“So Iris Fortune is a dead woman, but first I need her to tell us where the real gems are.” Donovan rolled down his shirtsleeves. He was still pissed, but at least now he was taking steps to overcome this latest setback. “I can’t sign those real estate contracts until I have the Romanov alexandrite in my hands. I was counting on trading that to the Russian Cultural Minister in return for him reopening my casino in Moscow.”
“Postpone the meeting,” Turner said flatly.
“I wasn’t looking for advice.” Donovan headed for the door, his way of indicating this meeting was at an end.
“And what about Kincaid?” Turner rose from his perch.
Donovan paused at the door. “If he goes near that Fortune woman, kill him.” He stalked out.
“As you wish, sir.” Turner withdrew his cell phone and dialed Jock.
It proved too hard to flag down a cab on Las Vegas Boulevard, so Mickey wound up in the cab line at Treasure Island. His first destination was Jock’s apartment. A logical, if wrong, choice. When he discovered the place empty, he cursed, then grabbed the next CAT bus to his own place where he picked up his car. Still, it was an hour and a half after he’d dropped off the gems before he got downtown to the dingy apartment building Pebbles called home.
Spying the PT Cruiser-purple, no less-that Pebbles babied, Mickey skirted the building and parked on the opposite side. Doubling back to the Cruiser, he studied the parking lot for something he could use to stop it from running. A plastic ballpoint pen cap caught his eye. Round, blue, it had a protruding arm that would normally be used to anchor the pen to someone’s pocket. Perfect-he had a much better use for it.
He hunkered down next to the driver’s side front tire, unscrewed the cap from the tire valve, and wedged that protruding bit of plastic against the valve to open it. Air continued to hiss even after he let go. With a smile, Mickey dusted off his hands and headed into the building. As long as no Good Samaritan tampered with it, that tire would be flat in less than ten minutes.
Who was he kidding? No Good Samaritan had lived in this neighborhood for years.
Climbing eight flights of stairs winded him a bit, but he checked out the hallway, listened at other doors. Everything seemed normal. With a final cleansing breath, Mickey knocked on the apartment door.
Footsteps approached from inside. Mickey saluted the peephole.
The door opened a sliver. One of Jock’s eyes and half his nose showed. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I believe you have something that’s mine.” Mickey shoved through the door.
Jock was thrown back by the force, and he danced around to stay on his feet. Brushing off his jacket, he looked Mickey over. “Oh yeah? Did you come for the bimbo or the bunny?”
“I want them both.”
“Aw, come on, Mickey. Let me keep the bunny.” Pebbles sat on the derelict sofa. At his feet, Edgar sat up on his hind legs as if he’d just been taught to beg.
Mickey thought about telling the giant to go fuck himself, but then decided against it. As it was, he’d be lucky to get back out of here with Iris, Edgar and himself intact. He looked at the rabbit. “Edgar, buddy, sorry to say, but you’re the first one I’ll sacrifice.”
The rabbit swiveled his ears and raised his head to sniff, as if he understood the situation.
“Well, you’re not getting either.” Jock folded his arms and waited.
From the sofa, Pebbles added, “Turner said if you showed up, we should invite you to stay until he got here.” He leaned over to stroke Edgar’s head with a pudgy thumb.
Jock gritted his teeth, and his face flushed with whatever curses he repressed.
Mickey’s eyes darted from one to the other while he sought for the most plausible story. “You want to hide behind that chain-of-command shit? Fine, but Turner’s being a dick.” He placed a hand on Jock’s shoulder and lowered his voice. No need to frighten Iris. “Turner’s boss-the big guy, top dog, white leather in the limo and everything-told me to get the woman out of here and deal with her. Now, if you won’t let me take her, I guess I can deal with her here, but it could get messy, and you know Turner will ask you to clean up.”
Jock shrugged out from under Mickey’s touch and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Take her. She’s in there.” He jerked his head toward a door.
Mickey opened the door and squinted at the dim light. The room was empty but for a bed in the corner, a dresser along one wall with a mirror above it, and a chair in the middle of the carpeted floor. Iris sat in the chair, her thighs bound to the chair seat, her hands bound behind her. A simple cloth gag limited her sounds to grunts.
She looked uncomfortable and scared, but unharmed.
Stealing to her, Mickey held up his forefinger. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m taking you with me.” He looked over his shoulder, but Jock was busy talking on his cell phone. If that was Turner on the other end, Mickey needed to get them out of here pronto. He strode forward and loosened the binding on Iris’s gag.
She spat the wet fabric out and heaved a few deep breaths. Mickey understood how she felt-gags were the worst. Even if you could breathe fine, you always felt like you were about to choke on them. He gave her a few seconds to compose herself.
“You’ll pay for this, Kincaid,” she whispered. She looked up, those tawny eyes ablaze with anger. “They claim they’re friends of yours. When I get loose, I’m going to beat the living crap out of you.”
“I’m glad you told me that before I untied you.” He studied her for a few seconds, reassuring himself she hadn’t been bruised, giving thanks that she hadn’t double-crossed him like he’d suspected earlier. “They’re not exactly my friends, more like business acquaintances. Keep quiet and let me try to get us all out of here alive.”
“Where’s Edgar?”
He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The rabbit’s living the high life. Believe me, if Pebbles could make him king, he would.”
She sighed, as if the rabbit’s safety were more important than her own. Women. Mickey came forward, intent on untying her. Iris flinched away, her eyes wide, and she gasped in fear.
Too late, Mickey realized she wasn’t afraid of him.
On his way from the conference room, Turner was hailed by his boss. Robert Donovan lived the lifestyle of all these preppy corporate SOBs, determined that money could resolve any conflict he’d ever face.
But he’d still hired Turner. Money might resolve conflict, but it didn’t always buy silence. There was only one way to guarantee that. Not that it was any cheaper. Turner received top dollar for his work.
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s an article slated for the Tuesday business section. A guy interviewed me about the Russian real estate deal. We had it all timed so the article would appear after the deal.”
So? But Turner only nodded.
“If this contract gets postponed tomorrow, I don’t want that article to print. And either way, I don’t want to talk to that writer again. Deal with it.” Donovan turned to his computer screen, effectively dismissing him.
“Yes, sir.” Turner’s gaze traveled dispassionately over the other man. For all his tailored shirts and five-days-a-week-at-the-gym physique, the man was little better than a thug. His answer to not wanting any embarrassing questions asked was to kill minor players in this George Lucas-esque drama he’d concocted.
Turner left the office and walked to the elevator. It irked him that his talents were being so wasted on this job. A real estate attorney, a translator, a jeweler, and now a journalist. He looked at his watch. The sooner he dealt with the journalist, the better. He knew where to find the Fortune woman, and it might be good to wait and see if Kincaid showed up there. Even though he’d told Jock he’d be over shortly, there was no rush.