by J. P. Bowie
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Didn’t I ever tell you about that? When Nick and Jeff were working together trying to solve Jeremy’s murder, Peter thought Nick was getting too close. Anyway, Jeff put Peter straight, if you’ll pardon the expression, and told him Nick was dating you—except we didn’t know you then. I think Peter was really glad to meet you at our New Year’s Eve party.”
“Wow,” Eric murmured. “How come I didn’t know all this?”
“There was so much going on at the time.” He paused. “Hey, that’s your phone ringing.”
Eric ran into the living room to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Hey, babe.”
Eric smiled. “Hi. How’s it going?”
“Okay. I had a couple of morons from the FBI here earlier. You sleep okay?”
“I overslept. Andrew’s here. We’re going to work out for a while.”
“Good. Listen, I have a twelve o’clock appointment up in Corona del Mar, so I’ll have to skip having lunch with you.”
“That’s okay. Andrew and I will probably catch a bite at the gym. I’ll get dinner.”
“You’re the best. Love you, babe.”
“Love you too.”
Agent Tomlinson looked at his partner, his teeth bared in a vicious grin. “Love you, babe,” he mimicked. “I guess these guys are really good friends.”
“Sure sounds like it,” Johnson agreed, biting into a doughnut. They had been listening to Nick’s calls for the last two hours, ever since they left his office. “Didn’t strike me as the type, though.”
“He was a cop,” Tomlinson said. “He’s had years of practice covering it up.”
“Still, he looks like he could take care of himself—and he got away from Garcia.”
“I could take him,” Tomlinson growled. “And I just might, after that ‘moron’ crack.” He sat forward in his seat as he saw Nick leave the office building and head for his car. “Look, there he is. He must be going to that appointment with the broad who says her husband is beating her up.” He started the engine and pulled slowly out of their concealed parking spot on Coast Highway.
“Don’t get too close,” Johnson muttered.
Tomlinson threw him a look of irritation. “I know what I’m doing.”
Johnson craned his neck trying to see through the glass doors of Nick’s office. “You think that Asian chick that works for him would go out with me?”
“What?”
Johnson glared at his partner. “Is that so hard to buy?”
“What’s so hard to buy is you thinking about stuff like that when we’re on a case.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if you have a low sex drive.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tomlinson spluttered. “I’m a married man.”
Johnson chuckled. “That explains it then, I guess.”
As Nick drove north up the coast to the town of Corona del Mar, he mulled over the conversation he’d had with Captain Fitzpatrick. Danny Villiers had already informed the captain that Nick suspected Garcia’s hand in the slaying of Tom Carradine. Fitzpatrick had been surprised and alarmed that Garcia was now in Orange County, finding it difficult to believe that he could have gotten that far without being spotted by either the police or airport security.
“You just can’t underestimate Garcia,” Nick had told the captain. “He’s one clever son-of-a-bitch. He’s lived on his wits for years and it looks like the time he’s spent in prison hasn’t softened him one bit.” Although Fitzpatrick had agreed with Nick, he knew that this latest development was not going to sit well with his superiors, and the media was going to have a field day when it was found out that Garcia had, once more, slipped through the police net.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather we kept the fact that he’s in California under wraps for the time being. I don’t want headlines screaming, ‘Garcia Eludes Police Again!’ It’ll be easier to deal with all this once we’ve caught the bastard. Anyway, how are you doing, boyo? Having you and your friend under Garcia’s gun must have left you a wee bit shaken up, I reckon.”
“You could say that, Captain. I’m just royally pissed that I let him get away. I had him in my sights, and I came so close to blowing him away.”
“Yes, well like you said, he’s a clever son-of-a-bitch. Those two FBI agents you spoke with this morning, what are they doing exactly?”
“Getting up my nose mostly,” Nick said with a wry chuckle. “They asked me if I knew where Garcia was. I mean, they haven’t got a clue what they’re getting into. They’re probably sitting around, hoping I’ll lead them to him.”
Agent Johnson balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it out of the car window. “Keep back,” he muttered. “You’re getting too close. There’s only two cars between us now. He’s going to spot us!”
“Shut up.” Tomlinson stared straight ahead, his face flushing with anger. “I don’t want to lose him. When he gets through interviewing Mrs. Whiny, me and him are gonna have a talk about all that crap he was giving Fitzpatrick about us. Son-of-a-bitch drives fast! Shit. Where’d he go?”
“He must have turned left down one of these side streets.”
“Crap.” Tomlinson attempted a U-turn, but no one was about to let him maneuver in. He cursed out loud amid blaring horns from other cars.
“Go up to the light, dummy,” Johnson yelled, jumping with nerves. “You’ll get us in a collision if you keep this up.”
Tomlinson smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Great…we’ve lost him. God damn it!” He drove up to the light then circled back, the two of them peering down each side street as they passed, Tomlinson muttering under his breath.
“Well, you blew that,” Johnson said, his voice dripping with disgust.
“Now, what do we do?”
“Didn’t you write down the address when she gave it to him?”
“No, did you?”
“Christ.”
§ § § §
Nick grinned into his rearview mirror as he saw the federal agents’ car pass by the side street he’d pulled into. “Those chuckle-heads…” He pulled up outside the address Maria Fuentes had given him, and walked up through a meticulously landscaped courtyard to the front door. “Nice,” he muttered, looking around him. Corona del Mar is one of the richest neighborhoods in Orange County. Every home on this particular street looked to Nick as though it reeked of money. There was an unmistakable air of affluence in the quality and design of the homes and the lush landscaping that surrounded them. A tall, beautiful Hispanic woman answered his knock.
“Mrs. Fuentes?”
“Yes. You must be Nick. Please come in.” She stepped aside to let him enter, her hand brushing his arm as he passed. “How handsome you are,” she purred.
They walked into a spacious high-ceilinged living room, their footsteps on the tiled floor echoing through the strangely silent house. Nick felt a momentary pang of unease in his gut. Something was not right here.
“Please,” Angelina was saying, indicating a leather couch by the fireplace. “Sit down here. Can I bring you some coffee?”
“No thanks.” Nick sat down, but did not relax into the couch. Every muscle in his body was as tense as a coiled spring. Something was wrong—he could feel it. A heavy footstep behind him and he leaped to his feet, his hand reaching for his weapon, but he was too late. Garcia stood before him, a snub-nosed .9mm pointed straight at his heart.
Garcia’s smile was one of a cobra that had cornered its prey. “Mr. Fallon…what a pleasure that we meet again, and such a shame your little friend could not be with us also.” He waved Angelina over. “Angelina, my dear, please relieve Mr. Fallon of his gun and bring it to me.”
Nick met Angelina’s look of triumph with one of disgust as she pulled his firearm from his shoulder holster. His eyes flicked to the doorway as another man entered. He looked familiar.
“Allow me to introduce my hosts,” Garcia said with a snide smile. “Mario and An
gelina Torres.”
Of course, Nick thought, recognizing the man. Mario Torres. He had been one of Garcia’s henchmen. He didn’t look particularly pleased to be in the middle of this, however. He looked pale under his swarthy complexion and was sweating profusely.
“So, which one of these deadbeats has been beating you up?” Nick asked Angelina, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Garcia chuckled quietly. “Quite the comedian, aren’t you, Mr. Fallon. I wonder if you will still have a quip up your sleeve when I’m done with you. Get his car keys also, my dear.” He turned to look at Torres. “Mario, take Mr. Fallon’s car into the garage. We do not want any evidence of his presence to be seen.”
Damn. Nick knew that the two FBI agents had been tailing him. Any hope that they might spot his car and at least know his whereabouts now faded away. Maybe he shouldn’t have lost them. Okay, so he was on his own. He found himself thanking the gods that Eric was not anywhere near. He, at least, was out of danger.
“Please remove your coat and shirt, Mr. Fallon,” Garcia said. “Then sit here on this chair.”
“No thanks.” Nick sat on the arm of the couch. “I’m not taking off my clothes in front of you. I’ve heard about guys like you.”
Angelina tittered while Garcia’s face flushed a dark red. “You will do what I say,” he hissed. “Or shall I put a bullet in your leg or arm to convince you?”
Nick looked at Angelina and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess the age of sweet talkin’ is gone, eh Angelina?” He started to remove his coat. “Well, if you insist…”
Angelina looked at him with admiration gleaming in her eyes. This man was not afraid, and yet Garcia had called him a maricón. Should he not now be trembling like a weak woman and begging for mercy? Looking at the grim determination on Nick’s face, she knew he would never beg—at least not for his own life. If Garcia wanted to enjoy terrorizing this man and hear him scream for mercy, he would have to use a different ploy. She watched as Nick removed his shirt, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his lean, muscular torso lightly covered with dark brown hair. He was magnificent! True, he was gay—but a beautiful woman could tempt any man.
As Mario Torres reentered the room, having hidden Nick’s car in the garage, he was enraged to see his wife step forward and run her hands over the prisoner’s chest, teasing his nipples with her fingertips and swaying provocatively in front of him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled, advancing upon her.
His wife turned and smiled at him. “I am turning him straight, Mario. In his final moments, he will long for a woman.”
“Enough of this!” Torres grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from Nick. He glared at Garcia. “Kill him now, and be done with it.”
“Keep your temper, and your wife, in check,” Garcia said, his thin lips stretched in a cold smile. “Fallon is mine to play with. I will say when he dies. Now, tie him to the chair.”
“This is foolish,” Torres grunted as he pushed Nick into the chair and fastened a rope around his chest. “Every moment you spend acting out your vengeance may cost us dearly. The quick kill has always been the best way.”
“That is true, Mario,” Garcia agreed, testing Nick’s bonds. “But Mr. Fallon has something to retract before he dies. You see he made some vile accusations about my son, Joseph. He must tell me, before I take his life, that he lied. He must look into my eyes and tell me the truth.”
“But what was it he said?” Angelina asked, her eyes straying over Nick’s naked chest.
“I told him his son was a gay man,” Nick said. “And that he loved a police detective—a friend of mine named Sam Valance. A man in whose arms he died.”
“Shut up!” Garcia screamed.
Angelina looked from Nick to Garcia, her expression one of contrived innocence. “But Francisco, you did not know this about Joseph?”
Garcia stood as if frozen for the moment into immobility. Then, like a snake about to strike, his head swiveled in Angelina’s direction. “What did you say?”
The look of sheer malevolence on his face caused Angelina to step back in fear. “I—I heard a rumor,” she stammered. “A rumor—that is all.”
Garcia grabbed her roughly by the neck and thrust his face into hers. “You will never say that again, do you hear me? Never!”
“I—I am sorry Francisco,” she bleated, trying to free herself.
“It was no rumor,” Nick said, enjoying the scene before him. “They were lovers.”
“Shut up!” Garcia pushed Angelina from him and spun round to face Nick. He backhanded him across the face.
“Stop this,” Mario Torres cried. “Kill him now—and quietly. Here…” He handed Garcia a knife. “Cut his throat and be done. The longer you prolong this, the more danger we are in. Do it now.”
Garcia took the knife in a hand that trembled with rage. He held it to Nick’s throat, the point drawing blood. Then, so quickly, that the eye could barely see, the blade arced in the air, curving down with deadly aim and sliced open the flesh on Mario Torres’ neck. Torres stumbled back, his hands clutching at his neck, the blood pouring in torrents from the open wound, his breath gurgling and wheezing in his throat. Angelina screamed, one long high-pitched wail of terror as she watched her husband sink to his knees, then fall onto his back, a look of total disbelief etched on his face.
“Be quiet, woman.” Garcia pointed the bloody knife at her. “You know this is what you wanted.”
“But not like this, in front of me.” Angelina stood, visibly trembling as she stared at her husband’s still twitching body.
“No man, nor woman, tells me what I should or should not do,” Garcia said. “Remember that, should you ever wish to follow your husband’s bad example.”
Nick stared at Garcia, momentarily stunned by what he had just witnessed. Some of Torres’ blood had splattered across his bare arm and chest. Jesus Christ, he thought, Garcia is completely unhinged. What the hell was he thinking by killing Torres—the man who could get him out of the US and secure him safe passage back to Puerto Rico? “Well,” he said, shaking his head. “There goes your ticket back home.”
Garcia advanced upon him. “I am not through with you yet, Fallon. You will take back what you have said about my son. You will tell me that you lied!”
“Sorry, can’t do that.”
“Then I will carve you into tiny pieces until you do,” Garcia fumed. “You will not die until the last piece of flesh is stripped from your bones.”
“Wait, wait, Francisco.” Angelina sprang to his side, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood by her husband’s body. “There may be a better way.”
“What?” Garcia looked at her with impatience.
“You said he has a friend—a lover. Bring him here, and then see how quickly the brave detective will beg your forgiveness for the lies he has told, when he sees his lover tortured.”
“Fucking bitch.” Nick strained at the ropes that bound him. “You better hope I don’t get off this chair.”
Garcia shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “I have no time for that, at this moment. However…” His eyes narrowed as he looked down at Nick. “Who knows what the future holds for young Mr. Jamieson?” A loud rapping at the door caused him to break off and look around him in consternation. “Who the hell is that?” he rasped.
“I don’t know,” Angelina gasped. “I am not expecting anyone.”
“Get rid of whoever it is, quickly.” He leveled his gun at Nick’s head. “One word or sound from you and you die, along with whomever is at that door. Understand?”
Nick nodded, his wrists chaffing at the clumsily tied ropes that Torres had been in too much haste to tie properly.
Angelina swung the door open and found a tall silver-haired woman on her doorstep. Angelina recognized her as a neighbor from across the street. One who made a habit of noticing and commenting on whatever she found to be disturbing.
“Yes?” Angelina demanded in
an abrupt and unfriendly fashion.
“I heard a scream coming from this house,” the woman said. “I came over to make sure you are all right.”
“Oh, that—” Angelina’s laugh was slightly off kilter. “Uh, I saw a mouse—yes a mouse. I am terrified of them. My husband teases me about it all the time.”
“A mouse?” The woman looked mortified. “A mouse—here? All the time? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” She sniffed, her patrician nose twitching with distaste. “Please call pest control immediately. We can’t have that sort of thing in the neighborhood.”
Angelina slammed the door on the woman’s face. “Bitch,” she muttered, stalking back into the living room. “A nosy neighbor,” she told Garcia. “I got rid of her.”
