With hot water needling into my upturned face and now-aching body, I made myself review the entire sequence of events. From the moment I noticed the black SUV in the rearview mirror to the crash to the shoot-out and explosion.
In retrospect, I saw the hit had been well planned and executed. The bastard had probably tailed us out of Tucson. Maybe all the way from El Paso, although I doubted that. Surely I would have noticed him somewhere along that wide open stretch of highway.
No, he had to have picked us up here in Tucson and followed us out of the city. He’d hung back until we approached the curve in the road, timing his move to send us off the bridge and into the gully. Then he’d come armed to finish us off.
Why?
That question nagged at me as I toweled off and changed into the clean underwear and sweats I’d purchased at Walmart.
Why here? Why now?
If a stone-cold killer wanted to get rid of either Mitch or me, why not do it in El Paso or out at Dry Springs? What did we now know that made us targets?
The only new factor in the equation that I could discern was our unannounced visit to B&R. But the FBI had been there, too. They’d interviewed Roger Carlisle. They’d grilled Joy Bennett. Mitch and I hadn’t picked up anything significant from either one except . . .
A sudden frisson rippled down my spine. Gulping, I remembered Mitch saying he was going to dig into Carlisle’s background on our return to El Paso.
Carlisle, who’d had a supposedly casual conversation at a bar with Nicolas Sloan.
Carlisle, who’d introduced Sloan to Joy Bennett.
Carlisle, who Joy assumed had told the FBI about his tenuous connection to her lover.
Didn’t take a genius to make the next leap. With blazing clarity, I remembered the call I’d received when we’d stopped for lunch. The number I hadn’t recognized. The quiet clicks on the other end.
As clear as a bell, I recalled the 911 operator saying they could get a fix on our location from my cell phone. If 911 could, so could Carlisle. Or Sloan.
Be interesting as hell to see who Carlisle had contacted after we left his office. Paul Donati and company could check that out.
I hurried back to the hospital, anxious to discuss my thinking with Mitch, but he was out cold. I sat with him until the hall lights dimmed and that soft, beeping stillness unique to hospitals descended.
Not until I’d called it quits for the night and started across the street to the hotel did another thought occur to me. Neither Carlisle nor Sloan could know we knew they’d had direct contract. The only link between them—and us—was Joy Bennett.
Which could make her their accomplice.
Or as much a target as Mitch or me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I argued with myself for most of the drive to Bennett’s house.
She wasn’t my responsibility. I didn’t owe her so much as a phone call. She’d made her bed, literally and figuratively. Let her sleep in it.
The problem was, I identified with the woman. Not her short, stocky figure, I hasten to say. Or—God forbid!—her beetle brows. But like Joy, I’d let a man make a fool of me. Charlie happened to be my husband at the time, not my lover, but the end result was the same.
Added to that was this gut feeling that Joy might be next on the hit list. Someone needed to warn her, so I’d appointed myself as messenger.
I was just a few blocks away from her house when my cell phone rang. Goosey now over the possibility it had been used to track Mitch and me earlier today, I double-checked the Caller ID screen. I recognized the El Paso area code but not the number. I hesitated, fingering the phone for a long moment before answering.
“Lieutenant Spade.”
“This is Paul Donati,” a very angry-sounding male barked into my ear. “What the hell is it going to take to keep you out of my business?”
“Excuse me. It’s my business, too. Or should I just shrug aside the fact that someone torched my lab and ran Mitch and me off the road?”
“You wouldn’t have been run off the road if you’d stayed in El Paso and let us work this.”
Hard to argue with that.
“I just called Mitch at the hospital,” Donati informed me, still steaming. “He was too groggy to talk.”
“They gave him some powerful painkillers. He’s out for the count. Talk to me instead.”
“I’ll wait for Mitch to . . .”
My knuckles turned white where I gripped the phone. What did I have to do to gain entree into their friggin’ club?
“Talk to me, dammit! I’m as much a part of this investigation as you or Mitch.”
Phone to my ear, I waited through a short but speaking silence. Donati broke it finally, his reluctance audible in every syllable.
“We ID’ed the man Mitch shot this afternoon. His name is Edward Granger, although he’s used a number of aliases over the years.”
“Was one of them Nicolas Sloan?”
“Yes.”
I wondered how The Brow would react to discovering she’d jumped into the sack with a cold-blooded killer. That would certainly put a damper on my extracurricular activities for the foreseeable future.
“Look,” Donati said, breaking into my thoughts, “I can’t go into more detail over an open line. Just tell Mitch I’ll be up to see him in the morning.”
“Before you come, how about checking calls made to and from Roger Carlisle’s office at B&R Systems after eleven this morning?”
“Carlisle? Why?”
I turned his question around. “Did Carlisle tell you he knew Granger-slash-Sloan?”
“No. Who says he did?”
“Joy Bennett.”
“Why didn’t she tell us that?”
“Maybe it slipped her mind while you were working her over with a rubber hose.”
A pained note came into his voice. “For the record, we don’t use rubber hoses on women. Chinese water torture works better with females.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“You should. You keep messing in my business, Lieutenant, and you’ll move to the top of my torture list.”
He hung up before I’d worked up the nerve to mention that I was about to mess a tad more.
I tucked the phone inside my tote, debating whether I should turn around and scuttle back to the hotel like a good little girl. Donati had sounded half serious with that torture threat.
Then there was my boss. Dr. J, too, had strongly suggested I back off. The fact that I’d helped bring down a killer might win me some brownie points with him, though. If I left it there.
On the other side of the equation was Joy Bennett and my growing conviction she was as much a victim in this whole mess as John Armstrong Sr. Granger-slash-Sloan had destroyed her life with almost as much finality as he’d tried to destroy Mitch’s and mine. She needed to be told about her former lover, and that wasn’t the kind of thing you dropped on a gal over the phone.
Or so I rationalized as I turned onto her block just in time to see a white sedan backing down her driveway. The sedan jerked to a halt halfway to the street. I did the same two houses away. Her husband, I thought as a male almost as short and stocky as The Brow pushed out of the car. I remembered Bennett telling us he worked nights.
Mr. Brow left the car door open and the headlights piercing the night while he marched back to the two-story adobe. The front door was yanked open before he reached it. Joy stood illuminated in the backlight, her stumpy figure framed against the antique oak coat rack. She gripped the door as her husband launched into a heated monologue, stabbing the air between them with a forefinger.
She obviously didn’t care for whatever he had to say. The door slammed in his face a moment later and he stomped back to his car. Tires screeching, he peeled down the drive and whipped onto the otherwise quiet street.
Probably not the best time for me to come calling.
Lips pursed, I debated the matter again before killing the engine. I left the rental parked where it was and wa
lked the short half block to Bennett’s house.
She yanked the door open again in response to my knock. Her face was savage with fury, and the golf club gripped in her upraised fist had me taking a quick step back.
“I swear to God, I’ll knock you from here to . . . !”
She cut off in mid-shout. Chest heaving, she lowered the club and skewered me with a furious glare.
“What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m all talked out. I’m all yelled out. Go away.”
She tried to slam the door. Keeping a wary eye on the club, I blocked the door with my foot and blurted out what I knew would grab her instant attention.
“Nick Sloan is dead.”
The woman went rigid with shock. In the bright foyer light, I could see the furious red leach out of her cheeks.
“Wh-What did you say?”
“He ran Agent Mitchell and me off the road this afternoon, then used us for target practice. Mitch’s aim was better.”
“My God!”
She staggered back a few paces. I followed, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t intend to leave until I got some answers.
“Did you call Nick Sloan this morning, Joy? Did you tell him that Agent Mitchell and I had been by to see you?”
“No! I haven’t seen or talked to him in weeks!”
I believed her. No one could feign that shocked white face and the shaking hand she shoved through her cropped hair.
“Is he . . . ?” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “Is he really dead?”
I was in no mood for nice. “Last I saw of him, he was missing the top half of his skull and being loaded into a body bag. So, yeah, I’d say he’s dead.”
She dropped the club and let it clatter into the coat rack. Slumping against the foyer wall, she covered her face with her hands. I didn’t know whether she was crying for herself or her lover. Both probably.
“Joy, listen to me. I need to know. Did you tell anyone Agent Mitchell and I had come by to see you?”
“My . . . My husband.” She hiccuped, dropping her hands. “When he . . . got up.”
She lifted a tear-ravaged face. The bitterness and despair that seeped into her expression were painful to watch.
“Your visit this morning sparked a whole new round of arguing. Brian and I have been going at it all day. You just missed him,” she added. “He left for work right before you got here.”
“Anyone else? Did you tell anyone else?”
“My boss. Former boss,” she amended with that awful, aching bitterness.
“You talked to Carlisle?”
“I called him,” she said, obviously confused by my sudden, sharp tone. “I wanted to know why he hadn’t told you or the FBI that he knew Nick.”
“What did he say?”
“That he didn’t know Nick. He insisted they hadn’t exchanged more than a half dozen words that night at the Chamber of Commerce function. I guess . . . I guess a brief contact like that isn’t all that important.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
My vehemence startled her. Blinking, she stared at me.
“Don’t you see?” I pressed urgently. “You’re the only person who can link Carlisle to Sloan. My guess is he probably freaked out when you said you’d mentioned that link to Mitch and me. That’s why he sent Sloan to silence us. Why he might try to silence you.”
The blotchy color that had seeped back into her face drained away again.
“You’re crazy! Roger Carlisle may be a stinker to work for but he wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . .” She gagged on the word. “. . . silence anyone!”
“You’ve left me no choice.”
The terse comment spun us both around. My heart almost jumped out of my chest when I saw Carlisle framed in the door to the kitchen. The gun gripped in his gloved hand didn’t do a whole lot for my equilibrium, either.
He wore all black. Black slacks, black leather jacket despite the heat, black knit watch cap pulled low on his forehead.
My heart jackhammering against my sternum, I swiped my tongue over suddenly dry lips and managed what I hoped was a creditable sneer.
“Let me guess. You’re all dressed up as a cat burglar because you planned to make this visit look like a robbery gone bad.”
“What I planned was to make it look like a case of domestic violence,” he ground out.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. It didn’t calm my shrieking nerves to realize he was wound tight. Obviously the man wasn’t used to doing his own dirty work. I kept my eye on that nervous twitch as he shifted his glance to the woman beside me.
“You set it up for me, Joy. I could hear you and Brian shouting at each other while I waited in the alley behind your house. I’m sure the neighbors could, too.”
Bennett had remained mute to this point, paralyzed with fear. Carlisle’s utter ruthlessness shocked her into a gasp of disbelief.
“You were going to kill me and let Brian take the blame?”
“Not were. Am. Like I said, you’ve left me no choice.” His gaze darted back to me. I didn’t like the way his mouth went hard and tight.
“Having you here complicates the matter. Freaking Granger. He said he’d take care of you and your friend.”
“He tried.”
“Where’s Mitchell?”
“Outside,” I lied. “Waiting for me in the car.”
He threw a glance at the window in the room just off the foyer. I used his brief distraction to sidle closer to the golf club tilted against the coat rack. I’d moved only an inch or two when Carlisle’s eyes whipped back to me.
“Mitch is armed.” I talked fast, my gaze locked with his but every atom of my being focused on that club. “If you shoot us, he’ll hear the shots and come in firing. He’ll pump a bullet into your head, Carlisle, just like he did Granger.”
That shook him. The muscle in his cheek jumped again.
“Granger’s dead?”
“Missed that part of my conversation with Joy, did you?”
I used the ruse of thrusting my jaw out to ease another inch toward the coat rack.
“I told her just before you interrupted us that her former lover is now minus the top half of his skull.”
“Jesus!”
“The Lord’s not going to help you out of this mess, Carlisle. You’re hanging out there, all on your own. You might as well give it up now.”
“I can’t give it up. I’m in too far.”
“Listen to me! You don’t want to pull that trigger. Even if evidence links you to Sloan and through him to John Armstrong and Patrick Hooker, you can plead to a lesser charge of conspiracy to commit murder. I don’t know what penalty that carries in civilian life, but in the military it won’t put you in front of a firing squad. At the most you might get twenty to thirty years.”
I couldn’t believe I was spouting the Uniform Code of Military Justice at the man! All those bored hours perusing the UCMJ and its accompanying Manual for Courts-Martial might just pay off.
I realized I’d overplayed my hand when Carlisle’s nostrils flared. “You’re forgetting those stolen weapons. That’s another ten to twenty.”
“You could serve them concurrently,” I said, clutching desperately at any legal straw I could pull out of my hat.
“I’m not spending the rest of my life in prison.”
I was sure the discussion was over then. I tensed, preparing to leap for the damned club, when Joy distracted us both.
“Tell me something, Roger. If you and Nick were in this together, I assume you were the one feeding him information on B&R’s shipments.”
“Not just B&R’s,” the executive admitted. “I tapped into several of our competitor’s tracking systems, as well.”
“So what did Nick want with . . . ? Why did he . . . ?”
“Go after you?” Carlisle’s lip curled. “It started as a joke. You’re so straight and sanctimonious, he just wanted to see if he could get into your pants. On
ce he had, we realized you were the perfect scapegoat if any of this should track back to B&R.”
Joy gave a strangled sob and slumped against the wall again. To buy a few more precious moments, I put in my own request for clarification.
“What about Patrick Hooker? Was he a scapegoat, too?”
“Hooker was a problem. We’d heard rumors from sources inside the Justice Department that he was making noises about cutting a deal before his lawyer pushed through that writ of habeas corpus.”
There it was again. That “high level” interest. Carlisle must have played his Washington connections for all they were worth.
“We couldn’t risk letting him be shipped back to Colombia for trial. Ed assured me their methodology for extracting confessions is considerably more direct than ours.”
“Rubber hoses,” I murmured, wishing I’d taken Paul Donati at his word and stayed out of his business.
“Exactly. Ed arranged Hooker’s escape.”
“And subsequent demise. How does it make you feel, knowing you and Granger played on a father’s grief to get him to commit murder?”
His face hardened. “We didn’t have a choice.”
“Bullshit!”
The explosion came from Joy. Her eyes lit with fury, she shoved away from the wall.
“You made choices every step of the way, Roger. You chose to get into the business of selling stolen arms. You chose to partner with Nick and this Patrick Hooker. You chose to come here tonight.”
She took one pace forward for each of her boss’s bad decisions, stalking him like a harsh, unrelenting conscience. I held my breath and expected to hear his gun go off at each angry step.
“You made all kinds of choices, Roger. You just made the wrong ones!”
I knew I’d never get another opportunity like the one Joy gave me in that instant. She’d drawn Carlisle’s attention, angled him away from me a few precious degrees. In one swift lunge, I got a grip on the club and swung it with everything in me.
The shaft cracked against bone.
The gun flew out of Carlisle’s hand.
He doubled over and I swung again. This time the club head connected. I don’t think I’ll ever hear anything as satisfying as the whack when it hit the back of his skull.
All the Wrong Moves Page 16