Cut and Run wm-3

by Jeff Abbott

  She woke up to the awful, sour taste of blood, wretched pain in her jaw, and the jagged stumps of teeth along her gums.

  Then Jose had come in, removed the handcuffs, let her use the bathroom in privacy. Her jaw and face looked like she’d gone nine rounds in a boxing ring. He let her wash her face with a bar of lavender soap he had unwrapped from delicate paper. The bar smelled wonderful and she nearly wept, thinking of Whit and him asking about the gardenia soap she used when he was little. Jose took her to Kiko’s table, blindfold off, which she could not consider a good sign, and pushed her down to eat. The clock said it was close to eleven; night held itself against the windows.

  ‘You know what I want?’ Kiko asked.

  ‘What?’ she said, watching him chew blueberry pancakes.

  ‘Happy wife. A cure for cancer. Marlins back in the World Series,’ Kiko said.

  ‘No, think big. Chicago,’ Jose said from the kitchen. He wasn’t eating, but he stood at the counter, drinking a glass of milk.

  ‘Your mouth hurting?’ Kiko asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jose, get the lady a pain pill,’ Kiko said. Jose brought her a pill, a glass of water. She palmed it and Kiko said, ‘Really, it’s okay, we aren’t going to poison you.’ She swallowed the tablet, the water, hating herself for taking anything from him but God her mouth hurt bad.

  ‘I know a guy. He really digs older ladies. Really.’ Kiko mopped a bit of pancake through the maple syrup. ‘He’s got unresolved mother issues, Norman Bates-level nutzoid, and that’s a bitchin’ hard-on that don’t fade. Therapy can’t make a dint in this bad-ass. You don’t help me, I give you to him. Actually, I sell you to him.’ He chewed, sipped at coffee. ‘He’ll fuck you no less than a dozen times the first day. Everywhere. Then he’ll turn mean, get out the knife. We got these Albanian bosses trying to move south from New York, horn in. One of ’em had a wife. We grabbed her, sold her to my friend. Let him have her for three days. She lost the ability to speak. I put a bullet in her head. Seemed the kind thing to do.’

  She said nothing, she didn’t want to shiver in front of him.

  ‘So, Eve. When you took the money, the Bellinis came after you. Where did you put it?’ Kiko said.

  ‘I didn’t take it,’ she said. ‘Over the years I’ve had plenty of opportunity to steal from the Bellinis. I didn’t do it.’

  ‘They seemed very sure you did.’

  Eve took a careful breath. Play the hand right, she thought, and they’ll see going after Whit as a no-gain. They’ll leave him alone. She had not even had a chance to say good-bye. ‘The most logical choice is that Bucks took the money and framed me.’

  ‘Why would Bucks betray Paul?’ Kiko asked almost idly.

  ‘For five million reasons,’ she said.

  ‘But you see, Eve, I had an arrangement with Bucks,’ he said. ‘He was supposed to steal the money for me. The money’s gone but it sure ain’t in my pocket.’

  She watched Jose inspecting a hand juicer. He made her nervous, futzing in the kitchen like an old woman. ‘So Bucks betrayed both you and Paul.’

  Kiko shook his head. ‘He was highly motivated not to screw me over, Eve,’ he said. ‘In fact, he would be an idiot if he screwed me over. I know you don’t like him, but do you think he’s stupid?’

  ‘I suspect he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you, Mr Grace.’

  Kiko laughed. ‘Who’s your partner? Bucks says his name is Whitman Mosley. That his real name?’

  ‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s a fake name. Two of his English professors in college.’ The answer sounded inspired. A slowness crept into her limbs, the pain pill starting to kick in, fast and sweet.

  ‘What’s his real name? Where is he?’

  ‘Since I didn’t take the money, neither did he. He was trying to help me prove Bucks took it. Leave him alone.’

  Kiko leaned over and stabbed her with the syrup-sticky fork, deep in the meaty part of her arm. She screamed as the dull tines drove into her flesh.

  ‘Quit lying. He offered to trade the money for you. Made the appointment. So where’s the money?’ Now his voice was soft. She turned to Jose; he was drying the juicer with a dishtowel, looking bored.

  ‘Whit doesn’t have it.’ Blood dribbled down her arm. The fork hung from her flesh. He leaned over and shook the fork and agony bolted up her arm, searing every nerve, worming into her bones. She screamed again, nearly fell from the chair. Jose moved in behind her, pushed her into Kiko’s reach.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ Kiko asked again.

  She said nothing.

  ‘I used the fork,’ he said. ‘I still have a knife.’ He held it up, smeared with butter and a loose rope of syrup. ‘You want to meet my personal Norman Bates? He’ll be on the first flight from Miami if I FedEx your picture and your panties to him.’

  She closed her eyes. Oddly she thought of the small, close air of that Montana motel room, thirty years ago, the whiskey-and-hamburger smell of James Powell, his idle threat against her children, the way the gun snuggled into his mouth like it was meant to fit there, dark against the white of his teeth. The heady little rush of righteousness that soared into her heart when she pulled the trigger. And she thought: I deserve whatever I get.

  She spat in his face. He slapped her and the blast of pain against her savaged mouth nearly made her pass out. ‘Let Bucks rob you blind,’ she gasped. ‘With that money he can hire enough muscle to send you back to Miami with your tail between your legs.’

  Kiko thumped the end of the fork. She tried not to wet herself. ‘I got serious dirt on him, Eve. Proof he’s a murderer, and he’s scared to death of me sending it to the police. So you’re lying. Mosley’s got the cash and you’re shielding him.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘With that money, Bucks can put a big-ass contract on you, one you can’t escape from.’

  Kiko tilted his head, studied her with a half-smile. ‘I heard you were smart once. Shame to lose the edge, ain’t it.’ He stood, pulled the fork from her arm. Skin and flesh gave way, blood bubbled from her skin. ‘Same question. This time I want an actual answer.’ He grabbed the back of her head, brought the fork close to her eye. One of the tines dug into her eye’s corner.

  She had gone down the wrong road in blaming Bucks. Kiko wasn’t rattled. Dumb thinking done fast. She wished she could suck the words back in, turn back time five minutes. He would never leave Whit alone.

  But then Kiko looking up past her shoulder, saying, ‘No need, man, going slow yields more…’ and then three pops in rapid succession, three red eyes opening on Kiko’s forehead, the hair and flesh shearing away from the skull, Kiko toppling backward against and then off his chair.

  Jose stepped around her, a pistol in his hand, a silencer screwed on the barrel. He prodded Kiko with a foot.

  ‘ “Is the chair empty? Is the sword unsway’d? Is the king dead?” ’ he said. ‘I would say, Eve, the king is pretty fucking dead.’

  Eve swallowed against a tide of bile in her mouth, waited for him to raise the gun to her.

  ‘Don’t I get a thank-you?’ Jose said.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘You killed him.’

  ‘It was a choice,’ Jose said. ‘You ever do that, Eve? Weigh your choices?’

  He waited for an answer.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Even for decisive people it’s difficult.’ Jose went to the kitchen, got a first-aid kit, grabbed a dispenser of antiseptic soap. He came back, set the gun back in his shoulder holster, and started to clean the fork wound on her arm. She sat perfectly still.

  ‘Now,’ Jose said. ‘I’m doing big serious weighing right now. I can either believe you or Bucks. You know the whole infrastructure of the Bellini operations. That’s valuable information. I think I’ll believe

  … you.’

  She continued to stare, glanced at Kiko, syrup still on his lips, the beauty mark by his mouth all bloodied, distorted wide-eyed surprise on what was left of his f
ace. ‘Is everyone turning on their bosses these days?’ she managed to say.

  ‘I did it because he was a drug-dealing animal. And I’m a good citizen. Consider it a public service.’ He laughed softly, bandaged her arm, taped it, lowered her sleeve back over the dressing. ‘That’ll do for now.’

  ‘But I don’t know where the money is.’

  ‘I know you don’t,’ Jose said. ‘I believe you. Sorry about the teeth, but I did the least I could for him to know you got worked over proper. We have a dentist we can probably get you. If you behave.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘I’m interested in a lot more than five million,’ Jose said. ‘You know how much drug money is laundered in this country each year?’

  She shook her head.

  Jose smiled, gave a little canary chirp of a laugh. He tapped her forehead. Once, twice, gently, almost with respect. ‘So you don’t know the numbers. But I bet you can help us find a big percentage of it, can’t you?’

  ‘What…’

  ‘You know all the tricks of the trade, don’t you, Eve? How to clean it, hide it. You’re a number-rattling little genius.’ Jose gave her a smile. ‘You’re key to what I need.’

  She was going to live then, at least a little bit longer. ‘I’ll do whatever you want me to. Just leave Whit Mosley alone? Please?’ She hated herself for asking but she had to. She had to.

  ‘First things first.’ Jose pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s finish the night’s work, okay?’

  38

  Greg Buckman wasn’t what Claudia expected. He looked like a stockbroker, trim but muscular, average-handsome with ruddy cheeks, hair thinning early. He wore a white button-down that had gotten dirty in the course of the day, wrinkled suit pants, an old-school rep tie loosened – a tie on Saturday? she thought. He looked like a young exec fresh from a one-martini-too-many happy hour, a little bleary, tired, and sour. And he had a nasty black eye.

  This was the man Whit thought killed Harry.

  The man with Bucks had a Caribbean accent spicing his ‘hello’ to Robin, dreadlocks neatened back with a red embroidered band, dressed in faded jeans, white T-shirt, and a leather jacket, but he wore a back holster that Claudia spotted the moment he came through the door. The man stayed by the door, not quite like a guard, but like a friend, bored and ready to go find excitement, waiting on his buddy.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Bucks said to Robin. Staring at Claudia. No hello, honey, how are you. Or hi I’m Greg.

  ‘She’s a writer. She’s working on a book about Energis,’ Robin said. ‘But defending the guys like you.’

  Claudia stood, offered a hand. Bucks didn’t take it. ‘I’m Claudia Salazar.’

  ‘Lady, I don’t talk about my former employer. At all. Please go.’

  She lowered her hand. ‘I can help salvage your reputation, Mr Buckman.’

  He gave a sharp little laugh. ‘I didn’t know it needed fixing. I’m asking you to leave. Nicely. You’re trespassing.’

  ‘Robin invited me in.’

  ‘Please go.’

  ‘My research assistant died earlier this week,’ Claudia said. Second card to play, the one she was afraid of, to throw him off entirely if he knew anything about Harry’s death. ‘His name was Harry Chyme. He was helping me with research on Energis execs. He got shot in an insurance office near the port.’

  Bucks touched his temple as though a migraine were blossoming. ‘What part of go did you not get?’

  ‘You’re in danger.’ She decided to try the approach she’d tried with Robin. ‘Harry was tracking information on three Energis employees killed last year. I understand they worked for you.’ See how he handled a curveball, see how he reacted under sudden, terrible pressure to the unexpected.

  Bucks came close to her, smelling of gunfire. She took a step back. ‘I’m sorry about your friend’s death. But it has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You know what it’s like to lose a friend,’ Claudia said. ‘You lost three at once.’

  Not a muscle on his mouth or face moved. ‘I’ve not had a good day. You’re pissing me off. And anger blinds, it leads to obstacles.’

  ‘Greg, listen to her, you might need to-’ Robin started.

  He hit Robin. A solid slap that sent her reeling. She fell, skidding across the coffee table, knocking over a candlestick and a small stack of Chad Channing videos.

  Claudia had her police pistol out, close to his face. ‘Don’t move,’ she said slowly. ‘Hands where I can see them, sir,’ she said to the dreadlocked friend, who stayed still and who now wore, to her surprise, an amused smile. He kept his hands away from his jacket but not exactly up.

  Bucks said nothing, his eyes big.

  ‘Anger is the road to obstacle, Greg, you are so right about that,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Sorry. A momentary loss of control.’

  ‘If you draw,’ Claudia told the friend, ‘I will shoot him, then you. You got me?’

  ‘I believe I do,’ he said.

  ‘Call the cops, MacKay,’ Bucks said.

  ‘Is this a 311 or a 911?’ MacKay said. But he didn’t move toward the phone.

  ‘Robin. Go outside,’ Claudia said.

  Robin climbed to her feet, a bright little stream of blood dripping from her mouth, her fingertips probing at her jaw. ‘Oh, Greg,’ she said. More stunned than tearful, too surprised yet to be angry. She flailed an arm at Claudia. ‘Hey, put that gun down.’

  ‘I will, when you and I are out of here.’

  ‘A feminist with a gun,’ Bucks said. ‘Isn’t that a contradiction, waving your phallic symbol around?’ He’d gotten the cool back in his voice. He circled away from Claudia, putting her between him and MacKay as he moved toward the living room’s bank of windows.

  ‘I’ll shoot your phallic symbol off with it if you don’t shut up,’ Claudia said. ‘C’mon, Robin.’

  ‘He never hit me before,’ Robin said. Digging in her heels, not thinking.

  ‘You never pissed him off before,’ Claudia said.

  ‘She pisses me off plenty,’ Bucks said. ‘I’m picking up the phone, okay? Calling the cops. Robin wants to press charges, she can. But you’re trespassing and threatening us, and-’ He leaned down to scoop up the cordless phone from its cradle and the windows behind him shattered in gunfire, glass, blinds, and curtain sharding into the room. Claudia dove to the floor, knocking Robin down with her, the redhead screaming, Bucks screaming, the other man screaming.

  The dust-stale taste of the sisal rug was in Claudia’s mouth and suddenly the thunder of gunfire stopped. She turned her head away from the window, Robin squirming in panic beneath her, and saw MacKay slumped against the far wall, a red smear on the wallpaper behind him, his hand tucked uselessly into his jacket.

  Silence now from the guns, from the destroyed windows that faced onto the parking lot. Then a man stepping through them, blunt-faced, stocky, Hispanic, dressed in black T-shirt and jeans. Carrying an automatic rifle. Looking at Bucks’ feet, sticking out from under a table.

  Claudia fired at the man’s chest. And Robin moved under her, trying to bolt.

  Her shot went wide, splintering the window frame next to the gunman; he fell back, firing again, but wild. Claudia hustled Robin to her feet, looking back in the bullet-peppered den for Bucks. She shoved Robin toward the back door where MacKay lay splayed. Robin was sobbing.

  Bucks was gone. A door slammed shut to her left, Bucks hiding elsewhere in the townhouse.

  ‘Get out! The back!’ Claudia ordered. Robin stumbled, opened the door, went out. Not a backyard but a small garage. Trapped.

  Then more gunfire erupted behind them. Claudia turned. Bucks, running from a bedroom, laid fire across the shattered windows with an automatic of his own. Claudia slammed the door to the condo shut, jabbed the garage door opener. The door rose with slow suburban solemnity and she pushed Robin down behind a battered Jaguar. But no greeting of gunfire as the door tracked upward, just the heavy swampiness of the night.

&nbs
p; Silence. The gunfire ended.

  ‘Run,’ Claudia said. ‘Get to a neighbor’s, call 911.’

  Robin Melvin ran toward the gleam of the pool and the clubhouse beyond.

  Claudia turned back toward the door. She eased open the door, yelled ‘Police! Lay down your weapons!’ She listened. No sound. Staying low, she went through the door, keeping her gun trained on the opposite corner.

  The room was empty.

  She checked MacKay. No pulse. A lock of his hair lay across his throat like a rope, smelling of sandalwood. She moved through the rest of the condo. No sign of Greg Buckman. She headed out of the condo, through the garage, working her way toward the front, then around again.

  No shooter. No Bucks. A car raced off across the lot, a late-model black Suburban, ripping across the landscaping and then through the main exit, splintering the wooden rail that didn’t rise fast enough. Gone. The license plate began with TJ, the rest of it unreadable as the car vanished into the night.

  Then the thrum of a second engine sounded and the Jag tore out of Bucks’ garage into the lot. She chased it, yelling at Bucks to stop. He must’ve gone out a window and circled the condo in the opposite direction from her. The Jag zoomed through the exit. Chasing the Suburban.

  Claudia Salazar put her gun down at her feet, dug her police ID out of her jacket, and sat down on the driveway to wait for the police. The distant wail of sirens approached. Her nerves caught up with her now, and her hands shook, a coldness crept over her, and she wondered if Whit still breathed.

  39

  Sunday morning, at Frank Polo’s house, there were no hymns. There was disco. Frank wrapped himself in the cocoon of his own voice, the beat and croon drifting up from the speakers, the one slow ballad he had made into a hit, ‘When You Walk Away.’ He lay on the couch, a wet cloth on his eyes, a cup of coffee balanced on his stomach. His left foot bopped in rhythm to the song.