Cut and Run

by Jeff Abbott

  The barrel of a pistol. That was the tickle along his nape. José held the Sig up so Bucks could see it, then put it back at Bucks’ throat. ‘We ain’t gonna hurt you, okay?’

  ‘Man, we’re all friends.’ Bucks was more surprised than scared. Shooting him while he was doing seventy on a Houston highway wasn’t real bright.

  ‘You’re right. We’re friends. But I wouldn’t hit a bump in the road right how,’ Kiko said. He carefully eased the Beretta out of Bucks’ back holster, Bucks even leaning forward a little to make it easier, deciding to cooperate.

  ‘Houston is pothole city, man, you can’t avoid bumps. Jesus, put the gun up,’ Bucks said. Suddenly he was watching the highway for ruts that could jar the car, blast his brains across the windshield. ‘You don’t want to sour your deal with Paul.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Kiko said. ‘But we want to have a private chat with you. Because we like you.’

  ‘I like your name,’ José said. His voice was low, hard, like it was won in a fight. In the mirror Bucks saw José’s peasant face break into a grin. ‘Bucks. You’re what makes the world go round.’

  ‘Take the next exit,’ Kiko ordered.

  ‘This is a bad idea, guys …’ Bucks started.

  ‘ “Delays have dangerous ends,” ’ José said. ‘Willie Shakespeare was right, man. Do what you’re told.’

  Take the next exit,’ Kiko repeated. Bucks took the Shepherd exit. He had a little .25 caliber gun strapped above his ankle; not a cannon but put it up to Kiko’s eye, it’d get the job done. Of course José would blow his head open. While pretending to quote Shakespeare to act like he was smart.

  Bucks turned onto Shepherd as Kiko directed. ‘Go to that Waffle House,’ Kiko said. ‘I like ’em better than IHOP, they don’t have that fresh ’n’ fruity crap.’

  ‘My grandma likes that plate,’ José said. ‘It’s also rooty-tooty.’

  ‘She’s their target market,’ Kiko agreed.

  Bucks turned the Jag into the Waffle House lot. They wouldn’t kill him at a busy restaurant, he decided. José moved the pistol away from the back of his head but Kiko pressed Bucks’ gun against the flat of Bucks’ belly, where it would deliver a nice, crippling gut shot.

  He parked at the back of the lot, still calm, weighing how he could get to his ankle gun. Wondering what they wanted. If he would be alive in five minutes.

  ‘Paul’s going to be calling for me soon.’ Bucks clicked off the engine.

  ‘Not with his eyes full of big boobs,’ José said.

  ‘You’re new to this line of work, aren’t you?’ Kiko asked.

  ‘Yes, but I went to business school with Paul,’ Bucks said.

  ‘I heard he flunked out,’ Kiko said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Bucks tried not to look at the gun pressed against his abs. ‘But we stayed in touch. I called him when he moved down to Houston with his family.’

  ‘Because a friend whose family is mob might be handy?’ José said.

  ‘I like Paul, he’s cool,’ Bucks said.

  Kiko cocked his head. ‘You were at Energis.’

  Bucks’ tongue turned to sandpaper. ‘Yeah, I worked there. For a while.’

  ‘As an energy trading exec, right?’ Kiko said.

  ‘Man, and people say we’re crooks,’ José said. ‘That company robbed the whole country.’

  ‘You left Energis,’ Kiko said. ‘Right before the financial meltdown.’

  ‘You sound like a lawyer,’ Bucks said. ‘Asking questions you already know the answers to.’

  ‘Why’d you leave the company?’ Kiko said.

  Now Bucks said nothing.

  ‘See, being a businessman,’ Kiko said, ‘I follow the news. Three Energis energy traders went missing after a night out drinking. Murdered. Bodies and car dumped into Galveston Bay. Looked like a robbery went wrong.’

  ‘That’s what it was,’ Bucks said. ‘I knew those guys.’

  ‘Sure you did. They all worked in your group. Then, six weeks later, your division’s at the heart of the Energis multibillion-dollar collapse.’

  ‘Tragedy surrounded me,’ Bucks said, ‘at that time in my life.’

  ‘Outrageous fortune,’ José said. ‘Life sucks.’

  ‘There were allegations about you, Mr Buckman. And your friends’ deaths. Like they knew about those only-on-paper deals that had boosted Energis stock. And your own wealth,’ Kiko said.

  ‘Allegations don’t mean much,’ Bucks said. ‘Proof matters.’

  ‘And now with your business career gone …’ José said.

  ‘My career’s fine.’

  ‘A disgraced energy trader. Mailing out résumés must’ve been an exercise in humiliation.’ Kiko laughed. ‘Did you get a single interview?’

  ‘I’ve never had a stranger so interested in me,’ Bucks said. ‘You’re on the verge of stalkerhood here.’

  ‘Understand,’ Kiko said, ‘that we own your ass, from this day forward.’

  ‘You want me to come work for you? Forget it. I’m not betraying Paul.’

  ‘Because you got such loyalty to your friends and coworkers, right?’ José asked. Coolness in his voice. He looked thick-headed but he sure wasn’t, Bucks thought.

  ‘You killed those three guys,’ Kiko said, his voice low. ‘Because they were gonna talk, were gonna ruin your sweet little setup. You were already getting into Paul’s pocket. So he loaned you a private spot for the kill. We were already watching Houston close, man. Watching the Bellinis’ every move. See where we could take advantage of them.’ Kiko leaned in close. ‘Alan Gillespie. Hunter Gibbs. Ricardo Montoya. You brought them to that house the Bellinis own down in Galveston.’

  Bucks didn’t move. But his blood pounded in his chest, his palms went damp and he hated that. ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘It juices you up good, doesn’t it?’ Kiko whispered. ‘Knowing you have power over another person’s life. It’s okay. You’re among like-minded folks.’

  ‘Part of our surveillance of the Bellini properties included videotape,’ José said. ‘With Gillespie, Gibbs, and Montoya arriving at the house with you. Time-stamped and everything. You were wearing a nice cashmere jacket, a little warm for the season. Slate-colored shirt, khaki slacks. You were the sober one. It’s pretty high-quality stuff.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Kiko agreed. ‘I’m gonna thank the academy after the world gets to see it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  José pulled a portable DVD player from his briefcase. Slid in a disc. Let it run, leaning forward to hold the screen in front of Bucks’ face. The house in Galveston. The film image, clearly shot with a telescopic night lens, probably from a vantage point down the street. A car: Bucks’ old BMW, followed by a Lexus, pulling up in front. Four men got out of the cars, ambled into the house. Decent shots of their faces, easily identifiable. José fast-forwarded. Then Bucks, carrying out a wrapped body, dumping it in the trunk. Then another. Then another, then driving off in the Lexus.

  ‘Turn it off,’ Bucks said.

  ‘Your voice has lost its confidence.’ José clicked the player off, then sniffed. ‘Did you just crap yourself?’

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ Kiko said. ‘We want the five million Paul’s paying for our coke. But we’ll keep the coke at the same time.’

  ‘You’ll start a war,’ Bucks said.

  ‘A five-minute war,’ Kiko said. ‘The Bellinis, they’re in a bad jam. Organization’s falling apart. Paul-boy needs this deal. We need it to not work. And you’re gonna help us.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because we’ll give you a nice cut. And because Paul trusts you. And because we got your balls nailed to the wall,’ Kiko said.

  ‘And if I say no?’

  ‘No one ever sees you again,’ José said. ‘Like Willie S said, “He dies and makes no sign.” ’

  ‘Excuse José. He’s a bit dramatic, got it from his mama.’ Kiko’s voice was cool as a snake’s skin. ‘The authorities would be fascinated by that m
ovie.’

  ‘So would America’s Funniest Videos,’ José said.

  Bucks glared at Kiko. ‘So I get the five mil and just hand it to you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Kiko said. ‘Just think of stealing the money as a new goal we’ve articulated for you.’

  5

  ‘I’ve been digging,’ Claudia said. ‘Into the Bellini family.’

  Thursday morning dawned bright and cool on the Texas coast, and Whit and Claudia ran hard along the sand of Port Leo Beach. The beach was a crescent, with a park spooning against it, the water shallow, the bay shielded from the Gulf by the long finger of barrier islands. This was the day of the week they ran together, Whit usually preferring to run in the evening, but now it was a routine with them, starting at the county courthouse, working over the harbor and the beach, then back up through parkland and neighborhoods back to the town square.

  ‘And you found they have a frozen drink named after them?’ Whit asked. They hit mile one and the sweet surge of adrenaline, settling into the run, primed his muscles.

  ‘More than that. Harry said that Tommy Bellini was suspected of killing another family boss, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I searched the Detroit Free Press on-line archives. The rival – his name was Marino – was whipped to death with a chain. His face was gone. The flesh had been torn from his bones; his organs were in tatters. He’d been beaten long after he was dead.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem gangland-efficient,’ Whit said. ‘I thought they preferred guns.’

  ‘Don’t act like that doesn’t scare you.’ She ran a bit ahead of him, made him catch up with her. ‘I made a couple of calls to the Detroit PD. Talked with a detective, pretended that we’d heard that the Bellinis were buying a vacation home here.’

  ‘You lied for me; that’s sweet,’ Whit said.

  ‘He told me that the police believed that it wasn’t Tommy himself. That it had been done by his son, Paul.’

  They turned off the beach, heading into parkland, cleanly manicured grass that stretched from the waterfront up to the highway, past wind-bent oaks kneeling almost to the ground.

  ‘Like father, like son,’ he said. ‘So?’

  ‘So if your mom’s alive and Tommy Bellini’s out of the picture, his son’s a psychopath.’ She reached out to touch his chest, slowed him. He stopped running, started walking, not looking at her.

  ‘The detectives in Detroit I talked to said Paul Bellini’s one of those kids who’s never been told no, doesn’t believe people feel the same pain he does. If his family’s still involved in criminal activities, he’s going to be the new head of the family.’

  ‘If they were criminals, why didn’t they do time?’

  ‘People connected to the Bellinis did. Tommy did a brief bit as a kid. But since he became a boss, no, never. Never enough evidence. Or witnesses. Doesn’t that tell you about their thoroughness in getting rid of problems?’

  ‘Then they got rid of my mother, probably.’

  ‘You … wouldn’t try to avenge her, would you? What’s the point?’

  ‘Avenge a murder I couldn’t prove?’ Whit laughed. ‘You must think I’m the freaking Lone Ranger, Claud. I get nervous crossing a street.’

  ‘Please. You have a lot more nerve than you’ve ever gotten credit for, Whit.’

  ‘You and your mom are close, right?’ Whit asked.

  ‘Yeah. When she doesn’t nag me into downing a pound of Valium, we’re tight.’

  ‘I used to lie awake. Wonder if when I was thinking about my mother, if she was thinking about me. If we thought of each other at the exact same time, we’d know the other was still out there. Isn’t that stupid?’

  ‘Totally dorky and stupid.’ She squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘I’m over that now,’ he said, a little too fast.

  ‘I’m sure she must have thought of you. Many, many times.’

  ‘Like in thank God I don’t have those kids any more.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sure not.’

  ‘I won’t know,’ Whit said, ‘unless I ask her.’

  ‘It can’t be heroin,’ the mother said.

  She sat in Whit’s courtroom, small-claims court done, the litigants and their families either leaving with stern triumph in their faces or mouthing about the unfairness of life. Now a woman, gutted with grief, stood before his bench. The mother of the young man whose autopsy results Whit had picked up earlier in the week.

  He smoothed down his robe and sat back down. ‘Mrs Gartner. I’m sorry.’ The courtroom was adjourned but still people were filing out, a couple stopping to watch the teary-eyed woman. ‘Why don’t we go to my office and talk?’ He wondered who had told her – probably the police department. Or she had called the ME’s office directly. It didn’t matter.

  ‘You cannot put heroin as his cause of death, or contributing to his cause of death. Or on anything official. Please.’ She did not look old enough to have a son in his early twenties. ‘That can’t be his legacy.’

  ‘Mrs Gartner, let’s go to my office, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Judge. Out here. You hope you’re going to convince me to change my mind behind closed doors. I’m a mother; I have rights. Lance couldn’t have been using heroin. He was not a bad boy.’

  ‘I’m sure he was a very fine boy, Mrs Gartner,’ Whit said. ‘I can tell he was greatly loved. I’m so sorry for your loss, everyone here is.’

  Her voice wavered. ‘Then do this for me, please.’

  ‘I don’t want to cause you a moment’s extra pain,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. But the drug usage has to be listed as a contributing factor of death. I can’t go against the law.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Lloyd Brundrett, the constable, stood close by. ‘Please, let’s sit down. Get you a glass of water.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s okay, Lloyd,’ Whit said. He came from behind the bench, took Mrs Gartner’s hand, led her to the front row. Lloyd finished clearing the courtroom, closed the doors behind them.

  ‘A word on a document isn’t going to change the man your son was,’ Whit said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘But Lance’s grandmother, she heard the rumors about the heroin, she heard my sister talking on the phone. I would like for you to tell her it’s not true.’

  ‘I can’t falsify a death certificate. I am sorry.’

  Mrs Gartner closed her eyes. ‘No. Tell her it’s not true. Privately. She’s outside sitting in my car. Would you talk to her now? She’ll believe you. You’re a judge.’

  ‘A little white lie.’

  ‘She’s in her eighties. She’s a hard-shell Baptist. Lance doing drugs will kill her. She has to think he simply drowned. She’ll never see a death certificate, I can assure you. If she hears it from you she won’t ask any more questions.’

  ‘I’d be happy to talk to her.’ Whit stood, smoothed out the somber black robe that covered his jeans, sandals, and pineapple-print shirt. He followed Mrs Gartner and walked out into the bright, hard sunshine.

  It had been a difficult conversation, even without the mention of heroin. The old lady was Mrs Gartner forty years into the future, eyes blank with loss and shock. He lied and told her there were no drugs in Lance’s system, and he could see the relief embrace her like a wave. She kissed Whit’s cheek, thanked him for his kindness. He didn’t feel kind. He felt like he had shirked his duty, but what was the harm? An old woman’s mind put at peace in the wake of a terrible loss.

  The old woman’s kiss was still warm on his cheek when his office phone rang while he was shrugging out of his judicial robe.

  ‘Judge Mosley’s office.’

  ‘Whit? Hi, this is Harry Chyme.’

  ‘Hey, Harry.’ Trying to sound relaxed.

  ‘I’ve found Eve Michaels. I followed the Bellini trail out of Detroit. She came to Houston with Tommy Bellini.’

  Found. His guts knotted. ‘I could be there in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Don�
�t come here, Whit. First of all, I don’t have confirmation that this woman was once Ellen Mosley.’

  ‘How do we get a confirmation it’s my mother? Fingerprints? Pop quiz? Me bring my father there?’ He mentally vetoed that last idea as soon as he thought of it.

  ‘I suppose we should do an age progression on a picture of her, see if this woman resembles her enough …’ But Harry didn’t sound encouraging.

  ‘Or walk up to her and ask her if she’s Ellen Mosley. I’d do that.’

  ‘Well, that would be blunt,’ Harry said. ‘Interesting to see what reaction I’d get, but it tips our hand.’

  ‘Where in Houston is she?’

  ‘She’s living in a home owned by the Bellini family. She works in finance for a holding company Tommy Bellini owns. Her boyfriend manages a strip club they own.’

  ‘Let’s say I come to Houston,’ Whit said slowly. ‘You could tell me where she’s hanging out. I could talk to her. Nothing else for you to do.’

  ‘Except have it on my conscience if the Bellinis decide to use force to keep you from her. She might want nothing to do with you. She might not want to explain to her children where she’s been, what she’s been doing with her life.’

  ‘I’m coming up there. Tell me where she’s at.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Harry, I’m your client. I pay you for information. You give it to me.’

  ‘I officially waive my fee. You’d be in way over your head, Judge.’

  ‘I’ve been in tough situations before.’

  ‘But this is your mother. You’re not thinking clearly.’ Harry paused. ‘She could run from you, Whit. She’s done nothing to have contact with you all these years. She hasn’t wanted to be found. I don’t mean to be brutal.’

  ‘I don’t care. I can come to Houston immediately, I’ll cancel court …’

  Harry sighed. ‘No. I know how much this matters to you. Let me make the initial contact with her, okay?’ He paused. ‘My dad died ten years ago. What I wouldn’t give to see him again. I can’t deny you that, if it’s her.’