
The blue dot on Ray’s monitor jumped sky high.
I gave his hand a squeeze. “Hey, no worries, now. You rest. You’ll be released in a day or so. You might not hear from me until then. Okay?”
Ray’s head nodded slowly on his starched pillow. I kissed his brow, said my goodbye, and set out to meet Marc. We had a lot to accomplish before Ray came home.
Under the cover of evening shade, Marc and I got started. Hunch Nevis’s cold, hard cash had bought us a cheap minivan from one of those lots where few questions are asked and documents are rarely required, and as the sun went down, Marc parked it beneath the fire escape zigzagging up the side of Eddie’s flophouse. In coveralls, army surplus boots, and nitrile gloves, we climbed to Eddie’s window. Ski masks to hide our faces were in short supply in the Deep South, but black motorcycle helmets with smoky visors would do the trick, so we wore those, too. Decked out in this fashion, we ducked into Eddie’s bolt-hole to wait for him to come home.
We didn’t have to wait long.
Eddie was a wanted man. He couldn’t risk spending his evenings out on the town. So sooner rather than later, his key rattled in the loose lock on the door—and when the door swung open, Marc and I were ready to pounce.
Eddie walked in, a paper sack under his arm. He doffed the ball cap he wore and tossed it at the threadbare armchair in the corner. He hit the light switch on the wall with the side of his fist. It didn’t work, of course. I’d loosened the overhead fixture’s only bulb.
Marc emerged from the deep shadow of a dark corner, slammed the door, and locked it. Eddie’s head whipped from Marc to me as I stepped close to him, shoved a stun gun into his gut. With the telltale crackle and an arc of blue sparks, Eddie gurgled, the bag hit the floor, a beer bottle broke—and Eddie went dow
n in a heap.
While he was out of commission, Marc and I worked fast. We bound Eddie’s hands and feet with zipties and stuffed a simple gag in his mouth to silence him. And all the while, I refused to let myself think about Ray, Corinne, or the dead like Damon Maddox.
Instead, I concentrated on the task at hand.
Eighteen minutes after we’d launched our strike against Eddie Jepson, the poor man still twitched from the aftereffects of the stun gun. We’d strapped him to an old wooden chair in an abandoned waterfront warehouse that Marc had known about. How he’d known, I didn’t ask. He didn’t offer to tell me. It was too late to get the jitters about details like that, anyway.
I’d positioned a single spotlight to pour hot white light onto Eddie. I’d made sure it illuminated a collection of rusty tools, too. Saw blades, pliers, gaffs, and screwdrivers with chiseled points lay like surgical instruments on an orange crate just beyond Eddie’s reach. The implication was these implements were ready for use—and if Eddie put two and two together, he might imagine they were ready for use on him.
Marc approached Eddie from behind, well out of the man’s line of sight. With a quick hand, Marc slipped the gag from Eddie’s mouth, tugged it up and over his head. And from the gloom beyond the circle of light, I called out to him.
“Hello, Eddie. Anyone missing you tonight?”
Eddie squinted into the darkness, tried to make out my form. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Sadly, I knew the answer to that question.
No doubt Shirley Smith had spent the weekend glued to her television with her phone in her hand, hoping to hear good news about the ex-husband she still loved. But I had to seem tough to get to the bottom of Corinne’s disappearance, and the interconnectedness I was sure existed between Eddie, Monique, Bran, and the bombing. I had to sound tough.
In Eddie’s eyes, I had to be tough.
“Certainly,” I said, “Shirley would like to see you.”
“You leave her out of this!” Eddie yelled, but fear made his voice fracture.
The Kill Radius Page 21
