Duke City Split (21 page)

Be too bad if Dwight got killed. He and Dwight had been partners for years, and he’d gotten used to having Dwight around. But their friendship wasn’t worth three million bucks, that was for damned sure. If only one man walked away from this situation, that one man would be him.

Dwight slammed a cabinet door, making Rex jump. Hmm. Might be a little tenser than he’d thought.

“Why don’t you settle somewhere?”

Dwight came around the corner from the kitchen, a green apple in one hand and a ten-inch butcher knife in the other.

“These people eat too damned healthy,” he said. “This is all I could find.”

“That’ll tide you over,” Rex said. “We get that money in our hands, I’ll take you out for a big steak dinner tonight.”

Dwight grinned as he settled onto the sofa. “Some top-shelf booze, too.”

“Plenty of time to celebrate once this business is done. But right now we need to
stay on our toes.”

“You said we had an hour.”

“So the man said.”

“Or maybe he called the cops,” Dwight said.

“Not this guy. He doesn’t want the cops involved.”

Dwight used the butcher knife to slice a chunk off the apple and deliver it to his mouth.

Chomping away, he said, “We’re ready for him.”

“We think we are,” Rex said. “But what if he bursts through that door, guns blazing?”

“You’ll shoot him.”

“What if he gets lucky? What if I’m the one who gets shot?”

Dwight’s heavy brow furrowed.

“I’ll kill him.” He waved the glistening butcher knife in the air. “I’ll cut his goddamned head off.”

“Think you can make him stand still for that?”

“I’ll wait behind the door. Stick him before he can get off a shot.”

Rex nodded, pooching out his lower lip as if considering this tactic. “But what if he hasn’t brought the money? If we kill him, we might never get it. Bud says he doesn’t know where Wyman hid it.”

“I’ll just cut him a little. Take his mind off of shooting.”

“That might work,” Rex said. “Slow him down, that’s for sure.”

Dwight nodded, satisfied. He sliced another chunk off the apple and tossed it into his wide mouth.

“Maybe we ought to take turns watching out the front window,” Rex said.

“Good idea. Want me to go first?”

Dwight was halfway up from the sofa when the back door crashed open. Startled, Rex twisted in the chair to look across the dining room and see Wyman come through the wrecked doorway. He had a semiautomatic pistol in each hand. How the
hell
had he gotten here so quickly?

Rex slithered out of the chair onto the floor.

Dwight didn’t hesitate. He charged across the dining room, right at Wyman, the butcher knife raised like a fucking tomahawk.

Wyman barely adjusted his aim as Dwight roared toward him. The smaller of the
two guns went
pop, pop
, and the bullets turned Dwight halfway around.

Rex raised his gun to get a shot at Wyman, but Dwight’s broad body was in the way.

Dwight slashed at Wyman with the butcher knife, the blade singing through the air, but he wasn’t close enough to connect.

Wyman shot him again. The bullet seemed to take all the air out of Dwight. He staggered to his left and bounced off the wall. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, the knife clattering on the tiles.

Rex pulled the trigger and the revolver boomed, but the shot went high. A chunk of plaster blew out of the wall above the back door, raining white dust onto Wyman’s head and shoulders. Wyman fired again with the smaller pistol, and the bullet creased the back of the armchair, blowing bits of upholstery and yellow foam into the air.

Rex ducked, though the bullet had missed him by three feet. He peeked around the side of the chair and squeezed off another shot, trying to hit Wyman in the legs. The bullet whined off the tile floor and buried itself in the wall.

Wyman vanished around the corner, into the kitchen.

Shit.

Dwight writhed on the floor a few feet away from Rex. Not dead yet, but no help, either.

Still crouching behind the armchair, Rex kept his eyes on the spot where Wyman had disappeared, afraid to blink. The kitchen was a dead end. Wyman had to pop out again to get a shot off, and Rex wanted to shoot first.

Wyman’s head peeked around the corner, and Rex fired, blasting plaster out of the edge of the wall. Wyman wheeled around the corner, crouching low, the big pistol jumping in his left hand.

The shots were deafening and the bullets whizzed
through
the chair, barely slowing for the upholstery and stuffing. One raked across Rex’s shoulder, burning like a branding iron. Another hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him onto his back.

In shock, he stared at the white ceiling.

“Sumbitch.” His voice sounded strangled in his own ears.

Wyman appeared, standing over him. His face was twisted into a scowl. He had the butcher knife in his hand.

Rex realized he still held the revolver, and he tried to point it at Wyman for a last shot. But the gun was too heavy. He could barely get it off the floor.

Wyman leaned closer and plunged the knife into Rex’s chest.

Mick pulled the bloody knife out of the still body. He saw his old work boots were splattered with red and muttered, “Damnit.”

The bodybuilder groaned and writhed on the tile floor. His sweatshirt was sopping with blood from the bullets Mick put in him, but he’d still managed to turn over onto his back. Mick stepped over to him, wondering if he could shove the knife through all that muscle and reach something vital.

He bent over him and brought the knife straight down into his open eye. The man’s head bounced once off the floor, then he was still.

Mick’s ears were ringing from the gunfire, but he still could hear shrieking coming from the bathroom.

He stepped around the growing pool of blood and went to the front window. He peeked out between the drapes, expecting to see curious neighbors, but there was no one in sight. Yet.

He tucked the Beretta in the back of his belt as he went down the hall but kept the Colt handy. When he got to the bathroom, he shouted through the door, “Hey, Bud. It’s Mick. Everything’s okay out here now.”

The girls gasped and cried inside the bathroom, but Mick couldn’t hear Bud. He turned the doorknob, standing to one side out of habit. Mick opened the door a couple of inches and peered in. Bud knelt against the far wall, his arms around the girls, holding them tight.

“Hey,” Mick said. “It’s okay. Really. But, um, maybe the girls could stay inside here for a few minutes?”

The girls shook their heads vigorously and tightened their hold on their father, but Bud peeled their arms loose, saying he needed to go help Uncle Mick.

Mick went to the living room and checked the front window again. A white-haired man in khakis and a T-shirt was in his yard across the street, looking around timidly, wondering about the noise.

Mick turned to look at Bud as his partner arrived in the living room. Bud froze when he saw the blood and the bodies, the knife jutting from the muscleman’s eye socket.

“Sorry about the mess. Good thing you don’t have carpet.”

Bud joined Mick at the window.

“Why don’t you go talk to your neighbor?” Mick said. “Act like you’re wondering where the noise came from, too. Can you do that?”

Bud was pale and looked like he might be in shock, but he managed to nod and went to the front door.

“Come right back,” Mick said. “We’ve got to get rid of the bodies before the girls see them.”

Bud nodded again. He opened the front door partway and squeezed out through the gap.

Mick glanced down the hall to make sure the girls were staying in the bathroom, then he set the Colt on the coffee table. He bent over and grasped the dead gunman’s wrists and walked backward, stooped over, dragging the body toward the back door.

FBI agents Pam Willis and Hector Aragon took turns knocking on the door of Johnny Muller’s apartment.

“Where could he be?” Hector said. “That’s definitely his Jeep down there in the parking lot.”

Pam tried the doorknob but it was locked. “Did you see a manager’s apartment?”

“Downstairs, on the left.”

“It’s worth checking,” she said.

“Without a warrant?”

“We’re worried about the resident. He might be injured or incapacitated in there.”

“Hmm-mm.”

They went down to the first floor and Hector banged on the manager’s door. A plump middle-aged woman peered out at them through thick eyeglasses. The agents identified themselves and explained the situation. Her mouth puckered and her blue eyes blinked behind the thick lenses.

“Johnny’s such a nice boy,” she said. “You think he might be ill or something?”

“No way to know unless we look inside,” Pam said. “Do you have a key?”

The manager pulled a key ring out of the pocket of her baggy jeans and led them upstairs. She unlocked the door and said, “Want me to go in first?”

“Better leave it to us, ma’am,” Hector said. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Her eyes widened and she backed away a good ten feet.

Pam and Hector stood to the side as Pam turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a few inches.

“Mr. Muller? Johnny? Are you in there?”

Nothing.

They went inside, hands on their holstered Glocks. First thing they saw was that the sliding glass door to the back balcony was open, the drapes flapping in the breeze. Drawers hung open and papers were scattered around. The place clearly had been searched.

Hector sniffed the air and said, “Uh-oh.”

They stepped around a sofa that stood in the center of the room and found the
body of a young blond man, quite obviously dead, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

“Aw, hell,” Pam said.

She squatted in front of the couch, studying his face. “It’s Muller. Looks just like the video.”

“Broken neck?”

“Yep. Somebody who knew what he was doing, too. No sign of a struggle. Just snap, and it’s over.”

“Hello?” the manager called from the open door. “Is everything all right in there?”

Pam stood and went to the door. “Afraid not, ma’am. Mr. Muller is dead.”

“Oh, no! What happened?”

“We’ll need an autopsy to be certain,” Pam said, pulling out her cell phone. “We’ll call the local police and they’ll take over. You want to go back down to your apartment and wait?”

The manager nodded, her lips trembling and her blue eyes wet. Tears were the last thing Pam needed right now. As the manager turned to leave, Pam asked her if she’d seen anyone else come to this apartment in the past couple of days.

“No,” the woman said. “But I can’t really see this unit from my place downstairs. Maybe the neighbors saw something, but they’re all at work this time of day.”

Pam thanked her again and watched her walk to the stairs. Once she disappeared from sight, Pam turned back to Hector, who stood looking down at the body.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Is he one of our bank robbers?”

“Doesn’t look like the Maybelline Bandits,” Hector said. “But he might’ve been the one in the ski mask.”

“So the question is: What was he doing with the bank guard’s car?”

“The bank guard nobody has seen in twenty-four hours? Think Johnny got rid of him?”

“And his girlfriend, too?”

“I got a feeling,” Hector said. “Next time we see those two? They’ll be cooling on a slab.”

By the time Bud returned from talking with old man Kenyon across the street, Mick had dragged both bodies out back. He had a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and was tearing off great white wads of them to soak up the blood on the floor. The two bodies were piled together by the back door, still leaking red. At least Mick had removed the butcher knife from the guy’s eye.

“You get him calmed down?” Mick asked without looking up from his labors.

“Think so,” Bud said. “We decided somebody must’ve been messing around with fireworks.”

“Guy must be hard of hearing.”

“Or I’m very persuasive,” Bud said, trying to be flip, despite the tremble in his voice. “Nobody else came outside, so I think we’re okay for now.”

“Go see about the girls,” Mick said. “They can go to their rooms, but don’t let ’em come in here.”

“Right.”

Bud hurried down the hall and opened the bathroom door. Amy and Angela were sitting on the toilet lid, arms around each other, still sniffling and wiping at their faces.

“Hey, stop crying. Everything’s okay now.”

“There was shooting!” Amy said right back, and Bud could tell she’d been waiting to challenge him.

“That’s right,” Bud said. “But Uncle Mick is fine, and we’re all fine. The men are gone, and none of us are hurt.”

“Uncle Mick made them go away?” Angela asked tremulously.

“That’s right. You know what a big, tough man Uncle Mick is. He scared ’em off.”

Amy cocked an eyebrow at this, clearly not believing him, but Bud plowed ahead.

“We still have some things to take care of in there, though, so we need you girls to go to your rooms and stay there for a while. Can you do that, please?”

“Can Amy come to my room?” Angela asked. “I don’t want to go in there by myself.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bud said. “I’ll call your Mom to come home. Maybe she’ll take you girls out for ice cream or something.”

“Mom’s at work,” Amy said.

“She can get away for this. I’m going to be busy with Uncle Mick.”

The girls nodded and stood. Bud backed out the door into the hall, trying to block their view. Amy glanced toward the living room, then apparently thought better of it and followed Angela into the younger girl’s room.

“Okay,” Bud said. “Just stay in there and play. Mom will be here soon.”

Amy gave him a sour look, as if to say,
We can
play
after what just happened?
Bud turned back for the living room.

Mick had located trash bags in the kitchen and was stuffing blood-soaked paper towels into one of the big black sacks. The white tiles were smeared with red. Bud bent to help, but Mick said, “You got a tarp, something like that?”