Exposure

EIGHTEEN

Kaycee edged inside her office and saw two things at once — the “flying boxes” of her monitor’s screensaver and a pool of coffee on her hardwood floor. She approached her desk and reached for the mouse as if it were a cobra. With the barest brush of fingers, she pushed it. The flying boxes disappeared.

Her sunset desktop filled the screen.

Kaycee let out a breath and turned back to the kitchen for a wet dish towel, carrying the coffee mug. She cleaned up the spilled liquid, laid the dirty towel and mug in one side of the sink, and washed her hands.

As she reentered her office a realization hit. When she got home she’d never checked upstairs.

She stopped in her tracks. They could be up there. Right now. All this time she’d been in the house, all this time, and they could be lurking up there.

Slowly Kaycee’s head turned in the direction of the stairs. She swallowed hard, trying to convince herself to just settle down and write.

We see you.

They were upstairs. She knew it.

No. This was just more paranoia. She wouldn’t give in.

Kaycee walked to her desk chair and placed a hand on its back, willing herself to sit. But her body wouldn’t obey. The upper level hovered in her mind like a preying monster.

She looked back toward the stairs.

Maybe she should call the police after all.

No, Kaycee. They were all out looking for Hannah.

Kaycee licked her lips, aware of her own breathing, the feel of her feet against the floor. She lifted her hand from the chair. All she had to do was check, prove to herself no one was up there.

Fight the fear.

Weighted with dread, Kaycee turned and forced herself toward the staircase.

NINETEEN

Nico turned off Huff Street into AC Storage. He swung left and drove up to the office and Giordano’s apartment on his left. His gaze raked to the right — across the concrete and to the two long storage buildings. No one in sight.

He cut the engine on the old Chevy.

Nico kept this car hidden in his garage for jobs like this. It wasn’t registered with the DMV, and the plates were stolen long ago.

Where was Giordano’s car?

Nico gazed straight ahead, past the apartment. Must be in a parking space around the corner.

He pulled his Beretta 92 semi-automatic from the glove compartment.

The plan was simple. Nico had done it a dozen times. Get his hit into the car with some story — in this case the promise of handing over the money. Nico would tell Giordano to lie down in the backseat, since it wouldn’t do for the two of them to be seen together. Then he’d drive him to a back room of one of the family’s businesses and put a bullet in his head. The body would be boated some distance out into the ocean, weighted, and dumped.

Nico got out of his car. He stuck the Beretta in the waistband of his pants and strode toward Giordano’s apartment. He’d just check around the corner first, make sure he saw only one car there.

As he passed the door it opened. “Nico.” Giordano stepped back and waved him to come in.

Nico hesitated, then followed him inside. He shut the door.

Giordano stood frozen in his cluttered living room, looking shell-shocked. Everything about him — his expression, the way he stood, his heavy breathing — told Nico the guy had to go. If the cops got suspicious and came down on him, he’d cave.

“Get in the car. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

Giordano’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“You want your money, don’t you?”

“But you were supposed to bring it.”

“You think I’m gonna drive around with a hundred grand in my pocket?”

Giordano’s fingers curled toward his palms. “How am I getting back here?”

“I’ll bring you.”

“Then you’ll still be driving around with the money.”

Nico stomped over and thrust his face in Giordano’s. “What are you, some smart guy? Get in the car!”

Giordano shrank back. “Okay, just . . . okay.” His nervous gaze flitted around the apartment.

“What’re you lookin’ for?”

“Nothing.”

Nico stood aside and stuck out an arm — go. He didn’t want to have to get ugly and draw his gun. Not here. Giordano eyed him, then started toward the door.

From down the hall came a squeak and muted thump. Giordano hesitated midstep, his back muscles tensing. Then he jerked forward.

Nico slapped him in the shoulder. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.” Giordano kept moving.

Nico raked his gaze down the hall. The first door on the right was closed. And he’d never checked around the corner for the second car. “Your wife and kid still here?”

“No!” Giordano whirled around, face flushed.

“I think they are.” If they’d looked out a window and seen him . . .

“No, it’s just a mouse. We get ’em all the time. I pulled one out of the toilet yesterday.”

“Pretty big mouse.”

Giordano swallowed hard. “Let’s just go, okay? Do what you said, no problem with me.”

“We got real problems if you didn’t do what I told you.”

“I did!” Giordano’s arms thrust outward and hung there. Sweat popped out on his forehead. “I told my wife to leave — she left.”

Nico turned toward the hall. “Let’s check.”

“No!” Like a madman Giordano rushed forward. He grabbed one of Nico’s arms and pulled. Nico cursed and pushed him back. Giordano stumbled into a coffee table and flailed his arms for balance.

Nico kept walking.

Behind him Giordano roared. Nico heard running feet. He swiveled around as Giordano rammed a head-butt off-center in his chest. Nico flew backward and crashed into a wall. Giordano leapt for him, but he scrambled to his feet and out of the way.

“Ungh.” Giordano landed hard on the floor. In an instant he shoved up and twisted around.

Rage shot through Nico. He whipped the Beretta from his waistband. “Stop!”

Giordano stilled.

“Get your hands up.”

The man’s arms floated upward. Giordano blinked as if in a daze. “Don’t kill me. Please.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed. When he gave this guy cement shoes, he’d be laughing. “Back up out of the hall. Now.”

Giordano moved backward, his arms shaking. Nico pressed him on until they both stood in the living room.

“When I tell you to, you’re gonna turn and walk out that door. You’re gonna get in the backseat of my car and