A Deadly Game

by J. P. Bowie

  “Ah, Eric… Jeez, Eric,” Nick moaned into his lover’s mouth as he felt his own orgasm surge through him in a shuddering tumult. They clung to each other as their bodies spasmed together in a mutual ecstasy.

  When they were spent and sated, lying within the comfort of each other’s arms, and Nick’s senses were once more under his control, his mind spun back to that moment when he thought he had lost Eric forever. Before sleep took him, he made a silent vow that Garcia would never get the chance to come that close to Eric again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nick woke later that morning and realized he felt a whole lot better than he had a right to. Despite the dull ache that surrounded the bruise on his temple, and despite the fact they had not gone to bed until after three and then engaged in rapturous sex, or perhaps because of that, he felt alert and energized. Eric was already up; Nick could hear him moving about in the kitchen, and the tantalizing smell of freshly brewed coffee came sweetly to his nostrils. Still, he lay for a bit longer thinking about what Eric had said earlier.

  Despite his promise to him, there was no way Nick was going to involve him any further in his search for Garcia. Yes, McKenna would bring in the FBI, that was a given—and maybe they just might be successful in finding Garcia. But now it was personal. Nick had felt loss over Andy’s murder. Andy had been a good friend, but that feeling could never compare to the almost overpowering rage he had experienced when he had witnessed Garcia trying to kill Eric. Now, it wasn’t enough that the FBI caught Garcia and put him back in prison to await the death sentence he so justly deserved. He wanted to kill Garcia himself. He wanted to make sure that Garcia was no longer a threat to Eric—or anyone else.

  Throughout the years that Nick had been in law enforcement, he had never wanted to kill anyone. He had always believed that even the most depraved criminals deserved their day in court, but Garcia had violated Nick’s basic beliefs. He had tried to take away something too precious to lose, and for that he must die. Nick knew that he would never be completely at ease until Garcia was gone for good. It had to be done, but Eric must not know any of the details. It was going to hurt him when he found out that Nick had broken his promise, but better that than have him face Garcia again. The next time they might not be so lucky.

  “Hey, sleepy-head,” Eric sang out from the kitchen. “Do I have to come in there and haul you out of bed?”

  “I’ll be right there.” Trying to push thoughts of Garcia to the back of his mind, Nick swung his long legs out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  “Jeez,” he muttered, looking in the mirror as he relieved himself. He fingered the livid bruise on the side of his head, and counted himself lucky it wasn’t a whole lot more serious. He pulled on a pair of shorts and joined Eric in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling the back of his neck.

  “Mmm,” Eric murmured, pressing his rump into Nick’s groin. “You feel like you’re ready to go again.”

  “Always ready for you,” Nick said, turning him around and kissing his lips. “Come back to bed.”

  “It’s late,” Eric protested. “I have to get to the gallery.”

  Nick frowned. “I don’t want you going there by yourself today.”

  “But it’s Sunday—a big tourist day. I have to be there, Nick.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Okay, but first I have to go pick up my car. I called Andrew and he’s coming over to give me a lift up to Mystic Hills.”

  “Don’t tell him anything about what happened up there.”

  “I won’t. I just haven’t quite worked out what I’m going to tell him—about why my car’s there, I mean.”

  “Tell him we were at a party or somethin’ and we both got soused and couldn’t drive home.”

  Eric laughed. “Like he’d believe that. How’s the head?” He touched the bruise on Nick’s temple carefully.

  “Not too bad. Damn, I’m going to have to get a rental till the cops find my car—if they ever do.”

  “I wonder where Garcia is,” Eric said, handing Nick a cup of coffee.

  “My hope is he’s heading for the border. He just might have somewhere he can lay low for a time. He’s gotta decide whether it’s worth having another crack at me, or just getting the hell out of the country.”

  “I pick the latter choice for him,” Eric ventured an attempt at humor. “What’s your gut feeling?”

  “Well, he’s got to have figured that the cops know now he’s here in Orange County. His plan to off the pair of us, and then clear out before anyone noticed, hasn’t panned out, so I’m thinking he’s not going to risk getting caught again over a pair of maricóns. Know what I mean?”

  Eric nodded. “Yeah, his charming little word for us.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “D’you think he believed you, about his son being gay?”

  “He won’t want to, but I think it’s gotta rankle in his brain a little. He’ll never be really sure now. He’s always going to wonder.”

  Later, as Nick showered, he hoped that his remark about Garcia not wanting to risk his freedom for the sake of revenge had registered with Eric the way he’d wanted it to. He wanted to make Eric believe that Garcia would not waste any more time on trying to kill either one of them; that instead he would be using every available contact to help him get out of the country. Nick was going to enforce that belief every opportunity he got for as long as it took. There was no way he was going to let Eric and Garcia be in the same room together again—ever.

  § § § §

  Garcia sat at an immense dining room table and glowered at his reluctant host. He had made his way to the home of an old associate now living in Corona del Mar. To say the man was troubled to see Garcia was an understatement—he was terrified. He had managed to conceal his fear, however, as he’d beckoned Garcia across his threshold, all the time wondering how in the hell he could rid himself of this unwanted guest.

  Mario Torres had collaborated with Garcia for years before the takedown that had ended with Garcia behind bars. Torres’s involvement with Garcia had gone unnoticed by the FBI, with the result that he had escaped scrutiny and had retired from the narcotics business, fleeing to California and secreting himself in a quiet, respectable enclave where no one knew his past, nor even his true identity. But suddenly his past had caught up with him, in the form of Francisco Garcia, and Torres was terribly afraid that before long, his criminal association with Garcia would be laid bare for all to see—and that could only end in either incarceration, or death.

  Now Torres’s mind churned with anxiety and a deep-seated fear of what this day might bring him. “So, Francisco, my friend…” He fought hard to keep the tremor from his voice as he addressed Garcia. “How may I be of service to you?”

  Garcia stared at Torres with barely concealed contempt. “I have some unfinished business to attend to. Once that is completed, I will need you to drive me over the border into Mexico.”

  “Mexico?” Torres had developed a nervous tic near the corner of his mouth. “But the border patrols are much stricter these days. There has been much talk of it recently—”

  “Nevertheless, it’s what I must do.” Garcia smiled thinly as he interrupted. “I know you can make some arrangements, Mario. You still have contacts. Once there, I can arrange for a plane to take me back to Puerto Rico. Also, I need a gun—preferably two—and a knife. Lastly, you will get rid of the car I arrived in, and get me another. Something small and easily forgotten—” He broke off as Torres’s wife entered the room.

  Angelina Torres was, by any standards, a beautiful woman. Fifteen years younger than her husband, she glided with an elegant grace across the floor to where the two men sat. Garcia rose and bowed his head slightly. His dark eyes glittered with admiration.

  “Angelina, as beautiful as ever, I see,” he murmured.

  “Francisco, what a surprise.” Her eyes flashed toward her husband for a second before settling on Garcia’s bearded face. “You are so changed,” she re
marked, sitting at the table opposite Garcia. “I would not have known you.”

  “Three years in prison can change a man.”

  “But not his need for revenge, it seems.” Her smile was enigmatic. “We have been following the reports of your adventures. The police officer you killed in Pittsburgh. A cop-killer they’re calling you now.”

  “He was one of those responsible for Joseph’s death.”

  “And the one you shot in the cemetery?”

  “That was a mistake.”

  Angelina’s light laughter caused Garcia’s face to tighten with anger.

  “That is why I am here,” he snarled. “To finish what I promised my son I would undertake in his name.”

  Both he and Angelina turned at the sound of Torres clearing his throat. “Francisco requires our help, my dear.”

  “I heard what he asked, Mario.” She narrowed her eyes at Garcia. “Two guns, a knife, a car? How many more do you intend to kill before Joseph’s soul is appeased?”

  “Only one—two, if the other one gets in the way again.”

  “Again?” Angelina’s tone was sharp. “You have already confronted him? He got away?” Her soft lips tightened in a sneer. “Another mistake, Francisco?”

  “Do not bait me, Angelina,” Garcia hissed. “Or that may be your mistake.”

  “You are in no position to threaten me.” She rested her clasped hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, staring into Garcia’s eyes with a fierceness that took him slightly aback. “One call and your days of freedom would be over, Francisco. Without our help, you will be lost. There is no one else here who can help you. So…” She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. “I suggest you hurry with your plan to kill whomever is next on your list—but do not implicate us. That just will not do. Mario and I have a good life here in California. We will not have it ruined by your petty need to avenge your son’s death. This has obsessed you and it will be your downfall. Tell me, do you want to spend the rest of your days in prison waiting for the executioner?”

  Garcia ground his teeth in fury, but at the same time could not help but feel an admiration for this beautiful woman who appeared so unafraid of him. He could snap her neck with a flick of his wrist, yet she sat, calmly smiling at him, serene and confident of her own power over him. For she was right—he did need her. More than he needed her fat, stupid husband. Angelina Torres was the one who could get him what he wanted.

  “My apologies,” he now whispered, bowing his head respectfully. He gazed into the amber depths of her eyes and smiled. “Of course, you are right. But I hope you will understand when I say, I must complete what I started. The last man responsible for Joseph’s death still lives.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “His name is Nick Fallon. He was a detective with the Pittsburgh police force, and now masquerades as a private detective in Laguna Beach.”

  Angelina’s eyes flicked toward her husband. “He sounds familiar, does he not, Mario?” Her husband gave her a blank look, and she turned away from him with a sigh of impatience. “I read somewhere, in a magazine, I think, or it might have been an advertisement. Fallon, and someone else, investigators. Don’t you remember, Mario? Oh, I can’t quite think what it was—”

  “What does it matter?” Garcia interrupted. “He is the one I want. He is a filthy-mouthed maricón.”

  “He is gay?” Angelina’s laughter echoed through the dining room. “And he escaped from you? Oh, Francisco!”

  Garcia’s face flushed with pent-up rage. “You will not mock me, woman, I warn you.”

  “Oh, please.” Angelina smirked at him. “But I forgot. You said there were two of them. That explains everything. Two against one—bad odds, even when they are both faggots.”

  Garcia growled deep in his throat. I will kill her, he thought. After she is no longer of use to me, I will kill her.

  “But, I have a plan which might just help you, Francisco.” Angelina rose from the table and walked over to the French windows. For a time she stood gazing thoughtfully out at the lush landscaping that surrounded her home.

  “What is it, my dear?” Torres asked. “What is your plan?”

  She turned and faced the two men. “So simple, really. I will call this Nick Fallon, and I will request his help in a private investigative matter. My husband…” She paused to giggle at what she was about to say. “My husband, I fear, is having an affair. I will ask him to visit me here so I can give him all the details. He will arrive, I will graciously invite him in, and there you will have him. And this time, on his own, Francisco.”

  Garcia gritted his teeth at the veiled insult. But, he thought, it might just work. Fallon would walk unsuspecting into a trap, and he, Garcia, would have the added support of Mario and Angelina. Well, Angelina, at least. He doubted if Mario would be of any great help in a confrontation. The man had grown fat and soft—and afraid.

  “Are you sure you can get him to come here?” Garcia asked. “What if he insists on an appointment in his office?”

  “I will tell him I have hurt my wrist and cannot drive.” She gave Garcia a little smile. “My husband and I had an argument and he used brute force upon me.” Once again, her laughter filled the room. “Oh Mario, you brute!”

  Torres had grown pale listening to her plan. “But bringing a detective, even a private one, here to our house, to kill him? How will we dispose of the body? What if the police trace him here? Your name will be on his records. Perhaps he records his phone calls.”

  Angelina sighed with impatience, but Garcia frowned as he listened to Torres. “Mario may be right. Added to that, is the risk that a neighbor will see his car arrive—”

  “And depart,” Angelina snapped. “If the police ask me, I will tell them, ‘Why yes, Mr. Fallon was here. He stayed about an hour, listening to my fears and promising to find out if they were justified. Then he left, and I never heard from him again. I called his office and was told he had not come in to work. ‘Oh,’ I will say, ‘please tell him to call me when he does come in.’ By that time we will have disposed of his car. The police will verify my story and look elsewhere.”

  “I don’t like it,” Torres muttered.

  Garcia was silent, weighing his options. If Angelina could get Fallon here, it could only work to his advantage. He would have Fallon at his mercy and finish him quickly. What happened to Mario and Angelina after that—well, he could take care of that problem. Perhaps they would not be around to answer any questions the police might have. What mattered most was, he would have fulfilled his promise to Joseph. Then he could plan his escape.

  His eyes gleamed as he smiled at Angelina. “I like it, very much. It’s a brilliant plan. Beauty and brains in one woman. You are a very lucky man, Mario.”

  “You will have to be patient, Francisco,” Angelina told him. “Today is Sunday, and the fearless detective will not be answering his phone. I will leave a message asking him to call me first thing Monday morning. Then we can set the plan in motion. Meanwhile, you will be our guest.” She turned to her husband. “Mario, better pull the car into the garage before anyone notices it. Come, Francisco, let me show you your room.”

  § § § §

  Nick sat in the back room of Peter’s gallery looking at the list of phone calls he needed to make that morning. Out in the gallery, Eric smiled and politely answered questions for the crowds who milled around gawping at the paintings that covered the gallery walls. Nick could hear Eric’s low and pleasant voice explaining some of the techniques Peter employed in his work. Not for the first time Nick marveled at the amount of knowledge and expertise Eric had accumulated in the year he had been Peter’s assistant.

  His eyes fell on the number at the top of his list. “Acme Realty.” The sign had been outside the house on Mystic Hills, and Nick was curious to know just who owned the property and how Garcia had managed to rent it. The young man who answered Acme’s phone identified himself as Ron Simmons, and sounded eager to be of assistance when Nick told him
he was a private investigator. Yes, he knew the house Nick was asking about. Yes, it was still for sale. No, it could not be rented. No, it was not currently occupied.

  “Would you remember if you had shown it to a man by the name of Francisco Garcia?” Nick asked him.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Wait, Nick thought, what was the name Garcia had used when he duped Eric into thinking he was interested in buying one of Peter’s paintings? Gonzales. “How about a Mr. Gonzales?”

  “Uh, yeah, Federico Gonzales. I have him here in my appointment book. I showed it to him on Friday. He said he’d call me back but didn’t. Big surprise.”

  So, that was it. Gonzales had found himself a vacant property, and had somehow managed to ensure that a door or window was left unlocked after the realtor had shown it to him. He had then returned there on the Saturday night, feeling confident no one would be around. However, all this was a dead end. The owners of the property—two guys, retired schoolteachers—had moved to Palm Springs. Nick was pretty sure they would have had no connection to Garcia.