The Devil’s Share (17 page)

*   *   *

She drove back to the house. They'd wiped it down that afternoon, destroyed everything that might tie them to the work. She'd already stored her things in her rental, parked two blocks away. There was no reason for her to go into the house again. She wanted to get as far away as fast as possible.

“He's right, you know,” Hicks said.

“About what?”

“About your thinking on all this later. Realizing it was the only way.”

“Leave it.”

He looked at his watch. “Still on time. We did pretty well as far as that goes. Hopefully your guy gets where he's supposed to be.”

“He will.”

He looked out at the dark desert.

“Used to be,” he said, “when Sandy and I worked, we didn't have to worry about afterward. Generally we got away with whatever shit we did, didn't have to worry about the law. End of the day, only concern was whether our direct deposit went through on time that week.”

She looked at him, then back at the road. The moon hung full and red, seeming to hover directly over the highway.

“You don't get it, do you?” she said. “It's not just about you. You put us all in the jackpot back there.”

“One thing they teach you in the Corps is how to improvise. That's what we did.”

“You didn't have to kill them.”

“Spare me the sermon. And save that thief-with-a heart-of-gold bullshit for somebody else. You telling me you never pulled a trigger on anyone?”

“Only when I had to. When there was no way around it.”

“Well, there was no way around it this time either. We wanted things to go one way, and they didn't. So we played the hand we were dealt. Big-boy rules.”

“It was sloppy. A waste.”

“Maybe so. But we did what we did. And now it's over.”

They were passing by car dealerships, strip malls. The turnoff for the development was coming up. She signaled, changed lanes, eyes on the rearview, waiting for flashing lights to appear, for a Nevada highway patrol cruiser to come up fast behind them.

“I'll call the old man later,” Hicks said. “Let him know what happened.”

“He'll be thrilled.”

“Well, it's a good news, bad news scenario, isn't it? And the good outweighs the bad. He got what he wanted, that's all that counts.”

“All that counts with you, too?”

“That, and what he's paying me. You might feel differently, too, when the rest of those transfers go through for you and your people.”

“No transfers this time,” she said. “Cash.”

“You don't trust him?”

“It's got nothing to do with that.”

“I'll say one thing. It was good working with you. I was right, you're a pro.”

“Drop it.”

“We worked well together,” he said. “Might be something worth exploring again.”

“No chance.”

He nodded, looked away. “That guy you told me about, Wayne? He ever getting out?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just saying. Time's short, you know. You have to make the best of what you got. And sometimes the best thing is right in front of you.”

“I don't think so.”

He grinned, looked out the window again. After a moment, he said, “Sandy would have shot you if I hadn't waved him off. You realize that, right? He genuinely does not give a shit. I saw him take out a whole house full of
hajjis
once, with just a couple of frags and an M-16. Women, children, he didn't give a fuck.”

“That supposed to scare me?”

“No, I'm just saying. Extreme circumstances require extreme responses, you know?”

“Just leave it.”

“I need to know you're okay with this.”

She looked at him.

“We're all in the same situation,” he said. “Your people, too. Like you said, felony murder, regardless of who pulled the trigger. You say anything to anybody, you're putting yourself in it, too.”

“That what you're worried about?”

“A little.”

“Don't.”

“I need to know you're okay with it. And I need to hear you say it.”

“That a threat?”

He didn't answer.

“And what if I told you to go fuck yourself?” she said.

He grinned. “Then I'd take that as a yes.”

She shook her head slowly, angry at herself for what had happened, for not being able to stop it when things went bad. For being there in the first place.

They were almost at the house. She'd leave before Sandoval got back. No advantage to sticking around here, only risk. She'd drive south into Arizona, drop off the rental in Kingman, then go to the Amtrak station and catch the first train headed east. Leave the desert and all its blood behind.

 

SEVENTEEN

Halfway across Arizona, she texted Chance the number of the TracFone she'd bought in Kingman. It was always safer to travel by train after a job went bad. Easier to stay under the radar, not leave a paper trail.

It was after midnight, unbroken darkness outside the window. She'd been slipping in and out of sleep, the tension of the day still on her. The first time she woke, she was unsure where she was. Then the memory of what had happened came flooding back.

Her phone buzzed. “Where are you?” Chance said.

“Headed home.”

“I heard there was trouble.”

She straightened in the seat. “Where did you hear that?”

“CNN. What happened?”

She wondered how long it had taken them to find the dead men, how much they'd pieced together so far.

“It got out of hand,” she said.

“You couldn't stop it?”

She took a breath, let it out slow. “No.”

“What now?”

“Nothing changes. I'm making arrangements for payment. Cash this time.”

“Good.”

“Where are you?”

“Airport, waiting on my flight.”

“How'd the drop-off go?”

“Just like you said. I pulled up outside the port, didn't even have to go through the gate. Last mile or so, there was a car following, three guys inside. Made me nervous at first. But I parked it, left the keys in the ignition, wiped everything down, got out, walked away. Nobody followed me. Caught a cab. Got here with no problem.”

“What about the others?”

“Far as I know, they're already on a plane somewhere. I'll feel better when I'm on one, too. This shit's going to blow sky-high.”

“I know.”

“This complicate the money issue?”

“I'll make sure it doesn't,” she said.

“After all that happened, last thing we need is trouble on that end.”

“I'll take care of it.”

“You need to look out for yourself, too. Let me know what you hear.”

“I will.” She ended the call, looked out at the night.

*   *   *

When Hicks came out on the balcony, Cota was leaning with both hands on his cane, looking off into the distance.

Without turning, he said, “Am I making a mistake, letting you back here?”

“No,” Hicks said. “You're not.”

Cota turned toward him. “Convince me.”

“What do you want me to tell you, Emile? It's done. That's the important part.”

He put his hands in the small of his back and stretched. He'd caught a late flight from McCarran to LAX, taken a cab here. Sandoval had come on a separate flight, was staying at a hotel on the strip.

“I spent most of this evening talking to various law enforcement agencies,” Cota said. “In particular, the Nevada state police and the FBI. There'll be quite a bit more of that tomorrow, I imagine.”

“You knew that would happen.”

“I did,” Cota said. “But I thought we would be discussing a truck hijacking or a robbery. Not a mass murder.”

Hicks looked over the balcony at the flagstones below, the floodlit fountain, closed his eyes and smelled the jasmine.

“Well?” Cota said.

“Your stuff got where it was supposed to go, Emile, right? On time and as promised?”

“It did. I heard from the buyer a little while ago. It's already at sea.”

“Then it's not your problem anymore. That's something worth celebrating, isn't it? I need a drink. You?”

He went back into the room, to the side bar near the big table. The ceiling fans turned slowly. He poured scotch into two square glasses, heard Cota limp in behind him.

“No problems with Customs?” Hicks said. He leaned against the table.

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Hicks handed him a glass. “How does that work, exactly? Getting something that big out of the country, no one sounds an alarm?”

“Same method by which it got in,” Cota said. “Money in the right hands. Enough to make them willing to look the other way when a victimless crime occurs. At least that's what it was supposed to be.”

“Have a seat, Emile. You don't look well.” He seemed older in the light, eyes pouched, face wet with perspiration.

Cota slumped into a chair, rested his cane on the table, set the glass next to it.

“You been taking your meds?” Hicks said.

Cota ignored him, lifted the glass, drank. His face was pale.

Hicks sipped his own drink. “You all right?”

Cota nodded. “It's warm in here. That's all.”

Hicks drew up another chair, sat. “Let's keep things in perspective, Emile. You always knew it could go bad out there.”

“I did. And I was prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for was the enormity of the complications.”

“You've got nothing to worry about.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“No one can be sure of everything. But you play the odds.”

“I'm not a gambler,” Cota said.

“Neither am I. Is Katya here? I didn't see her when I came in.”

Cota shook his head, took a handkerchief from a shirt pocket and wiped his forehead. “She has the evening off. She'll be back tomorrow.”

“Don't sweat the FBI. It's only natural they'd question you. Just remember, you're the victim here. It's your property that was stolen.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind.”

“They got nothing. They'll pressure you a little bit, see if they get a whiff of something bent, but outside of that, what are they going to do? You're covered all around.”

“I'll need to pay that woman and her people as soon as possible, to keep them quiet.”

“That's a good idea. They'll want cash this time, though.”

“I anticipated that as well.” He wiped his forehead again. “But, to be honest, I'm thinking that maybe you made a mistake.”

“How's that?”

“Perhaps you should have left them out in the desert with the others, delivered the truck yourself.”

Hicks shook his head. “A bunch of convicted felons lying dead by the side of the road? People with fingerprints on file, police records, known associates? That would have been a bad move.”

“And there's your man to be concerned about.”

“Sandy's back already. We'll put a transfer through tomorrow for the rest of his money, then we're square. You don't need to worry about him.”

“And what do I need to worry about?”

“Way I look at it,” Hicks said, “not much of anything. Sit tight, let all this blow over. You get the balance from your buyer, what you're owed?”

“He was as good as his word. The funds went through tonight, into the bank in Geneva, as promised. No issues with that aspect of it at least.”

“Then it's done. You carve my three hundred K out of that yet?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Then neither of us has anything to worry about. This time though, I think I'd prefer it in cash as well.”

Cota looked at him.

“I did my part,” Hicks said.

Cota raised his glass again, drank. “I'll move the necessary funds stateside. I won't keep you waiting.”

A breeze shifted the curtains.

“I'm going to crash here tonight, I think,” Hicks said. “It's been a long day.”

“You feel the need to keep an eye on me in the aftermath of all this? Afraid I'll do something rash?”

“I didn't say that.” He grinned, finished his scotch, stood, stretched again. “Don't look so glum, Emile. You pulled it off. You got what you wanted.”

Cota looked up at him. “Did I?”

 

EIGHTEEN

The house was dark and silent. Crissa dropped the gear bag with her clothes in the foyer, tapped in the code to disable the alarm.

She'd taken Amtrak to Penn Station in Newark, then an NJ Transit train south to Bradley Beach, caught a taxi from the station. Nearly two days on the train, and only a few hours of sleep along the way.

She walked the empty rooms, looking for a sign someone had been there in her absence. The .32 Beretta Tomcat was still in its holster clipped beneath her bed. From force of habit, she took it out, ejected the magazine to make sure it was fully loaded, checked the round in the chamber. The gun seemed somehow uglier now, after what had happened, cold and alien in her grip. She slid the magazine back in, returned the gun to its holster.

There was a single bottle of Medoc left in the wine rack in the kitchen. She opened it, poured a glass, took it out on the deck along with her phone. The motion detector above the door clicked on, bathed the backyard with light.

Dusk now. Early October, but Indian summer still hanging on. To the east, out past the mouth of the inlet, she could see the running lights of fishing boats heading out for the night. To the west, traffic was sparse on the drawbridge that connected Avon and Belmar. On summer nights, the bridge was often an unbroken line of taillights. But the season was over now, the tourists few.

Steps led down to the sloping backyard and the small dock beyond. It had come with the house; she'd never owned a boat. Nearly all of the homes on the inlet had private docks, but the summer residents were mostly gone, had dry-docked their boats at marinas or had them crewed south to Florida or the islands. She knew none of her neighbors, and the houses on both sides of hers were usually empty by September.