Sting (10 page)

“Yeah, like that. Two hundred grand, minimum.” He placed his hands over his knees and bent at the waist to bring them to eye level. “But you don't have to worry about me icing you if you'll tell me where your brother is.”

“We're back to that?”

“Where is he, Jordie?”

“How much clearer can I make it? I. Don't. Know.”

“Do yourself a favor. Don't hold out on me.”

“I'm not.”

“Four days and Josh hasn't made contact with you in some way, shape, or form?”

“No.”

“Message in a bottle, smoke signal, disappearing ink?”

She didn't honor that with a response.

Moving in closer, he whispered, “Why were you in that bar?”

Her heart lurched. He hadn't let go of that, damn him. Not trusting herself to speak calmly, she didn't say anything.

He flashed a wicked grin. “You went there expecting to find Josh, didn't you?”

She turned her head aside. He followed with his, and when she turned away again, he trapped her face between his hands. “Did Mickey and I spoil a touching family reunion?”

She closed her eyes so she couldn't see the ruthless determination in his. Also to prevent him from reading any giveaways in hers.

“Where is your brother, Jordie?”

She rolled her lips inward, refusing to answer.

“Be smart and tell me. Panella will pay me to kill you. Josh will pay me
not
to.”

“You'll kill me regardless.”

“I won't. Cross my heart.”

His mocking tone angered her. She gripped his wrists, digging her nails into the skin on the undersides.

“Stop that! I don't want to hurt you.”

“I want to hurt
you
.”

“It hurts like hell.”

“Then let me go!”

“I will as soon as you tell me where to find your brother.”

“I can't,” she said, straining the words through clenched teeth. “I don't know.”

“Last chance. I won't ask again. Tell me, or you leave me no choice but to follow through with Panella. 'Cause I put a lot of time and effort into getting this job. It's boosted me to the top of the pay grade. No way in hell am I walking away empty-handed.”

She opened her eyes to gauge his resolve, and what she saw chilled her. She figured she had just as well call his bluff. “Then I guess you'll just have to kill me.”

They stared into each other's eyes—each as unyielding as the other—until the cell phone inside his shirt pocket rang.

J
oe entered his house through the kitchen door, slid the folder he'd brought from the office onto the table, then tiredly removed his wrinkled jacket and hung it on the designated hook adjacent to the door. He placed his shoulder holster on top of the hutch out of the kids' reach.

“Anybody home?” He opened the fridge and decided on orange juice.

Marsha caught him drinking straight from the carton. “The kids know better than to do that.”

“They know better than to get caught.” He drained the carton and set it on the counter beside a large pumpkin. “What's that?”

“It's called a pumpkin.”

Joe shot her a look.

“For the carnival. I have to draw a face on it.” She held up the black marker she'd brought with her into the kitchen.

“Where are the kids?”

“Upstairs. Molly is in the tub. Henry is dressed and ready. He's in his room playing a video game.”

“They okay?”

“They had a knock-down, drag-out this morning over whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher.”

“Who won?”

“I did.”

Joe smiled as he pulled a chair from beneath the dining table and dropped into it. “How was
Top Gun
?”

“Goose dies every time.”

“The wine?”

“Maybe I should have splurged on an eight-dollar bottle.”

“Anything's drinkable with popcorn.”

“I skipped the double butter. I'm getting fat.”

He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap. Running his hand over her hip, he said, “Your curves are womanly.”

“Even my mom jeans are getting tight.”

“I love 'em tight. Let's have sex.”

“The kids could walk in on us, and I have to draw that pumpkin face.”

“It'll take sixty seconds.”

“The pumpkin or the sex?”

He laughed. “Tired as I am, I may need more than sixty seconds.”

Kidding aside, she touched his face with concern. “You look exhausted. What's going on?”

“Josh Bennett got tired of the taxpayers' hospitality and pulled a disappearing act.” Taking advantage of her speechlessness, he said, “Don't announce that over the speakers at the carnival. We haven't gone public with it yet. I was hoping to catch him before we had to.”

“How in the world did he get away?”

“He didn't come down for breakfast. Marshals went to check. Room was empty, bed still made.”

“I thought he had one of those ankle monitors.”

“Clever little shit got it off. They found it in the bathroom. That was Tuesday. Then last night…” He filled her in on everything that had occurred since Hick's initial call.

“He and I agreed to take a short break, then we've got to jump back in. Now that Josh Bennett's sister is missing, and the whole mess resurrected, I may have to change my mind about announcing his escape. In any case, I won't be going to the carnival. Sorry.”

“It's okay.” She stroked his head. She knew better than anyone how badly the Billy Panella case had eaten at him.

Over a three-year period, Panella had craftily enticed the clients of his investment firm to put their money into phony stocks, municipal bonds, pharmaceuticals to cure cancer, energy exploration that was ecofriendly, resorts and exclusive retirement communities, even shrimp and catfish farms—none of which existed.

With Josh Bennett's wizardry with numbers and money-juggling skills, Panella had committed fraud to the tune of thirty million dollars and change. He had made everything work for a while, paying occasional dividends with the promise of big payoffs to come.

They never did. Dividends got smaller, while growing larger were the number of client complaints filed with the FTC, SEC, et cetera, until a fat file landed in Joe's division and he initiated a full-fledged but covert investigation of the Panella Investments Group.

After months of study, he and Hick determined that Josh Bennett was the weak link in the partnership. They approached him, told him that his and Panella's scam was screwed, and offered to reduce the charges he faced in exchange for evidence and testimony against Panella.

Josh Bennett held out for full immunity, and, after a lot of legal ping-ponging, the federal prosecutor agreed to his terms. That didn't make Joe happy, but Panella was the much bigger fish. It was alleged that he had fingers in a lot of dirty pies, but with the information Bennett provided, Joe's division was the first to build a rock-solid case against him. À la Al Capone's conviction for tax evasion, they could put an end to Panella's unsavory criminal career and various illegal hobbies.

But apparently Panella hadn't been as oblivious to Bennett's betrayal as he'd pretended. Behind firewalls that Josh Bennett had helped him design, he'd managed to move bundles of money without even his genius partner in crime being aware of it.

By the time Bennett discovered that accounts were being methodically emptied, it was too late. Joe and Hick carried a federal warrant for Panella's arrest to his mansion on St. Charles Avenue only to find the place in disarray. Panella had cleared out in a hurry.

Upon hearing that Panella was at large, Josh Bennett lapsed into a suicidal depression. “I had just as well slit my own throat,” he said when Joe broke the bad news.

The hell of it was, his doom-and-gloom prediction was well-founded. Rumors of Panella's violent temper and vengeful bent had circulated throughout the law enforcement community. No direct connection was ever drawn between him and Mickey Bolden, but Joe figured Panella was behind several missing persons cases and grisly homicides for which the hit man was suspected but never indicted. Authorities could never make an allegation stick.

The threat Panella posed to Josh Bennett, Backstabber, was real enough. The same day Panella went missing, the Bureau wasted no time hustling their informant out of Dodge. By nightfall Bennett had been relocated to a safe house in Tennessee and placed under tight guard.

Obviously not tight enough.

Joe said, “For the six months and eight days he's been up there, marshals have described him as sulky and morose, and scared of his own shadow, convinced that Panella would track him down and have him killed.”

“I thought Panella had fled the country with the cash.”

“That's the consensus. But even if it's true, he's got a long reach, and Josh Bennett knows that better than anyone. He's the accountant who paid Mickey Bolden for services rendered. Which leads one to wonder why he would pop out from cover and put his life at risk.”

“Panic?”

“Possibly. According to the men guarding him, he's been growing squirrelier by the day. Went mental when they let in a guy to work on the house's AC. Josh was convinced he was an assassin sent by Panella.”

“Has he had a psychological evaluation?”

“Several. IQ off the charts. But paranoid as hell and—”

“—squirrelly.”

“Yeah. For someone so smart, he's done something really stupid. By taking off like this, he's cooked his own goose. Certainly with us. But also with Panella. Soon as he got wind of Bennett's escape, Panella wasted no time hiring hit men to go after Bennett's sister.”

“Why her?”

“To send Josh a message.
Run, you traitorous son of a bitch. I'll kill your sister instead.
”

Marsha mulled that over. “I know you and Hick questioned her. Did you ever suspect her of being involved in their scam?”

“Not really. But…” He raised a shoulder. “Females make good crooks.”

“We're wily, Wiley.”

He smiled and gave her mouth a quick kiss. “Good one.”

“This Mickey Bolden was killed by his own partner?”

“A badass. One Shaw Kinnard. No previous links to Mickey, but he was temporarily affiliated with an outfit here in New Orleans that dealt in guns and drugs, with a sideline in money laundering, which is how Hick and I became familiar with his name.

“Never got a chance to interrogate him, though. There was a nothing-to-sneeze-at body count chalked up to him in the DA's office. But the limp-dick prosecutor declined to indict. Lack of evidence, he said.”

“Kinnard was let go?”

“Yep. Walked off into the sunset. But a few months ago, he showed up on the radar of the Bureau's El Paso office. Prime suspect in a homicide. He evaded capture by slipping into Mexico, and nobody down there has been able to collar him, because he was reputedly inside the fortress of a drug kingpin.”

He glanced at the folder lying on the table. He didn't open it to the gruesome photos, but he told Marsha about the call girl who'd left a house party with the three men, two of which had turned up dead. “One was Kinnard's host, the other the chief of the state police.”

“Good Lord.”

“The guy was a cockroach. Both victims were. But Kinnard exterminated them in cold blood. That alone took gumption.” He told her about his leaving the bodies within walking distance of police headquarters and about the wave he'd given a security camera in the New Orleans hotel. “Like he doesn't care if we know he's back in town. Pisses us off,” he grumbled.

“And he kidnapped Josh Bennett's sister?”

“Well, he's gone and she's gone. Can't be good.”

“You don't suppose they're in cahoots?”

He laughed. “Her with this character? No way. She's classy. Uptown. He's just the opposite.”

“People have said that about you and me.”

He bent his head and rubbed his nose in the open collar of her blouse. “I've said it myself.” He kissed her neck, then pulled away. “We have to assume that Jordie Bennett is in danger of her life. If he hasn't killed her already.”

“If he was going to kill her, why didn't he do it along with Mickey Bolden?”

“I'm afraid to venture a guess. Because he spared the call girl in Mexico from assassination, Hick thinks he may have a soft spot for the ladies.”

“What do you think?”

Joe called to mind the face in Shaw Kinnard's mug shot, the rigidity of the features, the unfeeling gaze looking directly into the camera. “I don't think this guy has a soft spot for anything or anybody. Including himself.”

For moments after the cell phone rang, Shaw and Jordie were held in suspended animation. He moved first, opening the flap on his breast pocket and taking out the ringing cell phone while she watched with wide-eyed apprehension.

He put it on speaker and answered. “How's it hanging, Panella?”

“What the fuck? Who's this? Where's Mickey? Why are you answering his phone?”

“I can think of only one reason.”

Shaw had noticed Jordie's shudder upon hearing Panella's electronic voice. Maybe he did want to avoid a voiceprint, but Shaw figured he also used the device because he knew it sounded creepy and added to his mystique. Right now, however, he was silent except for the rasp of his breathing.

Then, “You're Mickey's second?”

“That's right.”

“Where's Mickey?”

“Due to unforeseen circumstances, he had to stay behind.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think you can figure it out.”

“You motherfucker.”

“That's not my name.”

“He's dead?”

“Compliments of me. I also took Jordie Bennett,” Shaw said. “Not her corpse.
Her.
Which means that if you still want her killed, you gotta deal with me.”

Panella let loose a spate of profanities and threats which came through loud and clear despite the garbled voice. “You think you're awfully smart, don't you?”

“Well, I outsmarted Mickey. That wasn't my gray matter left to shovel up.”

“I discouraged your participation.”

“Really? So it was Mickey's idea to set me up to take the fall for her hit?”

Panella said nothing to that.

“I'm willing to overlook it,” Shaw said, “but because my feelings were hurt, I'm going to need a bit more compensation than Mickey settled for.”

“How do I know you even have Jordie?”

“Come on, Panella, let's cut this crap. You knew who you were talking to when I answered this phone. You already knew Mickey was dead. By now the story of last night's events will have been well covered by the media.”

“Not where I am.”

Shaw didn't believe that, but he let it pass. “Call the Terrebonne Parish Sheriff's Office. They'll verify that Jordie was snatched. Homicide detectives will have gotten a description of me, and I've probably been identified as Shaw Kinnard.”

“Well, my contract wasn't with
Shaw Kinnard
. So I'm under no obligation to honor it. If in fact you did take Jordie, deal with her any way you like. I don't have to pay you a goddamn penny.”

“That occurred to me, too. But here are some possible consequences of that decision. One, I use her phone to notify the nearest FBI office that she's alive. A little worse for wear, maybe, but very much alive.”

He paused, but Panella said nothing. Shaw had his attention.

“I leave the phone on so they can track the signal straight to her. By the time they get here, I'll be long gone, but they'll be glad to see her. Tickled to have her back in the fold. She was their clubhouse sweetheart for weeks, you know. Cooperative. Chatty. Who knows, maybe this traumatic experience will have jostled loose a memory about you and her brother that slipped her mind the first go-round of questioning.”

“I didn't tell them anything!” she shouted.

Shaw clicked off the speaker and pressed the phone against his chest. “Shut up,” he hissed. “You fuck this up, I won't be happy.”

“Like I care.”

“You should. I'm your only chance at life, darlin'.”

She tilted her chin up mutinously, but when she didn't speak again, he put the phone to his ear. “There, you see? I have her. But her welcome is wearing thin, which makes option two damned tempting.”