Finders Keepers Losers Die (30 page)

"Of course. I'll just be listening in to
Grimes. I won't get out of the car."

"Promise?"

"Promise." I crossed my heart but refrained
from spitting on my hand like we used to as kids.

She gave me the keys and I beeped open her
Ford Escape. As I drove off, I looked back at Carl, standing behind
the glass door of Knights, hands on hips. He looked furious.

Ha!

Even though Grimes wouldn't recognize Gina's
car, I parked down the street from his store. I was keeping my
distance this time. I dug out the receiver from my handbag and
switched it on. A voice crackled down the line.

"Say it." Grimes. "Say it!"

"No!" A woman's voice. And there was another
sound in the background, like stifled barking.

Oh God. What was he doing? Torturing some
poor woman and her dog? Maybe I should go in—

"C'mon, Baby, say it. Say it, Robbie."

Roberta. Not some poor woman then, just one
with bad taste. But the dog?

On closer listening, I wasn't so sure it was
barking. It sounded more like panting. Or…

Ewwwwwwwww.

"I'm your slave, Master," said Roberta.

Master?
Ugh
. Women like Roberta had a
lot to answer for. No wonder men like Grimes go around thinking
they've got diamonds dangling between their legs. "Yes, Master.
Spank me. I'm so bad."

I switched the receiver off and tried to
blink away the mental image. No use. I turned the radio up and sang
along to Pink to get my mind off the horrible picture of Roberta on
a leash and Grimes—

Aahh!!

Ten minutes later, I switched the receiver
back on. It was quiet. Nothing. Not even a woof.

I heard the toilet flush and a door
open.

"That was so good, Baby," purred
Roberta.

"Next time, I want you to howl."

Something to look forward to.

"Sure thing," she said.

Some ugly kissing sounds followed and I
squirmed. Then Roberta said, "I heard that P.I. was here the other
day."

"How do you know?" Grimes sounded
annoyed.

"Never mind how I know. What did you do to
her?"

She knew her man well.

"Nothing, I swear. She's not my type. Too
skinny."

"Yeah? Huh. Stay away from her."

"Don't blame me if she wants me. And anyway,
you're
the one who insisted on going to her. I mean fuck,
we're never going to get the damn money with that bimbo on our
side."

Bimbo! Coming from a man who liked to flash
Mr. Stumpy at strangers.

"I think she's good," said Roberta. "I told
you, I've got a feeling about her."

"You and your fucking feelings."

"Hey, my female intuition never failed us
before."

"You reckoned all we needed was the box. You
reckoned the other guy didn't know where the money was. You know
shit, Roberta."

"Well, Lou never told me about his partner!"
she cried. "I mean, I knew he had one, but I didn't know he
promised him half."

"Maybe Lou wasn't intending to share with
you or his partner." I could almost hear the cogs grinding in
Grimes's brain as he thought through his theory.

"But he visited Lou in jail," Roberta said.
"So Max said. Why would he do that unless he was making sure he'd
get his half when Lou got out?"

Grimes hawked a loogie. "I dunno. The other
guy must be really dumb to leave all the cash with Lou. I
wouldn't."

"I don't know why he did. All I know is, Lou
had it and he hid it somewhere and gave me the key and the number
to look after before he got locked up. I put them in that box and
didn't let it out of my sight for twelve years, and he repays me by
running off with it and another woman as soon as he gets out. I
fucking deserve that money for everything I put up with. That's
what I know."

"Yeah, well I'm thinking you don't know
much."

What followed was a messy argument with a
lot of name calling. What followed that was even worse. Make up sex
with a lot of animal noises.

I switched off the receiver and suppressed
my gag reflex. I wanted to take advantage of my freedom but wasn't
sure what to do next. Wait to speak to Roberta, or maybe Max, about
Lou's visitor? Return to the office? Or go directly to jail without
passing Go or Will or any of my other minders?

And the dead cop and the missing computer
threw up more questions—questions I was pretty sure Scarface knew
the answers to or was in the process of finding out. Maybe I should
have another talk with him…

What would Will do? He'd probably make a few
calls to find out if he had any authority to look at the prison
records, and if he didn't, he'd go through the right channels to
get it and then he'd tell Carl what he was doing…

Fuck it. Just because Will did things the
long way didn't mean I had to. I'm lazy. So shoot me.

I started the Escape and drove north to the
city limits where the blocks of land were larger but the houses
poorer and the gardens filled with junk in the hope that one day
some of it might prove useful. Renford City Correctional Facility
yawned like a blight on the horizon. A series of low, long, gray
buildings dotted with guard towers and surrounded by high wire
fences, the prison looked as comfortable as a nail through my
foot.

My phone chirped as I parked in the
visitor's parking lot.

"Hey," said Will, "where are you?" He didn't
sound annoyed, just weary, as if he'd expected me to disobey him
but he was over trying to keep up.

"Shopping of course."

"Shopping?" His suspicion came through loud
and clear. "Cat, I know you're not shopping. Gina told me you had a
lead to follow up."

"Then why did you ask if you already knew?"
Sheesh.

"So I could find out where you are!" He
swore.

"All right, don't sweat it. I'm at the
prison."

"Prison? Why?"

I could tell he didn't believe me and I
didn't have time to explain. "Will, I've got work to do. See you
later." I hung up and headed to the front office. What Will thought
I was really doing, I had no idea and I didn't care. If he thought
I was lying, then so be it. That was his problem.

I thought I'd have to act my way into the
prison but I was shown straight through to the warden. His office
was as barren as the rest of the building except the concrete slab
was covered in an industrial dark blue carpet and the furniture
wasn't bolted down. The warden, Gordon Schwartz, resembled a bull
dog in need of a diet. He gave me the once over through eyes that
could best be described as slits in the fat rolls. I introduced
myself and told him what I wanted.

"You want to see what?" he bellowed, making
his turkey chins wobble.

"The visitor records for an ex-prisoner, Lou
Scarletti," I repeated.

He linked his hands over his belly and
considered my request. I would have thought a simple yes or no
would suffice but apparently it wasn't that easy. It never is when
dealing with a public servant.

"You know," he said, "only prison officials
and the police can see those records."

It may or may not have been true. It was
hard to tell if he was just wiggling his fingers suggestively at me
or he actually wanted me to put money into his open palm.

"Really?" I opened my handbag and pulled out
my phone. "Then I'll just call my cop buddies, shall I?"

The Fatman's fingers went still. "But for
you, I'll bend the rules."

"Gee, thanks." I put the phone away.

He called his assistant, Joan, a
pinch-lipped middle-aged woman with sensible shoes. She didn't
smile or speak as she led me down a corridor to a storeroom filled
with row upon row of floor to ceiling metal shelves. The shelves
held metal boxes of varying sizes. Joan strode between the shelves
and scanned the boxes, her lips moving silently as she read the
labels. Finally she found the one she wanted and unlocked it. She
pulled out a bound, blue book about two inches thick and handed it
to me.

I sat on the stool at the end of the row and
cradled the book on my knees. The title,
Visitor Register, June
to December 2002
was printed in black on the cover. I leafed
through the pages to August and ran my finger down the entries in
the Prisoner column. Lou's name and number came up regularly. His
main visitor was listed as
Mrs. Maria Scarletti, mother
.
Roberta's name came up occasionally, but in the next books Joan
handed to me, Roberta had become a less dutiful wife.

Other names also appeared and I wrote them
down. Then, in April 2012, just a month before Lou was released, I
came across a name I recognized.

Someone I totally hadn't expected to
see.

Holy crap!

I slammed the book shut but didn't move.
Frozen, I couldn't get up, couldn't answer Joan when she asked if I
was okay. I managed a nod, but my mind was somewhere else, thinking
furiously through the implications of what I'd just learned.

It couldn't be. No way. No goddamn fucking
way.

I thanked Joan and left. I ran down the
corridor, across the parking lot to my car and sat there.

I couldn't confront him. If he was Lou's
killer, he was a dangerous man, way more dangerous than I'd ever
given him credit for.

My God, I never really knew him at all.

I thumbed through the numbers on my phone
with shaking hands until Will's flashed up. It rang once then went
to voice mail.

Fuck!

"Will," I said, trying to speak through
chattering teeth, "call me
straight away
. I know who it is.
Straight away, Will, don't go back to the office."

"Why?"

I dropped the phone at the familiar voice. I
turned slowly and came face to face with Lou Scarletti's partner
and killer.

"Carl!" I smiled through my fear, trying to
remember what a movie director had once said to me. 'Whatever
you're feeling inside, hide it and get on with the fucking job'.
Wise man. "You scared me."

I'd left my door open while I made the phone
call and he rested one arm on it and the other on the top of the
car, leaning down to peer at me. He looked different. Less boyish
and innocent. And there was a spark of desperation in his eyes that
I'd never noticed before. My blood turned to ice.

I'd worked for months alongside him,
trusting him, and yet not knowing who he really was. Not to mention
Will had worked with him for years. An Oscar performance if I ever
saw one.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to scare
you."

"That's okay." Maybe he hadn't heard my
phone conversation. Maybe he didn't know what I'd found out. "So
what are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought you had work to
do."

"I do have a job to do. But it's not exactly
work. Actually, it could be fun." He sounded upbeat, friendly, like
his usual self, and I relaxed a little.

"What work is that?"

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a
gun. "You."

CHAPTER 17

I always imagined I'd die a dignified death
as a well-preserved octogenarian, surrounded by a loving husband
and hordes of adoring children and grandchildren. My funeral would
be attended by thousands, including stars of the big and small
screen. There'd be a lot of wailing over their loss and reminiscing
over my interesting life but generally everyone would be having a
good time.

With Carl's gun aimed at my nose, my death
was looking more imminent and less heart-warming.

A few years back I played a hostage in a
movie that went straight to DVD. In it, the good guys tried to talk
the bad guys out of doing something stupid like blow their heads
off. Maybe that technique could work on Carl. I mean, we had a
history together, even if it was a short one where he tried to stop
Will from discovering my mistakes. We'd been pals, of sorts.

"This is silly," I said to Carl's gun
barrel. "I'm Cat, remember. Your buddy."

"You can't talk your way out of this,
Cat."

So much for that theory. "But I always liked
you," I persisted. "Doesn't that count for something?" The sentence
ended with a high-pitched squeak which I tried to cover with a
cough.
Act cool.
Don't show him you're scared
witless.

He snorted back a laugh. "Whatever. Now," he
wagged his gun, "get out of the truck and walk very slowly to that
blue car over there."

I spotted a blue sedan a few spaces down.
"
You
! Y-you were the one following me. You tried to kill
me." I'd never known what car he drove. Even if I had, I doubt I'd
have connected the near-death experiences to pretty boy Carl.

His laugh sounded hollow and thin. Not like
his usual cheeky giggle that was always ready no matter how dumb my
jokes.

Who was this man? He sounded and acted like
a complete stranger. The mannerisms, voice and appearance were the
same but the light had vanished from his eyes, replaced with a
coldness that stretched deeper than the iceberg that sank the
Titanic.

"Stop talking and
move
." He pressed
the gun against my forehead.

With an instinctive reaction, I pushed it
away.

He reached out and grabbed my throat. His
thumb and forefinger dug into my skin, squeezing my neck like he
wanted to pop my head off. Fiery pain radiated up to my skull and
down to my shoulders, knifing through nerve endings and cutting off
circulation. My face felt like it would explode and my throat
burned with the effort to breathe. The pressure became unbearable
and I thought I'd pass out from lack of oxygen or pain or just
plain fear.

I tried screaming but it came out as a
strangled gargle. I clawed at his hand, ripped his skin and kicked
his shins but it was no use. He kept squeezing and I thought I'd
die.

Then he stopped.

I spluttered and nearly vomited up my
breakfast. Gingerly I touched my throat and tested it for holes
where his thumb and finger had been. Still intact but only
just.