A bell jangled, and the door opened. She whipped her head around.
Not Karpenito, but he’d be searching for her soon enough, backed by the Seattle Police Department and the money of Maneski’s cartel.
She removed the stretchy yellow band securing her braid and laid it on the table. Running her fingers through the long strands freed them to hide her face.
Her gaze dropped to an empty drink container sitting next to the laptop.
Absently, she picked it up, turning it in her fingers. Her life seemed emptier than the cup she held. She’d lost her family, and now she might lose Ike, too?
She clenched her fingers, watching the cup crush between them.
The noise triggered an image of one very determined FBI agent. Grant Morley had headed out of state, and he wasn’t a local cop. He could recommend a safe place to hide. Maybe she’d qualify for witness protection.
Her fingers rested on the keyboard and then typed in a search for flights to Three Falls.
No seats on the single flight leaving today. She pressed her fists into her eyes. Why not a bus? She depended on them every day.
The Greyhound schedule told her one heading through Montana left in an hour. The station wasn’t far—she’d make it.
Her foot tapped the floor.
What was the town’s name? Emma something. She typed in Montana, then Emma, and Springs appeared next to it. A side ad showed a dude ranch provided the closest lodging.
They had a room, and for an extra fee, they’d shuttle passengers. She’d book it, even though it meant she’d wipe out her savings.
Their site showed photos of trail rides and a quaint lakeside town, situated in the shadows of a craggy mountain. Grant’s mountain.
She wrote the ranch’s number on her forearm and typed in Morley. A Google map pinpointed two homes owned by Morleys near the Lazy K Ranch.
Ike would approve of her getaway, all paid by cash. Would sixteen hours on a freeway be enough miles to stay alive?
She rubbed her temple with chilly fingers, then pulled a windbreaker from her purse and zipped it to the collar.
A whiff of coconut hit her nose, Corrin’s answer to skin care. Corrin, her best friend and the most sensible paralegal on earth. She’d loaned her the jacket, and could be trusted for anything. Even escape.
The skinny clerk leaned over the counter. “Did you need another coffee today?”
Miranda gulped. Act normal. “Oh, sure. Kona mocha special, please, the one with cacao nubs. Extra foam.” She left the table, walked to the bathroom, and hit speed dial. “Where are you?”
“Happy Friday to you,” chided Corrin. “I’m entering my home-sweet-apartment. Court got out early. I missed my noontime jog. If I change out of my work clothes, I can meet your bus and we can go for a quick speed walk in Volunteer Park before dark.”
Miranda smoothed a flap on the pocket of her cargo pants and glanced at her shoes. A knot of tension tightened in her gut. “Hold on.” She eased the bathroom door shut. “Ike got shot in front of me.”
“What? Is Ike alive? Are you okay?”
“Ike’s on his way to Seattle General.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m okay.”
“Who shot him? Does Shirley know?” Corrin’s voice rose.
“I called Shirley. I’ll need a ride to the Greyhound station ASAP.”
“Greyhound? Aren’t you talking to the police??”
She turned away from the sink. “I’m headed to the mountains.”
“Okay, slow down. What mountains and why?”
“Rockies,” she stated. “Grab my old cowboy boots, a pair of beater jeans, and a sweatshirt from our storage unit. Whatever you see first. And don’t ask questions. It’ll put you in danger.”
“I can do more than pack your travel bag, and I’ve got a key to your apartment.”
“Stay away from my apartment. It’s got to be this way, trust me.” She drummed her fingers on the sink. “Do it fast. Get in and out. Quick.”
“Why? Miranda, what’s going on?”
“Just do as I ask, will you, Corrin?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll use my gym bag. All right, warm clothes. Mountains.” Corrin’s keys rattled.
The door to their assigned storage area squeaked.
An outside entry in the vintage brick building had been converted into a walled-in storeroom separating their apartments. What had been the exterior wall to each unit still contained the twelve-inch pass-through delivery boxes used in the 1950s by milkmen.
She and Corrin had a knee-high view into each other’s kitchens, if they left the little metal doors open. This morning they’d made plans for pizza tonight, their voices carrying across the open space.
“There’s piles of stuff. Where exactly?” Corrin asked.
“Try left, in the boxes on the bottom of the stairs.”
“Got it. Boots, jeans, and a sweatshirt. What else?”
How much time had passed? Images of Ike’s bloody body slumped against the elevator wall flooded her head. Miranda’s throat tightened. “Nothing. Get out now. Ike’s gunman might come.”
“Gunman? You said it happened—” Corrin gasped.
“What’s the matter? Corrin?” Miranda squeezed the phone to her ear.
A lock clicked.
“Corrin!”
“I’m okay. Wait, you’re already done giving a statement to the police?”
“Ike ordered me to vanish.” She cracked the bathroom door and peeked out.
A young kid sat at the laptop while his mom ate a scone.
The barista caught her eye. “Four ninety-five please.”
“Leaving a crime scene before giving a statement isn’t normal,” Corrin said. “Who’s talking in the background?”
“Gotta pay for my coffee.” Coming out of the bathroom, Miranda fished out the fifty-dollar bill, flattened it on the wooden surface, then wiped her hands on her pants.
“Your drink’s next.” The woman handed her a fistful of change. “Are you feeling okay?” She nodded toward the bathroom.
“Ate a spicy lunch.” Miranda stuffed the top bill into the tip jar and slipped back into the bathroom. “I won’t be alone, Corrin. I met an FBI agent today. He’ll help.”
“A total stranger? I can do more than wave a pen over a legal pad. I’ll help you.”
“Ike insisted it be this way. Where are you?” Miranda sank onto the toilet.
“Leaving the—” A door slammed in the background.
“What’s happening?” Miranda demanded.
“I saw a shadow in your apartment, through your open milk box.”
Miranda jumped off the toilet seat. “Get out of there!”
“Done. I’m outside.” Corrin’s car engine revved. “Hey, you never close your blinds. Did you close them this morning?”
Miranda’s pulse hammered in her temple.
“Miranda, did you close your blinds?”
“No. I left them open for the plants.”
“Bloody hell. Someone broke into your apartment. The blinds are lowered to the sill.”
“Describe the shadow,” Miranda demanded.
“Maybe a guy wearing dark jeans.”
“He’s the gunman,” she whispered. “Was a black sedan parked nearby?”
“Bloody HELL. I think near the corner. Can’t verify it, I’m already heading downhill.”
“Please hurry.”
“Where are you? Are you certain you’re safe?”
“I’m at the espresso shop on Third and Vine. Nowhere’s safe.”
“I’ll be there soon. Shouldn’t drive and talk. Bye.”
Miranda splashed water on her face, and dialed the ranch’s number.
Her f
uture depended on a hasty offer from Agent Morley. She had no other options.
She made a reservation, pocketed her cell, and took a breath before emerging from the bathroom. Montana might work. The trusting ranch owner hadn’t even demanded a credit card.
Outside, a Seattle Metro bus rumbled past several police cruisers parked in front of the Justice Building.
No one else noticed the flashing lights. The boy continued to tap on the laptop she’d used.
Moving to a corner by the window, she hid behind a rack of tourist brochures featuring glossy photos of the Space Needle and the Ye Olde Curiosity Shop.
A silver vehicle swung into the bike lane at the curb. Corrin.
Hope fluttered in her belly. She dashed outside and hopped in the front passenger seat.
Karpenito ran out of the Justice Building.
She slunk down. “Go, go, go, Corrin!”
~ ~ ~
A plant girl had duped them. Venom blew out a frustrated breath and rubbed his gloved finger over the tattooed pit viper on his neck. So much for him striking his prey.
His phone vibrated. “Yeah.”
“Where are you?” Karpenito’s voice pierced like jagged glass on a jugular vein.
“I’m in the plant girl’s empty apartment. The real one.” He glanced at a three-foot-tall rusty pitchfork hanging on the kitchen wall and then out to an open living room. A framed portrait of a family of four hung on the wall. The boy in it had a side cowlick, like his grandson.
“The Whitley girl bolted out of a cafe next door and fled in a Firebird,” Karpenito wheezed. A car horn honked in the background.
“You told me you’d sent her home in a cab. We’re next on The Butcher’s list if we don’t silence her soon.”
“No lie. Typical idiot female who doesn’t follow orders. Hold on.”
Venom stood close to the front door, listening. “She gave you a fake address. I didn’t buy into this. She might’ve talked.”
“Not likely . . . Hey, I think we got a break,” Karpenito said.
A chair scraped across a floor. “Move it, kid,” the cop ordered. “I need this computer.”
Venom glanced at the boy in the portrait, and his stomach tightened. “What the hell are you doing to a kid?”
“Nothing. I spotted Whitley’s hair band. Gotta call you back.” Karpenito hung up.
Venom left the apartment and strode to his car. After he slid behind the wheel, his phone pulsed to life.
“Search history on the computer shows your problem’s cruising to Montana,” Karpenito crowed. “Time stamp matches.”
“Did you say problem? She’s not my problem.”
“She’s your problem if she fingers you,” Karpenito snarled.
“You failed to empty the lobby.” Venom twisted the key in the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. “Damn piece of crap,” he muttered, pumping harder.
“How was I to know she’d be working late? Maneski’s lawyer kept you out of the slammer. A fact you’d better not forget.”
“For another hit you nearly bungled.” A bitter taste hung in his mouth. “Nope. My fee was for the one final whack. I’m done.”
“Maneski will double your fee, and I’ll add in generous expenses.”
Venom’s brakes squeaked while he jockeyed out of the tight parking space. He gritted his teeth. “Okay. Give me what you do know.”
“Whitley’s riding a Greyhound to Three Falls and booked at the Lazy K Ranch. She searched for someone named Morley near Emma Springs. Bury the body and bring back an eyeball. Maneski wanted Gilson’s hand that signed his warrant, and he’ll want the eyeball that saw the hit.” The phone clicked and went silent.
Venom rubbed his wedding band. “Stupid, stupid plant girl.” A frown creased his face while he pulled into a parking lot and found the ranch’s number. He rummaged in his pocket and then shoved a handful of antacids into his mouth. What body part would The Butcher demand for a hitman’s failure?
The ranch phone rang twice. “Lazy K. May I help you?” asked a cheerful voice.
“I believe Miranda Whitley’s joining you soon. I need to send my sweet lady roses to apologize for a misunderstanding I created. Do you have a local florist?”
“Oh, how romantic. Hold a moment and I’ll find the number for Petal Pusher Flowers. They deliver, but maybe you’d rather bring them in person?”
It’d be a personal delivery all right. “What a wonderful idea. Our secret?”
She laughed and agreed.
Maneski didn’t tolerate screw ups. The lawyer who’d delayed a purchase agreement for his mansion had landed at the bottom of Puget Sound with a boat anchor attached to his legs. Actually, two anchors—the body had been chopped in half. Nobody cared four hundred feet down.
He rubbed the sweat from his brow. If a delay moving into a house sent the mobster off the deep end, killing the plant girl ensured his own survival. His family, too. Mankeski ordered hits like his grandson ordered fries with his burger.
And the little feller devoured burgers. A double fee ensured there’d be plenty of money to raise the boy under fake identities.
An orange leaf fell onto his faded hood. He leaned back, sinking into the tattered upholstery.
Ah, the unpredictable outdoors. Perfect for a hunting accident.
Elk don’t talk.
~ ~ ~
Traffic stopped mid-block.
Corrin used the pause to contemplate the fastest way to the bus station. “Miranda, what northbound route’s best on a Friday night?”
“The one speeding us away from the Justice Building.” Panic sharpened Miranda’s voice while she scrunched into the seat and folded her long legs under the Firebird’s dash. “Maybe Fourth Avenue?”
Corrin signaled a move to the center lane. “Fourth it is,” she offered calmly. “Not exactly fast getaway traffic, but buckle up, kiddo.”
Miranda brought the belt across and jabbed it into the buckle.
“Thanks.” Corrin watched while Miranda’s green eyes darted everywhere, front to back, corner to corner. Her best friend, her sister-of-the soul, ducked and bobbed like a wild creature trapped in a cage. No, a hunted creature. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Miranda said.
A horn honked when Corrin inched their bumper into a space between a Smart car and a van. “I’m fine. Who shoots a federal judge?”
“Please don’t grill me.”
“Sorry, force of habit from questioning clients. What else can I do to help?”
Miranda twisted her head to see out the back window. “Leave your apartment for a couple nights.”
“Easy enough. Should I tell the police someone broke into your place? We know he closed the blinds.”
“Don’t report anything.” She turned around. “The killer would know you spotted him.” Her color paled. She scratched at a speck of red on her tan pants.
Ike’s blood.
Corrin gripped the steering wheel. “I hadn’t thought of the creep seeing me.”
“I pray he didn’t. They think Ike’s dead, and I’m next. You’ll not be added to the list.”
A bead of perspiration formed on Corrin’s brow. “I’ll go, too.”
“No. Dad always said you never bring trouble to your back porch. Ike insisted I vanish, and I’ll lead them out of town. If anyone hurt you, I wouldn’t forgive myself. No one’s followed us yet.”
“None of this makes sense to me. Talk to one of my firm’s attorneys if you can’t trust the police.”
“No time. I skip town now, or I’m dead. And your apartment’s not safe. Do you understand?” Miranda’s hand shook on the purse she clutched to her chest.
“Vacate. Got it. Aunt Iris loves company, and s
he’s in a secured building,” Corrin said. “Ike has contacts at city hall, but we need to determine who’ll advise you if—”
“Ike’s going to be okay. He has to be. No more funerals, no more headstones . . .” Miranda choked back a sob.
“Sure he is.” Corrin softened her voice. “You shouldn’t go through this without someone you trust.” She turned a corner onto a one-way street.
Miranda rose enough to watch cars over her shoulder. “You join me, and there’s a bullseye on your back. I’ve got an FBI agent.”
Corrin checked her rearview mirror. Had the bigger car sped up? “An agent you just met.” She stomped on the gas to make a yellow light. “I can get help in Seattle. Does the agent know someone broke in to your apartment?”
The black sedan ran the light and came alongside them.
“Watch out!” Miranda shouted.
Corrin swung into the next lane and jammed on the brakes to avoid a taxi. They both pitched forward.
The car sped by, occupied by a woman and two kids.
“False alarm.”
“Bloody hell!” Corrin clenched the steering wheel. “I can’t jump over the row of cars and onto the sidewalk.”
“Sorry,” Miranda said. “Traffic should delay Snake Neck.”
“Snake Neck? You know the killer’s name?”
“No.” Miranda poked her head between the seats. After righting a blue gym bag, she straightened Corrin’s stack of folders in a satchel on the floor. “It appears your pivotal case needs attention this weekend. You’ve got homework.”
“Deflection won’t work against me.” Corrin said. “Snake Neck? What else do you know?”
“Don’t. Ask.” Miranda’s steely voice didn’t match her trembling hands. “You told me appeasing this client rated a make or break for your legal career. You’ve been the brilliant understudy long enough.”
Corrin loosened her grip on the wheel. “A delay won’t kill me. I mean, there’s more important things in life than impressing the partners. Like assisting my BFF.”
The Hitman's Mistake Page 3
