“You’ll do fine,” Brad said. “Anyway, Wilson intends to give you my job when he retires.”
“Where will you go?”
“Deputy chief.”
“Nice,” she said, brushing her finger underneath her nose.
“Did you talk to Hank this morning?”
“No,” she said, curious. “Do they have something new?”
“We didn’t talk about Neil,” Brad explained. “Seems our boy Raphael had a contract out on him. Hank thinks it was the Mexican Mafia. They offered an undercover FBI agent half-a-mil to hand him over. I think you may be right about him hiding out in the Hartfields’ house. Shit, I saw a guy once who’d been skinned alive by those people.” He reached behind him, attempting to adjust his pillow. Carolyn walked over and did it for him. “Anyway,” he said, “what’s going on in your neck of the woods? Did you have a nice holiday? How is ‘physics boy’ doing? Are you guys still an item?”
“Something happened.” Carolyn nervously cleared her throat. “Paul and I had a fight and I threw him out.”
“What did he do? I thought he was Mr. Perfect.”
“It might be better if I showed you,” she said, removing her laptop and positioning it on his tray. “Can I raise your bed?”
“No,” Brad said, wincing. “I can see. Go ahead and show me.”
She hit the play button. His eyes were glued on the monitor. “Man,” he exclaimed, “this chick is hot. She’s got a great ass. Is this my Christmas present?”
“Don’t you recognize her? That’s Melody Asher, the woman Neil’s been dating.”
“The million-dollar broad?”
“Try fifty million.”
“Shit, I’d do her for free,” Brad said, smiling. “All that money and a body that won’t quit. Who’s that with her? It doesn’t look like Neil.”
She took a deep breath, then said, “It’s Paul Leighton.”
“No kidding.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said, lowering her eyes.
“Lucky guy,” Brad said. “You dumped me for a man who makes porno movies? Low blow, Carolyn. And he’s humping your brother’s girlfriend behind your back. A real class act.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “This was made several years ago. Melody Asher sent it to my e-mail address. Paul claims he was only with her a few times. He swears he never gave her permission to film him. I went ballistic when I saw it. Am I overreacting?”
Brad fell silent, thinking. “As much as I’d like to see you dump the guy, I’m not sure you should do it over something like this. When you and I started dating, you knew I’d been with other women. Give him a break. He’s a man. It’s not like he’s been cheating on you. From what I’ve read about this Asher broad, she’s a first-class bitch. She probably seduced him just for the fun of it.” He turned back to the monitor and smiled. “He certainly isn’t anything to look at. I can’t believe you went for this guy. He reminds me of Mr. Rogers.”
Carolyn closed her laptop and placed it in her backpack, then set it on a chair. She grabbed onto the railing and shook it. “I’m so angry. I mean it, I feel like beating the crap out of him. What a Christmas, huh? My brother’s a suspect in two homicides and I had to watch my boyfriend screwing a woman who has shoes more expensive than my entire wardrobe. I hate him.”
“Give it time,” Brad said, touching her hand. “Don’t take him back until I’m better.”
The room fell silent. Carolyn started to leave, but his eyes pulled her back. “We had some good times together, you and I,” she said softly. “Maybe it was because we worked together. You know, we had something to talk about at the end of the day. I don’t understand Paul’s work, and he doesn’t have much of an interest in mine. Most of the time, we talk about the kids, politics, things like that.”
“Forget the video,” he said. “Do you love him?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, wiping a tear off her cheek. “I thought I loved him last night.” Memories flashed through her mind—Paul’s proposal, their torrid lovemaking. Now it all seemed disgusting, like waking up the morning after having sex with a stranger. The blanket was the worst. All she could think of was Melody’s naked butt rolling around on the same white blanket. Men were hideous.
Right now, the emptiness of a fractured relationship made Brad seem more attractive. He was far worse than Paul could ever be. God only knew what he’d done in the past. Regardless, she wanted him. Another man was the only cure. It was a basic truth that every woman knew.
“Take down the rails.”
Carolyn hesitated. “They’re supposed to keep you from falling out of the bed.”
“Just do it,” he said, yanking on her hand.
“Fine,” she said, releasing the lock on the bed rails.
“Bend down, I want to tell you something.”
When Carolyn leaned over, Brad cupped his hands around her face and lifted his head a few inches off the bed so he could kiss her. She started to pull away, but she needed it. Already she could feel the empty hole inside of her filling. His soft lips pressed against her own. His skin smelled fresh and healthy. Even in his condition, his body seemed to be surging with energy. When the kiss was over, she felt light-headed. She stood up, feasting on his muscular body, his amazing eyes, his thick blond hair.
“I curse myself every day for letting you go,” Brad told her, watching as she pulled the rails back up. “Since my encounter with Moreno, I’ve had time to think. If you want to keep seeing this professor, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. I don’t think he’s going to make you happy, though. You’re not like him. You take on his personality so you can get along with him. If he sees who you really are, he’ll run for the hills.”
“Bullshit,” she shot out. “I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Brad said. “You’re not some passive housewife who does whatever her husband tells her or spends hours organizing her drawers. This guy’s nothing more than a curiosity. Underneath, you’re laughing at him. How can you not? You’re out there every day risking your life, dealing with murderers and rapists, looking at pictures of dead people. And he’s lining up his pencils. An equation never saved anyone’s life. But you have, Carolyn. Trust me, you’ll eat this guy alive.”
Carolyn’s jaw dropped as she tried to digest what he was saying.
“Not only that,” he continued, “this joker who thinks he’s so smart doesn’t even believe in God. You know for a fact there’s a God. We may think we can thumb our noses at Him on occasion, but we don’t doubt His existence. When I’m out there on the racetrack, I know who’s looking out for me. God allows me to do that, okay? It’s my reward for sending scum like Moreno to hell.”
Carolyn’s stomach was bubbling with acid. “Where was God when Mrs. Moreno’s son decapitated her?”
“You know I can’t answer that,” Brad said. “All I know is living without God is like driving a car with no wheels. If you want to follow your friend down that bumpy road, be my guest.”
She stared at him, then turned to walk away. “I have to go to my mother’s. I’ll call you in a few days.”
Chapter 18
Saturday, December 25—9:45 A.M.
“How can it be over so quick?” Eliza asked her husband in a thick Southern drawl.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lawrence Van Buren said, slouched on the sofa in front of the Christmas tree.
She watched as their two live-in housekeepers picked up the blizzard of wrapping paper and boxes left by their children. “I shopped since Thanksgiving and it took them less than fifteen minutes to rip open their gifts, collect their loot, and run off to their rooms. All this time and effort for a lousy fifteen minutes.”
“I have to go out,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.
Eliza pouted. “It’s Christmas, Larry. Please don’t leave. My family is coming for dinner.”
“That’s not until three,” he told her. “I should be back b
y then. You know I don’t have a choice, honey. Crime doesn’t stop because it’s Christmas.”
Heading upstairs to the master bedroom, he stripped off his pajamas and entered the walk-in closet, selecting an off-white shirt, an Armani jacket, and a pair of gray Calvin Klein slacks. Sitting down on the bed, he slipped on a pair of Gucci loafers.
As he started down the stairs, he stopped to gaze at the woman he called his wife. She’d changed into a white knit dress that clung to her body. He saw the reflection of her face in the mirror across from the sofa where she was standing. Eliza was a platinum blonde. She bleached her hair, but Larry didn’t mind. Her eyes sparkled like two 5-carat sapphires. She turned to the side, exposing the outline of her exquisite breasts and the deep curve near her hip bones. Her breasts and hips were the same exact size, emphasized by her tiny waist.
Ever since he was a teenager, Van Buren had fantasized about marrying an American girl with blond hair. Eliza was perfect. No heterosexual male could look at her body without becoming sexually aroused. A former Miss Alabama, she stood a statuesque five-ten. In heels she was taller than Larry. This, too, he didn’t mind.
Every man who saw them together was envious. He would ravish her tonight, but today he had to take care of business.
Van Buren continued down the stairs. Eliza met him and kissed him on the lips. “I’ll call you if I run late.”
“I wish I hadn’t married a CIA agent.”
“I’ve told you not to say anything around the kids,” he barked at her. “I have enemies, Eliza. Everyone in the agency has enemies. You want the kind of animals we go after to find out where I live and butcher our children?” His son came bounding down the stairs in his new Spider-Man costume, almost knocking his mother to the floor.
“Watch where you’re going, champ,” he called out as the boy sped around the corner into the family room.
Eliza walked her husband to the rear door leading to the garage. “You must be working on something big, honey,” she said, running her hands over his chest. “You’re a nervous wreck. I can feel your heart racing. How much longer will this last? We haven’t had sex in weeks.” She puckered her lips. “I want my hubby back.”
“We ran into some problems,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “If everything goes right, we should wrap this up by the end of the week. You better catch up on your beauty sleep. Once I get this case off my back, I’m going to make love to you for twenty-four hours straight.”
“Promises, promises,” Eliza said, giggling. “I’m going to take Felicity and Zachary to the zoo tomorrow. You’re not the only one who has to work, you know. Try corralling an eight-year-old and a three-year-old all day. Chasing criminals will seem like a piece of cake.”
He pecked her on the cheek and entered the garage, climbing into his white Mercedes. Eliza had questioned their affluent lifestyle for years. He explained that it was necessary in order to blend in with the high-level criminals the agency was attempting to apprehend. It was amazing how many lies a man could tell a woman and get away with it, Van Buren thought, checking the rearview mirror before he backed out of the garage. Eliza had been repeatedly warned that telling relatives, friends, and acquaintances what he did for a living could put all of their lives in jeopardy. His cover was exporting exotic cars to wealthy overseas clients.
Pushing a button, he talked into the speaker. “Dial Leo.” A minute later, a man with a gruff voice answered. “Where is Dante?” Van Buren barked, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.
“Standing right beside me,” Leo Danforth answered. He was a tall, powerfully built man with long dirty-blond hair tied back in a ponytail. “He wants to talk to you.”
“It’s cold as a bitch, Larry,” Dante complained. “We couldn’t even wait in our fucking cars. Why in the hell did we have to meet in a graveyard on Christmas morning? We had to scale a six-foot stone wall.”
“It’s safe, asshole,” Van Buren said. “You want the cops to show up? We’re in enough trouble as it is. A new lead turned up yesterday. We’ll discuss it as soon as I get there. I’m maybe twenty minutes away.”
Van Buren pressed his foot down on the accelerator. No one had been buried in Shady Oaks Cemetery since 1983. Money for a groundskeeper had run out years ago, and the closest house was a mile away. As additional security, the stone wall prevented visitors from bringing their cars inside. It was a perfect location for what he was about to do.
“They must be having a funeral today,” Dante said, making small talk until Van Buren arrived. He tilted his head toward an open grave a few feet away. “Who’d want to be buried in this dump? They don’t even pull the weeds.”
“I hear you,” Leo said, seeing Van Buren’s headlights on the hill above them. He stepped quickly in front of Dante to block his view. Now forty-seven, Dante Gilbiati had previously been a member of the Gambino crime family. When the Feds went after them, he’d fled to LA, where he’d somehow managed to avoid apprehension. He had bulging muscles and a pockmarked face. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days, and his thick black hair was disheveled. Dressed in a light blue jogging suit, he took another drag on his cigarette, then dropped it on the ground and snubbed it out with his sneaker.
Slamming on the brakes, Van Buren popped the trunk and got out, walked to the rear of the car and removed a ladder. Placing it against the wall, he climbed it to the top and jumped down, glad he’d made time to go to the gym even in the midst of the present crisis. Seeing the two men, he walked briskly toward them. As soon as he reached them, he coughed, his prearranged signal for Leo to take action. Leo quickly positioned himself behind Van Buren and opened his jacket, removing his gun from his shoulder holster.
Dante was clasping a thermos of coffee in one hand and plucking out another cigarette with his teeth. The steam from the open thermos rose in the frigid morning air. Before Dante figured out what was happening, Van Buren whipped out a nine-millimeter Ruger and trained it on him. Leo stepped forward and did the same.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Leo shouted, peering at him through the sight on his weapon.
“What the hell—” Dante exclaimed, spitting the cigarette out of his mouth as he raised his hands over his head. He narrowed his eyes at Leo. “You set me up, you no-good piece of shit. I should have known when you brought me to this godforsaken cemetery.” Craning his neck, he stared at the open grave behind him. He jerked his head back around, the muscles in his face twisted in fear.
“You like to kill children, do you?” Van Buren shouted, a blast of cold air striking his face. Despite the temperature, he was already perspiring. He hated sweat almost as much as he hated the man standing in front of him. He generally delegated disposing of out-of-control animals like Dante to men like Leo Danforth. In this instance, he wanted to make sure Dante suffered. He didn’t want to kill him instantly or beat him until he became unconscious. Men like Dante Gilbiati didn’t deserve mercy. “Have I ever given you permission to murder babies?”
“That peanut-size cockroach didn’t come out of the house,” he said. “What was I supposed to do, drive off? I thought we’d found it. If it wasn’t there, why didn’t he come out? How was I supposed to know there were people inside?” He threw the thermos with all his might, striking Leo in the face. Then he crouched down, charging toward Van Buren like a linebacker.
Van Buren fired, shooting him in the left forearm. The gunshot was muffled by a silencer, but the scent of gunpowder drifted past his nostrils. Leo’s right cheek was scalded from the hot coffee. He raised his gun to fire when another bullet sailed past him.
“You’re going to pay for this,” Dante yelled, his weapon flying out of his bloody left hand. He pressed his right hand against the wound when another bullet bore its way into his arm. More blood pumped out, soaking his blue jacket. He fell to the ground, groaning in pain.
“Don’t kill me,” Dante pleaded. “God…please, Larry, I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Say the word and I�
��ll take out the president.”
“You’re a swell guy, Dante,” Van Buren said, incredulous. “Why don’t you kill the pope while you’re at it? Too bad Mother Teresa is dead or you could take her out, too. Tell you the truth, you’re too stupid to live.” He pulled out his knife and threw it, knowing he’d hit his target when blood squirted out of Dante’s groin. Dante’s face drained of all color and his eyes closed. Van Buren walked over and kicked him to see if he was conscious. There was so much blood, he appeared to be floating in it. Seeing Dante blink, Van Buren turned to Leo, who was holding a handkerchief over the burn on his cheek. “How long do you think he’ll last?”
“Maybe thirty minutes, an hour max,” Leo said. “If the bullet wounds don’t kill him, he’ll bleed to death. We’d better get out of here, boss.”
Van Buren pulled out a Snickers bar and unwrapped it. “Sorry,” he said, smiling at Dante, “I only brought one. I know how much you like chocolate. Bet those kids had some candy. Ah, but you probably ate it while they lay there dying.”
Dante moaned again. When he tried to push himself up, Van Buren turned to Leo. “Bury him.”
He turned and started walking in the direction of the fence. Leo chased after him. “But he’s not dead yet, Larry. We can’t take a chance that he might survive. Don’t you want me to finish him off?”
“I didn’t say anything about finishing him off,” his boss said. “Two of those kids were still alive when Dante left the house. One of our contacts at the police department said they died next to the dead bodies of their parents. You’ve got kids, Leo. What would you do if Dante killed them?”
Leo’s eyes glazed over. He spoke without a trace of emotion, “I agree. I’ll bury him.”
“Oh,” Van Buren added, “kick him so he’ll stay conscious. I want him to feel the dirt on his face. Besides, suffocation takes more time. Need a shovel?”
Sullivan’s Justice Page 17