by Sharon Sala
“Like I’ve been eating crackers in bed.”
Clay grinned. “I have the tea made. If you’ll give me a minute or two, I’ll bring it in.”
“At the rate I’m going, I’d have that in my lap, as well. I think I’d rather have it in the kitchen.”
He frowned. “If you’re sure?”
She waved him away. “I’m going to get dressed. You make the call. I want Dawson to get on this as soon as possible.”
Clay headed for his office to call Avery Dawson while Frankie began picking out clothes. Their lives were settling while Pharaoh Carn’s was coming undone. He could feel it.
Avery Dawson weaved his way through the city traffic while Ramsey was trying to finish a sandwich.
“Dammit, Avery, slow down,” Ramsey muttered as he steadied his coffee with one hand while trying to eat with the other.
Dawson eyed his partner’s food with a wary eye.
“You might be wishing you’d saved that for later,” he muttered. “You know what a weak stomach you have, and the captain said that the John Doe’s throat had been cut.”
Ramsey shrugged. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, stuffing the last bite of a meatball sub into his mouth.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Dawson said.
“Consider me warned,” Ramsey retorted, and washed down the bite with the last of his coffee.
A few minutes later, Dawson pulled up at the bus station. A cold, blustery wind whipped under their long coats as they got out of the car. They made a dash for the building, only to have their steps impeded by the gathering crowd.
“Police. Coming through,” Ramsey said. The crowd parted to let them pass.
A few moments later, they were inside the men’s rest room.
“Who found the body?” Dawson asked as a uniformed patrolman approached.
The patrolman pointed toward a pair of teenage boys sitting on a bench just outside the door. The defiance that had given them the courage to sport purple hair and silver nose rings was blatantly missing now. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with shock. Dawson exhaled softly. Hell of a thing for a couple of kids to find. He started toward them.
“Boys, I’m Detective Dawson. This is my partner, Detective Ramsey. We want to ask you a couple of questions.”
The boys nodded in unison.
“You two were the first to find the body?”
They nodded again.
“Did you see anyone…besides the victim, I mean?”
“No, sir,” one of them said. “When we went in, the room was empty.” Then his voice cracked. “Except for the dead guy.”
“Did you touch anything—either of you?” Dawson asked.
“No, no, we didn’t touch nothin’, we swear. We just ran outside and told some guy to call the cops.”
Dawson paused. There was no use proceeding with this line of questioning right now. Other than the fact that they’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he doubted if they knew anything that would help.
“Ramsey, get their names and addresses. Follow me inside when you’re done.”
Ramsey nodded and set to his task as Dawson went back into the bathroom.
Fred True, the medical examiner, was just finishing his examination as Dawson entered. But when Dawson looked at the body, he blanked on all the questions he’d been planning to ask.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
True looked up. “Friend of yours?”
“We just ran a make on him.”
“So did someone else,” True said, then ripped off his surgical gloves and tossed them in a bag.
“How long before you’re through here?” Dawson asked.
“I’m done,” True said, turning to his assistant. “Bag him and tag him, Sonny. Dawson here just made our job a little easier. He’s got an ID.”
Dawson looked down at the body one last time. “Law. His name is Simon Law.”
Ramsey walked up in time to hear what Dawson said. “You’re kidding me,” he muttered, looking over Dawson’s shoulder to the man below.
Dawson turned. “Nope. Our missing renter—slash—thief seems to have a hard time making friends.” He clapped Ramsey on the shoulder. “Let’s go. I’m curious to see what comes up on his files.”
A short while later, they were back at their desks.
“Anything come down from records yet?” Ramsey asked.
Dawson was still sifting through the papers on his desk.
“Nothing I can see…Oh, wait! Here it is.”
He shed his topcoat and flopped down in his chair as Ramsey got up.
“You going after coffee?” Dawson asked.
Ramsey nodded.
Dawson handed him the mug from his desk. “Bring me a cup, too, will you?”
“Will you have a Danish with that?” Ramsey quipped.
Dawson didn’t bother to look up. “Just shut up and do as you’re told,” he muttered.
Ramsey grinned as he walked away. He was all the way across the room when he heard Dawson curse.
“What?”
Dawson held up the paper.
“Law. His last arrest was for running numbers in L.A.”
“So how much time did he do?” Ramsey asked as he set the coffee down on Dawson’s desk.
“None,” Dawson said.
Ramsey frowned. “Why not?”
“Frederick Mancusco was his lawyer, that’s why.”
Ramsey shrugged. “I don’t get it.”
“Mancusco is a mob lawyer. Allejandro’s lawyer, to be exact. Pharaoh Carn works for Allejandro, and Simon Law had just taken up temporary residence across the street from the LeGrand home, and, according to Francesca, Pharaoh Carn is the man who snatched her and—”
“Okay, okay. I get the drift,” Ramsey said. “So what are we going to do with this information?”
Before Dawson could answer, his phone rang. He answered absently, his mind still on the report in his hand. “This is Dawson.”
“Detective, it’s me, Clay. I have some information for you.”
Dawson dropped the report, wrote Clay’s name on a piece of paper and shoved it toward Ramsey.
Ramsey nodded, then picked up the report Dawson had been reading.
“What’s up?” Dawson asked.
“We just got a call from Addie Bell. Remember her, the administrator at the orphanage where Frankie grew up?”
“Yes, I do. Nice woman,” Dawson said. “Seemed real upset about what had happened to your wife.”
“Yes, well, she just called with another little tidbit of information that Frankie and I thought was real interesting.”
Dawson leaned forward. He could tell by the tone of Clay LeGrand’s voice that he was excited about something. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Addie Bell said that one of the times Pharaoh Carn got in trouble when he was still at the home was for slipping out one night and getting a tattoo.”
Dawson’s pulse leaped. Even before Clay finished, he knew what he was going to say.
“I don’t suppose she remembers what it looked like?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, actually, she did. Said it looked like a cross, except for the loop on top. She also said she thought it was in color. Maybe yellow.”
Dawson started to grin. “Just like the one on the back of your wife’s neck.”
“Now do you have enough to go after Carn?”
Dawson’s grin widened. “Oh yeah. I’d say that if that tattoo still exists anywhere on Carn’s body, his vanity will be his undoing.”
Clay sighed. “Thank God. Now maybe we will be able to put this thing behind us.”
Dawson’s grin faded. “Don’t get too excited. We’ve got to find him first. Pharaoh Carn has resources beyond your everyday, run-of-the-mill thug.”
“I don’t care what he has,” Clay growled. “As long as it’s not my wife.”
It took two more days for the wheels of justice to begin to turn, but when they did, they went downhill fa
st.
Duke Needham burst into Pharaoh’s office on the run.
“Boss, I just got a call from a buddy in L.A. He said the L.A.P.D. has a warrant out for your arrest, and they’re turning the city upside down.”
Pharaoh dropped the pen in his hand and stood abruptly. Francesca! He’d waited too long.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Pharaoh strode from behind his desk and headed for the window overlooking the front of the estate. The day was clear but cold. In the valley below, he could see the ribbon of traffic along the strip and the ever-flashing lights of the casinos. Everything looked normal, although he was the first to admit that looks could be deceiving. He thrust his hand in his pocket, worrying the rabbit’s foot as his mind began to race. Suddenly he pivoted.
“Have one of the maids pack a bag. No more than a couple of changes, and all for the tropics. I can always buy more clothes when we get to where we’re going.”
“Where are we going?” Duke asked.
A muscle jerked in Pharaoh’s jaw. “Allejandro has been trying to get me down in South America for months. I’ve just decided to take him up on the offer.”
“Yes, sir,” Duke said. “I’ll have the chopper sent in.”
“Tell the pilot to chart a course for Denver first.”
Duke inhaled sharply. This obsession the boss had with that woman was going to be the ruin of them yet.
“Considering what we’ve just learned, do you think it’s safe?” he asked.
Pharaoh took a sharp breath, then his voice lowered ominously. “Don’t question my decisions. Don’t question my authority. Get the hell out of my sight and do as you’re told.”
Duke had one moment of remembering Stykowski’s blood splattering all over his face and jacket and bolted for the door.
As soon as he was gone, Pharaoh picked up the phone. This move would open the door on a whole new life for him, but there was another door he needed to close first. The door on Francesca’s past. He punched in the numbers, then sat down on the edge of his desk, waiting for the call to go through. Moments later, the smooth, baritone voice of Pepe Allejandro vibrated in his ear. Pharaoh took a deep breath and tried for a positive approach.
“Patrón! This is Pharaoh.”
“Pharaoh, my friend, I have been expecting your call. You are in serious trouble, I think.”
Pharaoh winced. The tone of Allejandro’s voice made him nervous.
“No, Pepe, I have the situation under control.”
“What are you going to do about this?” Allejandro asked.
“I’m making plans accordingly. I’ve decided to take you up on the Colombia deal, but first, I have a favor to ask.”
“I’m listening,” Allejandro said.
“There’s a thing I must do before I can go. I want to—”
“I know what you want,” Allejandro snapped. “It is that woman again. She’s the reason you are in this mess. I must tell you, Pharaoh, that I do not like my men bringing personal concerns into the business, so you listen to me! You get out of Nevada today. Head straight for the border. Miguel will have a plane waiting for you in Tijuana. From there, you will be flown to South America. We will have no further contact until you are at the estate.”
“But, Pepe, you don’t understand. This woman is my luck. Without her I—”
Pepe Allejandro’s baritone deepened warningly. “No, Pharaoh. You are the one who does not understand. These are my orders.” There was a moment of silence, then Allejandro added, “Do you understand?”
Pharaoh tensed. He knew all too well the consequences of disobeying Allejandro’s orders, but he left his answer vague.
“When I get to Tijuana, I will call Miguel.”
“That is what I wanted to hear,” Allejandro said, then abruptly disconnected, leaving Pharaoh with no misconceptions as to how pissed the man was.
His belly rolled at the thought of what he was about to do. But he wasn’t leaving the country without Francesca. When he had her again, he would find a way to make her come around to his way of thinking. He wouldn’t accept that she hated him, as she’d so often claimed during the past two years.
When she was small, he’d been her best friend—the family she no longer had. All he needed to do was get rid of her husband and it would happen again.
He ignored his conscience as he hurried up to his room to oversee his packing. Allejandro would not like what he was about to do, but if he pulled it off, it would be okay. Pharaoh kept telling himself there was no way Francesca would be expecting him to come back. Not with a warrant out for his arrest. Surprise would be his ace in the hole.
Soup bubbled in a pot at the back of the stove. The homey scent of baking corn bread wafted throughout the house as Frankie carried a load of clothes toward the utility room to wash. As she passed a window, she glanced outside. Clay was still shoveling snow off the backyard path that led to the alley where their garbage was picked up. Her favorite CD was playing in the background. She hummed along with it, every now and then letting her voice rise in accompaniment to a familiar verse in the song. Just as she was putting soap in the machine, the phone rang. She slammed the lid and punched the control, taking absent note that the water had begun filling as she ran to answer.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello? Hello?”
A dial tone suddenly clicked in her ear.
She hung up and shrugged. Some people certainly needed a good dose of telephone manners. The least they could do was say sorry, they’d dialed the wrong number.
She moved toward the stove, gave the soup a quick stir, making sure nothing was sticking to the pot, then checked the corn bread. A few more minutes and it would be done.
She looked out the window again. Clay was nowhere in sight. She shrugged. He’d probably moved to the front walk. Partly out of curiosity, and partly from a need to know where he was, she went to the living room to look out. He was there, at the corner of the house, knocking icicles off the roof. She grinned to herself and started to wave, when suddenly the lights flickered, then went out.
She waited a moment, hoping they would come right back on, but when she heard the washing machine suddenly stop filling, she groaned. The food would finish cooking with no problem. The oven was gas-powered, but there would be soap caked all over the clothes. She darted toward the kitchen to check the breaker box just as a gray sedan turned the corner and started down the street. And because she did, she missed seeing it slowing, and then seeing it stop.
Shoveling snow was not one of Clay’s favorite tasks, but as a native of Denver, it was something he’d certainly done all his life. By the time he had finished the back walk and moved toward the front, he was sweating beneath the layers of his clothing. Every time he exhaled, the warmth of his breath created a small white cloud of condensation.
The front walk loomed, snowpacked and appearing longer than its thirty or so feet to the curb. He swung at some icicles hanging from the eaves of the house as he passed, then watched them shatter and fall, only to be swallowed silently by the snow.
He moved a step to the right and took another swing at a fresh set of icicles. They tinkled like broken glass as the shovel connected, then flew through the air. Like the others, they disappeared into the snow’s depths. He couldn’t quit thinking that this time next year, there would be a baby in the house. The notion tugged at his heart. My God. A baby. Would it be a girl or a boy? Did it matter? Hardly. Not when the name of the father was more in question.
Then he shook off the thought. He’d told Frankie the truth when he said it wouldn’t matter. He’d spent two years praying for a miracle to happen. As far as he was concerned, it had. And whether she had brought this baby with her, or they’d made it after her return, nothing could alter the fact that she was his life. What came from her could be nothing but pure, no matter what the circumstances of the conception.
His focus shifted from the icicles ha
nging from the roof to his reflection in the window before him. Suddenly he became aware of something else—the reflection of a car pulling up to the curb behind him.
He turned as two men were getting out. One was tall, with broad shoulders and a graying ponytail hanging down the back of his coat. He’d never seen him before, but the other man looked familiar. Clay frowned. Where had he seen—oh Jesus.
He grunted, like a man who’d been kicked in the gut, and bolted for the house, yelling Frankie’s name. The shot was little more than a pop, but it hit him in the back, shoulder high, spinning him around and dropping him in his tracks. He disappeared from sight, hidden by the snow, like the icicles he’d knocked from the roof.
Duke paused above Clay’s inert body. “Do you want I should—”
“Leave him,” Pharaoh snapped as they made their way up the walk through the unshoveled snow. “We’re not going to be here long enough for it to matter.”
Duke glanced nervously over his shoulder. The neighborhood looked deserted, just as it had before, but in a place like this, you could never tell for sure if they’d been unobserved. He kept thinking, damn Pharaoh to hell for pulling this off in broad daylight, but all he managed was a frown as he pulled his collar up around his ears and headed for the front door. He started to knock, when Pharaoh grabbed his hand.
“No,” Pharaoh said.
“But, boss, they got a security system,” Duke said, pointing at the sticker on a nearby window.
“It won’t be on, and the door won’t be locked. Not when Mr. Fix-It was outside shoveling snow.”
Duke glanced at the man Pharaoh had just shot and then reached for the knob. As Pharaoh had predicted, it turned without a hitch.
The scent of baking bread hit him face first. Pharaoh took a deep breath, and then reality surfaced as his heart skipped an anticipatory beat. Within seconds, they would be together again. And this time, it would be forever.
“Got the stuff?” he asked.
Duke slipped his hand in his pocket, fingering the loaded syringe.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get this over with,” Pharaoh muttered. “I’ve got a date with a chopper down in Tijuana, and I don’t like to keep my dates waiting.”
