One Dead Witness (4 page)

But worse than that, she looked and felt her age.

She was aching all over, having used muscles that hadn’t been
stretched for years when she’d chased and rescued Claire. This must
be how an arthritic eighty-year old feels, she thought. And
frankly, you don’t look much less than eighty.

It was as if the seawater had scoured away the last vestiges
of her youth. She held up her chin and could see the lines of
ageing running down her neck, giving her the likeness of a scrawny
chicken. There were also deep lines at the edge of her mouth which
seemed to put ten years on her and needed filling.

Her shoulders sagged; she experienced a wave of nauseating
depression.

‘
Darlin’,’ she said to herself critically, ‘if you don’t watch
it, you’re going to become an old slapper.’ She blew out a long
breath. ‘Shit.’

Then she stood upright, forced a smile onto her face and tried
to be positive. The sea might have revealed the Danny underneath
the make-up, but it also showed that her best features couldn’t be
washed away - her lovely slanting green eyes which were almost
oriental; and her lips, which despite the lines at the edges, were
full, soft and very definitely kissable. Nor had the sea done any
damage to her figure. She still had firm, beautifully formed
breasts which provoked many a second glance from passing men, a
slim waist and hips which were only just beginning to
broaden.

Suddenly the cloakroom door burst open and a couple of noisy
teenage girls entered, giggling when they clapped eyes on the state
of Danny. She brushed regally past them and stormed - limp and all
- out of the hospital.

The rain was still bucketing down but the wind had eased off.
By the time Danny reached her car she was soaked to the skin again,
hair plastered down her forehead.

If only she had been returning home to a husband or loving
partner and some TLC. That would have made things much more
bearable. But to go through all this and skulk back to an empty
house, pleasant though it was, and wait, usually with
disappointment, for her married lover to call by or ring, made her
want to cry.

All she craved was some uncomplicated love. Was that too much
to ask?

Chapter Two

As Danny Furness accelerated tiredly out of the hospital car
park onto East Park Road, it was 11 p.m. British time. Three
thousand miles to the west, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean,
in Miami, Florida it was 6 p.m., five hours behind. The weather in
Dade County that day could not have been more of a contrast to its
British counterpart. At its height the sun had pounded down an
unbearable 90 degrees, making the city of Miami airless and
oppressive ... but now a light breeze whisked in across Biscayne
Bay and promised a pleasant evening.

Perfect for dining out on the terrace, thought Steve Kruger,
who had just wrapped up a day which had started eleven hours
earlier. He was looking forward to getting home, throwing off his
work suit and changing into baggy shorts, busting open a bottle of
Hurricane Reef Lager and preparing the barbecue ready for the
arrival of his son, daughter-in-law and their two kids.

It had been a long, tedious day at the office. Because it was
the month-end and not a zillion miles away from the end of the
financial year, Kruger had spent most of his time stuck behind his
desk in air-conditioned splendour, neck-tie discarded, locked into
strategic and tactical planning with his secretary, accountant and
three company directors. Specific plans for next year and outline
plans for the next three had been thrashed out.

Some of the more nuts-and-bolts stuff had also been finalised.
Such as tidying up some files and putting together a huge batch of
bad-debt bills which the secretary had posted off today. If they
were all paid by return, Kruger’s cash flow would be $150,000 to
the good. In reality he knew he’d be lucky to get 30 per cent of
them paid off within six weeks. He’d been chasing one debtor’s ass
for seven months - a lawyer, of all people - who owed over ten
grand. Kruger had sent that son of a bitch a final FINAL demand,
together with a mildly threatening letter which intimated - subtly
- that no one ever welched on a Kruger Investigations Final Demand
notice with success.

It had been a pleasure to dictate that letter, safe in the
knowledge that it didn’t matter whether the guy paid up or not,
because the one positive thing to emerge during the day was that
Kruger Investigations’ net profits were going to be very healthy
indeed. Five per cent up on the previous year. Somewhere in the
region of two million dollars.

Not bad for a firm which had only begun operating five years
earlier, employing only himself and his second wife (now ex) as a
secretary. She had long gone, but Kruger had stayed at the helm and
after a very worrying first eighteen months had built up a business
employing forty people and fast approaching inter-state expansion
time.

With these happy thoughts in mind, Kruger, bulky,
muscle-bound, ex-Marine, ex-cop (Homicide), qualified lawyer,
married and divorced three times (his third wife had also split),
and the boss of one of the country’s fastest-expanding security
agencies, whistled tunelessly whilst walking across the secure
parking lot, jacket slung casually over his shoulder, to his
Chevrolet Astra Van. Professionally speaking he was a very
contented individual; in personal terms, though, at the age of
forty-six, with three wrecked marriages behind him and no one in
his life at present, he was nowhere near.

His van was a 1989 model which he’d owned from new. He also
owned a Porsche and a Corvette, but preferred to drive the Chevy
around the city. It gave him the advantage of height, a necessity
in the Miami traffic, which had been described as worse than Rome,
New York or Calcutta. He swung his lightweight jacket off his
shoulder and fumbled in one of the pockets for the keys as he got
closer to the vehicle.

Out of the corner of his right eye, Kruger caught the shadow
of movement behind another parked car. A pair of feet belonging to
someone crouched down, trying to hide. Kruger’s guts reacted with a
little twirl. The peculiar bitter taste came into the back of his
throat that was the first flush of adrenaline washing into his
system.

Two possibilities immediately sprang to mind.

Robbery; or the angry husband of some client out for
revenge.

The first option was the most likely. Kruger knew of two
people who’d been rolled in this parking lot in the last month -
even though it was advertised as
Safe ‘n’
Secure
24
hours a
day
and the only way in and out was through
barriers and past a gatekeeper.

Well, let’ em try, Kruger thought. His eyes shone. The
prospect of a tussle fired him up.

The man rose from his hiding place, brushing down his suit.
His suit? Didn’t look like any normal street mugger. Young. Smartly
dressed. A touch of Hispanic somewhere in the blood. Could easily
have been one of Kruger’s own operatives. Maybe he’d simply been
tying his shoe-laces and maybe Kruger was putting more into the
situation than was really there.

Until Kruger saw he was wearing loafers.

Okay, maybe he’d dropped something instead? Aw, what the hell,
Kruger thought. Lemme get home. He fished out the van keys and the
remote alarm, pointed and pressed. The vehicle responded with a
high-pitched squawk and a double flash of the indicators. He opened
the driver’s door, tossed his jacket across to the opposite
seat.

‘
Hey, man,’ the guy called to him.

Kruger raised his eyebrows. He was still feeling
uncomfortable, but at least there had been no attempt to approach
him.

‘
Lost ma keys, wouldya believe it? You seen any?’

‘
No. Sorry, pal.’

‘
Damn - thanks anyway.’

The brief conversation had been just enough to put Kruger off
guard, keep his attention fixed for a vital few seconds and allow
the guy’s running partner to slip out from behind the Chevy, take
two long strides so that he was directly behind Kruger and ram the
muzzle of
a .22 right up under his left
ear.

‘
Hands up, fella. Put’ em on the roof of
the car.’

Kruger knew he could have easily turned, swept the gun away
and disarmed this man, grounded him with a blow to the neck and
probably one to the chest - but the position of
the first guy and his unknown abilities made Kruger wary
of
trying anything rash.

He dropped the keys onto the tarmac and failed to keep a sneer
of
self-contempt off his face for missing
the second guy who must have been just as easy to spot as the first
one. If he’d been switched on enough.

Getting old and stale, he thought to himself.

He laid the palms of
his hands
obligingly on the burning hot metal roof of
the van. ‘I’ve got sixty dollars and one credit card in my
wallet,’ he explained calmly. ‘There’s a state-of-the-art cell-tel
in my jacket an’ I don’t carry anything more with me.’ Then he
thought, Shit, I hope they don’t notice my watch.

It was a Rolex Oyster Day-Date Chronometer in 18-carat gold
with the President bracelet. He had bought it in London on the
honeymoon of
his third marriage, eighteen
months before. Buying it had been one of
those ‘Big Life Moments’, or ‘BLMs’ as he called them. Ever
since he’d been a teenager reading
National Geographic
and seeing the
Rolex ads in there on the wrist of
some
great adventurer or explorer, he’d promised himself that one day he
would buy one. And when the time came, thirty years later - just as
the firm was beginning to make real money - he had cherished the
moment. In a grand, rather tacky gesture, he had paid hard cash.
Truly a moment to remember and savour. Apart from when he made love
(and sometimes even then), the Rolex had never left his
wrist.

Kruger dropped his head. Looking down underneath his armpit he
saw the shoes of the first guy almost directly behind him. He was
puzzled for a very brief moment when he saw the shoes crease as the
man stood on his tiptoes. Then, ironically, it all became clear
when everything went black as a hood was thrown over his head and
tightened with a drawstring around his neck.

Kruger gagged. ‘What the hell..?’ He lashed out blindly but
without effect. He was punched twice in the kidneys, driving him
down to his knees. A pair of handcuffs were ratcheted tightly on
his wrists.

Once again he felt the muzzle of the revolver rammed against
his head.

‘
You fucker - you do what we say, or we kill ya, okay? You
bein’ dead don’t make no odds to us.’ It
was the first guy talking, Kruger was sure.

‘
Fine, fine,’ Kruger growled through gritted teeth.

‘
Now get to yo’ godamned feet.’

No one assisted him, but a few seconds later he was standing
shakily. ‘Now you gonna get inna the back o’ yo’ Chevy, okay? And
we’re gonna go fo’ a little ride ... and I suggests you keep it
schtum, otherwise I’ll gets really pissed with yo’ and I’ll put a
few slugs inna yo’ brain.’

Danny eased herself inch by glorious inch into a hot bath so
full of foam and water the tub almost overflowed. She groaned with
sheer ecstasy as her bottom, then her back and finally all of her,
was covered. She reached for the glass of vodka on ice from the top
of the loo and took a life-saving gulp, shivering as the liquid
burned down to her stomach. Then she picked up a ready-lighted
Benson & Hedges, put it to her lips and pulled a long, deep
drag as a chaser to the spirit.

Oh God. Heaven!

A heaven which lasted approximately four minutes, curtailed by
the chimes of the front-door bell.

Danny’s heart dropped. She knew who it would be.

A decision had to be made tonight - one way or the
other.

Kruger lost all track of his whereabouts almost as soon as the
Chevy rolled out of the parking lot. He tried to keep with it for a
few moments, but the pain from his kidneys distracted him. It was
like someone poking a red-hot needle straight through the middle of
his lower back. He’d been whacked there a few times in the past,
but the effects had worn off quite quickly. Today the pain was
hanging in there, making him think he might have a stone or
something. Depending on the outcome of this little shake-down,
which was obviously not a robbery, a visit to the doctor was only a
day away.

Eventually the pain dissipated.

‘
Where are you taking me?’ Kruger demanded.

‘
Shut the hell up,’ one of his captors grunted and skewered the
muzzle of the gun into the skin at the side of his neck.

‘
Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.’

Was he being kidnapped? And if he was - why? Most of his money
was tied up in the business. Maybe he was being taken to be wasted
somewhere. And maybe the idea that this was the work of some
disgruntled husband of a client was not so far-fetched after
all.