Chantal returned to the couch, settling on the edge like a bird on a perch. “He does not know much about the Internet. I maintain all of his websites.” She pulled her shoulders back. “I even write his blogs about food. This is how I got interested in studying to be a chef, myself.”
“Where is he?”
The girl blinked rapidly. “He is okay, for now, but you must come with me.”
C
hantal’s
head bent over the smartphone she held in both hands, her thumbs flying. With my hand on her elbow, I steered her through the thickening crowd to the garage elevators.
“Are you texting your uncle?” After the quick trip to the third floor where my car hunkered in my very own parking space, I ushered her out of the elevator and down the ramp. “Here we are.”
Finishing with a flurry, she pocketed the phone. The car, a thirty-year-old Porsche 911 in mint condition, actually got her attention. “Wow, this is a classic.”
She was right, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled—me and the Porsche, we shared a birth year. While I considered myself pretty classic, it was for different reasons. And I liked to think the car was much more temperamental than I, which wasn’t always true. “Where are we going?” I asked, as if I knew the car would actually start.
“A warehouse in Henderson.” She gave me the address.
I raised an eyebrow, but for some reason, I wasn’t as surprised as I should have been. I turned the key and held my breath. After a pause long enough to make me appreciate the effort, the engine turned over, then caught with that patented Porsche low growl. What was it about cars that made me smile? A serious personality defect or a life off-kilter, I suspected, but I didn’t care. Some things just were.
The traffic was heavy, the residue of rush hour, as we made our way east. Nervous, I drummed my fingers on the paddle shifters. Chantal said nothing. She didn’t look happy.
As we drove east, the cityscape changed, the warmth and comfort of the residential streets with their sidewalks, street lights illuminating cozy homes with the occasional bicycle strewn on the lawn, or a basketball hoop hanging above the garage, giving way to dark, hulking, dimly lit warehouses.
My senses switched to high alert as I killed the high beams and eased in next to the galvanized tin building Chantal wordlessly pointed out. In front of us, a series of five steps provided transition to a concrete landing perhaps three to four feet above the ground. Several delivery trucks, their rear panels rolled up leaving the enclosed bed of the truck open, backed to the landing. The corresponding bay door on the building had also been furled so that small forklifts and men wheeling dollies could load the trucks with goods from inside the warehouse. Business was light—a few men worked, but no more than two or three. In Vegas, most of the restocking took place in the wee hours, so I assumed business would crank up as the night deepened. Our best odds were right now.
Chantal pocketed her phone. The light inside the car winked on as she opened her door. “Come on. I know a side entrance. I won’t raise any alarm—the men are used to me hanging around. But you . . .” The youngster cocked an eyebrow in my direction.
I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that. The comment seemed odd, wrong somehow.
Chantal looked at me, her eyes dark and serious. “Please. We need your help. You can help, can’t you?”
There was something in her eyes, in the weight of her words, her cadence. Before I could figure it out, the light winked out as the girl stepped out and shut the door behind her, plunging me once again into darkness as I weighed my options.
Which would it be, fold, or go all in? Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But my inner me screamed a warning. Which I ignored.
Pansy-ass
. She was just a teenager doing what her uncle asked. What could go wrong?
Besides, I had to find out what was going on.
Before a killer killed again.
The slip of a girl eased away from the car. The night quickly swallowed her until she looked like a wraith flowing through the shadows.
Pushing aside my doubts, I did what anyone would do: I followed her.
I couldn’t just sit there, could I? Even though our brief relationship had been founded on the soggy bog of teenage distrust, I had to make a move. Of course, I could’ve called the cops, but what would I have told them? Granted, I had every reason to believe they might be interested in what was going on inside the building, but I had no proof of connection to any crime.
Time to find some.
Chantal walked boldly. Her presence didn’t attract any attention from the workers, except for a lone wolf whistle, which she ignored. While they might be accustomed to her presence, I doubted mine would go as unnoticed. Timing my moves so as not to attract attention as the workers came and went from the trucks, I worked my way through the shadows. I caught Chantal at the side door, her hand on the knob. With a finger to her lips, she quieted me, which seemed out of place if we were expected. Before I could tell her exactly how I felt and ask what the hell was going on, she opened the door and slipped through, leaving me once again alone and in the dark.
This had to stop. Taking a deep, bracing breath, I turned the handle and followed her. Blinking against the brightness from the overhead halogens, it took me a moment to get my bearings. Although it looked much larger from the outside, the interior warehouse was actually quite small, partitioned into a dry goods section and a refrigerated area. The sweet aroma of ripening fruit masked the rotten smell underneath. The forklifts must run on electricity, as there was no exhaust to add to the bilious mix.
My pupils cranked down, bringing a man into focus—Adone Giovanni.
I scanned the space. “Where is Jean-Charles?”
He raised the gun he held in his hand, pointing it at my chest. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”
“Apparently.” I flicked my eyes to Chantal, who watched me intently. From her posture and her wide eyes, I got the impression she was trying to tell me something, but what? My eyes drifted back to Adone. “A gun. Really? You expect me to believe all of this was your idea?”
He bristled and waggled the gun at me. “Always a laugh from you. I really hate you women who think you run the show.”
“Well, you seem to think you need a gun to even the playing field.”
He shrugged, not taking the bait. “Expedient.”
“Getting rid of me will make everything better?” Sarcasm probably wouldn’t improve my situation, either, but I couldn’t help myself. Looking into the pointy end of the gun, I should’ve been scared, but I was just mad.
“Where is Jean-Charles?” Clenching my fists at my sides, I took a menacing step toward him.
He raised the gun higher, pointing it at my head. “Stop.”
The chances of him hitting such a small target were slim, but fresh out of original ideas, I decided to string this along a bit longer.
Looking smug, Adone opened his arm, inviting Chantal into his embrace.
She stepped in, allowing him to pull her close. Without shifting his gaze from me, Adone bent and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, daughter.”
Daughter? I hadn’t given their relationship any thought. Why, I assumed he was too young to be her father . . . perhaps because he lacked any hint of fatherly affection.
The girl glanced up at him. “Stepfather,” she corrected, her voice holding a hard edge that caught my attention. When she saw he wasn’t looking, she gave me a stare. Placing her elbow in line with his stomach, she bent that arm and put her fisted hand in the other for leverage, then cocked her eyebrow at me.
I gave her a subtle nod—no one would’ve noticed if they hadn’t been looking for it. Thankfully, Chantal was paying attention.
My attention swiveled to Adone when he spoke—he hadn’t noticed my interchange with Chantal. Men, they rarely anticipated the resiliency of women.
“That’s why I brought you here.” His voice was cold, his eyes dark slits of hate.
“I don’t know where he . . .” Then the light dawned. “Ah, I’m to be bait.”
Adone shrugged. “I have not been able to find him. He will come for you.”
That made me feel both good and terrified. Adone’s tone conveyed his conviction, and his hate, so I tried a different tack, turning my attention to the girl. “Chantal, why are you doing this? You know he’s just using you. He killed Mr. Peccorino.”
“You do not know this,” Adone mocked.
“Oh, but I do.” I narrowed my eyes. “When you rushed into the kitchen at Cielo, you mentioned the oven had been set to broil. No one told you that.”
Adone paused, thinking, then he shrugged. “But you will not be around to remind anyone of that.”
I turned to the girl. “Why are you helping him? Look at what he has done.”
Chantal gave a noncommittal head tilt, her eyes holding mine in a steady, angry gaze. “He has been kind to me,” she said without conviction.
Adone didn’t seem to notice. His focus remained on me. His smile grew wider as he shrugged. “The girl has impeccable taste. Her mother and her uncle do not.” His face shut down into a hard mask.
Chantal cuddled in, selling her ruse, but her face remained stern, angry, her eyes cold. Moving her outside foot slightly farther away, she subtly gained leverage, coiling herself to react—at least, that’s what I was counting on. But, a good salesman, she could be selling me . . .
Turning my attention back to Adone, I tried to buy some time while I thought this through. We were outnumbered. Our only advantage was surprise . . . and the depth of our anger. That should even the odds.
I swept my arm in a half-circle, focusing attention on the half-dozen men who had paused in their work and now looked at the little farce unfolding. “With all these witnesses?”
Disinterest reigned as they turned their backs. Moving away, they got back to business. Even better.
I knew what I had to do.
With a quick nod, I gave Chantal her cue. Despite her slight frame, she uncoiled on Adone with the full force of a grown woman protecting her own. Her elbow hit him firmly just below the sternum. I launched myself into the fight.
With a whoosh of breath, Adone collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach. Chantal fell back. I stepped in like David Beckham readying a shot on goal. With as much force as I dared, I kicked Adone, my instep connecting with his jaw. It only hurt a little, okay, a lot. But Adone dropped like a stone.
Reaching down, I grabbed Chantal’s hand, pulling her to her feet and propelling her in front of me. I swooped and grabbed the gun Adone had dropped, then limped after her. A nine-millimeter. I popped the clip as I ran. It was full. I slammed it back home, chambered a round, flicked on the safety, then stuck it in the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.
The girl glanced over her shoulder, questioning.
“Into the shelving. Quickly.”
We raced through rows of dry goods higher than our heads. Finally, I saw what I was looking for: a tight space tucked between fifty-pound bags of flour stacked at least twenty bags high. I grabbed her shirt, stopping her, then pushed her into the space. For once, she did as I said without any lip. I knelt down in front of her as she worked herself backwards, out of sight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Adone, he has my mother. He told me he would kill me if I didn’t come get you. Had I told you, you might not have come, insisting instead to go to the police. I could not take that risk.” Her voice hitched. “I knew you would help.”
“Where is your mother?” I wheezed, my breathing accelerated from an adrenaline overload.
“The office.” She gestured with her chin, her eyes round saucers of hate. “Far corner in the back.”
I pulled the gun from my waist and thumbed off the safety. “Promise. You will stay here.”
She wavered for a moment, then gave me a curt nod. Her eyes widened when I growled, “I will dismember you if you defy me.”
That took the last hint of defiance out of her, at least as far as I could tell.
Crunching myself into a crouch, I eased down the row to the end. Peeking around, my heart fell.
Adone was gone.
Raising myself to my full height, I leaned back against the rows of boxes, my gun held in both hands chest-high, at the ready. I closed my eyes for a moment, steadying myself.
Chantal had said the office was in the back. Adone would head there—a hostage would give him an advantage. And he had a head start, so I eased my way, taking my time, keeping myself hidden.
His raised voice stopped me halfway there, shattering the quiet and jangling my nerves. “Lucky. You cannot save them all. Not by yourself.”
His voice came from behind me, but not close. I pivoted, my gun in front of me. Careful not to make any noise, I retraced my steps back to the end of the row, then eased my head around.
Once again in the open, Adone faced the other way. He had Desiree. Holding her by the elbow, he kept her close to his side. Though her hands were cuffed behind her, she resisted as much as she could. The gun pressed to her temple probably took a bit of the stuffing out of her as well.
Christ, another gun. How many did he have?
“Show yourself,” he demanded. Slowly, he turned in a circle, scanning.
I didn’t move. Like an anchor, Desiree hung back, forcing Adone to yank her around with each step.
Scanning the boxes, I had an idea. Quickly, careful to make as little noise as possible, I pried a can from the container closest to me. The box ripped with an audible tear. I froze.