For Whom the Limo Rolls

by Lorena McCourtney

  With doors securely locked, we wandered around dark, unfamiliar streets for several more minutes, until we finally stumbled onto an I-5 on-ramp. I drove on through Tacoma and Olympia and back to Vigland at a measured pace. India kept an eye out for headlights following us, but she didn’t spot anything. She also kept an eye on Sloan.

  “What’s he doing? Is he zonked out?” I asked.

  “No. He’s crawling around gathering up loose bills.”

  A man whose priorities were still skewed. And probably dripping blood on my carpet.

  A minute later I was even more sure of his skewed priorities. He’d found the gun again, and there was the all-too-familiar barrel poking through the partition. “We’re not going to any doctor. Or the sheriff’s office, either, if that’s what you have in mind. You just take me straight to the marina.”

  “You’re not going to tell the authorities what you know about Rulfson killing Mary Beth?”

  “There’s the small problem of blackmail, which those law-enforcement guys would probably disapprove of, even if most of the money’s gone.”

  “You don’t have any proof that he killed her, do you? It’s just your word against his.”

  “I can show plenty of motive for him to do it. But I’m not going to any cops,” he added stubbornly.

  He kept the gun at rigid attention all the way back to Vigland, changing hands occasionally so he could wipe off the sweat. At the marina parking lot, I made a discovery, though I didn’t know whether to be glad or even more nervous. The brightly lit Miss Nora was just easing up to the dock.

  I braked in the middle of the parking lot. Sloan thrust a handful of bills through the partition. “Here’s the rest of what I owe you.”

  I looked at the money in astonishment. A strange combination of ethics. Gun aimed at me with one hand, money, blackmail money, to pay what he owed me on that “triple pay” promise, in the other.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Your call.” He stuffed the money I’d rejected in a pocket. He had, in fact, bills sticking out of every opening in his bedraggled clothes, like some loan-shark-lender ad exhorting borrowers to come to him for easy money.

  I wondered if he was going to be able to drive, but I figured there was no point suggesting a walk-a-straight-line test. It’s hard to take a guy with a gun to the doctor if he doesn’t want to go. He stepped out and slammed the rear door of the limo just as a car turned into the parking lot.

  “That’s the car!” India gasped. “The Mercedes. The one that was following us!”

  Rulfson knew Mary Beth had been here in Vigland. He’d killed her here. He must have figured Sloan came from here too. When he lost us, he’d just driven over here to Vigland, hidden near the main exit coming off the highway, waited for us to show up, and followed us again. We’d stopped watching by then. An efficient and determined man, Rulfson. But what were his plans now?

  The sleek car was going only about five miles an hour until the headlights targeted Sloan. Then, like an ignited rocket, it shot forward, directly toward him. He lifted a hand and fired the gun. The windshield didn’t disappear into a gaping hole, but it exploded into a spiderweb of cracks. The car stopped, and Sloan ran. But the limo was closer than his pickup, and instead of crossing the open space to get to the pickup, he dodged around the back side of the limo for shelter.

  “Hey, you can’t do that!” I yelped. “If he has a gun too—”

  Which he did. He opened the car door and fired through the opening between door and frame of car. I heard a ping and groaned. A new bullet hole to add to those the limo already had.

  I opened the door to peer out. Sloan was crouched near the back of the limo. He shot over the trunk lid.

  The car backed up a few feet, apparently to make another run at Sloan, which finally galvanized me into action. I gunned the engine to dodge the vehicle’s charge, and the limo leaped forward. India had the door on her side half open and tumbled out. I slammed on the brakes. A shot blasted from the dark car.

  What had I said to India about our not headed for a shootout this evening? Apparently I was wrong.

  I started to get out, then stopped. The limo might be in the line of fire, but it was probably the safest spot here. Bulletproof windows! They’d been tested before, by another killer.

  But India wasn’t here behind their barrier of safety. She was out there, maybe injured when she fell.

  Frantically I opened the door and scrambled out. I hunched over as I headed around the limo to find India, but I bumped into her as she slid around the hood in a crouch.

  “You okay?” I whispered.

  “I’m not sure who to shoot at!” She had a double-fisted grip on the gun as we both peered over the hood. The direction of the barrel swung from the Mercedes to Sloan’s dark shape crouched behind the limo.

  Sloan got off another shot. Sparks flashed as it hit something on the car. Gunshots answered back, each one flashing a thunderbolt of fire in the night. The car engine was still running, but the shooter was firing from behind the protection of his open door.

  Firing toward the limo!

  This time India’s gun cracked, and a tire on the Mercedes hissed, going flat. More shots from the back side of the limo where Sloan was crouched, answering shots from the car. India took out the car’s rear view mirror. I cringed when I heard another ping that said the limo was hit again. Was I going to be the proud owner of a pile of metal that was more sieve than limo before this was over?

  But I didn’t grab for the little gun in the console junk box to join the battle. Instead I reached into the limo, snatched my cell phone, and punched in 911.

  “We need help! We’re at the marina and someone’s shooting at us!”

  I didn’t add that we, though not me, were shooting back.

  The woman had questions, but even with two flat tires the Mercedes was moving again, and I just yelled, “The Vigland marina! Gunshots!” I hoped she heard the two explosive bangs that followed before I punched the off button.

  Then something cold and metallic touched the back of my neck.

  “Get in the limo,” Sloan said, his voice commanding even in a whisper. “We’re getting’ out of here.”

  “We don’t need to do that, the police are coming—”

  “You get in and drive, or I’ll leave you here in the parking lot with a bullet in your head, and I’ll drive the limo myself.”

  Plenty of incentive there.

  India faced us, gun in hand, but I was trapped between her and Sloan, and she could do nothing but glare in frustration.

  Sloan prodded me with the gun. “Get going.”

  Under the circumstances, this was not a difficult decision to make. I got going. I reached for the door handle.

  “I don’t think so,” another voice said. “Drop the gun or you get it, right between the shoulder blades.”

  Fitz! Sounding just as tough and competent as he had on his old detective show.

  The gun stayed at my neck a moment longer, but then Sloan jerked as Fitz’s gun apparently jabbed him harder in the back. Sloan’s gun clattered to the ground. I jumped to the side. Now India’s gun aimed straight at Sloan too.

  “Raise your hands,” Fitz said.

  Sloan raised them, and India grabbed his gun off the ground. Fitz held up his free hand, waving it over Sloan’s head, and India handed him the gun.

  Still holding the gun, he stepped back from Sloan. Vaguely I wondered where Rulfson was in all this, since no more gunshots came from that direction.

  “Put your hands up against the limo,” Fitz said. “Then don’t move. We’ll just wait here while Andi calls the cops.”

  “I already have. They’re on their way.”

  A confirming scream of sirens sounded in the distance.

  “What’s going on here?” Fitz asked when Sloan, with a resigned slump of his head, leaned his palms against the limo and Fitz frisked him. Fitz held up a handful of hundred dollar bills from Sloan’s pocket and stared at th
em. “Big tipper?”

  My explanation was distracted by something else. Fitz seemed to have only one gun, the one Sloan had dropped. Where was the gun he’d used to disarm Sloan?

  “Where’s the other gun?” I asked.

  Fritz raised his hand and pointed a finger, gun style. “Bang,” he said.

  “You didn’t have a gun? You ran up here into the middle of a gunfight, and you didn’t even have a gun?”

  Sloan jerked upright. “No gun?”

  Fitz jabbed him in the back again. “I have one now.” To me he added, “I heard shooting up here. I saw the limo. I didn’t have time to look for that gun the ladies club gave me once. I made do with what I had.” He lifted the finger, and blew on it, as if it were a just-fired gun. “You okay?”

  Fitz, rushing into a gunfight to save me, and he didn’t even have a gun. “I-I think so.”

  “You?” he asked India.

  “Amazed,” she said. “Appreciative.”

  Fitz’s gaze swiveled between us. “You want to tell me who this guy is, and who’s in the other car, and why you’re all shooting at each other?”

  Bless him. Rush to my rescue, shoot first – even if it’s only a finger gun – ask questions later.

  “Well, uh, I guess, to begin with, I should introduce you to Sloan Delaney.” I gestured toward Sloan now slumped against the limo. “Mary Beth’s ex. He had the payoff on a little blackmail scheme set up for tonight. But the victim—” I motioned toward the other car. “—didn’t think much of it.”

  More stray greenbacks had drifted from Sloan’s pockets and decorated the asphalt now.

  “A profitable evening?” Fitz asked, eyeing the money.

  “You should have seen the ones that got away,” India said.

  Sirens screamed on the street. A city police car with lights flashing squealed into the parking lot. Police spilled out both sides, guns drawn. We were behind the limo where they couldn’t see us.

  “Over here,” Fitz yelled.

  The officers circled the limo, one at each end, and spotted our little tableau.

  They didn’t check out the situation first. They just saw guns, and one of them yelled, “Everybody drop their weapons, now!”

  I didn’t even have a weapon but I was so intimidated by the command that I dropped what I did have, the cell phone. The gun in Fitz’s hand also clattered to the ground. A few seconds later, India, with some reluctance, I thought, set hers carefully at her feet.

  “Hands up!” the officer commanded. He marched us out of the shadows around the limo and into the full glare of the parking lot lights. “Hands up against the vehicle.”

  We complied. The stance made me feel guilty even though I didn’t think I’d committed any crime. Although, given the cops’ attitude, I wasn’t too sure of that.

  One officer patted each of us down. This didn’t turn up anything on Fitz, India, or me, but Sloan still had some stray hundred dollars bills sticking out.

  “What’s going on here?” the officer demanded. He looked at Sloan’s wound, which was bleeding again. “You hit?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m hit!” Sloan said.

  “He wasn’t hit,” I said. “At least not here and not by a bullet. There were these two other guys over in Seattle or Tacoma or somewhere, with a shovel or two-by-four or something—”

  “I’m hit,” Sloan insisted. “I need a doctor.”

  I might argue with his “hit” claim, but he did look as if he needed a doctor.

  “There’s another guy with a gun in the car over there,” I said. “He was shooting at us.”

  With my head half turned, I saw one officer jerk his head in the direction of the Mercedes, and the other, gun still drawn, went to look.

  “You, you in the car, step out!” he called.

  We all craned our necks to see, but nothing happened. No response from the car. Finally the officer, carefully jumping back as he did it, yanked the car door open.

  A body tumbled out. A gun hit the asphalt beside him. The body didn’t move, and the officer, after waiting a few moments, leaned over and put a finger to the throat. I don’t think any of us needed to see the officer’s faint shake of head to know this was a dead body.

  Someone’s bullet had killed the man who would now never be a senator. My head churned with unknowns. Would this be self-defense, since he had a gun, and had tried to use the car as a weapon too? Or was it manslaughter . . . or something worse?

  “Rulfson?” I asked.

  Sloan, palms spread against the limo next to me, muttered, “Yeah. But I never aimed at him, just the car. She—” He jerked his head toward India. “—must of hit him.”

  On the other side of him, India looked scared and pale. Beside me, Fitz slid his hand over so that it covered mine. I gave him a glance of profound appreciation.

  “Matt is more prudent than I am. He’s probably still back on the boat looking for the gun.”

  “Anyone know him?” the officer guarding us jerked his head toward the Mercedes.

  Sloan didn’t offer any information, so I said, “I believe his name is Rulfson. Mark Rulfson. Running for U.S. senate. Our friend here, Mr. Delaney, was blackmailing him.”

  “I wasn’t blackmailing him! I was just. . .” Apparently Sloan couldn’t think of any innocent way to phrase what he was doing, so he took off on another tack. “Mary Beth was blackmailing him. That’s why he killed her! She had all this information from several years back about how he had two wives and families at the same time. One of the wives had told it all to Trafalgar—”

  Headlights angled across the parking lot as another car pulled into the parking area and interrupted Sloan’s panicky gush of information. Not another city police car. This was a county sheriff’s department car. Somehow I knew who was in it even before he stepped out.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Need any help?” Detective Molino called.

  The city police officers didn’t run him off. In our locality, these guys work together. The three men held a hasty pow-wow, though no one told us we could take our hands off the limo, and none of us did. One of officers split off and went to the car radio, apparently to call for medical help, although I didn’t know whether this was for Sloan, with blood now dripping off his chin, or for the man who’d tumbled out of the car.

  “Want me to watch them while you check the car for identification?” Detective Molino asked with a tilt of head toward our lineup.

  “Thanks.”

  Detective Molino stepped closer to us, and the city officer went around to the passenger’s side of the Mercedes to check the glove compartment.

  “Let’s see, I know a couple of you, don’t I? Nice to see you again, Mrs. M., although we do seem to meet in these awkward situations. You, too, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  I half turned but didn’t let go of the limo. “What are you doing here? We’re in the city, and you’re a county sheriff’s department detective.”

  “I saw the limo go by. A little later I heard sirens. I connected the dots and just knew the two were related.” He lifted a hand. “Mrs. M, dot, the limo, dot—” He emphasized each dot with a stab of finger in the night air, then connected them with an imaginary line. “And there you have it. Mrs. M., the limo, murder.”

  What could I say? I was here. The limo was here. And over there was a dead body.

  “And county officers certainly can operate in the city, if the validity of my authority concerns you.”

  “Never mind,” I muttered. “Can we turn around now?”

  “Okay, but no sudden moves from anyone.”

  Like dancers in some strange choreography, we all simultaneously let go of the limo. I wiggled shoulders that were beginning to stiffen from the awkward position.

  As if we were in some polite reception line, I introduced India and Sloan to Detective Molino. “I believe Mr. Delaney has some interesting information about murder and blackmail for you.”

  “That so?” Detective Molino said to Sloan in a
deceptively amiable tone. He didn’t have his gun drawn, but he stood with his feet spread, thumbs draped over his belt, fingers only inches from the exposed handle.

  Sloan, apparently re-thinking that gush of information he’d offered moments ago, muttered, “I’m not talking to anyone. I want a doctor. And a lawyer.”

  “How about the rest of you? You want lawyers too?” Detective Molino asked.

  “I can give a statement any time,” I said, an offer quickly echoed by India and Fitz.

  An ambulance arrived then, and the medics checked both Sloan and the body by the car. No argument about Ed Rulfson being dead. But I was puzzled about some discussion as they stood around the body. The EMTs weren’t moving him, but they looked him over without appearing to concentrate on any particular wound area. I wondered if, under the circumstances, everything was on hold until the official medical examiner arrived, with an autopsy to follow.

  “Are we free to go?” I asked Detective Molino. An officer was gathered up guns, carefully bagging and identifying them.

  “You’re not under arrest, but they’ll need to ask you some questions.” He nodded toward the city police officers.

  A few minutes later, Sloan was hauled off for medical treatment, and the three of us were whisked to the city police office, where I drifted into a philosophical muse while we waited to give our statements.

  Murder isn’t necessarily a nice, neat, full-circle thing, where you have x number of suspects, and the problem is narrowing them down to the right one. Ed Rulfson was way outside our circle of suspects. No wonder so many crimes, murders included, went unsolved. Certainly nothing to point to a senatorial candidate as a suspect in the beginning. If it hadn’t been for greedy Sloan, this one might also have gone unsolved.

  By then my mind was going fuzzy, and I was just glad to get our statements over with. The three of us were released, with warnings to keep ourselves available, and Fitz’s son Matt came to the police station to pick us up. They let me take the limo home from the marina parking lot.

  In the driveway India stuck a finger into a new bullet hole. “You don’t want to ride my bike because you think it’s too dangerous.”