Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller) (35 page)

“Could have?” Dani asked. “Won’t Juan play nice?”

“Juan? Juan Wheeler?” He opened the file. “He wasn’t really in any shape to be interrogated when the agents boarded the boat.”

Dani felt her mouth go dry. “Why not?”

Bermingham scanned a sheet of paper. “Let’s see, forensics was able to piece together a pretty interesting story from what was left of him. Genitals in his mouth, an eyeball was found in his stomach. You don’t even want to know where they found one of his hands. And all of it done peri-mortem. Do you know what that means? It means whoever did that to him, did it while he was alive. Oh, and they did it in front of twenty-five traumatized children.”

Dani forced her shoulders to relax. Mental box open. Mental box close.

“Are you waiting for me to burst into tears at the loss of Juan Wheeler?”

Bermingham leaned back in his seat, studying her. “Who are you? It’s just you and me now, I swear. I know you killed Joaquin; we wrote it off as self-defense. The blond kid didn’t kill Juan. We ran every time scenario on it. There were no boats in the water and he was dry. You were wet. We found your fingerprints on the boat.”

“You think I took Juan Wheeler apart? In front of those kids?”

He watched her for a long minute. “No. But I think you know who did. I think you know who we’re looking for. ‘The man with the
beautiful eyes.’ That’s what one of the little girls said; that’s how she described him. And then she gave a pretty accurate description of a spleen removal for a seven-year-old.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“Give me a name. Just tell me his name. Nobody needs to know it came from you.”

He was good at this, Dani thought. He didn’t abuse the dimple power. She could tell him. He would believe her. All she had to do was open her mouth and let two words fall out, three syllables. Easy as pie. And then what?

Tom Booker hadn’t paid for his crimes in DC. He’d gotten free health care for them. Would they arrest him for this? For killing Juan Wheeler? For going off their carefully scripted plan? For saving those kids? Bermingham hadn’t seen that boat. He hadn’t smelled it. Neither had Tom. But that didn’t keep him from doing what needed to be done.

She rubbed her thumb over her palm, certain she could still see traces of Joaquin’s blood there. She remembered the comforting weight of the rusted cleat. She looked up at Bermingham and kept her mouth shut.

“I can’t make you tell me,” Bermingham said. “It’s been made very clear to my supervisors that I can’t make you do anything, you or your blond friend. I can’t hold you; I can’t charge you with impeding the investigation. I wouldn’t anyway. It’s over. We’re going to have to try for Vincente somewhere else.”

He closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face, exhaustion in every move. “I don’t know who you work for. I don’t know who has your back.” He dropped his hand to the table and stared at her. “But if you’re in business with the man who did that to Juan Wheeler, you are in business with a monster. Whatever they’ve told you, whatever they’ve promised you, Dani, believe me. You are on the wrong side.”

“Ah yes, good guys and bad guys.”

Tucker pulled a card from his pocket and began writing. “I don’t know what that means. I don’t know a lot, apparently, but I know this. I don’t answer to your Attorney General or the FBI or the United States of America, and I don’t have any doubts about whether or not I’m a good guy.” He slid the card in front of her. “That’s my private number. I won’t ask any questions. But if you want out, if you decide that whatever hold they’ve got on you is too heavy, you call me. Me. Not the office. Me. I can get you out.”

Dani straightened the hem of her dress as she stood. She didn’t touch the card.

“Am I free to go?”

Bermingham nodded and sighed. “Who’s going to stop you?”

She got as far as the door. She couldn’t meet his eye as she turned back, snatched the card off the table, and pressed it tight to her palm. Then she ran.

Miami Hilton

4:20am, 71° F

Jimmy Tucker poured himself a scotch from the minibar. He wasn’t Bermingham anymore. Not for a while at least. His team was looking into how badly his cover had been blown. Part of him hoped it had been blown straight to hell.

The doctors had told him not to mix alcohol with pain pills but nothing seemed to be touching the hot throbbing ache in his foot. Besides, he was so tired, he’d have welcomed an overdose coma. As long as he woke up in time to catch the early flight back to Montreal, Tucker didn’t care what happened to him tonight. Everything he’d
brought with him was packed and waiting by the door. He’d told Ned to drag him to the plane if necessary.

He’d just fallen back on the empty bed when someone knocked on the door. Of course. He was tempted to ignore it but years in law enforcement made that impossible.

“Who is it?”

A muffled voice answered back. He was going to have to go to the door.

Hauling himself up onto his crutches, he swore a little oath of evil to Dani Britton for the damage she’d done to his foot. Who knew such a little girl could hammer a screwdriver so hard? He didn’t bother putting a shirt on. Whoever wanted to talk to him now would have to accept him in his boxers.

He peered through the peephole. He could make out a pale face under dark hair, a rumpled white button-down shirt and a bad-looking tie. Who needed an FBI badge when the uniform was so regimented? The man must have heard him approach the door because he held up a folder to the peep hole.

“Need your signature.” The door muffled his voice. “Sorry.”

Tucker threw back the deadbolt and opened the door. The guy apologized again, following him into the room. “Sorry about bothering you so late. I know you’re flying out soon. We really need to get these statements filed before we put this to bed. It’ll be my ass if not.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it.” Tucker swung himself toward the desk under the window. “It never ends, does it? You’d think getting stabbed would be enough, but nope, nothing’s real until the paperwork’s done.”

The guy opened the folder on the desk, rifling through pages before stepping back and handing Tucker a pen. “Sign and initial. You know the drill.”

“Yeah.” Tucker swung forward, bending down over the desk. The pages didn’t look familiar. He flipped one over. It was a rental car contract. “I think you brought the wrong—”

His chin cracked on the edge of the desk as his good leg gave way beneath him. Everything felt wet.

Booker stepped back from the spray of arterial blood. The serrated blade had sliced both femoral arteries before the big man had even felt the metal. From the way he fell, Booker thought he probably also cut a tendon or two. The fact that he just wore boxer shorts made the job that much easier.

Booker was lucky that way.

He didn’t have long. The human body would bleed out in minutes with that kind of damage and he wanted the man to know what was happening.

“I killed Juan Wheeler.”

His face was so pale, his legs sprawled uselessly in front of him. He blinked at Booker.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because you put your hands on Dani.” Booker pointed his fingers at the man’s wide eyes. “You jabbed at her like this. Do you remember? You barked at her, at Dani. You tried to push her around.”

The man licked his dry lips, words difficult. “Who are you? Who is she?”

“She’s mine. That’s all you need to know.”

The man fell back against the floor, his eyes widening and losing focus. The carpet was a mess. Booker collected the file folder and bent down to take the pen from the man’s fingers. He made a point of wiping his shoes of any traces of blood before leaving the room.

He didn’t want to get the rental car dirty.

Jinky’s Fishing Camp

Redemption Key, Florida

Friday, August 30, 8:45pm, 84° F

The sun had been down over an hour. Casper had docked the party boat at the farthest slip, letting Choo-Choo lead the contingent of tourists up onto the deck for a post-cruise celebration. Peg threw drinks up and down the bar, Dani hauled buckets of beer out to the deck. Angel Jackson sat with some buddies at the far end of the bar and Casper held court with a couple of too-tanned forty-somethings in Michigan shirts. Without anyone making a point of it, two stools at the service end of the bar remained empty, as if they had an energy of their own.

Dani had stayed at Jinky’s and Choo-Choo had stayed with her. It hadn’t taken much discussion. There simply wasn’t anyplace better to go. But Dani hadn’t told Choo-Choo about the card, or the phone number with the Montreal area code she had memorized before slipping it behind the door panel of her old Honda. She’d closed the information up in one of her mental boxes, leaving it alone until she felt safe enough to consider what to do with it.

Peg bumped her hip as she dug around in the cooler. “What?” Dani said, grabbing two bottles and straightening up. The bar had
gotten quiet. Quieter, at least. The crowd around Casper continued to laugh too loudly. The locals had stopped everything to watch two men move toward the bar.

Mr. Randolph looked ten years older. A wide sling held his left arm close to his body. Dani couldn’t help but think how inconsiderate it was that Ned had shot him in his drinking arm. Beside him, Caldwell winced as he maneuvered himself onto the barstool. She could see the outline of bandages underneath his loose guayabera shirt.