Cut and Run (24 page)

Headlights turned into the parking lot. A Porsche. Slowly moving toward the restaurant’s front. Parking at the edge of the
glow thrown off by the mercury lights. Two cars went by on Buffalo and then the streets were empty for a moment.

Whit tucked the gun into the back of his pants.

The door opened. Paul Bellini stepped out from the driver’s side. Left the door open. Kept his hands down by his side. He
wore a heavy leather jacket, thick-armed.

‘Put your hands on your head,’ Whit called.

Paul didn’t raise his hands. ‘This is an exchange. Not a surrender.’

Whit stepped out from the dark. ‘Where’s Gooch?’

‘He’s in the trunk.’

‘Open the trunk and bring him out.’

‘Slow down. Where’s Eve?’

‘In my van.’

‘Get her out here.’ Paul took a step forward.

They stood ten feet away from each other, the dim light
flat against the asphalt, Paul more in the light, Whit on the edge of the dark.

‘This is how it works,’ Whit said. ‘I give you the keys to the van. Eve is inside. You give me the keys to the Porsche. I
drive off, you drive off.’

‘I’m not trading a Porsche for your shit-ass van,’ Paul said.

‘You’re a real long-term-vision guy, aren’t you? I’ll get Gooch out, dump the car, and call you to tell you where your car’s
at, okay?’ The weight of the gun pressed against the back of his pants. Sure that Paul had a gun under that leather coat,
wondering
am I fast enough to fire before be can?
Figuring the math of death, dizzy but not exactly afraid.

Paul surprised him with a little laugh. Too calm for this. ‘Sure you will.’

‘I don’t want your car, you dumbass.’

‘Fine. Bring me the keys, then, buddy.’ Paul gestured at Whit with his fingertips. Whit took one step forward, walking into
the light.

‘By the way,’ Whit said. ‘The same files I got from Tasha after she copied Eve’s hard drive, they’re attached to an e-mail
message outlining your activities. Addressed to the DA’s office and to the police. It’s scheduled to go out in an hour with
all those files attached. If I’m not there to delete that message, it mails. So you kill me, you’re still screwed. Do you
understand me?’

‘Perfectly,’ Paul said. ‘You’re a clever bastard. You want a job?’

‘We’ve got different work styles.’

‘How do I know you won’t send the files anyway?’

‘Trust me.’

‘Trust you.’

‘I’m trusting that Gooch isn’t dead in that trunk,’ Whit said.

‘I’m trusting the same about Eve.’

Across the street, in the darkened church lot, a gentle little pop sounded. Like a door clicking shut. Then another. Paul
started to glance over his shoulder, then didn’t.

‘What was that?’ Whit said.

‘The sound of me trusting you. Here are the keys,’ Paul said. He tossed them carefully to Whit, who caught them one-handed.
‘Go.’

Whit tossed the van keys to Paul. ‘Now we each turn around and walk away.’ Deciding he could open the trunk with the remote,
be sure Gooch was okay, then drive off fast. He wouldn’t have to shoot Paul, he could outrun him in the Porsche. Whit stepped
into the cool pool of the light.

He heard clinking, saw a glint in Paul’s hand. An end of a chain was there, thick-linked, Paul pulling it free from his jacket’s
sleeve and running forward, Whit reaching for his gun. The heavy end of the chain was already swinging toward his face and
Whit fell back onto pavement, his gun under him. The chain whirled, arcing above Whit, the light showing Paul’s face twisted
in triumph. Whit raised his arms to shield himself.

Paul Bellini’s head blossomed in red. The crack of the rifle shot echoed against the brick walls and Paul fell, the strings
of life cut.

Then silence except for the chain falling across Whit, clanking against the concrete.

Whit scrabbled to his feet. He couldn’t risk leaving Gooch in that Porsche trunk. He had to know. He ran to the sports car.
He still had Paul’s keys in his hand.

A shot roared again, the bullet whistling behind his head. He hunkered low on the concrete, crab-crawled into the Porsche.

A bullet slammed against the car’s side. He was aware
he was driving off in a murdered man’s car, leaving a van behind that was registered in Gooch’s name. The night had taken
a horrible left turn.

He started the car, blasted out of the lot, the Porsche’s wheel cool and clean and responsive under his hand. God, please
let Gooch be inside.

He didn’t hear the sound of another shot.

Whit tore down the service road, back around the building, barreling out onto Buffalo. He turned at the service road that
ran parallel to Highway 59, shot down to Shepherd, finally pulling into a closed Catholic school, clicking open the trunk
door.

Gooch lay inside, his face a collage of purple, sluggish, tied up. But breathing.

He had Gooch, but the situation had gotten a thousand times worse.

Tasha watched the Porsche rocket away. Gary lay dead at her feet, the scorch hole in his temple from the cell-phone gun black
like a burn. Max was next to him, a similar little gap in the back of his neck still smoking. She left the rifle on the asphalt,
straightened the latex gloves she’d hidden in her purse earlier, got in the Mustang Max had driven them over in, and started
up the engine.

She could see Paul’s body on the pavement, face down, as she drove past. Too bad, really. Born in the wrong family. Born in
a decent family, he might’ve made his looks, his ambition work for him. She’d miss the sex; he’d been good at that, but that
punching and crying crap worked her nerves. Thank God that was over.

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.

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?’