“No,” she said. “That was a little extreme. But, you have to admit, it did get results. We got results. It brought you and me closer together.”
“I still don’t know who you are.”
Amused, she laughed a carefree laugh.
“But I think I love you,” I said.
She ran a long, trailing fingernail down my chest, stood up, and disappeared into the bathroom for a moment. I wondered who had taken Pavel’s body, and why. And then, I wondered where my whiskey was.
I turned on the light and felt around on the floor, found it, picked it up, noticed her purse sitting beside her bunched-up dress, that pool of green velvet. I flicked the clasp and fished around. Some credit cards. Sylvia Rodrigo, a piece of plastic with a photo and a signature on it, an ID. She was only nineteen. The name on her ID matched the credit cards. Rodrigo. That name was familiar.
I heard the toilet flush. I clasped the purse shut, dropped it, jumped back on the bed. I’d heard that name before, but where? Her movements were lithe and her breasts bounced softly as she walked back to the bed. And then, it struck me. Rodrigo, that had been Gemma Jones’s maiden name.
Chapter 22
Connections
Sylvia Rodrigo was gone when I woke up, and she hadn’t stolen anything. Not that there was anything to steal, just my flask and my clothes and the clothes of the man who’d died in my room. I really should get around to burning those.
I had a warm shower and some breakfast and turned on the TV, only to see Sarah Jones’s face again. What was their relation? If Sylvia Rodrigo was Gemma’s daughter, then she was Sarah’s half-sister? But, what if she wasn’t Gemma’s daughter? She was another relation. A cousin. No relation at all. Lots of people had the same last name and weren’t related.
I splashed on some aftershave and filled my flask. There was a knock at the door. When I opened it, my editor stood there looking gleeful. “Hey, you’re up. I tried calling you.”
I didn’t have my phone anymore. I didn’t tell him that. I was a little bit preoccupied. I was feeling bad about what had happened to Sarah Jones and responsible for it. That’s the one problem with responsibility: Even if you know it’s not your fault, you can’t let go of it, especially if you were to blame in some way for what’s happened, and I was supposed to be protecting her, making sure she was safe from her father. Turns out it wasn’t the father I needed to worry about, at least that’s what Sylvia seemed to be hinting at. But, I couldn’t imagine that a mother could do that to her own daughter.
“I thought your flight was leaving today,” I said.
My editor beamed at me and pushed past into the room. He set down two coffees on the table and unwrapped a bagel, started eating it. “Got a coffee for you.”
“No breakfast?” I asked. I’d already had mine, but it didn’t hurt to ask.
“I thought you preferred a liquid diet.” He said it almost as a sneer. “I cancelled my flight,” he added.
I raised an eyebrow.
“This Sarah Jones thing, it’s too big. All the media in the world’s converging on this place, and you’ve got an angle on it. I think we need to stay. I need to stay, make sure you get everything done right, cross your t’s, dot your i’s, that kind of thing.”
The last thing I needed was some sap directing what I was doing, watching my every move, making sure I did things by the book, the way that he wanted me to do them. Ed was just the kind of sap who would try and do that, a control freak who had no sense of allowing people to do the work they’re good at.
He stood up and mumbled something, his mouth full, opened the door, stepped out. He was back about two minutes later. “I forgot these.”
He put a package down on a chair, and the briefcase. He looked guilty. “I didn’t look in them, I swear.”
The package was still perfectly wrapped, so I believed him on that count, but the briefcase and that guilty look on his face taught me everything I needed to know.
“Cool gun, huh?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not my kind of thing.”
“I thought you went down to the firing range with your pals.”
“I don’t fire anything like that. I mean . . . I’m guessing, ‘cause I didn’t even look inside.”
“You can stop your bullshitting,” I said. “I’ve got to go. This place is all yours today. Make yourself at home.”
“Uh, no thanks,” he said. “I think I’ll come with you.”
I already had his keys; I’d swiped them off the table. I took the package and the briefcase with me, and I was out the door. I slammed it in his face. He opened it, ran out after me, but I had already started the car and was pulling out of the drive as he screamed out. I didn’t hear what he said, but the look on his face was priceless.
Sylvia’s visit prompted me to do some more digging on Michael Connelly. There were just too many connections here. Michael Connelly was Dan Branson’s brother and Sylvia was probably Gemma Rodrigo’s daughter and there had to be something else going on, some reason that Branson wanted dirt on Connelly. And why had Connelly killed my colleague? Had Connelly killed Duffy, or was it someone else?
I decided to pay him a visit. He wasn’t at the hotel when I got there, or at least that’s what they told me. I went up to the casino. It was different without Pavel there; quieter, less threatening. A big man but still half the size of Pavel came up to me, asked who I was looking for and what I was doing there, whether I wanted any chips. I told him I didn’t need any chips. I wouldn’t be gambling. This wasn’t my kind of joint anyway. Besides, they’d thrown me out once before and he shouldn’t be letting me in. Telling him that sparked some recognition.
“Ah, you’re the journalist,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about your colleague.”
“It’s par for the course, but the poor bastard didn’t deserve that,” I said.
“Mr. Connelly said you might come. He asked me to tell you where he is,” said this new guy.
“And?” I said.
“Speaking of courses and pars, he’s out doing nine holes.”
“Is that some sort of euphemism for visiting a brothel?” I asked.
“You know what it is, Mr. Hammer.”
I nodded and thanked him. “Which way to the golf course?”
“It’s not attached to the hotel’s grounds. You would have seen it when you came in, otherwise. You drive up around the Rock, taking the left and then another right. This way, see?” He pulled out his phone, drew his fingers apart on Google Maps and showed me the direction.
As I floored the hire car around the bend, a theory started to come to me. Connelly and Branson were brothers. They were interested in the same kinds of things. Branson spent time on a ship. Connelly had a superyacht and ran a bunch of ships, which Branson insisted were not his brother’s. So, who did they belong to? I needed to find out where the Connellys’ money had come from, whether an inheritance had been split unevenly, unfairly, something like that.
I ground down through the gears as I approached another corner and then sped out of them. Flashing blue lights appeared behind me, though the car was unmarked. I pulled over on the verge, skidded to a halt, reached into the passenger seat, grabbed the briefcase, and threw it under the seat.
The two Glocks hopped out of each door and pointed their weapons at the driver’s seat of my car. Hathaway pulled back the action on his shotgun and approached. I wound down my window. His face was impassive as ever.
“It’s good to see you,” I said.
Hathaway didn’t even venture a smile. “Get out of the car, Mr. Hammer.”
I’m not one to disagree with a shotgun. I opened the door, held my hands up, stepped out of the car. The two Glocks moved forward. One of them secured some handcuffs around my wrists, sat me down on the bonnet of the car.
“Search it,” said Hathaway.
They holstered their weapons and leaned over into the car, having a look. “What’s this?” said Glock Two holding up a small package, gift wr
apped.
“Present for my niece,” I said.
He nodded, put it on the roof, went back into the car, drew out the briefcase, popped the latches open on the trunk so I could see what he was doing and Hathaway could see just as well. “I think we’ve got something, sir,” he said.
“No shit,” said Hathaway, stepping up, putting some gloves over his hands before assembling the M9 with practiced efficiency. I could have done better, though, if my hands had been steady.
“And why do you have this now, Mr. Hammer?”
It’s hard to answer a question when you don’t know the answer. I picked it up on the boat just before the boat caught fire, just before the gas and the explosion, but I didn’t know why I had it or what it meant or who it pointed to. It had to be something to do with Connelly, Sarah and Gemma Jones, but what? And how would I explain that to a bunch of cops who don’t even know their left from right, don’t even bother to unwrap a present to see what it is?
Hathaway turned the weapon around, up and down, looking at it expectantly. I don’t know what he was looking for. “Same caliber,” he said.
Same caliber as what, I wondered.
The two Glocks nodded wisely.
“Get this down to forensics, will you?”
Glock One spoke up, “Sorry, I can’t, Chief. It’s my daughter’s birthday today. I’ve got that party, remember? I’ve got to be home within an hour.”
Hathaway nodded, not bothering to hide his irritation. “What about you? Got any birthday parties?”
Glock Two shook his head. “No, but my shift was up an hour ago. The union won’t wanna hear that I’m still doing stuff for another few hours.”
For only the second time, I saw an expression rising in Hathaway’s face, and it wasn’t one made by his facial features. It was the color red burning up from his chin. But the tone of his voice stayed even and measured. “Fine. You two idiots stay here with this guy. I’ll call in backup. I’ll take it down to forensics myself. They can dust the car for prints and evidence, and then you can go to your party and your fucking union.”
He had only just finished saying this when his head exploded and a loud crack echoed through the valley. As he fell backwards, he threw the gun up into the air. I caught it—my hands were cuffed in front of me this time—and pointed it at Glock One.
Glock Two had already hit the deck, drawn his gun, was looking up into the trees, trying to see who’d shot at us. There was no movement, no sound, no muzzle flash.
“Undo these handcuffs,” I demanded.
Glock One hesitated, then obliged, and Glock Two fired a few shots into the bush. “What the fuck was that?” he cried out. “Where’re they shooting from?”
A second head exploded, and One thumped into the side of my car before slumping down to the ground. Two lost his shit. “Jesus! Jesus!” he screamed as he scrambled on all fours towards the door of the police vehicle.
He pulled out his boss’ body from where it had fallen into the door and scrambled into the driver’s seat. That was when his head exploded, too. Blood and brains spattered all over the windscreen in the passenger side window, and the report rang out loud, clear, sharp.
I took a stance and lifted the gun, sweeping slowly left and right. Maybe I’d see something move, some sign from my invisible assailant. But, I saw nothing, and as I waited for my own head to explode, a silence descended on the road.
My mind skated onward, desperate to understand. Had Hathaway already radioed for backup? I couldn’t remember. I realized just how bad the situation looked. I was a wanted man, a journalist who’d been arrested by Hathaway and his team earlier in the week, standing on the side of the highway, three dead bodies—all police—bleeding into the gravel around me, a high-powered weapon in my hands. I realized that whoever shot them didn’t need to shoot me. They wanted me alive, perhaps even wanted this exact scenario.
I cleared the front seat of Two’s body, just as he had his boss’, hopped into the car, set the gun down beside me and turned the engine. Three more cracks rang out. I heard the air sizzling out of my tires, felt the car rock as I pushed down on the pedal. The car creaked forward and rubber flapped off the rims. I rolled to a halt. Another crack, this time in the engine block. Steam spouted up from the bonnet.
I was stranded. But, more than that, I was right: they wanted me framed. The next thing I knew, I could hear sirens and, by the sound of them, they weren’t far away.
Chapter 23
Records
I pulled on the handbrake and hopped out of the car. I realized the package was still on the roof where they left it. I grabbed it. How had I not opened this thing until now?
I must be close to the golf course, I thought. My legs carried me down the street, arms pumping, feet skidding in the gravel. The sirens were closer now, almost on me. I could hear the tires skidding around sharp corners down the road, could see the dust floating up from the valley, ran harder. There was precious little cover around here. As I ran, I ripped the wrapping from the package. Inside was an wooden box, an old-style lock. It looked like the key in my pocket would fit.
My feet skidded, my heart pounded, my breath hitched ragged, but I was getting nowhere and the sirens were almost on me. They were just about at the car, over the rise, ahead of me. A cloud of dust kicked up and then slowly, too slowly, the roof of a golf cart came into view, and then the rest of it. A fucking golf cart. What good was that? Still, it could go faster than I could run.
I waved my free arm, trying to attract attention. The golf cart sped towards me, skidded. I hopped in, looked into the face of Michael Connelly.
“I heard the shots,” he said. “I came to check it out. The casino called, too, said you were on your way. I was worried the two might be related...”
He looked at the box I held in my hands. “You shouldn’t have that,” he said.
He turned the golf cart back up the way it had come and sped back over the rise. Just as we dipped down behind the rise, I saw the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars as they skidded to a halt next to their dead colleagues.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a few days now. I wanna find that girl, the one who went missing.”
I was shaking pretty hard now that I felt a little bit safer. The adrenaline leached out of my system. My need for drink came roaring back.
“Why do you wanna find the girl?” I asked, after I’d dulled the edge of my thirst with the contents of my flask. I felt my hands shaking slightly less—and then they started shaking again, more violently.
Michael looked over at me. “You’re in shock. They’ll come down to the golf club before long, see what happened. The police, I mean.”
I just sat there and looked stupid, shaking like one of those windup toys that street hustlers set loose along the sidewalks in New York, trying to tempt tourists and nagged-out parents.
“I have a cabin up in the hills. We’ll go there until things calm down a bit.”
I tried to nod, but my whole face was nodding up and down irrespective of what I wanted it to do. He took the box off my lap and put it down in the footwell. “Have another drink. It’ll distract you, take your mind off things.”
I didn’t need my mind taken off things. I needed things to start making sense so they could give me some sense of what to do, some approach, some idea, some direction to find Sarah Jones and bring her back to her parents alive. The scalping suggested that things were only going to get worse and that she didn’t have long to live. Whoever was doing this wanted the attention of someone. What had Sylvia said again? A warning. But, that didn’t quite sit right with me. It felt more like a punishment. But, for what? And for whom?
Up at the cabin, Connelly poured me a large glass of water and handed it over. He sat down on the deck chair next to me. We looked out over the valley, down where there seemed to be a swarm of bodies, little black ants, illuminated now and then by flashing blue lights.
“I sent Pavel to retrieve that from the boa
t,” he said, pointing at the box that sat on the table, still locked. “Gave him the key and everything, and then the big idiot had to go choke on a fucking almond and die. What are the chances of that? Just sent him to check in on you, make sure you didn’t think the death of your photographer friend was anything to do with me. It wasn’t, I can assure you that.”
I let the cool water slide down my throat, wishing it was something stronger. I nodded. I wasn’t shaking anymore, not much.
“So, I take it that was you who burned my, La Madre Teresa, one of the most beautiful yachts ever made?”
I shook my head. “A gas leak,” I said, “Besides it was a dusty old hovel.”
“No, no,” said Michael. “Shit like that doesn’t just happen.”
“Well, maybe they wanted me dead,” I said.
“Maybe they wanted me dead,” he countered.
I could have asked him who would want him dead, but then in this town it seemed like everybody wanted everybody dead. And, Michael Connelly had money and connections. It wasn’t surprising that he was the target of someone who didn’t like what he did or how he went about his business. I could think of half a dozen people who would kill him right now. I was one of them.
Instead, I drew on my experience, knew that sometimes the best question was the one that came from left of field, the one they didn’t expect. “Why do you wanna rescue the girl?” I asked.
There was a stirring sincerity in his voice when he answered. “What, aside from the media publicity? You’ve seen the face of that girl on TV, her eyes, beauty, being torn apart bit by bit, appendage by appendage. She’s my daughter. I’d do anything to rescue her.”
The shock must’ve been written all over my face, but Michael had the good grace to ignore it, to let it sink in, to give it time.
“My boys said they didn’t find anything on Pavel’s body when they searched it. They went through his clothes. So, it leaves one person who must have it. You?”
The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 1) Page 11
