False Witness (4 page)

“Five,” Mortavius snarled.

Clark nodded quickly.

The big man released Clark, answered the door, and chased away the other tow truck driver, explaining that there had been a mistake. As Mortavius and Clark finished negotiating deal points, Clark had another brilliant idea.

“Have you got any friends who aren't making their payments?” he asked. “I could cut them in on the same type of deal. Say . . . fifty-fifty on the repo reward—they could use their cuts as down payments to trade up.”

“Get out of here before I hurt you,” Mortavius said.

Clark glanced at his watch as he left the parking lot. He had less than two hours to return the tow truck and make it to the plastic surgeon's office. He speed-dialed Jessica.

“Highway Auto Service,” she responded.

“It didn't work,” Clark said. “I got busted.”

“You okay?”

He loved hearing the concern in her voice. He hesitated a second, then, “Not a scratch on me.”

“I told you it was a dumb idea,” Jessica said, though she sounded more relieved than upset. “You never listen. Clark Shealy knows it all.”

And he wasn't listening now. Instead, he was doing the math again in his head. Sixteen thousand, minus Mortavius's cut and the repair bill, would leave about ten. He thought about the logistics of making the wire transfers into accounts that Jessica wouldn't know about.

Pulling a con on pimps like Mortavius was one thing. Getting one by Jessica was quite another.

2

Two hours later, back in his jeans and ostrich-skin cowboy boots, grease stains still lining his fingernails, Clark Shealy walked into a nondescript, three-story, brick medical building dedicated to outpatient surgery. He checked in with the receptionist, inhaling the sterile odors of hospital antiseptics and freshly scrubbed tile floors. Clark hated the smells and the memories they conjured. Needles made him squeamish, and just thinking about the precise slicing and peeling back of skin that accompanied plastic surgery turned his knees to rubber.

Though he had visited Dr. Silvoso's practice three times in the past two years, Clark Shealy was definitely not the plastic surgery type. It wasn't that Clark couldn't use a few minor improvements—who couldn't? Though Clark never had trouble attracting women—Jessica blamed it on his sky blue “bedroom eyes”—he did have a slight crook in his nose resulting from a junior high fistfight. Not to mention a scar above his right eye that extended the eyebrow line toward his ear, like errant eyeliner applied by a drunken rock star. Based on the nose and scar, his high school buddies had accused Clark of chasing parked cars.

But in Clark's opinion, real men didn't go to plastic surgeons. Real men played out the hand fate dealt them, scars and all. Besides, who wanted a nose like Michael Jackson's?

He found a seat and leafed through a well-worn magazine. Glancing around the waiting room, Clark could easily spot the regular patrons of Silvoso's practice—young, attractive females with Barbie-doll figures, puffed-up collagen lips, or skin stretched so tight between the eyes and jaw, it looked like it might tear at any moment. They were a sharp contrast to the stooped and older patients waiting for some kind of orthopedic operation or the athletic kids who hobbled in on crutches.

Within minutes an assistant fetched Clark and escorted him into a sterile presurgery waiting room, empty except for a vinyl armchair, a portable tray table, and a few machines to monitor vitals. Clark had done this drill with Silvoso before. One of the nurses would roll the fugitive patient, sedated and prepped for surgery, into the room across the hall. As soon as the nurse left, while the unsuspecting patient waited for Silvoso, Clark would burst into the room, flash his credentials, and arrest the dazed man. Clark would make a scene, with Silvoso protesting loudly even as Clark hauled away his skip in handcuffs.

Later, Clark would quietly send Silvoso 25 percent of the bounty. Other plastic surgeons settled for 20 percent, but Silvoso was a tough negotiator. Even so, it was a good deal for Clark, helping him nail a skip who might otherwise never be caught. Plastic surgeons were a bounty hunter's best friends.

As Clark waited, he pondered the money, dollar signs clouding his thoughts. Johnny Chin, arrested for wire fraud and RICO violations, had posted bond of 1.5 mil and then promptly skipped. Rumors had him serving as a hit man for the mob, though Clark knew better than to believe everything he heard on the street. One thing that wasn't rumor—the bounty for Chin was a hundred and fifty Gs. In his mind, Clark had already spent his share of the money.

Precisely five minutes after Clark entered his room, he heard someone wheel a bed into the room across the hall. Clark waited until the footsteps retreated, then poked his head out the door, watched a nurse duck into a room a few doors down, and dashed quickly from his own room to the one designated for Chin. He closed the door behind him and immediately sensed that something was wrong.

The man in the bed, resting peacefully, eyes closed, bore little resemblance to the photographs of Chin. He was Asian—yes. But the recent mug shot of Chin showed a shaved head, and this guy had a full head of jet-black hair. The man in the bed had a scar on the right side of his jaw and was stockier than Clark expected, based on his recollection of the photos. The nose was flatter and the right ear seemed deformed, another feature not shown in the photographs.

Clark felt the hair on his arms bristle, his instincts flashing red. He retrieved his gun from the small holster attached to the top of his left boot. He prepared to check the room's small bathroom, swinging his gun in front of him, like a police officer checking out a perp's vacant apartment.

But a grunt from the patient startled him. “Can you get me some water?” the man asked, his voice hoarse and dry. His eyelids cracked open ever so slightly, revealing bloodshot eyes and a vacant stare. Clark checked the bathroom first. Clear. He kept the gun in his right hand as he approached the bed and handed the patient a plastic mug of water from the tray table.

The man's eyes fluttered open again as he sipped the water and muttered, “Thanks.” Standing over the patient, Clark noticed a small tattoo on the left side of the man's neck, a coiled snake ready to strike, as though at any moment it might lash out and sink its fangs into the man's left ear. It was a metaphor for Clark's own nerves, coiled tighter than a spring, warning Clark to abort the mission.

The patient stopped drinking and looked at Clark through bleary eyes. Abruptly, the eyes popped open with a glint of excitement just as Clark felt a sharp stab in his neck, right above the left shoulder blade. He pivoted quickly, bringing his elbow up and back, hoping to connect with the facial bone of his attacker, but it felt like he was moving through oatmeal.

A spiderweb of pain followed by paralysis spread quickly across his body and down his arms. A faded image of a maniacal smile flashed through Clark's mind as he stood face-to-face for a fleeting moment with the man who had slipped into the room and stabbed Clark in the neck . . . and then the fog engulfed Clark's brain. Before he could launch another blow, his entire world went black.

3

Clark regained consciousness propped up in the driver's seat of his Taurus, his head feeling like it might explode at any moment. He grimaced and tried to focus, but his thoughts collided with each other like a pileup at the NASCAR tracks.
Where am I? What time is it? What happened?

He blinked twice, sat up a little straighter, and herded a few stray thoughts into formation while an invisible jackhammer pounded his skull. He was in a parking garage, alone in his car, sweating profusely in the stifling heat. The windows had been cracked to keep him from suffocating.

Vegas. Dr. Silvoso. Johnny Chin.
Events came rushing back to him: time and place, Silvoso's double cross, the strange man in the outpatient prep room, the elusive Johnny Chin. Clark rubbed his neck where the tranquilizer had entered. It felt like he had been stuck with an elephant dart.

He noticed a yellow sticky taped to the steering wheel.
Use the cell phone on the seat. Speed dial 1.
He picked up the phone but paused as a little more fog lifted from his brain.
What if dialing the number triggers an explosive device?
But then again, if they wanted him dead, why was he still alive now?

He put the phone down and stared at it for a long moment. He started the car and cranked the AC to full blast. The outdoor temperature readout said ninety-eight degrees. He convinced himself the phone was safe, his curiosity beating back his survival instincts. He held his breath and speed-dialed 1.

No explosion. Clark exhaled, listening as the phone rang twice before somebody answered.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shealy,” a man's voice said. It had a slight Asian lilt, though the man had obviously worked hard at his diction. “I trust you had a peaceful nap.”

“Who is this?”

“Why don't you leave the questions to me?” the voice said. He was calm. Frustratingly calm.

“Why don't you tell me why you drugged me?” Clark replied. He felt like he had landed on the set of
Mission: Impossible
—maybe the phone would dissolve in a puff of smoke when the conversation ended.

“I understand that you're a bounty hunter, Mr. Shealy. One of the best.”

Clark scoffed. “Can't prove it by today.”

“Yes, you did get in a little over your head on this one. But nevertheless, we would like to hire you.”

This is so bizarre.
Clark wondered if he was still dreaming, lingering under the effects of the tranquilizer. “You can't afford me,” he said, more out of habit than clear thinking. It was his standard opening line for negotiations.

“Perhaps,” the mystery man said, pausing ominously, “it will be you who cannot afford to say no.”

This was getting old. “Get to the point,” Clark demanded. “Because if I ever find out who you are—”

“Clark?”

The new voice jarred him. Confusion gave way to fear as he processed the possibilities.

“Jess? Is that you?”

“Yes. And I'm okay, Clark,” she said, though she sounded terrified. “I love you.”

“I love you too, hon.” He said the words on instinct, his mind racing to make sense of this, his skin bristling with anxiety.

Jessica's next words came out in a rush. “They're Chinese, Clark. The man talking with you they call Huang Xu—” A dull thud, the sound of fist on bone, interrupted the words. Then an exaggerated clunk—perhaps the phone on a hardwood floor? Clark heard muffled shouting and loud commands in Chinese. He felt sick. Helpless.

“Jessica!” he yelled into the phone. “Hold on, babe. Are you okay?''

“Your wife is quite spirited,” the voice said, monotone as before but breathing harder. Clark assumed it was the man Jessica had named. Huang Xu. Clark would never forget the name. “We have ways of calming her down.”

Anger pulsed through Clark's body as he spit curses into the phone, threatening Xu. He suddenly felt boxed in. Pressured. Like his head might explode in rage. He opened the door and stepped out of the car. Dizzy, he braced himself. “I won't sleep until you're a dead man. Nobody hits my wife.”

“Done?” Xu asked.

“So help me God, I'll kill you.”

Xu let the silence hang for a few seconds before he spoke. “If you're finished with your empty threats, I have a deal to propose.” He waited a few beats again, proving that he was in control of the conversation. “You're a bounty hunter, Mr. Shealy, and you have connections to numerous other bounty hunters. There's a man who has something that's very important to me. You bring him to me, and I'll pay you a handsome bounty: your wife, unharmed.”

“Touch her again and you die.” Clark no longer shouted. This was not a threat but a promise.

“Yes, yes, I get all that. Now here's how the deal works. Under the car seat you'll find a dossier with relevant background information about an Indian mathematician named Professor Moses Kumari. We believe he is hiding in the Las Vegas area, though we've been unable to locate him. We thought perhaps your vast network of bail bondsmen and bounty hunters might help.

“Time, Mr. Shealy, is of the essence. The rules are simple. You have forty-eight hours to locate Professor Kumari and call us by speed-dialing 1, using the phone in your hand. If you call us before you locate Kumari, your wife will suffer the consequences. Bring Kumari in alive and your wife lives. If he dies, she dies. If you don't find him, she dies. If you contact the authorities in any way, she dies. Are those rules all clear?”

“You're insane,” Clark snapped, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can't find somebody in forty-eight hours.”

“Then take your time, Mr. Shealy. But missing a deadline has consequences. At forty-eight hours, we start cosmetic surgery on Mrs. Shealy. The first day, we work on that beautiful smile. The teeth appear to be a little crowded, so we'll be extracting four teeth from the front. Without novocaine, of course, since we don't have a certified anesthesiologist.”