by R. J. Jagger
Durivage shrugged.
“She’s complicated.”
“What does that mean, that you actually believe her?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not all that interested in it one way or the other. It turns out that I’ve met someone.”
Zongying rubbed her breasts on his chest.
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“Just a woman,” he said. “She’s about your height.”
“My height, huh? My weight, too?”
He ran his eyes down her body.
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
“Does she look anything like me?”
“Actually, you could be twins.”
“Lucky woman,” Zongying said.
“I haven’t told her yet,” he said. “I’m not sure how she’ll take it.”
“You should tell her someday and find out.”
He kissed her.
“Maybe I will.”
He looked at his watch—9:40 p.m.
Five minutes.
Just five more minutes.
He hardened his heart, narrowed his eyes and wiped his palms on his pants. There were headlights coming up and down the streets but not nearly as many as he envisioned. At some point the woman would have a clear opportunity to kill him.
She was trained.
She’d done it before.
Probably dozens of times.
Don’t let her get too close.
Keep an eye on her hands.
Don’t let them disappear behind her back or inside a jacket.
93
Day Three
July 17
Thursday Night
When Jina looked behind for that brief heartbeat as she pounded into the field on the Indian, she got just enough of a glimpse at the man chasing her to be 98 percent sure he was Taylor’s “client,” the man who had given them a noon deadline to return the scroll.
Unfortunately for him, his car couldn’t follow.
Jina escaped then laid low at a fleabag hotel, nervously peeking out from behind the blinds all afternoon with the motorcycle parked out back, venturing out only to call Stephen and confess what she’d done to his poor Indian—which she would pay for, every cent. She also called the firm a half dozen times to see if Taylor had shown up yet.
She hadn’t.
One thing became clear as the seconds ticked by; if Taylor was still alive, there was only one way for Jina to find her, and that was to get the client to take her there. She wanted to hide, she wanted to disappear, but those weren’t options. After dark, she took a cab back to the city, quietly climbed up the fire escape of her building and looked in her windows.
No one was inside.
She climbed back down, entered through the door and kept the lights off. Under the bed sheet, she stuffed clothes in the shape of a sleeping body.
In the living room, she pulled the couch away from the wall until she got a gap big enough to lay her body in.
Then she laid down on her back with a knife in her hand.
“Come on, asshole. Come for me.”
94
Day Three
July 17
Thursday Night
Raven wound farther and farther north out of the city into increasingly thinner traffic. Wilde shifted his body in search of a more comfortable position and said, “He’s going to spot us if he hasn’t already.”
“Turn here,” Alabama said.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
Wilde made a right.
“Turn your lights off and get back on him,” she said.
“That’s too dangerous.”
“So is running with scissors,” she said. “Do it.”
Wilde did it. They lost distance but made it up fairly quickly. “If he spots a car without headlights that will be a dead giveaway.”
“He won’t,” Alabama said. “He can only spot headlights.”
Wilde gave her a sideways glance.
Five minutes later Raven pulled in front of a greasy spoon with a partially burned out neon sign that should have said Restaurant but said Rest Ant. Wilde stopped short and watched Raven head inside, where the man slipped into a booth with another man.
Wilde pulled up closer, still with the lights out.
The other man’s face came into focus.
It was the detective from the MG, the one who wanted to search Wilde’s office.
Johnny Pants.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Wilde said. “What are those two doing hooking up after hours?”
“Probably talking about you,” Alabama said.
Wilde knew it was a joke but there was too much ugly truth to laugh.
“I’m going to do something and I don’t want you to try to stop me,” Alabama added.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, don’t do it.”
“You don’t even know what it is,” Alabama said.
“I don’t have to,” Wilde said. “If it’s something where you warn me not to stop you, it’s already something I don’t like.”
She smiled.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“No.”
“Good, because here it is,” she said. “I’m going to slip into the backseat of Raven’s car and hide on the floor. That way when he heads to wherever he’s going, I’ll know where he went, even if you end up getting lost.”
Wilde reached for her arm but she was already out the door.
She blew him a kiss and said, “Wish me luck.”
Wilde had his hand on the handle to go after her when an image of Nicole popped in his head, an image of her tied up in some dark hole, desperate and alone, preparing herself to die on Friday.
The image froze his hand.
He exhaled as Alabama crept to the passenger side of Raven’s car and slipped inside.
“Don’t lose her,” Wilde told himself. “Don’t you dare lose her.”
One minute later Raven came out of the Rest Ant walking fast. He got in the vehicle, backed up, then came south directly at Wilde.
95
Day Three
July 17
Thursday Night
At exactly 9:45 a car with a blond driver pulled to the curb at the corner of California and 16th. The Mediterranean woman stepped out and the car took off.
Game time.
Durivage headed that way and stopped a yard away, just out of reach. The woman had nothing in her hands. She wore black pants and a black blouse, semi-baggy.
Loose enough to hide a gun or a knife.
“You wanted to meet, here I am,” she said.
“I want you to deliver a message to Petracca,” he said. “Tell him we’re sorry about his wife. No one was supposed to get hurt. Tell him that neither me nor Emmanuelle had a gun on the night in question. Zeno Leva was the one with the gun. We didn’t know he had it until he pulled it out and fired. Afterwards, Emmanuelle killed him for what he did.”
“I’m sure Petracca will be touched,” the woman said.
Durivage ran his fingers through his hair.
“Here’s the way things are going to go down,” he said. “You’re going to get out of Denver. If you don’t, like I said before, the police will end up finding Grace Somerfield’s things in Night’s house. She’ll be history.”
The woman’s face hardened.
“Here’s the way it’s going to go down,” she said. “I’m going to finish my mission. I’m going to kill Emmanuelle. Then I’m going to kill you. If anything ever shows up at Night’s house, then there will be a third person on my list, your little slant-eyed girlfriend.”
“I don’t care about her.”
“Then don’t care. She’ll still go down.”
The woman walked away.
Three steps later she turned and said over her shoulder, “Have a nice evening.”
When he got back to the car Zongying asked, “So how’d it go?”
“Not good,” he
said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means she left me no choice except to do what I’m going to have to do.”
A beat.
“I’ll help.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She shifted into first and pulled out.
“After Spencer and Dawson, it’s the least I can do.”
Durivage shook his head.
“It’s too dangerous. She’s a professional. What we need to do is get you out of town and hidden away somewhere. That will give me a chance to do things without having to worry about watching your back.”
Silence.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
She looked over.
“I’m sorry, have you been talking?”
He smiled.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not leaving your side so just get used it,” she said. “When do we do it? Right now? Tonight?”
96
Day Three
July 17
Thursday Night
The shattering of a window pulled Jina back from the edge of sleep. She held her breath, knowing something was wrong but not knowing what. Then she remembered. She was behind the couch, lying in wait with a knife in her hand.
Smaller remnants of glass got brushed off and fell to the floor.
The window unlatched.
It slid up.
A person climbed through and stood motionless.
Jina tightened her grip on the knife. She was flat on her back, a defenseless position but one she couldn’t shift out of without making noise.
Three footsteps.
That’s what the intruder took.
Three footsteps.
He was in the middle of the room.
Why did he stop?
Did he notice the couch out of position?
Was he getting ready to come over and take a peek behind it, just in case someone was hiding there?
Stay quiet.
Stay quiet.
Stay quiet.
The man was fussing with something, then an odor weaved through the air, barely detectible, but something different than normal.
Suddenly the couch pulled away.
A heavy figure straddled her, pinning her arms motionless. It was a man, the client. He covered her face with a wet cloth, forcing a nasty chemical into her nose and mouth and eyes. She fought to get her face loose.
It did no good.
Suddenly the fight went out of her body.
Everything faded to black.
Her brain returned to a vague and throbbing focus at some point later, which could have been three minutes or three hours. Her body wouldn’t move. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her ankles were strapped together. She pulled at her bonds, frantic. They wouldn’t budge.
She pulled again, harder.
Same thing.
Her breathing was heavy and difficult, a hood was over her head, cinched around her neck.
She was somewhere dark, in something moving.
The trunk of a car?
Yes.
That was it.
Okay.
Think.
Think.
Think.
He hasn’t killed you yet.
Sooner or later he’ll stop and pull you out.
You’re not dead yet.
Don’t panic.
Get your breathing under control.
Don’t hyperventilate.
The ride continued for another ten or fifteen or twenty minutes, then the vehicle came to a stop and the engine shut off. A car door opened, a foot landed on the ground, then the door slammed shut.
Footsteps came down the side of the car.
Knuckles rapped on the trunk.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Her instinct was to shout Go to hell!
Instead she went limp and pretended to be unconscious.
97
Day Three
July 17
Thursday Night
Wilde followed Raven as far back as he could, then he did one better by letting a car behind him pass, giving him a buffer. They went south, back into the guts of the city. Suddenly Raven pulled to the side of the street and the other car slid in behind him.
Wilde couldn’t stop, it would be too conspicuous.
He passed, shielding his face with his hat.
The other driver turned out to be Johnny Pants.
As Wilde drove off, his rearview mirror showed Pants getting into Raven’s car, which then pulled away. Wilde sped up to get a good lead, then pulled over, killed the lights and ducked down. The plan was to let them pass then get back in behind them.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
Then too many.
Raven’s car didn’t pass. Wilde looked up to see where it was.
It was nowhere.
The headlights were gone.
They must have turned.
Damn it.
He did a one-eighty, cut left at the first cross-street and said, “Come on, be up there.”
Taillights appeared.
As he got closer, they weren’t Raven’s. He passed and sped up.
More taillights appeared but none belonged to Raven.
The man was gone.
Alabama was on her own.
It was Wilde’s fault.
He pulled to the side and smacked his fist so hard on the dash that the speedometer glass cracked.
He should have stopped Alabama.
He should have never let her do anything as stupid as what she did. He was the one in charge. Not stopping her was his fault.
Damn it.
Now what?
Drive around aimlessly and hope to bump into them by accident?
No.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Where were they headed, that was the question? If he knew where they were going, he could intercept them there.
Maybe they were going to Raven’s house.
No, that didn’t make sense, because why would they drop Pants’ car off if that was the case? Pants would just follow him there.
Maybe they were headed to the warehouse district.
But wait, if that was the case, then Pants would be in cahoots with the murders.
There wouldn’t be just one killer.
There would be two.
Wilde shifted into first and headed that way.
98
Day Three
July 17
Thursday Night
Durivage and Zongying drove by Night’s house several times over the next hour, and even went in once, to no avail. The women weren’t there. Durivage cocked his head and said, “They’re probably doing the same thing we are, staking out your house.”
Zongying smiled.
“That would be ironic.”
“Wouldn’t it?”
“Ships passing in the night.” A beat then, “So what should we do, hole up someplace safe?”
Durivage shook his head.
“Let’s just go home,” he said. “If they show up, they show up. The sooner the better, if you ask me.”
Zongying ran her fingers over the back of his neck.
“You’re not afraid?”
He grunted.
“Of course I’m afraid,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone, though.”
Back home, Durivage searched the house while Zongying drove around the block.
It was safe.
Inside, they locked the doors and windows and hid knives in strategic positions. Then they turned out the lights and laid down in bed with their clothes on.
“I have a painting,” Zongying said. “It’s worth a lot of money.”
“Where?”
“In the basement,” she said. “It’s an original Renoir.”
“How’d you get it?”
“It got stolen from a museum in Paris thirty years ago,” she said.
>
“By who?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “I was thinking that we could go somewhere, lay low for a while, then sell it and live in luxury.”
“Why haven’t you done that already?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’ve been too scared. To be honest, I think the painting has a curse on it. People who end up in contact with it seem to end up dead. Do you want to see it?”
He considered it.
“Let’s just leave it where it is until we find out if our guests are going to show up,” he said. “If they kill us, that will get me mad. If they kill us and make off with an original Renoir in the process, that would really get me mad.”
Silence.
“I have no idea how to sell it,” she said. “Do you?”
Durivage laughed.
“Me? No, not hardly,” he said. “But I know who does.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Sam Poppenberg.”
He didn’t have to explain. Poppenberg lived in New York. He was the one who put Durivage in touch with Zongying in the first place, when he needed a contact in Denver.
“He’s into stolen art?”
“I doubt if he is personally, but I’m sure he knows someone who is.” A beat then, “How do you know him, anyway?”
“I met him through a friend.”
“Who?”
“Jessica Dent,” she said. “She’s the one in the picture with me in the living room, the one who got murdered.” A beat then, “Did you really mean it before when you said you’d help me find out who killed her after this Emmanuelle thing got put to bed?”
He squeezed her hand.
“If that’s important to you, then yes.”
“It’s important,” she said. “Every time I think about it, I get this weird feeling that she was killed by a cop.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s because they never seemed to come up with any evidence.”
Durivage exhaled.
“Who was the detective in charge of the investigation?”
“A guy named Johnny Pants.”
“Weird name.”
“Weird guy,” Zongying said. “I never liked him, not from day one.”
They made slow, sweet love.