Cut and Run

by Jeff Abbott

  Silence now from the guns, from the destroyed windows that faced onto the parking lot. Then a man stepping through them, blunt-faced, stocky, Hispanic, dressed in black T-shirt and jeans. Carrying an automatic rifle. Looking at Bucks’ feet, sticking out from under a table.

  Claudia fired at the man’s chest. And Robin moved under her, trying to bolt.

  Her shot went wide, splintering the window frame next to the gunman; he fell back, firing again, but wild. Claudia hustled Robin to her feet, looking back in the bullet-peppered den for Bucks. She shoved Robin toward the back door where MacKay lay splayed. Robin was sobbing.

  Bucks was gone. A door slammed shut to her left, Bucks hiding elsewhere in the townhouse.

  ‘Get out! The back!’ Claudia ordered. Robin stumbled, opened the door, went out. Not a backyard but a small garage. Trapped.

  Then more gunfire erupted behind them. Claudia turned. Bucks, running from a bedroom, laid fire across the shattered windows with an automatic of his own. Claudia slammed the door to the condo shut, jabbed the garage door opener. The door rose with slow suburban solemnity and she pushed Robin down behind a battered Jaguar. But no greeting of gunfire as the door tracked upward, just the heavy swampiness of the night.

  Silence. The gunfire ended.

  ‘Run,’ Claudia said. ‘Get to a neighbor’s, call 911.’

  Robin Melvin ran toward the gleam of the pool and the clubhouse beyond.

  Claudia turned back toward the door. She eased open the door, yelled ‘Police! Lay down your weapons!’ She listened. No sound. Staying low, she went through the door, keeping her gun trained on the opposite corner.

  The room was empty.

  She checked MacKay. No pulse. A lock of his hair lay across his throat like a rope, smelling of sandalwood. She moved through the rest of the condo. No sign of Greg Buckman. She headed out of the condo, through the garage, working her way toward the front, then around again.

  No shooter. No Bucks. A car raced off across the lot, a late-model black Suburban, ripping across the landscaping and then through the main exit, splintering the wooden rail that didn’t rise fast enough. Gone. The license plate began with TJ, the rest of it unreadable as the car vanished into the night.

  Then the thrum of a second engine sounded and the Jag tore out of Bucks’ garage into the lot. She chased it, yelling at Bucks to stop. He must’ve gone out a window and circled the condo in the opposite direction from her. The Jag zoomed through the exit. Chasing the Suburban.

  Claudia Salazar put her gun down at her feet, dug her police ID out of her jacket, and sat down on the driveway to wait for the police. The distant wail of sirens approached. Her nerves caught up with her now, and her hands shook, a coldness crept over her, and she wondered if Whit still breathed.

  39

  Sunday morning, at Frank Polo’s house, there were no hymns. There was disco. Frank wrapped himself in the cocoon of his own voice, the beat and croon drifting up from the speakers, the one slow ballad he had made into a hit, ‘When You Walk Away.’ He lay on the couch, a wet cloth on his eyes, a cup of coffee balanced on his stomach. His left foot bopped in rhythm to the song.

  ‘Do you really listen to yourself?’ Gooch asked. He stood by the small music collection, which offered mostly Frank Polo CDs.

  ‘Those are promotional copies,’ Frank said from underneath the wet cloth. ‘We give ’em out at the club. Very popular.’

  ‘Right. No one goes to that club for the women, it’s all about the giveaways.’

  ‘Frank.’ Whit sat by the singer’s feet and took the coffee cup off his stomach. ‘I need you to think.’

  ‘Jesus, thinking is the last thing on my mind.’ Then what he said struck him as funny and he gave a nervous little laugh. Whit and Gooch didn’t laugh.

  ‘When he was a kid, Paul used to lip-sync to my songs,’ Frank said. ‘He had the attitude of a performer. He could’ve been so much more.’ Sounding genuinely sad.

  ‘He’s spilt milk now,’ Gooch said.

  Frank lifted one corner of the wet cloth. ‘Yeah, but he was a sweet kid, once, okay?’

  ‘Paul cut your hand open and tried to have Eve and me killed,’ Whit said. ‘You’re sorry he’s dead?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry he turned into such a bastard.’ Frank sat up. ‘There’s a difference. I got to call his mom, I’m dreading that.’ He tossed the damp cloth on the coffee table, smoothed his hair. ‘With Eve and Paul gone, there’s no senior leadership left but Bucks, and he’s MIA, the traitor.’

  ‘How would he know about Paul meeting me? He’s on Kiko’s side now,’ Whit said. ‘How would Kiko know, for that matter?’

  ‘Paul told Bucks, simple as that,’ Gooch said. He still didn’t look good to Whit, his skin waxen. He’d slept fitfully, vomiting this morning, sweating with chills, but still refusing to go to a doctor.

  The shootout at Bucks’ condo and the triple homicide that included Paul Bellini last night had been all over the morning news, and Bucks remained missing. ‘Kiko’s people killed Paul and then went after Bucks,’ Whit said. ‘Double cross.’

  Frank stood. ‘I should be at Paul’s house. Rallying what’s left of the troops for a war with Kiko. This is not my style. I don’t want to do this.’

  ‘Frank, if my theory’s right, you don’t want to become the head of the Bellinis. Kiko’s eliminating them.’

  Frank said, ‘Leadership ain’t my groove.’

  ‘We’ve got to find where Kiko hid Mom,’ Whit said. ‘Think, Frank, please.’

  ‘I want to believe she’s still alive, too, Whit,’ Frank said. ‘But if Kiko killed Paul and Gary and Max, and tried to kill Bucks, why’s he gonna keep Eve alive?’

  ‘Because she can hand him the Bellini assets. Transfer funds. There’s no one to stop him now from a complete takeover. With what Eve knows, Kiko can force Mary Pat to hand over control of every business, every asset. He’s erased the Bellinis’ power in a night.’

  Frank got up. ‘Bucks and Paul knew where Kiko was living, but I didn’t. So I put out word on the street. Said I’d pay cash to know where Kiko’s staying. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  ‘I’il go nuts sitting here and waiting,’ Whit said.

  ‘Learn how. Unless you want to call the police.’ Frank crossed his arms. ‘You find Eve, you’re leaving town?’

  ‘Yes. She’s coming home with me. For a short while, at least.’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ Frank said.

  ‘Thanks, Frank,’ Whit said.

  ‘Lot of ifs there,’ Gooch said. ‘You boys are optimists.’

  ‘Don’t talk like she’s dead. Don’t,’ Whit said.

  The phone rang. Frank went to it, said hello, listened, said no a few times, hung up. ‘No one’s seen Bucks. The rest of the ring isn’t meeting at the Bellinis’; there’s a cop car on Lazy Lane, probably there to take pictures of the license plates of the cars coming and going. Oh, man, I’m moving to Vegas.’

  They sat, waiting, and two hours later the phone rang again and Frank answered it, spoke quietly. ‘Yeah. Fine. Stop by and I’ll give you your money.’ He hung up. Didn’t look at Whit, at Gooch, leaned against the little bar counter for support.

  ‘That was a dealer I know. He said Kiko Grace and his bodyguard José are living in a townhouse on Fannin, near downtown. The dealer’s got three other dealers working under him. One knew Kiko from Miami, saw him at those condos last week when he did a YSD.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yuppie Scum Delivery,’ Frank said. ‘So this condo, maybe that’s where he’s got Eve.’

  ‘Give me the address,’ Whit said.

  ‘Sure. But then I got to go to the Topaz,’ Frank said. ‘I should put in an appearance today, calm the girls that we’re staying open.’

  ‘No,’ Gooch said. ‘You come with us, Frank. In case you’re setting us up in a trap.’

  ‘Gooch, I love Eve. I’m not gonna let her kid get killed.’ Frank touched Whit’s shoulder. ‘C’mon
.’

  ‘Maybe Whit trusts you. I don’t,’ Gooch said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You can be a little late for the Topaz,’ Whit said. ‘And it’s safer for you staying with us.’

  ‘Right. What you gonna do,’ Frank said, ‘ask Kiko Grace pretty-please to give you Eve back?’

  ‘No. I’m going to tell him if he doesn’t release her, I’m going straight to the police, with everything I know. Simple.’

  ‘You’ll do that even if he kills her.’ Frank shrugged. ‘His way, he gets rid of a witness. He’s probably gonna get rid of you, too.’

  ‘If he lets her go, I stay silent about him killing Paul. Forever.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘I don’t see this conversation going smoothly.’

  ‘I killed a man once, Frank,’ Whit said. ‘He tried to kill me. He had already killed a woman I loved. I killed him, and I thought guilt would gnaw at me forever, but you know, it didn’t. He was a murdering bastard, not too different from Kiko. I was sorry I had to do it, but I did it.’

  Frank opened his mouth, then shut it.

  ‘I’m not going to let him kill my mother,’ Whit said. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Usually I admire optimism,’ Frank said. ‘Right now this seems stupidity.’

  ‘But you’re going, too,’ Whit said.

  ‘Well, I’m stupid,’ Frank said.

  They left in Frank’s BMW. Fifteen minutes later, a battered Jaguar pulled to a stop next to River Oaks Park, then circled around the neighborhood three times, and parked two streets over.

  *

  ‘He doesn’t have Eve,’ Frank Polo said. ‘He doesn’t even have a face.’

  They stood over the body of Kiko Grace, still sprawled on the floor of the condo’s breakfast nook. The whole drive over to the condo, Whit had felt like his skin was on fire, rushing to save his mother, rushing, possibly, to die. Let her see he hadn’t given up on her, hadn’t abandoned her. He was afraid she thought he had left her to be caught.

  But the condo had been empty, the door unlocked, as if the killer didn’t mind if Kiko was found.

  Gooch moved from room to room, making sure no one else was in the condo.

  ‘Kiko dead. Paul dead,’ Gooch said. ‘Guessing not a coincidence.’ His face was blanched. He leaned against a wall.

  ‘No,’ Whit said. ‘Dangerous world.’

  ‘You think?’ Frank asked. He prodded at Kiko’s shoulder with his foot. ‘You bastard, where is Eve?’

  ‘Your bravery’s a little late, Frank,’ Gooch said. But his voice was weak.

  Whit said, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Gooch turned away.

  ‘We need to see if there’s anything here that could tell us where Eve is,’ Whit said. He pulled on gloves he’d gotten after last night’s shooting to finish cleaning Paul’s Porsche of his and Gooch’s prints when they dumped the car on a residential street. He handed a set to Frank and another to Gooch. ‘Don’t leave a trace you were here.’

  ‘Maybe she killed him,’ Gooch said, ‘and she’s waiting for us back at Charlie’s house.’

  Whit handed him his cell phone. ‘Call. Or Bucks took her. Getting rid of the leadership on both sides. I don’t think Kiko shot Paul.’ He moved Kiko’s body to one side, peered down the back of the pants for lividity marks. ‘He’s been dead for hours, probably about the same time that Paul died.’

  ‘You can tell by looking at a dead man’s ass?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Um, yeah,’ Whit said. It wasn’t a good time to announce he was a judge and coroner, that he’d seen several gunshot bodies and recognized the timing of postmortem conditions.

  ‘I knew we shouldn’t have recruited from the corporate world,’ said Frank. ‘Those people give me the creeps.’

  ‘Whit, if Bucks killed Kiko, he would have killed Eve, too,’ Gooch said. His voice wasn’t so slurred now, but Whit didn’t like the pallor of his skin or the shakiness in his hands. He watched Gooch dial, but he felt by a sinking in his gut that Eve wasn’t curled up in front of the TV at Charlie’s.

  ‘What the hell?’ Frank pointed at Kiko’s mouth. A bit of green protruded from between the lips. Even though most of Kiko’s face was raw meat, his mouth was relatively untouched and Whit knelt down, conscious he was disturbing a crime scene but not caring. He peeled back the little tube of paper. It was a twenty-dollar bill. He unrolled it and written in heavy black ink across the money was A PUBLIC SERVICE.

  Frank peered over his shoulder. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Whit said. He carefully rerolled the bill, stuck it back between the dead man’s teeth. ‘But I don’t see Bucks leaving little notes on the body.’

  There was no sign of a fight other than half of Kiko’s face being splattered on the breakfast nook wall. An answering machine held two messages from a young-sounding woman, in Spanish, asking Kiko to call her, she was better this morning.

  The condo itself was sparse; a few pieces of leather furniture, TV with DVD player, a breakfast table, a toaster, and a coffee maker. More like a temporary camp than a home. Whit found a small amount of cocaine in the pantry, double-bagged, tucked behind the cornstarch box. Not a good hiding place. He expected better from Kiko. The outer bag had loosened masking tape on it, as though it had been stuck to the wall and hidden elsewhere. And moved.

  Why move it out of the hiding place? To snort. To sell. But then you would hide it again, being careful was part of the job. It bothered him.

  Whit tried the redial on the condo’s phone, got a Chinese delivery restaurant down the street. Hung up.

  ‘José’s not here,’ Frank said. ‘Kiko’s right-hand guy.’

  ‘Probably out mailing résumés,’ Gooch said.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Frank said. ‘Leave and call the cops?’

  ‘Are there more drugs here?’ Whit asked.

  ‘Thanks, I’m cutting back,’ Gooch said.

  ‘Or cash or records? Anything relating back to them being dealers.’

  ‘No cash that I found, but I haven’t looked hard,’ Gooch said. ‘Ain’t thinking they got receipts.’

  ‘Let’s look. Quickly.’

  ‘What, you’re gonna take the dead guy’s money?’ Frank said.

  ‘Yes, Frank. Go through his pockets for me,’ Whit said. Frank stood uncertainly over the body, as if deciding whether or not Whit was serious.

  Whit searched, carefully, through the closet in the first bedroom. Silk shirts, polos, pressed linen slacks, stylish jackets. Of course, the better to hide a holster under. And expensive shoes, all perfectly polished. Kiko probably threw out a pair at the first scuff. He either packed heavy or planned a long stay in Houston.

  He checked the rest of the bedroom. The bed was unmade and rumpled. Underneath the bed was nothing but a dust bunny or two. Whit expected firepower to be hidden under there, but nothing. No notes, no papers of any sort. No PDA, no cell phone.

  The other bedroom’s empty,’ Gooch said. ‘All the clothes are gone.’

  ‘Then José took off,’ Frank said.

  ‘Then odds are José killed him,’ Gooch said.

  ‘Why turn on his boss?’ Whit asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Gooch said. ‘José thinks Eve has the money, decides to take it himself. Kiko’s in the way.’

  Whit hated the clarity and simplicity of it, because it put them back at zero. ‘But she doesn’t have it.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure, Whit?’ Gooch said quietly.

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘Let’s say Bucks delivered the money to Kiko,’ Frank said. ‘Eve got the upper hand, killed him, took off with the money.’

  ‘No,’ Whit said. ‘She’d call me. She wouldn’t run away from me again.’

  Frank said nothing, turned, went back into the den.

  Whit went into the bathroom. He glanced through the materials in the cabinet. Nothing unusual. Mouthwash, allergy medicine to deal with the inescapable Houston pollen, shaving kit. He opened the toilet, t
hinking more coke could be hidden there, that it was the common place in movies but Kiko wouldn’t be that dumb.

  Or yes he was. A package lay taped inside, heavily wrapped in plastic.

  Carefully, Whit pulled it free, laid the package on the floor. Too thin for a cocaine brick. A DVD in a case, unlabeled.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, boys,’ Frank said as Whit headed back into the den.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Whit slid the disc into the player, set it running. Gooch and Frank watched behind him.

  A darkened shot, the camera clearly hidden at a slightly tilted angle. Four men entering a house at night. Bucks one of them. All nicely dressed, young executive types. Two minutes passed. Then Bucks coming out. Carrying a body, dumping it in the trunk of a BMW. Then another. And another, Bucks then getting in the car and roaring away.

  ‘Our smoking gun,’ Frank said. ‘Thank you, Lord.’

  ‘If Bucks or José killed Kiko, why leave this behind?’ Whit popped the disc from the machine.

  ‘Bucks didn’t know the disc was here,’ Gooch said. He sat down suddenly, touched his chest, frowned. ‘And what’s it to José if Bucks gets caught for murder?’

  ‘Bucks did know about the film,’ Whit said. ‘Kiko told me he had Bucks in his pocket. This is how he got him there.’

  ‘Whit.’ Gooch clutched at his chest. ‘Whit, oh, man …’ And he collapsed onto the floor, groaning, eyes rolling into whites, a thin sliver of spit oozing from his mouth.

  40

  Claudia stood over Whit, holding a cup of steaming coffee in her hand, and he wondered for a second if she would pour it on his head.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said quietly. A family was camped in the corner of the intensive care room, and she spoke in a hush.

  ‘Hello to you too,’ he said.

  She handed him the coffee. It was close to six Sunday night, Gooch lying in critical condition for the whole afternoon.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Claudia sat next to him. He didn’t look at her.

  ‘Whit.’

  ‘Yes?’