Blood in the Water

by Michael Prescott

  But mostly he didn’t think about the Kardashians. He thought about the PI who’d killed his nephew.

  When she came in, he would see her. Then he would make his move. If she offered any resistance, he might just shoot her dead right there. The black beast had fed once today, but it was hungry still.

  CHAPTER 28

  Bonnie’s ride north from Brighton Cove was all kinds of crazy. With the power out, the traffic lights along the county highways were dead, prompting a dangerous game of chicken at every intersection. Flooded streets forced unplanned detours.

  The parkway was open, at least. Bonnie sped north, relying on her E-ZPass sticker to barrel past the toll booths.

  Around Cheesequake, she passed a bunch of boats at a marina tossed together like castoff toys. The crosshatched masts resembled a pile of toothpicks.

  She wondered how the hell anyone ever came up with a name like Cheesequake. It always made her hungry. Especially today. That Snickers bar hadn’t really done the trick.

  As she drove, she thought about Maguire’s file. She had skimmed enough of it to know about Maguire’s hole card. The Ohio witness, the gun shop guy. Hector Samuelson.

  Bonnie remembered Samuelson. And all too obviously he remembered her.

  Reading the file, she’d felt it all come back—the day she’d arrived in Buckington courtesy of a big rig driver who’d tried to feel her up. The weight of the .38 in her hand, a rusty relic she’d bought on the street in Harrisburg for twenty bucks. The hour she’d spent firing practice shots in the woods, trying to get the hang of the weapon; she’d never used a gun before. By the time her practice was concluded, she was out of ammunition, and with no money left in her pocket, she couldn’t buy any.

  So, necessity being the mother of larceny, she stole a box of .38 cartridges from the local gun shop, stashing it under her jacket when she thought nobody was looking. She believed she’d played it cool, but the owner was on to her. She heard his fast footsteps in the parking lot at her back. If she was arrested, she would be remanded to Pennsylvania, and she couldn’t allow that, not when she was so close.

  He was almost on top of her when she turned, the revolver newly loaded, and aimed the gun at his face. She said nothing, only glared. She watched his righteous anger dissolve into fear.

  It was the first time she’d ever felt really powerful, and she liked it.

  Now, twelve years later, Samuelson was the one gunning for her. He could be a problem. Hell, maybe she should’ve just shot the son of a bitch when she had the chance.

  She thought she was probably joking, but sometimes she couldn’t quite tell anymore.

  - — -

  She arrived at the Sheraton and dumped the Jeep into the first parking space she could find, in a distant corner of the lot. She hiked to the hotel and went in through a side door. Experience and paranoia had taught her never to use the entrance that was expected.

  Peering out from the hallway, she scanned the lobby. The place was a mob scene. A whole bunch of foreign airline personnel had just swarmed in. They looked Slavic. Russians or something. Hell, maybe they were invading. Rows of public computer terminals were fully occupied by folks checking their email, while the bar was rapidly filling up with less businesslike folks intent on getting drunk.

  She didn’t see Aaron. And that was bad. He should’ve been here by now.

  If he’d made it at all. It was possible he hadn’t gotten out of the condo building in time. If Lazzaro had gotten hold of him, Aaron was sure to have spilled everything, including the details of this rendezvous. Bonnie had no illusions about his ability to hold up under pressure.

  All of which meant Frank just might be here now, in Aaron’s place.

  She did not actually know what Frank looked like, at least at his present age. The only photo of him she’d ever seen had been taken during an unsuccessful criminal prosecution fifteen years ago. Scanning the crowd, she didn’t see anyone who matched her memory of the photo. But too many faces were hidden behind bodies and other obstructions. And a person could change a lot in fifteen years.

  It occurred to her that she still had Louis Rocca’s cell phone in her purse. And Frank wasn’t the only one who could make fake phone calls.

  She took out the phone, which happily was not passcode-protected, and pulled up the call log. The last incoming call was the one Frank made this morning, the one she hadn’t answered. She dialed the number, then watched the lobby, waiting to see if anyone answered.

  Over by a window, a copy of People Magazine dropped into an ample lap, and a heavyset gray-haired guy pulled out his phone and spoke into it. Simultaneously the phone in her hand crackled with a rough masculine voice. “Yeah?”

  She pressed the phone to her cheek. “Hey, Frankie boy. How’s tricks?”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “I think you know. If you need a hint, I can tell you your nephew’s last words.”

  “Parker,” he breathed.

  “You’re waiting for me, right, paisan? Okay, I’m coming over, and we’re gonna have ourselves a chat. I’m carrying, and I’m in a shitty mood. Try anything and you’ll be sorry.”

  She dumped the phone into her purse and pushed her way through the lobby, walking directly toward him. What the hell. He couldn’t shoot her in a public place. Or so she hoped.

  As she approached, she compared him with his photo. He was fatter than before, with less hair and more chins. But he was still imposing. Tall, scowling, and impeccably dressed.

  He was ensconced in a little conversation nook with a good view of the lobby and the driveway. She took the chair opposite him and waited, forcing him to start the dialogue.

  “So you’re the PI,” he said finally.

  “And you’re Alec Dante’s uncle. I’m guessing you’re kinda pissed off at me right now.”

  Frank studied her. “A woman hitter. That’s new.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century. Glass ceilings are shattering everywhere. Try to keep up.”

  “You a dyke?”

  “Do I gotta be a dyke to pull the trigger on somebody?”

  “How many bodies have you dropped?”

  “Enough.”

  “What are you, like, twenty-two years old?”

  “I’m twenty-eight. And a half.”

  “Yeah? ’Cause you look about thirteen.”

  “Quit it with the alpha dog bullshit.” She shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit up.

  “They won’t let you smoke in here,” Frank said.

  “I figure I can get in a couple of good puffs before they shut me down.” She gave a careless wave. “I know, I know—these things’ll kill me.”

  “I can pretty much guarantee they won’t.” Frank settled back in his chair. “Tell you one thing, you got a pair on you.”

  “Tits or balls?”

  “I meant balls.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tits ain’t bad either.”

  “You’re a charmer.” She made sure to blow some smoke in his direction. “Lemme guess. Prom king?”

  “I didn’t go to the prom.”

  “Me neither. Hell, I didn’t even go to high school.”

  “Me neither,” he echoed. He could have said it with amusement. He didn’t. “You grow up on the streets?”

  “Pretty much. How’d you know?”

  “You got that vibe.”

  She nodded. “You too.”

  “Yeah, neither of us is Ivy League material.”

  Wow, they were almost bonding. Sadly, this Hallmark movie moment was interrupted when a clerk from the checkin desk showed up, looking flustered. “I’m sorry, miss. No smoking.”

  “Yeah, yeah. This used to be a free country.”

  Bonnie stabbed out the cig. The clerk squared his shoulders and returned to his post.

  “When’d you lose your cherry?” Frank asked.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Like I’m gonna answer that. What are you, a perv?”

  “I don’t mean s
ex. I mean, when was the first time you put somebody on ice?”

  “Oh. I was fourteen.”

  “Do it for money?”

  “For revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “They killed my parents.”

  “Sounds like a reason.” Frank folded his arms over his generous stomach. “Me, I was sixteen. It wasn’t so noble in my case. I got paid.”

  “You do it with a gun?”

  “With a pipe.”

  “That’ll work.”

  Frank half shut his eyes, remembering. “I pretty much took his fucking head off.”

  “How’d you feel about it?”

  The eyes opened. “I could lie and say I felt great.”

  “But …?”

  “I was sick for a couple days. Couldn’t keep food down. I got over it.”

  “How?”

  “Decided to stop being such a goddamn pussy. It wasn’t like Salvatore Torino was the first man ever to die.” He appraised her with a critical stare. “I’ll bet you didn’t lose your appetite.”

  “I went out afterwards and had two cheeseburgers and a milkshake.”

  “You’re one cold slice, Parker.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “And you’re tough to read. I know you’re a gunslinger, but for the life of me, I can’t make out if you’re a good guy or a bad guy.”

  She wasn’t entirely sure of that, herself. “Depends on your perspective. I’m guessing your nephew thought I was a bad guy. You know, right before I plugged him.”

  “And my guys at the cottage?”

  “Yeah, real shame about them. Wrong place at the wrong time. You know how it is.”

  “You killed my blood relation and two of my most trusted associates. You’ve got to know what happens next.”

  “We’re going to Disney World?”

  “I am going to kill you.”

  He said it without anger, without emphasis, a simple statement of fact.

  Bonnie smiled. “Seems a shame, seeing how we have so much in common.”

  “Yeah, I think we understand each other pretty good. You took care of somebody for killing your folks. Now I got a dead nephew, not to mention two made men who’ll be tough to replace. So I gotta do what’s right.”

  “You putting out a contract on me, Frank?”

  “I don’t want no third parties involved.”

  “I thought a man in your position would delegate this kind of job.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d have my people handle it for me. But you know what they say. This time it’s personal.”

  She fixed him with her trademark blue stare. “Keeping myself alive is personal for me.”

  He met the stare without flinching. Second time today someone had done that. Damn, it was like she’d lost her mojo.

  “That’s your tough luck, Parker. You fucked up, and now you pay the price. Those are the rules.”

  “I’m not big on following rules.”

  “I know your name, your place of business, your home address. Bottom line, you’re not gonna get much older. I can hit you any time.”

  “Unless I hit you first.”

  “Not a chance, baby girl.”

  “Baby girl? You might wanna pull back your attitude a little. What happened to Aaron Walling?”

  “He’s deceased, with extreme prejudice.”

  She’d figured as much, but it was still disappointing to hear. For one thing, it meant she wasn’t going to get her balloon payment. She was not proud of this thought, but there it was.

  “Where’s the body?” she asked.

  “In the bathroom of his condo, where his loving wife will find it when she comes home.”

  “You going after the wife too?”

  “Should I?”

  “She doesn’t know anything about me. It was all Aaron’s show. He wanted justice.” She noticed Frank didn’t ask why justice was necessary. She told him anyway. “Your nephew raped Rachel Walling.”

  Frank let his eyelids slide shot in the equivalent of a nod. “So I heard.”

  “He also killed a kid named Joey Huang, of the Long Fong Boyz. As I guess you know.”

  “So?”

  “So he was a train wreck, Frank. If I hadn’t put him down, someone else would have. You, maybe. You might’ve had to.”

  He considered this. “It’s possible.”

  “Then what’s your beef with me?”

  “What was your beef with the guy that killed your folks?”

  Well. There it was. He really was taking this thing personally. There was no reasoning him out of it.

  “It was three guys,” she said. “Not one. A crew my dad hooked up with in Pennsylvania. They thought he’d stiffed them on a job. He hadn’t.”

  “They killed your mom and dad.”

  “Shot them in a motel room.”

  “But not you? Sloppy.”

  “I was hiding.”

  “How long did it take you to settle the score?”

  “Six months. They went on the run, all the way to Ohio. I had to track them down.”

  “How’d you manage it? Fourteen-year-old orphan tracking a bunch of killers. Not easy.”

  “Not easy,” she agreed. “Especially since I didn’t eyeball the perps. At first I had no idea who I was after.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “I followed the news. One of the shooters was identified. Fingerprints on a shell casing.”

  “Sloppy,” Frank said again.

  “His name and photo made the papers. By then, him and his pals had cleared out; the papers said so. But I recognized him from his photo. I remembered my dad hooked up with him and two other guys a couple years earlier, in Ohio. Town called Buckington. I was in the car when we dropped off my dad at a farmhouse. I knew I could find that farmhouse again. And since they’d used it before, I figured there was a good chance they’d go there this time to hole up.”

  “So you got hold of a piece …”

  “Thumbed my way across state lines and made my move.”

  “You telling me you just waltzed into this farmhouse and took out three guys? Bang, bang, bang?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “And then you had two burgers.”

  “And a milkshake. Don’t forget the milkshake.”

  “You’re a piece of work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Also, a nice piece of ass.”

  “Aw, you hadda go and ruin it. Please don’t tell me you’re getting turned on.”

  “Nah, I’m not hot for you. Believe it or not, I’m faithful to my wife.”

  “You believe in the old-fashioned virtues,” she said dubiously.

  “I believe in family. I respect what you did for your parents. It was the right thing to do. Now I gotta do right by Alec.”

  She didn’t get it. Alec Dante was a putz. A man like Frank had to know it.

  “Did you even like the kid?” she asked.

  His reaction took her by surprise. He lunged forward, and one meaty fist banged an armrest.

  “He was my blood.” The word echoed. People stared. “No one spills my family’s blood and walks away. No one.”

  She met his eyes. “All right, Frankie. Let’s dance.”

  He glared at her, and she glared at him, and there was silence.

  “Excuse me.” It was the clerk from the counter, the one who liked to play Surgeon General. “Is there a problem?”

  Bonnie didn’t break eye contact with Frank. “Don’t worry about it. We got a whole thing going on here.”

  Reluctantly the clerk returned to the counter.

  Bonnie was still watching the big man seated across from her. She could see the intensity in his eyes, the craziness. She remembered what his wife had said about evil spirits, possession. It seemed more plausible now.

  “You could shoot me right this minute,” she said quietly. “I can tell you want to. But doing a hit in front of a hundred witnesses—I doubt even your lawy
er could get you off.”

  His voice came slowly, as if dragged from his very depths. “Not gonna shoot you. Gonna do a whole lot worse than that. You been living on borrowed time ever since Alec hit the water. Soon you pay the hangman.”

  “If you don’t pay him first.”

  “Give it up, Parker.” His face changed color, and he came alive in a whole new way, a way that wasn’t good. “You’re no match for me. You’re just a smart-mouthed little girl.”

  “Rocca and Belletiere might have other ideas.”

  “Rocca and Belletiere ain’t me. You’re playing in a whole ’nother league. Look at me, Parker. I am somebody who makes corpses. It’s what I do, and I been doing it longer than you been alive.” His breath whistled in his nostrils. His eyes were dark and strange. “Take it to the bank, little girl. You are done. I will end you.”

  Bonnie could let him mess with her, or she could let him know she wasn’t playing that game. The decision wasn’t too tough.

  She leaned forward. “I told you not to waste my time with that alpha dog crap. You want me dead? Whoop-de-friggin’-do. I’ve heard that song before. When this is over, you’ll be the one in the ground.”

  His big fists were itching, and the gun under his jacket was printing very obviously against the fabric. He could gun her down right here and now. He really could.

  And she didn’t give a shit.

  “Gonna cut you up with a bone saw—” he began.

  “Suck it, buddy boy. All your stupid threats are worth precisely dick. You’re old and slow, and I am going to kick your fat ass all the way from here to Asskickistan.”

  His hand jerked towards his jacket, then stopped with a last spasm of self-control. “Fuck you, Parker. Fuck you and the pig you rode in on.”

  Her eyes burned into him, playing out a small contest of wills. “You think you’re a big fucking man? You might’ve had the juice once, but you’re all dried up now. You might be good enough to take down an orthodontist or some random schmuck at the grocery store, but you won’t go three rounds against me. Because I am the real deal, chum. Ask your peeps on Devil’s Hook. You wanna go it alone? Your funeral.”

  His fists clenched and unclenched, and his chest heaved. “There’s a steel drum in a warehouse with your name on it, you batshit crazy little whore. And a landfill crawling with rats.”