Deadly Pursuit (20 page)

God did, indeed, work in mysterious ways.

“Man. Alison had that guy pegged.” Cole leaned against the hood of Mitch's Taurus and turned his back on the seedy apartment building, disgust tugging down the corners of his lips. “Sleazeball is an understatement.”

“Yeah.” The very thought of Stan Orton hitting on Alison was enough to nudge Mitch's blood pressure into the danger zone. And he now had even more sympathy for Ellen Callahan. Having spent the past fifteen minutes watching Orton slime his way through their questions, he had no doubt the man was capable of the sort of retribution Ellen claimed had been directed against her after she'd rebuffed his advances.

“What's your take on his comments about the car?”

Right. They were here about the car. Mitch refocused. “I think he suspects it was Bev Parisi's, even though he managed to avoid giving us a direct answer.”

“I agree. But I also think he was telling the truth about not recognizing the driver.”

“I do too.”

“So where does this leave us?”

Mitch checked out the parking lot again. “I say we beef up the patrols around here. If that was Bev's car, she must have sent someone to clean out her apartment. Since the locks were changed by the owner, he couldn't get in. If Orton's not-so-subtle insinuation that he and Bev have—or had—some kind of relationship beyond superintendent/tenant is true, she may come back herself and try to convince him to open the door.”

“I agree.” Cole pulled out his sunglasses and slid them over his nose as the early morning sun topped the nearby buildings. “What do you think about Alison's impression that she'd seen the guy before?”

“I'm not discounting it, but I don't see how it helps us much unless she remembers more.”

“Me neither. I have a feeling it's relevant, though, considering the car she saw here sounds very similar to the one spotted by the Neighborhood Watch coordinator. The three numbers don't match Bev Parisi's car, but it's not hard to change out plates.”

“True. And here's another interesting thing. That car also sounds like the one the neighbor saw with a blonde behind the wheel at Lon Samuels's place.”

Cole squinted at him. “When did you make that connection?”

“Last night. About two in the morning.”
While I was lying there wide awake, thinking about your sister.
“Bev's blonde, according to the police report. I assume she's into drugs because of her fast exit here when the police showed up after Orton's call to the child abuse hotline—not to mention the evidence of meth use that was found outside Ellen Callahan's back door and in Bev's apartment. Lon Samuels died of complications from meth use. A blonde in a midsized dark car was seen fleeing his apartment shortly before the 911 call came in.”

“There are a lot of blondes—and a lot of dark-colored midsized cars.” Skepticism narrowed Cole's eyes.

“My gut tells me there's a connection.”

“And you trust your gut?”

Mitch pinned Cole with an intent look. “Always. It's saved my life more than once.”

After appraising him for a moment, Cole lifted one shoulder. “Okay. So what do you suggest we do next?”

“There's already a BOLO alert on Bev's car, but I'm guessing she's changed plates. I think the best plan is to beef up the patrols here. I have a feeling if we can get our hands on Bev, she could be a gold mine of information. If the car Alison saw here is the same car spotted by the Neighborhood Watch coordinator and the witness in the Samuels death situation, and if the guy she thought she recognized was the same guy spotted in her neighborhood last night, Bev could lead us right to Alison's stalker.”

“That's a lot of ifs.”

“You have anything better?”

“I wish I did.” Cole let out a long breath. “Okay. Let's talk to patrol and hope Ms. Parisi wants her stuff badly enough to send our guy back—or come get it herself.”

“I've been thinking about your idea.” Chuck was rummaging around for his rig again in the trailer kitchen. “Man, that is really far out.”

Yeah, it was. Maybe too far out. Daryl slumped against the cushion of the lumpy sofa and took a swig from the can of cheap beer. The plan he'd concocted for Alison Taylor after snorting the line of meth last night sounded a lot more intimidating now than it had a few hours ago, when he'd first shared it with Chuck. When he'd still been high and feeling invincible.

Now, fifteen hours later, he was coming down. Fast. And not liking it. Nor the plan, which was beginning to get fuzzy around the edges. Odd, since it had been crystal clear last night. The meth had made it seem easy. Perfect.

“You want some more? I'm starting another cook tomorrow night. Might as well use up what's left.” Chuck shook the small jar of white powder at him.

Daryl was tempted. He wasn't looking forward to bottoming out. That had been the worst part of snorting. But he'd only planned to indulge once. Using more meth to stave off withdrawal led to addiction, and he didn't want to end up like Chuck.

“No. I'm gonna work on my plan some more.”

“Yeah, let's talk about that.” Chuck stopped assembling his rig and began prowling around the living room. Daryl was beginning to think the man never slept. But that wasn't unusual for tweakers. He'd seen people who used heavily—and often—go almost two weeks with no sleep. “Where'd you come up with the idea, anyway?”

“From those cages on the side of the trailer. Where'd you get them?”

“Had a dog for a while. Three dogs, actually. Including a pit bull. I thought they'd be a cheap alarm system, let me know if the cops were nosing around. They ended up being more trouble than they were worth.”

“So what'd you do with them?” Daryl took a long swallow of beer.

“Got bored one night. Decided to practice my gutting skills in case I ever got a hankering to go hunting again. That's what gave me the idea for your friend's dog.”

Daryl choked on his beer.

His reaction was met with a leer from Chuck. “Don't worry, I put them out of their misery before I started carving them up. Buried them out back. So how you gonna get Miss Do-Gooder to go along with your plan? She sure ain't gonna do it willingly.”

It took Daryl a few seconds to refocus. “I have an idea about that, but I'll need Bev to help me.”

“Get her high enough, she'll do anything. Just don't tell her the gory details. She's got a soft spot that surfaces every now and then. That's why I never told her about the dogs. She'd throw a hissy fit if she knew what I did. When do you plan to do this, anyway?”

“Monday or Tuesday. I'll need your truck, though.”

“Wait till Tuesday, then. I'll be back from the cook sometime Monday night.” He poked around at the TV remote on the kitchen table, which he was still in the process of dismantling. “What're you gonna do with her once you have her?”

“I haven't thought this through to the end yet. I'm not even sure I'll do it, anyway.”

“Why not? She wronged you. Seems like she oughta pay.”

“Yeah, but I gotta plan this just right. Otherwise, I'll end up back in Potosi.” The very thought sent a chill snaking through him.

“As long as you blindfold her, she won't be able to identify you. After you get tired of the game, you can dump her on some back road. It's foolproof.”

Daryl wasn't as certain of that as Chuck was. And even though the idea of playing out the bingo game to the end had appealed to him last night, he was beginning to think the risk wasn't worth the satisfaction it would give him. It might be better to end the game with the envelope he'd mailed earlier today. That would keep her looking over her shoulder for a very long time. She'd probably be so scared she'd have to sleep with the light on for years.

Maybe that would be enough to satisfy his need for revenge.

“So what are you gonna do?”

At Chuck's question, Daryl rose to toss his beer can in the overflowing waste can. “I think I'll sleep on it.”

“Okay.” His host returned to the task he'd abandoned a few minutes earlier. Smiling, he tucked the bottle of white powder in the drawer next to the sink. “If you need some inspiration—or courage—you know where to look. Tell Bev it's here too. There'll be plenty more in a couple of days. No rationing with this stuff, like they had to do with that flu shot a few years ago.”

“Where is Bev, anyway?” He hadn't seen her since he'd come back from mailing the envelope to Alison and doing some scouting.

“She took the truck as soon as I got back and went out to buy olives and anchovies.”

Daryl shot him a puzzled look. “Why?”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “When she's crashing, she gets these cravings. Eats the weirdest stuff. One time she wanted corn curls dipped in chocolate sauce. Disgusting, isn't it? And not too healthy either. My solution to crashing is simple. Don't do it!” He cackled, pulled out the syringe, and went to work.

Daryl suppressed a shudder and turned away. Needles and blood were disgusting. That's why neither were in his plans for Alison. There were other ways to hurt someone. Lots of other ways.

And as he headed down the hall to his roach-infested room, he intended to consider every one of them.

After the previous traumatic thirty-six hours, Alison had planned to sleep in on Saturday. Except Jake's phone kept ringing. She ignored the first call. And the second. But when it rang a third time, she hauled herself out of bed and yawned her way to the kitchen.

Shoving her sleep-tangled hair back from her face, she picked up the remote from its cradle. “Hello.”

“Where have you been?”

At Cole's irritated question, her hackles rose. “In bed. It's Saturday, remember? What time is it, anyway?” She peered at the clock on the far side of the room, but the numbers were too small to make out and she'd left her watch on the nightstand.

“Nine thirty.”

“Oh.” Okay, that was on the late side. “So sue me. I was tired. If you're looking for Jake, I'll try to find him.”

“He's not there. The SOG was tapped for a most-wanted arrest. He called me en route to the airport about seven.”

Trying to tamp down her worry, she slid onto a stool at the counter that separated the galley kitchen from the small dining area. Since the U.S. Marshals select tactical Special Operations Group only handled the most hazardous missions, Jake was directly in the line of fire every time he was called up. It wasn't quite as dangerous as when he'd been in Iraq—but close.

“I figured something was up yesterday. His ear was glued to the phone while he inhaled a bowl of cereal at breakfast. I wonder if he's going to stay in the group once he and Liz are married.” She hoped not—and she had a feeling Liz preferred that he give up the ancillary duty too.

“That's their decision. Anyway, he said you were out cold and he'd leave you a note to call me. When I didn't hear from you, I started to worry.”

Her gaze fell on said note, lying on the counter, six inches from her elbow.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Okay, I'll be by in half an hour. I already changed the sheets on my bed in your honor.”

“Look, Cole, we can't do this forever. Eventually I have to go back to my house.”

“We've only been doing this for two days. That's not forever. And bingo man is still out there. Be ready when I show up.”

The line went dead.

As she stared at the phone, Alison was annoyed on one hand, touched on the other. She knew she was lucky to have two brothers who cared so much for her, but Cole could use a few lessons in diplomacy. He was much too bossy. Which could very well be the reason he'd never married, she decided, sliding off the stool. It would be fun to watch someday if he met his match, though. That could be a fireworks show worthy of a front-row seat.

Amused by that thought, she traipsed back to the bedroom. Before she left, she intended to shower, change Jake's sheets, and throw in a load of laundry. If that took more than the thirty minutes her brother had allotted her, tough.