by Selena Kitt
That was a mistake. The first thing people do when they look at a license is study the face. It's right there. Is that the right face? we ask ourselves.
Yes, it was the right face. Dark hair, dark eyes, nondescript, thick brows, glasses. A nice face. The face in front of me. The right face.
My eyes drifted over to the information, and that was when my blood suddenly slowed to a sluggish crawl in my veins.
Right face. But not the right name.
I stared at the license. The name Donald Cardall stared back up at me.
I went numb. My instincts that this man was not who he said he was had been right, but in the wrong direction. But of course it was Don. Of course it was. It wouldn't be just like a movie if it weren't.
A click brought me back to reality and I looked up.
Might have to reevaluate the 'not stupid' part, I thought, staring at the gun Don Cardall now held casually aimed at my heart.
Chapter Sixteen
So there I was on the third floor of Malcolm Ward's house, totally defenseless with a gun trained on me by Malcolm's once bosom brother turned mortal enemy, Don Cardall, which, now that I thought about it, was totally a Mafia name.
Holy shit, I thought. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I have to admit, I was really surprised. This guy was going to kill me. You don't just pull a gun on someone and expect them to stay quiet about it. And Jesus. I hadn't expected a fucking gun. I hadn't expected to get fucking murdered.
I mean, now that I was face to face with him and saw the tiny flame of desperation in his eyes, it made total sense to me. This was a guy who had everything to lose if I somehow managed to spill the beans. I suppose I should have been thankful that he came along to do the job himself—whack me good, just to make sure I didn't talk, see?—but it was kind of hard to feel anything positive when you're about to die.
I had to distract him somehow. Keep him from killing me long enough to formulate a plan. I'd taken self defense classes. They were all useless in this situation, of course, but I knew how to kick at least.
Reaching out he plucked his license from my hand and put it back in his pocket, all the while watching me with a wary air, clearly waiting for me to react. I was still stuck in my deer-in-the-headlights mode. Distract, I told myself. Distract!
So I did what I do best. I told him he was an idiot.
I mean, say what you like about me, but I'm really good at that.
“Why didn't you just send goons to kill me?” I snapped at him, proud that my voice didn't shake. “What kind of shrewd business dude are you if you don't know how to delegate?”
Right away I knew that was a mistake. His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Who would I trust?” he demanded, and now his voice was completely familiar to me, the voice I'd heard over the phone, without any accent at all. “There is no one to trust. This is something I have to do myself, to be absolutely sure it's handled. Now, tell me where Malcolm has hidden the files.”
I struggled to maintain nonchalance. “Beats me.” I shrugged. “They could be anywhere.”
His eyes gleamed. “So there are files.”
Shit. All right. I had a problem with keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I was fucking stupid.
“Where are all of Malcolm's things? What has he done to this house? Why is it empty?” The barrel of the gun wavered slightly as he peered around, clearly unhappy with the stripped interior.
I needed to get him out of the house. Somewhere in public. “He had it all moved to a warehouse,” I said. “He told me he was giving it all away.”
Don looked surprised at that. “Give it away? Why?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Beats me,” I said.
“Rest assured, I will if you do not cooperate.”
Threats. This fucking guy was a real shithead. First he called me a gold digger and yelled at me on an international phone call, and now he was threatening to beat me, in addition to probably killing me.
Maybe I could use the fact that he was a shithead against him, though. He was smart, shrewd, ruthless—I knew all that from Malcolm's descriptions and my own interactions with him, but contrary to what most people think, being a shithead is a pretty big weakness, and it's the best weakness to exploit because shitheads never think of it as a weakness.
I fought to keep my chin from lifting defiantly and instead tried to look scared. It wasn't hard. I was scared. But I wasn't going to go down without a fight. Malcolm said he admired that in me. I wouldn't let him down.
Don looked mollified. “Very well. Do you know where the warehouse is?”
Sullenly I shook my head and he sighed, as though he dealt with idiots like me every day and it was beginning to wear on his great soul. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a phone and turned it on. He must have dialed this number frequently because he only had to hit a single spot on the screen before bringing it to his ear and listening for the voice at the other end.
“Rick?” he said after a moment. “Yes. I need to know where all of Malcolm's personal effects are located. Yes, he moved them. Find out.”
We stared at each other for a long moment while the man at the other end of the line did whatever it was he needed to do to find Malcolm's secret stash of worthless shit. I tried not to think about the fact that one of Malcolm's lawyers was named Rick. The implications were dreadful.
On the other end of the line Rick came back and Don nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He hit the end button, stuffed the phone back in his pocket, then tilted his head and regarded me. “Let's go,” he said.
I balked. “What?” I said. “Why do I have to go? I don't know anything!” Feigning ignorance of course. I knew lots, but I hoped that if I acted like he might let me go his opinion of my intelligence would sink even lower, if that were possible.
My ruse worked. Contempt passed over his face and I saw that he had to fight rolling his eyes.
What a shithead.
“You are coming with me because I don't believe you. You must have come here looking for the evidence.” His eyes narrowed. “Turn out your pockets.”
I glared at him as I did so, my heart in my mouth. If he strip-searched me it was all over...
He watched, eyes bright, as I turned the pockets of my jeans out, showing him the holes in them. Then he walked toward me, his fine shoes loud on the wooden floor, and stuck his free hand into the pouch of my sweatshirt. His fingers were large, ungentle, and my stomach turned at the feel of them groping me through the thick fabric. He found my phone, took it and then, without warning, he lifted the hem of my sweatshirt and slipped his hand underneath.
I couldn't help myself. I squeaked and tried to squirm away. “What the fuck, man?” I demanded. No one touches me without my consent. No one. “Hands off, pervert!”
He seemed startled by my outburst. His gun hand was so close to me I thought I might be able to knock it out of his grip, but if I missed...
He took a step back, and the moment was lost. Fuck.
“Show me your chest,” he said, cool and collected again.
“No,” I told him.
He lifted the gun.
Panic rose. “You shoot me and you'll never find the evidence,” I blurted, then cursed myself.
“Oh?” he said. “I thought you didn't know where it was?”
I ground my teeth. “I might have an inkling.”
“Here?” he said.
I shook my head.
“The warehouse, then.”
I didn't respond at all.
He gave another exasperated sigh, then shoved his gun into his coat pocket, keeping it trained on me, and grabbed my arm.
Old feelings rose up inside me. Fear. Despair. Desperation. The sting of the blade...
“Don't be too afraid,” he said to me, patronizingly. “If you lead me to the evidence, I will pay you handsomely.”
He really did think I was an idiot. Fine. I could play that role. “How... how much?”
He smiled. “A million dollars?” he said. He
pulled me roughly toward the stairs and pushed me down the first riser. I felt the presence of the gun trained on my back. “Let's go,” he snapped when I didn't move.
I licked my lips. There was no way I could run fast enough to outrace a bullet. I clomped down the stairs, stomping on the steps as if the existence of trees personally offended me and I wanted to dance on their graves. “Twenty million dollars,” I said when I reached the bottom.
“You think you can bargain?” Don asked me as we turned on the second floor and started down to the first. “You think you are in a position to bargain?”
“I think you won't miss twenty million dollars,” I said.
“Perhaps not. But you would miss your head. Think of it that way. A million dollars... or your head.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs and I gave him my best glower. He just laughed at me, and then took a step forward. He was tall, like Malcolm, and his presence far more oppressive. Dark eyes glared down at me from behind the lenses of his fine glasses. He could have been a college professor, or someone's father if it weren't for the air of menace he carried.
Well, maybe he could have been someone's father...
I shoved the thought away, but it was already there, worming into my subconscious. He was going to hurt me, just like my father used to do, and it made me afraid. He saw it in me, too, and a humorless smile grazed over his lips.
“Perhaps,” he mused, “if you show me what Malcolm thought was so wonderful about you, I'll double that sum.” And he reached out and ran a finger over my cheek.
Everything in me rebelled. He repulsed me. But I couldn't let him see that. Instead I let my mouth drop open, shocked. “Are you... are you saying you'd pay me a million dollars to wrap you up in a tarp and beat you with a rubber chicken?” I asked.
The finger on my cheek paused. “What?” he said, then he realized I was making fun of him, and his dark brows drew down. “Don't mock me,” he told me, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped back again and opened the front door. “Let's go.”
The lump in his coat pocket was still aimed at me. I had no choice.
I went.
* * * *
The warehouse where Malcolm had hidden all his things was north, in the Bronx.
I had quietly entered the private car Don had brought with him, but the privacy screen was up between the back seat and the front, so I couldn't even see the driver. So much for silently pleading for his help with my eyes in the rear view mirror. Don sat next to me in the back seat, the gun trained on me, and I tried to plaster myself to the door, keeping as much distance between us as possible.
Now the silence between us was tense as we headed north. I watched the residential streets change and morph from the grand houses of Malcolm's neighborhood into more staid apartments. We crossed the river into the Bronx and I gritted my teeth. The further we drove the less chance I had to survive. I'd told the driver I'd be back in an hour. I'd burned only thirty minutes of that. By the time he realized something was wrong, I'd be dead.
Industrial buildings began to creep into the landscape. Graffiti and run-down projects became the background floating past the window. My only consolation was that the sleek black car we were in was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Someone would definitely notice it. Not that that was going to do me much good... but maybe it would make Don nervous.
We finally found the warehouse. It was a small, squat building painted yellow and covered in tags. It had its own industrial charm, but I was shocked all of Malcolm's stuff could fit into it. His house was huge. Then again, I wouldn't have put it past Malcolm to pick it precisely because of its certain gritty artistry. Rich people love that shit.
I wondered if I'd have a chance to make a break for it when we got out of the car, but my door was locked from the inside, and I had to slide across the seat after Don to get out. He never let the gun waver from my body, though he kept it concealed in his coat at all times.
“Walk,” he commanded me.
I bit my lip, shoving my hands in my hoodie, and walked. I didn't see very many other people, and they were all minding their own business. If I screamed for help, would he shoot me? It didn't seem likely, but then again he was a rich white man and I was... well, I was me. I was white, but not rich, and I was dressed in my poor clothes. If he shot me, there'd probably be reasonable doubt. Someone would think I looked just suspicious enough, that the light was gray enough, that I'd been just threatening enough to let him off the hook. It dawned on me that if he shot me in the warehouse, he would claim he found me here, stealing Malcolm's shit.
People would believe it, too.
If it had been possible, I would have hated Don Cardall even more with that realization.
He nudged me up to the garage entry. There was a keypad next to it and he gestured toward it.
“You put in the code,” he said.
Getting my fingerprints on it, I thought. I input the numbers he rattled off, and the deep click of the door unlocking indicated that the combination had been correct.
“Open it,” he commanded me.
I shot him a glare. Just to fuck with him, I pretended to struggle with it. I'm just a dumb girl, I thought at him, hoping to beam it psychically into his brain. I'm so weak. Now hurry up and make a mistake, you ass. After much theatrical grunting I finally slide the door open and we stepped inside. Don turned on the overhead lights and closed the door after us.
The warehouse spread out in front of me, ugly and stark in the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. All boxed up and arranged by type, Malcolm's amalgam of junk and treasure seemed a lot smaller than it had in his house. Again I was reminded of the things someone leaves behind after they die, and a weird sadness swept through me, cutting into the low-grade hum of adrenaline in my veins.
If I died here, my worldly effects would barely fill a closet. My friends would barely fill three pews. I worked too hard, was too bitter, burned too many bridges. A lump rose in my throat.
Stupid emotions, I thought to myself. Don't need you messing things up right now, thanks.
“Where are the files?” Don's voice behind me cut through my self-pitying melancholia. I had to think fast.
“I'm... I'm not sure,” I said. “He didn't actually tell me where, exactly...”
“Oh? If you aren't going to be of help to me then I'm afraid you won't be earning those one million dollars.” The rustle of his hand drawing out of his coat, exposing his gun, sent a bolt of fear through me.
“No!” I said. “I kind of know where they are.”
He was silent for a moment. “Well?”
I turned around and looked him in the eye. I wanted to make myself as human as possible to him, but the person that peered back at me was cold and hard as a reptile. “It's... I think they're hidden in or on one of his statues.”
I was gambling here. I had no idea if he had any statues. I'd only seen the bust by the student of Rodin, but I was willing to bet he had more.
My gamble paid off. An expression of exasperation passed over Don's face. “Damn,” he said. “I don't suppose you'd know which statue in particular?”
I tried to look contrite and shook my head.
He sighed and checked his watch. “Fine,” he said. “If you do not know where they are, you must find them, and do so in the next quarter hour, or I will shoot you.”
“What?” I cried. “That's not fair! I have no idea where they are!” I gestured at the boxes around me. “How the fuck am I supposed to find them in all... all this in fifteen minutes?”
He shrugged. “The clock is ticking, Miss MacElroy. I suggest you hurry.”
Enraged, I whirled away from him, my mind racing. If I'd been hired to move a crazy rich guy's stuff, what would I do? I'd label everything for starters, and I'd organize it in the warehouse. But would the movers hired have done that? There was only one way to find out.
Hands sweating, heart pounding, I darted away from Don. I heard him curse behind me as he made has
te to follow, and I silently swore that the warehouse wasn't as terribly cluttered as Malcolm's house had been. I could have hidden, maybe... except there was only one way out. I decided to ignore what-ifs and could-have-beens for the moment and concentrate on forming a plan.
The harsh lights overhead gave the whole warehouse a weird, surreal quality. My orientation was thrown off and I found myself bumping into things as my panicked thoughts chased each other in and out of the labyrinths in my head. I jogged on, through the mountains of boxes and furniture, clipping corners with my hip, scraping my arm over rolled up rugs. My anxious eyes swept over the packages surrounding us, some piled high and neat, others lumped together haphazardly. The only saving grace was that each one was labeled quite clearly, and I found that there was a sort of order as I scurried between the groups while Don, larger and more ungainly than me, squeezed through the narrow aisles.
Here were the Dolls (Living Room) and there were the Accordions (Library). Collectibles. My hands floated out from my sides, brushing over the scratchy cardboard as I searched for the art section. I passed through a maze of bookcases, then through their neatly organized guts (fiction, fiction, atlases, history...) Large squares wrapped in brown paper—paintings, the descriptions of each floating across the surface of the paper like a pale ghost of the image inside—told me I was getting warmer. I shuffled through the phantom gallery, squeezing between Fox Hunt and Nude Homosexual Couple, making a beeline for the huge, shapeless lumps wrapped in paper and bubble wrap. Those would be the sculptures.
The chilly air caressed my cheeks as I stopped, breathing hard with fear and adrenaline. I heard Don behind me, his fine shoes scraping over the dirty concrete, and I hoped they had become scuffed to hell and back. As I had thought, Malcolm had quite a few sculptures, but not as many as I had feared. Good. I just... just had to figure out what I was going to do now...
I stepped forward and dug my fingers into the tight wrapping of one large lump. My fingernails tore at the plastic and tape as behind me Don caught his breath and said, “Ten minutes.”