We’d all be operating partially blind except Loretta with her bird’s-eye vantage point. She’d have to scrabble over the slippery roofs to keep her scope on the two mobsters, though, and do it silently. Once again, I was struck, deep in the pit of my stomach, with just how foolhardy we all were. Except Josh. But even so, working with a bunch of novices like us increased his vulnerability, besides the fact that he had to be rusty from being out of action for so long.
Josh had intentionally given Lutsenko the number of a unit on the next lane over from where the paintings were stashed. We wanted Lutsenko and Ziggy Beltran on foot so they couldn’t use the vehicle as a weapon if the situation deteriorated.
According to the script, Lutsenko made the next move, which surprised me tremendously. If I’d been him, I’d have been messing with the sequence or pacing already, just to see what my adversaries were up to. Either he wasn’t a conniving fellow, which I highly doubted, or he was so arrogantly confident he didn’t feel the need to further test the plan.
Lutsenko pulled a lever, popping open the trunk, then planted a sturdy foot on the ground and slowly rose out of the driver’s seat. He placed his hands on the roof of the car and ran his gaze down the long row of storage units. Beltran, looking just like his photos on Google but shakier and whiter of face, did the same a second later.
And then I realized maybe, just maybe, the dynamics between the two had forced Lutsenko to appear nonchalant. Josh was brilliant — absolutely brilliant — to put Lutsenko on the spot in two ways. He had to appear in command for us, who were holding his paintings hostage, and to impress his underling with his power and authority. A very tight spot, indeed. Respect from both sides was at stake.
Lutsenko looked the epitome of a television weatherman. Large, broad-shouldered in a perfectly tailored overcoat, with a jowly, orange face that spread into a gleaming, insincerely white smile when Josh and Tarq stepped into view. I could have sworn his teeth were slicked with Vaseline. He seemed like the sort who would love to have his mug in all the newspapers even if it was because he won the crooked businessman of the year award. He probably belonged to the chamber of commerce for just such recognition and accolades.
No words were exchanged. Two back-country, woodsy types in their jeans and bulging all-weather gear facing two city slickers. All hands clearly visible. No obvious weapons. My lungs burned. I’d forgotten to breathe, but it just wasn’t convenient right now.
Josh tipped his head, indicating Lutsenko and Ziggy should follow him, and disappeared back into the alley from whence he’d come. In the long rows of storage units, there were narrow alleys — large enough for two skinny people to walk side-by-side, but definitely not wide enough for a car — between every block of five units. Maybe the gaps were designed to satisfy fire code or just for easy passage between the lanes. Regardless, they suited our purposes perfectly.
Lutsenko didn’t falter. Perhaps he trusted Josh because of his reputation as a turncoat and his having been fired from the FBI as a result. Lutsenko strode after Josh with a swagger that befit our pseudo-Western location. Ziggy trailed in his wake, and Tarq took up the rear. As soon as they were all out of sight, I flew into action.
Actually, I slipped off the dumpster and banged my knee hard on its metal side with a dull but reverberating thud. My toes had cramped, and the pain extended into a charley horse. I hopped around, biting my tongue to suppress my groans.
I limp-shuffled down the lane in one of Josh’s premade tracks, checking each alleyway before crossing it, just in case Lutsenko or Ziggy had moved into view on the other side. Josh was going to draw the exchange out as long as possible, but I certainly didn’t have time for dilly-dallying.
First stop, the Mercedes’ open trunk. I pried up the carpet and checked for surprises. No spare tire. Only the best for Lutsenko — he was probably using run-flat tires on his spiffy sedan. The other compartments held the usual accoutrements that so rarely get used — first-aid kit, flashlight, cargo net. It sure didn’t appear as if he’d even taken the car for a grocery run. I sniffed. It still smelled new.
The Mercedes was one big, solid hunk of metal. Of course, it didn’t have molded plastic bumpers.
Josh had coached me through this. Check the trunk, but my best bet would be inside the vehicle, near a window. Too much surrounding metal and even sometimes the material used for glass tinting can disrupt a GPS signal. Lutsenko’s onboard navigation program was probably run off an embedded antenna, so I couldn’t count on that alone to guarantee reception for my additions.
I pulled my sleeve down over my fingers and used it like a paw to pull open the rear door on the passenger side. I dug the crumpled ball of aluminum foil from my pocket and began the tedious process of unwrapping my little goodies. But my dexterity was shot — my fingertips were beyond numb from the cold.
I ended up sitting sideways on the seat with my legs still outside just so I could have some lap space to work on. I fumbled madly and finally freed one of the trackers. I wedged it between the headrest and the top of the seat where the soft leather folded around it and almost concealed it. Just the narrowest black slit was visible — a minor anomaly that would require eagle eyes to identify. I hoped.
Too much time. The clock in my head had expired eons ago.
I bumped the rear door closed with my hip. The resulting click was mercifully quiet, thanks to expensive German engineering. I bent next to the already open front door and the seat Ziggy had occupied.
Sleek. The whole interior was so sleek there just weren’t handy crevices in which to hide the gadget.
“Psssewww. Psssewww.” The sound soared over my head, slightly muffled, unusual. I’d never heard a bird call like that before. But this was no time for nature-watching.
I crinkled open the rest of the foil and leaned in to pound on an air vent in the dash with my fist.
Bingo. Plastic. Fancy plastic, but plastic nonetheless.
“Psssewww.” Okay, now the bird was becoming annoying.
A couple more hard thumps and I’d dislodged the vent nozzle. I slid the tracker down into the channel.
And then I bumped my head.
Or rather, something hard collided with the back of my head.
“Caught you,” a rough voice muttered in my ear. His breath was hot, sending rigid shivers down my spine.
The hard, cold, steely thing ground into the little hollow in my skull directly behind and below my ear.
“Psssewww,” called the crazy bird again.
“Hands,” the voice said, and I raised mine quickly, albeit awkwardly, since I was semi-ducked inside the car.
I still held the louvered nozzle in my right hand. Not exactly a self-defense device, but my mind was racing through how I might be able use a blob of molded plastic in a deflective maneuver when a heavy but squashy weight slammed against my backside, propelling me across the seat and hinging me over the center console.
“Hah.” A voice I love dearly grunted with satisfaction. “I always wanted to do that.”
“Clarice?” I rasped, suddenly short on air.
I wriggled until I could peek behind me from under my arm. And I got the best view of an upside down sourpuss, wrinkled face and squinty eyes behind a set of stylishly burgundy cat’s eye glasses. She held the Glock backwards, like a hammer.
“Get him off me,” I wheezed. “You’re out of position.”
Clarice grabbed Ziggy around the thighs and unceremoniously yanked him off my legs and out of the car. He made a sickening thud when he hit the ground.
“Are you really going to complain about that now?” Clarice asked.
I crawled out of the Mercedes, stopping briefly to pop the nozzle back into place. At this point, I probably didn’t need to concern myself with wiping off my fingerprints since there were far too many. With Ziggy’s bash-induced tackle, my DNA had been splattered all over the glossy cockpit anyway.
“Absolutely not,” I replied.
Up close, Ziggy didn’t look too
good. Blood was slowly oozing from a bump so large it made his short brown hair stick straight out from the side of his head.
“Loretta was signaling you like crazy. Didn’t you hear her?” Clarice hissed.
I stared at Clarice, then glanced up to the top of the storage unit section that separated us from the next lane over and the negotiations going on in unit 236. Loretta was sprawled on her stomach on the flat roof, just her head and the tip of her rifle hanging over the gutter, her face pasty white and eyes huge.
I gave her an apologetic wave.
Her cheeks puffed as she blew out a big breath, then she scootched out of sight, returning to her primary assignment — the safety of Josh and Tarq.
Good grief. Talk about a glitch.
“Do you think Lutsenko’s going to notice that his roadie’s been clobbered?” I whispered.
“I expect he’s smarter than he looks and that he planned his sidekick’s little backtracking surprise for us.” Clarice stubbed her toe against Ziggy’s midsection with absolutely no reaction from the prone man. “No harm now in letting him know that we know. And that his trickery wasn’t successful.”
“We gotta move,” I said.
Clarice bent and picked up Ziggy’s gun. She hauled up the hem of her coat and stuffed the pistol inside her already snug waistband. What’s one more bulge? Her pockets were as jam-packed as mine were.
I went for Ziggy’s knees while Clarice grabbed fistfuls of his coat at his shoulders. For a stocky, medium-height guy, he sure weighed a lot. Like three tons. I think he had bricks in his pants. Needless to say, he bottomed out repeatedly as we slogged him through the slush to the back of the car.
By the time we rested him on the ground near the bumper in preparation for our final, herculean effort, he was groaning piteously. I didn’t feel sorry for him one bit.
“Lever action,” Clarice huffed. “If we can balance some part of him on the lip of the trunk, we can use that as a pivot point.”
“Fulcrum,” I panted. “But he’s too saggy.”
Indeed, Ziggy was as cooperative as a sack of lead gelatin dressed in Brooks Brothers’ finest wool and cashmere blend. Clarice and I got the workout to end all workouts — bicep curls! deadlifts! — and we were gasping like expired Lamaze instructors when we finished.
Ziggy was a semi-conscious, dripping heap on the pristine carpet in the trunk. There were also several glorious new scratches in the shiny silver paint on the Mercedes’ bumper.
“Psssewww.”
My head popped up and I shot Clarice a startled glance. She grabbed my elbow and propelled me, hopping and skipping, across Josh’s slushy tire tracks and into the alley on the far side where she’d been stationed behind a couple discarded wood pallets.
We were both puffing so loudly I was sure the racket was echoing down the narrow corridor and straight to Lutsenko’s ears. But when he appeared from the opposite alley, he was intent upon the contents of the Mercedes’ trunk. He had the four rolled paintings tucked under his arm and a deep scowl on his spray-on-tanned face.
He approached and prodded the soaked mass that was Ziggy Beltran with a gloved finger. Then he threw back his head and belted out a loud, obnoxious guffaw.
“Nora Ingram,” he shouted. “It’s been distinctly unpleasant doing business with you. If we ever meet again, you will owe me more than one traitor. Of that I can assure you.” He slammed the trunk lid down, walked calmly around to the passenger side and tossed the paintings onto the seat. Then he rounded the car, slid behind the wheel, and took off, in reverse, wheels squealing as he sped backward out of the lane and whipped the car around.
I closed my eyes, concentrating, and could not hold back a grin when his muffler scraped on the curb on the way out.
And then we ran — Clarice and I — dodging down alleys, across Black Bart Bowles Boulevard and through to Wild Bill Hickok Way and Josh and Tarq and a newly emptied storage unit.
CHAPTER 20
Josh was bent over a phone cradled against his ear. He pressed his other hand over his free ear so he could focus on what the person on the other end of the line was saying.
Tarq looked distraught, and he squeezed my arm. “I saw Ziggy slip away, but there wasn’t anything I could do,” he rumbled. “I was never so glad not to hear gunshots in my life. You okay?” He gave me another squeeze as if checking my internal pounds per square inch.
I nodded, still panting from my dash.
Tarq held out a phone on his open palm, a picture on the screen. Clarice crowded in to peer over my shoulder.
She was beautiful, diminutive, scared, and so very young. But alive. Beside her stood a haggard, dark-skinned man with slumped shoulders, barely taller than she was.
“Confirmed?” I whispered.
“Chet gave Josh questions that only Kamala would know the answers to. Her responses were faint but perfect.” Tarq pulled me in for a full hug. “We did it, kiddo,” he rasped into my hair.
It was my turn to make a call. I started pulling things out of my pockets. Clarice pressed her forearms together and extended them as a sort of shelf. I mouthed my thanks and piled my supplies on them until I found the correct phone and unwrapped its aluminum foil sheath.
In two seconds, it had established signal, and I punched the speed-dial button for my favorite FBI case manager.
“Where are you?” Matt barked.
“Agent Jarvis.” With great effort, I kept my tone smooth. “The correct question is where are the two GPS tracking devices you planted on Clarice’s Subaru several weeks ago.”
Matt might have made a rude noise.
“Well?” I prodded.
“On I-5 southbound, two miles outside Woodland, moving at seventy miles per hour in the left lane. You put both of them on the car? Only one is broadcasting.”
I shrugged even though he couldn’t see me. “I guess redundancy pays off. You should know that.”
“Is that Freeney with you?” Matt said.
Rats. I wasn’t prepared with a good lie. Maybe it was okay to admit Josh’s involvement now? I tried to catch his eye, but he was still engrossed in his own phone call while reaching up to grab the handle to unit 236’s door and pull it closed.
Instead, I said, “When you stop the car, be careful what you shoot at. Numero Seis is in the trunk, and the front passenger seat holds about a hundred million dollars’ worth of stolen art. I sent some documents to your office. You should get them in a few days. They explain the paintings. But you have my permission to pump Lutsenko full of holes.”
Matt didn’t even say good-bye. He had more important things to do.
A shower of snow sifted off the roof, and I glanced up to see Tarq assisting Loretta down a ladder he’d retrieved from our second storage unit. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she had her arms around me. She was trembling — whether from cold or nerves, I wasn’t sure.
“Darling! I’ve never been so terrified in my life. If Clarice hadn’t—” she pulled back a few inches and caught the corner of her lip between her teeth. “I’m not going to think about that. Did it work? The whole plan?”
“Of course it did.” Clarice returned from rummaging in her suitcase with a bottle of sparkling cider and a stack of red Solo cups. “Hold these.” She thrust the cups Loretta’s direction and started picking the foil seal off the bottle.
And then I laughed. It just bubbled up and out, and I was helpless to stop it. Relief. Fatigue. Adrenaline ebb. I don’t know what it was, but I forgot to keep up my facade as a competent adult for a few minutes. My knees went wobbly.
I finally recovered and accepted a cup of celebratory juice from the perpetually prepared Clarice. But I noticed that she and Tarq and Loretta all had goofy grins on their faces too. Josh’s phone call ended just in time for him to join us, crowded around the tailgate of Tarq’s pickup, in the first toast.
“That was my buddy who’s a detective with the Las Vegas PD. They have Kamala and her uncle in protective custody, along with ten othe
r coerced illegal laborers. Kamala was forced to be a—” Josh raised his hand to make quotation marks in the air, “hostess in an unlicensed gambling joint. The workers are feeding the cops a bunch of information, and he thinks there were be several more busts tonight. Breaking up the gang.” Josh tipped his cup against ours with a smile stretching from ear to ear. “Success.”
I took a swig and lifted my cup high. “I’d like to nominate Clarice for the Best-Use-of-a-Gun-So-Far Award.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Thank you.”
“I was in the mood for a mugging,” Clarice grunted, but I could tell she was pleased.
Josh asked, “What’s the word from Matt?”
“He’s very busy.” I grinned and shook my head. “I think I should give him a few hours before I pester him again.”
“To our master choreographer,” Tarq said, waving his cup in Josh’s direction. “Perfectly diagrammed plan, designed to accommodate all the setbacks we encountered. My hat’s off to you.”
“Here, here,” we all cheered.
“Luck and Lutsenko’s ego,” Josh countered. “Without those two things, we’d have been sunk. And criminals’ innate distrust of each other. I’m not sure Ziggy was betraying his boss, but Lutsenko was willing to believe it. Organized crime is entirely cosmopolitan now, but omertà is dead.” He grinned again. “To the good guys’ advantage.”
“Omertà!” Loretta shouted, giggling.
I’m not sure she knew what it meant, but her enthusiasm was infectious. We were in danger of becoming a raucous bunch.
Clarice leaned against me and muttered, “Don’t look now, but the fuzz is here.”
I did look.
Olive drab suits very few people, but Des is one of them.
I nodded to him. “Cheers.” Which is a really dumb thing to say to an officer of the law. But I was suffering from gratefulness — for many things, not the least of which was that the crates holding my gold bars were hidden from view in the back of storage unit 231 behind Tarq’s pickup.
Des responded with the slightly amused expression that always seems to be on his face in my presence. Clarice pressed a full cup into his hand, and he studied it as though he’d never seen sparkling cider before.
Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 16
