by Tracy Clark
“You look like you went over Niagara Falls in a busted barrel.”
I looked up to find Ben standing there, Weber beside him. “I feel like I did. Where’s Spada?”
Weber cocked a thumb toward the other side of the lot, where an ambulance was idling, the vehicle surrounded by squad cars and cops. “He’s a fast talker, that one.” My eyes followed where he pointed. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his ominous presence. “He says you shot him, tried to kill him.”
“Yep.” I took another sip from the thermos, and then shivered inside the dead man’s blanket. “Where’s Marta?”
Weber grinned. “Back at the district. Guess who talked?”
I glanced up, hopeful. “Nada?”
“Pena cracked her like an egg,” Ben said. “Apparently, she’s got more to answer for besides this, most of it over in Europe, where prison living isn’t so good. She decided to cut a deal and take her chances here. She’s got names, dates, contacts, everything. She’ll go down for the nurse, but she’s all right taking Spada or Horvat, or whatever the hell his name is, with her.”
“Who is she, really?” I asked, my teeth chattering.
“Her real name’s still up in the air. She’s got a ton of aliases. We tracked her as far as Croatia, if you can believe it. She says our guy’s Croatian, too. Guess they lost their accents somewhere between there and here, wherever there is. Looks like they’re a couple of heavy hitters from the old country, real badass criminal types. Spada sets up this business angle, using the fake name, figures he’s gonna need some hard-core help getting it done and he tags Nada. He hid her out as his housekeeper until he needed her. She was also sleeping with the guy right under the wife’s nose.”
Weber shook his head. “Real winners. After Symonds, she was gunning for you . . . and the kid. They needed to clean things up.”
Ben stared at me, with meaning in the look. “Guess you got lucky and nailed them first.”
He was still a little angry, I could tell. I peered up at him, thinking about how much damage I’d done. “We should talk,” I said. “Really talk.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, looked away. “Yeah, sure. Dry out first.”
I glanced toward the ambulance. “Tim somehow figured out what they were doing. He came across that clipping and recognized Darby. I don’t know how he stumbled onto the fact that there were others, like Langham, but somehow he did, and Darby got wind of it. It would have been over for him after that.”
“He should have let us sort it out,” Ben said.
I frowned. “He had one grainy photograph. He wouldn’t have gotten far, and you know it.” I stood, handed the hot chocolate to Weber. “I need paper and a pen.”
The two stared at me. “What for?” Weber asked, reaching into his pocket, handing over both.
“One last thing.” I scribbled clumsily, the bandages slowed my progress, but I managed it, then I headed for the ambulance. As I walked there, I could see and hear Spada still trying to bluster his way out of the jam he was in. I stood at the ambulance’s back doors. His uninjured arm cuffed to the gurney, an IV going, and a cop standing by, but the arrogant look on his face was still there. He turned to face me with such a look of contempt in his eyes. I held the sheet of paper up so he could read it, and then watched as he did it. The note read simply: Tim wins.
Spada wanted me dead, I could tell, but he’d lost his best chance out on the water. Nada was talking, Leon and the Williams brothers wouldn’t go down without fingering someone else first, and Spada had certainly lost the loyalty of the wife he’d tried to stick holding the bag. I was looking at a dead man, and both of us knew it. He’d considered it all a game, a game he’d lost in the end. Spada opened his mouth to say something, but I didn’t wait for it. I turned and walked back to the car.
I looked from Ben to Weber and back. “The three of us? We’re going to have to set some ground rules, or else it’s gonna get stupid.”
Ben grinned playfully. “Not for me. I got the best seat in the house.”
Weber shot me a look. “I got this. You got this?”
I studied him. “Oh, I got this.”
Ben grumbled. “Ground rule number one? Can that shit. I’m standing right here. And, seriously, what were you thinking?”
I fanned my shirt, trying to dry myself. “Just now?” I glanced over at Weber, grinned. I was sure Ben didn’t want to know what was running through my mind at that moment.
Ben pulled a face, his hands fisted on his hips. “When you jumped into that lake.”
“I remember thinking, ‘OMG, this water is friggin’ cold.’”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “I’m done talking to you. Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
“No, drive me to the hospital. I need to check on Jung. The rental should be okay here till morning, right? I can’t afford to lose two cars on this job.” I shot a dangerous look at the ambulance as it sped away. “Shoot, I forgot to ask him which one of his hired numskulls torched my car.”
Ben stared at me in disbelief. “What difference does it make who torched it? It’s torched. And you’ll go to the hospital for Yoga Boy, but not for yourself?”
I tossed off the smelly blanket, held it out for him to take. “I don’t need to go for myself. And I guess you’re right about the car.” I slid into the backseat of Ben’s unmarked vehicle. “It’s gone. Maybe I should trade up next time. Get something flashy, like a Benz or a Bimmer. Give my pipe something real dope to ride around in.”
Ben and Weber slid into the front, Ben behind the wheel. He started up, pulled away slowly. I stretched out on the backseat, halfway toward a complete crash; for the first time, I got a good look at the shoes Ben had given me to wear.
“What the hell’s on my feet?”
Ben flicked a look back at me. “Golf shoes. They were all I had in the trunk.”
“Why do you keep golf shoes in the trunk of a department vehicle?”
He flicked a look at me through the rearview. “Drop it.”
I made a face. The shoes were tan and blue and clunky . . . with weird tassels. Ick. They were too small to be his and at least a half size too big for me. “Whose?”
“Geena’s. Three girlfriends back. We played a few rounds. What’s the problem?”
I remembered Geena. Big boobs, not too bright. “They’re butt ugly’s the problem. And what was she, part Sasquatch?”
“Well, pardon me if I didn’t have designer pumps in your size, Princess Grace. Watch yourself, Weber. This is your last chance to look before you leap.”
“Don’t need it,” Weber offered simply.
There was a moment’s silence.
“In case you were wondering,” I said, “this is also not a date. A date is me in a little black dress, not on pain meds, and you in a nice suit jacket, maybe even a tie. A date’s dinner reservations at a nice place, a quiet spot after, then we see how things go.”
Weber turned in the front seat to face me, smiled. “Oh, I know what a date is.”
I smiled. “We’ll see.”
“Seriously, I’ll stop this car and put you both out. Shut up!” I slid Weber a sly look, smiled, and then closed my eyes to sleep until we got to the hospital.