Cold Shot to the Heart (23 page)

When he reached the road, he turned left, switched on the headlights. A half mile later, he got on the Turnpike, headed south. He found himself speeding, had to will himself to slow down. Snow flitted in the headlights, the white line blurring, the road disappearing beneath his wheels.

*   *   *

He knocked twice on the door, waited. Knocked again hard, gloved fist against wood.

Footsteps inside the house.

“Open the door,” he said.

“Who is it?”

“It's Eddie. I need to talk with you.”

“Where's Terry?”

“That's what I need to talk to you about. Open the door.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Let me in and we'll talk. I can't stand out here like this.”

He heard locks being undone. The door opened a crack, the gap spanned by a chain. Angie looked out.

“What happened?”

“Come on, Angie. Let me in.”

She closed the door, slipped the chain. When she opened it again, she said, “Did something happen? Where's Terry?” She was wearing a white bathrobe, her hair tied back. She kept one arm across her stomach.

“I just left him,” he said. “He asked me to come see you.”

“Where is he?”

“That computer, is it still here?”

“In the kitchen. Why?”

“Get it for me, will you?”

She bit a thumbnail.

“He needs it,” he said. “Now.”

She nodded, turned. He shut the door behind him, took out the Ruger, and shot her in the back of the head.

The laptop was on the kitchen table. He searched the house, found ten thousand in banded bills in a shoe box in the bedroom closet. Stupid kid, he thought. Left it sitting there where anyone could find it. He filled his coat pockets with cash.

The laptop under his arm, he went back out into the night.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Eddie knelt in cold, dead leaves, watching Tino's house. The other yards he'd crossed had low wooden fences or bare hedges. Tino's fence was head high, chain link. Eddie waited beside it.

Inside the glassed-in back porch was the glow of a cigarette, the silhouette of a man sitting there. The light over the porch illuminated a flagstone patio with a wrought-iron table and chairs, all dusted with snow. The rest of the yard was in darkness.

As Eddie watched, the man rose, opened the porch door, flicked the cigarette out into the yard. Then he turned and went through into the house.

Eddie gripped the chain link with gloved hands, went up the fence fast and quiet. He lowered himself down the other side, dropped to frozen earth, moved into the darkness. Beyond the patio was a pair of fig trees wrapped in canvas. He stepped behind them. The sky was clearing, the moon coming out.

After a few minutes, the man came back out, reclaimed his seat. Eddie saw the flare of a lighter, then the glow of another cigarette. He reached down, felt around until his fingers closed on a smooth stone the size of an egg. He sidearmed it into the darkness, heard it clatter against the fence.

The door opened again, and the man stepped out into the light. He was big, dark hair slicked back. He held an automatic at his side.

He tossed the cigarette and came out into the yard, frost crackling under his shoes. He seemed to look right at Eddie, then walked past him to the fence. Eddie came out from behind the trees, touched the muzzle of the Ruger to the back of his neck.

“Not a sound,” he said. “I've got no issue with you. Just take it easy and you'll walk away from this.”

He reached around with his free hand, took the man's gun. It was a Mini Glock. He put it in his own pocket, guided the man deeper into the shadows.

“Kneel.”

When he didn't move, Eddie thumbed back the Ruger's hammer.

“You won't have time to yell. If you open your mouth, your brains will be in the trees. And whoever comes out that door next will be as dead as you are. Now kneel.”

Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees, hands at shoulder height.

Eddie leaned close to him. “Who's in there besides Tino? How many others?”

“No one.” Lying.

“I just want to talk to him. Get some things straightened out. No one's gonna get hurt. Is his wife in there with him?”

“No.”

“Who else?”

The man exhaled, his breath frosting. “Just one guy.”

“Where is he?”

“With Tino, in the kitchen.”

He decocked the Ruger, put it away.

“What are they doing?”

“Waiting for a phone call.”

“From Nicky?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie locked a forearm across the man's throat, pulled back hard to cut off the noise. He cupped the back of his head with his other hand, pushed forward, bore the man down to the ground. He held him while he fought. Eventually the struggles slowed and stopped.

Eddie left him there, drew the Glock. He crossed the yard and went onto the porch. The door there led into a paneled hallway, family pictures on the wall. To the right, a kitchen entrance. Tino sat at the table, his back to the door, playing cards with another man. There was a cell phone and a revolver on the table.

Eddie stepped into the kitchen, said, “Hey, Tino.”

The other man saw him, reached for the gun. Eddie shot him, and he went over backward in the chair. Blood spattered the cards.

Tino turned to look at him. He wore a dressing gown over an open shirt. His skin was yellowish in the kitchen light.

Eddie came around the table, pulled out a chair, sat down. They faced each other. Eddie could hear his labored breathing.

Tino said, “Nick?”

Eddie shook his head. Tino closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were moist.

“You knew this day would come, didn't you?” Eddie said.

“You son of a bitch, just do what you—”

Eddie raised the Glock above the level of the table, fired twice. The sound of the shots echoed through the empty house.

He sat there for a while, then stood, looked at the old man still and silent on the floor. Then he went back through the porch and out into the cold night. The big man lay where he'd left him. Eddie dropped the Glock beside him.

He climbed the fence again, not caring about noise now. By the light of the moon, he made his way back to the car.

*   *   *

Back in the motel, he sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He reeked of gunpowder. His arms and legs felt like lead weights.

Suarez's cell phone was on the nightstand. He picked it up, saw the
MISSED CALL
icon. The woman's number. No message.

He slipped out of his coat, peeled off the gloves, picked up the phone, hit the
RETURN CALL
key. Two buzzes and the line was picked up. He listened, said nothing.

“I've been thinking about those angles,” the woman said. “The best I can do is a hundred.”

“Not good enough.”

“It'll have to be. It's all I've got in cash.”

“What about Chance?”

“He's in the wind. A thousand miles away from here by now, if he's smart. I have no way of reaching him.”

“A hundred isn't enough.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “My split was two hundred and nine. If you talked to Stimmer—”

“Oh, I talked to him all right.”

“—then you know that figure's accurate. Most of it went into an investment firm I use. Some went into bonds and notes I can't touch for months. There were other expenses, too. That left a hundred in cash. That's all I have.”

A hundred thousand, plus what he already had. It would be enough to get him clear. He could head south maybe, Florida, or west to Arizona or California. Or he could get the woman to tell him where Chance was, hope he had more. The thought of it made him tired. He rubbed his eyes.

“You there?” she said.

“I'm here. Somebody like you, you probably have money stashed all over.”

“Not anymore.”

“The hundred, you have it with you?”

“I have to get it. It's hidden.”

“Where?”

“At a place I sometimes use. About two hours from here.”

“Where?”

A pause, then, “Connecticut.”

“You go get it, bring it back. Call me.”

“No,” she said. “I'm not coming back. You meet me there, I hand you the cash, or tell you where to find it. You get it and we're done.”

“You're not in a position to deal. And believe me, bitch, after tonight I've got nothing to lose.”

“What's that mean?”

“You want to keep screwing around? Fine. I'll find you eventually, get that money anyway. And you'll be begging for a bullet.”

“I can't come back. I'm heading north. My plan was to stop, pick up the cash, keep going.”

Heading for Canada, he thought, and stupid enough to think she'll make it.

“Where are you now?” he said.

“In the city. I can't get at the money until tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

“It's in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn't be able to find it at night.”

“That story's almost stupid enough to be true. Here's the deal. If we meet and you don't have it, or it's not as much as you say—or there's some other bullshit excuse you come up with—then we're going to have a long talk. And if you're not there, I'm going to track you down. You know that, right?”

“I know that.”

“And I might need to make that trip to Texas.”

Silence on the line.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” she said. “Tell you where, when.”

“Tell me now.”

“No. I'll call you when I have it. I'll give you time to get up there, then I'll meet you around dusk. I give you the money and then you get the fuck out of my life.”

“That'll be the luckiest day you ever had, woman,” he said. “The day you see me walking away from you, and you're still breathing.”

“Whatever.”

“And you better pray,” he said, “that you never see me again.”

When the line went dead, she put on her jacket, the .38 in the pocket, left the hotel. Earlier in the evening, she'd called Leah, spent five minutes on the phone with her, then ten more with an angry Earl. She couldn't blame him. They would be more careful now, though, keep a closer eye on Maddie, watch out for strangers. She'd given them as few details as possible, but it had been enough.

It had started to snow again. She walked west on 42nd, crossed Twelfth Avenue to the Circle Line pier. A tugboat was pulling up, engine chugging, green and red running lights reflected in the water. A pair of gulls followed it, swooping in and out of the pole lights on the dock. Across the river, she could see headlights moving along the Palisades Parkway.

She took the cell from her pocket, scaled it out over the rocks and into the darkness, heard it splash. A gull swooped down, circled where it had gone in, then banked away, disappointed.

Any more contact would be on her terms now. She'd buy another phone tomorrow, make the call. Stall as long as she could, until she had a plan.

She stood there for a while, watching snow fall on the river. Then she walked back to the hotel, her hand on the gun.

TWENTY-EIGHT

When the woman answered the phone, Crissa said, “I have a message for Sladden.”

“There's nobody by that name here.”

She was standing at the window, looking out on 42nd Street. It had stopped snowing during the night, and the streets were clear again. She'd heard the plows rumbling by as she lay in bed, sleepless.

“He knows me,” she said. “Take down this number. Tell him I'm trying to contact our mutual friend.”

“I'm sorry. I can't help you with that.”

“Just take the number. It's a new one he doesn't have.” She read it off.

“You're wasting your time.”

“I know,” Crissa said. “Just humor me.” The woman hung up.

She spread a towel on the desk, opened the tin of gun oil she'd bought. She unloaded the .38, oiled it until the action worked smoothly. Then she set the shells nose up on the desk, opened her pocket knife. She laid the blade across the tips, used the gun butt to tap
X
's into the soft lead. Scored like that, the slugs would expand when they hit, increase the stopping power. She spilled more shells from the box, did the same to them.

As she was reloading, the phone buzzed. A number she didn't recognize. When she answered, a man said, “Who is this?”

“Someone on the East Coast.”

“How's that?”

“I told our mutual friend I wouldn't contact him again. But things have changed.”

“None of this means anything to me, lady.”

“Tell him if he doesn't call back, I understand. But if it wasn't serious, I wouldn't call.”

“I'm hanging up now. Don't call this number again.” The line went dead.

An hour later, she was having lunch in the hotel coffee shop when the phone began to buzz. Another number she didn't know, an area code she couldn't place.

She hit
SEND
, brought the phone to her ear.

“Okay, Red,” Chance said. “Talk to me.”

*   *   *

When she pulled into the Turnpike rest area, Chance was at the far end of the lot, leaning on the fender of a dark blue Mustang. He wore the same field jacket she'd seen him in last, gloves. He had his arms folded, watching her. Behind him, a line of semis queued up at the gas pumps. Traffic rushed by on the roadway beyond.

She pulled the rental up beside him. He got in.

“After the other night,” she said, “I thought there was a good chance I'd never see you again.”

“Me, too. But I kept thinking how Wayne would have my ass if anything happened to you.”

“It's not me I'm worried about.”

“You think this guy's serious? About Texas?”

“I can't take the chance he is. This needs to end.” She looked over at the Mustang. “Where'd you'd boost that?”