‘What was that?’ Whit said.
‘The sound of me trusting you. Here are the keys,’ Paul said. He tossed them carefully to Whit, who caught them one-handed. ‘Go.’
Whit tossed the van keys to Paul. ‘Now we each turn around and walk away.’ Deciding he could open the trunk with the remote, be sure Gooch was okay, then drive off fast. He wouldn’t have to shoot Paul, he could outrun him in the Porsche. Whit stepped into the cool pool of the light.
He heard clinking, saw a glint in Paul’s hand. An end of a chain was there, thick-linked, Paul pulling it free from his jacket’s sleeve and running forward, Whit reaching for his gun. The heavy end of the chain was already swinging toward his face and Whit fell back onto pavement, his gun under him. The chain whirled, arcing above Whit, the light showing Paul’s face twisted in triumph. Whit raised his arms to shield himself.
Paul Bellini’s head blossomed in red. The crack of the rifle shot echoed against the brick walls and Paul fell, the strings of life cut.
Then silence except for the chain falling across Whit, clanking against the concrete.
Whit scrabbled to his feet. He couldn’t risk leaving Gooch in that Porsche trunk. He had to know. He ran to the sports car. He still had Paul’s keys in his hand.
A shot roared again, the bullet whistling behind his head. He hunkered low on the concrete, crab-crawled into the Porsche.
A bullet slammed against the car’s side. He was aware he was driving off in a murdered man’s car, leaving a van behind that was registered in Gooch’s name. The night had taken a horrible left turn.
He started the car, blasted out of the lot, the Porsche’s wheel cool and clean and responsive under his hand. God, please let Gooch be inside.
He didn’t hear the sound of another shot.
Whit tore down the service road, back around the building, barreling out onto Buffalo. He turned at the service road that ran parallel to Highway 59, shot down to Shepherd, finally pulling into a closed Catholic school, clicking open the trunk door.
Gooch lay inside, his face a collage of purple, sluggish, tied up. But breathing.
He had Gooch, but the situation had gotten a thousand times worse.
Tasha watched the Porsche rocket away. Gary lay dead at her feet, the scorch hole in his temple from the cell-phone gun black like a burn. Max was next to him, a similar little gap in the back of his neck still smoking. She left the rifle on the asphalt, straightened the latex gloves she’d hidden in her purse earlier, got in the Mustang Max had driven them over in, and started up the engine.
She could see Paul’s body on the pavement, face down, as she drove past. Too bad, really. Born in the wrong family. Born in a decent family, he might’ve made his looks, his ambition work for him. She’d miss the sex; he’d been good at that, but that punching and crying crap worked her nerves. Thank God that was over.
No need to go check Whit’s van. She knew Eve Michaels wasn’t in there anyway. Whit Mosley was a liar.
Tasha Strong drove off into the night, humming a little, smiling at her dream unfolding.
36
You’re screwing up, Claudia told herself. She waited in her car outside the gated compound at Greg Buckman’s address at 3478 Alabama. It was shortly after eleven on Saturday night, and she heard the soft strains of a party: laughter, a thumping bass beat, the clink of bottles. Because you go down this route, you’re putting your career at stake.
The file in her lap told her all she could learn in short order about Greg Buckman. His credit history (excellent), his income (over two hundred thousand a year or so ago, but less than thirty thousand reported to the IRS last year), his family (two parents who lived in Little Rock, one sister). All delivered courtesy of Barbara Zachary, Harry Chyme’s assistant, who didn’t need to be asked twice when Claudia said, ‘I got a lead on a guy who may have info about Harry’s death but needs pressuring to make him talk. Can you dig on him?’ and Barbara, dialing and typing like an avenging angel, working the keyboards, Internet databases, and phones with a singular purpose, faxed pages to Claudia’s motel with rapidfire response.
She scanned through the credit pages again. No charges to his Visa or his AmEx for anything other than restaurants, bars, and a surprising wave of charges to bookstores, both brick and on-line. He must be a voracious reader. Most criminals weren’t, but then maybe he wasn’t what Whit thought he was.
The grabber, of course, was his drop in income. He’d made a fortune at Energis. But that money, and the chance to earn a high salary in the corporate world, had evaporated in the wave of shareholder lawsuits. He claimed, on his last tax return, to run a consulting company, but she wondered how eager companies were to hire an exec tarred with the filth of the Energis brush. The company, nationally, had been reduced to a joke, a catchphrase for greed and malfeasance. No matter that thousands of honest workers had toiled there with good intentions.
Newspaper clipping next, and her mouth went dry. Three Energis employees vanished a few weeks before the story broke about the company’s shady accounting and deals. Greg Buckman, named as their supervisor and friend, was quoted in the story. ‘We’re deeply concerned. These are terrific, goal-oriented individuals, and they and their families are in our prayers. Our candlelight vigil for their safe return will be held in our headquarters lobby at seven this evening.’
Goal-oriented. Odd praise.
A follow-up clipping on the case didn’t quote Buckman but relayed that the three bodies and their car had been found, driven into a remote part of Galveston Bay. More clippings on Energis. Buckman was senior management in an energy-trading division that was part of the massive accounting scandal. No criminal charges filed against him, but his name was mentioned frequently enough that a long shade of suspicion settled on him and he’d lost a fortune in the civil lawsuits.
This past crime, his reputation smeared at Energis, was a doorway to him.
She had known Whit Mosley most of her life, had gotten much closer to him when he became justice of the peace and they started working together, but she had never heard him speak in the strained voice with which he had spoken to her. He was clearly involved beyond the scope of the law – in over his head, she guessed – and he had wanted her help earlier but not now. Either because he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have or he wanted to keep her out of danger. She hoped it was the latter.
Claudia closed her eyes. Say Whit found his mother. She works with a crime ring. She wanted nothing to do with Whit and the crime ring came after Whit to scare him off. But why wouldn’t he call the police, then? Because he didn’t want his mother implicated? Whit wouldn’t stand there and take abuse. So, a different angle. Say his mother wanted to be with Whit, aimed to leave her life of crime. Her colleagues in the ring didn’t want her walking away. She knew too much. Or they found out Whit was a judge and it made them nervous, this new family connection to law and order. So they came after Whit and his mom. But again, why wouldn’t Whit simply call the police? Because he did want to protect his mother – but from prosecution. Bust the crime ring, bust his mother. It could be one and the same.
She dug in her purse for an aspirin, dry-swallowed it, ignoring the bitter taste.
Or worse, Whit and his mom knew who the killers were and were hiding. But still in Houston. Why? What was to be gained by staying here? The anchor had to be timely, large, and powerful. Information on the Bellinis. Evidence to be retrieved. Money.
So what do I do now? Operating out of her jurisdiction was an entirely foreign concept to her, a violation of common sense and professionalism she’d never considered. But Whit changed everything. He’d always had that effect in her life, the one friend who always made life seem a little edgy and funky and ever-new. The kind of friend you’d keep a secret for, to protect him. If you had to.