Sleepwalker

by Karen Robards

  In this case, that someone was her. And Jason, provided he wasn’t already dead. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.

  “None of your business.”

  “Mick.” It was Otis. He walked up behind the new guy, his bald head shining in the uncertain light, his face ashen, the dark circles under his pale blue eyes providing silent testimony that he had not slept. His expression was appalled as he looked at her. “Tobe said you were one of the robbers that hit the boss’s safe.”

  Well, that answered one question: Tobe was no longer tied to a tree in danger of freezing to death. Good to know. As for Jason, he must have still been in the car. She quieted all the terrifying alternatives that popped into her head by reminding herself that there simply hadn’t been time for anything else. She’d been Tasered, had woken up loopy in the backseat to see Jason looking at her, then been dragged out what couldn’t have been more than a short time later. He’d still been inside … hadn’t he? She couldn’t be sure. Glancing at the cruiser, she discovered that she couldn’t see inside the back compartment because of the tinted windows, and she felt another surge of fear on his behalf.

  Which she wasn’t about to allow to show. The pain in her shoulder and the lingering effects of the Taser be damned, too. She figuratively grabbed her professional persona with both hands and pulled it on. The only way to play this was calm and cool and in control.

  “That’s a bunch of crap, and if you had a lick of sense you’d know it,” she snapped, her words carrying the conviction of truth. Not that the fact that she’d had nothing to do with the robbery was going to help her, even if anyone believed her. Having seen the pictures was what was going to get her killed. But then, who in this warehouse knew she’d seen them, or that they even existed? Otis? No. If he knew, she’d be able to tell. The 2.0 security guy? Not likely. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, the dirty cops? Unlikelier still. That being the case, maybe she could still bluff her way out of this. She was in trouble, deep trouble, but there was at least one other factor in her favor: only Otis had a clue about the kind of unarmed, physical fight she could put up if given half a chance. Still, if it came down to that, the odds weren’t in her favor—four on one. Or two, depending on where Jason was and what condition he was in. And the four were armed. Obviously, though, the first step to making any kind of move had to be losing the restraints. Turning her back and wiggling her fingers, she copped the same cocky attitude with which she’d greeted 2.0 and added, “Want to get these handcuffs off me? Pretty please?”

  2.0 snorted with derision. Otis replied unhappily, “No can do, Mick. Sorry.”

  “What do you mean, no can do? Take the damn handcuffs off!”

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” 2.0 said, while Otis shrugged an apology. Then 2.0 looked at the cops. “You searched her, right? Where’s her gun?”

  It was obvious that he, not Otis, was in charge. Friedman stepped into her line of vision, and she saw that he carried Jason’s suitcase in one hand. Shooting a quick glance at the cruiser, she felt her stomach sink clear to her toes. She hadn’t been aware of them removing the suitcase from the car. Maybe she had missed them doing something to Jason.

  “We recovered the money.” Friedman jiggled the suitcase so that everyone glanced at it.

  “I recovered the money,” Mick said. “And caught the guy who stole it. So you want to explain to me just exactly what the hell I’m doing in handcuffs?”

  “Word is we’re supposed to hold you.” Meeting her gaze, Otis looked uncomfortable.

  Mick glared at him. “This is total bullshit. Who told you that?”

  Otis wet his lips. “Nothing I can do. That’s the word.”

  “Shut up, why don’t you?” 2.0 said to Otis. Then, to the cops, “So, gun? Search?”

  “We got her gun. And the guy’s.” The other cop pulled her Glock and Jason’s Sig out of his waistband and held them up. “But … uh … didn’t exactly search her.”

  “Bring the money over here,” 2.0 directed. “Put the suitcase and the weapons on the hood of the car.”

  “Your asses are mine,” Mick told both cops with the cold outrage of a ticked-off superior officer as Friedman and his partner approached, carefully placing the guns and suitcase on the hood of the cruiser. Her scathing look should have made their knees shake. The truth was, since they were clearly taking payoffs from Uncle Nicco’s guys and they knew she knew it, they were already so far out on a limb that there was no going back. But she hoped to cow them a little, maybe make them think they could appease her into keeping quiet with the department. After all, as far as they knew it was always possible that Uncle Nicco, once he heard the whole story, might do the proverbial clasping her to his bosom thing, and she would become a dirty cop, too. “Where do you get off, shooting me with a fucking Taser? I’m going to file a report on you two that’ll have you both busted down to mall cops.”

  “Up against the car.” Not gently, 2.0 pushed her stomach first against the cruiser. The engine was still warm. She could feel its heat through the hood. A glance through the windshield revealed no sign of Jason. Turning her head, she looked down the Crown Vic’s long hood to discover that her Glock and Jason’s Sig were within easy reach—if her hands had been free, and she’d been able to reach for anything, that is. “You know the drill. Spread-eagle.” He added to the cops, “You just take the one suitcase off them?” Then, presumably to Otis, as an aside, “How about you quit looking like you’re going to cry and keep her covered while I pat her down?”

  “They only had one,” Friedman answered.

  “Hey, Favara, just so we’re clear, I got allergies that make my eyes water,” Otis retorted.

  “So where’s the rest of the money?” 2.0—Favara—nudged Mick in the ribs with his weapon, which made her assume the question was directed at her. “Should be three suitcases.”

  “Dream on,” Mick said. Feeling his hands run up her legs made her want to flatten him with a roundhouse kick to the nose, but the thought of the four plus guns she would have been facing if she had restrained her. “You think I’m going to tell you?”

  “Guy said something about three suitcases,” Friedman’s partner volunteered. “Half a mil in each. One point five million dollars total.”

  “So talk, baby doll.” Favara ran his hands around her waist under the coat. Again she thought longingly of flattening him. “Before I have to make you.”

  “Only person I’m talking to is Uncle Nicco,” Mick said. Like a lightbulb going off in her head, she understood suddenly that the two missing suitcases were the key to surviving. As long as anyone thought she knew where they were, they would be reluctant to kill her. The same thing went for Jason. Of course, the security tapes would show, and the crew at the house might well remember, that Jelly had taken off with them. But then the question became, Where did he take them? The answer to that was worth keeping them alive for, too. And for a little extra insurance, she was going to keep reminding these thugs of her close relationship with their boss in hopes that it might back them off. As a tactic it probably wouldn’t hold together for long, but what she was mainly playing for here was time.

  “Mr. Marino’s on his way,” Otis told her. He didn’t sound too happy about it.

  “Good.” Despite her hearty affirmative, the truth was Mick wasn’t too happy about it, either. Stomach bottoming out as she pictured coming face-to-face with the man she’d thought of for years as her beloved uncle, Mick barely felt the indignity of hands running over her chest and back, first through her coat and then, unzipping it, underneath. Favara was thorough but impersonal, and ended by turning out her pockets. There wasn’t a lot in them: the handcuff key—which gave her a pang because she had forgotten all about it, but she comforted herself by the thought that it probably wouldn’t have worked on these particular handcuffs and she wouldn’t have been able to reach it anyway; the ski mask; and, in the inside breast pocket, the pictures.

  Mick’s heart thumped as Favara found them and pulled them out
.

  By this time he’d turned her around so that her back pressed against the cruiser. As Favara unfolded the sheets of paper curiously, Mick straightened away from the car. Just watching him frown down at the photographs made cold sweat pop out along her hairline.

  Forget the money. This was what was going to get her killed.

  “What the hell are these?” Favara demanded, fanning them out like a hand of cards before thrusting them in front of her face. She’d squirreled three of them away, but every detail remained seared into her brain. Now, looking at them again, she saw everything in a comprehensive glance: first picture, Edward Lightfoot tied to a chair, a gun pressed to his head; second picture, the back of Lightfoot’s head exploding as the gunman pulled the trigger; third picture, Lightfoot’s corpse slumped in the chair, trickles of blood running from twin holes in his forehead—the double tap. In the background of all three pictures, Uncle Nicco was clearly identifiable. The man beside him was also clearly identifiable, but Mick didn’t know who he was. Closer to the camera, the gunman was blurry and only partly visible: gun, hand, arm, shoulder, his jaw and part of his mouth, part of his torso, but maybe a good artist or some kind of recognition software could render him identifiable. And, only in the first one, in the upper right-hand corner, what looked like part of a finger. Clearly whoever had taken the pictures had gotten a digit in front of the lens in that one frame.

  For the first time, it occurred to Mick to wonder who had taken the pictures, and why. They were damning evidence of murder. No one seeing them could have been left in any doubt about the truth of what had happened to Lightfoot, or who had been involved.

  Taking in the details one more time, she felt her chest tighten and her pulse race.

  “Where’d you get them?” Favara shook the papers under her nose. The unexpectedly loud rattle they made caused Otis, who was watching from behind Favara’s shoulder, to give a start. Mick saw that he was sweating. He wasn’t stupid: if he’d gotten a good look at the pictures, they were probably scaring him, too. Or maybe he knew something she didn’t know: like she had been brought here to be killed.

  Bollocks to that. Not if she could help it. At least, if she was going down, she was going down fighting for her life.

  “I never saw them before in my life,” Mick lied. Fear roiled her stomach, dried her mouth. That line of defense was not going to help, at least not ultimately, and not where Uncle Nicco was concerned: even if she hadn’t seen the pictures before, she had definitely seen them now. But her objective was to persuade these guys that she remained a trustworthy member of team Marino. It was still not completely outside the realm of possibility that she could convince them to let her go. Otis kept giving her sorrowful looks. Maybe if she could get him alone …

  “They were in your goddamn pocket,” Favara roared, turning to shove them in front of Otis. “You know anything about these?”

  Otis looked, blanched, and shook his head. “N-no. No.”

  Mick saw that Otis’s gun hand shook a little. Clearly he recognized the pictures’ deadly import, too.

  “So where’d they come from?” Favara’s eyes swung back to Mick. She was thankful suddenly for the tangled mess of her hair, which presumably hid the telltale beads of moisture around her hairline. “You know what’s good for you, you better start talking.”

  “Fuck you, Favara,” Mick said, holding his gaze.

  Favara’s face tightened. His hand clenched on the edge of the pictures, crumpling them a little. “Why, you—”

  “Uh—that’s not Mick’s coat,” Otis interjected hurriedly. Mick got the impression that he was trying to protect her. They weren’t friends, exactly, but they went way back, which made him the closest thing to an ally she had in this hostile group. He was her best hope, the potential escape route she needed to concentrate on. “She wasn’t wearing one. I think maybe that burglar she was with was wearing it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Favara looked at Friedman. “You got the guy?” When Freidman nodded, Favara said, “Where?”

  “Back of the car.” Friedman jerked his head toward the cruiser.

  “Get him out here.”

  “Oh, what, you’re finally getting around to leaning on the burglar instead of the cop who captured him?” Mick jeered even as she experienced a tingling rush of relief at this irrefutable proof that Jason was alive. Thinking about what kind of shape he might be in or what might be getting ready to happen to him now was counterproductive, so she tried not to. The key here was to keep up the pretense that she didn’t give a flip what happened to him because she and Jason were not on the same side. “Is it just me, or are you geniuses going about this thing totally ass-backwards?”

  “You know, you got a big mouth,” Favara told her, his eyes narrowing with anger.

  Before Mick could reply, the garage door gave an ominous clank. It started to rise. The noise was enough to attract everyone’s attention. Through the rapidly widening opening, Mick caught a glimpse of a snowy yard and chain-link fence and, beyond that, a run-down, industrial street that looked deserted in the cold gray early morning light, before her attention riveted on the black SUV rolling into the warehouse. It pulled up on the passenger side of the cruiser, braking maybe ten feet away from her. Even before it stopped, even before the garage door, having reached its apex with a clang, started to rumble closed again, she had recognized the men in the front seat. Iacono was driving. Beside him, in the passenger seat, was the man standing with Uncle Nicco in the pictures.

  Chapter

  19

  Mick’s heart jackhammered. Her breathing suspended. Her mouth went dry. A sideways glance confirmed it: Favara was still holding the pictures, partly crumpled in his fist. God in heaven, if the guy with Iacono saw them, saw his own prominent placement in them—and she would have to have been the luckiest person on the planet for him not to—she was going to die. Jason was going to die. Probably right there and then.

  Of course Favara was going to hand the pictures over. He was on Uncle Nicco’s payroll. Her only possible hope was that Favara might not identify the new arrival as one of the men in the picture, and thus see no need to pass them on to him. He’d only glimpsed the pictures briefly, after all.

  But even if he didn’t recognize the guy, he would probably hand the pictures over anyway because Uncle Nicco was in them.

  If not to this guy, then to Uncle Nicco himself, who was almost certainly in the backseat of the SUV.

  Mick experienced a sudden, acute attack of vertigo and had to lean against the cruiser to steady herself.

  The SUV’s engine shut off. The doors opened. The two men in front got out.

  It was now six armed individuals to one unarmed one—or two, again depending on the state Jason was in. The odds made her want to puke. A quick glance located Friedman. Instead of getting Jason out of the car, he’d stopped on the other side of the cruiser’s hood to watch what was going on.

  Which meant the odds remained six to one.

  There was nothing to do but deal. She took a deep breath and straightened away from the cruiser. The time was at hand: fight or die. And she wasn’t about to just give up and die.

  Focus, she ordered herself fiercely. First things first: I need to get the handcuffs off.

  “About damn time,” Mick greeted Iacono as he walked toward her, operating on the theory that the only way to play this was aggressive. What she was aiming for was to behave just as she would have if she’d never seen the pictures and Jason really had kidnapped her. As the head of Uncle Nicco’s everyday security staff, Iacono was someone who’d been on the periphery of her world for years. Not a friend, but someone she knew. “You want to get over here and get these cuffs off me? I mean, I assume you’ve got the authority, right?”

  Despite her brave front, Mick practically vibrated with tension as she watched the men approach—and waited for the SUV’s back door to open, too, and Uncle Nicco to step out.

  It didn’t happen. No one else got out of the SUV. Mick fe
lt the tiniest lessening of tension as she realized that Uncle Nicco wasn’t present—yet. But there were still the damn pictures to deal with, as well as one of the men they incriminated in the flesh. She prayed Favara would forget that he was holding them.

  “Boss ain’t happy with you,” Iacono said. “Come to that, I ain’t happy with you.”

  Stopping just a few feet in front of her, Iacono fixed her with a hard stare. In his early forties, he was tall and thin, with a weathered, but still good-looking, face and long black hair slicked back to curl up around the collar of his gray wool car coat. When they were teens, Angie had thought he was kind of hot. Mick hadn’t. As she’d told Angie at the time, old greasers weren’t her type. The man with him—the man from the pictures—stopped beside him, his gaze just touching on Mick before assessing the area, as if in those few seconds he would memorize everyone and everything in it. Looking a few years older than Iacono, he exuded menace. At least, Mick thought, he did to her, but perhaps some of that was due to her guilty knowledge of what was in the pictures Favara still clutched just about an arm’s length away. This guy’s eyes were brown and cold. His mouth was thin and tight. In between was a long blade of a nose. A beefy man maybe six feet tall, he wore a suit and tie beneath a long black overcoat. A salt-and-pepper pompadour made his Mediterranean complexion look even darker.

  Knowing what she knew, just being in his presence made her stomach cramp. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Otis’s face had gone utterly white. Had he recognized the guy from the pictures, too? Or was he just getting freaked out by the atmosphere, which she couldn’t have been the only one to think crackled with peril?

  “Uncle Nicco’s not going to be happy with a lot of people when I tell him what’s been happening here,” she told Iacono with what she considered a praiseworthy assumption of assurance. “Including you. And just for the record, I don’t give a crap who you’re not happy with. Uncle Nicco hired me to guard the house. I did my job. Now I want these handcuffs off. For starters.”