by Lisa King
“What about those people in the container?”
“A sin of omission. I charged one of my trusted employees with opening the container, but he went on a drunk. By the time he sobered up it was too late. He paid for that error with his life.” He flipped the automatic’s safety off. “That’s why I no longer delegate anything important.”
“That still leaves Oksana,” Jean said. “Not only did you kill her, you hurt her first.”
“Oksana was completely feral. After what I did for her, she endangered my entire operation, all the good I’m accomplishing, for money.”
“You fucking hypocrite. Why in hell are you doing it if not for money?”
“Atonement,” he said, the anger gone from his voice. “I help these illegals to atone for those hundred deaths.”
Jean laughed at him. “I get it—you help the ones you don’t strangle.”
“This is such a shame, Jean. You and I could have had something.” He shifted the gun to his left hand and hit her hard across the mouth with the back of his right. Jean nearly fell out of the chair. She tasted blood where her teeth had cut her cheek.
Jean knew he wouldn’t kill her until he got the DVD. She had to stall until Roman got home. But stalling was going to mean pain—she couldn’t get rid of the image of Oksana with a broken nose and two broken wrists. How much of that could she take? And how could she warn Roman so he didn’t get shot coming in?
“Where is the DVD?” he said in a low voice.
“I hid it,” she said as calmly as she could. “You’ll have to search all these books.”
“No. You’ll show me, and soon. I doubt your pain threshold is as high as Oksana’s.” He hit her again, catching her on the cheekbone. “Which book?”
Jean pulled herself back into the chair, breathing deeply, remembering Roman’s training: Don’t panic, think clearly, look for an opportunity. “I’m too upset,” she said. “I can’t remember.”
Simon put the gun on the end table and gently took her right hand in his. He bent over and kissed it, then twisted it hard until she screamed, the pain sharp and agonizing. She felt something snap.
Jean was as angry as she’d ever been in her life. With her left hand she grabbed his testicles through his loose slacks, twisted, and pulled hard. Simon pushed away from her, roaring with pain and fury, releasing her broken wrist as he folded over to protect his groin. She leaped out of the chair and ran toward the front of the house.
Jean looked back to see him scoop the gun off the end table, giving her precious seconds. Unlocking the front door was out of the question. She raced up the stairs, Simon behind her. He stumbled and groaned in pain with every step. She ran down the hall, expecting to be shot in the back.
Beau’s room was dark, but light filtered in from outside. She grabbed the red vase off the dresser and threw it with all her strength as Simon came through the door. The thin glass shattered against his upraised arms, scattering water, tropical flowers, and red shards everywhere, slowing him just long enough for Jean to open the bedside drawer and pull out the Colt with her left hand. She turned to face him, and Simon raised the automatic. Jean emptied the gun into him, all six rounds. The noise was overpowering and the room filled with acrid smoke. He slammed back into the wall and slid to the floor.
CHAPTER 45
“Jean!” Roman called from below.
“Up here,” she called. The gun felt heavy and ugly in her hand. She dropped it and sank onto the bed, breathing hard, her ears ringing, heart thudding against her ribs, wrist throbbing with pain.
Roman ran up the stairs and down the hall, barely pausing when he saw Simon in a bloody heap against the wall. He stepped over the broken glass and knelt down, taking Jean by the shoulders, anxiously looking her over. “Are you shot?”
“No, just banged up. Check him.”
Roman stood and turned on the overhead light. “Who is he?” he asked as he kicked the silver automatic away from Simon’s open hand.
“Simon Emory.”
“Ah.” He felt for a pulse on his neck, pulled his eyelids back. “He’s dead.”
“Dead,” Jean repeated faintly.
Roman sat next to her and put his arm around her. “Where are you hurt?”
“He broke my wrist.” She held out her right arm. “It hurts like hell.”
Roman ran his fingers gently along her arm, making her flinch. Her wrist was already starting to color and swell. He touched her cheek. “And your face—he hit you. What happened?”
“I fucked up. Spider came here to tell me they found Oksana’s body and then left. I forgot to lock the front door, and while we were talking Simon got in.”
Roman went to the nearby phone and punched in 911. “A friend of mine has shot an intruder to death,” he said after a few moments. “She has a broken wrist.” He gave his name and Beau’s address.
As her adrenaline receded, Jean felt shaky, exhausted, and dizzy. Roman hung up and looked at her. He sat on the bed again and placed his hand on her back, gently pushing her forward. “Put your head between your knees and take some deep breaths. You’re about to faint.”
Jean did as he said, and after a few moments felt her head clear. “I’m OK now,” she told him. She sat up slowly.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’ve got blood in my brain again.” She looked more closely at Roman. His lower lip was cut and swollen on one side. “What’s wrong with your lip?” she asked.
“I had words with one of the arresting officers.” He stood and leaned down to examine the dead man’s wounds. “That’s a nice tight pattern. Good shooting. And left-handed, too.”
“He was only about three feet from me. I couldn’t have missed if I tried.”
“But you kept your nerve. I’m proud of you. Come downstairs and talk to me.” He helped her up and walked her carefully down the stairs, supporting her as weak knees made her stumble. Jean sat at the kitchen table while he made ice packs for her wrist and face, and poured her a glass of Cognac.
She took a drink, trying to pull herself together and stop trembling. “I saw the DVD. Remember when they found those illegals baked alive in a container in New York? Simon was responsible and Oksana knew about it. She sold the information to Martin, so Simon killed her.”
“Where’s the DVD now?” Roman asked.
Jean patted her chest. “Right here. And I faxed you a copy of Kay’s letter. Better go hide it before the police get here.”
Roman dashed to his house and returned in a few moments looking righteously satisfied. “That letter exceeds my wildest dreams,” he said. “Thank you. It’s not often I can put such a definitive stop to a dangerous homophobe.”
Jean explained everything: the drink with Gwen, their discovery in the Martin Wingo Building, Spider’s visit, and the fatal encounter with Simon.
“The old grab, twist, and pull,” Roman said. “A very effective technique.”
“Men are so poorly designed.” She tried to smile back, but the right side of her face had stiffened up. “Some bodyguard you are.”
“You obviously don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Oh Roman, I didn’t want to kill him.”
“He was in your house uninvited, he’d hurt you, and he was chasing you with a gun. Self-defense doesn’t get any more clear-cut than that.” Roman squeezed her left hand. “You’ve had quite a day, haven’t you?”
“I’ve never had a worse one. I wish I could talk to Zeppo.”
“First stop is the ER. We’ll see him after that.”
They heard sirens, and soon the police had taken over the house.
HALF AN hour later Jean sat on Roman’s oak and leather Stickley sofa, her arm in a sling that a paramedic had given her, and faced Inspector Hallock across the coffee table. She wished she could have more Cognac. Roman was in the kitchen with another homicide inspector.
Hallock pulled out his notebook. “What was Emory doing here?”
Jean had given the inevitable questions
a lot of thought as she waited, and had concocted a story that didn’t stray far from the truth. “That woman they pulled out of the bay today worked for Emory. She found out he’s wanted for murder in New York under a different name. Martin Wingo was pissed at Emory over a business deal and Oksana knew this. She told Martin about it and he recorded it. Emory found out and killed her. He sneaked in here and overheard me saying that I had the DVD.”
“How’d you get hold of it?”
“I’m getting to that. Flavia Soares told us Martin had something on his ex-wife. Based on a couple of remarks people made, I figured he might have hidden it in an architectural model at his office, and I had a Wingo-Johansen employee take me there this evening. It was a long shot or I would have called you.”
“Sure you would.”
“We checked, and there it was. The DVD was in there, too, so I took it. Then I came back here and watched it.”
She told him about Spider’s visit. “You need to find him, Inspector. He’s pretty crazed. He shouldn’t be driving around.”
“I’ll send a car. Where’s the DVD now?”
Jean pulled the letter and mini-DVD from her shirt and held them out to Hallock. He put on a pair of latex gloves and took the letter from Jean, raising his eyebrows as he read it. He pulled out two evidence bags and placed the letter and envelope in one and the DVD in the other.
When Jean was done with her tale, Hallock closed his notebook. “That’s enough for now,” he said. “I’ll need to ask you more questions after you’ve seen a doctor.”
Roman came in from the kitchen accompanied by a short, muscular black man in a tan sport coat who’d been introduced earlier as Inspector Belnap. “Roman Villalobos, who’s the tenant here, claims the Colt is registered to him,” he told Hallock. “Says he lent it to her for protection. Villalobos was down at the Hall until just before the shooting. The officers who picked him up confirm that. We talked to a neighbor, and she says he was unlocking the front door when the shooting started.”
“Thanks, Belnap,” Hallock said. “Get Davila over here, will you?”
“Mind if I stay?” Roman asked.
“Suit yourself,” Hallock replied. “We’re just about finished.” He smiled at Jean, and she realized she’d never seen him do that before. “Well, Ms. Applequist, you’ve saved the taxpayers in two states a lot of money.”
“I know you don’t think much of Bash Back, but their self-defense course is the reason I’m alive.”
Roman leaned against the windowsill, his hairy arms crossed over his chest. “You can be our poster child,” he told her.
Davila came into Roman’s living room and looked at Jean. “Ms. Applequist, that was a remarkable, courageous thing you did. I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt.” He and Roman glared at each other.
“Tell me, Inspector,” Roman said to him, “did you suggest to some of your friends that they take me in for questioning this afternoon?”
Davila smirked. “Why would I do that?”
“Why indeed? Just remember this: If things had turned out differently, if Jean had been killed because I wasn’t here, you’d be on the slab next to her.”
Davila moved toward Roman, who pushed off the windowsill and stood ready. Hallock quickly inserted himself between the two men. He took Davila by the shoulders. “Hey, Oscar,” Hallock said. “Go pick up Spider Brandt.” Davila didn’t like it, but he left.
When he was gone, Hallock turned to Roman. “I’m giving you a break because of her,” he said in a harsh whisper, “but don’t ever say that kind of shit to him again. You want to get dragged down to the Hall once a week for questioning? Now go ahead—take her down and get that arm seen to. We’ll be in touch tomorrow, Ms. Applequist. You’ll have to stay out of the house until the crime scene people are through.”
“She’ll be here with me,” Roman said. Hallock went out across the garden.
At S.F. General, the X-rays of Jean’s wrist showed a spiral fracture of the radial head. Her face was only bruised. An intern set her wrist, put on a cast that covered her hand and thumb and went up past her elbow, gave her a new sling and some painkillers, and told her to go home.
Instead, she and Roman detoured up to Zeppo’s floor. Several hospital staffers they passed on the way looked disapprovingly at Roman. “What’s the matter with them?” Jean asked.
Roman put his arm around her shoulder. “They think I beat you up. Little do they know I’d be risking my life if I tangled with you.”
At the nurse’s station, Roman used his persuasive powers on a young female nurse, who agreed to let them talk to Zeppo when she woke him for his next blood-pressure reading. Jean fell asleep leaning on Roman’s shoulder as they waited. Finally the nurse told them Zeppo was awake. The policewoman guarding his door let them go in.
“Jeannie, my God!” he exclaimed, sitting up. “What happened to you?”
Her mouth was too painful and swollen to kiss him. “You should see the other guy.”
“The other guy took six thirty-eight caliber slugs in the chest,” Roman said.
Zeppo gripped Jean’s good hand as she told him all about it.
“I can’t believe this,” Zeppo said. “You’ve been hurt and almost cut up and and had to shoot someone to death, and we still don’t know who killed Martin. Man, investigating this mess is the dumbest fucking thing I ever did in my life, and that’s saying a lot.”
“But we got Rivenbark, Setrakian, and Simon Emory, and that letter will really mess Kay up.” Her smile came out lopsided. “Anyway, if we hadn’t been playing detective you’d never have gotten into my pants, and that would have been a real tragedy.”
Zeppo pulled her down and gently touched her unbruised cheek. “That was really smart, figuring out where Martin hid everything,” he said. “I should have thought of it myself.”
“You didn’t know about the X-ACTO knife. In fact, if I hadn’t hung out with Gwen, we never would have found it.”
The nurse finally insisted they leave. Back at Roman’s, Jean put on a Bash Back T-shirt and spent the night in his big bed with him, comforted by his nearness, dopey with painkillers. She felt perfectly safe for the first time since she’d joined the investigation.
CHAPTER 46
Jean woke alone in Roman’s bed. She was simultaneously sickened and elated by what she’d done, and her wrist and face hurt. At least the scrapes and bruises from her fall were nearly healed. She sat up and took a pain pill, amazed to see it was after eleven o’clock. Voices drifted in from Roman’s kitchen—Diane and Peter were here.
Jean got up, put on her sling, and faced the bathroom mirror. The entire right side of her face was swollen and multicolored. Her hair was longer on the left—no help there. She sighed and went out to the kitchen.
Diane jumped up from her seat at the kitchen table. “Jean, thank God you’re alive,” she said
“You look awful,” Peter said, going to her side. “Are you in a lot of pain?”
“I’ll be OK—I just took a pill.” She waved them away and sat down at the table. “Can I have some coffee?” Her bruised mouth made her sound drunk.
“I phoned your office and told them not to expect you anytime soon,” Roman said as he put the cup in front of her.
She tried to sip the coffee, which smelled wonderful, but stung her mouth. Roman dropped ice cubes into her cup. “I’ll buy you some straws today,” he told her. His own lip was still swollen where the cop had hit him.
“You must have been terrified,” Diane said.
“Mostly I was angry. Meanwhile, we still don’t know who murdered Martin.”
“I’ve decided I can live without knowing,” Diane said sadly, taking Jean’s good hand. “I’ve had to accept that just about everything my dear husband told me was a lie. If he was still blackmailing Kay and Emory and still seeing Flavia, who knows what else he was up to? The last thing I want is for someone else to get hurt. So no more investigating, OK?”
“If you say so,” Jean s
aid, though she knew Zeppo would keep at it once he was out of the hospital.
Diane’s butterscotch leather Hermès bag lay on the table. She pulled it toward her. “I have a gift for you, Jean. It’s a token of my appreciation for all you’ve risked and all you’ve accomplished.” She handed Jean a small box tied with white ribbon—a Tiffany box.
“Why, it’s a blue box,” Roman said. “How appropriate.”
Jean felt better already—jewelry, and probably expensive. If she sold whatever it was, she’d have the money to go to Thailand. Maybe she’d take Zeppo with her.
Peter opened it for her. Inside lay a pair of keys on a plain silver ring. Jean gasped—they were the keys to Martin’s Porsche Carrera. For a moment she was lost in a fantasy of high speed, an open road, and herself at the wheel of the bright red car.
She stared at Diane with her mouth open. “Oh, Diane! This is the most perfect gift I’ve ever gotten. Look, Roman. The keys to the Porsche.”
Roman raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous gift for a woman who drives like a bat out of hell.”
“She’s earned it,” Diane said. “You can pick it up any time.”
“The sad part is, I won’t be able to drive it for weeks,” Jean said. “Even when the police release his Jag, Zeppo won’t be able to drive it, either. I have to call him right away.”
“I’d like to do something for him, too,” Diane said. “Any suggestions?”
“Not unless you can get him into college. He was admitted to U.C. Davis based on forged high school records, so I doubt they’ll let him in now. Let me think about it.”
IN THE afternoon Roman helped Jean dress and took her to see Zeppo, but both were too tired to visit for long. Back at Roman’s she lolled around, sleepy from pain pills, feeling alternately triumphant and sorry for herself, unable to eat much besides the smoothies Roman made for her.
George Hallock knocked on Roman’s door around five o’clock. “I’ve got some news for you,” he said. “They’ve taken down the crime scene tape. Can we sit outside? I need a smoke.”