Sting (28 page)

Kinnard finished his apple and tossed the core into a trash can. “Guess I should shove off.”

“Transportation?”

“I'll figure something out.”

Joe had no doubt of that.

Kinnard didn't say good-bye to Jordie but paused at the door of the suite and shot her a telling look before going out. Joe pretended not to notice and walked over to her. “All set, Ms. Bennett?”

“Did you tell him about Costa Rica?”

“Who, Kinnard?”

“Did you?”

“He needed to know, especially now that it appears Panella isn't in a distant land after all.” He paused, then asked, “Are you afraid he'll retaliate?”

“He can't. He's a federal agent.”

Joe waited a second then said drily, “I was referring to Panella.”

“Oh.”

While the egg was still congealing on Jordie's face, Gwen, who'd been on her cell phone, quickly clicked off. “They're ready downstairs.”

The three of them left the suite and walked along the corridor to the elevator that provided hotel guests direct access to the parking garage. Joe, speaking into the mike on his lapel, communicated to all officers involved that they were on their way.

No one said anything as they rode the elevator down, but Joe covertly studied Jordie's reflection in the brass door. Her expression was thoughtful, her brow slightly furrowed. He wondered what, exactly, had made her so contemplative.

Maybe it was concern over Kinnard knowing about her romantic getaway with Panella, whom he had sworn to either put away or blow away. Meanwhile, she and Kinnard were steaming up bedrooms. Strange dynamics for a budding romance.

He'd called Marsha earlier to tell her that he would be late—again. He recapped everything that had happened in Tobias and shocked her with their discovery about Shaw Kinnard.

“He's good. Fooled Jordie Bennett. The rest of us, too. Hick almost shot him.”

“What's he like?”

“Like?”

“As a person.”

Joe hem-hawed a description, circled the wagons, backtracked, tried again. Marsha interrupted and asked, “Is he Maverick, Iceman, or Goose?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Which is he?”

“I don't know, Marsha. He's—”

“Of the three.”

“Then Iceman.”

“Okay.”

Before hanging up, he'd asked, “Which am I?”

“Goose. Definitely.”

A slightly disappointing answer.

When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, the two young marshals were there to greet them. One held up a hand. “Hold tight. SUVs are rolling.”

Through the open elevator door, Joe watched the three vehicles whiz past. They looked intimidating and official with darkly tinted windows and flashing lights in their tricked-out grilles. After a few moments, one of the marshals said, “SUVs are clear of the garage. Motorcycle cops are opening up the street.”

“Okay, Hick, we're good to go,” Joe said into his mike.

Then, one of the marshals said, “Hold it. We've got a clown at three o'clock.”

Gwen backed Jordie into the corner of the elevator. Joe whispered for Hick to wait, drew his weapon, and peered around the open door toward the street entrance where the “clown” was strolling in on foot. Undeterred by the automated red-and-white-striped arm at the ticket dispenser, he went around it without breaking stride.

He had on a maroon hoodie, sunglasses with blue lenses, several strands of Mardi Gras beads, and was laughing into the cell phone held against his ear.

“Shit.” One of the marshals relaxed his obvious tension. “It's Kinnard.”

No sooner had he recognized Kinnard than an undercover policeman and a man in uniform rushed into the garage. “He's ours,” the marshal called out to them. “We got it covered in here.” They waved and retreated.

“Good to go, Hick,” Joe said into the mike.

Kinnard dropped the pretense and pocketed his cell phone. He pushed back the hood and pulled off the sunglasses as he approached the elevator.

Joe said, “You're screwing the plan.”

“Bad plan. Where's Jordie?”

Joe motioned into the elevator. Coming abreast of it, Kinnard looked inside and acknowledged her with a nod, then asked Joe, “Where's Hickam?”

“On his way. You have an alternate plan?”

“You ride shotgun. Gwen and I will flank Jordie in the backseat.” He looked toward the entrance. “If I waltzed in here, Panella can.”

“The officers were hot on your heels.”

“Yeah, but…” He gave the garage a visual sweep. “It's dicey.”

“Panella's too slick to walk into—”

“But he might send another Mickey Bolden, who's desperate for money and has nothing to lose by trying. Where the
fuck
is Hickam?”

“He should be here any sec.”

“I agree. He
should
. How far away did he park?”

“Half a block.”

“Half a block?” Kinnard's head came around and locked eyes with Joe.

They held each other's stare for no more than a heartbeat before they moved at the same time and ran toward the entrance through which Kinnard had just come. As Kinnard pulled his nine-millimeter, he called back to the marshals, “Don't let Jordie out of your sight.”

When they got outside, Joe yelled toward the two officers who'd followed Kinnard into the garage. They turned and fell in behind them.

Kinnard kept pace with Joe. “What does the new car look like?”

“Like Hick's,” Joe panted.

“Dammit, it's dark down here.”

“That was the idea.”

They spotted the sedan simultaneously and sprinted toward it. From several yards away, Joe saw that Hick was in the driver's seat, unmoving. He came to an abrupt stop, crying out, “Oh no no no
no
!”

Kinnard covered the remaining distance at full tilt. He actually skidded to a halt and banged into the side of the car as he yanked open the driver's door. Hick didn't stir. He was slumped sideways toward the passenger seat. There was blood on his face, his neck, shoulder. The left sleeve of his suit jacket was saturated. His dangling hand was dripping red.

Shaw reached in. “He's got a pulse,” he shouted back.

Joe didn't remember until later when he saw the bruises on his kneecaps that he had literally dropped to them in relief. At the time, he'd been fumbling with the mike on his shoulder, shouting into it “Officer down!” and ordering the two policemen coming abreast of him to put in emergency calls.

Within seconds officers came running from every direction. Joe pushed himself up and stumbled over to the car, where Kinnard had his fingers dug in deep against Hick's neck. Blood was seeping through them.

Joe blinked a combination of sweat and tears out of his eyes. “Is he conscious?”

“No.”

“The carotid, you think?”

“Fuckin' Panella.”

“Is he going to make it?”

Kinnard was about to say something, but then turned his head, and looked into Joe's face, and made a quick edit. “Better have his suit cleaned before he comes around. He's gonna be pissed that it got messed up.”

Joe wanted to thank him for that. But his throat was too tight to say anything.

It seemed like forever, but was actually only a few minutes later that an ambulance roared up and squealed to a stop. Joe and Kinnard were pushed aside as paramedics pulled Hick from the car and went to work on him. Before Joe could quite reconcile that this was actually happening, they'd strapped his partner onto a gurney and placed it in the ambulance.

His instinct was to climb in behind them and ride along. Hick might not make it. If he weren't already dead, he might die en route. Joe needed to be there with him. He had to go!

But he was a law enforcement officer, and the best thing he could do for Hick, whether he survived or not, was to catch the son of a bitch who'd done this.

By now NOPD patrol cars had the street blocked. Others were running hot up and down intersecting streets searching for the assailant. Patrol officers on foot were doing the same. Two homicide detectives in plainclothes isolated Joe and began asking questions.

He produced his ID and described the situation.

“You ran from the garage to look for Agent Hickam?” one asked.

“He was late, which signaled me that something was wrong.”

“And you found him inside the car?”

“Yes,” Joe replied. “We—”

Joe broke off suddenly and looked around. First responders were doing their specific tasks. Uniformed policemen were holding back the crowd of curiosity seekers who had already gathered behind a temporary barricade. Gwen and the other two marshals were being questioned collectively by plainclothes detectives.

Shaw Kinnard and Jordie Bennett were nowhere to be seen.

W
here are we going?”

“Just keep walking.”

Shaw propelled Jordie across Canal Street. He was walking fast and with purpose, but they were swimming upstream of the pedestrians who'd been lured toward the apparent emergency behind the hotel, the destination of speeding vehicles with flashing lights and sirens.

She and Shaw crossed the streetcar tracks in the median and then had to wait for the traffic light to change before they could cross the lanes of oncoming traffic. Had he not been pushing her along, she couldn't have kept up with his brisk clip.

Without slowing his pace, he pulled off the hoodie and dropped it wrong side out into the lap of a homeless man who was semireclined in the recessed doorway of an abandoned building. The man didn't even look up.

Once on the other side of the busy boulevard, they entered the French Quarter. Even on a Monday night, it was thronged. The busy vendor of a souvenir kiosk didn't notice when Shaw yanked a t-shirt off a rack. It was a flashy purple-gold-and-green-striped thing with a sequin fleur de lis on the chest.

He thrust it at her. “Put this on over your shirt.”

He also lifted an LSU baseball cap from off the head of a stuffed alligator and snatched several strands of Mardi Gras beads hanging from a peg. He put on the cap and draped the beads around her neck.

Beneath her shirt, the bulletproof vest was heavy and hot. Another layer would make it worse, but when Shaw ordered her again to put on the t-shirt, she pulled the gaudy thing over her head without missing a beat.

“How bad was Hickam?”

“Bad.”

“Do you think he'll die?”

“Probably.”

Her breath caught. “We should go back.”

“And let Panella get you, too?”

“You can't be sure it was Panella.”

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

“We left a crime scene. Joe Wiley will be beside himself.”

“I'm doing him a favor.”

“How's that?”

“You're one less thing he'll have to deal with tonight.”

“I don't think he'll see it that way.”

“Me either.”

“You could always tell him that you placed me under arrest.”

He threw his arm across her shoulders like an affectionate lover, pulled her close to his side, and nuzzled her hair away from her ear. “I have.”

Astonished, she tilted her head back and looked at him. The upper half of his face was shadowed by the bill of the baseball cap, but there was no mistaking the set of his jaw. He wasn't kidding. She tried to shake him off, but he held firm, even though he grunted with pain as they struggled.

“You can't arrest me.”

“Hell I can't, and if you don't stop that I'll cuff you for resisting.”

“What are you arresting me for?”

“Lying to federal agents. The others didn't know you were, but I did.”

“When did I lie? About what?”

“Your phone conversation with Josh.”

“No one would even have known he'd called me if I hadn't told. Everything I said was the truth.”

“Maybe, but what did you leave unsaid?”

She remained silent.

“Um-huh. It's that missing stuff that I want to hear, Jordie. Until further notice, consider yourself under arrest.” And then he Mirandized her, whispering her constitutional rights into her ear as though they were sweet nothings.

Even though by now they were blocks away from the hotel, he didn't relax his vigilance. While playacting that they were an affectionate couple out for an evening of fun, he remained alert and watchful. He jammed his bloodstained hand into his jeans pocket to avoid it being noticed. When a police helicopter flew in low and hovered, he pulled her into a carryout daiquiri place where they stood in line like other customers until the chopper moved on.

Once he stopped abruptly in the middle of the narrow sidewalk and let a pack of rowdy, inebriated young men eddy around them and then engaged one of the stragglers in conversation as though they were buddies.

After separating from the group and moving on, she asked, “Do we have a destination? Where are you taking me?”

Shaw didn't answer; she didn't bother to ask again.

She was well acquainted with the city and the Quarter, so she knew that in addition to quickly crossing streets in the middle of the block and ducking into and out of crowded shops, they were going in circles and doubling back frequently.

Finally she asked, “Are you afraid we're being followed?”

“Wishful, actually. I'd love nothing better than for Panella to be on our tail.”

“Why?”

“I could take him out and not have to justify my means.”

He wasn't kidding about that, either.

They walked for another half hour. Either he grew too weak to continue, or he became convinced that no one was following them. He slowed their pace, and, after taking a final look behind them, rounded a corner.

Different from the noisy, commercial streets, this one was dark and quiet. An elderly couple were walking an ancient-looking dog on a leash. Otherwise the street was deserted.

They had almost reached the next corner when Shaw stopped at an iron gate that led into a narrow alley between two brick buildings, both of which were shuttered and dark. Tiny ferns sprouted from cracks in the crumbling mortar.

He worked the combination to open the padlock on the gate, then pushed it open. The hinges squealed. Jordie wondered if perhaps that noise passed for a security system.

Once they were through the gate, Shaw reached between the pickets and replaced the padlock, then took her hand and led her down the alley, which wasn't much wider than his shoulders. The stepping-stones were loose and uneven, slippery with moss.

The alley opened into a walled courtyard dominated by a live oak tree that formed a canopy over the area. What at one time must have been a lovely garden was now derelict. The vines clinging to the enclosing walls were either overgrown or dead. The cherub in the center of the concrete fountain was missing an arm, and she seemed to be looking forlornly into the stagnant water in the basin at her feet.

Shaw climbed a metal staircase affixed to the building's exterior wall, pulling Jordie behind him. At the top, he worked loose a brick from the adjacent wall, took out a key and unlocked the door, then guided her into the enveloping darkness inside. He closed the door before switching on the light.

He tossed the key onto the top of a bookshelf then crossed to a window-mounted AC unit and turned it on. “I haven't been here in a few days, so it'll take a while to cool down.”

Jordie looked around in wonder. The living area in which they stood shared an open space with a compact kitchen, an eating bar separating the two. A door on her left led into what was obviously a bedroom. The apartment was inexpensively but comfortably furnished, the pieces arranged to maximize the limited floor space.

After taking a long look around, she came back to him. “You live here?”

“No. An apartment in Atlanta is my permanent residence. If you can call it that. I'm rarely there.”

“Then…?” She raised her hands to her sides and looked at him inquiringly.

“This belonged to my folks. They bought it cheap years ago. We stayed here whenever we came down to visit my grandparents. Mom liked the French Quarter.”

“Does anyone live downstairs?”

“Not anymore. A bachelor leased it from my parents for a while, but when he moved away, they—” He shut down as though a switch had been flipped. “Doesn't matter.”

“I think it does. If it didn't matter you wouldn't have kept the place all this time.”

Shaw turned away before she detected just how accurate she was. “I'll be back.” At the bedroom door, he paused. “Don't even think about skipping out.”

He went through the bedroom into the bathroom. Using liquid soap and the hottest water he could stand, he scrubbed Hickam's blood off his hands, trying not to dwell on the amount of it he'd seen pumping out of him.

When the water in the sink ran clear, he dried his hands, peeled back the bandage to check his incision, then returned to the living room. Jordie had removed the t-shirt, beads, and bulletproof vest and piled them in a chair. Otherwise, she was standing precisely where she'd been, looking around in bewilderment.

“What?” he said.

“You're full of surprises. That's all.”

He headed for the kitchen. “The place comes in handy. I camped out here when I was investigating Panella. I came by here last Thursday before hooking up with Mickey Bolden. Stocked some food and water in case I needed a place to stay out of sight for a while, dependant on what went down in Tobias. Little did I know.” He took two bottles of water from the refrigerator and carried one to her.

They both drank, then she asked, “Instead of taking me to that filthy garage, why didn't you bring me here?”

“Too comfy. Too many people nearby. Too many avenues of escape. I needed an isolated and uncomfortable spot.”

“In which to frighten and torture me.”

“I didn't torture you. But hold the thought. It may come down to that later.”

He took the burner phone from his shirt pocket and called Wiley, who took several rings to answer, and when he did he sounded physically beat down and emotionally hammered.

“It's me,” Shaw said.

“She with you?”

“I'm looking at her.”

Jordie motioned for him to put the phone on speaker so she could hear. Fearing the worst, Shaw said, “Hickam?”

“Alive. Critical condition.”

Looking stricken, Jordie sat down on the padded arm of the easy chair where she'd placed the articles she'd taken off. She'd said she didn't want anyone else to die because of her. That was before Royce Sherman. Now Hickam was another casualty. “Are you at the hospital?” Shaw asked Wiley.

“Just got here. Detectives released me so I could come. Hick's in surgery now. They've had to raid the blood bank. May take a miracle to pull him through.”

Shaw ran his fingers through his hair. “I'm sorry, man.”

“Thanks.” Wiley cleared his throat and took a moment, then he said, “Why'd you run off?”

“Jordie's safety.”

“That's a laugh. You and safety don't mix.”

“I've also placed her under arrest and read her her rights.”

“Really? Why now?”

Looking directly into her eyes, Shaw said, “I've come to believe like you do that she hasn't been entirely truthful with us. She knows more than she's telling. She's sure as hell got Panella worried or he wouldn't be sending her warnings. He hit Royce Sherman for shooting off his mouth. Now the attempt on Hickam—”

“—wasn't Panella.”

Shaw twitched as though he'd been jabbed with that propeller again. “What?”

“A security camera caught the suspect walking fast down the sidewalk in the direction of Hick's car. This was just a minute or two ahead of the motorcycle cops who held back traffic. Some gangbanger.”

“He's been arrested?”

“No.”

“IDed?”

“No. No clear view of his face. He was wearing a hoodie.”

“A
hoodie
?”

“Dark color like yours. Detectives surmise Hick thought it was you and lowered the window for him.”

Shaw's mind went into a tailspin, but it always came back to how many coincidences it would require for a gangbanger in a hoodie like his to come along during that narrow window of time.

He remembered seeing Hickam's dangling left hand, his expensive wristwatch drenched in blood still strapped to his wrist. “Was anything taken? Wallet? Weapon?”

“No.”

“Then I'm not buying it.” He knew Wiley wasn't up to a debate right now, but precious time could be wasted on NOPD's erroneous conclusion. “It was Panella,” he said.

“Told them that. Repeatedly. The detectives are leery.”

“Did you see the security camera video?”

“One of the investigators played it back for me on his iPad.” Wiley hesitated. “In the dark, jacked on adrenaline, having just given you that hoodie to put on, it's conceivable that Hick could've mistaken the guy on the sidewalk for you.”

“But?”

“Wrong body type. Not nearly as tall as you.”

“It was Panella.”

“But he
was
favoring his left side. Walking fast but with a limp.”

Jordie made a small but startled sound.

Shaw homed in on her. He said to Wiley, “I'll call you back.”

Joe sat on the waiting room sofa, elbows on his knees, head bowed, staring at the ugly carpet between his shoes, praying. Sort of. Because he knew that's what Hick would be doing if their situations were reversed and he was the one whose life was hanging by a thread.

“Joe?”

He looked up and saw Marsha, and was furious enough to want to yell at her, but too glad to see her to do anything except stand up and open his arms. She walked into them, and for long moments they just held each other. He soaked her up, thinking how vital she was to him. Everything about her. Her sassy humor. Her soft, familiar body. Right now, her strength.

When they finally pulled apart, he wiped his eyes, but assumed a put-out tone. “You're supposed to be locked in and under guard.”

Although Kinnard had hung up abruptly and without explanation, his insistence that Panella was their culprit worried Joe enough to order police protection for his family. If it was Panella, he'd made the fight personal, and he fought dirty. Joe was taking no chances with the security of his wife and children.

Marsha said, “I had to see you. There's a policewoman inside the house. The kids are asleep and don't know I'm gone. One of the officers drove me. He gave me fifteen minutes.” She kissed his face several times. “How's Hick?”