Cut and Run wm-3

by Jeff Abbott

  No need to go check Whit’s van. She knew Eve Michaels wasn’t in there anyway. Whit Mosley was a liar.

  Tasha Strong drove off into the night, humming a little, smiling at her dream unfolding.

  36

  You’re screwing up, Claudia told herself. She waited in her car outside the gated compound at Greg Buckman’s address at 3478 Alabama. It was shortly after eleven on Saturday night, and she heard the soft strains of a party: laughter, a thumping bass beat, the clink of bottles. Because you go down this route, you’re putting your career at stake.

  The file in her lap told her all she could learn in short order about Greg Buckman. His credit history (excellent), his income (over two hundred thousand a year or so ago, but less than thirty thousand reported to the IRS last year), his family (two parents who lived in Little Rock, one sister). All delivered courtesy of Barbara Zachary, Harry Chyme’s assistant, who didn’t need to be asked twice when Claudia said, ‘I got a lead on a guy who may have info about Harry’s death but needs pressuring to make him talk. Can you dig on him?’ and Barbara, dialing and typing like an avenging angel, working the keyboards, Internet databases, and phones with a singular purpose, faxed pages to Claudia’s motel with rapidfire response.

  She scanned through the credit pages again. No charges to his Visa or his AmEx for anything other than restaurants, bars, and a surprising wave of charges to bookstores, both brick and on-line. He must be a voracious reader. Most criminals weren’t, but then maybe he wasn’t what Whit thought he was.

  The grabber, of course, was his drop in income. He’d made a fortune at Energis. But that money, and the chance to earn a high salary in the corporate world, had evaporated in the wave of shareholder lawsuits. He claimed, on his last tax return, to run a consulting company, but she wondered how eager companies were to hire an exec tarred with the filth of the Energis brush. The company, nationally, had been reduced to a joke, a catchphrase for greed and malfeasance. No matter that thousands of honest workers had toiled there with good intentions.

  Newspaper clipping next, and her mouth went dry. Three Energis employees vanished a few weeks before the story broke about the company’s shady accounting and deals. Greg Buckman, named as their supervisor and friend, was quoted in the story. ‘We’re deeply concerned. These are terrific, goal-oriented individuals, and they and their families are in our prayers. Our candlelight vigil for their safe return will be held in our headquarters lobby at seven this evening.’

  Goal-oriented. Odd praise.

  A follow-up clipping on the case didn’t quote Buckman but relayed that the three bodies and their car had been found, driven into a remote part of Galveston Bay. More clippings on Energis. Buckman was senior management in an energy-trading division that was part of the massive accounting scandal. No criminal charges filed against him, but his name was mentioned frequently enough that a long shade of suspicion settled on him and he’d lost a fortune in the civil lawsuits.

  This past crime, his reputation smeared at Energis, was a doorway to him.

  She had known Whit Mosley most of her life, had gotten much closer to him when he became justice of the peace and they started working together, but she had never heard him speak in the strained voice with which he had spoken to her. He was clearly involved beyond the scope of the law – in over his head, she guessed – and he had wanted her help earlier but not now. Either because he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have or he wanted to keep her out of danger. She hoped it was the latter.

  Claudia closed her eyes. Say Whit found his mother. She works with a crime ring. She wanted nothing to do with Whit and the crime ring came after Whit to scare him off. But why wouldn’t he call the police, then? Because he didn’t want his mother implicated? Whit wouldn’t stand there and take abuse. So, a different angle. Say his mother wanted to be with Whit, aimed to leave her life of crime. Her colleagues in the ring didn’t want her walking away. She knew too much. Or they found out Whit was a judge and it made them nervous, this new family connection to law and order. So they came after Whit and his mom. But again, why wouldn’t Whit simply call the police? Because he did want to protect his mother – but from prosecution. Bust the crime ring, bust his mother. It could be one and the same.

  She dug in her purse for an aspirin, dry-swallowed it, ignoring the bitter taste.

  Or worse, Whit and his mom knew who the killers were and were hiding. But still in Houston. Why? What was to be gained by staying here? The anchor had to be timely, large, and powerful. Information on the Bellinis. Evidence to be retrieved. Money.

  So what do I do now? Operating out of her jurisdiction was an entirely foreign concept to her, a violation of common sense and professionalism she’d never considered. But Whit changed everything. He’d always had that effect in her life, the one friend who always made life seem a little edgy and funky and ever-new. The kind of friend you’d keep a secret for, to protect him. If you had to.

  Claudia got out of her ancient Honda Accord, walked along the gated entryway. A car pulled up to her left and she stepped to where she could see the driver’s fingers enter a code on the keypad. It looked like 2249. She stood, arms crossed, like she was waiting for a friend to pick her up, studying the far end of the street. She waited until the car had driven in, noticed that the crossbar fell almost immediately.

  She got in her Honda and drove up. Tried the code of 2249. Didn’t work. She tried 2248. This time the cross bar creaked up and she quickly drove inside. She nosed into a visitor parking space near the community pool. She tucked her service revolver into her purse. Number twelve was Buckman’s. A single dim light glowed, a light left on in the kitchen. She pressed an ear to the door.

  The soft fuzzy murmur of television. She rang the doorbell.

  After a moment, the door swung open. A tall redheaded woman, pretty, wearing a T-shirt that said TOPAZ in glittery cursive, the T-shirt one size too tight. Loose jeans. And a loose look in her eyes, wine or beer or pot working its easy magic.

  ‘Hi,’ Claudia said. ‘My name is Claudia Salazar. I’m sorry to bother you so late in the evening, but I’m a freelance writer doing a book on Energis and I’m trying to get an appointment with Greg Buckman. His number’s unlisted, but a friend of his told me he lived here.’

  ‘He’s not here and he doesn’t talk about Energis,’ the tall redhead said. ‘Sorry.’ She started to close the door.

  ‘He’s been treated like garbage in the press. I want to fix that,’ Claudia said. The door stopped, the redhead watching her. ‘People at certain levels at Energis, their reputations have been savaged. They can’t get real work again. But they couldn’t have all known about the accounting abuses, because folks would have blown the whistle earlier, right? People like Mr Buckman were following orders. He didn’t really do anything wrong.’

  The redhead gave a slight nod, surprised at this heartfelt monologue.

  Claudia let a beat pass. ‘I want to tell that story. Defend the people who got their reputations assassinated, even though they never faced a criminal charge. That’s not the American way. They need a forum to clear their names.’

  ‘Out of the goodness of your heart?’ Now the gaze wasn’t so vacant, a little smarter.

  ‘Out of an interest in fair reporting.’

  The redhead studied her. ‘I’ll see if he’s willing to call you.’

  ‘Are you his wife?’

  ‘Girlfriend,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m Robin Melvin. Don’t misspell it in your book. Can you mention me in it? My mama would absolutely die.’

  ‘I’m sure you want Greg to have options in his life again, Robin. Go to work for another energy company, right? Command the respect and salary he had before.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Robin bit her lip. ‘That’d be nice.’ A stab of guilt touched Claudia’s heart for misleading Robin, but this seemed the shortest distance to the end.

  ‘Could you and I talk now? I’d like your insight on this; how it’s affected you. I can meet Greg face-to-face when
he gets back. Make my case in person to him. I know talking about Energis is painful. But my book might be a big help to him. Let me fire a shot in his defense.’

  Robin considered. ‘Well. Okay. You and I can wait for him. He should be home soon. You want a glass of wine?’

  Claudia nodded and stepped inside.

  The townhome was high-end, one of the nicest Claudia had ever seen, but Buckman’s furnishings were sparse. Clean. Minimal but expensive. A leather couch, an entertainment system with more controls than a flight simulator. A stack of DVDs. She glanced at the titles while Robin Melvin fetched the wine. It’s a Wonderful Life. Mr Smith Goes to Washington. The Sound of Music. Greeting-card movies, not what she had expected from a suspected killer. A long line of books on a shelf. All by Chad Channing. The Art of Be. Sail Through the Goal Posts of Life! I Make Me Happen. Self-help tripe. The books’ spines were all cracked and worn with handling.

  Robin brought massive goblets of chardonnay, filled nearly to the brim, already sipping from one. ‘Oh, those,’ she said, seeing Claudia inspecting the books. ‘You can see how depressed he’s been, reading that junk. It lifts him up.’

  She handed the wine to Claudia; a trickle sloshed onto Claudia’s hand. ‘Does it?’ Claudia asked.

  ‘It’s a comfort blanket,’ Robin said, ‘that guru whispering in his ear. It’s like a conscience-for-hire.’

  ‘This is a very nice place. What’s he doing now to keep the mortgage paid?’

  Robin shrugged, sat down on the couch. ‘Consulting. Bucks’ got friends who keep him busy.’ A note of bitterness crept into her voice.

  ‘Bucks?’

  ‘That’s what his friends call him. Not too many people call him Greg.’

  Claudia sat, took a sip of wine, unsure of what to do now. ‘Robin. In doing my research, I understand there were three of Bucks’ friends at the company who were murdered a few weeks before the Energis story broke.’

  Robin nodded. ‘Horrible.’ But a new wariness was in her eyes.

  ‘Well, I’m sure that must have been very upsetting for Bucks. Did he ever say that anyone at Energis was involved?’

  ‘Like had them whacked?’

  Whacked. Not killed. ‘Yeah,’ Claudia said. ‘Whacked.’

  Robin took a solid gulp of her wine. Those guys were his best friends at work. Bucks was crazy with worry. I didn’t really know him well then. He and his friends frequented the place I work, I knew them as really good customers. After his friends died, well, I guess I felt tender toward Bucks, we started spending time together.’ She stopped, as though embarrassed about displaying this corner of her heart.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Club Topaz. I’m a stripper.’ Claudia liked that Robin said stripper, not entertainer, not exotic dancer. ‘But I’d like to finish college and sell real estate. I like big houses.’ She gave a little off-key laugh.

  Claudia played her first card. ‘See, in my research, I’ve found who would have wanted those guys dead. And I don’t want to scare you, but Bucks might be in danger.’

  Robin’s eyes widened.

  ‘There’s a crime ring in Houston, the Bellinis. They used to be Mafia up north. Have you heard of them?’

  Robin grew very still and Claudia knew, suddenly, she had made a mistake. But better to press on, see it through. ‘The Bellinis benefited from the Energis double-accounting. They unloaded a lot of stock in the weeks before the stock fell.’ She made this up on the fly.

  ‘They’re not crooks,’ Robin insisted.

  ‘But the Bellini family owned a lot of Energis stock, and…’

  ‘So did lots of other people. If you lived in Houston, you owned Energis stock.’ It sounded like a platitude that Bucks had taught her. ‘Bucks went to school with Paul Bellini. I know Paul. He’s a super nice guy, he’s not a crook.’

  ‘His dad is. Or was.’

  ‘My mother is a beautician,’ Robin said. ‘You see me styling hair?’

  ‘Bucks worked with the three guys who got killed, and I’m wondering if he knew details that they knew. But he doesn’t know the information’s dangerous, you see, he wouldn’t necessarily know that the Bellinis were involved in the deaths.’ It was a neat little theory, constructed out of nothing, but she wondered if it would resonate with the young woman. A complete lie that had a terrible, recognizable possibility to it.

  Robin frowned, the silence drawing out, and then a key slid into the front door.

  ‘He’s home,’ Robin said. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  37

  ‘They shot me up,’ Gooch said. ‘To keep me quiet, then to get me talking. My arms feel like stone right now and a while back I had a conversation with Mahatma Gandhi. I’m pretty useless.’ He opened his eyes for a moment, closed them. He lay on the couch in Charlie’s house. ‘There’s a spiderweb up there Charlie needs to clean. Or am I hallucinating?’

  ‘It’s a web,’ Whit said. ‘I’m not leaving you again.’

  ‘You didn’t leave me, I got caught. I was deeply moronic. If it ain’t too much to ask, could you check and see if I still have both my balls?’

  ‘You’re not missing anything.’ But Gooch had been beaten, roughed up badly, blood dried on his lips and ears, and indigo bruises on his torso, along the tender skin that shielded kidneys. A horrible contusion marked the back of his head, under the hair, a hard knot. His skin was clammy, a connect-the-dots spiral of injection points along his arm, and Whit’s fear for him turned into a stone-cold rage.

  ‘I’m taking you to a doctor,’ Whit said.

  ‘No. What am I gonna say, I got attacked by pharmacists?’ Gooch blinked. ‘I’m strong. I can process it out. Man, I got shot in the head, sort of, and I’m okay.’

  ‘No,’ Whit said. ‘Doctor. Now.’

  ‘No,’ Gooch said. ‘Info. Now. Then doctor.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘Kiko has Eve,’ Whit said. ‘Bucks works for him now.’

  ‘And someone else is on their side. Whoever killed Paul.’ Gooch opened his eyes, blinked once, twice, watched Whit.

  ‘That could have been Bucks. He finds out about the meeting between us and Bucks takes Paul out.’

  ‘And then Bucks steps into command,’ Gooch said. ‘Command of increasingly little.’

  ‘So how do I get my mom back, Gooch?’

  ‘We can’t assume she’s still alive, Whitman.’

  ‘Say she is.’

  Gooch looked at him. ‘You’re the brother I never had, Whit. I love you, man, if that doesn’t sound stupid.’

  ‘You’re a doped-up idiot.’

  ‘Ask yourself if it’s time to walk away,’ Gooch said in a quiet voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kiko will find out Eve doesn’t know where the money is, then he’ll kill her,’ Gooch said. ‘Maybe what’s left of the Bellini ring and Kiko’s people shoot it out. Kiko can find other buyers in Houston, given time, or sell it himself. This doesn’t have a good ending.’

  ‘I can’t just let her die.’

  ‘Then we call the police.’

  ‘We don’t know where she’s being held,’ Whit said. ‘Even so, do I save her so she can spend her life in prison for money laundering and God knows what else?’

  ‘Man, straighten it out in your head,’ Gooch said. ‘You can’t save her.’

  ‘I’m taking you to a hospital. You need to be checked.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I’m serious, Gooch, you’re out of the game,’ Whit said.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘They could have pumped you full of Clorox, man.’

  ‘In which case the blood froth would be a bad sign.’ Gooch sat up, blinked. ‘I’ll be okay. What do you want to do?’

  ‘I want you to go back to Port Leo.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘This isn’t your fight,’ Whit said.

  ‘They kidnap me, beat me, drug me. Played Frank Polo music while they did it to drown out any screaming. Made it my fight more than yours.�
� Gooch attempted a smile.

  ‘Brace yourself,’ Whit said. ‘If you come with me, you’re gonna hear Frank’s voice at least one more time.’

  Kiko Grace cut into the fat stack of pancakes, shoveled them into his mouth, and pointed the fork at Eve’s untouched plate. ‘You don’t have much appetite, I guess,’ he said. ‘Shame. This is genuine Vermont maple syrup.’

  ‘I’m dieting,’ she said in a very quiet voice, through her bruised and cut lips.

  He chewed. ‘You’re skinny already. Pancakes are good for the soul.’ He glanced over at Jose, rinsing a skillet in the sink. ‘Isn’t that right, Jose?’

  ‘Comfort me with apples,’ Jose said, ‘for I am sick of love.’

  ‘Your boy Willie S didn’t say that,’ Kiko said. ‘That’s in the Bible.’

  ‘You getting smarter every day, boss,’ Jose said.

  Kiko pushed her plate of pancakes a little closer to Eve. ‘Come on, it’s soft food. Jose made it special for you.’

  ‘I don’t want to eat with you,’ Eve said. She was handcuffed by her left arm to the chair, sitting up for the first time since they had brought her to the condo.

  ‘Your loss. These are awesome.’ Kiko dug back into the stack of blueberry pancakes, apparently taking no offense.

  That afternoon Jose had come into the room they stashed her in, gently climbed on top of her, asked her where the money was. She said she didn’t know. He produced a pair of pliers from a back pocket and asked her again. She said she didn’t know. So he pried open her jaw, worked the pliers onto a back tooth and tried to pull it out. It broke and the pain lanced her jaw, blinded her thoughts like he’d poured in hot coals. She screamed. He put the shattered tooth in his pocket and asked again. She begged, told him she really didn’t know. Her tongue probed at where the tooth had been. He climbed back on her, worked the pliers back in and she fought to keep from vomiting. Crack. He broke another back tooth, lacerating her gums; she sobbed, spraying saliva and blood, and he thought she spat on him. Jose slammed the pliers into her jaw and mouth, tearing her lips, knocking out two side teeth. She screamed that she still didn’t know where it was. Then he hit her with his fist, four deep blows, and she blacked out.