“How would I know? I had nothing to do with it. I’m trying to keep a low profile here. You honestly think I’d murder a guy and bring the law down on me? I’d have to be pretty damned stupid.”
“Or just a hothead with a temper.”
“It wasn’t me who killed him.
“Liar mouth!” Molly cried out. “I heard you!”
Clay looked at her in annoyance. “What’s this now?”
“The night you beat up Daddy in the driveway. You said if you ever saw him around here again you’d cut him!”
“Well, I didn’t,” he insisted. “Wasn’t me.”
“And I’d like to believe you,” Des said, her eyes on that Glock. And her thoughts on the Sig stuffed in her rear waistband. “Do you know what sure would help convince me? If you’d let Molly go.”
“I’m not holding her,” he said easily. “We’re just hanging together.”
Des glanced over at the French doors that led out to the back deck. “You’re saying she could walk right out that door if she wanted to?”
“Absolutely. She just doesn’t want to.”
“Is that right, Molly?”
The girl sat frozen at the table. “I’m fine right here, Des.” Her voice barely a whisper.
“There, you see? She’s fine. We’re all fine. Now it’s your turn, lady.” Clay jabbed the air with the Glock. “Who thinks they’re on to me?”
“It’s a joint task force. And they don’t ‘think’ it-they’ve known it ever since you left Atlanta. They’re getting ready to shut down the entire Vargas drug trafficking operation.” Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “You just described yourself to me as someone smart.”
“So…?”
“So let’s say you have a big-league stash of ice down in that root cellar. If I were you I’d be trying to cut a sweetheart deal for myself right about now. Seriously, you are staring at a golden opportunity. Provide the Feds with detailed inside testimony and you’ll be out in no time. Hell, they might even put you in the witness protection program. I heard them talking about it last night.”
“Thanks for thinking of me. That’s mighty generous.” Clay kept the Glock trained right at her, giving her no opening to make a move. None. “But I’ll take my chances south of the border. It won’t be the first time Hector and me have had to disappear into the hills down there for a few months. That’s how we’ve kept our records so clean. We know how to go native. Pay the right people off. The Feds don’t. We’ll be clearing out tonight. And you’ll be helping us. You and Molly both. You’re going to be our exit visas.”
“Your hostages, you mean.”
“We’ll let you two go just as soon we cross the border. Then again
…” He grinned at Des wolfishly. “Life is full of surprises. By the time we get there you may feel like going native with me.”
“Dream on. If you want to hold me, fine. Why not let Molly go? You don’t need us both.”
“Not a chance. But maybe you’d like to see it for yourself.”
“See what?”
Clay gestured to the trapdoor in the floor. “What’s down there.”
“You want to show it to me?”
“Absolutely.” He groped around in the drawer behind him until his hand came out with a length of rope. “Put your hands behind you. Wrists together.”
Des didn’t budge, her mind racing. It was now or never if she was going to make a move for her Sig. But could she make it without endangering the girl? Or would she better off making a dive for his Glock? Yeah, that was it. Go for the Glock. Go for it. Go…
“Hands together now,” Clay barked impatiently.
As Des stood poised there, ready to spring at him, it dawned upon her that she did not like how the kitchen floor had suddenly started rolling back and forth. Or the way Clay Mundy’s face was swimming in and out of focus… Oh, no, not now! No, please… As she fought off the wave of dizziness, struggling to keep her wits, a cold splash of reality jarred her back to here and now: I have no time for this. Molly’s life is on the line. Blinking, she saw Clay clearly once again. Only now he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was over her shoulder at the living room doorway. And now she was hearing the creak of a floorboard-Hector coming up behind her.
“Run, Molly! Get out!”
Molly darted for the glass French doors just as Des dove for Clay’s gun, wrestling him for it. He got off one quick shot in Molly’s direction, blowing out the glass as she ran out. Then a second, wild shot into the ceiling. Des could not tell whether Molly made it. Because by now Hector was all over her. Both men were-pummeling her, kicking her. Des gave as good as she got. Landed a hard right to Clay’s nose that sent blood spurting. But then she felt a tremendous explosion inside of her head and this time there was no fighting it, no chance.
This time everything went black and stayed black.
CHAPTER 12
To: Mitch Berger
From: Bella Tillis
Subject: Local Emergency
Dear Mr. Big Shot New York Movie Critic-You need to come out here right away, tattela. Des is in the worst kind of trouble. I wouldn’t ask you to come except you’re the only one in the whole world who can help and this is a real life and death emergency. She needs you, Mitch. Come at once. Come directly here. Don’t bother phoning or responding to this e-mail. Just come. If you don’t, I promise that you will regret it for the rest of your life.
I’ll explain everything when you get here. Please hurry.
Much love, Aunt Bella.
The slow, agonizing crawl of evening rush hour traffic finally began to pick up after Mitch made it past Stamford. It was 8:30 by now-more than two hours since he’d arrived home to pack for his trip and discovered Bella’s strange e-mail.
He did try to phone her. But all he got was her machine. He’d hung up without leaving a message. Paced his apartment. Reread her e-mail again and again, searching for some hint as to what the hell was going on. A hidden kernel. A nuance. Something, anything. Got nowhere. Paced his apartment some more, boiling with frustration. Then abruptly grabbed the phone and switched to a later flight to L.A. tomorrow. Packed an overnight bag. Dumped some extra kibble in Clemmie’s bowl, said good-bye and dashed out the door. He caught a cab down to a rental car place on West 81st Street off of Amsterdam, signed for a Chevy Impala and took off, scarfing down a takeaway supper as he crept his way slowly up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Cross Bronx Expressway.
It was a warm, humid evening. He had the air conditioning cranked high and the Mets-Cubs game on the radio from Shea, Mets leading 4-1 in the bottom of the third. However, thunderstorms were likely to interrupt play at any time, according to Mitch’s idol, the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker Jim Cantore. Who was never wrong. Mitch drove, sucking the last of his sweet papaya drink through a straw. The greasy wrappers on the passenger seat next to him all that remained of the three Gray’s Papaya hot dogs he’d stuffed in his face before he’d reached the George Washington Bridge. Very first time he’d eaten anything so overtly unhealthy in weeks. But he’d had an uncontrollable yen. Stress, he supposed.
At a time like this a man needed a boost from his natural food group.
He drove, his mind drifting back to last night’s adventures in bed with Cecily. How smooth her milky white skin had been. How uninhibited she was. How incredibly, freakishly limber. Their love-making had been boisterous, loud and an amazing amount of fun. It felt great to take his new, toned body out for a test run after so many months of celibacy. Cecily felt great.
As they were lying there in each other’s arms, spent and exhausted, she’d murmured, “Now I expect you’ll be wanting me to catch a cab home.”
“Why would I want that?”
