Sting

by Sandra Brown

  “Not soft, old man. Sensible. I don’t see why the fucking hurry.”

  “I explained that.”

  “Yeah, but tomorrow would be soon enough.”

  “Not anymore. Panella has changed his mind. Small town like this, where everybody knows everybody? Word gets around quick that there’s two ‘strangers’ in town.”

  “Okay. So we wait to do it till she goes back to New Orleans.”

  “That could be days. She doesn’t go into the city on a regular basis. Works out of her house here a lot. Anyhow, it’s not our decision to make. Panella says get her done, especially now that we happened to be caught under the same roof as the target.”

  Shaw understood the reasoning, but he still didn’t like it. Not at all.

  Mickey kept talking. “Like you, Panella is scared that maybe her showing up here tonight isn’t a coincidence.”

  “That’s what I said, but I was only mouthing off. Her coming here has gotta be a fluke. There’s no way she could know about us.”

  “Well, whatever, Panella said to do it now, so…” For punctuation, Mickey used the slide of his 9mm to chamber a bullet.

  Shaw realized two things: His vote didn’t count, and further argument was pointless. “Shit.” He pulled his pistol from its holster and glanced back toward the door with the crackling neon sign above it. “So how do you want to do it?”

  “We wait here till she comes out. If the redneck asshole leaves with her, you pop him. I’ll take care of her.”

  “If she comes out alone?”

  “I’ll do the honors,” Mickey said as he worked his hands into latex gloves. He passed a pair to Shaw. “You take her purse. Panella says to make it look like a robbery gone bad. A random crime.”

  “With no connection to either him or her brother.”

  “With no connection to anything.”

  Shaw scoffed. “Like anybody will believe that.”

  Mickey chuckled. “Not your problem who believes what. You’ll be far and away, enjoying your half of two hundred grand.”

  “That’ll buy a nice boat.”

  “That’ll buy nice pussy.”

  “Your mind’s in the gutter, Mickey.”

  He chuckled again. “Where it feels right at home.”

  Noticing motion from the corner of his eye, Shaw took another look through the rear window. “Here she comes.”

  “By herself?”

  Shaw waited to answer until the door had closed behind Jordie Bennett and no one followed her out. “Yep.”

  Since the building didn’t have any exterior lighting, the parking lot was almost in complete darkness. A pale, slender moon was obscured by the moss-bearded branches of an oak that extended across three-quarters of the lot. There were no approaching headlights from either direction of the narrow state road.

  Seizing the opportunity, Mickey opened his car door and got out, moving with more alacrity than Shaw would have thought him capable of. The fat man was jazzed. Mickey Bolden relished his line of work.

  But so did Shaw. The tequila shots hadn’t given him near the rush that straight-up adrenaline did now.

  Being as light-footed as possible, they followed Jordie Bennett as she wended her way through the parking lot. It was jammed with dented pickup trucks and salt-water-corroded heaps. Her recent model sedan was a shiny, sleek standout. She used a key fob to unlock the driver’s door.

  Shaw captured another drift of that seductive fragrance as she suddenly did an about-face.

  Apparently his and Mickey’s footfalls on the crushed shells hadn’t been as light as they’d thought. Or maybe animal instinct had alerted her to mortal danger. In any case, when she saw them rushing toward her, her lips parted on a quick inhale, her eyes went wide with alarm.

  As Mickey swiftly closed the distance between them, his right hand snapped up from his side with precision and deadly purpose.

  The sound suppressor on the pistol muffled the shot, but in the surrounding stillness, the spitting noise seemed as loud to Shaw’s ears as a fire alarm.

  Mickey dropped like a sack of cement, his ravaged head hemorrhaging a red tide over the crushed shells.

  Jordie Bennett watched in horror as a stream of blood funneled toward her sandals. Then she looked up at Shaw, who still held his pistol shoulder high and extended toward her. He said, “My half just doubled.”

  Chapter 2

  FBI Special Agent Joe Wiley was just about to sit down to a meal of pork pot roast when his cell phone rang.

  His wife, Marsha, frowned. She’d had to warm up the dish for him, because he’d come home too late to eat with her and the kids. But she knew better than to object when he said, “Sorry, hon, I need to take it,” and clicked on his phone. “Is this important, Hick? I’m sitting down to eat.”

  “Hate to interrupt,” Agent Greg Hickam said, sounding earnest. “But, yes, it’s important. Knew you’d want to hear it ASAP.”

  Giving Marsha an apologetic look, Joe stepped into the utility room. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “A few hours ago, Mickey Bolden was found dead in Terrebonne Parish, outside a backwater beer joint about a fifteen-minute drive from Tobias.”

  And just like that, a hot meal was no longer in Joe’s immediate future.

  He dragged his hand down his face, over his mouth, past his chin. “I don’t suppose there could be more than one Mickey Bolden.”

  “Probably, but this is the one we know and love. Loved.”

  “Clarify ‘found dead.’ I’m guessing he didn’t pass peacefully in his sleep.”

  “Hollow tip fired into the back of his head. Blew most of his face off.”

  “Then how do they know it’s him?”

  “Driver’s license in his wallet was phony, but the ME fingerprinted the corpse. The local authorities got all excited when they saw he was linked to the Billy Panella case and, as requested, contacted the nearest FBI office.”

  “Lucky us.” Joe glanced around the door frame into the kitchen, where Marsha was seated across the dining table from his empty place setting, looking perturbed as she sipped from a glass of iced tea. Into the phone, he said, “Bolden buys it near Tobias on Friday night, only three days after—”

  “Tuesday. There’s got to be a correlation.”

  “Are you certain or are you guessing?” Joe asked.

  “Damn near certain. Jordie Bennett was on the premises when Bolden was killed.”

  “Say again?”

  “Jordie Bennett—”

  “Never mind. I heard you the first time. Holy shit. Wait, you said, was?”

  “She and Mickey Bolden were in the bar at the same time.”

  “Together?”

  “No. But they left within minutes of each other, she a few after him. But, here’s the clincher—her Lexus is still in the parking lot. Mickey was about three feet away from it when he was popped.”

  “By her?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “If she killed him, why would her car still be there?”

  Joe didn’t have a clue. “I’m missing pieces. Fill me in.”

  “A guy in the bar was schmoozing Ms. Bennett. She asked him nicely to get lost and, when he didn’t, she told him to go to hell, grabbed her purse, stalked out, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

  “Jesus. Please tell me that I’m not hearing this.”

  “Sorry, but you are,” Hick said. “She’s unaccounted for.”

  “I thought we had local guys surveilling her since Tuesday.”

  “Guy. One. Well, two sheriff’s deputies who’ve been rotating shifts. The night shift officer logged her leaving her house at nine thirty-two. In no apparent hurry, she led him through town. But once out in the boonies, she hit the gas pedal and managed to shake him.”

  “And goes to a beer joint?”

  “Where she was last seen. Nobody at her house or place of business. Both locked up tight. Nothing disturbed in either. Security alarms still set. Sheri
ff’s office fears foul play—”

  “No shit.”

  “—and already have a BOLO out for her and the guy.”

  “The schmoozer followed her from the bar?”

  “Not that guy, the other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  “Mickey’s friend.”

  “Mickey had a friend?”

  “Inconceivable, I know. But the two came in together, had a couple of drinks, looked simpatico. No cross words, no bad vibes. Nothing like that. They didn’t engage anyone else in conversation and left together. But if the guy shot Mickey’s face off, I guess they weren’t that close of friends.” Hick paused and took a breath. “That’s where we are, and that’s why I interrupted your supper. Tell Marsha I’m sorry.”

  “Has the scene been secured?”

  The agent snuffled. “The homicide detective who notified me works out of the Tobias branch of the parish’s sheriff’s office. He sounds sharp enough. He arrived shortly after the first responders, but even at that, was too late. Told me that as soon as the body was discovered, the tavern’s clientele scattered like roaches when the lights flipped on. Said that probably a dozen or more had warrants out for them. Parole violators. Bail jumpers. Nickel-bag dope dealers. It’s that kind of place. He and other deputies have corralled a few lingerers. Not many. And those few are reluctant to talk to the authorities.”

  “Goes against their grain.”

  “There’s that, but also they’re grumbling about being detained on account of Josh Bennett. I was told that when one spoke his name, he spat on the floor.”

  “I don’t suppose that either he or Billy Panella has been sighted.”

  “Except by proxy.”

  “Bennett’s sister Jordie.”

  “And Mickey Bolden. We know that he was Panella’s go-to person for wet work.”

  “Known but never proved,” Joe said.

  Imagining uncooperative witnesses and a crime scene contaminated to the point of uselessness, Joe sighed and ran his hand over his thinning hair. “Ask that SO detective to detain the witnesses till we can have a crack at them. I don’t care how loud they bellyache. Get the chopper gassed up. I’ll meet you at the heliport.”

  “What time?”

  “I’m leaving now. Dispatch our own crime scene crew.”

  “Did that before I called you. They’ll probably beat us there.”

  “Good. See you in a few.”

  Joe clicked off and reentered the kitchen. Her lips set in resignation, Marsha was assembling a ham and cheese sandwich. He slid on his shoulder holster and lifted his jacket off the hook by the back door. “It’s the Panella-Bennett case, or I’d stay long enough to eat. Roast sure smells good. Is that rosemary?”

  Ungently, she slapped the Saran-wrapped sandwich into his hand. “I hate you flying around in the dark in that damn helicopter.”

  “I know, but—”

  “How old is it anyway?”

  “Old, but reliable.” He kissed her mouth, but got only a semipucker in return. “Tell the kids I’m sorry I missed them. I’ll check in.”

  “I may not answer,” she said. “I’m gonna watch Top Gun.”

  He paused on his way through the door. “That’s my favorite movie.”

  “I know. And I’m gonna double-butter the popcorn and do some serious harm to a bottle of wine.” She smiled with malicious gaiety. “Have fun!”

  He walked back to her, leaned in, and whispered, “Know my favorite part of that movie?” He put his hand on her breast and squeezed. “When Maverick and the chick get it on.”

  She shoved him away. “Go!” She said it sternly, but she was smiling.

  When Shaw felt he’d covered enough distance for it to be safe to stop, he pulled off the highway onto a rutted track that led into a dense thicket. He cut the engine and turned off the headlights. For what he needed to do, he would use the flashlight on his phone, which was new. Only he had the number.

  He shone the flashlight over the seat to check on Jordie Bennett. Best as he could tell, she was still out cold and hadn’t moved since he’d placed her in the backseat. But she wouldn’t be unconscious forever, and he had to prepare for that inevitability.

  He got out, retrieved what he needed from the trunk, then opened the backseat door and placed his phone on the floorboard to provide him light.

  She was as limp as a dishrag, making it easy for him to reposition her arms and legs. Once, she murmured something unintelligible, and he suspended what he was doing until he was certain that she wasn’t about to wake up. The longer she was out, the better for him.

  Better for her, too.

  But she didn’t come around, so, moving quickly, he removed her sandals, cursing the dainty buckles on the straps, then efficiently secured her feet and hands. He was backing out of the door, when he paused to brush a strand of hair off her cheek. That was when he noticed the blood spatters on her face.

  “Shit.” She would freak. He debated, then decided that taking a couple extra minutes wouldn’t matter.

  When he’d finished everything he needed to do, he gently closed the backseat door and the trunk and got back into the driver’s seat. Her and Mickey’s cell phones were lying in the passenger seat where he’d tossed them as he made his getaway from the bar.

  He started with hers and was relieved to see that it was getting a cell signal. He accessed the log of recent calls and scrolled through it rapidly, scanning the calls she’d made or received throughout the day today and for the past several days. All the names were listed in her Contacts. Nothing was noteworthy.

  Nothing except the last call she’d received.

  It had come in a few minutes after nine o’clock that evening. Nearby area code. A number with no name attached. She’d called it back twice. Shaw considered, then called it himself. It rang several times but went unanswered. He clicked off.

  Turning his head, he thoughtfully watched her sleeping form for several moments. Then he shut her phone down, removed the battery from it, and placed both in the glove compartment.

  He picked up Mickey’s phone, accessed the Recent calls and knew the Caller Unknown belonged to Panella. He would be standing by, waiting to hear “Mission accomplished” from Mickey.

  “Too bad, asshole,” Shaw whispered. “You’re dealing with me now.” He removed the battery from Mickey’s phone, and locked it in the glove box along with Jordie’s. Now feeling the pressure of time, he started the car.

  As he pulled onto the dark and deserted highway, he thought back over the evening. It hadn’t gone as he’d thought it would, but had actually turned out far better than anticipated. He’d come away with the primo prize. She lay unconscious in his backseat.

  Chapter 3

  Lord have mercy,” Hick sighed when they alighted from the sheriff’s office patrol car and surveyed the crime scene. “Bad as I expected.”

  The chopper that transported him and Joe had set down in a field which, in early fall, served as a regional fairgrounds. A deputy shuttled them from there to the site of Mickey Bolden’s murder.

  Portable lights had been brought in. The ugly tavern was lit up brighter than the Las Vegas strip. The men in uniform who were milling about cast eerie shadows that stretched into the surrounding forest before being absorbed by it.

  “Worse,” Joe said in response to Hick’s summation of the situation. The two of them ducked beneath the yellow band that was intended to keep people off the parking lot but had been largely ignored. However, most of the trespassers were giving wide berth to the Lexus. He and Hick made a beeline for it.

  An efficient young agent named Holstrom, one of the crime scene investigators from their New Orleans office, was consulting with a man whose natty seersucker suit and elfin countenance didn’t fit here in deep bayou country, where no one had the courage to identify all the hunks of meat in the gumbo, and the mere notion of gun control laws was knee-slapping hilarious.

  Joe and Hick exchanged subdued greetings with their co
lleague who introduced the small man he’d been talking to as Dr. Something-or-Other, the parish medical examiner. All were wearing gloves, so they didn’t shake hands, which was just as well because they would have had to reach across the gulf of chunky, congealing blood between them.

  Going straight to business, the ME said, “He’s already at the morgue, but when he was identified they called me back out here to talk to y’all. I’ve got pictures of what he looked like when I arrived.”

  He tapped his iPad screen and held it up so they could see. He flipped through several photos of Mickey Bolden’s sizable corpse taken from various angles and distances. None were pretty. Joe almost felt sorry for the lawless bastard.

  Hick, a devout Catholic, breathed a prayer and crossed himself.

  Joe, who was also Catholic but less devout, said, “No need to ask cause of death.”

  “He never felt it,” the ME said with more dispassion than Joe would have expected from a man with such a benevolent face.

  Joe pointed to one of the photos on the iPad, specifically to the pistol lying within inches of Mickey’s outstretched hand. “Who retrieved his weapon?”

  “First responders determined that it hadn’t been recently fired,” Holstrom said, “but they left it for the homicide detective from the SO to collect.”

  “Good.” Joe also noticed in the photographs that Mickey’s hands were gloved. He asked about those.

  “He wore them to the morgue,” the ME said. “I bagged them. A deputy picked them up, so the sheriff’s office has them, too. Chain of possession has been recorded.”

  “Thanks. We’ll want the autopsy report as soon as—”

  “I know, I know. You fellas never say, ‘No rush, Doc. Whenever you can get to it will be just fine.’”

  He might look like a leprechaun, but he had the disposition of a rattlesnake. Joe decided he didn’t like him. Surveying the immediate area, he noticed a pair of markers that had been left in the gravel. “What was there?”

  “Ms. Bennett’s purse and key fob,” Holstrom replied. “The detective retrieved them.”