Cooler Than Blood (24 page)

CHAPTER 40

“S
uccess,” Winston Churchill noted, “consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” Maybe we were just chasing down another failure, but that wouldn’t dent our enthusiasm.

I swung onto 275 south, and the interstate widened where a Maginot Line of tollbooths guarded the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. I clocked sixty-two on the truck’s digital display through the tollbooth’s SunPass lane—that was a personal best. Felt pretty good about that. We rode the bridge high into the night like a rocket trying to break earth’s gravitational pull. If some unfortunate man with a six-shooter, a badge, and a pension happened to be in my path, he’d have to catch me. I’d been a step behind at every turn, and if that were to be the case again, it wouldn’t be due to lack of focus. Fifteen minutes later, I took the Route 19 exit, followed by two lefts and a fork to the right that my copilot ordered. I pulled the truck off the side of the road about a hundred yards shy of our target. We were in flat-bush Florida country—the stuff that never makes a postcard despite occupying a substantial portion of the state.

Binelli called.

“What?”

“More news on Rutledge,” she said. Garrett passed me my Boker knife, and I wiggled my body higher in the seat, twisted, and put it the pocket of my jeans.

“What?” I hit her again.

“Catch you at a bad moment?” Her tone held no guise of sincerity.

“I’m camped outside Rutledge’s sister’s house. I don’t have—”

“You’re where?”

“Rutledge’s sister. I—”

“Listen to me. We found out that when Rutledge goes to Vegas—”

“We’ve been over this,” I interrupted her. I wanted to get on the ground and approach the house. “He owes money to Dangelo’s group. Remember, Dangelo told me. I told you—”

“
Listen,
you arrogant pinhead. You don’t know what you’re walking into. Rutledge worked for Dangelo. You listening now?”

“Go.” I put the phone on speaker.

“Remember I told you that last year Rutledge was cleared of a shooting death in a drug raid that he went into solo? Turns out the man he plugged was trying to move into Joseph Dangelo’s turf.”

“I thought you stuck with CliffsNotes.”

“Yeah, well, I got curious about how tiny your world had suddenly gotten, and it’s a good thing for you, because I was able to requisition bank records. I found the missing money from that drug raid.”

She paused as if she expected me to interrupt. “And?” I asked.

“The money was wired into his sister’s account,” Binelli said, picking up the speed, as if she’d just been given the green flag, “two weeks after the raid.”

“Coincidence.” Soon as I said it, I knew I’d wasted four syllables.

“Doubtful. Rutledge spent his Vegas time almost exclusively at casinos Dangelo’s group has interest in. He lobbied hard to be on the drug case. Wasn’t his to start with. Besides, it was twenty-five grand even. You know if we pulled tax records, we wouldn’t see it declared.”

I thought back to my conversation with Dangelo. A smooth talker, he had stumbled with his words when describing when Chuck Duke had made the connection:
“He recognized…He uncovered the name of someone who owed us some money.”
Like Hemingway’s nuanced improvement over Twain’s quote,
recognizing
a name shows more familiarity than
uncovering
a name. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but looking back, I doubt someone in Chuck Duke’s capacity, even considering his mental prowess, would keep tabs on every Vegas debt holder. Dangelo had told me Rutledge owed them money, but he’d withheld the information that Rutledge had performed a hit for him. I understood why, but Dangelo still had engaged in less than full disclosure that day in the restaurant. I was ticked with myself for assuming he had shown me all his cards. When he had said Rutledge owed him money, I should have known there was more. On the other end, I had Rutledge pretending he couldn’t pronounce Dangelo’s name.
Dee-angelo
. Both had outplayed me.

But no one tosses my cork into the water.

“Okay,” I snapped back. “Dangelo’s association gets to know Rutledge by his gambling debt to them. Maybe they keep closer tabs on him; it’s good to have a man with a badge be indebted to you. They see opportunity when they need someone eliminated, someone who’s moving in on them, and they give the job to Rutledge. Pass him some cash, maybe even forgive a debt in the process.”

“No way of knowing if he was in debt to them at the time,” Binelli said, “but it’s a safe bet and meaningless for our discussion. What I don’t understand is why Dangelo didn’t see this earlier.”

“Dangelo told me they’d just connected the dots themselves that Rutledge was the guy who had interviewed Jenny. What was given to us wasn’t so easy for them to figure out.” Garrett got out of the truck but kept his door open so he could listen. I was trying to wrap my mind around the implication of Binelli’s information. “My guess,” I continued, “is that Dangelo needs to find Rutledge before I find Rutledge. Rutledge could roll and sing to negotiate a lighter sentence
if
he gets caught. Dangelo would like him dead. Probably like Rutledge dead more than recovering the money.”

“You’re dialed in now. You’ve got two sets of enemies.”

“Maybe not.”

“How so?” she asked.

“We’ve been passing the ceremonial pipe around here. Dangelo’s interests are aligned with mine.” I was beginning to see my enemies, and outside of Rutledge, I didn’t think Dangelo’s boys—assuming Eric Rutledge never saw another sunrise—were in that club. Jenny, unfortunately, held no interest to either of the conflicting parties.

Binelli’s voice brought me back. “Your curtain’s up.”

“I owe you.”

“Always.”

I stepped out of the truck. “This place is either empty, or we’ve got a crowd,” Garrett said. “If we found this house, Dangelo can too. We want Jenny alive; he wants Rutledge dead.”

Garrett and I were on the same page. I replied, “That’s the winning combination tonight.” We discussed our plan and headed into the darkness. I didn’t bother to tell Morgan to stay with the truck. He never had listened to me in the past, and something in his past made him—and based on what I’d witnessed when he’d helped us rescue Kathleen on the beach—uncannily comfortable with guns in the night.

CHAPTER 41

A
two-story house. Lights on. A car parked out front. Margaret Rutledge, dead as she was, was throwing a party. I should have asked McGlashan what kind of wheels Rutledge drove. A small barn with another car parked tightly across its doors was off to my right. To keep someone inside? I claimed the barn, and Garrett took the house. Morgan was the floater, going where the noise and action drew him. Our phones were on vibrate and group text.

I sprinted through the high grass. I was still a hundred feet out from the barn when gunfire erupted from the house. I hit the ground, and my injured left ankle twisted awkwardly in a hole. Garrett’s SIG Sauer retorted. I rose into a low crouch position.

“Raise your hands, Alice,” Chuck Duke said, “and do it slowly.”

God in heaven, I did not like that man.

How the hell did he get the drop on me? Where was Morgan? He couldn’t have been more than fifty yards behind me unless he’d taken off in the direction of the gunfire. I got up. My ankle throbbed. I wanted to work out the kinks but didn’t take the chance. I pivoted and stared into the barrels of a double-barrel shotgun.

“Dodgson, good to see you.”

“It’s unfortunate that you’re here,” he said, keeping his four eyes on my two.

“Certainly is for you. What do you say? Drop the hardware and settle this like honorable gentlemen?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Chicken.”

“Move.” He flipped his gun toward the barn. I glanced at the building and noticed that the two wide, sagging doors met in an uneven line. The car, a two-door, was parked lengthwise in front of the doors. If the doors swung out, they weren’t going anywhere. The car was positioned to block direct access in or out of the barn. Was Jenny in there?

“You first,” I instructed.

He replied with another jerk of his gun. I took a few steps.

I’ve had guns at my back before—this wasn’t totally unfamiliar territory for me—and I’ve always vowed never to let it happen again. It does, and the only thing I can figure is that it must be a consequence of my lifestyle choice. Would he shoot? Doubtful. He certainly had heard the gunfire and knew I wasn’t alone. But then again, I originally thought he possessed a brain the size of my left nut, so what did I know? Who’d ever have thought my left nut was that smart?

Besides, we were on the same side, and I think he knew that.

I stopped and turned. “Joe didn’t make the trip with you, did he?”

He waved his gun as if it were a magic wand and would control my movements.

Dangelo’s words came back to me. “
Your résumé is, as I’ve already stated, remarkably stark. Yet you hardly seem a man of inaction
.” Had he foreseen this? I went with it.

“You have a dilemma here,” I said. “Rutledge owes you money, and you used him in the past to silence a competitor. If you go after him—a man with a badge—the feds will swarm you. If you let him live, he’ll cut a deal and expose you to save his ass. You need to silence him, but you can’t be in the same hemisphere when it happens. You need me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Maybe you don’t want that gun pointed at me.”

From behind me, a blast of fire illuminated the dark and reflected in Chuck Duke’s glasses. Just as the pelican had dove off Susan’s dock and made an unexpected splash that she’d instinctively reacted to, Chuck Duke’s eyes left mine and darted to the leaping flames that caught the periphery of my vision. I didn’t care if Fat Boy had gone off—my eyes were glued to the double-barrel shotgun.

I know I should have done what was in the best interest of Jenny, especially considering that Chuck Duke had just indicated willingness to negotiate, but my instincts shuttered my brain and possessed my body like that baitfish jumping for its life. That’s what I tell myself. Truth is, I’d wanted to slap the arrogant prick ever since he’d gotten the jump on me when I was in Kathleen’s car.

I lunged my body at his midsection and grabbed the gun. He fell backward, and we both held a firm grip on the shotgun. He had both hands on it and eventually would have won that battle, as I had only my left hand on the barrels. That, however, wasn’t the battle I was fighting. I fiddled with my right hand for my Boker knife. I extended the blade and pressed it against the edge of his neck. Chuck Duke dropped his shotgun.

“Easy, pal,” he said. “We were on the verge of a merger here. We both know that.” I shot a glance at the garage. The flames leapt from the rear of the structure.

Jenny
.

What a perfect way to get rid of her. Morgan’s words came back to me. “
Regroup his thoughts, and then he’ll act quickly.”
I didn’t have time for Chuck Duke and was debating my options when Morgan emerged from the dark. He said, far too quietly, “Jenny’s in there.”

I looked at Chuck Duke. “Is she?”

“Just pulled in a little before you.”

“Can you watch him?” I stood and kept my eyes on Chuck Duke. He hadn’t answered my question, but I didn’t think he was playing games.

“Go.” Morgan drew a gun. I wasn’t aware that he was packing. Chuck Duke rose to his feet. He brushed the dirt off his clothing and dutifully straightened his eyeglasses. I took off.

“Hey, Alice.”

I spun around. Chuck Duke probably could take Morgan, gun or no gun, and I felt conflicted leaving my friend in such a predicament.

“What?”

“Do the job for both of us.”

I sprinted toward the flames. The house was off to my left, no more than a hundred feet. Where was Garrett? Were his shots I heard aimed at Rutledge or Chuck Duke’s counterpart? I hoped Chuck Duke had a method to communicate our agreement to his partner. I should have cleared that with him.

If Jenny were in the barn, the smoke would get her before the flames. The car blocking the barn door came into focus. Ford Fairlane. Decent shape.
Named after Henry Ford’s estate, Fair Lane, in Michigan. Stopped production in 1970. Focus, man. Focus.

He stepped out from the far corner of the barn when I was less than twenty feet away. The fire’s light illuminated the barrel of his revolver. I slowed, but I didn’t stop.

“That’s far enough,” Wallace Eric Rutledge said. Blood stained his shirt from what appeared to be a stomach wound. His hair was perfectly groomed. It seemed so odd, and I wondered why I even noticed.

“What now, Rutledge?” I kept walking. “You going to shoot me, four others, burn the girl, and walk away?”

“Not a bad idea.” His voice was resigned. It was over, and he knew it. The only question was how he went out. I threw away the bargain playbook. I kept walking.

Rutledge brought his gun up higher. “I
said,
‘That’s far enough.’”

I stopped. Where was Garrett? “What did you do? Grab the money then cut the tape? But when the Colemans took her and the search started, it led us to her claim that there
was
money in Billy Ray’s car. Led us to the job you did for Dangelo, the man you owed money to. You thought this would work out for you?”

“Never planned much beyond taking the money, but it evolved into something like that. Your buddy McGlashan was asking too many questions, wanted to talk to the apartment residents, take a look at her phone. I couldn’t take that chance.”

“And Dangelo? You did a job for him once?”

“Damn straight. But who the hell would’ve thought he’d have any interest in some runaway slut, let alone the fact that the money would be his? Unfuckinbelieveable. Even then, I had a chance. But when you told me you were talking to him and knew where the girl was, and you’d discovered the connection between Dangelo and the Colemans, then I knew it was all busted.”

“Why not come clean? Tell Dangelo you didn’t know it was his and keep the Colemans’ half for being honest?”

“Yeah.” He waved his gun up and down. “That would have been nice. Unfortunately, I’m behind far more than I stole. Greed doesn’t generate the best decisions.”

I had more questions, but only one that mattered. “Where is she?” Rutledge smirked and gave a slight shake of his head. I marched straight into him. “Is she in there?”

“Tits up, baby.” He took a step even closer, a mistake on his part. “Burning in hell, just like you.”

I doubled over and threw myself at his knees, but I was no match for the reflex of his finger. His gun went off simultaneously with another blast before I made contact with him. My lower-right abdomen felt the graze of a bullet. I hit the ground. I jumped up just in time to see Rutledge go down, his shirt a lava flow of blood. Garrett stood thirty paces to my left, his SASS still aimed at the last vertical space Wallace Eric Rutledge ever would occupy. The flames now consumed half the barn. My body recoiled instinctively from the heat.

Burning in hell. And I was burning time with Rutledge.

I raced toward the vertical line where the two doors met. The weakest link. An arrow pierced my right side every time my right foot found the ground, and my left ankle threatened to buckle with every step. I was still a good distance out when the flames roared at me in defiance, and the left side of the building vanished into an inferno. My mind flashed to my flying leap in the swimming pool to retrieve the girl’s bone and my effort to clear the tidal pool while running. I had failed in each attempt. We’re so big in our dreams, so small in our lives. Yet I was all Jenny had. Her wrecking ball.

Are you watching me now?

I don’t know how far away I was when I launched. All I know is that I had the sense to launch with my good ankle. I flew feet-first over the car with my body parallel to the ground. I struck the doors above the lock. They shattered. I landed on my left shoulder on the concrete. A piercing bolt of pain electrified my neck and back.

I got to my feet, but collapsed with my hands on my knees. Hell roared at me as if it were defending its homeland. I coughed. Too much smoke. Fresh blood on the floor. Mine? Another wave of heat as the Devil brought up the reserves. I couldn’t focus. Coughing, but not me. I straightened. Raised my head. She came at me from out of the smoke. An apparition of death, an angel of hell. Not the girl in the picture. Matted hair. Angry eyes. Tears? A hatchet. She held it high. She screamed. She swung. I jerked my head to the right.

I was three shots of bourbon too slow.