“The autopsy indicates Leary had a secondary wound to his throat, but it wasn’t the fatal strike. It missed both the jugular and carotid. Probably bled like a son of a bitch, though. Maybe your friend did stab him, but this Boklov guy came in behind her and finished the job.”
Trying to process all he’d just heard, Mark stared out through the rain-splattered window, a fluttering sensation in his belly. A few hundred feet out, rough waves crashed on the now-deserted beach, and it was hard to tell where the body of dark ocean stopped and the bruised sky began. Was it possible that Leary simply fainted, perhaps from seeing his own blood, and Samantha had mistakenly believed him dead?
“There’s something else you should know,” Todd said, hesitating. “This Trina Grissom…she has no criminal record, but her name comes up several times in a dossier the Feds’ Organized Crime Task Force maintains on the Leary brothers. Miss Grissom was brought into the hospital on more than one occasion after being beaten by the deceased.”
A cold sickness washed over him. Samantha told him Devin Leary had been dangerous. She said she’d stabbed him in self-defense. But she hadn’t gone into much detail, and Mark had been so distressed by her deception that he hadn’t pushed for information. The confirmation that she had been physically, repeatedly abused hit him hard. He massaged his forehead, still keeping the phone to his ear.
“Apparently, the cops urged her to charge Leary with assault, but she refused every time. Insisted he didn’t do it. Probably afraid to tell the truth—can’t say I blame her,” Todd continued. “The gist I got was that the Memphis PD, probably the FBI, too, would still like to talk to her. Even if she didn’t witness the murder—and by your account, she didn’t—as the live-in girlfriend, they figure she was in a position back then to know about illegal business dealings the Learys might have had with Boklov. They’ve been trying to put Boklov and Devin’s brother, Red, away for years.”
After a long silence, Todd asked, “You still there, Mark?”
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yeah. I’m just trying to get my mind wrapped around this.”
“The good news is your friend isn’t a murderer. At least not according to the Memphis Police.”
“And none of what you found out could lead anyone to her?”
“I was careful—my sources are airtight.”
They talked a few more minutes, then Mark thanked him and disconnected the phone. He ran a hand over his face, his breath temporarily bottling up in his chest until he forced himself to exhale. He had to tell Samantha what he’d found out.
A call to her cell phone elicited no response. In fact, the device went straight to voice mail, as if it was turned off. Even if she’d already left town, she would have her cell with her. He left an urgent message, asking her to call him. The news was too big, too confidential, to leave in a voice mail.
Mark checked his wristwatch, noticing that time was running out. The lobby had grown quieter, but there were still a few people remaining. He would do what he could to clear the hotel and secure it quickly, and then he would go by Samantha’s apartment and the café to check for her before he left town.
The day had not gone according to plan. Samantha’s intention had been to finish storm-proofing the café as best she could, load up her car with some of her belongings and food donations for the shelter, and be on her way out by early afternoon. What she hadn’t counted on was an elderly neighbor falling on the rain-slicked sidewalk at her apartment building when Samantha had been there, packing her suitcase.
She had of course driven Mrs. Holtz to the urgent care center and waited while her ankle was X-rayed. Fortunately, it had turned out to be only a bad sprain. Then she’d taken the woman, slowly hobbling on crutches, back to her apartment that was two doors from her own. She’d sat with her until a nephew arrived to drive her and her two Siamese cats inland, since she wouldn’t be able to manage the car’s brakes and gas pedal with the injury.
By the time Samantha made it back to the café to pick up the food to deliver to the hurricane shelter, the streetlamps along the town square were already glowing. Rain smacked the Camry’s roof, and a patrol car with its siren on moved past her on the otherwise mostly empty street. Pulling into the alleyway behind the Sea Breeze Centre, she saw Luther’s old pickup parked next to the Dumpster. Turning off the car, she opened the door and made a run for it.
“You should already be gone,” Luther criticized as Samantha raced through the service entrance into the kitchen. He wore a rain poncho, although his shaved head was uncovered.
“Don’t ask—something came up.” She did the best she could to wring her long hair free of excess water and then tugged at the sodden tank top stuck to her abdomen. “You really didn’t have to meet me here, Luther. You should be at home where it’s dry, at least.”
“I figure the faster we get this food into your car, the sooner you’ll be on your way out. I can’t believe Mr. St. Clair’s lettin’ you gallivant around by yourself with this storm rollin’ in. He’s supposed to be a gentleman—”
“Luther,” Samantha said, interrupting his tirade. She couldn’t stand to hear Mark being taken to task. She shook her head. “Mark and I…we’re not seeing each other anymore. He isn’t responsible for me.”
“Oh,” he muttered heavily, looking disappointed. “That’s too bad. I thought you two were a real good match.”
At his words, an emptiness settled inside her. She had deluded herself into thinking so, too, until her past had come calling.
“Well, I guess we better get you on the road, then.”
Big muscles bulging, he hauled a box of perishables from the counter and shouldered his way out the door, headed to her car. Samantha picked up another box and followed him outside, the rain cold on her bare arms. They worked together until every last inch of available space in the Camry was loaded with food that wouldn’t survive the absence of refrigeration. Then together they darted back inside. This time, Samantha grabbed a towel from the pantry and used it to try to dry herself off.
“You ready to go?”
“I’d like to have one last look around,” she admitted. “Just to make sure everything’s unplugged.”
But in truth, she knew the café was ready to be locked up. She had been there all that morning, helping Luther get the equipment up on their makeshift risers. She just needed another chance to commit the place to memory, in case the storm destroyed the one thing that had ever really belonged to her.
Luther waited as Samantha took a brief tour around the storefront. It looked desolate, with chairs stacked on tabletops, the shelving empty and refrigerated display case bare.
“Okay,” she murmured finally, throat tight. “It’s time.”
She shut off the lights. As they walked back toward the kitchen, Luther snapped his fingers. “Damn near forgot my rain hat. I hung it in the storeroom.”
He took a right while Samantha continued on toward the kitchen. As she cleared the entryway, an icy chill curled around her spine, nearly stopping her heart. Two men stood just inside the service door, dripping with water. Both had guns. Samantha reeled backward.
“Greetings from Memphis,” Red Leary said without cracking a smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Like his brother, lankiness emphasized the hard sinews of Red’s body. But where Devin had been handsome, Red’s features were rawboned, appearing overly sharp under a mop of cinnamon hair now streaked with gray. As he knocked the rain from his shoulders, his eyes narrowed on Samantha.
“So it really is you.”
Doom tunneled through her. Samantha tried to find her voice—to scream for help, to call to Luther to warn him, but her vocal cords were paralyzed. Stumbling from the kitchen, she made a dash for the storefront, only to remember the entrance had been secured by the building’s hurricane shutters. That knowledge didn’t keep her from trying to wedge open the door.
“Nice place.”
She whirled, her lungs flattening. Red ha
d trailed her into the café. His companion, an oversize lout with thick shoulders and no neck, stood behind him. “I forgot how much you liked to cook. All those little cakes and pies you used to make for the girls. ’Course, Devin said it was a waste of your talents to put you in the kitchen.”
Samantha’s breath shallowed as he came closer, her heat beating wildly as panic rioted inside her. Lenny was dead—how had Red still found her? She wrapped her arms around her belly, her legs weak and threatening to give out.
“The police are patrolling the streets,” she managed to get out. “An evacuation is underway. If I scream—”
His hand shot out, catching her by the throat and cutting off her breath. Her blood curdled as he dragged her to him. She could smell the spearmint scent of his chewing gum and the underlying nicotine as his face hovered inches from hers. “Make no mistake. You will scream before I’m done with you. Besides, that wind starting to pick up out there? No one’s going to hear you.”
He shoved her backward. Samantha fell against the wall, her bottom landing painfully on the floor. Her hand to her throat, she coughed, her eyes filling with tears. Her hope was that Luther had gotten out. In her peripheral vision, she could see the other man—was his name Cyril?—looming nearby. He was as solidly built as a refrigerator, with a blunt face and flat-eyed expression.
Red looked around the café. “How’d you pay for all this, Trina?”
Her voice shook. “I-I took out a loan from the bank—”
“Bullshit.” He motioned to Cyril. A sob escaped her as the man yanked her upright.
“Try again. Tell me how you paid for this place.”
Samantha blinked, unsure of what Red wanted to know. “I’m telling the truth! I worked at clubs in New York and paid my way through culinary school. But I-I took out a loan to open the—”
The hard slap across her face buckled her knees. Cyril grabbed her, keeping her standing.
“You better tell him the truth, sugar.”
Red’s eyes burned angrily. Taking his gum from his mouth, he wadded the mass into a ball, jamming it under one of the tabletops. Then he withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a lighter from his pocket. Firing up a cigarette, he took his time, making a show of drawing the stream of nicotine into his lungs. Samantha’s blood roared in her ears.
“Make it easy on yourself and fess up about the diamonds. It was only fair, right? Devin siphoned them off Boklov, so you grabbed them from wherever he stashed them and got the hell out when the shit hit the fan.”
Her stomach roiled with terror. Lenny had mentioned diamonds, too. And she did remember Boklov. A menacing brute with a Russian accent, he had been in Devin’s company on multiple occasions. “Please believe me! I-I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t have any diamonds!”
“My brother was a fucking idiot,” Red ground out, jabbing his cigarette in front of her as smoke billowed from his nostrils in twin streams. “But you always had a brain, Trina. I could tell that about you.”
She shook her head, cowering. “Red, I-I swear to you—”
“They weren’t in Devin’s apartment. Boklov turned the place upside down. They were missing, and so were you. In my book, two and two sure as shit makes four.”
“I-I didn’t take anything!”
Red shifted his gaze to Cyril and nodded. Cyril jerked Samantha back against the barrel wall of his chest, locking her in place with a meaty forearm across her sternum and trapping her arms. She cried out, struggling. Red moved forward until the hot embers of his cigarette were an inch from Samantha’s face. Fear sawed through her, hollowing out her chest. Panting, she turned her head away and closed her eyes.
“Devin had good taste, at least. It’d be a shame to ruin that pretty face.”
“Please,” Samantha whispered, her throat clogging with tears.
“See, I know you’re lying.” He leaned even closer, voice lowering into a rasp as his breath blew the damp tendrils of her hair. “Devin told Boklov you had the diamonds. In fact, it was the last thing my brother said before Boklov blew his brains out. I hold you responsible for that, Trina. He couldn’t give back what he didn’t have.”
Things were moving too quickly, her mind racing and none of this making sense. She had killed Devin, not Boklov. Confusion and fear clawed at her. “This…this is all wrong! Wait, please—”
“No more waiting.”
Cyril roughly fisted his hand in her hair and snapped her head back, exposing Samantha’s throat. Her heart lurched. Sobbing, she struggled but was able to move only an inch or two. The side of Cyril’s gun lay against her temple as he kept her clamped in place.
“I want the diamonds or I want the money for them—a half-million dollars.” Red moved the burning end of the cigarette until she could no longer see it. The butt was almost against her skin, in the hollow of her neck in the most tender of places, under her left ear. She knew because she felt its frightening heat. She moaned softly, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“What’ll it be, Trina? A hot kiss on your neck to start with?”
But the excruciating burn never came. Instead, Samantha crumpled to the floor with Cyril, his weight taking her down as he fell. Breath knocked out of her, she saw Luther standing where the other man had been a second earlier. He wielded a broomstick from the storeroom like a baseball bat. He’d been hiding, apparently, waiting for what he hoped would be the right time. Samantha shoved at the unconscious man sprawled half on top of her, crushing the air from her lungs. His weapon lay on the floor out of reach. She cried out upon seeing Red’s gun pointing at Luther.
“Move again, and you’re dead.”
“Luther!” Samantha cried. “Do what he says!”
But Luther glared fiercely at Red. “How ’bout it, Stretch? You want to put down that gun and take me on like a real man? Or are you just about beatin’ on women—”
She screamed, her insides twisting as the gun went off, the sound more like an arrow shot from a bow than a booming firearm. A silencer. Luther stumbled. Samantha’s world stopped as he fell. Red picked up Cyril’s gun and tucked it into his pants as, sobbing, Samantha finally pulled her way free and crawled to where Luther lay. He writhed, his forehead wrinkled in pain. Blood leaked through the poncho at his left upper arm. The smell of blood and gunpowder burned like bile in her throat. Sorrow flooded through her.
“The next one’ll be through his heart.” Red stalked closer, standing over them and pointing the barrel at Luther’s heaving chest. “You better start talking, Trina, or homeboy here’s a dead man and you’re next.”
She had to pull herself out of her blind panic, knowing it was the only way Luther might survive. Body racked with tremors, she tried to think. “You…you said Devin told Boklov I had the diamonds. What exactly did he say?”
Red let out a growl. “What the fuck do I care?”
“I’m trying to figure this out!” Samantha snapped despite her fear. Her eyes slid to Cyril as he came to, moaning and clutching the back of his head. Now there were two of them again.
“Boklov said you took them. Devin was talking some nonsense about you and some goddamned toy…”
An image of Emily holding the worn teddy bear sprang to her mind, stealing away what little breath remained inside her. She recalled Devin going through her suitcase that night, how livid he’d been when he had pulled out her belongings, especially the bear. Had he hidden the stolen diamonds inside Walton, thinking no one would ever look there?
Then, if they’d been found, he could have blamed the theft on her.
“I’m running out of patience,” Red warned.
“All right…wait!” On her knees, Samantha bent over Luther, doing her best to shield him. Swallowing hard, she turned her head and stared up into Red’s hateful eyes.
“I know where the diamonds are. All of them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“You should already be inland, Mr. St. Clair,” the young police officer advised, handing Mark back his driv
er’s license through the Volvo’s window. His shoulders were hunched against the wind, and he wore a yellow vinyl raincoat with a clear elastic baggie protecting his uniform cap. Behind him, the sky appeared bruised, the last remaining daylight slowly fading away. “We’re getting ready to hunker down ourselves. One of the local cell towers is already out, too. Things are going to start getting real ugly fast.”
“I’m headed out now,” he assured the officer.
“We’ll get out to check on your property as soon as the storm’s passed and the road’s clear.”
Mark thanked him. Once the man had taken a step back, he closed the window and pulled back onto the road, staring through the onslaught of rain hitting the windshield. But as soon as he was out of the patrolman’s line of vision, he took a right toward Samantha’s apartment instead of getting on the road that led out of town.
He had to check. She was probably long gone by now, but she hadn’t returned his phone messages, even when he had said it was urgent. Maybe that was because of the cell phone outage, but it could also be that she just didn’t want to talk to him. He couldn’t blame her. Mark berated himself for the time he’d let pass without making contact, using the impending storm as an excuse to distance himself.
As he drove, he tried Samantha’s number again. This time, the call failed to connect at all. A strong blast of wind nearly moved the car on the road just as the pink stucco of the Wayfarer Apartments appeared on his right. Its parking lot was nearly empty, and Samantha’s car wasn’t there.
Still, he pulled into the space in front of her apartment. Bracing himself against the downpour, he got out and ran to her stoop, knocking on the door and calling her name. No answer. That left one place to check before he got the hell out, too.
His jeans, sneakers and T-shirt soaked, he returned to his car. Wind blew and palm trees swayed as he swiped water from his face and pulled out of the lot.
Before the Storm Page 24