Fatal Game

by Diane Capri

  “That’s the difficult part.” Hades smiled. “But it starts with something right up your alley.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tuesday, May 23

  Bear Hill, Arizona

  Jess returned to her car and started the engine. Had Melissa Green done her own plumbing? Did that explain the methane gas booby trap at her house?

  There was really only one reason for the booby trap, and whatever she wanted to hide had probably been successfully destroyed in the explosion and fire.

  Did she have a man helping her? If she did, he had to be an accomplice. No legitimate plumber would have installed plumbing that spread highly flammable gas throughout her house.

  The accomplice must have known what she was doing, and presumably why.

  Jess flipped through the photographs she had taken in Melissa’s kitchen. The well-stocked kitchen was way too much for one person. And the four months of Dirt and Track magazines practically shouted a male resident.

  But if Melissa had done her own plumbing, maybe she was into dirt bike riding, too.

  Jess ran a search of the county records yesterday. Melissa Green had purchased the property two months after her brother-in-law, Donald Warner, was arrested. He’d been behind bars since then, either in the Santa Irene county jail or in the prison where she’d seen him yesterday. Unless Melissa Green had access to the property before she actually closed the sale and paid for it, Warner could not have been the plumbing accomplice.

  Jess sent a message to Mandy requesting Melissa Green’s previous address. While she waited, she drove to the gun shop to collect her weapon. The shop didn’t open until noon, but the owner answered the rear door when she rang the bell.

  Her Glock and holster had arrived in an oversized box because Morris had added plenty of padding. The owner confirmed the paperwork was in order and handed her the gun. She bought a box of ammunition and loaded the gun before she left.

  Her phone chimed as she walked to her car. Mandy had texted Melissa Green’s previous address. A house on the north side of Santa Irene in the art district. From what Jess remembered the area was like a mini-Santa Fe on the edge of a metropolis.

  The more she learned about Melissa Green, the more perplexing the woman became. She was the beautiful, identical twin sister to a socialite who had been kidnapped and murdered by her famous husband, a heart surgeon. After she’d moved away from Santa Irene’s art district, fleeing the fallout from overwhelming negative media attention, she’d lived in the middle of nowhere and did her own plumbing or had a male accomplice who helped her to booby trap her own house with a remotely triggered firebomb.

  No matter how she studied the pieces, nothing Jess knew about Melissa Green could be reconciled into a cohesive picture of a normal woman.

  Jess plugged her phone into a power outlet to recharge it and started the Mustang. The engine growled to life as if it were unhappy to have been left cooling for so long. She eased out of the lot and headed north.

  If there was an answer to Melissa’s odd behavior, maybe it would come from her life in Santa Irene before her sister had been taken.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tuesday, May 23

  Santa Irene, Arizona

  Cora drove the white panel van expertly, as she always did. She was a remarkable driver. Much better than he was, even when they were kids. Hades felt the adrenaline throbbing in his veins as if he was the one behind the wheel. It tingled the ends of his fingers, and goaded his right foot, imploring it to press harder on an accelerator he didn’t control.

  Cora kept pace with the traffic flow. Never the fastest and never the slowest on the road. It was the best way to avoid suspicion, she’d said.

  Santa Irene had grown from nothing over a century’s time, in a state with few limits on open space. That single feature had broadly defined its zoning and the roads, too. Rush hour congestion was non-existent here on the affluent west side of the city.

  Cora turned off the freeway onto a major road, and then into a new housing development.

  Hades marveled that she didn’t consult a map or wait for a navigation system to announce turnings because she had committed the journey to memory, as she always did. He’d watched her play through the roads in and out of the target zone. She had assessed parking lots as viable escape routes, and open ground in the event that roads weren’t an option. If anything went south, as occasionally things did, she was always fully prepared.

  The development was less than half built. Large blocks of house plots were marked out, but empty. Lone houses stood surrounded by spaces that would soon be filled in.

  Hades wore a dark jacket that he had taken from Simon Lawson’s closet. He’d ripped the pockets and the collar to disguise the jacket, in case she recognized it as Simon’s. He was larger than Simon, more muscular. He’d removed the cord that cinched up the waist, and still, the jacket would not button around his hard abs.

  Shorty had similarly grunged up a bright yellow plastic workman’s jacket he’d found in the garage. He sat quietly in the rear of the van, waiting.

  Cora turned onto another street. A pair of new houses perched on one side, and three rested on the other side. Cora slowed as they approached.

  “We’re here,” Hades said, knocking once on the metal partition.

  He heard Shorty pick up a garden fork and two shovels, and shuffle to the rear doors.

  Cora turned into the driveway of the first house. Hades and Shorty had jumped out of the van before she turned the engine off.

  Hades led the way around the side of the house. He moved fast, but he placed his heavy boots on the flagstones with care, keeping noise to a minimum.

  Wooden fence panels separated the house from its only neighbor. An eight-foot wooden gate opened into the enclosed rear garden. Shorty lifted the crude metal latch and closed the gate silently behind them.

  A small porch was set into the rear of the house. Hades stood with his back to the porch and drove the spade into the recently sodded grass. He levered a large clod from the ground. Shorty did the same.

  They built up a rhythm, heaving their shovels into the air, pounding them into the soil, and levering out a mound of earth. In a few minutes, they had a five-foot length of the garden excavated and a growing mass of earth by the edge of the porch.

  The rear door burst open.

  “What the hell are you doing?” A woman’s voice demanded.

  Hades turned. “Hello.”

  The woman looked exactly like the pictures she’d emailed Simon Lawson. She was in her mid-twenties. Almost six-feet tall. Long dark hair and flawless tanned skin. She wore yoga pants and a sports bra. Hades doubted there was an ounce of fat on her.

  “I said, what are you doing?”

  Hades frowned. “Digging.”

  “Digging what?”

  “A hole,” he said.

  She pointed at Shorty as he levered up another shovelful of earth.

  “Stop him,” she said.

  Shorty dug his shovel into the ground.

  She stepped to the edge of the porch. “Stop it!”

  Shorty looked at her, his foot resting on the edge of his shovel, ready to drive it into the ground.

  She waved a finger at Shorty. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

  Shorty shrugged.

  She turned to Hades. “Why are you digging up my grass?”

  Hades pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “You ordered a French drain.”

  The woman shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

  Hades checked the piece of paper then held it out in front of the woman. He pointed to a name. “This you?”

  She studied it. “Yes, that’s me. But I did not order a drain.”

  “French drain,” Hades said. “It has holes along the length—”

  “I don’t care if it has a Gallic accent.” She pointed to the mound of earth. “Put that back, and get out of here.”

  “Amanda, right?” Hades gave a bemused shake of his hea
d. He surveyed the paper. “It has this address.” He read out a phone number.

  “That’s my number, but I’m telling you, I did not order a French drain.”

  “Someone must have. Our computer records the number. Your husband, perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not married.”

  “Boyfriend? Anyone else at this address?”

  She kept shaking her head.

  Having confirmed all the information he needed, Hades handed over the piece of paper. “Well, call our office and talk to the boss. Number’s at the top of the page.”

  Amanda snatched the paper and headed back inside. As she kicked the door closed with her heel, Hades barged through.

  The door slammed back against the wall.

  Amanda leaped sideways, astonished. “What the hell—”

  Hades brought his shotgun to bear. Amanda swung a kick at the gun. It twisted in his hands, crushing the trigger against his finger. The gun fired. A muted double-boom. Chili powder exploded across the living room. He was out of shots.

  He rotated the gun and swung the stock like a club. She jerked back, her right leg flicked up and punched his thigh. She was strong. Her kick was full of power. He felt a momentary numbness in his leg.

  She grabbed a kitchen chair and hurled it at him.

  He deflected the chair with the shotgun as she ran through the kitchen shouting.

  Shorty raced in through the rear door and straight into the living room on a path to intercept the woman on the other side of the kitchen wall.

  Amanda saw Shorty and turned for a wide L-shaped staircase with a balcony above. She took the steps three at a time.

  A man appeared at the balcony, tying the belt around a robe. Amanda screamed at him. He frowned before turning to run back the way he had come.

  Shorty took the stairs with the same three-at-a-time gait as Amanda. He didn’t bother slowing for the L-shaped corner. He let his shoulder blunt his speed against the wall before bounding up the second half of the stairs.

  Hades dumped his shotgun, and followed Shorty, drawing his VBR as he moved.

  Amanda darted through a bedroom door, slamming it behind her.

  Shorty went after the man.

  Hades went after Amanda. He used his momentum to slam his boot onto the door by the handle.

  The door shook, but the latch didn’t give. It might have opened with a simple twist of the door handle, but the king of the underworld cared nothing for what governed ordinary lives. He pounded the latch with his boot. The door swung open after the third blow.

  Hades jumped into the room. He saw a bed with side tables and a chest of drawers. No sign of the woman. He knelt to look under the bed, letting the gun be visible to her first if she was hiding there. She wasn’t.

  Two doors led from the room, one on the left, one on the right. He heard shouting from the left. Shorty and the mystery man. The door led to a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Hades raced in, leading with his gun. The shower curtain was already back, and the tub was empty.

  He heard the sound of fighting from the second bedroom attached to the shared bathroom.

  He crouched low as he entered. The man held a pistol in his hand. Shorty was holding the man’s hand and pointing the pistol at the ceiling.

  No sign of Amanda.

  Shorty punched the man under the arm, straight into the least protected area of his ribs. The man collapsed.

  The closet door shifted. Hades lunged forward, shoving the gun into the dimly lit space. He wrenched the clothes back and forth, opening up the spaces where a person might hide, but found no one.

  He ran back through the bedroom. The man was on his knees. Shorty had a lamp cord around his neck.

  Through the door, Hades saw Amanda on the landing. He ran after her.

  She leaped down the stairs and turned for the dining room.

  He jumped onto the half-landing at the turn in the stairs.

  He had to catch her. The dining room led to the front door, and then it would be all over.

  He vaulted over the banister, swinging his legs in an arc. She was within range. Close enough. His right boot caught her a glancing blow.

  She stumbled and wrapped her arms around her head.

  He landed on his left foot, curling and rolling to absorb the impact.

  Amanda was moving before he had rolled to his feet. She swung a dining room chair around and launched it at him. He rotated, letting it hit him on the back, then he picked it up and hurled it back at the front door.

  She diverted around the table, pulling the chairs out as she ran.

  He took the opposite direction around the table. She ran for the kitchen.

  He threw the chairs out of his way as he gave chase.

  She was working her way around a breakfast counter. He grabbed a red coffee maker, yanking the plug from the wall, and threw it across the room. It hit the woman in the middle of her back, just below her neck. She stumbled as she twisted to relieve the pain.

  He grabbed an ornate teapot as he ran, and hurled it at her.

  She grabbed the back door handle. The teapot hit the wall above her head. She closed her eyes and wrapped an arm over her head to protect her eyes from the shattered pottery.

  He reached her quickly. He curled his fingers, and slammed his fist into the side of her head.

  She fell against the wall.

  He punched her in the ribs. She collapsed to her knees, gasping. He waited for her to turn to look at him. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was open. Her cheeks were flushed from her exertion. She was beautiful, even in her pain.

  He delivered a single punch to her temple. Not fast, but solid. Measured. Plenty of follow through. Not enough force to kill her. He hoped.

  She rolled forward, and slumped, face down on the kitchen floor.

  Shorty descended the stairs. “We’re going to have to take them both.” He took out a box knife and pushed out the gleaming blade. It was new. As sharp as they get. Ideal for what he had in mind.

  Hades nodded as he duct-taped the woman’s arms and legs together. He taped across her mouth. Her broken nose required him to leave a small hole for her to breathe. He didn’t want her to suffocate just yet.

  Shorty knelt in the middle of the living room. The knife was unstoppable. The mixture of natural and man-made fibers was no match for its cutting edge. In a couple of minutes, he had two eight-foot-wide swaths of carpet.

  The woman was regaining consciousness. They wrapped her first. Rolling her inside the heavy carpet from the neck down. They carried her out to the van.

  The man was heavier, but easier to carry. He was long past the point where he could object to his treatment.

  Ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Tuesday, May 23

  Santa Irene, Arizona

  Jess drove to Santa Irene. Traffic was light. The Mustang ate up the miles with its powerful engine barely breaking a sweat.

  Her phone provided directions to Melissa Green’s prior address. She left the freeway and followed a long string of left and right commands.

  The houses on the north side had paintwork that complemented their mid-century look. Window frames and wooden beams were picked out in striking, but not garish, colors. Picket fences lined the gardens and cars were parked in long driveways, leaving the roads free.

  Melissa Green’s old home was one-half of a tiny single-story duplex. The facade was not quite white. Blue drapes adorned the windows which, along with the doors, were accented in a rich tan. The house was small but very charming.

  Jess parked on the side of the road. She took her notepad and recorder. Melissa’s house and the houses on either side were empty. She crossed the street. The curtains twitched in the residence directly opposite.

  She took the pathway to the house and rang the doorbell. Someone reached the door and peered through a spy hole. “I’m not buying anything,” a man’s voice said.

  “I’m not selling anything. I’m looking for Melissa Green.”<
br />
  “You press?”

  “I’m Jessica Kimball with Taboo Magazine.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  She heard the sound of metal scraping. Jess guessed the man had closed a shutter behind the spy hole. She heard footsteps receding.

  She went back to her car. According to Carter’s notes, Melissa Green had made a living selling arts and crafts. Jess skimmed a map of the area.

  There were numerous shops that sold art of various types, but the one that interested her the most was a building called The Art Market. According to its website, artists could rent space on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis. Given the size of Melissa Green’s home, Jess guessed this was a more likely outlet for her work than the big-name art shops.

  She found the building easily. It’s square and boxy shape had been partly masked behind murals on the walls. The parking lot was optimistically large. There were only three cars in the lot.

  Jess parked by the front door. Inside, the building was one continuous open space. The rented spaces were twelve-foot squares arranged in rows. Most had covers drawn down over their fronts.

  A man approached her. “Help yer, love?”

  “I’m looking for Melissa Green. Does she have a space here?”

  The man frowned. “I…er…that doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “She was here a couple of years ago.” Jess smiled. “Do you know where she sells her work now?”

  “Right. Well,” He pointed down the row. “I have an office. Might have some details.”

  He walked off without waiting for an answer. Jess followed. A handful of the booths were occupied. People looked out, smiling as she passed.

  They reached the man’s office. He sat at a dust-covered computer. After a few moments, he looked up. “Green, you say?”

  “Melissa.”

  He pointed to the screen. “Yeah. She had a booth here. Looks like she moved out a couple of years ago.” He scanned a column of numbers. “Always paid on time, which is good. You know, for artists.”