“What do you think your chances are of getting a break in this case? Arresting D’Onifrio?”
“Like I said, not good. Usually, if there’s something to find, you uncover it quick. If you don’t, it means they’ve covered their tracks really well. No telling how long it will take then. Without something, Armstrong won’t do anything, either. He told me three judges and the mayor were at Asolo to see D’Onifrio accept his award. If he goes to one of those judges and says he wants to go after the guy who is so good to deaf children for murder, that judge is going to look at him like he’s crazy.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Tory was quiet, too.
Ellsworth rubbed his neck. “I’m sorry. I know this is rough on you. But I wanted to tell it to you straight.” He stood.
“I appreciate that,” I told him.
“If I hear something, I’ll let you know right away,” he said as he went out the door.
“D’Onifrio can’t get away with this. He can’t kill that many people and not slip up somewhere,” Tory said positively.
If there was a slip, two days of investigation didn’t uncover it. As each day passed, Ellsworth became more somber. Tuesday afternoon, he gathered us for a meeting in his office.
When Tory and I were seated, he leaned forward, elbows on his desk, chin on his hands. “I’ve just met with Armstrong and my boss, Chief Greer. Bottom line, nobody wants to go after D’Onifrio right now. Lot of pressure coming down to make this go away. The mayor just got a donation from D’Onifrio of half a mill for a rec center in a low-income neighborhood.”
Tory started to protest. He waved her off.
“The Chief knows it’s hush money, but the higher ups don’t see it that way.”
He was cutting us loose.
“I can’t keep you in protective custody any longer. If I do, it’s going to start causing problems. We talked earlier about your going away. Have you thought any more about that?”
We both shook our heads.
“I think it’s time,” he said softly. “At this point, the best I can do is give you an escort to the airport and get you on a plane.”
“When?” I asked.
“This evening if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.”
I looked at Tory. Our gazes met.
“I don’t see we have any choice,” she said.
She was right. But agreeing to leave was the same as admitting D’Onifrio had won. I had trouble with that.
“Can you give us a minute?” I asked Ellsworth.
“Sure.” He stood, walked around his desk to the door. “I’m going to make a Starbuck’s run. What’ll you have? I’m buying.”
He was trying to be nice. “A decaf would be great, thanks.”
“None for me, thanks,” Tory said.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Why don’t you want to leave?” Tory asked, the concern showing on her face.
I got up, paced around Ellsworth’s tiny office, tried to make sense of the way I felt. “Lot’s of reasons. I don’t like leaving my friends, everything I’ve worked for here. I don’t—”
“You don’t like D’Onifrio winning, do you?”
I stopped pacing, looked at her. “No. I don’t.”
She stood, came over, put her arms around me. “I know it’s hard to accept, but let’s go while we’ve still got each other. He almost killed you on Friday; I don’t want to give him another chance.”
I hugged her, let go of my head trash about winning and losing. “I don’t want to lose you, either. You’re much more important than all the other stuff. Where do you want to go?”
She pulled away so she could look at me. “Have you ever been to Charleston, South Carolina? It’s a beautiful, historic town. Warm all year round. On the water. Great restaurants. I think you’ll like it.”
“Charleston it is. Ellsworth’s trying to get rid of us tonight, but I’d like to make some calls, go tomorrow.”
When Ellsworth came back with the coffees, I told him what we’d decided. He nodded his head. “I think that’s smart.”
“Would it be possible to have somebody run us back to our places so we can pack up a few things?”
He hesitated, probably debating the risks. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we should be able to do that. Best time would be the middle of the night. They might not be watching.”
That evening, I made my calls. There weren’t many. Rosemary. Julian. My banker. The manager at the Watergate. The Saab dealer about my car, the loaner. I told them all that this was only temporary, that I’d be back shortly. I didn’t want to admit I was leaving for good.
At two in the morning, three officers in an unmarked car drove me to the Watergate to gather my belongings. Another crew took Tory to her place.
I packed as quickly as I could. Clothes. Family photos. Laptop, Blackberry. Financial information. Cleaned out the food in the kitchen. Put it all in garbage bags, dropped them down the chute. Tidied the place as best I could. The manager would watch over it until I decided if I wanted to put it up for sale or do rentals. When I’d finished everything, I walked around the condo one last time. Looking. Remembering.
“Are you ready, sir?” the one officer asked.
I nodded. We rode down in the elevator, carried everything to the van.
As they loaded the suitcases in the trunk, I said, “One more thing I need to do. Just take me a minute.”
I walked to the spot where Eddie was buried, bent down, placed one of his favorite chewy strips on the ground. “I won’t forget you, Eddie.”
I didn’t sleep well after we returned to the station. Picked at my breakfast tray. Was annoyed that they made me stay in my room.
At ten, two officers knocked on the door, said they’d like to clarify a couple of areas on my statement. They asked question after question. Stupid stuff that we’d already been over again and again. It was a huge waste of time that contributed to my being out of sorts.
At eleven-thirty, Ellsworth arrived, sent them away. He suggested we have a bite to eat together before our flight at two. On our way to the cafeteria, we stopped by Tory’s room and she joined us.
Over lunch, Ellsworth gave us the latest news—or more accurately, non-news—on the investigation. “It’s not looking good,” he said wearily. “No bodies have been discovered. Shaffer admits Raines has disappeared but isn’t ready to say he’s dead or that there were problems with his staff. D’Onifrio won’t talk to us. Says talk to his lawyers. When we do, they start crying harassment. To top it all off, the mayor told the chief he thought we were wasting too much time on this investigation.” He bowed his head for a second. “We’re not going to stop investigating, but we’re going to have to be more low key about it.”
“You’re telling us he’s gotten away with it.”
Ellsworth looked at me for a moment, nodded his head. “Pretty much.”
I felt defeated. I had thought all along that something would come along, rectify the situation.
When we were finished with lunch, he gave each of us one of his business cards, told us to stay in touch. As we shook hands good-bye, he surprised me. “I didn’t like you at first, Seattle,” he said. “But you’re an okay guy. Sorry this turned out badly for you.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I didn’t like you at first, either. But you’ve grown on me, Ellsworth. Crack this thing so we can come back. We’ll all go out to dinner and celebrate.”
That was the last we saw of him. We went back to our rooms, collected our luggage, carried it down to the motor pool area where an unmarked white Ford panel truck was waiting to take us to the airport. Two officers helped us stow our luggage in the back. When it was all loaded, we got in the truck’s back seat; they sat up front. The driver started the truck, pulled out of the garage area into the bright Florida sunshine.
He surprised me by heading inland. “Aren’t you going to take 41?” I asked. Once we got out of downtown, SR41—the Tamiami T
rail north—would have been a straight, four-lane shot to the airport.
“I’m going to go 301,” the driver said over his shoulder. “It’s more direct, and this time of day, there’s less traffic.”
He may have been right. But State Route 301 was one of those highways with a traffic light every block. Drive. Stop. Sit. Repeat. After the fifth repetition, I decided going this way had been a mistake.
“What airline are you folks flying?” he asked, looking in the rear view mirror at us as we waited for the seventh light. He never heard the answer.
Simultaneous explosions sounded outside the truck. Both side windows shattered. Shards of glass flew inward. Blood splattered the windshield, ceiling. The two officers slumped together in the center of the van.
Chapter 54
We heard the crank of the door handles, the squeak of hinges as the doors were pulled open. Hands reached in from either side, pulled the dead officers out. Wilder climbed into the passenger seat, held a gun on us. Another man got behind the wheel, put the truck in gear, accelerated through the intersection, down the road.
Wilder turned in his seat so he could look back, waved the gun at us. “You weren’t going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?” He grinned, showed us his pointed teeth. “I told the boss he should have shot you before he got rid of those Colombian assholes. Know what he told me?”
Didn’t seem like a question he wanted me to answer.
“He didn’t think you were that important.” He laughed loudly.
The driver made a right at University Parkway, drove inland.
“The boss also wanted me to thank you. He really appreciated your help in setting up the Colombians. He would never have gotten a gun anywhere near them. Thanks to you, he wastes that sanctimonious old sack of shit, those two shit-for-brains leeches. Now he’s got control of everything. Nobody can challenge him.”
I watched the gun in Wilder’s hand, thinking if he waved it close enough to me, I’d make a grab for it. Beside me, Tory was very still, tense.
The driver slowed, turned into the parking lot of a boarded-up 7-11 store, parked. The driver got out. Wilder kept the gun on us. The driver opened the door for us. Wilder’s gun didn’t waver, didn’t get close enough to grab. We got out slowly. Wilder followed.
The driver unlocked the padlock on the boarded-up door, propped it open, got back in the van. “I’ll lose the ride. You know where to pick me up after you finish with them?”
Wilder nodded to him. “Inside,” he said, waving the gun at us.
Tory led the way. I was in the middle. Wilder behind me, the gun at my back.
Inside the 7-11, all that remained was the counter by the door, a few display racks jammed together on the right hand side. Parts of light fixtures, shelving, display cards littered the place. Against the back wall were three bags of concrete, mixing tools. A hole about six feet long, four feet wide had been dug in the floor. Wilder saw me looking at it, grinned. “We own this property,” he said smugly. “Once you’re buried, nobody will ever find you.”
Tory stopped, looked at me, her eyes wide with fear.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, walked three steps past her to put a little separation between us. If I could grab Wilder, screen Tory from him, she had a chance to get out the door.
I nodded at the hole, “This is the same thing you did at the manufacturing plant.”
He responded by pointing his gun at my chest. “Seattle, I wanted to make this long and painful.” He grinned, savoring the possibilities. “A bullet in each kneecap.”
I heard him. But my attention was on Tory. Our gazes met.
“One in the nuts.”
I tried to signal her with my eyes.
“Maybe, bury you alive.”
Her eyes danced back. She was trying to tell me something, too.
I frowned, unsure of what she was signaling, not wanting her to do anything rash.
Wilder saw it. “Trying to save the girlfriend, Seattle? Set up some move to get the gun like they do in the movies?” He pointed the gun at Tory, grinned wolfishly. “Maybe I’ll start with her kneecaps. Let you watch her die, before I do you.”
Tory’s gaze darted to the side. Whatever it was, she was about to do it.
“No,” I said urgently, as much to her as to him. I took a step toward him.
Wilder swung the gun my way. Probably sensed Tory coming at him from the other side. He jerked the gun in her direction. Fired.
Tory screamed.
The bullet hit her in the shoulder, knocked her down.
I went at Wilder in a bull rush. Hit him in the stomach, chest high, drove him back. He struggled to keep his feet under him, but I had the momentum. He went over backward, landed hard on his back, grunted, as the air was knocked out of him. I got on top of him, straddled his chest, tried to wrestle the gun away from him.
He was a professional killer, but I had seventy pounds on him and had him in an awkward position. He bucked. Kneed me. Punched with his left hand. Tried to get the gun in his right hand pointed at me. Twice he pulled the trigger. Both bullets slammed into the ceiling.
I stayed on top of him, fought to get control of the gun. Even though I was using both hands on his one, I couldn’t get any leverage. His arm was extended away from his body just enough that I was in danger of rolling off, letting him up.
I strained. Pulled. Yanked the gun. Tried to point it at him.
His other hand landed a hard punch to my ear. I felt the pain in my eyes.
I slammed my right fist into his nose as hard as I could. Blood spurted. I hit him again, felt the bone break. I hit him again, same place. Felt his whole body twitch. The hand that held the gun relaxed for a second.
I reached for it, yanked the gun around, forcing his arm toward his bloody face.
Inch by inch, the gun moved closer.
He pushed and kicked.
I concentrated on the gun. When I had it twelve inches from his face, I slammed my fist into his nose again. He yelled, his body involuntarily convulsing from the pain. I forced the gun closer. Only eight inches away.
He hadn’t given up. He kneed me in the groin. A good shot that had me seeing stars. I lost my grip on his hand. He pulled the trigger, and something blew by the side of my head. I slammed his broken nose again, put everything I had into it.
He screamed in pain, grabbed my ear with his left hand, tried to rip it off. I used my right hand to pull at his fingers, break his grip. I bent a finger back, heard it snap. Still, he was tearing my ear. I pulled another finger back. When it snapped, he let go of my ear. I held on to his broken fingers, twisted them.
His screams intensified. I pulled at his gun hand, moving it, pointing it at his head. Our gazes met. What I saw was vengeance. He wasn’t finished.
I used that to feed my rage, used both hands to drive the gun toward his head. The force must have surprised him. The gun barrel swung crazily, knocking into his pointed teeth. Two broke off.
He forced the gun back up, but only momentarily. I pushed it back down, drawing blood when the barrel smashed against his lip. This time, he wasn’t able to force it back. I slammed the gun against his lip again, splitting it wide open. I slammed it against his mouth, breaking off more teeth. When he screamed, I jammed the gun barrel in his mouth, my hand over his on the trigger.
“This is for Tory,” I told him. His eyes got wide, frightened. He knew what was coming. “And Eddie,” I added at the last second. I squeezed his hand. His finger pulled the trigger. The explosion told me it was over. His body went limp.
Gasping from exertion, I got up, staggered over to where Tory lay on the sidewalk, a pool of blood forming around her right shoulder.
Chapter 55
I panicked. We were stranded. The next building almost a quarter-of-a-mile away. Too far to go for help.
Tory’s black bag was on the floor next to her. I rummaged in it, searching for a cell phone. My hand felt something hard, rectangular. I pulled it
out, turned it on, called 911. “This is an emergency. A woman’s been shot. Send help. Hurry.” I told them where we were.
“How was she shot?” the woman on the other end of the phone asked in a calm, dispassionate voice.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, repeated the address. “Get somebody here fast. I’ll keep the line open so you can tell me how long until help arrives.”
“They’re en route,” she assured me. “Should be there in less than eight minutes. Are you where they can see you?”
“No. I’m inside a building.”
I bent over Tory. The pool of blood looked bigger. I ripped off my shirt, pressed it on the holes where the bullet had gone in the front of her shoulder, out the back. If I could stem the flow of blood I might buy her a little more time.
“Hurry. Hurry. Hurry,” I said out loud.
The lady on the phone must have heard me. “They’re approximately five minutes away. Can you hear the siren?”
“No. I don’t hear anything. Are you sure they know where we are?”
“They have your location. Keep listening.”
I strained to hear. A distant whine, growing louder.
“The ambulance should be in sight now. Do you see it?”
“I hear it now. I’m inside, I can’t see it.”
“They see the 7-11,” the voice said. “They should be there in seconds.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
I heard the ambulance screech to a stop. Doors slammed. Paramedics, a man and a woman, burst through the doorway, ran over to us.
“We’ll take over now,” the woman said, moving me out of the way. The man knelt over Tory. Into a shoulder walkie-talkie, he said, “We have a female with gunshot entry and exit wounds in the right shoulder.” He pulled my shirt away from the wound, grimaced, looked at me. “You did the right thing minimizing the blood loss.”
What he said hardly registered. I was watching Tory breathe. Her face was drained of color, her breathing now coming in small, faint gasps.
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