Twisted Justice

by Patricia Gussin

  “Listen, I can clear this up. I just spoke to Carrie Diamond, the lady who just left with her daughter. I know that you’re here protecting a child. I know that Chuck Dimer hired you. He’s working with my fiancé, Greg Klingman.”

  She must have sounded credible, because the man holstered his weapon as soon as he’d scrutinized her driver’s license.

  Celeste read the embroidered insignia on his cream-colored golf shirt: D. J. SECURITY SERVICES.

  “Okay, ma’am, why don’t you come in?” he said, opening the door between the foyer and living room. “Name’s Regis Adamsky.” Inside suitcases in various stages of packing were strewn about. “We were just getting ready to leave.”

  “Yes, I think you should leave, but —”

  “Tried to get in touch with Mr. Dimer,” the security guy interrupted. “Let him know about the couple that just came and took their little girl. I was supposed to protect them both, but I couldn’t stop that mother. I hope I didn’t fuck — oh, I’m real sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean for that to slip out.”

  “Hurry up, Dirk,” Celeste heard a woman’s voice call from the master bedroom.

  “Let’s think this though, Sally,” a man’s voice. Must be Mr. Palmer, Celeste figured. “Carrie Diamond didn’t say anything specific, and I don’t think Don even wanted to take Elizabeth. Nobody knows where we are. That was the deal. And with this Regis guy here —”

  “I wish he wouldn’t keep that gun in plain sight. It frightens me,” the woman’s voice said.

  Celeste’s eyes flew to the bulging holster on the security guy’s hip and she cringed, wondering if he’d ever had to use it.

  “Let me help you, missy,” Adamsky said, stepping forward.

  Celeste turned to see a little girl in pigtails hauling a canvas suitcase out of the guest bedroom.

  The big blonde man rushed to help her, and the child rewarded him with a generous smile. The little girl then looked expectantly at Celeste. Remembering that she was deaf, Celeste waved to her and smiled encouragingly, not knowing what else to do or say.

  Adamsky set the suitcase down by the elevator, before grabbing a blue blazer and slipping it on. “Why are you here, ma’am?”

  “Mr. Adamsky, I’m glad you’re leaving,” Celeste said, still fretting about how to communicate with the child. “Listen, I think that Carrie Diamond was followed out here. You see, she came to my house. I live in the Carrollwood section of Tampa. There was a car outside my house — dark blue Mercury, heavily tinted windows. And that same car, I’m pretty sure, is out there.” She pointed out the window toward the parking lot.

  “Holy shit,” Adamsky’s face turned red. “Holy shit. Followed? All the way from Tampa? You sure?”

  “Quite sure,” Celeste said. “That’s why I came here. To warn the Palmers.”

  “Man, I gotta get them outta here,” Adamsky ran both hands through his already ruffled hair. “But how? To where? Shit, I gotta try Dimer again.”

  “Somebody followed Carrie? Is that what you said?” asked a middle-aged man, tanned with wavy brown hair, and startling blue eyes. He’d emerged from the master bedroom with a querulous expression and his hand thrust forward. “By the way, I’m Dirk Palmer. You are?”

  “I’m Celeste Marin, and yes, I think so,” Celeste said, reaching to shake his hand.

  “Let’s go then,” he directed Regis, who was still on the phone, looking like he was on hold.

  “Sally, you gotta get a move on,” he shouted toward the master suite.

  “Miss Marin owns this condo,” Regis said as soon as he’d disconnected the call.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Palmer.

  “I talked to Tracy Epstein at the Dimer Agency,” Adamsky reported with authority. “She said to hold tight. She’s trying to locate Mr. Dimer.”

  By now the pretty little girl had sidled up to her dad, her smile transformed to a worried frown.

  “Miss Marin,” he said, using his hands in sign language. “I want you to meet my daughter, Molly.”

  Celeste held out her hand toward Molly who smiled again.

  “And Molly, this is Miss Marin. This is her condo.”

  Molly responded, enthusiastically communicating with both hands.

  “She says she loves it. Wants to stay longer. Wants us to let her go swimming in the pool and in the ocean.”

  “Please tell her, when all this is over, I’d love for her to come and stay and do all that.”

  Dirk did, and the little girl grinned shyly.

  “Who are you talking to, Dirk?” the same woman’s voice.

  “Come out here, Sally. Celeste Marin is here. She owns this condo. She —”

  “In a minute, I’m almost done packing.”

  “I’m going to start hauling this stuff to the car.” Dirk picked up a suitcase in each hand.

  “Not yet,” Adamsky put up his hand. “I’m waiting for instructions.”

  Palmer faced Adamsky, “You mean they told you to just wait here? After what this lady just told us? Somebody followed the Diamonds all the way from Tampa, and we’re supposed to sit tight?”

  From the backseat of his car, Manny watched as the dark-haired lady entered the lobby, nodding to the concierge with obvious familiarity. It was the lady from Carrollwood, the one Diamond went to see this morning. With his binoculars, he saw that she headed for the bank of elevators marked “8.” Inserting her key, she pushed a button. “Third floor,” he muttered. “Gettin’ lotsa traffic up there. Gotta move fast.”

  He reached into a container and extracted a packet of oiled rags and his stash of miniexplosives, the type that went boom when detonated, but did very little physical damage. Having already pulled on a pizza delivery uniform, he strode toward the lobby, carrying a pizza warming box in which he’d carefully placed the inflammables.

  A sole white-haired man decked in golf gear stood in the spacious lobby, soon disappearing into another elevator. It was now up to Manny to distract the concierge long enough so he could settle in without being seen. From the pay phone outside, he placed an anonymous call — a concerned guest reporting a toddler wandering alone out by the pool in the back, precariously close to the edge. It was five after six now, and Manny watched as the overweight, frizzy-haired concierge abruptly pushed back from her desk and waddled toward the door at the rear of the lobby.

  Heavy brocade drapes in rich greens and yellows flanked the tall windows adjacent to the banks of elevators. Using them as cover, Manny easily maneuvered himself over by the stairwell near elevator “8.” The drapery would make the perfect start for a smoldering fire, which he planned to light just as the concierge returned to her desk. This would attract her attention, and when she panicked, she’d start fumbling to find the right emergency number, which would give him time to get to the stairwell the Palmers would have to climb down during the building evacuation. Amid all the confusion and chaos, he’d simply take out the kid from his spot on the landing. Short range; silencer attached to the 9-mm Sig Sauer. The emerging residents would provide him the cover he’d need to escape through the lobby. The parents and that dark-haired lady would be distracted by the fallen kid long enough for him to sprint the few yards to his car. He’d be out of there before the firemen or cops even reached the scene.

  Yeah, that was a plan.

  As Manny struck a match to an oiled rag, the draperies by the window went up in smoking flames faster than he’d dared hope. He slid the pizza box beneath one of the lobby’s many armchairs on the other side of the room. The fire spread fast engulfing a pair of overstuffed chairs. He was already under the staircase when the concierge sounded the building’s main fire alarm. He knew the automatic sprinkler would soon quell the flames but with the miniexplosives he could detonate from a remote position, there’d be a full evacuation. All he had to do now was wait for the kid to come down these steps.

  Within seconds, he heard anxious voices above, then footsteps in the stairwell. An old guy and lady came rushing down from a se
cond floor unit. Manny moved fast and stood on the lower landing, still in his pizza man uniform, motioning them down.

  “Bless you,” the lady said, “but you better evacuate the building too.”

  As they fled, Manny pushed the button of the device strapped to his wrist. A loud, yet harmless, explosion filled the lobby. Silent and motionless, Manny waited under the stairwell as voices above him spoke in urgent tones. If only the kid would be the first down, but he knew they’d never let her take the lead. Didn’t matter, he had a perfect ambush position, and an easy escape route.

  The Carrollwood lady was first. He peered up and saw how she kept looking up above her. Who the hell was she anyway? What did she know?

  “Just one more floor,” she shouted over the deafening blare of the fire alarm.

  Manny soon saw a man approaching about half a staircase behind the dark-haired lady, a big blonde guy in a blue blazer with some kind of a logo and tan slacks. The target’s father? Then the big guy turned around and picked up the kid with the pigtails.

  Manny snorted with frustration. The guy was fucking up his shot.

  Another guy and lady then appeared, fully one stair landing behind, the guy now carrying the kid. Each was struggling with a large hard-shell suitcase. Was that the mother? But who was the extra guy? Manny crouched, cautiously training his weapon on the guy now moving faster since he’d picked up the kid. Focus on the shot, Manny reminded himself. Don’t matter who that second guy is. Might have to get two shots off in a big hurry — one for the kid, one for the big bastard carryin’ her.

  “This way!” the Carrollwood lady called again as she reached the bottom step. Then out of the corner of his eye, Manny saw the woman turn around. Obviously she would see him, gun in hand, aiming up the stairs. There was no time. Keeping his Sig trained on the target’s back, he lined up a clear shot through the lungs to the heart. At that instant, the blonde hunk abruptly shifted the kid from his shoulder and cradled her in his arms.

  “He has a gun!” the lady from Carrollwood yelled. “Get down!”

  “Molly!” the mother screamed as she dropped the heavy suitcase. It came toppling down the stairs, glancing off the top of the head of the hefty guy who now lay on top of Molly. Rushing headlong, the mother landed spread-eagle on top of the security agent. The other man, slighter and older than the one carrying the kid, still weighted down by luggage, slipped and landed on top of the mother. Molly now lay buried — protected — by the three adults.

  “Get up,” the hefty guy grunted as he squirmed to extract himself from the weight of the two Palmers.

  “Don’t leave,” screamed the mother as the big man struggled out from under the pile. “Stay with Molly! You were hired to protect her!”

  He stood up and pulled out a shiny silver gun.

  Manny waited under the stairwell. So the big hunk was a bodyguard. Figured. Shoulda factored that in earlier. The lady who had seen him and screamed had disappeared beyond the lobby door and for a moment he considered his options. Go up and kill all four of them? Wait for them to come down and go for the kid? Or just get the fuck out of there? Then he heard steps again from above. Cautiously, he peered up to see the bodyguard descending, his arms outstretched, holding a forty-five like he knew how to use it.

  Manny leapt up, deciding on the “get the hell out of there” option. As he pushed through the door to the lobby, he heard a shaky female voice.

  “Stop there!”

  Manny glanced around. The lobby seemed deserted, but it was difficult to be sure through all the smoke. The draperies by the windows still smoldered, and the foul odor of the stagnant water from the sprinkler system that had left the lobby drenched was nauseating. Smoke irritated his eyes, and he hesitated, still gripping the Sig in his right hand at waist level.

  The woman repeated the warning. “Stop!”

  Then the door from the stairwell flew open. There was a “crack” as the heavy door struck Manny’s right hand hard, knocking his gun onto the lobby’s wet marble floor.

  The Sig skidded across the floor, and Manny launched himself sideways toward Celeste as she emerged. She’d hesitated too long, not pulling the trigger of the Beretta she held shakily in her hand.

  Manny flung himself at Celeste and in one smooth action, spun her around, securely pinning her in front of him as he wrenched the Beretta away. With the barrel of her own small weapon pressed against Celeste’s temple, Manny turned to face the big bodyguard who’d crashed through the lobby door.

  “Drop it now,” he rasped at the startled agent. Quickly, Manny calculated his options. Right now his only thought was to just get out. Every fraction of a second threatened his escape. Any minute now, firemen and cops would be all over. The fire alarms still screeched.

  Forget the kid. He could use the lady as a shield. Maybe shoot her depending on what went down at the car. If not, take her out later. But he really did need to get to his Sig, concerned that it could be traced to previous hits. He loved that weapon, and superstitiously used it almost exclusively, against his professional judgment.

  “Do it now,” Manny said as the bodyguard let his forty-five drop slowly onto the marble floor.

  Still holding Celeste securely in front of him with one arm and her Beretta in his other hand, Manny kicked the shiny forty-five to a corner of the lobby.

  “Okay, lady,” he shouted in Celeste’s ear as he quickly prodded her to where his Sig lay, “pick it up!” He nudged the barrel of the Beretta against her head as he loosened his hold on her so she could bend down and put the weapon in his left hand. “Hand it to me real careful.”

  Celeste bent down and lifted the gun from the wet floor. As if in slow motion, the weapon sailed through the air in the direction of the hunk in the blue blazer.

  The startled security guard caught the gun and fumbled with the silencer to adjust it in his hand.

  Still holding Celeste in front of him, Manny cursed and swung Celeste’s Beretta, aiming at the exposed chest of the guard. He pulled the trigger. An unimpressive click. The security guard then aimed the Sig at Manny who’d pulled Celeste even closer to shield his torso.

  “Motherfucker!” Manny spat before firing once again with the same impotent result. Tightening his hold on Celeste, he turned sideways, placing her between him and the guard. “Let’s go, bitch!” he shouted over the scream of the alarm system.

  There was a muffled “pop” and Celeste sunk like a dead-weight through Manny’s arms. He dropped her on the spot and sprinted out of the lobby to the exit, waving Celeste’s pistol as he went through the door. Two unlucky misfires from the bitch’s gun or an empty chamber? Manny struggled to think. Could he shoot his way outta here? Play innocent with an unloaded gun? Hell, he hadn’t even fired. Too fucking late.

  Sirens and flashing red lights were converging from every direction, cops crawlin’ out of everywhere. On the ground, cuffed and surrounded by more cops than he could count, he heard the surly voice of authority read him his rights as the dark-haired lady lay motionless on the lobby’s pinkish marble floor.

  He cursed himself — and Frank Santiago.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “You’re right, Chuck,” Laura jumped at Chuck’s suggestion, “let’s just go get them!”

  “I don’t think airport security will stop us as long as we have their mother here, Chuck,” Greg offered. “Might be another story if it were just you and I. Good thing you came, Laura.”

  “Sshh,” said Chuck. “Did you hear that?”

  “Paging Mr. Greg Klingman.” A woman’s voice emanated from the public address system. “Paging Mr. Greg Klingman. Please go to the nearest airport phone.”

  “What the —?”

  “Gotta be important if they tracked you here,” said Chuck with a frown. “Hopefully it didn’t register with Nelson.”

  Greg loped toward the nearest phone. Chuck’s eyes roamed the vicinity, constantly returning to Steve as he surmised that he’d heard the page when he turned back for a pro
longed, very deliberate look at his sons. With a distraught look on his face, he appeared to say something loud enough to attract the attention of the woman ahead of him in line, who turned in obvious agitation.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What the hell is going on? That guy with the ponytail’s been up there for ten minutes,” Steve growled. He’d been sweating nonstop since Lopez dropped him off at the airport entrance.

  She nodded. “I know. I don’t know why it’s taking so long to check in.”

  There were still six people ahead of him. And what about that page? He listened for it again. Greg Klingman? Could that be the same Klingman from that damn Tampa law firm? At this point it didn’t matter, he needed to get through the line pronto, stay clear of Santiago, and find an out-of-the-way place to wait with the boys until the flight boarded. How in the hell did that damn law firm find out he was here? He needed time to process what Lopez had told him. Could it be bullshit or did they have enough to charge him with Kim’s murder? Could Lopez make it stick? What awful shame he’d suffer if the world found out he’d let Laura go down the way he had. Fuck, the whole world was caving in on him, and all he wanted now was a new life with Mike and Kevin. Steve’s eyes darted around as he stood helplessly in line. He had to cut forward in line fast, but how?

  And how had it happened, how had he shot Kim that night? She was so scared when he got there, asking him to show her how to use that thirty-eight. When he started to, the damn thing just went off. Kim went down. He’d wiped any prints off the gun with his shirt and fled out the back door. Then to his horror, the police found Laura there and blamed her. What could he do? There was no going back, not now, not ever. He had to get on that plane. Lopez was right — it was a mistake, an accident.

  An accident.

  It took a few minutes to find a phone. It was now 6:43 p.m. and Greg had to move fast. Anything could happen — this was Laura’s window to get her boys back.

  “Greg, it’s Rob,” said the excited voice as soon as Greg picked up the page. “You need to know what’s happened. Is Chuck with you?”