‘My research assistant died earlier this week,’ Claudia said. Second card to play, the one she was afraid of, to throw him off entirely if he knew anything about Harry’s death. ‘His name was Harry Chyme. He was helping me with research on Energis execs. He got shot in an insurance office near the port.’
Bucks touched his temple as though a migraine were blossoming. ‘What part of go did you not get?’
‘You’re in danger.’ She decided to try the approach she’d tried with Robin. ‘Harry was tracking information on three Energis employees killed last year. I understand they worked for you.’ See how he handled a curveball, see how he reacted under sudden, terrible pressure to the unexpected.
Bucks came close to her, smelling of gunfire. She took a step back. ‘I’m sorry about your friend’s death. But it has nothing to do with me.’
‘You know what it’s like to lose a friend,’ Claudia said. ‘You lost three at once.’
Not a muscle on his mouth or face moved. ‘I’ve not had a good day. You’re pissing me off. And anger blinds, it leads to obstacles.’
‘Greg, listen to her, you might need to-’ Robin started.
He hit Robin. A solid slap that sent her reeling. She fell, skidding across the coffee table, knocking over a candlestick and a small stack of Chad Channing videos.
Claudia had her police pistol out, close to his face. ‘Don’t move,’ she said slowly. ‘Hands where I can see them, sir,’ she said to the dreadlocked friend, who stayed still and who now wore, to her surprise, an amused smile. He kept his hands away from his jacket but not exactly up.
Bucks said nothing, his eyes big.
‘Anger is the road to obstacle, Greg, you are so right about that,’ Claudia said.
‘Sorry. A momentary loss of control.’
‘If you draw,’ Claudia told the friend, ‘I will shoot him, then you. You got me?’
‘I believe I do,’ he said.
‘Call the cops, MacKay,’ Bucks said.
‘Is this a 311 or a 911?’ MacKay said. But he didn’t move toward the phone.
‘Robin. Go outside,’ Claudia said.
Robin climbed to her feet, a bright little stream of blood dripping from her mouth, her fingertips probing at her jaw. ‘Oh, Greg,’ she said. More stunned than tearful, too surprised yet to be angry. She flailed an arm at Claudia. ‘Hey, put that gun down.’
‘I will, when you and I are out of here.’
‘A feminist with a gun,’ Bucks said. ‘Isn’t that a contradiction, waving your phallic symbol around?’ He’d gotten the cool back in his voice. He circled away from Claudia, putting her between him and MacKay as he moved toward the living room’s bank of windows.
‘I’ll shoot your phallic symbol off with it if you don’t shut up,’ Claudia said. ‘C’mon, Robin.’
‘He never hit me before,’ Robin said. Digging in her heels, not thinking.
‘You never pissed him off before,’ Claudia said.
‘She pisses me off plenty,’ Bucks said. ‘I’m picking up the phone, okay? Calling the cops. Robin wants to press charges, she can. But you’re trespassing and threatening us, and-’ He leaned down to scoop up the cordless phone from its cradle and the windows behind him shattered in gunfire, glass, blinds, and curtain sharding into the room. Claudia dove to the floor, knocking Robin down with her, the redhead screaming, Bucks screaming, the other man screaming.
The dust-stale taste of the sisal rug was in Claudia’s mouth and suddenly the thunder of gunfire stopped. She turned her head away from the window, Robin squirming in panic beneath her, and saw MacKay slumped against the far wall, a red smear on the wallpaper behind him, his hand tucked uselessly into his jacket.
Silence now from the guns, from the destroyed windows that faced onto the parking lot. Then a man stepping through them, blunt-faced, stocky, Hispanic, dressed in black T-shirt and jeans. Carrying an automatic rifle. Looking at Bucks’ feet, sticking out from under a table.
Claudia fired at the man’s chest. And Robin moved under her, trying to bolt.
Her shot went wide, splintering the window frame next to the gunman; he fell back, firing again, but wild. Claudia hustled Robin to her feet, looking back in the bullet-peppered den for Bucks. She shoved Robin toward the back door where MacKay lay splayed. Robin was sobbing.
Bucks was gone. A door slammed shut to her left, Bucks hiding elsewhere in the townhouse.
‘Get out! The back!’ Claudia ordered. Robin stumbled, opened the door, went out. Not a backyard but a small garage. Trapped.
Then more gunfire erupted behind them. Claudia turned. Bucks, running from a bedroom, laid fire across the shattered windows with an automatic of his own. Claudia slammed the door to the condo shut, jabbed the garage door opener. The door rose with slow suburban solemnity and she pushed Robin down behind a battered Jaguar. But no greeting of gunfire as the door tracked upward, just the heavy swampiness of the night.
Silence. The gunfire ended.
‘Run,’ Claudia said. ‘Get to a neighbor’s, call 911.’
Robin Melvin ran toward the gleam of the pool and the clubhouse beyond.
Claudia turned back toward the door. She eased open the door, yelled ‘Police! Lay down your weapons!’ She listened. No sound. Staying low, she went through the door, keeping her gun trained on the opposite corner.
The room was empty.
She checked MacKay. No pulse. A lock of his hair lay across his throat like a rope, smelling of sandalwood. She moved through the rest of the condo. No sign of Greg Buckman. She headed out of the condo, through the garage, working her way toward the front, then around again.
No shooter. No Bucks. A car raced off across the lot, a late-model black Suburban, ripping across the landscaping and then through the main exit, splintering the wooden rail that didn’t rise fast enough. Gone. The license plate began with TJ, the rest of it unreadable as the car vanished into the night.
Then the thrum of a second engine sounded and the Jag tore out of Bucks’ garage into the lot. She chased it, yelling at Bucks to stop. He must’ve gone out a window and circled the condo in the opposite direction from her. The Jag zoomed through the exit. Chasing the Suburban.
Claudia Salazar put her gun down at her feet, dug her police ID out of her jacket, and sat down on the driveway to wait for the police. The distant wail of sirens approached. Her nerves caught up with her now, and her hands shook, a coldness crept over her, and she wondered if Whit still breathed.
39
Sunday morning, at Frank Polo’s house, there were no hymns. There was disco. Frank wrapped himself in the cocoon of his own voice, the beat and croon drifting up from the speakers, the one slow ballad he had made into a hit, ‘When You Walk Away.’ He lay on the couch, a wet cloth on his eyes, a cup of coffee balanced on his stomach. His left foot bopped in rhythm to the song.
‘Do you really listen to yourself?’ Gooch asked. He stood by the small music collection, which offered mostly Frank Polo CDs.
‘Those are promotional copies,’ Frank said from underneath the wet cloth. ‘We give ’em out at the club. Very popular.’
‘Right. No one goes to that club for the women, it’s all about the giveaways.’
‘Frank.’ Whit sat by the singer’s feet and took the coffee cup off his stomach. ‘I need you to think.’
‘Jesus, thinking is the last thing on my mind.’ Then what he said struck him as funny and he gave a nervous little laugh. Whit and Gooch didn’t laugh.
‘When he was a kid, Paul used to lip-sync to my songs,’ Frank said. ‘He had the attitude of a performer. He could’ve been so much more.’ Sounding genuinely sad.
‘He’s spilt milk now,’ Gooch said.
Frank lifted one corner of the wet cloth. ‘Yeah, but he was a sweet kid, once, okay?’
‘Paul cut your hand open and tried to have Eve and me killed,’ Whit said. ‘You’re sorry he’s dead?’
‘No, I’m sorry he turned into such a bastard.’ Frank sat up. ‘There’s a difference. I got to call his mom, I’m dreading that.’ He tossed the damp cloth on the coffee table, smoothed his hair. ‘With Eve and Paul gone, there’s no senior leadership left but Bucks, and he’s MIA, the traitor.’