Carrie sighed again. This was truly the pits.
But it sure wasn’t as bad as being trapped in the trunk of her car for two endless, nightmarish hours, the way she’d been back in July.
It still haunted her, even after all these months.
Those two hours had seemed more like two years.
Carrie had gone ballistic at first, flashing temporarily back to the time she was locked in the tiny bathroom of her parents’ camper when she was nine years old. Just as she’d done when she was nine, she’d cried as if the world were coming to an end. She’d cried, and kept crying, until she’d groped around and found the old flashlight she kept in the trunk of her car for emergencies. The main bulb was out, but it was one of those big box flashlights with a bullet-shaped red light attached to the handle, and that light was working.
The trunk had been absurdly tiny and terrifyingly confining in the red glow from the flashlight. But at least the darkness hadn’t pressed in on her anymore, suffocating her. And there had been fresh air—or at least there had been after she’d pulled the foam sealing strip from between the trunk hood and the frame. Her trunk would probably never be watertight again, but fresh air had been her immediate concern.
Then, lying on her back with her legs scrunched up and her face only a few inches from the inside of the hood, Carrie sang. She sang to keep herself from losing her mind. She sang every song she’d ever learned, and some she hadn’t. She sang all of the top forty hits from the year she’d entered eighth grade. She sang all of those annoying Broadway musical show tunes that her mother had loved so much. She sang every song from Patty Loveless’s two most recent compact discs. She sang until her throat was raw.
It truly had been hell, lying there, sweating, trying to keep the panic from engulfing her, feeling the walls closing in even tighter….
Carlos.
Her thoughts continued to return to him every now and then, even after all this time. In the first few weeks after he’d locked her in the trunk, she’d thought about him often.
Oddly enough, he still sometimes showed up in her dreams, too. Even odder, those dreams were steamy and erotic, filled with entangled legs, and cool, smooth, muscular skin, and long, dark hair hanging down around her face as he slowly bent to kiss her, as he sensuously, languorously, exquisitely moved inside of her—
She’d wake up with a start, surprised and sometimes a little disappointed to find that she’d only been dreaming.
Six months ago, she’d gone to the police station and sworn out a complaint, but the man named Carlos and his three friends still hadn’t been caught.
Lucky for them, she told herself fiercely. If she so much as set eyes on any of those sons of bitches again…
Across the room, Silver-hair’s guests stood up, stretching their legs. The women moved off, almost in one body, toward the ladies’ room. The men shook hands and—
No.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Carrie had gotten only the briefest glimpse of the man’s face, but those exotic cheekbones were unmistakable.
She wouldn’t be absolutely positive until she saw his eyes, but either she was going crazy or the man with the long dark ponytail, the man in the well-tailored tuxedo, was Carlos.
Of course, it was entirely possible that she was going crazy.
It had been six months, and Carrie still thought she spotted Carlos everywhere—in the mall, in the grocery store, at the movies, and even in the crowd at Sea Circus. She’d see a tall man with long, dark hair and she’d stare and take a closer look. But then the man would turn his head and she’d realize it wasn’t Carlos after all. It was just someone who looked a little bit like him.
But this man didn’t turn around and give her a second chance to see his face. He stared toward the lobby door with his back to her.
“Excuse me,” Carrie said to Bobby Penfield as he paused to take a much-needed breath. She folded her napkin and set it down next to her salad plate. “Excuse me for just one minute. I’ll be right back.”
She pushed back her chair and hurried toward the lobby after the tuxedo-clad men.
Schroedinger’s lobby was splendorous, with lots of plants and high ceilings and chandeliers and big wall mirrors that seemed to make the room twice the size it really was. The man who might be Carlos was standing near the checkroom, talking to Silver-hair. Several of the other men stood nearby.
Carrie stopped short at the sight of the long-haired man’s face in one of the mirrors.
It was Carlos. Lord in heaven, it really was him.
He was smiling, with that gentle, priestly smile, at something Silver-hair had said to him. Silver-hair said something else, and the smile exploded into a devilish laugh, complete with a full view of perfect white teeth.
Despite all her dreams and various pseudo-Carlos sightings, Carrie had forgotten exactly how handsome this man was.
At that exact instant, his gaze flickered in her direction, then landed squarely on her face. For the briefest second, Carlos froze, recognition darkening his eyes as he looked at Carrie.
She’d known him six months ago for all of half an hour, but during that time, even when she aimed her rifle directly at his head, she’d not seen anything besides confidence and calm control in his eyes. But now, suddenly, she could see panic. Sheer, total panic. It flared for an instant, and then it was gone, and his face and eyes were oddly expressionless.
He was afraid of something. Afraid of her, probably.
Damn straight he had a reason to be. He’d locked her in the trunk of her car, for Pete’s sake. All she had to do was point her finger and scream loud enough, and the entire St. Simone police force would be down upon his head.
Slowly, deliberately, Carrie started toward him.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WAS LOOKING at the cause of his death.
Felipe Salazar was standing in the lobby of Schroedinger’s, and looking directly at the cause of his certain death.
It was the dolphin-riding cowgirl from Sea Circus, and she was heading toward him, a small, tight smile on her perfect lips, and the fires of hell gleaming in her pretty blue-green eyes.
She’d traded her clunky boots for a pair of brown leather sandals, and her grungy shorts and T-shirt for a sleeveless, short, blue-flowered dress that would have sent his heart into his throat—if it hadn’t already been there for an entirely different reason.
Her blond hair was longer than it had been six months ago, and she wore it down around her shoulders, parted on the side, a straight sheet of gold that shimmered in the light from the chandeliers.
She wasn’t wearing much makeup, just a hint of eye shadow and lipstick, maybe a touch of rouge. She hadn’t tried to hide the charming splash of freckles that dotted her delicate nose and softly rounded cheekbones.
Madre de Dios, but she was even lovelier than he remembered. And dear God, he’d spent an awful lot of time remembering, those first few weeks after the showdown with Iceman and the rest of his gang. Felipe had even gone back to Sea Circus, just to see for himself that the girl was really all right.
Her name was Caroline Brooks, nickname Carrie.
He’d caught most of her dolphin show, and seeing her dive into the huge tank with the enormous sea creatures, seeing her actually ride on their backs, seeing the gentle way she treated them, seeing her smile and laugh without that tinge of panic on her pretty face, and yes, seeing her in that amazing red, form-fitting Speedo bathing suit, he’d almost approached her. He’d almost gone up to her and finished that sentence he’d started, that sentence she’d interrupted with a bite from her sharp teeth.
I’m a cop.
So why hadn’t he told her?
Because he liked her way, way too much. Because in his heart, he knew that even if he were able to seduce her, one or two nights simply wouldn’t be enough. Because he knew in a matter of days, he’d be gone, deep under cover, infiltrating Lawrence Richter’s crime syndicate as Raoul Tomás Garcia Vasquez
. And, most of all, because he knew that any romantic involvement with him would place her in potential danger.
So he’d made himself forget about her.
Or at least he’d tried.
At the very least, he’d stayed far, far away from Sea Circus and pretty Caroline Brooks.
How very ironic to realize now that not approaching her, not telling her he was a cop, not revealing his true identity to her, was going to result in his own death. And, dear God, probably her death, too.
Because, coming over here the way she was, with that bright light of justice and retribution in her eyes, Felipe had no doubt that she was going to blow his cover to kingdom come.
And if Lawrence Richter had the slightest reason to believe that Felipe was a cop, then Felipe was soon going to be a very dead cop. There was no way—not knowing what Felipe knew—that Richter would let him live.
Felipe hadn’t spoken to his best friend, Jim Keegan, in more than four weeks. That thought flashed crazily into his head and he wondered briefly how Jim—or Diego, the Spanish version of James, as Felipe was fond of calling him—would take the news of his friend’s death.
The best defense is a strong offense. That’s what Jim always used to say back when they were partners on the vice squad, before Jim took a coveted spot on the force as a homicide detective. There’s always a way out. You’ve just got to find it, and Keegan’s Rule Number One: Nothing is impossible.
If there was a way out of this mess, it would involve somehow keeping Caroline’s smart mouth tightly shut.
And that wasn’t going to be easy.
“Excuse me, please,” Felipe murmured to Lawrence Richter. “I have to head off an…old girlfriend.”
If the older man saw the bead of sweat drip down the side of Felipe’s face, he didn’t mention it. He merely looked from Felipe to Caroline and back, and smiled.
“Of course,” Richter said.
Felipe moved quickly then, intercepting Caroline Brooks a good ten feet away from Richter. Maybe, just maybe, they were far enough away to keep him from overhearing their conversation….
“Well, what do you know?” the tiny blond woman said, gazing coolly up at Felipe as if she were the one who was almost ten inches taller. “We meet again, C—”
Carlos. She was going to call him Carlos, in a voice loud enough to carry around the entire lobby. But he wasn’t Carlos now. He was supposed to be Raoul Vasquez.
Felipe shut her up the only way he could.
He covered her mouth with his and kissed her.
She tasted like the house salad dressing, fresh and spicy and delicious. She drew her breath in sharply, pulling back to look him in the eye, and Felipe knew in that one fraction of a second he hadn’t imagined the electricity that had sparked between them that night at Sea Circus. It was still there, still fierce and hot. And he also knew without the slightest doubt that if he’d gone to her the way he’d longed to, if he’d told her the truth, told her he was a cop and apologized for treating her so roughly, he would’ve been able to seduce her. Or, Madre de Dios, maybe she would’ve seduced him.
Regret coursed through him, regret that he’d missed his chance, regret that he’d probably never have another opportunity to kiss Caroline Brooks, let alone make love to her. Because unless Felipe took her arm and dragged her away from Lawrence Richter and his right-hand triggerman, Tommy Walsh, his life was about to end.
“Darling,” he said smoothly, while she was temporarily silenced, “how nice to see you again. Come, let’s step outside where we can talk privately.”
He took her by the arm and drew her toward the main entrance.
But she wasn’t having any of it. She pulled her arm free and laughed. “You’re crazier than I thought if you think I’d go anywhere with you,” she said coldly in her Western twang.
Felipe could feel Richter’s eyes on him, watching. Richter was always watching, always aware of every little thing that went on around him. It was one of the reasons he was so successful, and one of the reasons he’d never been apprehended.
“I know you’ve missed me,” Felipe said, loudly enough for Richter to overhear. “And I’m sorry I haven’t called you, but I’ve been busy. Please don’t be angry—”
“Missed you?” She laughed in disbelief. “You locked me in the tr—”
Near desperation, Felipe kissed her again. Anything, anything, to make her stop talking. He kissed her harder this time, drawing her body completely against his and holding her tightly in his arms.
Again she was temporarily silenced, and he took advantage of those few precious seconds.
“Please,” he said, again loudly enough for Richter to hear. “I know you’ll find this difficult to believe, but I’ve stayed away because I care for you so very much and—”
She hit him. She pulled her right arm free and hauled off and punched him, hard, in the stomach. Felipe saw it coming and tightened his stomach muscles. She probably hurt her fist more than she hurt him. But it was enough to catch the attention of the restaurant staff.
“Mister, you are so full of crap,” Carrie said, her coolness gone. She was livid with anger.
“Is there a problem here?” the maître d’said, smoothly sidling up.
“No, no,” Felipe said almost desperately. “Everything is fine—”
“Yes, there most certainly is a problem,” Carrie said. “This…this…con man is trying to make it seem as if he and I have known each other for longer than the thirty minutes we spent together over at—”
“Caroline,” he said quickly, interrupting her. Con man. Better than cop, but not by much. One glance at Richter told Felipe that the older man was still watching him. Watching and listening. “I think the gentleman would like us to continue this discussion outside and—”
Carrie’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”
“She gets like this sometimes,” Felipe said in a low voice to the maître d’. “Too much to drink. Will you help me take her outside?”
“Touch me again and I swear I’ll scream,” Carrie warned him, glaring at both men.
The maître d’ backed off, eager to keep the young woman from having a fit in the lobby of his four-star restaurant.
Richter nodded once and Tommy Walsh stepped forward, his pale blue eyes bored and flat. “Raoul,” he said in his thick Brooklyn accent, “you need some kind of help here?”
Carrie turned her wide blue-green gaze back on Felipe. “Raoul?” she said in disbelief. She turned indignantly to Tommy. “Funny, six months ago I knew him as Carlos.”
Six months ago, Raoul Vasquez was supposedly in prison.
“Oh, really?” Tommy said to Carrie. “Is that right?”
“It was August,” Felipe said, talking fast and low. “I was just out on parole. It had been eighteen months, man. I didn’t want to get married. I just wanted a little relief, you know? I told her my name was Carlos and—”
“It was not August. It was July,” Carrie said sharply. “And you didn’t touch me. You locked me in the trunk of my car, remember?”
She sounded loco. The way she said it, it sounded as if Felipe—or Raoul or Carlos or whoever he was—had turned down an opportunity to spend the night with her. And standing there in that enticingly simple blue-flowered dress that accented her near-perfect figure, with her slender, tanned arms and shapely legs, her shining golden hair, her eyes the color of the ocean and her sweetly pretty face, it didn’t seem possible that any man in his right mind would have turned her down.
So Felipe laughed, praying hard that Tommy would get the joke.
He did. Tommy’s beefy boxer’s face crinkled slightly in a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. But then again, Felipe had never seen Tommy truly smile.
“She’s crazy, man,” he said to Tommy, grateful at least for that half smile. He turned back to Carrie. “Sweetheart, I know you must’ve been upset when I was gone in the morning but—”
Carrie crossed her arms and turned her imperious gaze
on the maître d’. “Call the police. I want this man arrested.”
“You must be confusing me with someone else,” Felipe said, in a last-ditch effort to keep her from revealing his true identity. But he knew it was too late. Yes, Tommy was smiling, but he was smiling as if the joke was on Felipe.
“Oh, no,” Carrie said with certainty. “You’re Carlos, all right. And it wasn’t August. It was July. July 22. You were with that son of a bitch you called T.J. And that other guy you called Iceman and—”
Carrie kept talking, but Felipe didn’t hear her. He didn’t hear her because she’d just told Richter clear as day that he was a cop.
Iceman. Her mention of Iceman had given him away.
Iceman had been one of St. Simone’s hardest-working drug pushers.
And Iceman had owed Richter a cool quarter million at the time of his death. The money had been borrowed in order to make an investment in what was quite possibly the biggest small-time drug shipment to hit the west coast of Florida. The money had been borrowed and never paid back, because when Iceman and T. J. Cerrone and big, nose-ring-bedecked Randall Page, aka Mule, went to pick up the shipment of cocaine, the police went, too.
Although surrounded and clearly outgunned, Iceman had pulled his weapon and started a gun battle that had injured four police officers and left himself and his two business associates dead.
It had happened last summer, on the night of July 22, to be precise. And if Felipe had been with Iceman on July 22 before his death, it could only mean one thing.
Richter was a smart man. Tommy Walsh, despite the fact that he looked like an aging boxer, was a smart man, too. They could add one plus one, and in this case, one plus one equaled cop.
Richter looked at Tommy and Tommy looked at Richter, and Felipe knew that they’d come to the obvious conclusion.
“You were good,” Tommy said quietly to Felipe, speaking to him in the past tense as if he were already dead. “You just weren’t lucky enough.”
Tommy’s pale blue eyes flickered once toward Caroline, and Felipe knew with dreadful certainty that Richter’s right-hand man was going to use the petite blonde to make sure Felipe cooperated. Tommy was going to threaten to blow Caroline’s brains across Schroedinger’s lobby if Felipe didn’t go quietly with him out to the parking lot and Richter’s waiting limo.
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