“I’m sorry,” I repeated, and looked down at the girl. “What did you say?”
“I said I knew you wouldn’t throw me in the water,” she announced. “And I was right. We’re back at the hotel and you didn’t throw me in.”
I snapped my fingers as if recalling a forgotten task. “I knew I had something to do before we went back inside.”
She shook her head. “Nuh-uh. You aren’t going to throw me in.”
“Says who?”
“Says me,” she said, and giggled.
I glanced at Julie, saw the smile on her face, and realized she was enjoying this silly exchange between her daughter and me. I stopped walking and slipped off my tennis shoes, the sunbaked sand warm against my bare feet.
“All right,” I said. “You’re going in now.”
“No!” Betsy yelled, trying to duck behind her mother, but I reached down and scooped her up under her arms, then ran toward the surf, holding her high above my head. She was unbelievably light. I’d lifted cats that felt heavier. She was half screaming, half laughing as I stormed into the water. She’d been right, too-it was cold. I ran in up to my knees, and then a wave hit me, soaking the lower half of my shorts. I held Betsy over my head-making sure my T-shirt didn’t ride up enough to expose my gun-and began counting.
“One… two… three…”I pretended to heave her toward the water, and she shrieked, but I didn’t release her. “Okay,” I said. “I’m feeling nicer than I thought. I guess I won’t toss you in until this afternoon.”
I carried her back out of the water, wondering if maybe my silly game had been a bad move, something that would irritate Julie. She was laughing as she waited for us, though, and seemed anything but irritated.
“You should have done it,” she said when I dropped Betsy onto the sand beside her. “You would have had my blessing.”
“I thought he was going to throw me in,” Betsy said, gasping for breath but still giggling.
Julie glanced at my dripping legs with a small smile. “Cold?” she said.
“Little bit,” I said, and she laughed again.
They wanted to go shopping, so we spent the next two hours wandering the strip. I saw more versions of T-shirts with the words myrtle beach than I’d thought possible, and some pretty bizarre creations made from seashells, but nothing that tempted me to take out my wallet. Julie and Betsy seemed to enjoy it, though. We ate lunch at a Subway and then walked back to the hotel. They went in the bedroom to relax, and I told Julie I was going to run back down to my room and make a phone call.
I called Joe.
“Seen the tape?” he asked as soon as I said hello.
“I’ve seen it. Someone definitely got whacked, but I don’t have any idea who. I know the shooter, though.”
“Who?”
“Krashakov.”
“The big blond asshole?”
“You got it.” I told him the details of the tape.
“You can’t tell where it was taken?”
“Not really, but my guess is it’s the back room at a bar somewhere-quite possibly The River Wild. That makes the most sense. You’ve already attached it to the Russians, and there’s a logical reason for Weston to be shooting tape there.”
“One thing’s bothering me.”
“Yeah?”
“Weston films this from a concealed camera, right? A wireless setup, you suggest. And, clearly, the Russians didn’t know it was there. Yet when Weston talked to his wife he said the Russians were going to be coming after him.”
“True.”
“So how’d they figure out he had this tape?”
“Found the camera before he had a chance to remove it, maybe.”
“And he’d taped a return address label to the thing? Carved his initials on the side? Those cameras are designed to be discreet. There aren’t a lot of them in circulation, but it would still be difficult to trace one back to the owner in most circumstances.”
“Good point.” I didn’t have an answer for that one, so I shifted gears. “You find out who the vic might be?”
“Not yet. I called a few of our old friends at homicide, and they said they’d get back to me.”
“Okay. I was thinking of calling Amy, putting her on it.”
“Be careful what you tell her.”
“We can trust Amy, Joe.”
“I know we can trust her, but I don’t want us getting her in more trouble. Just because you’re in love with her doesn’t mean we have to call her at the first excuse.”
“I’m not in love with her.”
“Uh-huh.” He grunted. “Speaking of love, how’s the widow Weston look in person?”
“Homely,” I said. “The camera does wonders for that woman. In person she looks much more like my great-aunt Nedra.”
“I bet.”
“Where’s Kinkaid?”
“Sitting right in front of me.”
“You two playing checkers?”
“Quiet, son. We’re getting ready to break this case wide open.”
“Hard to do that sitting on your ass.”
“I know it is. That’s why we’re on our way out the door. I’d like to check on our Russian pals again, see where they are and what they’re up to.”
“Watch your back, Joseph.”
“Always, son. Always. I’ll give you a call on your cell phone tonight when I hear from homicide.”
I hung up with Joe and called Amy’s office number. She picked up on the first ring, which was a rarity, and she was in a shitty mood, which wasn’t as rare.
“Do you miss me?” I said when she answered.
“No, I don’t miss you. You’re one of them.”
“Them?”
“A male,” she snapped. “You know, those folks with penises? You do have one of those, right?”
“What’s your problem?”
“Men.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Surely it can’t be a problem with Mr. Terry.”
“Mr. Terry can kiss my beautiful ass,” she said. “My friend Rochelle saw him in a restaurant holding hands with some bimbo and drinking wine last night. Rochelle said it was expensive wine, too. He only buys the cheap stuff for me. Bastard.”
“I’m sorry, Amy,” I said genuinely. I was no fan of Jacob Terry, but I liked Amy too much to enjoy seeing her hurt.
“Ah, screw him,” she said. “I couldn’t be with a man who used that much hair gel, anyhow. It was doomed from the start.”
“I tried to tell you that.”
“Yeah, yeah, you and your advice. I’ve never taken it before, and I’m not going to start. Just because you were right about Terry doesn’t mean you’re not an idiot. Now what the hell do you want?”
I hadn’t planned on telling Amy all the details, but I realized she was going to pester me with questions, so I decided to go ahead and give her something to think about other than her hatred for my gender.
“I’m in South Carolina,” I said.
“Really? What the hell are you doing down there? And, hey, didn’t I hear about you being a witness to some guy who got shot near your building the other day? I called you, but you weren’t home. Come to think of it, wasn’t he from South Carolina?”
“Amy,” I said, breaking in on her tangent, “do you want to hear my news or not?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got Julie and Betsy Weston.”
For a long time, I could hear nothing but the faint murmur of background voices in the newsroom around her. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and serious. “You better not be playing with me, Lincoln. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not playing with you,” I said. “They’re in South Carolina, and they have been since Weston was killed. But no one-and I mean no one-can know about this yet. There’s too much uncertainty right now. Some big-league killers are looking for this woman, and they might have sources within the police.”
“What are they doing there?” she whispered. “Do they not realize the FBI is looking for them?”
“Julie realizes,” I said. “The little girl is blissfully ignorant. And they’re here because Wayne Weston pissed off the Russian mob. He shot a videotape of a hit, and somehow they found out about it.”