Authors: Paul Carr
Soft music played somewhere in the house, and fractured notes of a by-gone era floated in the air. Sam wondered if someone might have been left to watch the place. He pulled the 9mm from his waistband and eased through the kitchen and down a wide hall. He passed a huge living room with paintings on the wall, wool rugs partially covering hardwood floors, and lots of blond, antique furniture. Next door was an office with a desk in the center. The music came from a radio on the desk corner. A computer sat on a table beside the desk. Sam eased inside and turned off the radio. The silence made him feel vulnerable. The drawers of the desk were unlocked and he opened each one and looked inside. A few loose papers dotted the center drawer: old utility bills and charge card receipts belonging to Philip Moran. None of them held any interest for Sam. The other drawers contained only pens, pencils and paper clips.
Sam figured there had to be a safe. He searched a credenza next to the wall and behind two paintings. Then he looked at the desk and saw a black chair pad underneath. He slid the chair back, lifted the pad, and found a loose piece of wood about the length and width of a phone book. Underneath the wood, someone had put a safe with a combination lock.
Sam removed his equipment from his bag and stuck the rubber cups next to the lock. He turned the dial and watched the digital screen flash numbers as the tumblers fell into place. It took about five minutes to get the door open.
The safe, about a foot deep and half-full of cash in bound stacks, also contained a note with a telephone number. Sam put the note into his pocket and looked at the cash. The bills were hundreds, and he counted thirty stacks of about a hundred each. Probably walking-around money for this guy. He put all the cash and his equipment into his bag and shone the light into the bottom of the safe. Empty. He closed the door, spun the dial and replaced the board and the chair pad.
Sam’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, causing him to jerk. He pulled the phone from his pocket and pressed the answer button. “Hello,” he said, his voice a whisper.
“You have to get out of there,” Candi said. “La Salle just slammed on his brakes and made a U-turn. He’s headed back to the house.”
The safe had a silent alarm.
“Where are they now?”
“MacArthur Causeway, probably less than five minutes away. Get back to the fence as soon as you can, and I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay,” Sam said and broke the connection. He wanted to check out the computer before he left, and they were at least five minutes away, considering the traffic, so he punched the power button and waited for the machine to boot up. It required no password. Familiar icons appeared on the screen and he started the e-mail program. Finding the Inbox empty, he checked the other message folders. They were all empty, and he opened the one for deleted items. He found a single message from a person named DeliveryBoy and opened it. Dated about four months earlier, the message contained only a string of numbers. Sam thought the numbers might be for a bank account, and he wrote them on the note from the safe.
Sam searched for other documents on the computer and found nothing of interest. Someone had recently gone through the system, purging it of all information. But the person who got the e-mail message didn’t realize it would hang around in the deleted files folder after being deleted. Sam turned off the computer and glanced around the office.
The paintings on the walls appeared to be works from the Renaissance period, but surely were copies. Photographs covered the remainder of the wall space. A middle-aged man appeared in several, some posing with Candi and some without, and Sam assumed he might be Candi’s father, Philip Moran. In another photo, Candi posed with a younger man. He appeared to be a giant, at least a foot taller than she, with longish hair. His arm draped around her waist as she stood on tip-toe, kissing him on the side of the mouth. He looked uncomfortable, as if the photographer might have caught him off guard. Sam thought the big man must be La Salle.
He had the sudden feeling of intruding on something private, and backed away, bumping into an easel and grabbing the board cradled in its tray to keep it from falling. The board contained an artist’s rendering of some sort of coastal development project with structures resembling those in Vegas, each with a showy theme of some kind. Casinos. The shoreline didn’t look like Miami Beach, though. He wondered where it could be, with gambling illegal on all the Florida coasts. Maybe La Salle had something working in the legislature.
The cell phone vibrated in his pocket. How long had it been?
He started out the door and answered the phone.
“What are you doing in there?” Candi, her voice frantic.
“I’m on my way out now.”
“Well, forget about the side gate. Marcus dropped Gino off there and headed toward the front to meet up with La Salle.”
Sam put the phone into his pocket and pulled the 9mm from the bag, which he slung over his shoulder by the strap. He raced down the hall. Gino would be coming in through the pantry, so he went through the kitchen and a utility room to a back door he thought led to the garage.
He heard the tinkle of a key in the front door, the door open, and the sound of footsteps. They would go to the office first, which would give him time to go out through the garage. Sam reached for the doorknob and it turned in his hand. He stepped back and waited. The door opened, spilling light into the room, and the man Sam had seen in the waiting room of Carling Research stepped inside. He had a gun in one hand, the other hand bandaged. Must be Marcus.
Marcus turned to close the door, and Sam grabbed him and jammed the 9mm muzzle against his neck.
“Don’t make a sound or you're dead.”
Marcus’ face and neck were flush, and he blinked a couple of times. He opened his mouth as if to shout.
Sam gave the muzzle an extra jab.
“Last warning,” Sam said, “you understand?”
Marcus hesitated for a second, then nodded. Sam glanced at the floor-to-ceiling shelves next to the door.
“Lay the gun on the shelf. Real easy.”
Marcus followed orders.
Sam jerked him toward the door, which still stood open, and pushed him through it. The garage was empty, and all the doors were closed except for one, raised about five feet. The Jaguar and Cadillac sat on the driveway outside. Sam moved the gun point to Marcus’ back and let go of his arm hold. He reached into his bag and pulled out a long plastic tie.
“Okay, put you hands behind your back, wrists crossed.”
Sam wrapped the tie around Marcus’ wrists and connected the fastener.
“Hey, man, it’s too tight.”
“Quiet. We’re going out. If you make any noise I’m going to kill you.”
“Okay,” Marcus said with an edge in his voice as he turned back toward the door.
“You better believe me,” Sam said, “I’ve got nothing to lose.”
They stopped at the door and Sam leaned down and peered around the corner. The Jaguar sat just a few feet away, the Cadillac on the other side. He saw no one around the cars.
“Let’s go.”
They stooped under the garage door and went out. Sam saw keys dangling from the ignition of the Jaguar and opened the passenger door.
“Get in.”
“Man, I don’t think I’d take this car.”
“Get in.” Sam shoved him toward the door.
Marcus climbed inside. Sam closed the door as quietly as possible, hurried around to the driver’s side, and got in.
In the rearview mirror, he saw a large man exiting the house with a gun in his hand. The man ducked through the door, as if his head might scrub the jamb, and turned to glance at the car, his long hair swinging. Sam thought he looked like a television wrestler in a suit. He also looked like the man Candi had kissed in the photograph.
Tossing his bag into the back seat, Sam started the engine, jerked the shifter into gear and pressed the accelerator to the floor as La Salle bounded down the steps to the edge of the circular drive. The tires screamed on the brick tiles for what seemed like an eternity, then shot them forward, pinning Sam’s back tight against the sumptuous leather of the seat. La Salle ran after the car and pointed the gun at them. Then he stopped and dropped his arms to his side.
Sam reached above the visor and found a remote control labeled “Gate” and “Garage” with colored plastic tape. He pressed the gate button and dropped it on the seat. The gate opened before the Jaguar reached it. Sam slowed for a split second and then accelerated onto the street. He pulled directly in front of a courier van, causing its driver to slam on brakes, and missed hitting an oncoming stretched Mercedes by only a few feet. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror, and a few seconds later he saw the Cadillac tear out into the traffic and smash into a silver Lexus. The Lexus spun around in the street and banged into two other cars, boxing the Caddy in. Sam glanced in the mirror one last time before turning toward Miami. La Salle climbed out of the car, dusted something from the sleeve of his suit and stared at the rear end of his stolen Jaguar.
Chapter 8
M
ARCUS SAID nothing until they started across the causeway.
“You gonna let me go?”
Sam looked at him on the edge of the bucket seat. His head almost touched the dash, his face pale, bound hands shaking behind him.
“Sure, in good time.”
“You’re a dead man; you know that, don’t you?”
Sam glanced at him again and grinned.
“You think so?”
“La Salle’s a lunatic, and he loves this car more than anything. He’ll get you if it’s the last thing he does.” Marcus took a deep breath, let it out and turned to look out the window. “Trouble is, he’s going to get me too. He’ll blame me for you ambushing me like that.”
“Hey, happens to the best. Person in his position should know that.”
Marcus turned his head back to look at Sam.
“Yeah, but like I said, he ain’t no ordinary person. He’s crazy as a bat. He cut my fingertips off for not calling him Mr. La Salle.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No,” Marcus said, shaking his head, eyes wide.
“He smashed the Caddy coming out the gate,” Sam said.
“Yeah. That’ll be my fault too, but this car is going to be the big problem.”
Sam looked at the polished wood on the dash. A GPS screen the size of a small television shone from the console. “It is a pretty nice machine. I think I’ll keep it.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“Sam Mackenzie.” He didn’t see why his identity should be a secret. La Salle probably already knew it, and if he didn’t, he soon would.
“You’re the guy I saw at the Carling place that night Eddie died. Tommy mentioned your name too. How about my hands, man; this thing is killing me.”
“I’ll cut you loose when I drop you off.”
“I don’t know how long I can take this. I think my hand’s bleeding again.” Marcus grimaced and shifted in his seat.
“You knew Tommy, huh?”
“Yeah, I knew him. Not exactly my best friend, but a stand-up guy. He didn’t deserve to die.” Marcus shook his head. “First Philly, now Tommy.”
“La Salle killed them?”
“He killed Philly. Gino did Tommy, but La Salle probably gave him the order.”
“Why is he after Candi?”
After a long silence, Sam glanced to see Marcus twisting his wrists, trying to break the plastic tie. Marcus finally gave up, sighed and dropped his sweating forehead to the dash.
Sam repeated the question about Candi.
“I guess she knows too much.”
“About what?”
Marcus squirmed in his seat. “La Salle's operation.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“He cut off your fingers, didn't he?”
Marcus remained silent for a moment. “Just the tips.”
“I guess it didn't hurt, then.”
“It hurt like hell,” Marcus shot back.
“Okay, get even with him. Tell me what he’s up to.”
Marcus sighed.
“He’s had this project going on somewhere in the Caribbean, but I don’t know where. He hasn’t let us in on it for some reason. And I don’t ask no questions. Could be bad for your health.”
“Does anyone else in the house know about this project?”
“I don’t think so. He keeps Gino in the dark like he does me. Hey, man, you got to cut me loose or I’m going to go crazy here.”
“I’ll let you go a lot quicker if you answer the questions.” Sam turned on the radio and found a rock station. He cut the volume low.
“Yeah, okay, let’s get it over with.”
“Does this have something to do with the painting that’s on the easel in the studio?”
“Yeah, I guess so. He’s been taking phone calls and flying down there for several months.”
“Tell me something else about the project.”
“I don’t know nothing,” Marcus said.
“Sure you do.”
Marcus shot a glance at Sam, said “Aw, man,” then took a deep breath and sighed.
“He’s been talking a lot to this guy named Danilov. But that’s all I know. We were on our way to see him when La Salle called us on his cell phone and said somebody had broken into the house.”
“Do you know Danilov’s first name?”
Marcus shook his head. “That’s all I know.”
“Sounds Russian,” Sam said.
“He don’t talk American like you and me. Got this heavy accent, like foreigners have.”
“What else?”
“That’s it, man. I don’t know nothing else. Believe me or not, I really don’t care.”
Marcus turned his head toward his passenger window and looked out. He probably had told the truth. La Salle wouldn’t trust a flunky like him with anything important. Sam would drop Marcus off on a highway outside the city, where he couldn’t get to a phone for awhile. He pulled the note from his pocket and held it out for Marcus to see.
“You recognize these numbers?”
Marcus looked at them and shook his head. “Don’t mean nothing to me.”
The traffic thinned as Sam drove out of downtown toward Hialeah. He turned into a shopping center that looked as if all the stores had packed up and left town. Windows were boarded or covered with paper. Weeds grew through cracks in the parking lot. Remnants of a sign stood out front to remind shoppers of what they had missed.