by Shirl Henke
In spite of the differences in their backgrounds, they were sisters under the skin—ruthless schemers. He loved them both to distraction, but that was all the more reason to keep them separated. Claudia a thousand miles away was a good thing. The very thought of the two of them united and working together made him shudder.
Abandoning the ongoing argument that was giving him an ulcer, he trailed her into the walk-in closet where she was hastily stripping off a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’re taking our records to a tax accountant,” he said, but could see she was too rushed to hear him.
Sam hated panty hose for a number of reasons besides the humid South Florida heat that fused them to her legs, but she grabbed a pair from an overflowing drawer. Shoving her way past Matt, she lay back on the bed and yanked them up her legs in one quick motion. “Gotta look like class to impress a guy with a ‘fourth’ tacked on the end of his name, after all,” she muttered to herself.
She made a quick scan of her sadly depleted wardrobe, then seized the first suit that she found, a little black number with a fresh cleaners’ bag over it, remembering gratefully that Matt actually took care of their dry cleaning. She started putting it on while she eyed the pile of shoes on the floor, praying she could find two size-six pumps, preferably the same color.
“An accountant won’t allow you extra deductions for looking great,” he commented as she pitched shoes right and left, trying to match up a pair of Via Spiga pumps.
After finding the second elusive shoe, she looked up at her husband. “Sorry, Matt. This tax man is a new case.”
She thought he muttered something about her being the case as he turned around and stalked down the hall toward their Dumpster of a kitchen. God, she hoped there was some coffee and a couple of bagels left in the fridge—or that he wouldn’t think to check until she was gone. Jamming her feet into the pumps, she ran a quick comb through curly brown hair and made her getaway.
Four in the afternoon in Miami was rush hour, but then the same could be said at four in the morning if you were driving on I-95. Convertibles with tops down and tanned halter-topped drivers with their hair whipping in the wind vied with leather-clad bikers racing up the wide highway. Both weaved in and out like demented triggerfish, changing lanes in front of semis who blasted them with deafening horns. Since her favorite uncle, Declan Ballanger, was an over-the-road trucker, Sam shared the semi-drivers’ irritation. She’d made numerous cross-country runs with him while she was in high school and college. The money had helped her pay tuition.
She was late and far exceeding the speed limit in her—or rather, Matt’s—sleek little Mustang. She had to admit the ride was pretty neat as she cut off a carload of college kids who should’ve been home studying and took the exit leading to Miami Avenue where she headed south, then angled east to Winchester’s posh building.
She paid an obscene amount at the underground parking garage and searched for an open space. Just as she was about to give up and park illegally in a crosswalk, a car pulled out. The guy riding her fender since she’d entered the deck squealed his brakes to keep from hitting her as she waited for the SUV to back carefully out of the tight space. Sam resisted the urge to give the guy behind her the finger.
“Jerk, get your own space.” She expected him to pass her and continue his search, but he just sat behind his darkly tinted windshield in a beat-up Olds that looked long overdue for the junkyard. When the soccer mom was gone, Sam executed a neat turn into the narrow space and jumped out of the car. The elevator was halfway to the other side of the deck.
“Should’ve worn flats,” she groused to herself, hiking down the opposite side of the long aisle. She hadn’t gone more than a dozen car lengths or so when she heard the sound of the Olds’ tires’ squeal as it came up behind her—fast. She whirled around and saw the crazy nut aiming directly for her! Should’ve worn joggers! Sam threw herself onto the hood of a shiny new Town Car and rolled over the side a second before the Lincoln’s front fender crumpled like tinfoil when the Olds sideswiped it.
The Town Car lurched sideways, almost crushing her between it and the Chevy truck parked next to it. Sam jumped on top of the pickup bed and started a game of leapfrog from car to car, trying desperately to get to the elevator as the Olds backed up for another pass. If the heels hadn’t been a splurge for her even though they were on sale, she wouldn’t have bothered to stuff them in her handbag after pulling them off. But she’d be damned if she’d loose a pair of Via Spiga pumps just because some loony wanted to play dodgem cars!
Shoes in, .38 snub nose out. She always carried the small Smith & Wesson on retrievals. But since the job she’d met Matt on had run them both afoul of the local Russian mob, she carried it everywhere now. She felt the fillings in her teeth loosen when the Olds bashed against the little Miata she was balanced on. “A thirty-story office building. It’s near quitting time, but does anybody walk out of the friggin’ elevator or drive by?” she muttered, jumping onto the roof of a much more substantial Dodge Caravan. “Damned yuppies all work overtime!”
Sam flattened herself to aim at the attack vehicle when it again backed up for another pass. She grinned when the passenger window rolled down. “Come to mama,” she crooned, drawing a bead on the big hairy fist holding a Glock out the window. Before he could fire, she did. A yelp of pain followed. As the Olds sped away, she only caught the first four figures of the letter-number combo on the plate. Even that was obscured by mud.
She drew a shaky breath when she heard the big engine’s noise fade in the distance. “Bet he doesn’t pay his parking fee.” But she’d also bet even if the video camera got a clearer shot of the plate as it busted through the wooden crossbar, it would be bogus. Still it wouldn’t hurt to check. She might get lucky.
Yeah, Ballanger. And you might win the lottery, too.
Sam slid off the dusty roof of the Caravan and started to limp toward the elevator. Suddenly she heard the sound of an engine coming up the ramp behind her. It couldn’t be. No, thank God, it wasn’t. A sweet little red Corvette driven by an elderly man barely tall enough to see over the wheel turned the corner and crawled past her. She leaned against the side of an old Buick and took a deep breath.
“Damn.” She looked down at her clothes to inspect the damage. It could be worse. She could be dead, she reminded herself as she started to fish the shoes out of her handbag and replace the gun.
When another car whined down the incoming ramp, Sam jerked her head up, recognizing that particularly powerful old engine. “The chutzpah of some people,” she muttered, diving behind the Buick as a shot grazed her thick mop of hair, then smacked into the wall behind her, dislodging a nasty chunk of concrete.
The Olds was back for a second try.
Chapter 2
This time the driver was doing the shooting. She could tell the shot had passed from the far left side through the passenger window. After she’d put his pal out of commission, he was apparently taking no chances, leaning toward the right of the Olds. If she stayed where she was hiding, he could smack into the car and crush her between it and the wall.
Glancing behind her, Sam could see a narrow pathway along the wall. The row of cars were parked far enough out to let her make a dash. The driver would have to back up or get out of his car to reach her. She spun and started to run while fishing frantically in her handbag for her cell. Damn piece of junk probably wouldn’t work in the underground garage, but anything was worth a try.
The old car’s brakes squealed in protest as her would-be killer tromped them, then fired several more shots. Sam was grateful he wasn’t an aficionado of the target range as she ducked and dodged. Chunks of concrete exploded around her like land mines in Tora Bora. He slammed his Olds into reverse. She could hear the transmission groan in protest, but didn’t take time to watch as its driver followed her. At least backing up in the confines of the dimly lit garage forced him to take his eyes off her.
She made it to t
he cover of a heavy concrete support beam surrounded by cars. “Let’s see you ram this, sucker,” she said, crouching down behind the steel-reinforced barrier. She pressed 911 on the phone. Useless. She might have known. Resisting the urge to throw the cell at her attacker, she took a deep breath and held her .38 Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special with steady hands. She had only four shots left. Once those were gone, so was Sam.
Her buddy didn’t disappoint. He pulled the Olds almost in line with the beam, then slipped out the driver’s side. She could hear the door creak as it opened and see the changing pattern of light through the broken window. Using an old trick she’d learned as a beat cop in one of the city’s less than secure neighborhoods, Sam knelt down and peered beneath the cars, watching for feet.
Nothing like a broken ankle or leg to slow a guy down. She caught a blur of movement, but this one was smart enough to use the rear wheel as cover before she could line up her shot at the awkward angle. She heard some moans and curses from inside the car and recognized it as the distinct local blend known as Spanglish. The one she’d hit was still alive but not happy.
“Looks as if we have what you might call a Cuban standoff, doesn’t it, pally?” she asked. “Better get your partner to an E.R. before somebody calls the cops.”
Her suggestion was ignored. Then he put one foot outside the wheel. Sam took careful aim and fired a single shot at the weathered denim pant leg. Another string of hybrid oaths in a Spanish-English combo.
“Bingo,” she muttered as he hopped back to the car. From the quick leap he made, she knew she’d only nicked him, but that was good enough. The door slammed shut and the Olds took off like a rocket, careening around the corner and vanishing up the exit ramp, a lot faster than the old geezer in the ’Vette. She still only made out the first four digits on the dirty plate. Deliberately covered with mud? Probably.
Sam stood up and leaned against the cool concrete for a minute, collecting herself. Whoever had hired those gunsels meant business. Although she and Matt had made some nasty enemies in the local Russian Mafia, she doubted these two turkeys were connected. One or both of them might have .38 slugs in them—or at least a couple of real nasty gashes, maybe the first shooter a broken arm or hand. That meant they needed medical help of some kind.
She replaced the gun in her handbag and took out the Via Spiga pumps. Shoving the shoes over her mangled stockings, she sprinted toward the elevator to the first floor where her cell would work, then placed a call to Patowski to explain what had just transpired.
Pat was his usual gracious self. “Let me get this straight. You want me to run a check on all Miami E.R.s for a couple of Cubano shooters who you never even got a look at? Driving a rag wagon Olds, for which you only got a partial plate? These supposed Cubanos may have .38 bullet wounds? Hell, Sam, in the last hour you know how many shootings there’ve been in Little Havana alone? And how common .38s are? Talk about your needle in a haystack—why not ask me to pick fly crap out of black pepper?”
Sam sighed, glancing at her watch. “You’re right, Pat. It’s a long shot, but the one in the car I may have hit pretty solid. He wasn’t shooting when the driver got out.”
“What’s this all about? More mob stuff?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Just run the plate and see what you come up with, okay?”
After a martyred sigh, Patowski agreed. He owed her and they both knew it. She and Matt had helped him and his pals at the FBI break a case involving multiple homicides and stop a Russian mafia turf war extending from Miami to New York.
When she ended the call, she could see some of the well-dressed executive types in the exclusive office building giving her the eye. Sam could imagine what she must look like, but one glance at her watch and she also knew she didn’t have time to repair the damage.
She brushed at the dust and oil on her formerly immaculate suit with an oath. For once in her miserable life, couldn’t she look cool and professional? Muttering, “At least black doesn’t show grease stains,” she headed to the elevator and punched the up button.
A woman in a designer suit with a matching briefcase entered the elevator with her, practically stepping sideways through the wide door. She deliberately stood at the opposite side of the car as it began its ascent. “If you think I’m Typhoid Mary, you could’ve waited for the next car,” Sam couldn’t resist saying. Then she sneezed. Her fellow traveler quickly punched a second button and got off at the next floor. Sam rode to the fifteenth.
The elite offices of Winchester, Grayson & Kent were furnished in posh Danish modern, the redwood tones made more subtle by pale gray and mauve upholstery. Tall black urns filled with bamboo and those funny curlicues of decorative wood stood like sentinels flanking the massive reception desk. Abstract watercolors were strategically placed on the pearl-white walls, all of them by one artist, probably Scandinavian and most certainly expensive.
Several men in custom tailored suits occupied chairs that overlooked a solid glass wall with a splendid view of the Intracoastal. One glanced up from his Barron’s long enough to give her a sniff of distaste, then went back to the stock market reports. A woman with glossy blond hair sleeked into a severe French twist sat behind the reception desk. She obviously didn’t like Sam’s appearance, either.
“May I help you?” she said in a tone reserved for a vagrant who’d come to inquire if he could use the executive washroom.
“Sam Ballanger to see Mr. Winchester. I have an appointment.”
Looking highly dubious, the blonde checked the computer screen at her side to confirm. “That was for 4:00 p.m. It’s now—”
“Look, Blondie, I can tell time. I was unavoidably detained by a couple of bozos who tried to run me down, then shoot me in your parking deck. Next time that happens to you, let’s see if that fancy ‘do’ of yours doesn’t get a little messed up, okay?”
Ms. Chandler, as the nameplate on the desk indicated, glared disbelievingly before she caught herself and forced a smile as genuine as the mauve silk floral arrangement beside her computer. “I’ll see if Mr. Winchester is still available. Please have a seat.”
But only if I promise not to get grease on the upholstery. Sam walked over to the window and looked at the stunning vista, all blue skies, gold sand and green palm trees in the distance. Miami Beach with its Art Deco pastels beckoned from across the water, a faded diva ringed by garish new high-rise condos. Her kind of town. She’d known it since her first trip here when she was thirteen and stowed away in the sleeper of Uncle Dec’s rig. He’d been mad enough to chew nails when he’d discovered her at a rest stop in North Carolina. Turned the air blue with his cussing, she recalled fondly. By that time it had been too far to turn back without sacrificing a big payload in Miami, so he’d called her frantic parents and reassured them he’d take good care of his favorite niece. She’d been grounded for the rest of her freshman year, but it had been worth it.
Her reminiscences were interrupted by Ms. Chandler. “Mr. Winchester will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.”
The snotty receptionist looked as if she was trying to digest a bamboo stalk from one of those urns out front and walked as if another stalk was jammed where the Florida sun never shines. They moved down a long hall, footsteps muffled by two-inch-thick Karastan carpeting in a shade Sam would’ve described as Attica gray. Winchester’s nameplate was inscribed in polished brass on the door of the corner office. Of course. He was the senior partner, after all.
Chandler knocked deferentially and was bidden to enter. She stood with her back pressed to the door, careful not to let Sam touch her when she walked inside. A tall silver-haired man with the narrow face and long, straight nose of a blue blood stood behind an immense walnut desk devoid of everything but a leather blotter and a set of Montblanc pens.
“Ms. Ballanger?” He did not smile.
“Mr. Winchester?” she shot back. “Pardon my appearance—and tardiness.” She paused to glance back at the Chandler dame, who was slowly closing the
door behind her. Like to eavesdrop, don’t you, honey? When Sam heard the muffled sound of the latch click, she continued, “I was involved in an altercation in your parking deck. Can you think of any reason someone would try to stop me from taking your case?”
He blinked. “Certainly not. What do you mean by ‘an altercation’?”
So much for well-bred manners. He still didn’t offer her a seat. Even Chandler had done that much. She took one anyway, directly in front of him and he reluctantly lowered himself into the custom leather chair behind the desk. She gave him a quick rundown on the attack in the downstairs garage, studying his response. Hard to tell if he believed her, or even cared.
“It could’ve been related to another investigation, but I’d appreciate it if you’d have the building security check their video cams at the exits between three fifty-five and four-ten or so.”
Winchester shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. If you report this…even to the authorities, I’ll be dragged into something which has nothing to do with me. In fact—”
Sam put up her hand. “Okay, just a thought. The Olds is probably being fed into a compactor as we speak anyway.” She decided to omit her little conversation with Patowski since she didn’t want to lose what promised to be a lucrative job. She’d dealt with uptight types like Winchester before and knew how to handle them. As for a couple of dozen wrecked cars in the bowels of the building, well, let their insurance companies handle that.
“Who do you want me to retrieve and why?” she asked.
He hesitated, then replied, “Jay did recommend you highly.” Although he still appeared skeptical, he continued, “My son, Farley, is missing. The boy probably thinks he’s on a secret mission for the Confederation of Planets, but my guess is that he’s still somewhere on Earth—with my stolen Jaguar and his friend Elvis.”
“Elvis? Excuse me?” Sam couldn’t help the incredulous expression on her face.