Margot Harris Mystery Series : Box Set 2 (Margot Harris Mystery Series Two - Twisted)

by Nora Kane

  “You not having another one?”

  “I’ve still got half of my first one.”

  Marv opened his new beer and took some time to open the pack of cigarettes. He put one between his lips and lit up.

  “Won’t Doris be mad?”

  “She’s going to be mad at me for something; it might as well be something I enjoy.”

  Margot let him smoke for a minute. After he tapped some ashes into the empty bottle, he said, “You know, last time you promised me you wouldn’t bring in the cops, you broke that promise.”

  “I thought you were dead, plus three dead bodies on ice isn’t the kind of secret you ask a person to keep. Besides, I haven’t made any promises this time.”

  “I got a couple of condos downtown. One of them is currently empty. I might have given him a key. That was a while ago though. I doubt he’s there.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll find out for myself. What’s the address?”

  “You going to talk to him first?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t need cops raiding my place and charging me as an accessory.”

  “If it comes to that, I’ll do my best to keep your place out of it.”

  “Your best?”

  “Yeah, I can’t do better than my best, and I don’t want to lie to you.”

  “Good, because I should still be mad at you for the last time you lied to me.”

  Margot didn’t reply.

  Marv gave her the address.

  “I don’t suppose you have a spare key?”

  “Ask Doris. She’ll know where it is.”

  “Thanks, Marv.”

  “You’re welcome. You sure you don’t want to stay and have another beer?”

  “I’m supposed to be working but thanks.”

  “Maybe you should show up sometime when you don’t want something.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  “It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

  “I’ll consider it, but right now I do have to go.”

  “Thanks for coming, Margot. Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Margot checked the time. If she went straight to the address, she could possibly check it out before she had to go spy on Mr. Dithers.

  Doris was waiting by the door.

  “You gave him a cigarette, didn’t you?” she said as Margot reached the front door.

  “I did. I figured since I was the one asking for favors, I’d rather have him mad at you instead of me.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  Margot wasn’t sure that was a compliment, so she ignored that and said, “Marv told me you have the key to his condo.”

  “You mean the one he gave his no-account brother a key to?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Doris shook her head like she was going to say no. Then she abruptly dug a keyring out of her pocket. She peeled off a silver house key and handed it to Margot.

  “You going to rent the place?”

  “Unlikely, but you never know.”

  Chapter 6

  Margot didn’t have time to check out Marv’s condo before she needed to go to work. It was late enough in the day that she went home instead of going back to the office. She was behind on her insurance work, but since that was done online, she figured it would be easy enough to catch up.

  She picked up a Carne Asada burrito for dinner on her way home. She got out her laptop and spent her dinner time looking at social media profiles while she ate. When she was about halfway done with her burrito and about to determine Ben Clifford’s workman’s comp claim was legitimate, someone knocked on the door.

  Margot was up and about halfway to the door before she remembered the fate of Cassie’s roommate and boyfriend. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. Normally, she wouldn’t even be home this time of day, and she wasn’t expecting any deliveries.

  Margot stopped about halfway to the door. She stepped to the side as she said, “Who’s there?”

  “Malcolm with IMPC.”

  It certainly sounded like a Malcolm, which meant he wasn’t Viuda Negra, but she didn’t know it wasn’t a guy with small feet who shot Trevor.

  “IMPC?” Margot asked as she picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. She opened it, stuck her hand inside, and wrapped her fingers around the handle of her Smith and Wesson. She moved to the wall next to her door where the window was.

  “Integrated Marketing and Promotion Company. We’re a big company. We’ve been around for nearly twenty years. We have an A-plus rating with the better business bureau.”

  “What do you market at IMPC?” Margot asked as she lowered one of the blinds to take a look at Malcolm.

  “All sorts of things, Ma’am. Today I have an excellent deal on Satellite TV packages.”

  Malcolm was probably twenty years old. He was wearing a white dress shirt, black slacks and a red tie that he didn’t look comfortable in. He looked very professional, except for the red Nike basketball shoes he was wearing.

  Margot kept her hand on the gun as she opened the door.

  Malcolm smiled a false smile. He was holding a fake leather folder. He opened up the folder and took out a flyer explaining what a great deal the satellite TV package he was peddling was. She looked past him and saw several other young men canvassing the neighborhood dressed in the same dress clothes and sneakers outfit Malcolm was wearing. Margot wasn’t surprised to see more of them. It wasn’t unusual for companies like IMPC to drop off their sales force in a neighborhood en masse.

  “No thanks,” Margot said as he held out the flyer.

  “Can I ask who your television provider is?”

  “You can ask.”

  Malcolm waited a beat, expecting her to tell him. When she didn’t he asked, “Who’s your television provider?”

  Margot smiled.

  Malcolm looked confused.

  “I said you could ask. I didn’t say I would answer.”

  “So, you’re not going to tell me?”

  “You seem like a nice guy, Malcolm, so I’m going to be straight with you. There’s no way I’m going to buy anything from you. You should go.”

  “You haven’t even heard what I’m offering.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m actually very busy. I’m going to shut the door now. You have a nice day and good luck.”

  “You sure?”

  Margot shut the door, locked up—including the chain—and went back to her burrito and her laptop. She’d just gotten the next potential insurance fraudster up on her laptop when there was a knock on her door again.

  Margot figured it was another salesman who didn’t know Malcolm had already struck out. She got up, muttering “stupid salesmen,” to herself as she headed toward the door. She was about halfway there when she stopped and decided to be cautious. Again, she called, “Who’s there?”

  The bullet came through the peephole and even though she stepped away, it was too close for comfort—she felt it cut the air just past her ear. Margot scrambled for her purse as another bullet severed her deadbolt.

  If she hadn’t engaged the chain lock, the killer would have been in the apartment with her.

  Margot saw one half of a pair of dark sunglasses in the gap. The shooter was looking for her body on the floor with a hole through her eye. Margot grabbed her purse and drew her pistol as the killer spotted her.

  Since she knew her door didn’t do much to stop bullets, Margot aimed for it and squeezed off two shots where she thought the shooter might be. Then she dove over the counter separating her dining room and her kitchen.

  She stayed low and took a deep breath, expecting either gunshots or her door to be kicked in. When neither happened, she popped back up for a split second and then ducked back down. It was a good thing she only showed her face for a second, as two bullets immediately flew into the space she’d just occupied before decimating her microwave.

  Margot kept low and went around
the side of the counter. She lay on the floor and fired twice toward her doorway. If the shooter was behind the door, Margot probably hit them; if the shooter was to the side of the door, Margot had just wasted two slugs. She realized ammunition was a consideration. Her magazine held ten rounds, and she still had six of them left, but her spare was in her purse and her other guns were in the bedroom. If the shooter outside had brought an extra magazine, Margot couldn’t afford to trade suppressing fire.

  She stayed low and waited for her attacker to return fire. When none came, Margot stood, keeping her gun on the doorway. She moved along the wall, ready to fire if anything came through the door. Margot moved to the side of her door and pulled it open. She darted back, expecting bullets.

  When no slugs came flying into her apartment Margot took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. She kept her gun up and looked both ways. The salesman who had knocked on her door earlier was curled up in a ball a few doors down. Margot was so much on edge, she nearly shot him. Since only she and the door-to-door salesman were on the walkway, she looked to the parking lot.

  She saw a white sedan pulling out of the lot. She took aim but paused. She hadn’t seen the license plate or even identified that it was a Buick. There was a very good chance this might not be the getaway car Cassie had filmed earlier. The last thing Margot wanted to do was shoot up some family on the way to the beach just because they had a white car.

  The way they sped off though confirmed to Margot that they weren’t tourists who had turned around in her parking lot because they missed the turn to the beach. She scanned the area, keeping her gun ready just in case she’d read the car wrong and the shooter—who Margot was starting to think of as Viuda Negra—was still out there. Viuda Negra may have been a name Cassie made up, but it fit.

  “Are you alright, Malcolm?” Margot asked the kid, who looked up and saw her standing there with a gun. Once he was sure she wasn’t going to shoot him, he managed to nod.

  Margot noticed the blood for the first time. She double-checked to make sure it wasn’t hers and then bent down for a closer look. It wasn’t a bleeding-to-death size pool of blood, but it wasn’t the kind of puddle a scratch would produce. It looked likely Viuda Negra had caught a bullet during the shootout. Margot noticed there were more drops of blood moving down the sidewalk away from Malcolm. It was good for him the shooter had gone the other way, since she’d proven she had no problem with spreading collateral carnage.

  Margot also noticed a bloody footprint that looked like a match for the footprints she’d seen at Trevor’s parent’s house. It wasn't a conviction type of evidence, but that along with the method being the same was enough to make Margot think this was the same shooter.

  Margot followed the trail. She kept her gun up, assuming the shooter was still around. To assume she wasn’t would be a good way to get herself killed. She reached the stairs and almost shot another door-to-door salesman.

  He put his hands up as he declared, “She got into the white car.”

  Margot looked at the blood splatters going down the steps and asked, “Did you see where she was hit?”

  “I was ducking; you’re lucky I saw them get in the car.”

  Margot nodded. She couldn’t blame him.

  “I didn’t know you guys were so hardcore on the coast. I figured you were all mellow surfers and shit.”

  Margot didn’t answer him. She followed the blood until it stopped at a handicapped parking space just a few feet from the base of the stairs.

  “Is this where the car was parked?”

  “Yeah. I remember seeing they didn’t have a handicapped placard or license plate. I was thinking ‘what an asshole,’ especially after that woman in the hoodie literally got out and ran up the stairs.”

  “Did she run back down?” Margot asked, hoping to assess the extent of the bullet wound.

  “Like I said, I was on the ground covering my head.”

  Margot could hear the sirens.

  “The police are going to want a statement. You need to give them one.”

  “I guess but…”

  “Don’t guess.”

  “What about you? Are you going to run?”

  “No, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Okay. Since we’re talking…do you mind if I ask who your cable provider is?”

  Margot shook her head and headed back up the stairs. She went back to her apartment to finish her burrito while she could.

  Chapter 7

  “I guess this might clear up the whole ‘you are Viuda Negra angle’,” Ames mused as he examined the bullet holes in Margot’s door.

  “You guess?”

  Ames shrugged. Margot had given her statement to Ames and Radcliff. Now they were waiting for the crime scene technicians to start taking pictures and collecting slugs from the brief shootout between Margot and who they assumed was Viuda Negra. She’d told the two of them about everything except Marv’s condo where Mal may or may not be hiding out. She wondered about the wisdom of keeping that one to herself, especially if he was the one driving the car. If he’d reached the point where he was willing to be an accomplice in her murder, there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t take the next step and kill her himself.

  “I certainly wasn’t shooting at myself.”

  “Hey, you’re preaching to the converted.”

  “So, why you?” Radcliff wondered. “Leftover from all that cartel nastiness?”

  “I suppose it’s not impossible. It makes sense if Viuda Negra actually is a Cartel hitwoman as Cassie claimed.”

  “Why you and Cassie though? You don’t really have a connection other than her liking to talk about you on her YouTube show.”

  “Maybe just a general clean up? They don’t like Cassie talking about them and despite the agreement they would leave me alone, they decided I still needed to go?”

  “You do anything new to piss them off?” Ames asked.

  “The only thing I can think of is exposing Mal’s visit to the jail to talk to Heller. If he was working for the cartel on that, which is looking likely if he rented the getaway car, they might have decided I broke the deal by interfering with their business.”

  “Which would make the Mal the getaway driver.”

  Margot didn’t reply. She didn’t want to believe it.

  “Are you coming around on why I don’t like the guy yet?” Ames asked.

  “I always understood it,” Margot told him. “I always figured he was a good guy who made some bad choices, but I’m having trouble believing it right now. Renting the car, however, isn’t the same as driving it.”

  “True, but if he’s getting a car for a feared cartel hitter, he has to know they’re up to no good. Even if he didn’t know you were on the list, it doesn’t change the fact he knew somebody was. We’re not talking about shooting down fellow scumbags either. Cassie is a journalist and probably what? Twenty-five years old?”