Chapter One Hundred Five
If Furyk had been surprised by Prole’s move to pull him in for something other than the gentle kiss he’d planted on her, he didn’t let it show. Her arm crooked around his neck, she was leaning forward on the couch as Furyk stood in front of her. He slipped an arm behind her back and under one shoulder and drew her up out of the couch like she was a rag doll. Her grip around his neck tightened as she rose like a marionette and her body pressed full against him. The light wool of her sweater created a hum of static electricity against the thin cotton of his shirt and it tingled against her skin. A couple of beers were nothing to her but she felt the hint of lightheadedness that usually came after a few shots in a crowded bar. His lips tasted good and he kissed with a softness that belied the brute she knew he could be. His mouth was responsive, playing with her upper lip one moment then pressing hard, aggressively, darting his tongue inside her mouth in a way that made her shiver. She took a quick bite and almost drew blood as she pulled his lower lip between her teeth. He didn’t draw back, instead leaning in and sliding his other hand down her back below her waist and pulling her in to him. There was no space between them now, and she was excited and anxious. He didn’t hide how hungry he was and she slid her hands down either side of his shoulders, over the arms, reaching down to the forearms. He was hard and taut and she remembered the dense muscle that came from real activity, not hours in the gym.
A small moan escaped her mouth, the first sound to permeate the thick air since she’d blocked him with her leg. It made her self-conscious for a moment, suddenly aware of what she was doing. She put her hands to his chest and pushed, hard enough to break the embrace if he’d wanted to let her. He didn’t and instead quickly brought his hands from behind her and grabbed both her wrists. With a jolt he yanked her hands down and then twisted them behind her like she was going be cuffed. The quickness of the move shocked her and her instinct was to fight. But the pounding of blood in her ears drowned out that instinct, replacing it with a flash of intense desire to get into the bedroom as quickly as possible. In one motion, Furyk released her hands and reached down, grabbing her upper legs and hoisting her up so they were eye to eye. For just an instant she hung motionless in the air, hips pressed against his waist, balanced between leaning into him and falling back on the couch. She leaned forward and wrapped her legs around him. The kiss was hard and long and she opened her mouth wide, lips pressed tightly against his. She let the moan go this time, louder and unsuppressed. She didn’t hear the phone ring the first time.
On the second ring, she felt him withdraw just a fraction. She kept her eyes closed, broke the kiss and leaned into his ear. “Don’t you fuckin’ answer it.” Her voice was hoarse but crystal clear.
Furyk, no less engulfed than Prole, held her in place with one arm and used the other hand to pull the phone out of his pocket. Peering down at the display, he thought just a second about the decision. Flipping the phone open and bringing it up to his free ear, he felt Prole release her legs and begin to push away like a child angry at a parent who’d teased her. Furyk almost dropped the phone but released her instead.
“Alycia, what’s up?”
Prole’s hair was all over the place, wisps in her face, her shirt halfway twisted around. Her face was flush, only partly from embarrassment. Now she really wanted to shoot him. And whoever that bitch Alycia was. She looked to her gun on the counter and then Furyk’s face, and the look he gave her postponed thoughts of murder.
“Alycia, say that again.”
Chapter One Hundred Six
Brant sat in the dark in front of the large-screen television. It was on mute, images of a college football game flickering across the 62 inches, playing against Brant’s face. The satellite service he paid a couple hundred bucks a month for replayed games from around the country. Hands resting on his paunch, uniform wrinkled and smelling faintly of sweat, he shifted his weight and heard the leather of the enormous lounger softly protest. The game playing in his mind made the battle on the screen trivial. Loss of income was inevitable, at least for a while. Brant had gotten used to the extra cash, some of which actually didn’t end up in his wife’s shopping fund. He tried to look past the current set of problems, to how he could find a new cash cow. The setup with Margolin and Wick was sweet and in a lot of ways easy. It was a trifecta; the money flowed, it was easy to control those morons, and he got the extra benefits of pick of the litter whenever Wick recruited a new girl from his practice. There was also the bonus that many of the men who used their services were powerful, important men – and that meant Brant had leverage.
Brant had stumbled across the operation when a girl who had been missing turned up in the Valley, messily dead. She’d been seen in the company of an actor who always got the good tables at L.A. restaurants. Margolin had been there immediately, turning aside any suspicion that the celeb had been involved. He’d been right – some other street skank had killed the girl – but Brant saw something else was going on. He’d leaned on Margolin and the mewling twit had rolled over. It was easy for Brant to squeeze him and Wick, ostensibly offering protection in exchange for a big chunk of the profits. Never really had to get his hands dirty, except for making a few problems with reports of assault or abuse go away. Until now.
Wick and Margolin dead meant he either had to give up this line of income or find a way to reinstitute the program. That meant finding some schmuck therapist. No need for the attorney, who just got in the way. Brant didn’t want to be hands-on, so maybe someone to manage things day to day would be good. He tried to think it through, but an image kept stepping in front of his perfect scene. Furyk. It was too early to be planning ahead. That one huge pothole in the middle of the road threatened to engulf him. Cordoza had to get this shit cleaned up. Get Wick’s wife, kill Furyk, maybe the cop Prole. No loose ends, no way for it to get back to Brant. That meant Cordoza would have to go too. Brant would need to do that himself.
A noise upstairs brought him out of his reverie. It was a rustling sound, like a large object moving through the bushes. He turned his head toward the carpeted staircase that led to the master bedroom.
“Go back to bed, honeypie. I’ll bring you a bowl of ice cream.” A bowl of Botox or an appointment with a liposuction machine would be better, he thought. Hoisting himself out of the chair, he pictured sitting on a beach in Waikiki, watching the waves roll in and the bikinis walk by.
Chapter One Hundred Seven
“He said…he said he was going to hurt me…” There were tears in Alycia’s voice, flowing over fear. But no pain yet. Furyk could hear that she was near breaking. The “he” had to be Cordoza, unless there was some other sociopath on Brant’s payroll. But Cordoza worked alone. He was the one threatening the girl.
In the calmest tones he could muster, fighting back the urge to leap through the phone line and strangle Cordoza, Furyk gave her instructions. “Alycia, listen to me. He isn’t going to hurt you.” First lie. “He just wants me. Stay calm and do whatever he tells you.” Furyk waited for her to acknowledge him. She didn’t. “You’re going to be fine, Alycia. It’s just scary. You’ll be home soon.” Second lie. Cordoza didn’t leave witnesses. Alycia was dead already. “Tell me where you are…wait! Don’t say it. Just answer yes or no. Are you at the shop?”
He heard a sharp intake of breath instead of an answer. Then a voice came on the line that made the sweet taste that had been on his lips a moment ago turn sour and start an ache in the back of his head. “Sandwich shop, asshole. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Call the cops – any other cops – and the girl’s dead. And I’ll make it ugly.”
Cordoza’s voice almost cracked, a combination of pain from his injuries and the pleasure of knowing Furyk was on his way. Furyk heard both and knew where they came from. He’d hurt Cordoza earlier and no matter what he did, following any instruction he was given, it would end with him and Merrill dead. Alycia too. Getting help would mean only Alycia would die tonight and Cordoza would still b
e loose. Furyk had to go alone.
“Hurt her, and the damage I did tonight will seem like a massage. You hear me, Cordoza? Do anything to her and whatever else happens tonight you’ll be dead.” That wasn’t a lie.
The laughter coming over the cell phone was genuine. It cut off suddenly and Furyk was listening to silence and watching Prole’s face morph from intense anger and disappointment to a hard look he wouldn’t want to see aimed at him.
“Don’t even say it. I’m going.” Prole brushed by him and got her gun from the kitchen counter, slipping on the shoes she’d left by the fridge. Flats with crepe soles, good traction and easy to move in.
“I wasn’t going to. But Merrill needs protection and if you’re backing me up, she’s alone. You tell me what you want to do.” He knew she’d make the right choice.
She crossed her arms and planted her feet shoulder-length apart, cocking her head as a wisp of still unbrushed hair fell in her face. “So you got a great plan of attack, huh? Blueprints in your mind and some secret way to sneak up on him? Or at least some idea of how to keep him from cold-cocking you before I secure the Wick woman and then ride in to save you?”
“Yeah, I got a plan.” Furyk tucked his shirt back in where it had escaped his belt during all the activity. He still felt a little woozy, in a pent-up, ready to explode, I-wish-I-were-in-bed-with-Prole kind of way, but the pain behind his right eye was starting to grow and it was going to start thumping soon. “I’m going to kill him before he hurts her. I need you to go to Merrill. She needs protection.”
Prole was pissed. The idea of taking down Cordoza was more exciting than any of the thoughts she’d been having before the call. Or at least a close second. But she wanted the Wick woman and Furyk was right about one thing: he could probably handle himself.
“Where is she?”
Furyk gave the address and headed to the door. Passing Prole, he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. She pushed it off before it could turn into a tender moment and scoffed. “Shut up and let’s go.”
They headed out of the apartment and separated on the ground floor to get their cars. Cordoza watched from half a block down the darkened street. Where else would Furyk have been except sniffing around that bitch Prole, who was helping him? He itched to kill them both now, but he knew the priorities. He slammed the trunk shut and the sound was inaudible to the couple halfway down the street.
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Prole made it to Hamid’s house in ten minutes, unusually light traffic on the 101 Freeway letting her avoid using the portable siren she hated. The side streets were worse and cutting across Ventura Blvd. she sat behind an old guy who wouldn’t break the line of the crosswalk and commit to making the left turn unless there wasn’t another car in sight. She leaned on the horn and the old fart didn’t even bother to flip her off. She sped around him as the light went from yellow to red for the second time, and slowed only when she was cruising down the right street, squinting at faded house numbers painted on the curb.
The place Furyk had dumped the Wick woman didn’t look much like a fortress, but the front lights were on and there were a couple of cars parked in the drive and in the street, so at least it appeared there were people there with her. Furyk had said he’d call ahead so if any of the civilians in the house were feeling like Clint Eastwood, she wouldn’t get her head blown off walking up to the door.
She didn’t have to worry. Before she’d cut her lights after pulling into the driveway, the back half of her car jutting past the apron and into the street since there was an enormous gray Impala blocking her way, the front door opened wide enough for a man to step through. Prole let her eyes quickly adjust to the change in illumination from her headlights to the porch lamp and slipped out of the car. She kept her right hand lightly on the butt of her gun, the holster clipped to her waistband. With the other, she held out the detective’s gold badge that hung from a heavy black string around her neck, and walked toward the front door. The rest of the street was dark and she wanted the guy standing in front of her to be very comfortable.
“Detective Prole. Furyk sent me.” The man, probably not much taller than Prole and seeming to get shorter as she got closer, smiled broadly. He looked past her, then to either side, and opened the door wider. As Prole took the one brick step up to the front door, she could see behind him. Two women, one darker and one lighter than the heavy brown skin of the man holding the door open, stood a few feet behind. They were side by side, touching shoulders, as though shielding something. They were. A glimpse of Merrill’s brown hair emerged between the headdresses of the two women, the older, darker one several inches shorter than her younger, lighter Doppelganger. Furyk had some strange friends. Not exactly Brinks Security, but they looked committed.
Prole took her hand off her gun and stepped over the welcome mat, pushing the door wider. As the door swung in, she could see the wide foyer also held two young teenagers peering in from an adjoining room. Prole focused on Merrill.
“Mrs. Wick, you need to…” Prole’s mouth froze mid-sentence as the bullet hit her left shoulder and blood instantly began to soak her shirt. She hung suspended for less than a heartbeat and crumpled to the ground. The next shot pierced the air before she hit the floor.
Chapter One Hundred Nine
Furyk parked the Honda in the lot in front of the sandwich shop. There was no sneaking up on Cordoza. He would have to face him and figure out a plan of action as things played out. Cordoza wasn’t going to kill him until he knew where Merrill was. Brant must know Furyk was hiding her and she was still a loose end – the only person who heard Felicia’s confession before she died, excluding Cordoza who probably wasn’t going to be testifying for the defense. Brant was obviously cleaning house, and that meant anyone who knew what was going on had to be dead. Furyk didn’t know exactly Brant’s involvement, but it was deep enough to want to cover up Wick and Margolin’s operation with guns and dead bodies. Furyk’s life wasn’t worth used gum to Cordoza, but there was still time to save Alycia. He peered in the front window and saw everything was closed down just the way he’d taught her. They must be in the back.
In the alley, Furyk tried the door. It was unlocked. Holding his gun loosely in his left hand, he quickly pushed the door open with his right and stepped in, angling to the corner where he knew there were boxes he could stand behind just in case he misjudged Cordoza’s interest in talking before killing him. He scanned the room and, other than the full trash bag Alycia didn’t take out, everything was more or less in its place. The room was large and cramped, but everything was out in the open and visible. Unless they were in the walk-in cold-storage unit, which would have been a stupid place to wait, they weren’t here. At least, Cordoza wasn’t here.
Fearing what he’d find, Furyk opened the heavy door of the cold room, expecting to find Alycia’s body among the lettuce and meat. Nothing. He backed out and checked the closet with the cleaning materials. No dead body, no blood. He pushed through the swinging door to the public-facing part of the shop, assuming she was behind the counter, lifeless and brutalized. Only jars of condiments and paper towels, sandwich wrap, and to-go boxes. No bodies. Instinct made Furyk want to run outside and check the cars, the dumpster, the darkest parts of the alley. But he waited. Something was wrong. Even if Alycia were dead, hidden in some corner, why bring Furyk out here? If Cordoza didn’t need to have a chat with him and just wanted to lure him into a killing zone, why hadn’t he shot him on the way in?
Furyk felt stupid. Used. The call hadn’t come from the sandwich shop. It had come from somewhere else. Cordoza had killed Margolin at his house while Prole was standing there. He knew she was involved. And according to Prole – who thought everyone was trying to get into her pants – Cordoza knew she was involved with Furyk. Goddamnit. The call had probably come from outside Prole’s apartment and Furyk had taken the bait by sending her to go watch Merrill. She’d led Cordoza right to his target.
Furyk was barely done with figu
ring it out before he was racing to his car, gunning the heavy engine and testing its ability to get to sixty miles an hour in under 4 seconds while dialing Prole’s number on his cell. It rang four times and went to voicemail. A very bad sign.
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Cordoza kept firing. He’d hit that bitch Prole pretty good, upper back or neck, and she fell like the weak-kneed slut she was. The second shot went wide, but may have nicked the camel jockey who opened the door. Goddamn Persians, ruining all the good neighborhoods. It was hard shooting left-handed. He’d never bothered to get good with that hand, figuring he’d do all his killing right-handed. The adrenaline of murder dulled the pain in his face and wrist. There was an extra clip in his jacket pocket so he wasn’t going to run out of ammo. He continued his steady pace up from the dark street and toward the well-lit frame of the open door. He could see he’d missed the dark little guy, who was now stepping back to protect the women. Wick must be the white chick hiding behind the burka wearers. No problem, plenty of bullets.
He put one in the chest of the little guy whose eyes went wide and he shouted something in a language other than English. He fell to his knees, opening up a nice shot for Cordoza to take at the women. He aimed for the taller one, which would unblock his access to the Wick bitch. Right-handed he’d have put one in the middle of her forehead, but as a lefty he was glad to see a hole open up in her cheek and then an instant later the splatter of skull and brain coming out the back of her head. Hopefully it would get on Wick’s wife’s face and freak her out. Keep her from bolting if she were afraid enough. The dead woman fell back and bounced off Merrill Wick, who had her hands up to her face and horror in her eyes. The smaller woman was less ballsy than the guy had been and turned to run into another room. Cordoza shot her twice in the back, propelling her in the direction she’d been heading but not in the condition she was hoping. Maybe no need to reload, since he still had a couple of shots left.
A Twisted Path Page 23