The Company She Kept (29 page)

Of course, for her, the challenge wasn't just wrestling with mounting excitement. She had her own issues as well—her past with Ruiz, her worries about what they were doing, and how much more was at stake, now that she had a child.

As Willy might have said, had he been consulted about any of it, “You should've thought of that sooner.”

Which would have been correct, of course. All this fussing was a complete waste of effort. They were in it now.

“Where the fuck're they going?” she asked, essentially of herself. “This isn't how I'd go downtown.”

Willy remained quiet, watching the cars ahead, instinctively doubtful, from what he'd seen so far, that they were headed anywhere important. The bodyguards had been careful, as expected, but not as they would have been gearing up for a fight.

They weren't going downtown.

“The mall?” Sammie asked herself incredulously a few minutes later. “You gotta be kidding.”

“It's that time of year,” Willy said, and checked his watch. “Good time for it, too.”

“Why?”

“Twenty minutes before closing. Last of the stragglers are headin' out. They might even be telling people not to enter, except I bet these boys have one of their own on the door, allowing special access.”

“That screws us, then,” Sam said, part of her feeling a contradictory sense of relief.

But Willy was having none of it. “Nah. We want to use a different door anyhow. We just flash our badges and we're in, too.”

Sam still couldn't believe it, and followed the small caravan thinking it would soon exit the enormous parking lot, having used it either as a shortcut or to check for tails, about which she'd been careful from the start.

But both the big SUV and its scout car pulled up near one of the mall's side entrances, and spilled out several passengers, who calmly, if tactically, prepared a phalanx for their boss.

Sam drove by without hesitation, aiming for the neighboring parking lot. There, she and Willy got out like any normal shoppers, pretending to be checking a list together as they headed toward a different entrance.

The mall's interior was as Willy had predicted—vaulting, blinding bright, echoing with canned music—but with no guard at the door.

As they approached the intersection of the entrance corridor and the mall's central atrium, Willy faded back, saying, “Let's split up. I'll have your back.”

Sam paused. She never had a doubt of that, but she also had no clue about what was actually going on in here. Was Ruiz having a clandestine meeting in a public space? Was he about to make a move on some business outlet? How about a financial deposit as part of a money-laundering routine? She and Willy hadn't discussed a plan of action—opting instead to see what unfolded. The goal was for Sam to use her past relationship with Ruiz to see if he'd give her Stuey in exchange for not having a microscope trained on his enterprises. How to get that done was up to her.

She stepped cautiously out into the open and looked down the football field–length hallway toward where the SUV and escort car had unloaded their cargo. In the far distance, the incongruous, dark-clothed, all-male group filed up an escalator by the side of a sprinkling fountain. They looked like a bunch of hip bankers taking the day off at Disney World.

She bypassed her own escalator for the staircase beside it, taking two steps at a time. Willy was already lost to sight.

On the second level, feeling like she was on the lido deck of a near-abandoned cruise ship, she began working her way slowly toward where Ruiz's group had fanned out at the top of their escalator. She was still too far off to distinguish anyone's face, and so took advantage of that fact to pretend to be window shopping, glancing over every once in a while to see what they were doing.

They didn't waste time, but, once reassembled, marched as one toward a nearby store, whose identity she couldn't make out from her angle.

She started for the same spot, taking her time, checking to see if anything else might be developing—like another bunch from
Men in Black
arriving from yet another escalator. But aside from a handful of last-minute shoppers moving toward the exits, there appeared to be nothing.

Ten minutes passed. Announcements had been made about closing time. Now they were coming more often. Sam started to wonder if the people she was tailing had spotted her back in traffic, and had used all of this spy craft as a way to dump her. She drew close enough to the store they'd entered to recognize it as a high-end electronics outlet, and figured that if she had in fact been made, she had nothing to lose by being identified now. She therefore stopped some fifty feet away from the store's entrance and stood still, waiting—all pretense gone.

That, of course, was when they finally stepped out, the salesman behind them issuing multiple thanks and locking the door as the last of them emerged.

Like a well-trained pack of attack dogs, every man in the cluster turned to face her—the only potential threat among the few people still dawdling along the second level's vast expanse.

Sam didn't move, but stayed hands on hips, legs slightly apart, weight poised forward, ready to react.

For a moment, everyone froze, assessing the situation. Only one of them appeared relaxed—an attractive, well-dressed man carrying a small plastic shopping bag stamped with the store's logo. He tilted his head slightly to one side and pushed up an incongruous pair of dark glasses to see better.

“Greta?” he called out after a pause. “Is that you?”

In response, Sam raised her hand and wiggled her fingers.

Manuel Ruiz handed his bag to a bodyguard, saying something she couldn't hear, and stepped free of their midst, walking toward her, a smile spreading across his face.

“My God. Greta. Have you come back from the past to arrest me? You are still a police officer, no?”

She hadn't known what to expect, hadn't prepared for this to occur so spontaneously, and hadn't even fully considered meeting the man that she'd almost been intimate with ten years ago.

She shook the hand he proffered as he drew near. “Manny,” she said, struggling to maintain an even voice.

He gave her an appraising look. “You are well. I can see it. You are happier than you were. I'm sure your name is not Greta, though, correct?”

“You don't know that?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We parted under hurried circumstances, as I recall. Your colleagues were almost through the front door when I headed out the back. Quite theatrical, actually.”

“It's Samantha Martens. I work for the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

He nodded, smiling. “So what do I call you?”

“Special Agent Martens.”

He laughed, but shook his head. “I would guess they call you Sam.”

She didn't answer. Overhead, the loudspeakers told them all to proceed to the nearest exit, the mall now being officially closed for business.

Ruiz raised his eyes briefly heavenward in response. “Shall we? I'm assuming you have something you'd like to discuss.”

He turned on his heel and made a slight gesture with his hand, resulting in his men enveloping them without a word, and escorting them back down the escalator.

“I take it that you are not alone and that your company will not be joining us?” Ruiz asked.

“Right,” she said, her thoughts in a jumble on how best to direct the conversation.

On the ground floor, with his escort more vigilant than before, Ruiz guided her, hand on her elbow, toward the exit and the parking lot beyond. Two of his men trotted ahead to check for security, their hands under their coats.

“You were a member of this Vermont Bureau when we were together?” he asked as they walked.

“Yes.”

“I've heard of them, of course,” he continued, his voice bringing her back to the intimacy of when they used to chat between transactions, as supposed fellow drug dealers. They'd operated out of a rented house in Rutland. Then, as now, he'd appeared deceptively soft-spoken, kind, and considerate.

“I thought, however,” he continued, “that they only pursue major crimes. Is that what's brought us back together?”

She glanced at him. “You saying you're not involved in major crimes?”

He laughed, gesturing to her to precede him through a door being held open by one of his men, into the chilly night air. “I make a living as best I can, Sam. Just like everyone else.”

She hadn't honestly expected much else. “How's your mom?” she asked instead. “Still cooking up wonders in the kitchen?”

Ruiz did a double take and smiled. “You remembered. She is, for a crowd of grandchildren these days, but in a much nicer place than where I grew up. To her, pots and pans are like instruments to a musician. A wonder to see.”

The two vehicles were positioned right across from the glass doors. Ruiz looked around quickly. “I know you want to talk—at least that's what I'm assuming. I also assume that I'm not under arrest, or that would have already happened. It is freezing, though, and I'm not built for the cold. The best I can offer, unless you want to meet at a restaurant or come back to my home, is to talk alone in the car. It has a very good heater, and I'm sure that whatever listening device you're wearing will still work, despite the armor plating.” He pointed invitingly at the SUV. “It's completely up to you, Sam.”

She didn't hesitate, impressed by his grasp of the realities of their situation—which she found oddly comforting. “That suits me.”

He gave a one-sentence command to his escort before motioning her into the dark, warm confines of the luxury car's rear seat, and closing the heavy door behind him. Through the tinted windows, she saw the bodyguards working out which four large, heavily armed men would cram themselves into a medium-sized sedan—and which one would be left in the cold to stand watch.

Ignoring their plight, Ruiz settled back against the leather cushions and crossed his legs. Back in the day, it had been sweats, jeans, and sneakers for him, albeit neat and tidy. Now, Sam noted, what he wore had to have set him back thousands—not to mention a gold and diamond-accented watch that probably rivaled the value of the car.

“I'd offer you a drink,” he told her. “We have a bar in here. But I doubt you'd accept.”

“You're right,” she said. “You've done okay for yourself, all this razzle-dazzle.” She indicated their surroundings. “And we have good information telling us that Rutland's become a hard habit to break, even after all these years.”

He waited patiently in silence.

“The problem with an outfit like yours, though,” she went on, “is that it's tough to be too picky about your employees. You been paying attention to the headlines in Vermont lately?”

He frowned slightly. “The senator? I didn't have anything to do with that. I heard it was a hate crime—antigay or something.”

Sam shook her head. “That was a dodge. It's coming home to you, Manny.”

He pursed his lips, as if suddenly lost in thought, and then gave her a whimsical look. “You used to call me Manuel.”

She smiled slightly. “Times change.”

He nodded. “You implied that a business associate of mine may have stepped out of line.”

Sam glanced out the window again, thinking hard. Sentimentality had prompted Ruiz to speak with her, which was unlikely to happen again. As had been the case a decade ago, she was finding herself in too deep, too fast with this man, and having to improvise. Was there a way to simultaneously get a location for Stuey Nichols and bring down Manuel Ruiz? Certainly not if she uttered Stuey's name now. Ruiz would simply have him killed. Similarly, telling Ruiz of the HSI investigation hanging over him wouldn't work—she was not a fed with powers to broker a deal, and it would just encourage him to thwart their efforts.

She considered her options realistically, rather than with high hopes. That, in part, was what had tangled her up last time—she'd sacrificed tactics for ambition and opportunity. She'd always been a cop to value the might of right, and considered it her mission to correct all ills. But Ruiz—despite the guilt she bore for having failed to bring him down—was no longer her problem. He was on Homeland Security's list of things to do.

Sam's concern had to be Stuey Nichols—alone—and not his welfare at his employer's hands. The truth was that word would be seeping out that Nichols was of interest to the cops. In Manny Ruiz's sanguinary view of the world, that alone was enough to make Stuey one of the earth's short-term residents. The only missing piece for Manny, therefore, was to hear from her directly how much of a liability his underling had become—along with the man's name. That, as she saw it, would conclude Stuey's career as a federal informant, force HSI to protect him, and encourage him to open up to VBI.

Having weighed her options, she cast her die, hoping to hell that HSI had a location on Stuey.

She gave Ruiz a level stare. “You want to know who I'm talking about, you have to let me out to make a phone call.”

Ruiz smiled, his eyes betraying his own inner calculus. “Why would I do that?”

“You don't have a choice,” she countered with false confidence. “I was just being polite.”

He rolled down his window to speak rapidly to the bodyguard nearby, who crossed over to the escort car to inform his colleagues. Ruiz then resealed the window and nodded to Sam. “Please.”

Sam stepped into the cold black air and walked some twenty feet into the middle of the parking lot, aware of the pale faces studying her from the smaller vehicle.

“You there?” she asked quietly. Her cell had been on from the start, on open mic so that Willy could hear everything.

He anticipated her request. “You want me to tell Joe to tell HSI they can either locate Stuey tonight and tie him down, or attend his funeral by tomorrow?”