Whirlpool

by Elizabeth Lowell

  The man was dressed in shirtsleeves and slacks. A dog leash dangled from his left hand. The dog was nowhere in sight. The man seemed to be studying the front of Laurel’s house like he was expecting the dog to be rooting around in the plants. He looked in all the bushes and shadows and halfway into either neighbor’s yard. Every so often he whistled, low and careful, a man who didn’t want to disturb anyone but still had to find his dog.

  “Come on, Charley. Where are you? Come to papa, you little black bastard. I’ve got a juicy bone for you. Here, Charley. Here, Charley. Mama is going to put both of us in the doghouse if you don’t come back. Here, Charley. Here, boy.”

  Laurel stepped back from the window. “All I see is a man looking for his dog. Is that a problem?”

  “What you see is a professional at work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s called the ‘Lost-Dog Cover.’ It’s a classic surveillance technique. They teach it at the FBI Academy and probably at every other school like it around the world.”

  “Is he from the FBI?” she asked.

  “He looks faintly familiar, but that’s one of the reasons I left the FBI. We all began to look alike.”

  Laurel smiled and took a quick breath that could have been a laugh or a sob.

  “I suppose he could be FBI,” Cruz said. “But I’d just as soon not make any serious mistakes. Assume a shooting posture.”

  Puzzled, she did as he asked. In the faint light from the front yard, her motions were smooth, assured. The pistol didn’t waver in her grip.

  He let out a soft, relieved breath. “You inherited your daddy’s nerve. Thank God.”

  Cruz bent over, opened the black aluminum briefcase that had never been far from him, and reached inside. He pulled out the Uzi, checked it with swift efficiency, and began shrugging out of his jacket.

  Silently she watched while he took some kind of harness from the case, jerked it on, and used it to support the vicious-looking weapon. He put his lightweight jacket back on, leaving it open.

  “What is that?” she whispered, pointing at the weapon.

  “Illegal.” He reached back into the case and brought out a little two-shot derringer. “Know how to use one of these?”

  “What do you have in there, an arsenal?”

  “I’ll tell Gillie that you approved.”

  She looked at the little weapon in Cruz’s hand and said tightly, “Dad told me how to use one of them.”

  “Yeah? What did he say?”

  She took a quick, unhappy breath. “He said, ‘Screw it into the guy’s ear and pull the trigger.’”

  “That’s a good method.” Cruz took his pistol from her, giving her the derringer instead. “It’s loaded and the safety is on. Show me you know how to take it off.”

  She took the derringer. After a bit of fumbling, she worked the safety.

  “Okay. You’re good to go,” he said. “Shove the purse pistol underneath your tunic.”

  Awkwardly Laurel put the derringer muzzle first into the waistband of her jeans and pulled the tunic top over it.

  Before taking off the safety, he checked over his own pistol with unconscious, automatic motions.

  For the first time Laurel noticed that Cruz’s pistol had a Day-Glo dot on its sight, just as hers did. It was the kind of pistol he’d called a blow-your-head-off gun.

  He handled it as easily as a ballpoint pen.

  “Come on,” Cruz said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “If that guy is FBI, no problem.”

  “If he isn’t?”

  “Don’t drink anything he offers you. Let’s go.”

  Without hesitation Laurel followed Cruz into the darkness.

  54

  Los Angeles

  Wednesday night

  From the cover of landscaping just inside the gate, Cruz watched the Lost Dog pantomime. Empty leash in hand, the man stalked once more up the dead-end street past the old house and called to the chaparral beyond.

  He was good. Anyone watching would expect man’s best friend to appear at any moment with long tongue and wagging tail.

  Silently Cruz admired the act. The man’s eyes were always looking, never still, probing the landscaping to locate the house’s entrances, plotting a good tactical approach, assessing dangers; and all the while he was calling to a dog that didn’t exist.

  With every step the man made, every motion, every turn, the muzzle of Cruz’s pistol tracked the actor’s head like radar. Cruz’s finger was on the trigger. All the slack was gone. The smallest pressure would make the gun fire.

  Laurel stepped up to the gate. As she’d been instructed, she stayed to the left side, leaving a clear field of fire for Cruz.

  “Oh, good, you’re still here,” she said to the man in a normal tone of voice. “I was afraid I’d missed you. Your dog is in my backyard.”

  The man’s jaw dropped. “Er, I don’t think so.”

  “Is it small?”

  “Ah…”

  “Black?”

  “Um…”

  “Answers to Charley?”

  “Er…”

  “You have lost a dog, haven’t you?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  She opened the gate with quick, jerky motions that could have been impatience.

  “Well, come and get the damned thing,” she said in a clipped voice. “He’s digging up my pansies.”

  Automatically the man stepped toward the open gate, ducking to avoid a bit of hanging greenery.

  “Keep your hands in sight,” Cruz said from the side.

  The man jerked upright.

  Laurel turned and ran.

  Cruz was concealed in greenery made black by night, but the deadly glint of the pistol and the Day-Glo sight was unmistakable. The man went completely still.

  “Laurel?” Cruz asked softly.

  “Ready.”

  Her voice came from farther up the path. She was hidden in shadows, well beyond the reach of any lunge the man could make.

  “Walk through the gate,” Cruz said in a low, flat voice. “Close it behind you. Do it slowly. Don’t trip. Don’t stumble. Don’t hesitate. Smooth and easy or dead on arrival. Your choice.”

  The man moved slowly, carefully, up the walk.

  “Call to your dog again,” Cruz ordered softly.

  “What the—”

  “Do it.”

  “Charley. Is that you, boy?”

  The man’s voice sounded strained, but not enough to alert any backup that might be waiting for him somewhere on the quiet residential street.

  The instant they were out of sight of the street, Cruz emerged from cover. He was beyond the man’s reach, but the man was never beyond reach of Cruz’s gun.

  “Move,” Cruz said. “Your backup can’t see you. They can’t help you.”

  “You’re making a—”

  “Shut up.”

  The man swallowed and didn’t say a word.

  “We’re coming in,” Cruz called in a low voice.

  “I’ll be just inside.” Her voice was soft, confident.

  When they reached the flagstone patio, Cruz spoke curtly to his prisoner. “On your face. Feet spread. Hands on the top of your head.”

  “Hey, who the hell do—”

  “Facedown. Now.”

  Reluctantly the man did as he was ordered.

  Cruz jammed the muzzle of the pistol just beneath the shelf of the man’s skull at the back of his head. Then Cruz frisked him with an efficiency that didn’t include modesty. He missed none of the ordinary hiding places and probed some unusual ones as well.

  “Nine-millimeter,” Cruz said, taking the man’s gun from its holster and putting it into the back of his own waistband. “Billy club. Pocketknife. Pager. Wallet.”

  The man said nothing.

  One-handed, Cruz flipped open the wallet. The driver’s license was in a plastic window.

  “Name,” Cruz said.

  �
��Fuck you.”

  Cruz leaned on the pistol muzzle. Hard. “Try again. Name.”

  “William R. Cahill,” the man said between his teeth.

  “All right, Billy-Bob. Who are you working for?”

  “The FBI.”

  “Where’s your shield?”

  “I left it at home.”

  “If you were still working for the Bureau, the director would have your balls for that. But I don’t think you’re still federal. You’re somebody’s private gun.”

  Cahill muttered something beneath his breath.

  Swiftly Cruz straightened and stepped back beyond Cahill’s reach.

  “Get up slowly,” Cruz said. “Walk through that back door. Don’t get cute, or the woman will blow you right out of your wing-tip shoes and enjoy doing it. She’s real pissed off right now, after what you did to her daddy and all.”

  “All I did was hit him a couple of times,” Cahill said as he got to his feet.

  “No problem, then. She’ll only shoot you a couple of times. Start walking.”

  “How’d you get on to me?” Cahill asked.

  “I learned the Lost Dog surveillance trick at Quantico too,” Cruz said dryly.

  Cahill stopped and stared over his shoulder at Cruz.

  “You? You’re with the Bureau?” Cahill asked. “Wait a minute. I know you, don’t I? You’re Cruz Rowan. You were with HRT.”

  Confident he’d just uttered a special password by mentioning the Hostage Rescue Team, Cahill began to lower his hands.

  “Up,” Cruz said curtly. “On top of your head.”

  “But I’m—” Cahill began indignantly.

  “Go inside.”

  With a muttered curse, Cahill walked into the house.

  Laurel was nowhere in sight.

  “Sit on the kitchen floor,” Cruz said. “Cross your legs and keep your hands on your head.”

  “Look, this isn’t necessary.”

  “Fine, I’ll just shoot you.”

  Cahill sat, crossed his legs, and kept his hands on his head.

  “Laurel, come on back,” Cruz said.

  She walked in from the living room, circled Cahill widely, and stood next to Cruz. Not once did she get in his field of fire.

  “Good job, honey,” Cruz said. “There’s a nine-millimeter in the small of my back. Get it. Keep Cahill covered.”

  “Is that an Uzi?” Cahill asked, peering into the shadows beneath Cruz’s open jacket.

  Cruz didn’t answer. He felt the weight of Cahill’s weapon being removed from his belt. Then he heard the familiar sound of the safety coming off.

  “That gun is a long hard pull the first time you fire,” Cruz said to her. “The second time it’s quicker.”

  “Like Dad’s.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Cahill’s expression said that having a gun held on him by Laurel was more nerve-racking than being under the gun of a highly trained professional. Nothing upset a pro like an amateur gun handler.

  Cruz smiled. He’d counted on just that reaction.

  “If he moves,” Cruz said to Laurel, “shoot him. Don’t warn him, don’t shout for me. Just shoot and keep shooting until he stops moving.”

  Grimly she nodded.

  Cruz swiftly did a circuit of his lookout points. The street was quiet. No one called for a missing dog or for the dog’s missing owner. No cars cruised by slowly with lights out.

  Christ, Cruz said silently to himself. Where the hell is Gillie? He’s had enough time to get here and build a bloody security perimeter around the whole place.

  Cruz looked out again.

  Nothing had changed.

  Silently cursing whatever was holding Gillespie up, Cruz went back to the kitchen.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he said to Laurel.

  With a hidden breath of relief, she lowered the pistol.

  Cahill hadn’t moved.

  “We’re a little jumpy here,” Cruz said to Cahill, “so don’t get cute. Who are you working for?”

  “I was with the Bureau for twenty years. Then I punched out. Now I work for Damon Hudson of Hudson International.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Security.”

  “Why were you doing a recon on this house for Hudson?”

  “I—uh, I’m trying to get a line on a piece of art that was stolen.”

  Cruz’s expression didn’t change one bit. “From Hudson’s museum?”

  “Not exactly,” Cahill said. “It was stolen from the Russian exhibition that’s supposed to open day after tomorrow.”

  “Nice of Hudson to turn his resources over to the Russians in their time of need,” Cruz said blandly.

  “Yeah. Mr. Hudson is a real nice guy.”

  “Why were you looking around here? This isn’t exactly an art gallery.”

  “Jamie Swann stole the piece,” Cahill said, glancing at Laurel. “Ms. Toth said it wasn’t in Cambria, so we figured it was here.”

  “Toth?” Cruz asked sharply. “Claire Toth?”

  “Yeah. Swann’s partner. At least she was. Now she’s in bed with Hudson. She’s a real piece of work, that one. Never seen an ass like that.”

  For a few moments Cruz said nothing. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find Claire Toth crossing his path again, but he was.

  “Swann’s partner, huh?” Cruz said. “That poor son of a bitch. It would be like getting in bed with a cross between a chainsaw and a public toilet.”

  “For that ass it might be worth it.”

  “No ass is worth it,” Cruz said. “Especially hers.”

  Listening, Laurel had to suppress a shiver. The casual loathing in Cruz’s voice was worse than any insult put into words.

  “What is this piece of art that’s gone missing?” Cruz asked casually. “The Mona Lisa?”

  “It’s some kind of diamond-studded Easter egg with a big ruby inside,” Cahill said. “Fabergé.”

  That came as no surprise to Cruz and Laurel, but they were careful not to show it.

  “Who came with you tonight?” Cruz asked.

  “Nobody.”

  “Wrong answer. And you’ve been so good about telling the truth up to now. I had real hope for you. Who came with you?”

  Silently Cahill reviewed his options. None of them were particularly promising, and Cruz knew it as well as Cahill did.

  “I thought you meant backup,” Cahill said after a moment. “I don’t have any.”

  “Dumb, Billy-Bob. Really dumb. I saw a car at the head of the street.”

  Cahill laughed curtly. “That’s just Hudson. He really wants the egg back. If you know anything about it, he’ll make it worth your while.”

  “He’ll have to stand in line. What about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is Hudson making it worth your while to take a first-degree murder rap for him?”

  Laurel’s breath came in sharply.

  Cahill didn’t notice. The shock on his face was as clear as the hands on his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Jamie Swann.”

  “I swear to Christ, all I did was tap him with the billy.”

  “Then you fed him poison.”

  Cahill’s skin went pale. Sweat appeared on his forehead and upper lip. “No. I didn’t do anything like that. Okay, so I’ve skated over the edge a time or two in helping Hudson, but nothing like that.”

  Watching Cahill, Cruz was inclined to believe it. But he wasn’t inclined to let Cahill know it. Scared men were more cooperative.

  “If you didn’t do it,” Cruz said carelessly, “who did?”

  Cahill opened his mouth, then shut it.

  Cruz waited.

  “How the hell do I know you’re telling the truth?” Cahill asked after a moment.

  “Call the UCLA Medical Center. They got Swann about twenty minutes ago. He was dead.”

  Laurel made a small sound but said nothing. She’d promised Cruz that she would be quiet and f
ollow his lead. But hearing him speak so confidently of her father’s death was like being hit by a fist.

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” Cahill whispered. “They must have done it when I went out to get the limo.”

  “That’s what you say. What do you think Hudson will say?”

  Fear and anger warred for control of Bill Cahill’s mind. He was lip-deep in a cesspool that had no bottom and he was sinking fast. He knew it.

  Even worse, Cruz knew it.

  “Whose version of the truth do you think Toth will support?” Cruz asked, smiling thinly. “Who’s the billionaire in this trio, and who’s the great body, and who’s the perfect fall guy?”

  There was silence while Cahill sat cross-legged on the cold floor, hands on his head, calculating his chances of surviving an alliance of Hudson and Toth against him. It didn’t take much thinking, because there weren’t any chances worth measuring.

  “What do you want me to do?” Cahill said wearily.

  55

  Los Angeles

  Wednesday night

  Cruz waited long enough before responding to make Cahill swallow hard and sweat harder.

  “Is there a phone in the limo?” Cruz asked.

  Cahill nodded.

  “Get up slowly,” Cruz said. “Call Hudson. Tell him you have Laurel and me tied up, but we won’t tell you where the ruby is.”

  Cahill wished it was true. But it wasn’t. So he got up very slowly, careful not to make any move that would get him shot.

  He had no doubt that Cruz would shoot.

  “Tell Hudson there was a message from Novikov on our answering machine,” Cruz said, watching intently. “He congratulated us on recovering the ruby, and told us he’ll be by the house to pick it up in an hour. That gives you less than an hour to tear the place apart and find the ruby. You need Hudson and Toth’s help.”

  “What if they won’t come?”

  “Then I’ll do it the hard way. Either way it will get done.”

  Cahill didn’t doubt it. Years ago Cruz had proven once and for all time, in front of millions of witnesses, that he was a ruthless man.

  “Where’s the phone?” Cahill asked.

  “On the wall behind you. And remember—Hudson isn’t worth dying for.”