When You Can't Stop (Harper McDaniel Book 2)

by James W. Hall

  But pulled back in time.

  “A kick in the snout? I come all this way, this is the greeting I get?”

  Sal Leonardi, her grandfather, in yellow walking shorts and a pink seersucker shirt, carried a chunky backpack slung over one shoulder, a liter water bottle in his right hand, and a manila envelope in his left. He was standing with his back to the bed, shirt dappled with sweat, a tired grin on his lips.

  “Should’ve called first,” he said. “Sorry, sorry. I barge in, probably scared the bejesus out of you, but that’s me, no social graces. Hey, at my age, set in my ways, I’m a lost cause, what can I do?”

  Before she could speak, he raised his hands defensively.

  “Truth is, I did call. Last two months, I called ten times a day. Called so much my poking finger’s bruised. And did you once answer your phone? No, ma’am, you didn’t. Instead you send a postcard to me and Nick, a postcard for Christ’s sake, a postcard saying nothing, it might as well have been blank.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Better be glad I did. You’ll be thanking me in a minute once I show you this.”

  He held up the manila envelope and rattled its contents, then lifted the plastic bottle to his lips and swallowed a three-bubble gulp. Now in his mideighties, Sal had once been a sturdy man of nearly six feet, though now his frame had shrunk several inches, his shoulders hunched, his arms and legs frail. In his day, he’d been a charismatic charmer, a dashing lady’s man. A teller of tall tales, romancer of showgirls, big-tipping raconteur, cigar-wielding, captivating grandpa, although Deena, mortified by her father’s occupation, had tried her best to keep Sal and Harper apart.

  For forty years Sal worked as a bookkeeper for the Tessalini crime family. These days he’d retired from the mob and was living out his last years in a two-room apartment ten blocks from South Beach. Just another white-haired pensioner with bones dwindling to dust and skin so sheer it was nearly translucent. Though his blue eyes could still flicker with mischief, today they were pinched and shadowed by something Harper hadn’t seen in Sal before—an anxious strain.

  “All right, Sal, tell me right now. How’d you find me?”

  He drew a breath, set the water bottle on her bedside table, looked around the room, and frowned.

  “Jesus, what a dump. Dreary as a convent. Place like this, I expect a big crucifix nailed to the wall, picture of long-haired Jesus. What’s wrong, Harper, couldn’t afford a decent hotel? You usually got such good taste in accommodations. The one in Madrid, the Gran Meliá Fénix, that was a beauty. I say that name right?”

  “Sal, goddamn it. You were in Madrid?”

  He raised his open hands and shrugged. What’s the difference?

  “Have a look at what I brought. That’ll answer everything.”

  He unsnapped the manila envelope, reached inside, and removed a handful of documents bundled by rubber bands. He held them out.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Check these over, then make an old man happy saying you’re glad to see me, you missed me, you’re sorry you didn’t stay in touch, disappearing like you had something to hide, which you don’t, and even if you did, even if it was something terrible—murder, kidnapping, whatever—I’d forgive you in half a heartbeat. And when you’re done looking, you can thank a tired old-timer coming all this way, and you can’t even say a decent hello, not even a kiss on the cheek.”

  She took the packet, stripped away the rubber bands, and leafed through it. Three passports with her photograph and specs, three different identities. One was Canadian, another British, the third American with an address in Arizona, a town she’d never heard of. All were stamped at national borders that a typical tourist might cross, nothing that would raise a red flag.

  Crafty Lavonne.

  There were other IDs as well, the ones she’d asked Lavonne to create for her.

  “That one,” Sal said, pointing at the photo ID in her hand. “What’s that about? OLAF? Never heard of it?”

  She waved away the question. Not about to bring Sal any deeper into this.

  “Fine, take your time, but there’s something else you need to see.”

  “Lavonne sent you?”

  “Kind of,” he said. “Last month I e-mailed her, asked if she knew where the hell you’d gone to, what you were doing, maybe something clandestine, a job she sent you on. I was worried. Nick was frantic, shaking every tree he knew to get your whereabouts.

  “Last we knew you were in Bilbao, coming home when your rehab was done, then nothing. I don’t hear back from Lavonne, time goes by, then last month, end of September, a guy wearing a suit and tie shows up at my door, jaw the size of Kansas, hands me that envelope and a slip of paper with the name of the hotel in Madrid, doesn’t say a damn word to me, just hands it off and leaves. So I pack my knapsack, catch the first plane out. That’s like five weeks ago.”

  “You were in Madrid, but you didn’t contact me.”

  “Lavonne’s idea.”

  “What the hell is going on, Sal?”

  Sal flinched, looked down at the floor, and shook his head as if he could wait no longer to deliver the bad news.

  “Well, it was a total accident. I fly into Madrid. I’m just off the plane, walking up the sidewalk to your hotel, I don’t know, it was eight thirty in the morning, nine maybe, I’d taken one of those red-eyes, so there I am, I’m a block away, I see you coming out the front door, an empty shopping bag in your hand, and you head off in the other direction, so I tag along, I’m bone-tired, gimpy, bad knee, shitty hip, all that jazz, but I’m trying to catch up, get close enough to yell out your name, when I see this woman across the street, a little ahead of me.

  “End of the block you turn a corner, and she cuts across the intersection, dodging traffic, staying on the other side of the street, and I mean it was plain what was going on, but I waited to make sure what I was seeing was what I thought it was.

  “You went to some markets, bought French bread, an orange, and she was there the whole time, a half block back, on the other side of the street. By the third market, okay, yeah, now I’m sure what I’m seeing is what I thought, so I hang back and watch some more.

  “All those years doing the work I did, consorting with assweasels of every stripe, kind of guys when they’re on a public street they’re always peeking over their shoulder, see who’s bird-dogging them, ’cause more than likely someone is, the feds or a button man from another family, or some asshole brother-in-law doesn’t like how his sister is being treated, so I guess that rubbed off or it was osmosis or some damn thing. Anyway, I never saw any tail as locked in as this one. She’s scary good.”

  The air in the room had thickened. Harper’s lungs weren’t filling.

  In a quiet, precise voice, she said, “A woman was following me?”

  “Still is.”

  “Here?”

  “In Madrid, she was staying in your damn hotel, which is nervy as hell, right down the hall from you, same floor. Very unprofessional for a tail, but that’s what she did. Every night while you’re sleeping, she’s in the fitness center, pumping iron, beating up the machines for hours. I walked by the gym one night, look in, she’s bouncing up and down, going up in the air so high I thought she was on a trampoline. I stick my head inside the door to see better and, Jesus, she’s just jumping off the concrete floor, three, four feet high. Springs in her legs, vertical leap like Jordan in his prime.”

  Sal made an upward motion toward the ceiling.

  “Here in Seville, she’s a half block away, staying in a little boutique hotel, got a window looks out on the street so she can see you if you ever walked out the front door, which you haven’t till today. I’m in the same hotel, floor above her. She’s up early, goes to the gym downstairs, breakfast in a café nearby, drinks coffee, waiting and waiting, a month goes by without seeing you, but she’s a bulldog or else totally nuts, I mean, okay, she saw you go into this building, same as I did a month ago, walk from the train station, and disappear into t
his place, and you didn’t come out till today. If it was me tailing you, all that time goes by without eyeballing you, one day I would’ve walked in here to make sure you’re still around.

  “But see, I didn’t need to do that because I knew what you were up to. Lavonne says you were getting in shape, martial arts bullshit or whatever it is you do, and now that I see you, yeah, I can tell all that exercise, it’s working. You got a rosy glow, bigger in the shoulders, standing taller, straighter. You look good, girl. You look strong. I sure as hell wouldn’t mess with you.”

  Harper’s pulse had finally slowed to a normal pace. “Does Lavonne know you’re still here?”

  Sal nodded. “It was Lavonne’s idea I keep my distance, watch the watcher. See if could find out what she was up to, if anybody met with her, her boss, her handler. So far nothing. I see her texting is all, love to get hold of her phone, but other than that, she’s solo. I’m here today ’cause Lavonne called, told me to pass on an urgent message.”

  “Describe her,” Harper said. “This woman following me.”

  “I can do better than that.”

  He unsnapped one of the pockets on his backpack, slipped out a black smartphone, punched in the code to unlock it, and held it out to her.

  Harper set the passports and documents on the bed, took the phone, and scrolled through the photos. Some were taken on the streets of Madrid near her hotel, others on the sidewalk near the National Library, and several were shot in a café down the street from Marco’s dojo in Sevilla. All featured the same woman.

  She had coppery hair, a pixie cut, eyes that were the eerie, luminescent blue of glacier ice. In most of the photos she was squinting, as coolly intent as a sniper sighting through a scope.

  Her face was squarish, with a muscular jaw and finely fashioned cheekbones. She had heavy eyebrows, plush lips, and the knowing look of a wanton temptress skilled at seduction. She was maybe five nine or ten, with a sturdy build. She wasn’t beautiful in a conventional sense, but her face had the striking singularity of an offbeat fashion model. And she reminded Harper of someone else, an unpleasant echo from the past that she couldn’t place.

  “You get a look at those legs, those arms? I’m thinking this dame is a bodybuilder or something, I don’t know.”

  Harper kept scrolling. Yes, the woman wasn’t shy about showing off her body. Sleeveless tops, spandex shorts, midriff-baring tank tops. And always a scarf, around her neck, draped over her shoulders or worn as a headband. Red, green, blue, black. Always a scarf, whatever the weather. And Sal was right about her physique. Zero body fat, the finely honed figure of a hardcore jock.

  “And you get a load of that six-pack?” Sal said. “There’s guys spend eight hours a day in the gym would kill for that stomach.”

  “This woman is following me.”

  “For weeks, yeah. Surprised you never noticed. I mean, sure, you been busy, getting in shape, got serious things on your plate, reading up on olive oil, I get it, making a plan, figuring out what comes next. But still, I would’ve thought maybe you’d notice her. She jumps out.”

  “I should have, yes.” Christ, she’d been so self-absorbed, so trapped in an obsessive spiral of anger and grief, she’d lost her situational awareness. She hadn’t noticed the street punks earlier in the afternoon and hadn’t once registered this distinctive woman who’d been tracking her for weeks. Yes, she’d mastered Marco’s fighting techniques, the punches and kicks, but she’d failed to absorb his first lesson, to maintain a constant state of vigilance. Always be aware of your surroundings. If you fail, surely you will die.

  She studied the woman’s face. So damned familiar.

  “Gerda Bixel.”

  Harper stared up at him.

  “What?”

  “Woman following you. Name is Gerda Bixel, daughter of Larissa Bixel, second-in-command of Albion International. I believe you made the mother’s acquaintance back in March. She was in that boardroom when Albion started shooting, you got hit in the leg. This is her only child, Gerda. A track star. Olympian decathlete.”

  Harper eased into the desk chair.

  “Gerda Bixel.” That was it: the nasty echo Harper couldn’t place.

  Sal nodded. “Lavonne ran her through a face-finder program. The woman won a silver medal in the last Olympics. Famous in certain circles. She’s German.”

  She spoke the words aloud, tasting them, getting used to the idea. “Larissa Bixel’s daughter is stalking me.”

  “Albion and his crew must still be worried about you, wanting to make sure you aren’t targeting them again.”

  “They should be worried.” Harper sighed. “What’s Lavonne’s urgent message?”

  Sal rubbed his palms together as if to warm them.

  “Okay, well, in a nutshell, Bixel, the mother, a while back she interviewed some guy, trying to hire him for the Puglia olive-oil thing, whatever that is. The guy she offered the job to turned her down, then a few days later winds up murdered. Punch line: Guy was a Navy SEAL. Major tough guy. And, PS, the killer strangled the SEAL.”

  Harper shook her head, trying to absorb this.

  “You want me to repeat?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Point is,” Sal said, “this is some bad shit you’re wading into. Dangerous. Lavonne wants you back home. I’m here to escort you.”

  Harper said, “How did Lavonne learn about this SEAL’s job offer?”

  “Don’t know,” Sal said. “Lavonne’s a smart lady. Got her fingers in all kinds of pies. Turns out she knows more about me than I know myself.”

  Harper looked up at the ceiling and smiled.

  “This is funny? Guy gets killed just learning about a job? This is what you’re sticking your nose into!”

  “This is good news, Sal. This is what I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Good?”

  “I was starting to worry this olive-oil thing was a dead end. Now I know I’m on the right path.”

  “Lavonne’s not going to like that attitude.”

  “I don’t work for Lavonne.”

  Sal took a slow turn around the room. He peeked into the tiny bathroom. He looked at the table stacked with photocopies. He lifted his head and sniffed. Then he turned to Harper and said, “So what do we do now?”

  “You gave me the message, so go home. I’ll handle it from here.”

  As if he didn’t hear, he said, “This is your last day, right? All done with gym workouts?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where you headed next?”

  “Not your concern.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get that. You don’t need help, mine or anybody else’s. Okay, well, at least humor me. Let me help you get out of here. Give Gerda the slip.”

  Harper glanced around the room, considering the offer.

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Is there a back door to this place? I scouted it but didn’t find one.”

  “Only the front door.”

  “So we go out the front.”

  “Then what?”

  “Unless Gerda has a car, which I haven’t seen, it shouldn’t be hard.”

  “You have a car?”

  “No, I don’t.” He shrugged, gave her a half smile. “But Nick does.”

  “Christ,” she said. “Nick’s here too?”

  “Flew in from Vienna this morning. Parked a couple of blocks away. He can’t wait to see you, give you a piece of his mind. Disappearing like you did without a word.”

  Harper closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “You got to leave this place anyway, right? So let us get you out of town, leave Gerda in the dust. We’ll take you where you want to go, drop you off. Let us do that much.”

  She debated it for half a minute, then nodded. “But you have to promise me, once we get away from Sevilla, you’ll go home, back to Miami. Let me handle this myself.”

  “If that’s what you want, sure. It’s a deal.”

  Harper went to the closet a
nd took down her suitcase, opened it on the bed, and began to empty her dresser drawers.

  Sal backed out of her way, took a seat at her writing table.

  “Following you these last few weeks,” Sal said, “to me, you looked lonely. You looked a little lost.”

  She stared past him at the far wall.

  “Do I have that right? You develop a secret hunger for human companionship? Because me, I got a lot of that to offer. Nick too.”

  “We have a deal, Sal. You already backing out of it?”

  “I’m just telling you what I observed.”

  She folded a top, bras, underwear, her trousers, and settled them in the suitcase. She turned to Sal, took a minute to take him in, this seersucker grandfather of hers. Frail and dwindling but still robust of heart. She’d wanted to steer clear of him until she’d finished her battle with Albion, but here he was, courtesy of Lavonne, who assumed she knew better what Harper needed.

  “Okay, Sal. Maybe what you saw is right. I’ve been a little lonely. It’s good to see you. It’s very good. Thanks for coming all this way.”

  She stepped across the room, opened her arms, and Sal stood up, came over to her, eased into the embrace. He patted her on the back while Harper rested her cheek on his shoulder and fought off the mist growing in her eyes.

  “But once we get clear of Gerda, you’re going back to Miami. That’s the deal. And Nick is heading back to Vienna.”

  “Sure, sure. Whatever you say. Just want you to be happy. And safe.”

  PART TWO

  NINE

  Olive Orchards, Bari, Italy

  John Jefferson Dickens had been in Italy since late May, six full months, and in that time, he’d developed an intense dislike for meadow spittlebugs, also known as froghoppers. Like all bugs, they had a Latin name too: Philaenus spumarius.

  The adults had black bodies with yellow bulgy eyes. About the size and shape of a compact cockroach, they could run, fly short distances, flick their legs, and jump about a yard, or catch the breeze and sail off. Ugly little bastards best known for spewing out a white foam from their asses to protect the newborn nymphs. Hence spittlebugs.