by Jay Allisan
“On Layla.”
“Are you sure she’s never mentioned him? You’ve never seen them together? They’ve never talked on the phone?”
“I’m a reporter, okay, not a secret agent! I don’t know what she does when she’s not at the paper! Maybe they go out for surf ’n turf every night! I don’t know!”
“It’s okay, Benny, we’ll figure it out. You’ll be fine.”
“You keep saying that and I don’t believe you!”
“You’re safe here. You’re safe with me.” I get off the bed and pace. “James wants photographic evidence of the crimes as insurance, which is a nice way of saying blackmail. That means Layla probably isn’t killing people because she wants to. It’s not personal, at least.”
“Wow, I feel much better,” Benny mutters. “I’m sure the bullets will hurt a lot less if it’s not personal. Dying will be so much nicer if she doesn’t even care that she’s killing me!”
“Give it a rest, Benny. You’re not going to die. She’s doing a job because James has something on her. He’s coercing her. The big question is what she’s trying to protect, and why it brought her to Briar Rose in the first—”
A loud ringtone swallows my voice and Benny lets out a scream. “It’s her! Don’t answer it! Don’t—”
“That’s my phone, genius.” I take my cell from my pocket. Once glance at the caller ID and my heart’s in my throat. I fumble to accept the call. “Presley?”
“Mordecai? This is Robin.”
“Robin,” I repeat, shamefully disappointed.
“Yes. I am supposed to call you?”
Disappointment gives way to disbelief. “What?”
“I am supposed to call you,” he says again. “You do not want to talk to me?”
“No, no of course I want to talk to you. I’m just—I just didn’t know you would call.”
Robin sounds confused. “Presley said to call you at this time because you need to talk to me. He said it was very important.”
I sink onto the bed. “He gave you his phone and told you to call me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he call me? Where is he?”
Robin pauses. “He is with you.”
The phone slips out of my hand and bounces off the mattress. Benny snatches it before it can hit the ground. I lean forward on my elbows and suck in air.
“Mordecai?” Benny whispers.
I snap upright, all the way to my feet. I take the phone back. “When did Presley leave? How long ago?”
Robin’s voice rises, turning frantic. “Is he not there? Is he not there with you?”
“How long, Robin?”
“He has been gone since yesterday. He told me he had something very important to do.” Robin’s breath catches and he sniffles. “Is he not there with you?”
“I’m going to find him,” I say firmly. “I’ll find him. Where are you? Are you at the Orchard?”
“Yes.”
“Stay where you are until you hear from me, got it? Lock the doors and stay quiet.”
“He told me do not worry but I am afraid, Mordecai. Where did he go?”
“I’ll get him. Stay put and keep the phone close, okay? It’ll be fine, Robin. I’ll get him.”
I put the phone in my pocket, then drop flat against the floor. My revolver’s under the bed, already loaded. I shove it in my waistband.
Benny eyes me warily. “Uh, what are you doing? What’s the gun for?”
“Shooting people.” I grab Benny’s bag and toss it to him. “Let’s go. Get your coat.”
“No, no, I don’t want to go anywhere with shooting. No way.”
I throw him his jacket and it drapes over his head. “You’re not going where I’m going. I’m leaving you somewhere safe.”
“Leaving me?! You said I was safe with you!”
“And now you have to be safe without me.”
“But Mordecai! What’s going to happen to me? What’s going on?”
“Benny, if you don’t get moving I’m locking you in the basement.”
He takes one blind step, then trips over his own feet and goes sprawling across the floor. I haul him back up with a glare. He reaches for his stuff, but shrinks back when his phone rings.
“That’s mine,” he whispers. “That one is mine.”
“Pick it up.”
“Please don’t make me. You pick it up.”
The sound cuts off before I find the phone. “Too late now.”
“No, that was a text tone. Look at the screen. But don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anymore.”
I check the message, a photo. Red, white, and blue. It takes a moment for me to realize it’s Cheyanne. Below the photo is an address, and a message.
Better Hurry.
“She’s still alive.” I give Benny the phone and grab his arm. “Forget your stuff. We’re leaving now.”
I STOP the car in front of Old Town and turn to Benny. “Listen to me. You’re going to stand on the steps and count to one hundred, and then you’re going to go inside. You’re going to tell the desk sergeant who you are and that you need protective custody. Tell him to call Lieutenant Dixon and tell Dixon about the message. Tell him everything you know.”
“But—”
I reach across and open his door. “Get out. I’m running out of time.”
“But it could be a trap! What if—”
“It’s a trap for you, not for me. Now get out. And don’t forget to count to one hundred.”
“Why—”
“So I’ll have time to get there before the cops do.”
Benny slides out of the car, looking at me nervously. “Are you sure you should do this by yourself?”
“Count to one hundred and then go in. And tell the desk sergeant Scarlett’s handcuffed to a radiator on the seventh floor.”
Benny’s jaw drops. “What—”
I pull away, one hand on the wheel and the other closing the door. I blow through empty intersections and take the corners way too fast, but it still feels like forever before I reach the address. It’s a motel, and when I pull up I realize it’s the motel where I first met Presley almost a year ago. I kill the engine and wait for a minute, watching. No movement. I draw my gun and approach the building.
The photo Benny received was poorly lit, but I’m pretty sure it was taken outside. I search the sparse bushes in front of the motel, then move around back to the parking lot. A dumpster sits beneath the second floor walkway. I close in on it cautiously.
“It’s fine,” comes a voice from just ahead of me, and my gun whips up automatically. I hear a laugh. “She’s gone. Had someplace better to be.”
I creep through the darkness until I see Cheyanne. She’s on the ground beside the dumpster, half-buried under bags of trash. Blood mats her hair and oozes from her chest. I keep my gun aimed anyhow.
“Took you long enough,” Cheyanne says, and coughs. “I was sure you’d come back to see me.”
“When they took my badge they took my cuffs,” I reply, but she’s got a point. I should have tried to get her alone. Better late than never. “What happened to you?”
She laughs. The sound gurgles at the end. “I was smart, you know. I knew as soon as she did Anton that she’d get me. I was careful.”
“Not careful enough.”
“No.” She coughs. “Not careful enough.”
“Why are you here?” I ask. “This motel…”
“Funny, isn’t it? How things come full circle.” She coughs, a wretched, hacking sound that sprays blood in a fine mist. Her eye makeup runs down her face in dark streaks. “I was here, you know, the night Presley met you. Watched the whole thing from my room on the second floor. Damn he was clever, getting his hooks into you. Wish I’d thought of it first.”
“Shut up.”
Cheyanne gives me a sickly grin. “If you don’t want the truth then don’t ask. I came here tonight for my money. I was going to get out of town. She got me first, though, that psycho bitc
h. He must have told her where to find me.”
“He?” I ask. “James?”
She nods. “Thought he didn’t know about this place. Guess I was wrong.” She gestures weakly with her head, up and to the left. “Money’s still in 207, if you want it. About half a mil. Though you probably won’t live long enough to use it.”
“Why were you working for James?” I ask. “What was in it for you?”
“Already told you. It’s up in 207.”
“Why’d James send her to kill you?”
“The usual. I know too much.”
“Is that why she killed Anton?”
“Nah. She was just tired of waiting. Things changed after you got arrested, and Layla feels that she’s waited long enough.”
“Waited for what?”
She bares a bloody smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Tell me.”
“Or what? I’m already dead, baby. You’re almost dead too. You’d better hurry before she gets impatient again.”
She groans, her eyes falling shut for a heavy moment. They flutter back open. “I’ll tell you where to go, in case you haven’t got it yet. Wouldn’t want you to miss your cue.”
Cheyanne’s breath comes faster, turning to gasps, growing wheezy. I crouch down. Blood blossoms on her chest.
“In your room,” she whispers. “He’s in your room.”
“Presley?”
“One ’n only.”
“He’s not in my room,” I say. “He hasn’t been home in a week.”
Cheyanne shudders, crying out. I pick up sirens in the distance. “Where, Cheyanne? Where is Presley?”
“In your room,” she whispers, the sound fading away. “At the hotel.”
Her eyes close. I rise slowly, watching her for signs of movement, signs of life. Suddenly her eyes flash up.
“I hope she kills you,” she spits, “but I hope you kill her first.”
Her head droops, and I run for the car.
44
I LIED to Benny earlier. It’s been a trap for me all along.
I roar through downtown, not slowing for anything. Presley’s at the hotel. So is Layla.
She’s going to kill him.
I need help.
I blow past an SUV stopped at a light. I keep my foot on the gas and work my phone free from my pocket. I call my partner.
“You’ve reached Detective O’Reilly. Leave a message.”
“Paddy, it’s me, it’s Mordecai, I—”
A pedestrian darts across the street, and I slam on the brakes and wrench the wheel. I scream obscenities he can’t hear, then floor it again. I snatch up the phone from where it fell on the seat.
“Look, I know I fucked up and I know you’re mad, but I need you, Paddy, I need you right now. Presley’s in trouble and I’m going after him. He’s at the Orchard hotel in a room registered under my—”
The message cuts off. That’s all I have time to say anyway. The hotel is right in front of me, and my favourite security guard is stationed at the entrance. I don’t have time for him. I don’t have time.
My horn screams its warning. I jump the curb and drive straight through the glass doors.
I’M OUT of the car in a heartbeat, running for the reception desk. Ingrid’s behind the counter and she looks terrified.
“Give me a room key,” I say. “Reservation under Mordecai.”
“I…”
“Now, dammit! Get it now!”
I hear footsteps over broken glass and whip around, my gun finding its mark immediately. The security guard’s aiming at me too.
“Drop your weapon!” he orders. “Step away from the counter and put your hands in the air!”
“Room key,” I say to Ingrid. “Give it to me now.”
“I said drop your weapon!”
I point my gun at Ingrid. “You shoot me and she dies.”
The guard hesitates. Ingrid bursts into tears. I move behind the counter, shielding myself behind Ingrid and pressing my revolver to her head. “Give me the room key. Now.”
Her hands tremble as she finds the reservation and activates the key card. I pluck it from her grasp. “Good. Now be very quiet and walk with me. Go toward the elevators.”
Ingrid shuffles slowly. I stop her a few feet from the security guard. “Lower your gun,” I tell him. “Put it on the floor and kick it to me.”
He complies. I tell Ingrid to pick it up and she does. I take it from her. We back toward the elevator bay and I hit the call button with my elbow. The doors nearest to me ding and slide open. I pull Ingrid into the elevator and swipe the room card. I hit the button for the penthouse.
“Don’t kill me,” Ingrid whimpers. “Please don’t kill me, please…”
I hit another button as the elevator rises. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let you out on the tenth floor and you’re going to run. As soon as the police get here, tell them where I am. And call an ambulance.”
The elevator glides to a stop and chimes softly. I shove Ingrid out.
“Call an ambulance,” I say again as the doors shut. “Tell them to hurry.”
The security guard’s gun is a Glock, fully loaded. I slide it in the back of my jeans and draw the hammer back on my revolver. My breath comes faster as the elevator climbs. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I’m walking into.
All I know is I have to save Presley.
The elevator stops on the thirtieth floor and I step into a small lobby. The penthouse doors are directly in front of me. I listen. No voices, no sounds of movement. I slide the keycard into the reader and burst into the room.
Presley’s on the floor. Layla’s got a gun.
She’s got the gun on him and I’m afraid to shoot.
The door clicks shut behind me. Layla says, “Bolt it.”
I reach behind me and flip the lock into place. She says, “Put down your gun.”
I don’t.
“Put down your gun or I will kill him.”
My eyes rake over Presley’s still form, taking in the subtle rise and fall of his chest. I don’t see injuries. I don’t see blood. “Is he drugged?”
“Put down your gun.”
I crouch slowly, laying the revolver on the carpet. I straighten with both hands raised.
“Kick it to me.”
I do. She catches it with her heel and sends it spinning under the bed. Her eyes never leave me. Her gun stays on Presley.
Layla is no newspaper editor. Her bare arms are taut with strength and marked with scars. Her gun’s a SIG, fitted with a silencer, and she holds it with practiced ease. Her face is as smooth and unreadable as stone.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Why are you here?”
“Move away from the door,” she says. “Stand over there.”
I keep my back to the wall and move opposite her, stepping carefully over Presley. I glance down at him and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. He’s awake. His eyes are glassy but open and his lips move, though no sound escapes. I drag my gaze back up to Layla.
“Did you drug him?”
“I did not.”
“How did you get him?”
“He was delivered to me.”
“By James.”
Her eyes glitter darkly. “Yes. By James.”
“What do you want with him?”
“Nothing,” she sneers. “He is nothing to me. I will kill him now and it will be nothing, but to you it will be everything. That is why you will give me what I want.”
The hotel room disappears and suddenly I see the bridge, see Paddy backing away from a pizza delivery van, hear his phone ring in the cruiser’s front seat. I hear my voice in my head.
What do you want, Carl?
My hands tremble. I breathe in deep. “What do you want, Layla?”
Her mouth twists, harsh and cruel. “Layla is not my name. I am Catalina Camila Dias, and I am here for my son. You will give him to me, or you will watch this boy die.”
I LOOK at Presley, flat on his back, his fingers twitching as empty sounds puff from his lips. I look at Layla, Catalina, past the anger and resolve to see the bow of her mouth, the deep-set dark eyes, and the cowlick at the crown of her hair. I see the crease between her eyebrows and the beauty mark on her cheek. I see her son.
Robin.
Panic sparks and burst into flame.
I’m shaking, shivering, my heart humming, my mind racing. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. I try again.
“Catalina,” I say, nice and slow. “I don’t know what James told you, but I don’t have your son. I’m not a part of this.”
Catalina snaps her foot back and kicks Presley in the ribs. He groans. I lurch forward, but her gun comes up and drives me back. She spits on him, challenging me with her smile.
“Does it hurt you to see him like this? Do you think it is hard to see him helpless and to be the same? Is this difficult for you, Shirley Mordecai?”
She kicks him in the neck. And again. My body tenses and my eyes burn.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Her boot finds his temple and he cries out. I feel the blow like it was aimed at me.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes slit. “Then give me my son.”
Presley’s head is lolled toward me, his face pale, his eyes tight with pain. I swallow. “I don’t have your son. Whatever James told you was a lie.”
“He does not lie to me,” she snaps. “You have him, my son, and you—”
Her voice breaks. She sucks air through her teeth, widening her stance, bracing herself. The gun never wavers.
“My baby boy,” she whispers. “Nineteen years I have waited, and you will not keep him any longer. You will not keep him from me.”
I look down at Presley, up at the gun, up further to Catalina’s face. I let my hands lower. “He was taken from you.”
“I would never have given him up! What mother would give up her child?”
“No mother.” The room echoes with my heartbeat. I swallow again, all the moisture gone from my mouth. “I don’t have your son, but I can help you—”
