by Simon Wood
“Four hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Instead of the one hundred thousand that you owe me, I will take that, and I’ll call it quits between us.”
She was going to tell him he was crazy again, but cut herself short. She’d worked it all out. It had always been about the money. Roy had intended to milk her for cash. She laughed and shook her head for her lack of foresight.
“What?” he asked.
“Infidelity Limited has never been about setting scores and killing people. It’s just an extortion racket.”
“It’s many things. Money is just one element.”
Bullshit, she thought.
“I would like the money in a week. Less would be better. I’d like to conclude our association as soon as humanly possible.”
Richard’s insurance money meant little to her. They’d taken out policies to cover the mortgage should one of them die, but she didn’t need the insurance to cover the mortgage. Her job more than covered it. But the idea of handing the money to Roy made her sick. “What if I don’t pay? You don’t have a hold over me. The cops have the tire iron, but they can’t tie it to me. There’s no incentive for me to pay.”
Roy smiled again. “I’ll be honest; I underestimated you, but I caution you not to underestimate me. The tire iron is only one item at my disposal. You’re forgetting Heather’s and Amy’s deaths.”
Her stomach tightened. “There’s nothing connecting me to them. I made sure of it.”
Roy’s smile turned into a smirk. “Really? Nothing?”
She and Andrew had been careful. They hadn’t left a trace of themselves at the beach house. She replayed everything in her mind and couldn’t see a mistake. Even if they’d left a strand of hair or a fingerprint, the police had no way of tracing it back to her. She wasn’t in any database.
“No,” she said, injecting as much confidence into her answer as possible.
“Bet you never found a murder weapon at the house, did you?”
She tasted bile at the back of her throat.
“Have you checked your knife block in your kitchen lately?” Roy turned from her and headed back to Dolores. “Take her back. We’re done.”
Roy’s warning had come true. She had underestimated him, and now she was cornered.
“Call me when you have the money, Olivia.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Olivia barreled along the winding road. She had to get home. The Audi held the road as best it could with the space-saver wheel on the front. With only half the width of the rest of the wheels, it wanted to wash out on the left-hand turns, but the car’s fancy electronics and four-wheel drive kept her on the road.
At least Infidelity Limited hadn’t left her stranded. When Dolores dragged her from the van and tossed her to the ground, her car had four fully functioning wheels. She guessed she had her ski-masked friend to thank for that.
Once she left the rural roads behind and picked up the freeway, traffic and the threat of picking up a ticket slowed her. She couldn’t afford unnecessary police attention.
She called Andrew and briefly told him what had happened. He was at his job site, but he agreed to meet her at her house as soon as possible so they could go over the details.
Finally, she made it home. This time, Finz and company weren’t lining the street outside her house. She turned into her garage and stopped just short of slamming the car into the wall.
Inside the house, she went straight to the kitchen. The six-inch chef’s knife was missing from the knife block.
Was it though? With everything that had happened in recent weeks, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d used it. At the wake? Last night? She just didn’t know.
Just because it wasn’t in the knife block didn’t mean Roy had taken it. It might be wishful thinking, but she had to be sure. Roy’s job, like all terrorists, was to leave her doubting her safety and fearing the what-if. She had to know fact from fiction.
She went through the dishwasher and the kitchen, then the house. The knife was gone.
Panic rose within her. Its rising tide threatened to overwhelm her, but she calmed herself with one thought—the knife meant nothing. Whoever was investigating Heather’s and Amy’s deaths would have no reason to connect them to Olivia. Roy had to have something else to connect her to the knife. He would though. He always did.
All she could do was protect herself. She’d dump the knives and buy another set. If anyone came asking about the knives, she’d tell them she sold them in a yard sale or gave them to Goodwill. Reasonable doubt was her only friend.
Again, Roy could put her in the crosshairs of a police investigation, but he’d need to leave her room to duck out of its way if he expected her to pay.
She dug out the life insurance paperwork she’d left in her home office. She sat behind the desk and called the number. She jumped through all the automated-phone-line selections before finally reaching a human being.
“I’d like to check on the status of a life insurance policy claim,” she said.
“Do you have the policy number?” the claims agent asked.
She provided the information and answered a bunch of security questions.
“I have all the details here, and . . . and . . . can I put you on hold for a second?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Just have to put you on hold while I check something. I won’t be a minute.”
He was right. He wasn’t a minute. He was ten, and she was forced to listen to hold music punctuated by factoids about the insurance company. Just as the message was in the middle of congratulating the company for its responsiveness, someone came back on the line.
“Mrs. Shaw, I’m Rick Casey.”
This was a different person than she’d just been talking to. Something was wrong.
“I work in the investigations department for life insurance policies, and I have to inform you that your claim is on hold.”
Olivia’s stomach clenched. “Why?”
“Because your husband was the victim of homicide and the case is open with no suspect under arrest.”
This couldn’t be right. “Is this normal procedure?”
“I can assure you it is.”
She couldn’t imagine it was. There were hundreds of murders in California alone, and it couldn’t be normal for insurance companies to withhold payment. What would happen in all the cold cases? “This doesn’t feel right. I would like to speak to a supervisor.”
An awkward note entered Casey’s voice. “In cases of unnatural death, holding a claim is a matter of course when one of the beneficiaries is a suspect in the death.”
She was the only beneficiary on Richard’s life insurance. She guessed Casey was either being polite or fearful he was talking to a potential murderer. She imagined the little ripple of excitement and fear that ran through the call center when they realized a murder suspect was calling about his or her payout. Either way, Casey deserved to be commended on his diplomacy.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Shaw. I can only imagine how distressing this must be. I hope matters will be cleared up soon.”
“Thank you,” she said.
This was Finz’s doing. He was squeezing her, hoping to break her. Unbeknownst to him, this single act to block her life insurance payout would set off a chain of events with Roy that would get Finz the arrest he so dearly wanted. She needed that insurance money to pay Roy. As soon as she told Roy she didn’t have the cash, he’d sell her out. Infidelity Limited wasn’t a patient organization. They were a slash-and-burn outfit; they’d get what they could and burn what was left. She’d given them nothing. Burning her and disappearing in the smoke was their only course of action.
The doorbell rang. She answered it.
“You okay?” Andrew asked, his face a mask of concern.
She let him in, but he kept looking at her. She’d forgotten her appearance. Her jeans and top were covered in dirt from where she’d been tossed around. The right shoulder of her top w
as torn.
“Let me see where they kicked you.”
“It’s okay.”
“You might have internal bleeding. We need to check.”
His concern warmed and comforted her. He reached in to lift her top so he could examine her bruises. She grabbed his wrists to stop him.
“It can wait,” she said. “I have bigger problems. Roy killed Heather and Amy with a chef’s knife from my kitchen. He’s demanded Richard’s life insurance payout, all four hundred and fifty thousand of it, but there’s a problem. The payout is on hold because I’m a suspect in Richard’s murder. I’m sure Finz put that thought in their heads. I’m done. They’ve got me. It’s over.”
She broke down. The tears came fast and seemingly without end. She hated herself for crying. She was the one who kept it together for everyone else’s sake, but Roy had beaten her down, and she just couldn’t do it anymore.
Andrew pulled her to him. He enveloped her with his broad chest and strong arms. It was nice to have someone else to hold her up instead of having to do it all herself.
“It’s not over,” he told her.
“It is. You should distance yourself from me now. It’ll all happen fast once Roy finds out I don’t have the money.”
“You have the money.”
She pulled away from him. “What?”
“The money from the San Pablo house sale will cover it.”
She backed away from him, shaking her head. “No, I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you give me all your money.”
“I’m not giving it to you. I’m loaning it to you.”
“How can you loan it to me? There’s no guarantee the insurance company will pay me.”
He crossed over to her and took her hands. “They will.”
“And you’re forgetting that as soon as I pay Roy, he’ll sell me out the same way he sold out Karen Innes. It’s better for me not to pay. That way I’ll screw him out of his money.”
Andrew shook his head. “You’re going to tell that son of a bitch you have his money, and when we pay him, we’re going to take that son of a bitch and all his cronies down at the same time.”
“You think we can do it?”
“I know we can. You okay with that?”
“I am more than okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It was happening, a streak. Clare hated to think of the word, in case it jinxed things, but it was what it was—a goddamn streak. She was up four grand in two hours of playing blackjack and estimated she was winning two hands for every one she lost. She was considering upping her fifty-dollar hands to a hundred, but a cautious voice inside her head whispered, “Don’t blow it.” She wanted to agree with the voice, but when luck was on your side, you rode that pony until it died under you.
Her luck had attracted attention. A dozen or so people had gathered around her table just to watch, as if her luck would rub off on them. She’d witnessed this phenomenon before, but she’d never had it happen to her.
An Asian woman dressed in a Cache Creek blazer slipped between the gawkers and leaned in close to Clare. “Hi, my name’s Melinda, and I’m from hospitality. As a token of our appreciation, we’d like to present you with a complimentary gift certificate for a night’s stay here at the casino.”
Clare wanted to know where their appreciation had been all the times she’d lost money here. She never understood why casinos showered winners with gifts. Winners didn’t need an incentive to stay. Losers did. She knew what the casino was up to, and it had nothing to do with appreciation. All casinos employed the tactic of gifting hotel rooms, meals, and other VIP trinkets for one simple reason—to keep the gambler in the casino long enough to lose the money back.
She accepted the superficial gesture and took the gift certificate with a small round of applause from the peanut gallery. Melinda left as silently as she’d arrived.
She thought it was interesting that during their token-of-appreciation ceremony, the pit boss had switched out the dealer for Chuck, along with a new shoe of cards. Her streak was making them nervous. And that made her nervous. They were watching her. She just wanted to win, win big if possible, and get out before anything could screw it up for her.
“You’re riding a wave tonight, Clare,” Chuck said. “Let’s see how I can continue that wave.”
“That would be nice.”
“What happened to the hand?”
She examined the finger Gault had broken, now splinted to her ring finger. “Officially, an on-the-job accident.”
“Unofficially?”
She winked. “It’s my lucky charm.”
He wished everyone good luck and dealt a hand to the players. Clare checked her cards, smiled, and flipped over a blackjack to a cheer.
“Can we all get one of those next time around?” the guy sitting next to Clare said affably.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Chuck said.
Clare’s smile dropped when she spotted Gault eyeballing her from a three-card poker table. She knew what he was thinking. He was getting paid tonight. And she could make it happen. If she walked away from the table now, she could pay him back, interest and all, and still have money left over. While that no doubt sounded good to Gault, it didn’t to her. Tonight was her night to get ahead. If she could keep the streak going, she could walk away with enough to not only pay off Gault but also, for the first time in as long as she could remember, have a bankroll to cover her bills, upgrade from the Honda, or move out of the trailer. She knew she was getting a little ahead of herself, but she had to dream. She bottled the dream for the moment, blocked out Gault, and focused on the cards. She had to play smart. She had to play like a winner.
She upped her bets to a hundred bucks a hand and was rewarded for her audacity. She played a consistent strategy and did not get carried away. Her winnings swelled to ten grand by eleven thirty, even after the cards turned a little cool on her. When they warmed up again, she upped her bets to $125, then $150.
Clare kept on winning and enjoyed the attention that came with it. Every time she won, people cheered and chanted her name. She loved the adulation, but she didn’t let it distract her. It became obvious to a few players that this was her table tonight, and they switched to greener pastures.
When Clare reached the twelve-grand stage, Melinda dropped by to tell Clare dinner at their steak house was on her. While dinner sounded good and she was in desperate need of a pee, she couldn’t leave the table. There was no way she was going to abandon this streak of hot cards, and on top of that, Gault was still watching her. He hadn’t moved from his table. She’d noticed him paying more attention to her than to his own cards. The second she moved from the table, he’d be on her to grab his cut.
So Clare was faced with a dilemma—when to walk away? How much was enough? She was twelve grand to the good. That was the biggest haul she’d ever pulled at a table. Twelve grand was life changing for her, but she wasn’t losing. She could feel there was more money at this table. She made a bargain with herself. If she crashed back down to $10,000, she was walking away. If she didn’t, she’d keep going and adjust her “pull the pin” number.
Her luck turned at two in the morning. At one point, she’d gotten to the heady height of twenty-three grand, but her stack had shrunk to the $20,000 mark. It was time to go.
Her supporters had dwindled to a small but dedicated twosome. They moaned when she pushed her seat away from the table.
“Sorry, that’s it for me.”
She felt the heat of Gault’s gaze on her back. He’d switched from three card to the slots. She didn’t want to deal with him tonight, not when she had this much money.
Melinda appeared as soon as Clare called it quits. “It’s late, and you must be tired. Can I get you a room?”
“No, I’d like to cash out. Could I get a security escort?”
“Certainly.”
While Melinda put in a call, Clare passed a $100 chip to the dealer. She’d tipped every dealer who’d worked
her table.
Two monster guys who stretched their suits to the bursting point arrived. Melinda led the way to the cashier’s cage. The bouncers walked on either side of Clare.
Gault jumped up from his seat, but all he could do was follow. Clare felt safe. She knew he couldn’t chance anything in the casino. Outside was a different matter.
Thinking of the outside world, with all its problems, killed this moment of joy. Protection and safety ended the second she stepped outside the building. Roy was out there, but Finz worried her more than Roy and Gault put together. She couldn’t believe the son of a bitch had ratted her out to Olivia. What part of “confidential informant” didn’t he understand? The cop didn’t care though. He was closing in on Olivia and was all about doing what he had to do to make an arrest. And if he took Olivia in, he’d take her in too. She felt it as strongly as she’d felt the cards were on her side tonight.
Clare eyed the stack of chips in Melinda’s hands. She saw a clean slate where fresh options were open to her. But those options would only last as long as she stayed out of Finz’s grasp. Twenty grand and change wasn’t much, but it was enough to reinvent herself. With it she could disappear to a different part of the country and reemerge with a different name. Just the thought of starting over without the lead weights she’d accumulated throughout her life filled her with hope, which was something she hadn’t felt in years.
She glanced back at Gault, waiting in the wings. She could square her debt with him, but it would cut into her escape money. As much as she should, she wouldn’t. She’d just have to owe him.
They reached the cage. Melinda slid Clare’s chips over to the cashier.
“Is a cashier’s check okay?” Melinda’s question sounded more like an assertion.
If she was going to run, a check was no good. “No, I’d prefer cash.”
Melinda frowned. “A check would be safer.”
“But cash is more convenient.”
Melinda nodded to the cashier, and they all watched him count the money in hundreds. He inserted the thick wad of bills into an envelope, then sealed it and handed it to Clare.
