After that brief foray into the past, he directed the conversation to inconsequential things—the weather, her art, how the city had grown since her last visit. With dessert finished and the last of the wine poured into their glasses, she finally looked past him. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Actually, it has.” He left the table, going to stand in front of the fireplace. “The rug that was here is gone, and a section of flooring was replaced.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Blood is so difficult to deal with.”
Her gaze remained steadily fixed on him as she lifted her glass to her lips.
“Come. Have a seat. It’s so much more comfortable than those wooden chairs.” He lowered himself into the far corner of the sofa, resting one arm on the back in invitation.
She rose gracefully from her chair, crossed the room, and sat at the opposite end of the sofa. The pale hues were a perfect foil for her dark skin and hair, for the crimson and navy of her clothes.
“Tell me what you think of Detective Ceola.”
She stroked one fingertip over the pattern etched into the wineglass. “He seems harmless.”
“Part of the reason for his success as a detective, I’m sure. People tend to underestimate him, right up to the moment he slaps on the handcuffs.” William would never make that mistake. His irritation suddenly flared at the mistakes that had been made. He was walking a razor-thin line. Detective Ceola had too many pieces of the puzzle and if anyone could tie the loose ends of the vigilante killings together, it was him. And the best way to stop him was Selena.
“It would help if I knew exactly what I’m looking for,” she replied, gazing at the bare floor where an ancient Persian rug had once been. His grandfather had paid a substantial sum for it, but ultimately it had proven far more valuable to William than price could ever reflect.
“Details about his cases.” He was deliberately vague.
“Which cases?”
“The vigilante killings.” He doubted she knew much, if anything, about the recent rash of murdered drug dealers. She had little interest in politics, crime, and the like, but pretended instead that the world was perfect—probably because her world before him had been so imperfect. Ignorance, at times, really could be bliss.
“He has evidence against you?”
He shrugged. “His evidence very well might lead to me.”
“Or it very well might not.”
He gave another shrug.
“What kind of evidence?” she asked stubbornly. She kept all but the faintest hints of frustration from her voice, but he recognized it. Good. He wanted her a little on edge. She needed to learn that, unless she complied with his wishes, her easy life was over. He had given it to her; he could take it away.
“Anything. Everything. I want to know exactly what Detective Ceola knows, not just what’s contained in his files and notes.” And in the meantime, he wanted the good detective distracted from his investigation. William couldn’t think of anyone more capable of distracting a man than Selena.
“And once I’ve picked his brain, then what?”
“Then you complete the job I’ve given you. When you’ve done that, you’re free to go back to Key West, to your home and your art.”
He delivered the lie so naturally. Did she suspect he would never let that happen? She was an intelligent woman, but she had a blind spot when it came to him. She’d been so very grateful for all he’d given her—not just the material things, but the affection. Security. Hope. A future. For years that gratitude had led her to ignore the true source of his income. It was only when she’d finished college, when he’d made the first of many job offers, that she’d been forced to face the truth.
Was she still wearing blinders? Still pretending he would honor his word and let her go? He liked to think she was, that she loved him enough to remain in denial, at least for a time. Soon enough, though, she would face facts.
Reaching across, he squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “Come now, Selena. Have you forgotten what I told you that night in Ocho Rios?”
I killed for you. Someday you may have to do the same for me.
“Of course I haven’t.”
“Did you think my words were meaningless? You know better. I don’t indulge in idle chatter. For fourteen years I’ve warned you that someday I would require repayment from you. An eye for an eye—isn’t that the way it goes?”
“You have other people who could do this.”
No, not this. Oh, Damon would be happy to—he’d already said as much—and naturally there were numerous people on his payroll who would carry out the task without a qualm. William could even handle it himself. He was no stranger to killing. Just as he’d given life, he’d also taken it. But he wanted this particular job done by this particular woman. Her compliance would be the one act that would damn Detective Ceola and forever seal her fate with his. It would forge a bond between them that could never be severed.
“I want you to do it, Selena. Besides . . .” He let his gaze slide from her face to the statue situated between them on the sofa table, let his fingers trail over the cool marble and the unyielding bronze in a languorous caress. “It’s not as if you haven’t killed before.”
It was past lunchtime on Wednesday, and Simmons wasn’t about to forget it. Just one more interview, Tony had promised, and then they could eat. Simmons was satisfied with that until they pulled into a parking space next to Mike Collins’s Crown Vic. “This is about that meth lab out on Coyote Road, isn’t it? Jesus, don’t we have enough to do without you goin’ out into the county and drummin’ up more ways to waste my time?”
Tony ignored him as he climbed out. The sheriff ’s detective was leaning against the front fender, mirrored glasses hiding his eyes, his expression impassive. He straightened, adjusted his jacket, then smoothed back his hair.
“Christ, it’s the freakin’ pretty boy,” Simmons jeered. “If Chee had told me it was you we were meeting, I’d’ve dressed for the occasion. That’s one fancy suit. They pay that much better over in the sheriff ’s department or are you on the take?”
“You know why they stuck you in Homicide, Frankie?” Collins responded. “Because it’s harder to piss off dead people . . . though if anyone could do it, it would be you.”
“What can I say? It’s a talent. What’re we doing here?”
Here was on East Pine, outside a bar that every cop working Uniform Division North got to know well. The month without a shooting or stabbing on the premises was rare. On more than a few occasions, they’d had both.
“Did you hear we got definite IDs on last night’s bodies?” Collins directed the question to Tony. “It was Dwayne Samuels’s operation. Lewis McElroy was his cousin and was in charge of security. Obviously, he did a piss-poor job of it. That leaves the chief cook and bottle washer. You familiar with Albert Spradlin?”
Both Tony and Simmons shook their heads. Collins smiled smugly. “You’re in for a treat. Albert’s better known as Bucky. Every day he stops in here for a drink before going to work. Since he’s out of a job at the moment, his usual one drink has likely turned into five or six.”
“Everyone mourns in his own way,” Simmons said.
Collins snorted. “Bucky doesn’t mourn people’s passing—he causes it. We’re pretty sure he’s responsible for at least a couple homicides, but we’ve never been able to make a case. People tend to clam up when you start asking questions about him.”
“Are they that loyal?” Tony asked. “Or that scared?”
“Wait till you see him. You’ll figure it out for yourself.” Collins crossed the uneven sidewalk to the door. Early in Tony’s career, there had been plate-glass windows across the front of the bar, painted black to match the door. After unruly patrons had thrown each other through the glass a few times, the owner had cinder-blocked the openings and opted for a heavy metal door. It had been dented, but so far it hadn’t broken.
As Collins reached to open the door with one hand, he removed a can of pepper
spray from his pocket with the other and gave it a good shake. Eyeing the canister suspiciously, Simmons blocked his way. “What else do we need to know about this guy?”
“Well . . . he did ten years down at McAlester.”
“For what?”
“Possession of crack cocaine with intent to distribute. Trafficking. Manufacture and possession of methamphetamines with intent to distribute. And, uh, a couple assaults.” He opened the door, stepped back so they could enter first, then stopped just inside. “There he is. Over by the bar.”
“Where?” Simmons squinted against the dim light. “All I see is—holy shit.”
Holy shit was right. Albert Spradlin stood at least six and a half feet tall, and probably tipped the scales somewhere around three-twenty. His hair hung in a brown, greasy ponytail, and at first glance it appeared he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. But the T-shirt was sleeveless, Tony saw on closer inspection. It was the tattoos covering Spradlin’s arms from shoulder to wrist that made it look otherwise.
“By the way,” Collins added, “those assaults were on the cops who arrested him. He put four of them in the hospital.”
Tony exchanged glances with Simmons before stating the obvious. “There’s only three of us.”
“Yeah, well, we’re just gonna talk to him, not arrest him. I figure he’ll be satisfied with cracking only one skull, and since Frankie’s is already empty . . .”
“Fuckin’ asshole’s gonna get us killed,” Simmons muttered as he straightened his shoulders. “Remember—I want to be cremated. Then sic Suz on this bastard.”
Like every other bar Tony had ever been in, this one was dimly lit, with smoky air and loud music. He had a bad feeling about this—a gut instinct that, as Collins had said, a skull or two might get cracked. He damn well didn’t want it to be his.
They separated, approaching the guy from different angles. Spradlin spotted Simmons first and straightened, adding another couple inches to his height. When his gaze shifted to Tony, he grinned, and an unholy gleam came into his eyes.
“Looks like he made us,” Simmons said from the opposite side of a table.
“You think?” As if the suits and ties weren’t enough to give them away, they were the only ones in the place who’d recently bathed and weren’t sporting prison tats out the ass.
Simmons pulled his badge from an inside coat pocket. “Albert Spradlin? Detectives Simmons, Ceola, and—”
For a big man, ol’ Albert could move. One instant he was standing there grinning, and the next he was smashing a chair over Simmons’s head. Before Tony could do more than think about reaching for his weapon, three-hundred-pounds-plus were flattening him into the floor. Spradlin bashed his head against the concrete twice before Tony managed to land a right jab that didn’t faze him. The big son of a bitch just shook it off, kept on grinning, and wrapped one hand around Tony’s throat as he landed a fist somewhere in the vicinity of his eye. Pain exploded and Tony’s vision went hazy, along with his hearing. There was cursing nearby—Simmons—and taunts and yells of encouragement from the other side of the room, all muted and distant.
Tony clawed at the hand that was cutting off his wind-pipe, but the bastard seemed oblivious to the pain. He managed to shove one knee into Spradlin’s balls, but all that did was make him grunt and squeeze even harder. “Collins,” he croaked. “Shoot this fucker!”
A baton cracked over the back of Spradlin’s head, and he reared back, easing his hold just enough that Tony could slide his hand into his jacket. When Spradlin looked back down, he found himself nose-to-nose with Tony’s .40, the hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger.
“Don’t fuck with me, Albert,” he said, his voice hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I’m having a really shitty week. Get the fuck off me now.”
Selena stood at the island in the kitchen, studying a Yellow Pages ad. She’d located a gym similar to Montoya’s, with equipment and/or partners for all her needs, including full-contact sparring. Now she was looking for a shooting range. In the past two years she hadn’t gone more than a week without a gun in her hand, until now. She felt the need to sight in on a silhouette target and blow the hell out of it—
The ring of the telephone broke the stillness and made her stiffen. It wasn’t William—he would call only on the cell phone. After three rings, she leaned across the counter to answer.
“Hi, is this Selena?” It was a woman’s voice, cheery and warm. “I’m calling from the emergency room at St. John. We have a patient here, Tony Ceola, who would like to ask—” A low murmur in the background interrupted her. When she continued, it was clear she was smiling. “Who would like to nicely ask you to pick him up and give him a ride home. I tried to convince him to wait until I get off in a couple hours, but . . . you know how men are.” She punctuated the words with a melodramatic sigh.
At the mention of the emergency room, Selena’s nerves had tightened and her fingers gripped the receiver hard—a natural response, she told herself, that had nothing to do with the fact that it involved Detective Ceola. She forced a deep breath to ease her lungs, to slow the sudden increase in her heart rate. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” Ms. Merry Sunshine hung up first. Selena slowly did the same.
Moving mechanically, she grabbed her purse from the living room and her keys from the crystal dish on the hall table. She had taken notice of the St. John Emergency Room on her daily runs. She knew the route well enough that she didn’t have to think about it. Unfortunately, that gave her the freedom to think about other things instead.
Such as what had happened to him. How seriously was he hurt? And why had he called her? He had parents, siblings, in-laws, uncles, the pretty little blonde, and the whole police department at his disposal. And yet he’d chosen her.
“Because you live next door,” she said aloud, injecting a scathing tone into her voice. “Because you’re five minutes from the hospital, and you don’t have a job or anything else that might make you unavailable.”
He’d called her for convenience’s sake. Expediency. Nothing more.
Though it would be nice to think it could be something more.
When she turned into the ER entrance, an ambulance was idling in front of the doors. A pretty brunette wearing surgical scrubs stood nearby, and next to her, in a wheelchair, was Detective Ceola. A dark line of sutures ran just above one eye and his face was bruised and swollen, but other than that, he appeared to be all right.
Even with the injuries, he looked amazingly good.
The knot in Selena’s gut suddenly dissolved. Relief that Ceola wasn’t badly hurt? Though if she had any sense, she would regret that whatever incident had brought him to the ER hadn’t also killed him. That would have taken her off the hook with William and she would have been free to go home, at least until the next problem arose.
The brunette wheeled the chair over to the T-bird, then gave Ceola more help than he needed as he climbed into the passenger seat. She leaned unnecessarily close to fasten his seat belt for him, before pressing a folded square of paper into his hand. “If you have any problems at all, Detective, just give us a call,” she said. Her beaming smile faded into cool politeness when her gaze connected with Selena’s.
What was on the paper? A prescription? Directions for aftercare? Or Merry Sunshine’s phone number?
Selena pulled onto Twenty-first Street and stopped at a red light before glancing at her passenger. The swelling around his eye made her wince in sympathy, an emotion she tried to keep under control as she dryly commented, “Looks like you didn’t duck in time.”
“It’s hard to duck when you have three-hundred-some pounds on top of you.”
“How did someone who weighs three-hundred-some pounds catch you to land on top of you? I’ve seen you run. You’re faster than that.”
“I had two guns, a canister of pepper spray, and two other detectives. I wasn’t expecting trouble.”
“That’s the first rule of living,” she said
. “ Always expect trouble.”
His head was tilted back against the headrest. He slowly rolled it to the side so he could see her. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you usually get it?”
She thought of her mother and stepfather, of the people they’d sold her to and the people they’d sold her to, of that Ocho Rios alley, of William and of Greg Marland, with whom her date two years ago had ended so disastrously, and felt the bitterness creep into her smile. “Often enough. Do you need to stop anywhere before we go home?”
“The drugstore, if you don’t mind. They gave me a prescription to get filled.” He glanced around, then looked chagrined. “There’s one back at Utica Square. Sorry. I should have said something . . .”
“Not a problem.” As they approached Woodward Park, she shifted into the right lane and swung the T-bird around in a tight U-turn.
Ceola closed his eyes—at least, the one that wasn’t already swollen shut. “Well, there’s a $117 fine,” he said under his breath.
“It’s okay. I know a cop,” she said, flashing a faint smile. A few minutes later she pulled into a parking space in front of the pharmacy. When he started to unbuckle his seat belt, she held out her hand. “I’ll get it.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You look like hell. Stay there, and I’ll get it.”
He made no effort to hide his relief as he handed over the slip—not the same one the brunette had given him— then sank down in the seat again. “Thanks. Let me give you some money—”
Without waiting, she grabbed her purse and headed into the drugstore. She dropped the prescription at the pharmacy, then gazed out the window. Ceola was slumped in the seat, eyes closed, one hand raised to shield his face from the sun. Between the weariness in the position and the Technicolor bruising, he looked vulnerable. He was vulnerable, more so than he’d ever imagined. He expected danger from the criminals he dealt with every day, but he didn’t have a clue that the biggest threat to his life right now was the woman he’d called when he needed help.
The Assassin Page 13
