One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  But worse than that, she looked and felt her age.

  She was aching all over, having used muscles that hadn’t been stretched for years when she’d chased and rescued Claire. This must be how an arthritic eighty-year old feels, she thought. And frankly, you don’t look much less than eighty.

  It was as if the seawater had scoured away the last vestiges of her youth. She held up her chin and could see the lines of ageing running down her neck, giving her the likeness of a scrawny chicken. There were also deep lines at the edge of her mouth which seemed to put ten years on her and needed filling.

  Her shoulders sagged; she experienced a wave of nauseating depression.

  ‘Darlin’,’ she said to herself critically, ‘if you don’t watch it, you’re going to become an old slapper.’ She blew out a long breath. ‘Shit.’

  Then she stood upright, forced a smile onto her face and tried to be positive. The sea might have revealed the Danny underneath the make-up, but it also showed that her best features couldn’t be washed away - her lovely slanting green eyes which were almost oriental; and her lips, which despite the lines at the edges, were full, soft and very definitely kissable. Nor had the sea done any damage to her figure. She still had firm, beautifully formed breasts which provoked many a second glance from passing men, a slim waist and hips which were only just beginning to broaden.

  Suddenly the cloakroom door burst open and a couple of noisy teenage girls entered, giggling when they clapped eyes on the state of Danny. She brushed regally past them and stormed - limp and all - out of the hospital.

  The rain was still bucketing down but the wind had eased off. By the time Danny reached her car she was soaked to the skin again, hair plastered down her forehead.

  If only she had been returning home to a husband or loving partner and some TLC. That would have made things much more bearable. But to go through all this and skulk back to an empty house, pleasant though it was, and wait, usually with disappointment, for her married lover to call by or ring, made her want to cry.

  All she craved was some uncomplicated love. Was that too much to ask?

  Chapter Two

  As Danny Furness accelerated tiredly out of the hospital car park onto East Park Road, it was 11 p.m. British time. Three thousand miles to the west, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, in Miami, Florida it was 6 p.m., five hours behind. The weather in Dade County that day could not have been more of a contrast to its British counterpart. At its height the sun had pounded down an unbearable 90 degrees, making the city of Miami airless and oppressive ... but now a light breeze whisked in across Biscayne Bay and promised a pleasant evening.

  Perfect for dining out on the terrace, thought Steve Kruger, who had just wrapped up a day which had started eleven hours earlier. He was looking forward to getting home, throwing off his work suit and changing into baggy shorts, busting open a bottle of Hurricane Reef Lager and preparing the barbecue ready for the arrival of his son, daughter-in-law and their two kids.

  It had been a long, tedious day at the office. Because it was the month-end and not a zillion miles away from the end of the financial year, Kruger had spent most of his time stuck behind his desk in air-conditioned splendour, neck-tie discarded, locked into strategic and tactical planning with his secretary, accountant and three company directors. Specific plans for next year and outline plans for the next three had been thrashed out.

  Some of the more nuts-and-bolts stuff had also been finalised. Such as tidying up some files and putting together a huge batch of bad-debt bills which the secretary had posted off today. If they were all paid by return, Kruger’s cash flow would be $150,000 to the good. In reality he knew he’d be lucky to get 30 per cent of them paid off within six weeks. He’d been chasing one debtor’s ass for seven months - a lawyer, of all people - who owed over ten grand. Kruger had sent that son of a bitch a final FINAL demand, together with a mildly threatening letter which intimated - subtly - that no one ever welched on a Kruger Investigations Final Demand notice with success.

  It had been a pleasure to dictate that letter, safe in the knowledge that it didn’t matter whether the guy paid up or not, because the one positive thing to emerge during the day was that Kruger Investigations’ net profits were going to be very healthy indeed. Five per cent up on the previous year. Somewhere in the region of two million dollars.

  Not bad for a firm which had only begun operating five years earlier, employing only himself and his second wife (now ex) as a secretary. She had long gone, but Kruger had stayed at the helm and after a very worrying first eighteen months had built up a business employing forty people and fast approaching inter-state expansion time.

  With these happy thoughts in mind, Kruger, bulky, muscle-bound, ex-Marine, ex-cop (Homicide), qualified lawyer, married and divorced three times (his third wife had also split), and the boss of one of the country’s fastest-expanding security agencies, whistled tunelessly whilst walking across the secure parking lot, jacket slung casually over his shoulder, to his Chevrolet Astra Van. Professionally speaking he was a very contented individual; in personal terms, though, at the age of forty-six, with three wrecked marriages behind him and no one in his life at present, he was nowhere near.

  His van was a 1989 model which he’d owned from new. He also owned a Porsche and a Corvette, but preferred to drive the Chevy around the city. It gave him the advantage of height, a necessity in the Miami traffic, which had been described as worse than Rome, New York or Calcutta. He swung his lightweight jacket off his shoulder and fumbled in one of the pockets for the keys as he got closer to the vehicle.

  Out of the corner of his right eye, Kruger caught the shadow of movement behind another parked car. A pair of feet belonging to someone crouched down, trying to hide. Kruger’s guts reacted with a little twirl. The peculiar bitter taste came into the back of his throat that was the first flush of adrenaline washing into his system.

  Two possibilities immediately sprang to mind.

  Robbery; or the angry husband of some client out for revenge.

  The first option was the most likely. Kruger knew of two people who’d been rolled in this parking lot in the last month - even though it was advertised as Safe ‘n’ Secure 24 hours a day and the only way in and out was through barriers and past a gatekeeper.

  Well, let’ em try, Kruger thought. His eyes shone. The prospect of a tussle fired him up.

  The man rose from his hiding place, brushing down his suit. His suit? Didn’t look like any normal street mugger. Young. Smartly dressed. A touch of Hispanic somewhere in the blood. Could easily have been one of Kruger’s own operatives. Maybe he’d simply been tying his shoe-laces and maybe Kruger was putting more into the situation than was really there.

  Until Kruger saw he was wearing loafers.

  Okay, maybe he’d dropped something instead? Aw, what the hell, Kruger thought. Lemme get home. He fished out the van keys and the remote alarm, pointed and pressed. The vehicle responded with a high-pitched squawk and a double flash of the indicators. He opened the driver’s door, tossed his jacket across to the opposite seat.

  ‘Hey, man,’ the guy called to him.

  Kruger raised his eyebrows. He was still feeling uncomfortable, but at least there had been no attempt to approach him.

  ‘Lost ma keys, wouldya believe it? You seen any?’

  ‘No. Sorry, pal.’

  ‘Damn - thanks anyway.’

  The brief conversation had been just enough to put Kruger off guard, keep his attention fixed for a vital few seconds and allow the guy’s running partner to slip out from behind the Chevy, take two long strides so that he was directly behind Kruger and ram the muzzle of a .22 right up under his left ear.

  ‘Hands up, fella. Put’ em on the roof of the car.’

  Kruger knew he could have easily turned, swept the gun away and disarmed this man, grounded him with a blow to the neck and probably one to the chest - but the position of the first guy and his unknown abilities made Kruger wary of tryin
g anything rash.

  He dropped the keys onto the tarmac and failed to keep a sneer of self-contempt off his face for missing the second guy who must have been just as easy to spot as the first one. If he’d been switched on enough.

  Getting old and stale, he thought to himself.

  He laid the palms of his hands obligingly on the burning hot metal roof of the van. ‘I’ve got sixty dollars and one credit card in my wallet,’ he explained calmly. ‘There’s a state-of-the-art cell-tel in my jacket an’ I don’t carry anything more with me.’ Then he thought, Shit, I hope they don’t notice my watch.

  It was a Rolex Oyster Day-Date Chronometer in 18-carat gold with the President bracelet. He had bought it in London on the honeymoon of his third marriage, eighteen months before. Buying it had been one of those ‘Big Life Moments’, or ‘BLMs’ as he called them. Ever since he’d been a teenager reading National Geographic and seeing the Rolex ads in there on the wrist of some great adventurer or explorer, he’d promised himself that one day he would buy one. And when the time came, thirty years later - just as the firm was beginning to make real money - he had cherished the moment. In a grand, rather tacky gesture, he had paid hard cash. Truly a moment to remember and savour. Apart from when he made love (and sometimes even then), the Rolex had never left his wrist.

  Kruger dropped his head. Looking down underneath his armpit he saw the shoes of the first guy almost directly behind him. He was puzzled for a very brief moment when he saw the shoes crease as the man stood on his tiptoes. Then, ironically, it all became clear when everything went black as a hood was thrown over his head and tightened with a drawstring around his neck.

  Kruger gagged. ‘What the hell..?’ He lashed out blindly but without effect. He was punched twice in the kidneys, driving him down to his knees. A pair of handcuffs were ratcheted tightly on his wrists.

  Once again he felt the muzzle of the revolver rammed against his head.

  ‘You fucker - you do what we say, or we kill ya, okay? You bein’ dead don’t make no odds to us.’ It was the first guy talking, Kruger was sure.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Kruger growled through gritted teeth.

  ‘Now get to yo’ godamned feet.’

  No one assisted him, but a few seconds later he was standing shakily. ‘Now you gonna get inna the back o’ yo’ Chevy, okay? And we’re gonna go fo’ a little ride ... and I suggests you keep it schtum, otherwise I’ll gets really pissed with yo’ and I’ll put a few slugs inna yo’ brain.’

  Danny eased herself inch by glorious inch into a hot bath so full of foam and water the tub almost overflowed. She groaned with sheer ecstasy as her bottom, then her back and finally all of her, was covered. She reached for the glass of vodka on ice from the top of the loo and took a life-saving gulp, shivering as the liquid burned down to her stomach. Then she picked up a ready-lighted Benson & Hedges, put it to her lips and pulled a long, deep drag as a chaser to the spirit.

  Oh God. Heaven!

  A heaven which lasted approximately four minutes, curtailed by the chimes of the front-door bell.

  Danny’s heart dropped. She knew who it would be.

  A decision had to be made tonight - one way or the other.

  Kruger lost all track of his whereabouts almost as soon as the Chevy rolled out of the parking lot. He tried to keep with it for a few moments, but the pain from his kidneys distracted him. It was like someone poking a red-hot needle straight through the middle of his lower back. He’d been whacked there a few times in the past, but the effects had worn off quite quickly. Today the pain was hanging in there, making him think he might have a stone or something. Depending on the outcome of this little shake-down, which was obviously not a robbery, a visit to the doctor was only a day away.

  Eventually the pain dissipated.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Kruger demanded.

  ‘Shut the hell up,’ one of his captors grunted and skewered the muzzle of the gun into the skin at the side of his neck.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.’

  Was he being kidnapped? And if he was - why? Most of his money was tied up in the business. Maybe he was being taken to be wasted somewhere. And maybe the idea that this was the work of some disgruntled husband of a client was not so far-fetched after all.

  But if that was the case, why hadn’t they done him in the parking lot? That would’ve been nice and easy. This was complicated.

  No matter how many questions he asked himself, he could not work any of it out.

  So here he was, bundled up like some damn amateur in the back of his own van after all he’d been through and survived in his life so far. Taken by two spunkless punks who were young enough to be his sons.

  How the mighty are fallen.

  The sound of the tyres on the road changed to a high-pitched hum which Kruger recognised. The van was travelling over one of the causeways which linked the city with Miami Beach, South Beach or possibly Key Biscayne.

  So they were travelling east. Not that the knowledge helped Kruger in any way.

  The van slowed. There was a series of twists and turns. Kruger sensed he was near to the end of his journey.

  The van stopped.

  He became very frightened.

  His two captors manhandled him out of the back of the Chevy, pushed, prodded and almost dragged him across a gravel surface. He stumbled up a short flight of what he imagined to be concrete steps. He heard a door open and then he was inside a building, still being roughly pushed, cajoled, pulled and directed. Finally they brought him to a halt. He was told to stand still. They held onto his biceps with firm grips.

  He was completely disorientated.

  He had no idea where he was.

  No idea why he was there. Abducted off the street like some millionaire tycoon.

  He did as instructed and stood completely motionless, wrists cuffed in front of his groin. It was hot beneath the black hood, which was made from some sort of thick polythene, like a garden refuse sack. He sweated. Standing there in silence, it became even hotter, unbearable, made even worse as his imagination ran riot. He ground his teeth and dilated his nostrils whilst the tension began to build up in him like a geyser.

  Something told him very bluntly, ‘This is it, Buddy Boy. This is where you buy it. The end of the line - and you don’t even know why.’

  He fought hard to control his heartbeat and his bowels and prepared himself for the bullet. The third one he would have taken in his life.

  The fatal one.

  A female voice Kruger thought he recognised said softly, ‘Handcuffs.’

  His hands were bent outwards in order to get the key into the locks. The ratchets swung back, his wrists came free. In the confusion and fear of his predicament Kruger had not realised how deeply the steel rims of the cuffs had been biting into his flesh. As they were opened, the blood rushed back into his hands with a surge of pins and needles.

  His biceps were still in the grip of his captors.

  He became suddenly aware of someone standing very close in front of him. Very close indeed. Almost touching. He could smell a scent, a familiar perfume. Couldn’t quite remember its name. He shook his head. Must be dreaming. Then he felt a hand on his chest and jumped as if he’d been electrified. The grips on his arms tightened.

  The top button of his shirt was already undone. The fingers of the hand at his chest slid up to the second button and skilfully tweaked it open. Then the third and fourth. The hand slid under the shirt and rested on Kruger’s left breast, playfully pinching his nipple.

  . . . At which point Kruger bellowed and exploded without warning.

  Almost like Samson escaping from shackles, he lifted his arms and pushed outwards at the same time, driving the back of his fists against the men on either side of him, sending them staggering away.

  He ripped the hood off, ready to fight for his life.

  And the nightmare continued because standing in front of him trying to control her giggling was one of the worst mistakes of hi
s life: his third wife, stage name Felicity Snowball. Real name, Felicity Bussola. Born, plain Jane Creek.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you godamned bitch!’ screamed Kruger. ‘What the hell you playin’ at?’ He lurched towards her and grabbed her shoulders. His arm drew back and he was about to lay one of his mightiest slaps across her cheeks when for the second time that day, a gun was poked in his neck. His hand screeched to a halt in mid-arc. He allowed it to flutter down uselessly to his side.

  He stood upright, breathing heavily.

  ‘Stevie baby,’ cooed Felicity. ‘Baby, baby ... you don’t wanna hit your honey-pie, now do you, sweetie?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  The muzzle of the gun was ground into his neck.

  Felicity’s face became serious. ‘Cos I ain’t foolin’ around here, Stevie. You touch me, babe, and I’ll waste you.’

  Kruger nodded.

  The gun was withdrawn. He glanced briefly at the two men who’d brought him here and said, ‘No trouble promise.’ He felt obliged to put it into plain English because if the two goons were connected to Felicity’s new husband, they would have no qualms in filling him full of lead then dumping his concrete-encased body in the foundations of a new apartment block somewhere in the city.

  He turned to face Felicity. ‘What the hell d’you want?’

  She shooed the men away. ‘I’ll scream if he touches me,’ she told them, ‘then you two boys come runnin’, okay?’

  When they were alone she tiptoed up to Kruger and kissed him on the lips. What began as a friendly peck suddenly developed into a passionate embrace. She ran her arms around his neck, yanked him towards her, forced her tongue into his mouth and ground her hot sex into his groin.