Dead Run (30 page)

Wednesday, November 21
6:20 p.m.

R
ick made his way to Val's sedan, parked around the corner from Carla's cottage. Val followed closely, the barrel of the revolver pressed to the small of Rick's back.

Rick frantically scanned the area, looking for a witness to confirm his version of this nightmare, for details that would later help him create an accurate timetable of events—in case he managed to escape with his life. He came up with little. Except for several parked cars and a mangy-looking dog barking at them from Carla's neighbor's porch, the street was deserted.

“You going to kill me, Val?” Rick asked.

“Don't be so melodramatic.” He pressed the gun more snugly against his back. “Although I suspect before this is all over you'll wish you were dead.”

“Now who's being melodramatic?”

“Just honest, my friend.”

Rick laughed at that. Valentine Lopez and honesty had parted company a long time ago. They reached the vehicle and stopped. “Why'd you park way over here? The way it's raining, I would have thought the open space right in front of Carla's would have been a better choice. But that's right, you didn't want anybody to know you were here.”

“Shut up.” Keeping the gun trained on him, Val yanked open the front passenger side door, reached inside and retrieved his cuffs. “Turn around.”

Rick complied. “You really think cuffs are necessary? If I ran, who would bring you down?”

The other man snapped the cuffs on roughly, then shoved him against the car. He yanked open the rear door. “Get in.”

Rick did, and moments later Val pulled away from the curb. Using the radio, he called dispatch, informed them he was bringing in murder suspect Rick Wells for questioning. He ended the call, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Murder suspect? How do you figure?”

Val made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Patience. It will all be revealed to you soon. And after it is, I suspect you're going to wish I had killed you.”

Dammit, he needed that tape.
“Playing it close to the vest, Val? Afraid I'm going to punch holes in your little plot?”

Val looked over his shoulder and smiled, the curving of his lips as cold as ice. He held a finger to his lips. “Just a little farther. And if you play nice, I won't beat the shit out of you for resisting.”

 

Rick faced Val across the interrogation-room table. The other man had refused to say another word until they reached police headquarters, though Rick had continued to try to goad him. Once at headquarters he'd spoken. In a singsong voice he had given Rick the option of coming peacefully with him or being cuffed and dragged in.

Rick cocked his head, studying the other man as he readied the video camera. He found Val's movements robotic, as if he was operating on autopilot. He had seen similar reactions in both victims and witnesses of violent crime. The psyche simply overloaded and shut down.

If he pushed hard enough, Rick believed, he could break him.

“So, what are we doing here, old buddy?” he asked.

Val finished setting up the camera and took the seat across from Rick's. “What do you think we're doing here?”

“Cop double-talk, tricky, Val.”

“Do you know why you're here?”

“Because you're crazy. Because you killed Detective Carla Chapman and have formulated some scheme to pin it on me.”

Val's eyebrows shot up. He glanced at the other officer in the room, a patrolman standing in the corner near the door. “This is Officer Walters, Rick. He's going to sit in.”

Rick nodded in the rookie's direction. “Listen carefully, kid. Lieutenant Lopez is slippery. Don't let him suck you in.”

“Why did you kill Carla Chapman?” Val demanded.

Rick relaxed against the chair back and returned his
gaze to Val's. Interrogation was a kind of verbal chess game. It relied on intelligence, strategy and balls-out moves meant to keep your opponent on the defensive. “I didn't, as you very well know.”

“And how would I know that?”

“Because you killed her.”

The other man didn't blink. “How well did you know Naomi Pearson?”

Rick hesitated, surprised by Val's shift in direction. He frowned. “Not well. She came into the bar a few times.”

“How about Larry Bernhardt?”

“Larry Bernhardt? The banker?”

“Is it true he wrote your loan for the Hideaway?”

“Yes, but I don't—”

“And isn't it also true that you met Naomi Pearson for the first time at that point?”

“Yes. Bernhardt introduced me to her.”

“And wasn't it also at that point you learned how loan verification worked.”

“I don't follow.”

“The screening and approval process for loans.”

“I suppose. Although from what I've seen, it's not rocket science. Pretty straightforward stuff.”

“You mean you learned how easy it would be to have fraudulent loans approved. With the right associates, of course.”

Son of a bitch. Val wasn't trying to frame only Carla's murder on him, but to tie him to all of them.

Rick narrowed his eyes. He wasn't about to let the other man maneuver him into a corner. “No,” he corrected, “that is not what I meant.”

Before his former friend could fire another question at him, Rick fired one of his own. “Tell me something,
Val. How does it feel to know you're one of the bad guys?”

“I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind.”

“But I do mind.” He leaned forward, keeping his tone and body language conversational. “You see, I really want to know. What does it feel like to kill a fellow officer in cold blood? How did it feel to hack at her until her chest resembled Swiss che—”

“That's fucking enough!” Val shouted, jumping to his feet. He snatched up a file folder from the end of the table and slammed it down in front of Rick. “Take a look, my friend.”

Rick flipped open the folder, aware of Val behind him, watching. It contained several copies of correspondence between him, Larry Bernhardt and Naomi Pearson. Rick read them, feeling himself begin to sweat. The correspondence detailed a plan between the three of them to begin defrauding Island National Bank by writing bogus loans.

He twisted his head to look at Val. The gleeful expression in his former friend's eyes infuriated him. “I've never seen these before.”

“Is that your e-mail address?”

Rick glanced at it, though he knew beforehand it would be. Val had thought this through. And judging by the date on the correspondence, he had been planning it for some time. “Yes, it is.”

“But you've never seen any of these e-mails before?”

“That's right.”

“And I suppose you're going to stick to that story even after we get a search warrant for your computer. Pathetic, Rick.”

They had gotten to his computer, Rick realized. Who'd helped him? Libby? Margo? Both of them?

The Horned Flower.

Rick's thoughts raced to put the pieces together. Suddenly Liz's theory about a conspiracy of evil, of a cult of Satan worshipers on a killing spree, didn't seem so wild.

But there had to be more to it than that. He took a stab. “So is it all about money, Val? About wanting more. Did you sell your soul to the devil for that?”

A muscle in the man's jaw spasmed. “You really are crazy. I feel sorry for you, Rick.”

“You prepared to go to hell, Val?”

“As long as I can take you with me.”

Fury took his breath. Val felt no remorse. None. Carla's life had meant nothing to him. She had been a loose end, Rick realized. Nothing more than an annoying detail to be taken care of.

“She was your colleague, you son of a bitch!” He fisted his fingers. “She thought the sun rose and set on your head.”

“Carla made one fatal mistake, Rick. Besides falling for a heartless prick like you, that is.”

“Yeah? And what would that have been? Trusting you?”

Val laughed. “Hardly.” He bent close to Rick's ear. “She decided to grow a brain.”

With a roar of fury, Rick threw back his chair, knocking Val off balance. Before he could right himself, Rick had slammed him up against the wall, arms at his throat.

“Back off!” Walters shouted, drawing his weapon. “Back off now!”

“Let him hang himself,” Val managed to say, eyes on Rick's. “This would be assaulting an officer, my friend. Not a smart move for someone in your position.”

“Bastard!” Rick hissed, knowing he was right. He
released him. “You're not going to get away with this. I'm not going to let you get away with it.”

Val smiled and glanced at Walters. “Thanks for the backup. Holster your weapon.”

The patrolman did as his superior ordered, then returned to his post by the door. Val smoothed a hand over his hair, then motioned to the chair. “Have a seat, Rick. We're not done here.”

His cell phone rang, interrupting him. Val checked the display and flipped it open. “Lieutenant Detective Lopez here.”

He listened, expression growing smug. “Stay calm and don't worry. I'm leaving now. It's going to be okay, I'll take care of everything.”

He ended the call and looked at Walters. “I'm needed at Paradise Christian. There's been an accident.” He started for the door. “Don't take your eyes off him, Walters. I'll be back as soon as possible.”

Wednesday, November
21 9:00 p.m.

L
iz gripped the steering wheel tighter, fighting against gusts of wind to keep her car on the road. The muscles in her shoulders and neck hurt from the effort and her eyes and head ached from the strain of trying to see past the blinding sheets of rain and focus on the road ahead.

Thank God, she had almost made it. The last marker had announced Key West five miles ahead.

She had made good time from Islamorada. She'd done it by eschewing safety for speed. It had helped that she was alone on the road. No one else, it seemed, was foolhardy enough to be heading into Key West with a tropical storm churning steadily toward the island.

She had tried Rick before leaving Islamorada. There had been no answer at the Hideaway or his home; she had left a message on his cell phone. She had pulled
over once and tried again. When she hadn't reached him that time, she'd dialed the KWPD and asked for either Lieutenant Lopez or Detective Chapman. She had come up empty again and left an urgent message that they call her.

Something was wrong.
Liz darted a quick glance at her silent phone, then yanked her gaze back to the road as a gust of wind nearly forced her off.
Something had happened.

A murderer was on the loose. A killer storm threatened. And she thought something had happened. She laughed, the sound high and nervous-sounding. Some premonition.

She was getting punchy, she admitted. She was running on adrenaline, caffeine and nerves.

When she reached Key West, the overseas highway became Roosevelt Boulevard, then Truman Avenue. Liz took a right from Truman onto Duval and eased slowly down the street. The usually bustling Duval was deserted, the windows of all but a few of the shops either boarded over or shuttered. Branches and other debris littered the way; an inverted umbrella flew past her windshield; the lid of a garbage can rolled down the sidewalk, then spun crazily on its edge before crashing into a telephone pole.

For weeks after, the bodies washed ashore. Entire families, lashed together.

She must have been crazy to come back here. To be on the road. If she had any good sense she would be inside, kitchen stocked with emergency provisions: things like a flashlight and batteries, drinking water, canned food.

Her heart sank when she saw the Hideaway. The windows were boarded over, no light shone from within.
Like every other responsible citizen of Key West, it looked as if Rick had closed shop and headed for home—or drier climes.

She had counted on his being here, she realized. She hadn't thought it through. Of course he wasn't here. Of course he wasn't open for business during the height of a tropical storm.

She stopped the car in front of the Hideaway anyway. Taking a deep breath, she flung the door open and darted for the bar's front entrance. The force of the wind was incredible, it tore at her and she had to fight her way to the sidewalk. There, she pounded, praying she was wrong, that Rick was here. She didn't even know where he lived, she realized. If he wasn't here, she might be unable to find him.

“Rick!” she shouted. “Rick! It's Liz, open up!” She waited, then pounded again. “Rick, please! It's Liz!”

A cry rose in her throat, and she choked it back through sheer force of will. She wasn't going to fall apart now. She had come this far. With or without Rick, she was going to get what she had learned to the police.

She fought her way back to her car and climbed in. She fitted the key in the ignition and twisted it. The engine sputtered but didn't turn over. Heart thundering, she tried again with the same results.

Near tears, she tried a third time. The engine came to life.

Liz made it one block before the engine began to cough. A moment later it died and she drifted to a stop in front of Paradise Christian.

Many had taken refuge in the church; they were swept out to sea.

With a feeling of predestination, she looked toward the church. The structure stood solidly against the
storm, its white exterior almost brilliant against the backdrop of the dark, turbulent sky. Light glowed from within, beckoning. Seeming to call her name.

She resisted the call. Pastor Tim would be there. She suspected him of being a part of the Horned Flower, of being an accessory to murder.

She could make her way the half block to her home, she acknowledged. Wait out the storm, pray for the best. Keep trying to reach Rick and the authorities.

But she had been led here. The same as she had been the night of Tara's murder. She believed that.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, she threw the car door open and climbed out. A gust of wind caught her, propelling her forward. The driving rain stung her face and plastered her light clothes to her skin.

A loud crack rent the air. Sparks flew. She smelled smoke. A transformer had blown, she realized. One close by.

She stumbled up the church's front steps. The doors were unlocked. She inched one open and slipped through.

Quiet engulfed her. A feeling of serenity. The eternal candle burned in the sanctuary, bathing its surrounding area in a warm, reassuring light. “Is anyone here?” she called. “Pastor Tim?”

Silence answered. Frowning, she started down the hall toward Pastor Tim's office, inching her way in the dark. “Hello,” she called again. “Anybody here?”

She reached the pastor's study. The door was partly open. She thought she heard a sound from within. A kind of snuffling sound. Soft. Sinister.

Someone hiding there in the dark. Waiting.

Fear caught her in a choke hold. She took a step back
from the door. The sound came again, this time accompanied by a moan.

Liz eased the door open. The lights flickered, then came on. A scream rose in her throat. Pastor Tim lay on his back on the floor, his shirt red with his blood.

She ran to him and knelt by his side. She saw the wound then and realized he had been shot. She brought a shaking hand to her mouth and glanced frantically around.

Her gaze landed on the phone.
Call 911, of course.
She jumped to her feet, got to the phone. And found it dead.

She had left her cell phone in the car.

Pastor Tim moaned, and Liz returned to his side. His eyelids fluttered, then lifted.

She covered his hand with hers. “I'll go for help. Just lie still, you're going to be okay.”

He blinked, his gaze seeming to focus on her. His fingers moved, curling around hers. “Y…our…si—”

She quieted him. “Don't talk. Save your strength. The phone's dead, but I have a cell phone in my—”

“N…n…don…your…sis—”

She struggled to make out what he was saying. He coughed, the sound weak and wet. “Shh… Please, I have to call for help.”

He tightened his fingers on hers. “Sis…ter—”

“Sister?” she repeated. “My sister?”

He squeezed her fingers. Her heart stopped. “What about Rachel? What are you trying to tell me, Pastor Tim?”

His mouth began to move. Liz bent her head closer; his breath stirred weakly against her ear.

“Your…she's…alive…”

A cry passed her lips.
Alive? Could it be true?

She began to tremble, twin emotions of joy and disbelief rocketing through her. She fought to find her breath. “How can that… Where, Pastor? You have to help me find her.”

“Po…po—” He moved their joined hands and she realized what he meant. She freed her hand from his and slipped it into his pocket. She closed her fingers over a folded paper and drew it out.

The lights flashed, then went off. A beam of light fell over them. She twisted around. Valentine Lopez stood in the doorway, his dark rain slicker dripping wet.

“Lieutenant Lopez!” she cried. “Thank God! Pastor Tim's been shot!”

He stepped into the room. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“I don't understand. How did you—”

He motioned with the flashlight. “Move away from the body, please.”

She stood and backed away. “You don't understand, he's alive.”

The detective didn't reply. He squatted beside the pastor, checked his wound and pulse.

“He's gone,” he murmured.

“That can't be! Just a moment ago—”

“With a wound like this, it only takes a moment. He lost a lot of blood.”

“I don't understand.” She began to tremble. “He can't be gone.”

“What's that in your hand?”

Numbly, she shifted her gaze from the pastor's frozen face to the piece of paper clutched in her hand. Her sister's image flooded her head. She held it out. “He said…my sister's alive, Lieutenant. He gave me…this.”

He took the paper, opened and read it, his features tightening. “It's a Key West address.”

“Do you think that's where… Do you think it's true?” Her voice shook. “Could my sister really be alive?”

“Why don't we take a ride and find out?”

“Now?” She hung back, frightened by the intensity of his gaze.

“Your sister may be alive, Ms. Ames. If she is, I imagine your face would be the first she'd want to see.”

“But Pastor Tim… Shouldn't we wait for an ambulance?”

“He can't be helped now. But maybe your sister can.” He glanced at his watch, then back at her, expression grim. “Ms. Ames, your sister may be in danger from whoever shot Pastor Tim.”