Cut and Run (26 page)

She shook her head.

José 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.’
José 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.’ José pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s finish the night’s work, okay?’

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.

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.

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.

‘Do you really listen to yourself?’ Gooch asked. He stood by the small music collection, which offered mostly Frank Polo CDs.

‘Those are promotional copies,’ Frank said from underneath the wet cloth. ‘We give ’em out at the club. Very popular.’

‘Right. No one goes to that club for the women, it’s all about the giveaways.’

‘Frank.’ Whit sat by the singer’s feet and took the coffee cup off his stomach. ‘I need you to think.’

‘Jesus, thinking is the last thing on my mind.’ Then what he said struck him as funny and he gave a nervous little laugh.
Whit and Gooch didn’t laugh.

‘When he was a kid, Paul used to lip-sync to my songs,’ Frank said. ‘He had the attitude of a performer. He could’ve been
so much more.’ Sounding genuinely sad.

‘He’s spilt milk now,’ Gooch said.

Frank lifted one corner of the wet cloth. ‘Yeah, but he was a sweet kid, once, okay?’

‘Paul cut your hand open and tried to have Eve and me killed,’ Whit said. ‘You’re sorry he’s dead?’

‘No, I’m sorry he turned into such a bastard.’ Frank sat up. ‘There’s a difference. I got to call his mom, I’m dreading
that.’ He tossed the damp cloth on the coffee table, smoothed his hair. ‘With Eve and Paul gone, there’s no senior leadership
left but Bucks, and he’s MIA, the traitor.’

‘How would he know about Paul meeting me? He’s on Kiko’s side now,’ Whit said. ‘How would Kiko know, for that matter?’

‘Paul told Bucks, simple as that,’ Gooch said. He still didn’t look good to Whit, his skin waxen. He’d slept fitfully, vomiting
this morning, sweating with chills, but still refusing to go to a doctor.

The shootout at Bucks’ condo and the triple homicide that included Paul Bellini last night had been all over the morning news,
and Bucks remained missing. ‘Kiko’s people killed Paul and then went after Bucks,’ Whit said. ‘Double cross.’

Frank stood. ‘I should be at Paul’s house. Rallying what’s left of the troops for a war with Kiko. This is not my style. I
don’t want to do this.’

‘Frank, if my theory’s right, you don’t want to become the head of the Bellinis. Kiko’s eliminating them.’

Frank said, ‘Leadership ain’t my groove.’

‘We’ve got to find where Kiko hid Mom,’ Whit said. ‘Think, Frank, please.’

‘I want to believe she’s still alive, too, Whit,’ Frank said. ‘But if Kiko killed Paul and Gary and Max, and tried to kill
Bucks, why’s he gonna keep Eve alive?’

‘Because she can hand him the Bellini assets. Transfer funds. There’s no one to stop him now from a complete takeover. With
what Eve knows, Kiko can force Mary Pat to hand over control of every business, every asset. He’s erased the Bellinis’ power
in a night.’

Frank got up. ‘Bucks and Paul knew where Kiko was living, but I didn’t. So I put out word on the street. Said I’d pay cash
to know where Kiko’s staying. There’s nothing more I can do.’

‘I’il go nuts sitting here and waiting,’ Whit said.

‘Learn how. Unless you want to call the police.’ Frank crossed his arms. ‘You find Eve, you’re leaving town?’

‘Yes. She’s coming home with me. For a short while, at least.’

‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ Frank said.

‘Thanks, Frank,’ Whit said.

‘Lot of ifs there,’ Gooch said. ‘You boys are optimists.’

‘Don’t talk like she’s dead. Don’t,’ Whit said.

The phone rang. Frank went to it, said hello, listened, said no a few times, hung up. ‘No one’s seen Bucks. The rest of the
ring isn’t meeting at the Bellinis’; there’s a cop car on Lazy Lane, probably there to take pictures of the license plates
of the cars coming and going. Oh, man, I’m moving to Vegas.’

They sat, waiting, and two hours later the phone rang again and Frank answered it, spoke quietly. ‘Yeah. Fine. Stop by and
I’ll give you your money.’ He hung up. Didn’t look at Whit, at Gooch, leaned against the little bar counter for support.

‘That was a dealer I know. He said Kiko Grace and his bodyguard José are living in a townhouse on Fannin, near downtown. The
dealer’s got three other dealers working under him. One knew Kiko from Miami, saw him at those condos last week when he did
a YSD.’

‘What?’

‘Yuppie Scum Delivery,’ Frank said. ‘So this condo, maybe that’s where he’s got Eve.’

‘Give me the address,’ Whit said.

‘Sure. But then I got to go to the Topaz,’ Frank said. ‘I should put in an appearance today, calm the girls that we’re staying
open.’

‘No,’ Gooch said. ‘You come with us, Frank. In case you’re setting us up in a trap.’

‘Gooch, I love Eve. I’m not gonna let her kid get killed.’ Frank touched Whit’s shoulder. ‘C’mon.’

‘Maybe Whit trusts you. I don’t,’ Gooch said. ‘Sorry.’

‘You can be a little late for the Topaz,’ Whit said. ‘And it’s safer for you staying with us.’

‘Right. What you gonna do,’ Frank said, ‘ask Kiko Grace pretty-please to give you Eve back?’

‘No. I’m going to tell him if he doesn’t release her, I’m going straight to the police, with everything I know. Simple.’

‘You’ll do that even if he kills her.’ Frank shrugged. ‘His way, he gets rid of a witness. He’s probably gonna get rid of
you, too.’

‘If he lets her go, I stay silent about him killing Paul. Forever.’

Frank shook his head. ‘I don’t see this conversation going smoothly.’

‘I killed a man once, Frank,’ Whit said. ‘He tried to kill me. He had already killed a woman I loved. I killed him, and I
thought guilt would gnaw at me forever, but you know, it didn’t. He was a murdering bastard, not too different from Kiko.
I was sorry I had to do it, but I did it.’

Frank opened his mouth, then shut it.

‘I’m not going to let him kill my mother,’ Whit said. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘Usually I admire optimism,’ Frank said. ‘Right now this seems stupidity.’

‘But you’re going, too,’ Whit said.

‘Well, I’m stupid,’ Frank said.

They left in Frank’s BMW. Fifteen minutes later, a battered Jaguar pulled to a stop next to River Oaks Park, then circled
around the neighborhood three times, and parked two streets over.

*

‘He doesn’t have Eve,’ Frank Polo said. ‘He doesn’t even have a face.’

They stood over the body of Kiko Grace, still sprawled on the floor of the condo’s breakfast nook. The whole drive over to
the condo, Whit had felt like his skin was on fire, rushing to save his mother, rushing, possibly, to die. Let her see he
hadn’t given up on her, hadn’t abandoned her. He was afraid she thought he had left her to be caught.

But the condo had been empty, the door unlocked, as if the killer didn’t mind if Kiko was found.

Gooch moved from room to room, making sure no one else was in the condo.

‘Kiko dead. Paul dead,’ Gooch said. ‘Guessing not a coincidence.’ His face was blanched. He leaned against a wall.

‘No,’ Whit said. ‘Dangerous world.’

‘You think?’ Frank asked. He prodded at Kiko’s shoulder with his foot. ‘You bastard, where is Eve?’

‘Your bravery’s a little late, Frank,’ Gooch said. But his voice was weak.

Whit said, ‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’ Gooch turned away.

‘We need to see if there’s anything here that could tell us where Eve is,’ Whit said. He pulled on gloves he’d gotten after
last night’s shooting to finish cleaning Paul’s Porsche of his and Gooch’s prints when they dumped the car on a residential
street. He handed a set to Frank and another to Gooch. ‘Don’t leave a trace you were here.’

‘Maybe she killed him,’ Gooch said, ‘and she’s waiting for us back at Charlie’s house.’

Whit handed him his cell phone. ‘Call. Or Bucks took her. Getting rid of the leadership on both sides. I don’t think Kiko
shot Paul.’ He moved Kiko’s body to one side, peered down the back of the pants for lividity marks.
‘He’s been dead for hours, probably about the same time that Paul died.’

‘You can tell by looking at a dead man’s ass?’ Frank asked.

‘Um, yeah,’ Whit said. It wasn’t a good time to announce he was a judge and coroner, that he’d seen several gunshot bodies
and recognized the timing of postmortem conditions.

‘I knew we shouldn’t have recruited from the corporate world,’ said Frank. ‘Those people give me the creeps.’

‘Whit, if Bucks killed Kiko, he would have killed Eve, too,’ Gooch said. His voice wasn’t so slurred now, but Whit didn’t
like the pallor of his skin or the shakiness in his hands. He watched Gooch dial, but he felt by a sinking in his gut that
Eve wasn’t curled up in front of the TV at Charlie’s.

‘What the hell?’ Frank pointed at Kiko’s mouth. A bit of green protruded from between the lips. Even though most of Kiko’s
face was raw meat, his mouth was relatively untouched and Whit knelt down, conscious he was disturbing a crime scene but not
caring. He peeled back the little tube of paper. It was a twenty-dollar bill. He unrolled it and written in heavy black ink
across the money was
A PUBLIC SERVICE.

Frank peered over his shoulder. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Whit said. He carefully rerolled the bill, stuck it back between the dead man’s teeth. ‘But I don’t see Bucks
leaving little notes on the body.’

There was no sign of a fight other than half of Kiko’s face being splattered on the breakfast nook wall. An answering machine
held two messages from a young-sounding woman, in Spanish, asking Kiko to call her, she was better this morning.

The condo itself was sparse; a few pieces of leather
furniture, TV with DVD player, a breakfast table, a toaster, and a coffee maker. More like a temporary camp than a home.
Whit found a small amount of cocaine in the pantry, double-bagged, tucked behind the cornstarch box. Not a good hiding place.
He expected better from Kiko. The outer bag had loosened masking tape on it, as though it had been stuck to the wall and hidden
elsewhere. And moved.

Why move it out of the hiding place? To snort. To sell. But then you would hide it again, being careful was part of the job.
It bothered him.

Whit tried the redial on the condo’s phone, got a Chinese delivery restaurant down the street. Hung up.

‘José’s not here,’ Frank said. ‘Kiko’s right-hand guy.’

‘Probably out mailing résumés,’ Gooch said.

‘So what do we do?’ Frank said. ‘Leave and call the cops?’

‘Are there more drugs here?’ Whit asked.

‘Thanks, I’m cutting back,’ Gooch said.

‘Or cash or records? Anything relating back to them being dealers.’

‘No cash that I found, but I haven’t looked hard,’ Gooch said. ‘Ain’t thinking they got receipts.’

‘Let’s look. Quickly.’

‘What, you’re gonna take the dead guy’s money?’ Frank said.

‘Yes, Frank. Go through his pockets for me,’ Whit said. Frank stood uncertainly over the body, as if deciding whether or not
Whit was serious.

Whit searched, carefully, through the closet in the first bedroom. Silk shirts, polos, pressed linen slacks, stylish jackets.
Of course, the better to hide a holster under. And expensive shoes, all perfectly polished. Kiko probably threw out a pair
at the first scuff. He either packed heavy or planned a long stay in Houston.

He checked the rest of the bedroom. The bed was unmade and rumpled. Underneath the bed was nothing but a dust bunny or two.
Whit expected firepower to be hidden under there, but nothing. No notes, no papers of any sort. No PDA, no cell phone.

The other bedroom’s empty,’ Gooch said. ‘All the clothes are gone.’

‘Then José took off,’ Frank said.

‘Then odds are José killed him,’ Gooch said.

‘Why turn on his boss?’ Whit asked.

‘Why not?’ Gooch said. ‘José thinks Eve has the money, decides to take it himself. Kiko’s in the way.’

Whit hated the clarity and simplicity of it, because it put them back at zero. ‘But she doesn’t have it.’

‘Are you absolutely sure, Whit?’ Gooch said quietly.

‘She doesn’t.’

‘Let’s say Bucks delivered the money to Kiko,’ Frank said. ‘Eve got the upper hand, killed him, took off with the money.’

‘No,’ Whit said. ‘She’d call me. She wouldn’t run away from me again.’

Frank said nothing, turned, went back into the den.

Whit went into the bathroom. He glanced through the materials in the cabinet. Nothing unusual. Mouthwash, allergy medicine
to deal with the inescapable Houston pollen, shaving kit. He opened the toilet, thinking more coke could be hidden there,
that it was the common place in movies but Kiko wouldn’t be that dumb.

Or yes he was. A package lay taped inside, heavily wrapped in plastic.

Carefully, Whit pulled it free, laid the package on the floor. Too thin for a cocaine brick. A DVD in a case, unlabeled.

‘Let’s get out of here, boys,’ Frank said as Whit headed back into the den.

‘Wait a minute.’ Whit slid the disc into the player, set it running. Gooch and Frank watched behind him.

A darkened shot, the camera clearly hidden at a slightly tilted angle. Four men entering a house at night. Bucks one of them.
All nicely dressed, young executive types. Two minutes passed. Then Bucks coming out. Carrying a body, dumping it in the trunk
of a BMW. Then another. And another, Bucks then getting in the car and roaring away.

‘Our smoking gun,’ Frank said. ‘Thank you, Lord.’

‘If Bucks or José killed Kiko, why leave this behind?’ Whit popped the disc from the machine.

‘Bucks didn’t know the disc was here,’ Gooch said. He sat down suddenly, touched his chest, frowned. ‘And what’s it to José
if Bucks gets caught for murder?’

‘Bucks did know about the film,’ Whit said. ‘Kiko told me he had Bucks in his pocket. This is how he got him there.’

‘Whit.’ Gooch clutched at his chest. ‘Whit, oh, man …’ And he collapsed onto the floor, groaning, eyes rolling into whites,
a thin sliver of spit oozing from his mouth.