by Unknown
“I’m okay,” Phoebe said, although when Dunn shot her an odd look, she was suddenly acutely aware that she was standing there, still dripping wet, in little more than her pants and bra.
He was soaked, too, but when he took a towel from a pile that sat, neatly folded, on those vast and cluttered shelves, he handed it to her before taking one for himself. “Your leg,” he said, and she realized that she was, absolutely, bleeding, too. She’d torn her pants and scraped her knee at some point, but it wasn’t that bad. And if that was the worst of it …
It occurred to her that Martell had been dead right—that releasing Ian Dunn from prison would send the Dellarosas after him. How had he put it? Guns blazing.
“My biggest concern is, What happens now?” Phoebe asked as she dried her face, her glasses, and her hair as best she could, before draping the towel—whoops, now streaked with the remains of her mascara—around her shoulders as a pseudo-shirt. “All over this neighborhood, people are calling nine-one-one, reporting shots fired. What do we do when the police arrive?”
“Motherfucker!” The computer screen had flickered to life, and whatever Aaron saw there wasn’t good.
Phoebe stepped over to look, and it was obvious, with just once glance, that his security setup was not only high-tech but also extremely well conceived, with feeds coming in from nine different cameras—the big screen partitioned into nine separate high-def rectangles.
Four of the cameras were positioned around the outside of the house. Three covered the home’s interior—inside the front door, in the kitchen facing the back sliders, and the last in what looked like an upstairs hallway. The final two screens showed a video feed that had been hijacked—somehow—from two county traffic cameras. One was at Clark and Beneva, the other at an intersection that Phoebe didn’t recognize.
But it was the exterior camera that was up on the roof of the house that had caught Aaron’s grim attention. It was positioned so that it revealed the street back behind the pool deck of his lovely home.
“God damn it,” Dunn said as he, too, moved closer to the monitor. “I thought Shelly was smarter than you.”
Most of the shooters were already zooming away from the attack in a variety of vehicles—with that amount of gunfire, the police had to already be on their way. But one car—a large black sedan—had stopped on that street within view of the roof cam.
“No, no, no no no no no!” Aaron said as, on the computer monitor, a heavy-set, balding, dark-suited man climbed out of the stopped car.
Phoebe then saw that three men were approaching the heavy-set man. Two of them were oddly golf-ready, wearing plaid shorts and polo shirts—as if they’d been called away from a game—but the third wore khaki pants, a shirt, and a tie, his dark brown hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. Khaki was being tightly held by the two golfers, and even though he struggled, he couldn’t get away from them as they dragged him over to Heavy-Set.
“Berto’s not going to hurt him. Not badly.” Dunn’s words were quick and his voice was low, and Phoebe saw that he was holding Aaron tightly, pinning him in place—as if to keep him from leaving the safety of this little room.
What was that about? Was Berto—as in Dellarosa—the name of the heavy-set man? And what did any of this have to do with Shelly? What was Phoebe missing here?
On the video monitor, Heavy-Set opened the trunk of his car. His movements were jerky and even though Phoebe couldn’t hear him, she could see that when he spoke, his words were angry.
Khaki, still held by Golfers One and Two, stopped struggling and stood taller as he faced Heavy-Set, defiantly lifting his chin—and it was quite the chin, in a movie-star handsome face.
“He will kill you, though. You go out there, Aaron,” Dunn was saying as he continued to hold on to his brother, “you’re not only dead, but Shelly will be forced to watch you die. Don’t do that to him.”
Phoebe looked back at the screen in surprise, and the words left her lips before she could stop herself. “Shelly’s a …?” Man, she was about to say.
Spouse.
It was beyond obvious that Aaron’s spouse, Shelly, was the handsome, khaki-clad man who was now being punched hard in the stomach by Heavy-Set, who really put his substantial heft into the blow.
Aaron made a sound as if he himself had just gotten hit as Shelly doubled over.
“That’s Berto, crazy Davio’s oldest son,” Dunn confirmed as he pointed to the screen, tapping the image of Heavy-Set for Phoebe’s benefit, before telling Aaron, “Manny’s in the hospital right here in Sarasota. He was in town, having lunch. He had a heart attack.”
The fact that mob boss Manny Dellarosa had had a heart attack was news to Phoebe, although Dunn had probably found that out during one of the calls he’d made with her phone. How bad is he? His words now made sense.
“I don’t know what his condition is,” Dunn told his brother. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if Davio’s moving into place for a power grab. If that’s the case, in the fight between his father and his uncle Manny, I honestly have no idea where Berto’s gonna land.”
As they watched, Berto reached out and seemed to touch Shelly, almost gently, on the side of the head.
But as Aaron whispered, “I’m going to kill him,” Phoebe saw a flash of glare on metal and as Shelly slumped, clearly unconscious, she realized that Berto had hit Shelly in the head with a gun.
As they watched, Golfers One and Two unceremoniously loaded Shelly into the trunk of Berto’s car, closing it tightly.
“Yeah, I think this time I just might let you,” Dunn told his brother almost matter-of-factly, as Berto Dellarosa and his two plaid-wearing underlings hustled back into the sedan and pulled away. “But not right now. Davio’s gunning for you. You leave this room, you’ll be killed, and that won’t help Shel. You know that, D.A. So instead, we’re gonna wait, we’re going to find out where they’re taking him, and then we’re gonna get him back. Berto’s not going to kill Shelly. You know he’s not going to kill him.”
On a different camera feed, Phoebe saw a fleet of police cars and a SWAT truck speeding through the intersection of Clark and Beneva. She couldn’t hear the bevy of sirens through the solid walls of the panic room, but there was no doubt about it, Sarasota’s finest were on their way.
“Berto’s not going to kill Shel,” Dunn said again.
Phoebe looked at Dunn, and she didn’t want to contradict him or even question him because his steady stream of words were clearly calming Aaron down. Still, she had no idea how he could be so convinced that “crazy” Davio Dellarosa’s son Berto wouldn’t do some serious damage to Aaron’s spouse.
Dunn met her eyes. He clearly knew what she was thinking, because he said, “Aaron met Shel—Sheldon—at school, when they were both kids. It was a private high school. D.A. went there on scholarship while I was in the Navy. After Shelly graduated, he enlisted in the Marines, mostly to follow Aaron, but partly to get away from home, because there was a shit-ton of pressure to join the family business.”
“Oh, no,” Phoebe said, knowing exactly where he was going.
Dunn nodded and said it anyway. “Oh, yeah. Shel’s last name? Dellarosa. Berto is Shel’s brother. Davio’s their father.”
And there it was. The final puzzle piece. It explained the connection between Dunn and the Dellarosas, and was the reason why Ian Dunn had gone to work for Manny—gone to jail to work for him—in a deal that had protected Aaron from a murderous father-in-law who wanted him dead, probably for being gay.
I’m going to take care of my brother my way. Same way I’ve done ever since he was two, when our mother ODed.…
It was unbelievably romantic and sweet.
“Eee, I gotta get out of here,” Aaron said now. “Before the police arrive.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” Ian said. “If I were Davio, I’d leave a team behind. Take advantage of the situation to erase the ongoing problem that is you.”
“At least that way I’ll ha
ve a chance,” Aaron argued. “There’s no way the police aren’t going to run our prints—they’re all over the freaking house—I mean, I live there, right? And I’m just as dead if I’m arrested and put into jail.” He turned to look at Phoebe. “How good of a lawyer are you? Because I’m wanted for murder. I’m not guilty—it was self-defense. Although that’s probably what they all say, right?”
It was. Phoebe glanced over at Ian, who’d gone over to the supply shelves and was checking the waist sizes on what looked like a pile of brand new stonewashed jeans.
He glanced back at her as he said to his brother, “I told her about Davio putting a hit on you, and how it’d be easy for him to pay someone to kill you if you’re in jail.”
“I’m still skeptical about that,” Phoebe said. “I find it hard to believe that the authorities wouldn’t provide proper protection. But okay. When the police arrive, we’ll use your phone to establish contact and negotiate. I’ll ask that we’re all taken directly to a hospital. What you do after we arrive there is … Well, don’t tell me. I can’t know. And, really, Aaron, if I’m honestly your lawyer, I have to recommend that you turn yourself in. I’ll ensure that you’re protected, and I’ll defend you to the very best of my ability—”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen, either,” Ian said, and she turned to find that, once again, he’d stripped out of his wet clothes in order to change into something dry.
She turned abruptly toward the monitor where a Mylar-clad SWAT team was entering the house, weapons drawn.
“Davio’s reach is too long,” Ian continued. “All it’ll take is one mistake, and Aaron’s shivved by some lifer with nothing to lose.” He exhaled, hard. “No. Get us to the hospital, we’ll do the rest.”
“There’s no guarantee that I can get us there,” Phoebe cautioned, looking back at Ian after hearing the sound of his zipper going up. She let herself watch while he pulled a plain white T-shirt over his head, his movements smooth and efficient. “I’m willing to try, but … There’s only one way I know—absolutely—that you’ll both walk away from this as free men.”
Ian Dunn was no dummy. She could tell from his face that this time, he knew what she was going to say before she said it.
But she said it anyway. “I’ll call Martell Griffin.”
“Yeah, because he’s been such a help so far.”
“Who’s Martell Griffin?” Aaron asked, looking from Ian to Phoebe and back.
“I don’t see that you have a choice,” Phoebe told Ian. “But you do have the opportunity to negotiate with him from a position of power, at least for the next few minutes. That changes, dramatically, after Aaron’s in police custody.”
Ian was silent and completely still, just standing there gazing back at her.
“Who’s Martell Griffin?” Aaron repeated his question, and Ian didn’t turn toward his brother, but he did briefly close his eyes.
Phoebe didn’t back down. She just calmly stood there, waiting for him to look at her again, even though in truth her heart was pounding in her chest. Almost unbelievably, Martell’s plan had worked. “Think of it as a win/win. Especially for those kidnapped children.”
Ian made a sound that was roughly laughterlike at that, as behind him, Aaron sat heavily down on the bunkbed with a heartfelt “Jesus H. Christ. Really? You really just said the words kidnapped children?”
Ian still didn’t turn toward his brother as he finally nodded. “All right,” he said. “But I think it’s more you win. Call Martell. But tell him to get a pen and start writing, because the list of what I want is massive.”
He took a breath to elaborate, but Phoebe cut him off. “First, here’s what I want,” she said. “A shirt and a dry pair of jeans—whatever’s on that shelf’ll be big, but they’ll do. I want you both to turn around and sing, loudly, while I not only change my clothes but I also pee.”
“I’m gay,” Aaron pointed out.
She smiled tightly at him. “I really don’t care. And oh, yeah. Last but not least. I want my Glock back. And I want it now.”
* * *
Was Phoebe Kruger a potential problem?
Martell would’ve answered FBI Agent Deb Erlanger’s question differently fifteen minutes ago—before his phone rang, and he answered it to find Phoebe herself on the other end.
Gladness and relief quickly morphed into annoyance that she hadn’t called him sooner, since Ian Dunn obviously hadn’t murdered her.
But after he’d put the call on speaker and she’d gotten past her assurances that she was fine—but refused to reveal where she and Dunn were hiding, not that he’d expected her to—she’d started in on some full-scale, nuclear lawyering. Her sentence had started with the phrase Ian Dunn will help with the rescue of the kidnapped children only if …
And then she hadn’t stopped with her bullet-pontification for a good long time.
The woman was scary good. Martell looked down the list of demands again and, yup. She’d thought of everything, and then some things he himself never would’ve come up with. Access to high-tech equipment and weaponry, funds to hire a team of fellow “security breach specialists” to assist Dunn, access to surveillance information, full autonomy in all stages of the op, and money. Lots and lots of money.
Deb had already passed the lengthy list on to her FBI superiors.
“Other than being a kickass lawyer,” Martell now told Deb as they sat in wait mode in the parking lot of a pizza parlor, and ate a real lunch, “I don’t think Phoebe’s a problem. At least not in the way you mean. I think she’s exactly what and who she says she is.”
When Martell had first met Phoebe, he’d thought pushover and nepotism-tastic; undergunned and in over her head. He may have even included a misogynistic chuckle and a poor thing in there, too.
But then they’d had a conversation during which he’d revised that first impression all the way up to definitely in possession of smarty-pants, but possibly a little underexperienced and absolutely overwhelmed.
She’d apparently since handled whatever had been overwhelming her, because this phone call had been from a lawyer-shark hybrid who didn’t know the meaning of fear.
No doubt about it, Martell had just gotten chewed up into a million little pieces, at which point Phoebe had ended this first part of their negotiation-slash-extortion by letting him know that Dunn was going to set up his own private safe house location, thank you very much, so they would take a pass on whatever the FBI was already putting into play. However, they were going to need more manpower, so Martell should consider himself necessary, because somebody’s sister and baby son were going to need security, so his new job was gonna be to help keep them safe. And that was code for Regardless of that law school diploma on your wall, homeboy, congratulations, you are going to be doing some babysitting.
And no doubt about it, life was bitchslapping him for his sexist arrogance. He was a better-than-average small-town lawyer whose expertise went a long way toward helping people with minor legal problems. Or even major-but-simple legal problems, like the genius clients who’d “caught a case” by walking into a liquor store with gun in hand, demanding the cashier deliver the contents of the cash register.
The whoopsie-that-was-a-misunderstanding-slash-accident defense never worked, but Genius and his vast array of brothers-from-other-mothers had to be talked down off that legal ledge. And that was something Martell excelled in doing. His Dude, you cannot win this, so let’s take their generous deal and get you into a detox and rehab program while we’re at it speech was a thing of true beauty.
He’d also been a better-than-average small-town police detective, too. Yes, Sarasota was a city, but its problems were mostly small-town. And he’d liked that. He may have thought about it a time or two, but he’d never truly aspired to join up with the FBI or the CIA.
Which meant that right about now, undergunned and in over his head applied rather poetically to Martell’s own desperately dog-paddling ass.
Deb, however, was flatly
unimpressed by Phoebe’s first-class lawyering. “Look at these demands. This is insane. Five million dollars? No one’s going to approve that kind of a payment. It’s just not going to happen. Some of this other stuff—immunity, plus a major clean-slate sweep, not just for Dunn, but for all these other people whose names he gave you … Aaron Dunn—that must be his brother. That we can do, assuming he’s not a serial killer or a terrorist.” She looked over at Martell as she tapped the legal pad with one finger. “This, by the way, is what Ian Dunn really wants. The money’s just a distraction. Or a negotiating tactic. Something for him to give up.” She smiled. “Although, really, it all depends on how dire Dunn’s current situation is.”
Current situation? Calling from the parking lot of some nice restaurant while he sat beside his attractive lady lawyer, breathing in that new-car smell? “I’m pretty sure he’s got the upper hand,” Martell pointed out as he gathered up their trash.
“The fact that he initiated the negotiation means that something’s going on,” Deb countered. “I’d bet it’s something major.”
“Well, you’re the FBI agent,” Martell conceded, with plenty of but I don’t believe you in his tone.
She looked over at him. “Yes. I am,” she said, and okay, he’d admit it, when she got quiet and intense like that, she was a tad scary, even with the constant threat of impending nipple pop hanging over her head.
“I’ll throw this away,” he announced, way too cheerfully, trying his best not to trip as he got out of the car.
When he came back, Deb was chewing on her lip and aiming all of her attitude at her phone. “FBI headquarters just texted me an address,” she said. She clicked over to her GPS.
“Just an address?” Martell asked. “Nothing else, like, This is the self-storage unit where Dunn stashes the bodies of the women he kills, hashtag wait for the SWAT team?”
“My boss is having something of a crazy day himself,” Deb informed him. “This looks to me like a residential area. Twenty-four Monteblanc Circle?”
