Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (18 page)

S
he eased into the living room, her back still pressed flat against the wall. The quarter-moon shone in the windows, casting the room in a soft gray glow. Now she did hear Davis’s low, steady breathing.

She heard Davis say, his voice low and utterly calm, “Don’t move or I’ll put a bullet right through your ear. It will make a huge mess, but you won’t care.”

A sharp cry, then Davis called out, “Perry, I know you’re there. Hit the lights.”

She flipped all the switches and the living room flooded with light, bright and hard. She saw Davis had his arm locked around a young man’s neck, his Glock inside his ear.

She looked into the white terrified face of Carlos Acosta.

She said, “That’s the best alarm available. How’d you get in?”

The Glock came out of his ear, rested against his temple.

“Well?” Davis asked.

The young man licked his lips, darted a look from Davis to Perry. He didn’t move a muscle. “I had the code. I thought you wouldn’t hear me. I didn’t know he was here.”

Davis patted him down, perp-walked the young man to a chair, and shoved him down. “You’ve learned a valuable lesson: never be the amateur in a professional’s game.”

Carlos didn’t move. He stared at Perry as she walked toward him, her Kimber at her side. She stopped right in front of him. “It didn’t matter that this guy was here. I could have taken you myself, Carlos.”

She leaned over him. “Listen, Carlos, we were all worried about you, especially Mr. Sallivar. And your mother and Isabel. We were afraid you were dead.” She straightened. “But you’re not dead, you were waiting to come after me. Why?”

His eyes flicked to the gun held loosely in her hand, then back to her face. “I was supposed to leave a message, not hurt you. I wouldn’t have hurt you, Ms. Black.”

Davis said, “Where is the message?”

“In my pocket.”

It was Perry who pulled out a folded note from his jacket pocket. A condom fell out with it. She held up the packet, waved it in his face. “I see, the note to me, then what? Rape?”

He looked appalled, shook his head back and forth. “No, no rape, I swear it. I bought it and slipped it into my pocket. Isabel—”

Davis raised his hand. “Enough about safe sex with Isabel for the moment. Perry, read the note.”

She laid the Kimber on the coffee table, slowly pulled out a sheet of folded paper, and read:

RUN AWAY, BLACK. YOU’RE NOT SAFE.

“Isn’t that lovely,” Davis said. “Who gave you the note and the code to this alarm system?”

“I wrote the note. He told me to. I don’t know who. He called
me on my cell, threatened us unless I did as he said. I don’t know who it was, I swear.”

“Not going to fly,” Davis said. He grabbed Carlos’s collar and pulled him straight out of the chair and shook him like a dog. “Tell me the truth or I’m going to throw your butt in the FBI dungeon. You won’t get out until you’re older than your mother. Do you have any idea how many felonies you’ve committed? You’re lucky to be alive walking in here—and all to leave a message? Has it occurred to you that the someone who sent you here wanted to get you shot? Wanted to shut you up forever? And we’d be the ones to do it, not him? No matter who’s threatening you, don’t you think you’d be wiser to let us protect you?”

Carlos’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I don’t know who he is, really,” he said again, his voice a whisper.

Perry said, “You said he threatened us. Who’s ‘us’?”

“If I didn’t put this note here, he said he’d kill Isabel.”

Perry leaned in close. “You’re sure it was a he?”

Carlos nodded. “Yes, it was a man, at least I think it was. Whoever it was had a deep voice, but it was sort of muffled, like he was talking through a wadded-up handkerchief, same as the first time.”

“The first time? Start at the beginning,” Davis said. “When did you get the first call?”

“He called me on my cell at work, the day before yesterday. That’s when he told me to write that message on the men’s room wall at the
Post
. I knew it was wrong, but it didn’t seem too bad. He knew all about me, about my family, and I’m not a citizen.”

Davis said, “Carlos, when he first called you, didn’t you wonder how he got your cell number?”

Carlos paused, frowned, then shook his head. “No, but I wondered later. I scrolled through my contacts, but it couldn’t have been any of them. And they wouldn’t have given out my cell number to a stranger.”

Davis continued. “And it was you who came here last night, wrecked Ms. Black’s motorcycle?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but yes. He called me again that day, told me I had to do that for him, too, or he would see to it Isabel would be buried next to her grandmother in Meadowland Cemetery. He knew everything about us.”

All he had to do was a thorough Web search, Davis knew. Carlos had been too scared to realize that. But the threat to the girl he loved, that was potent, enough to terrify a young man into doing anything asked to protect her.

“And yet he called you again, is that right? Sent you here tonight?”

“No, it wasn’t me he called. I threw away my cell phone, so I wouldn’t hear from him again. Today he called Isabel.”

Perry said, “Where have you been?”

His eyes fell to his sneakers. He mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

“In Mr. Sallivar’s shed, in their backyard. Isabel brought me food. Then she found out the FBI was looking for me, and I didn’t know what to do. We thought about running away, and then the man called Isabel on her own cell phone today, made her bring it to me.”

Carlos shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t want to take her phone because I knew it was him even though the call was blocked, but I was afraid not to answer.”

“Of course you had to answer. I want you to think about this, Carlos. What did he ask you to do, exactly?”

Carlos was quiet for a minute, then he said in a singsong voice, “He told me write that note, those words exactly, and put it in an envelope. He told me to come back here to Ms. Black’s house at midnight and gave me the code to the alarm, 25596. He made me write it down. He told me if I was quiet she wouldn’t hear me from the bedroom. He told me to leave it against her coffeepot in the kitchen, reset the alarm, and leave.

“I didn’t have a choice. I decided to do this last thing, and then to run away, by myself. It wouldn’t be right to take Isabel with me. Her father would never forgive me. So I thought I might be seeing her tonight for the last time. I don’t mean I planned to have sex with Isabel, but—” He fell silent, and his smooth, lean cheeks stained red.

So that’s why the condom. Davis wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He shoved Carlos back into the chair, patted his jacket, and straightened. He called Savich.

“Yeah?”

Davis heard a delighted laugh in the background, a female laugh, Sherlock’s laugh. He’d interrupted fun time.

“I have Carlos Acosta here at Perry’s,” he said. “Turns out Carlos was hiding in Mr. Sallivar’s shed, with Mr. Sallivar’s daughter Isabel seeing to his creature comforts.”

When Davis punched off his cell a minute later, he looked down at the slender young man who did look like Mr. Sallivar, only thirty years younger. He was a soft-spoken, handsome young man, and he looked scared, really scared. As he should be. Davis said, “All right, no jail time for you yet, Carlos. But you and Isabel
are both going to be in protective custody for a couple of days. We’ll be going over your stories very, very carefully.” He hauled Carlos to his feet.

Perry held out her hand. “Give me the condom.”

Carlos gave her a long look, then looked toward Davis.

She smacked his shoulder. “No, you idiot, it’s not for my use, it’s to keep your paws off Isabel. That is, if you have any honor left.”

“I do, I swear I do. Please, we have to hurry. When he finds out I failed, he might kill Isabel.”

When he finds out you didn’t get yourself killed and got caught instead, that ought to give him serious pause.
Davis said, “He won’t get near Isabel. I’ll take care of that. Come along, Carlos.”

He turned at the front door. “Keep a light on for me, Black.” His eyes flicked to her Kimber still on the coffee table. “Keep the gun close and reset your alarm.”

Washington, D.C.

Early Friday morning

B
lessed was nearly out of cash again. Before the accident—that was how he liked to think of it—getting cash was never a problem. He could walk into a bank—never in his hometown, Father had said that wasn’t smart—fasten his eyes on the teller, and very politely tell him or her to hand over whatever amount he wanted. He was never greedy, something Father had always preached. Of course, the teller would be short that night, and what a brouhaha that would cause, but it wasn’t Blessed’s problem.

He wasn’t like every other pathetic human being that walked the earth, the common herd who had to work or steal what they needed. He never had been like them, and he wouldn’t accept it now.

He’d had to use his knife twice to get money, and already he’d hated knowing what he’d become. At least now he had Agent Sherlock’s gun. He spotted a twenty-four/seven on a side street without much traffic. He waited for one customer to close the door behind him, leaving only Blessed and an older woman behind the counter. He fingered the agent’s Glock in his pocket. He knew
the old biddy was eyeing him suspiciously, maybe getting scared.
Do it, do it.
And so Blessed looked her right in her dark, rheumy eyes and said quietly, “Open the register and give me all your cash.”

He hadn’t realized he’d be afraid, afraid she might scream and pull out a gun. He wasn’t afraid she would shoot him, only afraid he’d fail. He nearly puked as he waited, his heart pounding, his eyes never leaving her face. But she smiled at him and opened the old-fashioned cash register. “No o-ones or f-f-fives,” he said, stuttering with relief. He watched her pull out all the tens and twenties. Then she lifted the cash drawer and pulled out a neat pile of fifties and a couple hundred-dollar bills.

“Please put all the money in a bag.”

She did, handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Blessed said, and turned to leave.

“What’s going on here?”

It was an old man, probably the woman’s husband, and he was pointing a shotgun at Blessed. “You, jerkface, put my money back on the counter! Now, or I’ll blow your head off!” The old buzzard lifted the rifle, aimed it at Blessed’s head.

Blessed was ten feet away from the old man.
Too far, too far.
He laid the bag of money on the counter. The old man hollered, “What’s wrong with you, Meg? Woman, get yourself together and call the cops!”

But the old woman only stood there, a small smile on her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” He turned back to Blessed, stepped toward him, his gun up. “What did you do to her?”

Blessed looked into his faded old eyes and said, “Please shoot Meg. In the head, I think.”

The old man said, “What? What did you say?” Then he blinked, turned the shotgun, and shot his wife’s face off.

Blessed jumped back so he wouldn’t get splattered by the mess the shotgun made. Pieces of flesh and brain matter splattered against the shelf of cigarettes behind the counter, and blood fountained in all directions. He couldn’t see her now, and was grateful she’d fallen, not making a sound.

He didn’t want to puke now. He wanted to shout with the pleasure and relief he felt. He’d done it; with just one look, one command, he’d made the old guy shoot her—
blam!
He was back. Blessed walked to the counter, took the bag of money, careful not to look down at the woman, and added over his shoulder as he walked out toward the door, “Now shoot yourself in the chest.”

Through the glass, he saw a middle-aged couple coming toward the store, arguing about something. He walked out of the store, walked right up to the couple. Even as the shotgun blasted out again, he said calmly, “Hi. You didn’t see me.”

He nodded to the couple and went on his way, whistling. He never missed a step when he heard the screams, the shouts. He was half a block away when he heard the first siren.

Blessed got into his stolen Toyota and drove to Georgetown, parking two blocks away from the Savich house, to be on the safe side. He saw Savich and Sherlock climb into the hot red Porsche and pull out of the driveway. A little boy stood beside a woman in the open doorway, waving at them.

He looked at the little boy, and wondered.