And by now, Brad would have questions. A lot of questions. Not that she could answer them, but at least she could let him hear her voice. And she could hear his. It surprised her just how much she wanted to hear that voice.
She powered up the burner and entered his cell number from memory.
* * *
The Honda was parked at the rear of the motel, tucked out of sight near a trash bin.
“She’s here,” Barsky said, stating the obvious and managing to sound smug about it.
“Room twenty-three?” That was Lukin, still at the wheel.
Ilya nodded. “So I was told. Drive around front. Slowly.”
Lukin steered the Cadillac into the main parking lot, creeping past the room in question at fifteen miles an hour. Ilya studied it closely.
“The front door and window are the only obvious ways in—or out. There’s a rear window, probably in a bathroom, but it’s too small, I think. Anyway, we’ll give her no time to run.”
“We go in shooting,” Barsky said, again demonstrating his limitless grasp of the obvious.
“Da. But not yet.” He had Lukin park in the lot, midway between the targeted room and the manager’s office. “I want to be sure she’s in there. If we blast our way into the wrong room, she’ll have time to get away.”
“The witness said twenty-three,” Lukin said with dimwitted insistence.
“Witnesses can be mistaken. I’ll talk to the man on duty. You two wait near the door, but stay away from the window. Once I have confirmation, I’ll send you in.”
Barsky nodded. “Ya ponimayu.” He understood.
“Aim for the torso. Avoid shots to the face. Streinikov wants the head.”
From what Barsky had told him, Ilya gathered that the first Bonnie Parker had died in a hail of bullets. It appeared history was about to repeat itself.
* * *
Bonnie heard Bradley pick up on the third ring. “Walsh.”
Naturally he didn’t recognize the burner’s number. In the background she heard voices and activity. She hoped he didn’t give anything away when she identified herself.
“It’s me,” she said carefully. “Stay cool, okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice was shaky. “Okay.” She heard the background noises receding as he moved away for more privacy. “Are you all right?”
“Never better,” she said.
Terrific. Another lie.
“What the hell’s going on? Do you have any idea what’s happening in this town?”
“I’ve been told.”
“Who’s after you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is it the Russians?”
“Who told you that?”
“Your next-door neighbor.”
“She okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. So is it the Russians?”
“They’re Ukrainians, actually.”
She heard him take a breath. “You need to get to the police.”
“That wouldn’t be such a great idea.”
“Why not?”
“Look, I know it’s sort of a mess, but I can explain it all.”
He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Yeah, I’m sure you can. You’re good at that.”
“You don’t trust me anymore?”
“Well, you’re not making it easy, that’s for sure.”
He had her there. “It’ll all work out,” she said, wondering if this was also a lie. “Just give me a chance.”
“You’ve got your chance. Talk to me.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Um, now isn’t such a great time ...”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“It’s just—there’s something I gotta do.”
“There always is. Just tell me one thing. Did you kill the three guys in that farmhouse?”
“What?” It was the last question she’d expected.
“In Ohio. When you were a kid. Dan’s theory, the one in his file.”
“You want to talk about that now?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“At the time when Dan was looking into it, I seem to remember you saying that if it was true, you could understand.”
“That’s right. I did say that.”
“So what’s changed?”
“For one thing, I didn’t really think you’d done it.”
“And now you do?”
He didn’t answer. “There’s more than that. I’m starting to think it wasn’t a one-off thing. I'm starting to think you’ve been lying to me the whole time. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She wanted to say so, but her mouth couldn’t form the words. She was silent for too long.
“That's what I thought,” Brad said quietly.
“Brad—”
“I’ll see you, Bonnie.”
He was gone.
“Love you,” she said into a dead phone.
33
Ilya waited as his men took up position near the door, guns ready. They would make short work of Bonnie Parker—if she was in there.
When they were ready, he slipped out of the car and entered the office. No one was on duty. He dinged the bell until a sallow emaciated codger sauntered into view.
“Apologies,” the man said. “I was taking a whiz.”
He punctuated the statement by zipping up his trousers.
Ilya leaned on the counter. “A woman took a room here tonight. Blonde, about thirty, probably looking a little worse for wear.”
“Mister, in this place, they all look worse for wear.”
“This particular woman drove a red Civic.”
“I never notice cars.”
“She was alone. Not a regular. Someone you’ve never seen before.”
“There might’ve been somebody like that.”
Ilya couldn’t determine if the old fool was being cagey or was merely stupid. Either way, the threat of force might stimulate more productive responses.
He drew his Makarov and aimed the pistol casually at the clerk’s stubbled chin. “Try to remember.”
The man focused his heavy-lidded eyes on the gun. Then he sighed.
“I’m so sick of this shit,” he said with feeling.
It wasn’t the reaction Ilya had hoped for. Apparently the duties of a night clerk at the Magic Carpet bred a certain indifference to firearms.
“Do you remember?” Ilya pressed.
“Yeah, I think I do. She came in, all frazzled, looked like she’d been out camping or something.”
“That’s her. What room?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You assigned it to her.”
“These days I’m lucky if I can remember my own damn name.”
“You don’t keep any records?”
“In this shit hole?”
“Was it room twenty-three?”
“Could’ve been. You gonna kill her?”
“Yes.”
“Gonna kill me?” He asked the question without visible concern.
“Not unless I have to.”
“You won’t.” The narrow shoulders lifted. “One thing I’m good at, it’s keeping my trap shut.”
“Then you’ll get to live a little longer.”
“Whoopee for me.”
The fellow’s indifference to life and death was somehow dispiriting. Ilya felt like shooting him just for the hell of it. Instead he waved the gun in the man’s face and ordered, “Call room twenty-three.”
As the clerk dialed, Ilya took out his cell and scrolled down his list of contacts. He didn’t place the call. Not yet.
“What should I say?” the clerk asked as his call went through.
“Nothing. Give me the phone.”
After three rings, someone picked up, and a female voice said, “Yeah?”
Parker’s voice.
Ilya slammed down the phone and punched Lukin’s name on the contact list.
“Ubey yeye,” he said. Kill her.
From down
the courtyard there was the thud of a door being kicked open, then the chatter of automatic weapons fire.
“I was never here,” Ilya told the old man.
The clerk only shrugged. “Nobody ever is.”
* * *
Bonnie just had time to grab her purse off the nightstand and run to the bathroom before the shit storm started.
She didn’t know why she’d picked up the damn phone. Reflex, probably. It rang, she answered. Even as she was doing it, she’d realized it was a dumb-ass move.
When the phone went dead, she knew exactly what was about to go down.
Had she been closer to the arsenal scattered on the carpet, she might have grabbed a gun and tried to make a stand. But the phone was by the bed, and the bed was nearer to the bathroom than to the front door. She ran.
Good decision, because approximately one second later the door blew open and machine guns were firing. If she’d tried to defend herself, she never would have gotten off a shot. She would’ve been cut to pieces by the first volley.
The bathroom was a dark, dingy closet smelling of mildew, but it had one saving grace—a casement window over the shower. Not a big window, but then, she wasn’t a real big girl.
She hoisted herself up on the window ledge and cranked the handle. The window didn’t budge. It was sealed shut by paint or humidity, impossible to open.
Piss.
Twice before, she’d nearly died in the bathroom of a cheap motel. Third time’s the charm?
The main room shook with what sounded like a fireworks show. At least two guns, both on full automatic, blasting the crap out of every stick of furniture and every panel of drywall.
The noise meant the gunmen couldn’t possibly hear her as she kicked the casement window again and again until it shattered.
No time to clear away the shards of frosted glass clinging to the frame. From the other room the shooting had stopped. She knew what that meant. The killers had spent their wads and were reloading. It would take them only a second to snap in new mags, and then they would be coming to the bathroom, the one place they hadn’t covered.
She swung her legs over the window frame, ignoring the multiple bites of glass, and wriggled through, her purse swinging from her neck.
Tramp of shoes. They were coming.
She dropped to the pavement right before a new barrage of shots.
Luckily the Civic was close. It was parked behind the building, yards away. Unlocked, of course; she didn’t even have a key.
She was opening the car door when a bullet smacked the rear bumper. Glancing back, she saw the blond perv from the greenhouse, Sundance himself. He had a pistol in his hand and he was running full tilt.
Running was a mistake. It had compromised his aim and probably saved her life.
She dived into the car as he fired again. She heard the thwock of an impact on the open door. Groping under the dash, she fumbled the loose wires together and made a spark. The motor turned over on the first try.
Another round drilled through the rear window, thumping into the headrest on the passenger side.
Go, go, go.
She shoved the car into gear and took off, the driver’s door hanging open. As she swung around the corner of the building, two men in dark suits and long coats emerged from her room. They pointed machine pistols at her.
Burps of gunfire. The Civic’s side windows blew out in a cascade of crumbling safety glass. She ducked low, barely able to see over the dash, and steered the Civic over a high curb and onto the highway.
Traffic was light at this hour. She sped across a bridge and took an on-ramp to Route 95, cut over to I-80, abandoned it for the surface streets, and finally pulled to a stop at the back of a big-box store that was closed for the night.
Then she leaned out of the car and thought seriously about puking. After a few moments’ consideration, she decided it was unnecessary. That was good. She really hated puking.
For the first time she noticed a spread of numbness in her left leg below the knee. She took a look and found a hole in her jeans and a lot of blood. The bullet that had impacted the side door as she was climbing into the car must have passed straight through her calf.
The bone wasn’t broken. But the wound was bleeding like a mother, and when the shock wore off, it would hurt like a mother, too.
She did a quick check of the rest of her body, looking for any additional damage. The glass shards from the bathroom window had ripped holes in her blouse and jeans, not to mention her skin, but it was nothing a little bacitracin and some Band-Aids couldn’t fix.
Okay, get moving. She put the car into gear and drove to another neighborhood, where she found an old Saturn parked on the street. The lock was a joke, and hot-wiring the ignition took only a few seconds. She drove away, the purse still hugging her shoulder, leaving the Civic behind. In its present condition it was too readily identifiable. Plus, maybe the bastards had some way of tracking it. Hard to believe, but how the hell else could they have traced her to the Maggot Armpit?
For a few minutes she drove aimlessly, gathering her thoughts. Her original plan—a long shot at best—was looking a whole lot long-shottier now. She’d lost her arsenal, all of it, even the gun formerly in her purse, which she’d taken out as part of her inspection. Oh, and the three grand in cash—she’d lost that, too. She had the binoculars from the boat, and Gura’s phone and faithful Sammy, both still in her handbag, and the burner she’d used when she called Brad.
So, great. No shortage of phones. She could harass Streinikov with prank calls. Or she could go into his estate unarmed, limping on one good leg. Which was suicide.
But she would do it anyway. Why? Because she was fucking crazy, that’s why.
And because she was majorly pissed off. These assholes kept trying to kill her, and it was starting to get on her damn nerves.
34
“She got away.”
Ilya delivered the report as Lukin chauffeured him and Barsky east on US-46, making tracks away from the motel before the police arrived.
“Can you follow her?” Streinikov asked.
“Nyet. She had a head start. She could have taken 95 north or south, or I-80 east or west, or any surface street. She could be anywhere.” He searched for something positive to say. “She was wounded. I found blood on the pavement.”
“Perhaps she’ll bleed out and die.”
“I doubt it.”
“So do I.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Izvinitie.”
“You did your best. She’s in the wind for now, but she’s won only a short reprieve.”
“Shall we come back?” Ilya asked.
“There’s another matter to address first. Ivanov tells me our informant is making a nuisance of himself. He keeps calling to demand payment.”
“The next time he calls, have Ivanov patch him through to me.”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
Ilya didn’t have to wait long for the call. Lukin was turning off 46 at Palisades Park when Ivanov’s name appeared on his caller ID display. “He’s on the line again, more agitated than ever,” Ivanov said in Russian. “His name is Alonzo. A dumb shahkter.” Literally coal-miner, but in this context, a racial epithet. “I think he’s been using.”
“Put him on.”
A new voice came over the phone. “Where’s my money, asshole?”
Up to that moment, Ilya had been prepared to make a payoff. Not the entire amount, perhaps, not the whole ten grand. But a portion of it. The tip had been accurate, after all.
But the man’s impertinence caused him to change his mind.
“There’s no money for you,” he said. “The bitch ran.”
“Hey, if you morons fucked up, that’s on you, not me. I came through. I sent you straight to her.”
He was talking fast, his words blurring together. Ivanov was right. The fool was high on something.
Ilya distrusted drug users. He never touched the stuff himself. He’d never so much as
smoked a joint. A man who required artificial stimulation to face the challenges of life was no man at all.
“Your information did not result in the resolution of our problem. Therefore, no money.”
“You fuck. You dumb shit-eating Russkie cocksucker. We had a deal.”
“Deal’s off,” Ilya said complacently.
He was about to end the call when the man named Alonzo said, “I can make trouble.”
“Can you?”
“I got contacts. A rep in my burg. I’m a big man in Maritime.”
Ilya had passed through Maritime on his way to and from Brighton Cove. A shitty little town, a collection of gas stations and subsidized housing. “Most impressive,” he said dryly.
“I’ll fucking spread the word that you Russkie cunts can’t be trusted.”
“Fine. Tell all your friends.”
“I will. And you tell Streinikov he’s fucked with the wrong guy.”
Ilya paused. Streinikov. How could this man Alonzo know that name?
“You intend to be difficult?” he asked in a different tone.
“Count on it, you fucking cossack.”
“Perhaps we can arrange payment after all.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Where can we meet?”
“You know the Shell station on Route Four by Myrtle Avenue in Fort Lee? It’s closed down now.”
“Yes.”
“Bring the money. All of it.”
“No worries, my friend. You’ll get everything you deserve.”
35
Alonzo thought the call had gone pretty well. Fuckers had tried to blow him off, but they didn’t understand who they were dealing with.
He inhaled another line of coke, staying sharp. His brain was supercharged by now. He was seeing every angle, game-planning his strategy ten moves ahead. He was smarter than any mealymouthed potato-eating peasant asshole from East Assfuckistan. Smarter than the shape-shifting lizards, too, if they were real. He could outplay and outmaneuver anybody. Even Streinikov’s crew.
Yeah, he knew Streinikov was behind this shit. Had to be him. He’d known it ever since he heard a Russian accent on the other end of the phone when he called the tip line. Streinikov controlled north Jersey. The other Russian mobsters were active in New York’s five boroughs, but only Streinikov was operating in Bergen County.
Bad to the Bone (Bonnie Parker, PI Book 3) Page 19