Twisted Justice (39 page)

“I don't see the boys,” Laura whispered.

“Let's wait here a sec,” Greg said quietly, “see how this plays out.”

“There they are!” Laura blurted as Kevin followed several paces behind Steve, carrying two duffel bags. Impulsively, Laura started to go to him.

“Wait,” Chuck said, “not yet.”

“Where's Mike?”

“Just wait. Steve's leaving Kevin with the bags and he's going back out.”

“Mike must be outside.”

Again, Steve hauled more duffel bags. This time he was followed by Mike, who was struggling with a long rectangular case. Steve seemed to be barking orders.

“Dear God,” Laura gasped, “he's got Steve's rifle case.”

They watched as Steve dropped the bags abruptly before taking his place in line, leaving the boys standing slumped along the wall.

“They don't look too thrilled,” Chuck whispered. “I've got a car right outside. What do you think?”

Celeste watched anxiously as the Diamonds drove away. All of this was so strange. Why hadn't Greg told her he planned to use her condo? It wasn't like him to let strangers use it. He was always so considerate of her property and her independence. Only once before, about a year ago, he'd arranged for a client of his to use it, and he had made a big deal of checking with her, getting her approval. Maybe he just didn't care enough about her permission anymore. Or maybe he figured what was hers was theirs, and maybe that was okay now that she was so close to a real commitment that would merge her — her possessions, her needs, her very soul — with Greg.

Or maybe the reason that he didn't tell her was the possibility of real danger. Danger to the Palmer child. And Molly Palmer was still in there. Well, she'd check to make sure the family was okay, and pick up the design sample books she'd left there last time. Then she'd drive back to Tampa. She certainly couldn't stay here with the Palmers. It was just before six, and she wouldn't get home until midnight. Maybe she'd check into a motel off of I-95. If only she'd brought her travel kit and something decent to travel in, she could leave from the Jacksonville Airport. She'd left enough business clothes in Atlanta, but then her car would be stuck in Jacksonville. It had been really silly to come here.

As she drove up the long drive lined by tall red hibiscus, she gazed with approval at the lush manicured lawns and flower-studded gardens before wondering whether Greg had given the
Palmers her garage door opener. Rather than drive all the way down to the underground garage just to find their car in her assigned spot, she decided to park in the lobby lot out front. It was then that she saw that same car — that dark sedan. Yes, a dark blue Mercury with tinted windows, sitting in a parking spot directly in front of the building. A stab of fear cut through her. Her instinct had been right. Someone had followed Carrie.

She knew that she had to warn the Palmers. She quickly swung her silver BMW into the nearest space in the visitors' section. As she walked toward the lobby, she was tempted to peek into the other car, but she was too scared and too much in a hurry. Besides, with those dark windows, she probably wouldn't be able to see inside.

Instead of calling up from the lobby, Celeste used her key to access the elevator to her third floor suite. Once she exited the elevator, she'd be in a small foyer. Then she'd knock at the door, expecting the Palmers to let her in. What she met when the elevator door opened was the barrel of a gun aimed at her chest. She gasped at the weapon and the buff young man with the floppy blond hair and matching, bushy eyebrows who held it.

“Who are you and what are you doing here,” he demanded, Gestapo-style.

“Please put that down,” she said, once she'd caught her breath. “I'm Celeste Marin. I own this condo. What's —”

“Oh,” the man said, the eyebrows shooting up in confusion. “You have identification?”

“Sure,” said Celeste. “I'm just going to get it out of my bag. Okay?”

“Slowly,” he stepped closer to monitor her careful movements.

“Listen, I can clear this up. I just spoke to Carrie Diamond, the lady who just left with her daughter. I know that you're here protecting a child. I know that Chuck Dimer hired you. He's working with my fiancé, Greg Klingman.”

She must have sounded credible, because the man holstered his weapon as soon as he'd scrutinized her driver's license.

Celeste read the embroidered insignia on his cream-colored golf shirt: D. J. S
ECURITY
S
ERVICES
.

“Okay, ma'am, why don't you come in?” he said, opening the door between the foyer and living room. “Name's Regis Adamsky.” Inside suitcases in various stages of packing were strewn about. “We were just getting ready to leave.”

“Yes, I think you should leave, but —”

“Tried to get in touch with Mr. Dimer,” the security guy interrupted. “Let him know about the couple that just came and took their little girl. I was supposed to protect them both, but I couldn't stop that mother. I hope I didn't fuck — oh, I'm real sorry, ma'am. Didn't mean for that to slip out.”

“Hurry up, Dirk,” Celeste heard a woman's voice call from the master bedroom.

“Let's think this though, Sally,” a man's voice. Must be Mr. Palmer, Celeste figured. “Carrie Diamond didn't say anything specific, and I don't think Don even wanted to take Elizabeth. Nobody knows where we are. That was the deal. And with this Regis guy here —”

“I wish he wouldn't keep that gun in plain sight. It frightens me,” the woman's voice said.

Celeste's eyes flew to the bulging holster on the security guy's hip and she cringed, wondering if he'd ever had to use it.

“Let me help you, missy,” Adamsky said, stepping forward.

Celeste turned to see a little girl in pigtails hauling a canvas suitcase out of the guest bedroom.

The big blonde man rushed to help her, and the child rewarded him with a generous smile. The little girl then looked expectantly at Celeste. Remembering that she was deaf, Celeste waved to her and smiled encouragingly, not knowing what else to do or say.

Adamsky set the suitcase down by the elevator, before grabbing a blue blazer and slipping it on. “Why are you here, ma'am?”

“Mr. Adamsky, I'm glad you're leaving,” Celeste said, still fretting about how to communicate with the child. “Listen, I think
that Carrie Diamond was followed out here. You see, she came to my house. I live in the Carrollwood section of Tampa. There was a car outside my house — dark blue Mercury, heavily tinted windows. And that same car, I'm pretty sure, is out there.” She pointed out the window toward the parking lot.

“Holy shit,” Adamsky's face turned red. “Holy shit. Followed? All the way from Tampa? You sure?”

“Quite sure,” Celeste said. “That's why I came here. To warn the Palmers.”

“Man, I gotta get them outta here,” Adamsky ran both hands through his already ruffled hair. “But how? To where? Shit, I gotta try Dimer again.”

“Somebody followed Carrie? Is that what you said?” asked a middle-aged man, tanned with wavy brown hair, and startling blue eyes. He'd emerged from the master bedroom with a querulous expression and his hand thrust forward. “By the way, I'm Dirk Palmer. You are?”

“I'm Celeste Marin, and yes, I think so,” Celeste said, reaching to shake his hand.

“Let's go then,” he directed Regis, who was still on the phone, looking like he was on hold.

“Sally, you gotta get a move on,” he shouted toward the master suite.

“Miss Marin owns this condo,” Regis said as soon as he'd disconnected the call.

“What's going on?” demanded Palmer.

“I talked to Tracy Epstein at the Dimer Agency,” Adamsky reported with authority. “She said to hold tight. She's trying to locate Mr. Dimer.”

By now the pretty little girl had sidled up to her dad, her smile transformed to a worried frown.

“Miss Marin,” he said, using his hands in sign language. “I want you to meet my daughter, Molly.”

Celeste held out her hand toward Molly who smiled again.

“And Molly, this is Miss Marin. This is her condo.”

Molly responded, enthusiastically communicating with both hands.

“She says she loves it. Wants to stay longer. Wants us to let her go swimming in the pool and in the ocean.”

“Please tell her, when all this is over, I'd love for her to come and stay and do all that.”

Dirk did, and the little girl grinned shyly.

“Who are you talking to, Dirk?” the same woman's voice.

“Come out here, Sally. Celeste Marin is here. She owns this condo. She —”

“In a minute, I'm almost done packing.”

“I'm going to start hauling this stuff to the car.” Dirk picked up a suitcase in each hand.

“Not yet,” Adamsky put up his hand. “I'm waiting for instructions.”

Palmer faced Adamsky, “You mean they told you to just wait here? After what this lady just told us? Somebody followed the Diamonds all the way from Tampa, and we're supposed to sit tight?”

From the backseat of his car, Manny watched as the dark-haired lady entered the lobby, nodding to the concierge with obvious familiarity. It was the lady from Carrollwood, the one Diamond went to see this morning. With his binoculars, he saw that she headed for the bank of elevators marked “8.” Inserting her key, she pushed a button. “Third floor,” he muttered. “Gettin' lotsa traffic up there. Gotta move fast.”

He reached into a container and extracted a packet of oiled rags and his stash of miniexplosives, the type that went boom when detonated, but did very little physical damage. Having already pulled on a pizza delivery uniform, he strode toward the lobby, carrying a pizza warming box in which he'd carefully placed the inflammables.

A sole white-haired man decked in golf gear stood in the spacious lobby, soon disappearing into another elevator. It was now up to Manny to distract the concierge long enough so he could settle in
without being seen. From the pay phone outside, he placed an anonymous call — a concerned guest reporting a toddler wandering alone out by the pool in the back, precariously close to the edge. It was five after six now, and Manny watched as the overweight, frizzy-haired concierge abruptly pushed back from her desk and waddled toward the door at the rear of the lobby.

Heavy brocade drapes in rich greens and yellows flanked the tall windows adjacent to the banks of elevators. Using them as cover, Manny easily maneuvered himself over by the stairwell near elevator “8.” The drapery would make the perfect start for a smoldering fire, which he planned to light just as the concierge returned to her desk. This would attract her attention, and when she panicked, she'd start fumbling to find the right emergency number, which would give him time to get to the stairwell the Palmers would have to climb down during the building evacuation. Amid all the confusion and chaos, he'd simply take out the kid from his spot on the landing. Short range; silencer attached to the 9-mm Sig Sauer. The emerging residents would provide him the cover he'd need to escape through the lobby. The parents and that dark-haired lady would be distracted by the fallen kid long enough for him to sprint the few yards to his car. He'd be out of there before the firemen or cops even reached the scene.

Yeah, that was a plan.

As Manny struck a match to an oiled rag, the draperies by the window went up in smoking flames faster than he'd dared hope. He slid the pizza box beneath one of the lobby's many armchairs on the other side of the room. The fire spread fast engulfing a pair of overstuffed chairs. He was already under the staircase when the concierge sounded the building's main fire alarm. He knew the automatic sprinkler would soon quell the flames but with the miniexplosives he could detonate from a remote position, there'd be a full evacuation. All he had to do now was wait for the kid to come down these steps.

Within seconds, he heard anxious voices above, then footsteps in the stairwell. An old guy and lady came rushing down from a second
floor unit. Manny moved fast and stood on the lower landing, still in his pizza man uniform, motioning them down.

“Bless you,” the lady said, “but you better evacuate the building too.”

As they fled, Manny pushed the button of the device strapped to his wrist. A loud, yet harmless, explosion filled the lobby. Silent and motionless, Manny waited under the stairwell as voices above him spoke in urgent tones. If only the kid would be the first down, but he knew they'd never let her take the lead. Didn't matter, he had a perfect ambush position, and an easy escape route.

The Carrollwood lady was first. He peered up and saw how she kept looking up above her. Who the hell was she anyway? What did she know?

“Just one more floor,” she shouted over the deafening blare of the fire alarm.

Manny soon saw a man approaching about half a staircase behind the dark-haired lady, a big blonde guy in a blue blazer with some kind of a logo and tan slacks. The target's father? Then the big guy turned around and picked up the kid with the pigtails.

Manny snorted with frustration. The guy was fucking up his shot.

Another guy and lady then appeared, fully one stair landing behind, the guy now carrying the kid. Each was struggling with a large hard-shell suitcase. Was that the mother? But who was the extra guy? Manny crouched, cautiously training his weapon on the guy now moving faster since he'd picked up the kid. Focus on the shot, Manny reminded himself. Don't matter who that second guy is. Might have to get two shots off in a big hurry — one for the kid, one for the big bastard carryin' her.

“This way!” the Carrollwood lady called again as she reached the bottom step. Then out of the corner of his eye, Manny saw the woman turn around. Obviously she would see him, gun in hand, aiming up the stairs. There was no time. Keeping his Sig trained on the target's back, he lined up a clear shot through the lungs to the heart. At that instant, the blonde hunk abruptly shifted the kid
from his shoulder and cradled her in his arms.