One Wrong Step (8 page)

Clearly Saledo still had someone on his payroll, and it looked like that person was in San Antonio.

“Zapata know what they’re referring to here?” Stevenski pointed place in the transcript about the killers looking for something.

“Nope,” Rowe said. “Most likely money or drugs. I’m thinking money, especially given the rumors Strickland had a stash somewhere. The guy went to his ex’s place looking for something, and I don’t buy it that she’d keep drugs around, at least not knowingly.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“So I’m thinking Strickland ran out of money and returned to the U.S. to recover his stash from his ex. She’d probably socked it away somewhere or spent it. If she still had it, maybe he got it back from her.”

“And then what?” Stevenski asked. “If the killers already found the money, why stick around?”

Rowe shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t find it. Maybe Strickland put it somewhere before his car crash.”

Stevenski looked skeptical.

“I wish we knew where Strickland spent his last hour.” Rowe leaned back in his chair and scanned the e-mail again. “We need IDs on these two guys, find out who they were working for.”

“You hear anything more from that gas station clerk?”

Rowe sighed. “Not yet. But there’s somebody else who might be able to help.”

Stevenski smiled. “That reporter? You planning to interview her again? I heard she’s hot.”

Rowe frowned. “Where’d you get that?”

“Hey, I’m an investigator. I check out anyone and everyone connected to our case. The girl’s one of our only witnesses.”

“Yeah, too bad she works for the media,” Rowe said. “Anything useful she knows’ll probably end up in the goddamn paper before we hear about it.”

“And are you sure you won’t be needing our supplemental collision policy?”

Celie forced herself to smile at the woman behind the Hertz counter. She wore a taxicab yellow golf shirt and had little pink and lavender Easter eggs painted on her fingernails. She was entirely too perky for Monday evening rush hour.

“No, thank you.”

The woman handed her a key with a Hertz tag attached. “Looks like you’re all set then!” She nodded toward the glass door. “That’s your car right there. Full tank of gas.”

Celie gathered up her purse and backpack and exited the office. “Car” was stretching it. The tiny orange Aveo sedan looked more like a Sunkist can on wheels. No wonder this one had ended up in the rental fleet. Celie stowed her things on the passenger seat, already homesick for her SUV. Oh well. This was only temporary.

Celie pulled to the edge of car lot and sighed. The five o’clock traffic was heavy, but a black pickup was nice enough to let her in. She waved a thank-you and glanced in her rearview mirror.

“Oh my God!” She slammed on the brakes. A man was watching her from the backseat.

“D
rive, bitch.”

Shrieking, she grasped for the door handle.

“
Drive!
” Something jabbed the back of her neck.

Celie froze. He had a gun. It felt hard against her skin. And warm, like he’d been keeping it close to his body. She could barely breathe, but she forced herself to replace her hands on the steering wheel. She looked in the mirror.

He nudged her with the shiny silver pistol. It looked fancy, like maybe it was plated with nickel or something. “Go straight for a while. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

“You can have the car,” she croaked. “I’ve got some money, too. You can have whatever you want.”

“Shut up and move.”

She obeyed.

She glanced at the mirror. The man was young, probably early twenties. Was he Robert’s killer? He had close-cropped dark hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. He was scowling, which made it look like he had one thick eyebrow stretched all the way across his forehead.

Her palms felt slimy on the steering wheel. Had anyone noticed she’d been carjacked? She looked around, but everyone around her was creeping through traffic, immersed in their own little worlds.

Where was he taking her? The black pickup was still behind her, and it was following too closely. It stayed right on her bumper through three traffic lights, until they’d almost reached the edge of downtown. Celie thought about ramming into a utility pole, but she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. And what if the gun went off?

“Turn here.” The tip of the gun caressed her neck. “Left.”

Celie’s heart hammered. She turned left down a narrow alleyway—barely wide enough for two cars to pass. There wasn’t a person in sight, just potholes and Dumpsters. Thank God it was daylight. But where were the
people
? The alley was empty. No pedestrians, no vagrants, not even a stray dog.

The black pickup turned in behind her, effectively trapping her in. Now the only way out was straight ahead.

“Stop here.”

Celie’s throat constricted, and suddenly she felt dizzy. This could not be happening again. It could not. She’d rather take her chances with a bullet than go with him behind one of those Dumpsters.

“I said
stop
!”

Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as she put her foot on the brake.
Oh God. Please, please, please…

Suddenly the passenger door opened and another man got in. He shoved her backpack to the floor and then yanked a big, black gun out of his pants and pointed it at her face.

Her blood turned to ice.

“Here’s how this goes.” His voice sounded calm. Celie struggled to listen, but all she could think about was the gun just inches from her nose. If he pulled the trigger, would she feel anything?

She tore her gaze away from the gun and looked at his face. He resembled the guy in the backseat, except his head was shaved and he had a black goatee.

“…give it to us, and we don’t hurt you,” he was saying. God, she’d missed the rest of it. Give them what?

Celie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She nodded dumbly.

“Where’s the money?”

The money. She gulped. Robert’s money.

“I don’t have it.”

Pain seared through her as the pistol butt connected with her cheekbone.

“Wrong answer.”

Something wet trickled down her face. She choked back a sob.

The goatee guy leaned over the console. She pulled back as far as she could until her head was pressed against the glass window. “I s-swear. Robert had the money. He had it in Antigua. Then he brought it back to the States so he could return it to someone.”

“Fuck, man.” This from the back.

Celie glanced over the seat. The man there looked agitated now. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and his hands were shaking. Thankfully, his gun was on the seat beside him, not pointed at her neck.

She slid her attention back to the man in front.
His
gun was still aimed right at her face. Some kind of strange graffiti covered his knuckles. His hands were steady, and he looked eerily calm.

“He had the money
with
him?”

Celie swallowed. “Yes. He…he smuggled it back here.”

“She’s lying, man. She’s fucking
lying
!” The guy in back was bouncing on his seat now. “We searched the car.”

Celie darted a glance at him. His gray T-shirt was dark with perspiration, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked about ready to blow a fuse.

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” she said. “I swear. Just listen, okay? Robert had a stash of money. He told me that. He’d been living on it in Antigua. He came to visit me Friday night, but he’d called me earlier. From a motel.”

She locked eyes with guy in front. He seemed like the leader. Maybe if she could convince
him
to believe her, she’d have a chance.

He nodded slightly. He was listening.

“He told me he was in trouble.” Her voice shook, and her chest hurt. “He said he owed money to someone, but he didn’t have everything he needed to pay him back. I think he owed a lot. He said he had to return all of it soon or he’d be killed.”

Goatee Man was watching her intently with those brown-black eyes. He had a diamond stud in his ear. No tremors, no sweating. He seemed like a professional, but a professional
what
she was scared to contemplate.

She couldn’t tell whether he believed what she was saying.

The guy in back pounded a fist on the window. “Man, she’s
lying
!”

“
Shut up
!” Goatee Man swung his gun toward the backseat. “Did I tell you to talk?”

Celie bit her lip, praying a shootout wasn’t about to erupt.

“Where did he call you from? What motel?”

The gun shifted back now, and her attention locked on the black tunnel pointed at her face.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, just that he’d checked in and he planned to stay a few days.”

You know, you’re a terrible liar.
McAllister’s words came back to her, and her stomach clenched.

“So why’d he come see you if you didn’t have the money?”

She licked her lips. They tasted coppery, like blood. She was bleeding somewhere. “I think he thought I could lend him what he needed. To pay back this guy.”

“How much did he need?”

“Fifty thousand.”

Goatee Man stared at her. Celie held her breath.

“And what’d you tell him?”

“I told him I didn’t have that kind of cash. But maybe I could get it. A loan or something. If he’d just be patient.” She cleared her throat. “But then he died, so…”

He glanced at his partner in back. Celie felt her heart thundering. Was he actually buying this? She had no idea. Maybe he planned to kill her no matter what she said.

Oh, God. She could describe him.
Both
of them. They hadn’t bothered to conceal their faces.

She had to think of something.

“This money,” she sputtered. “Saledo’s money? Robert said he thought someone might try to take it, so he was keeping it somewhere safe. Until he could pay it all back. He didn’t say where. Maybe his car or his motel or something.”

Her voice was so wobbly now, even she could barely understand herself. Sweat streamed down her neck, between her shoulder blades. She looked at the gunman, pleading with him with her eyes. “He took my car, too. I swear that’s all I know.”

“She’s fucking with us, man!” The man in back was practically vibrating now. “I say we cap her.”

The gun swung toward the backseat again. A flurry of angry Spanish ensued, and Celie knew she was about to die. They were going to shoot her. Right here in this alley. She thought of her mother and her sisters. What would they do when someone told them she’d been murdered?

She watched them arguing. Goatee Man’s head had been shaved recently. Short black bristles covered his scalp, except for a jagged, crescent-shaped white scar above his right ear. Was the scar from a knife? A beer bottle? Celie knew with certainty his haircut was meant to show off the scar, to make him look more menacing.

A horn blared behind them, and everyone turned in unison. A delivery truck was trying to get by, but the black pickup was blocking its way. The driver opened his door and climbed down from the cab.

“
Fuck,
man!” The man in back snatched his gun off the seat.

“Hey!” Goatee Man nodded at the weapon. “Chill the fuck out.”

He turned his attention back to Celie. “We’re not done with you. We’ll be back.”

Celie’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. The truck driver was striding past the pickup now, and he looked peeved. Celie prayed he wasn’t about to get shot.

“Hey!” Her attention snapped back to Goatee Man. His gun had disappeared, but the look on his face was every bit as threatening. “Talk to the cops and you’re dead. We’ll be in touch, bitch.”

Celie nodded.

An instant later, both men were out of the car. Celie watched in the rearview mirror as they approached the truck driver. Their hands were empty, and she could tell by the driver’s indignant expression that he had no idea he was confronting two armed men. After a brief exchange, the driver returned to his truck, and the other two got into their pickup.

She was free.

The breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her lungs. Her hands were trembling all over the place, but she managed to lock the doors and put the car in gear. She raced down the alley, bouncing over potholes, nearly sideswiping a Dumpster. When she reached the first cross street, she made a sharp right turn and stomped on the gas.

John perched atop Celie’s stepladder with a metal trowel in one hand and a tub of spackle in the other. He hadn’t repaired Sheetrock in years, but this little patch of ceiling had been a breeze. Now all he needed was a can of touch-up paint, and it would look good as new.

“You know if she keeps any of this paint around?”

Dax looked up from his
Entertainment Weekly
. “She doesn’t, but I do. Got it from maintenance after my last party.”

John climbed down from the ladder. Flecks of spackle dotted his army green T-shirt. “You burned up your kitchen, too?”

Dax smiled. “Red wine stain on the wall. But these units are ‘matte ivory’ top to bottom, so the paint works anywhere. I’ll go get some.”

He slid off the bar stool and headed for Celie’s front door, stepping back suddenly when it swung open.

“Hey, it’s just us,” Dax told her, confirming John’s suspicion that they were close. Celie’s good friends knew she didn’t like surprises.

Such as finding two men waiting for her in her locked apartment.

Dax kissed her cheek and took her backpack.

“Who’s ‘us’?” Celie peered over his shoulder. She wore sunglasses, so John couldn’t see her reaction to his being there.

“Just me and McAllister here,” Dax said brightly. “He dropped by to fix your ceiling, and I buzzed him up.”

John had come over on a hunch, and he’d been right. Celie had given Dax a spare key after the locksmith had left, meaning for the price of a little chitchat John had access to Celie’s apartment whether she wanted him there or not.

His second hunch had been right, too. Judging by Celie’s silence and the way she’d turned her back on him, she probably would have found an excuse to avoid seeing him tonight if he’d called ahead to ask.

She and Dax were murmuring back and forth by the door, so John went to the sink to wash his hands. He heard the door shut.

“Give me a minute.” Celie’s voice faded to the back of the apartment. “I’ll be right with you.”

I’ll be right with you.
Like he was the cable guy or something. Like she hadn’t had her tongue in his mouth yesterday.

Shaking his head, he opened the fridge and searched for a beer. No beer, so he settled for a bottle of mineral water and leaned back against the counter. His ceiling repair didn’t look half bad. After the spackle dried, he’d finish up the paint, which would give him another excuse to come back here. Or maybe he wouldn’t need an excuse. Maybe she’d be grateful enough to invite her handyman to dinner. And dinner might lead to a nightcap.

She came into the kitchen and made a beeline for the fridge. Something was up with her face. Was that…?

“What the hell happened?” He reached for her, and she jumped back.

He stopped in his tracks. The look on her face was pure panic, and the bruise on her face twisted his guts.

“What the fuck, Celie?”

“Please don’t talk to me like that.”

Shit. He took a deep breath. “What happened?” He stepped closer and lifted her chin so he could see better. She had an angry red cut at the top of her left cheekbone, and the skin all around it was bluish-purple.

She averted her eyes while he looked at her.

“Celie?”

“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “Really. I was coming home from the rental car place and—”

“Yoo-hoo. You decent?” Dax strode into the apartment with a red tackle box. He plunked it on the counter and started rummaging through it.

Celie smiled weakly. “Dax said he’d fix me up. I’ll just take a sec, okay?”

Celie seated herself on the bar stool beside Dax. John crossed his arms and looked on while the younger man dabbed at her wound and put some sort of ointment on it. They murmured amicably back and forth over the box of bandages until John was ready to howl.

Finally, Dax packed up his gear and shot John a stern look. He knew something serious was going on. Maybe John’s desire to punch a hole in the wall was written all over his face.

“Make sure she ices it,” Dax instructed. “And the ointment should be reapplied before bed and then again in the morning.”

John nodded grimly, accepting the underlying message not to leave Celie alone tonight. As if there was a chance of that happening.

“
I
will be sure to do that,” Celie said, planting her hands on her hips. With ointment glistening off her face, the tough-girl act left a lot to be desired.

“I’m here if you need anything.” Dax kissed her uninjured cheek and slipped out of the apartment.