The amorous couple toppled onto the bed.
The springs slammed onto Claire’s chest, forcing the air out of her lungs with a loud “Ooof.”
“What was that?” Condoleza asked.
The pressure lifted off Claire’s chest. A second later, she stared straight into a pair of furious brown eyes.
Travis grabbed Claire’s arm and yanked hard, pulling her halfway out from under the bed.
Condoleza screamed.
The bed frame scraped Claire’s cheek as her face emerged, but she barely felt it, frantically wondering if Travis would hurt her more—a lot more.
He kicked her. “Get out, bitch!”
She wormed the rest of her body out onto the floor then scrambled to her hands and knees. Blood roared in her ears, and stars whirled in front of her eyes.
Travis grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head up.
Her eyes focused. She stared as a switchblade snicked open an inch from her nose. Warm blood from her scratch trickled down her cheek. Cold sweat trickled down her back.
Travis forced her to a shaky stand and then tilted her chin up with the cold steel blade. His nostrils dilated like a raging bull’s.
Claire trembled.
Is this it? Am I going to die here?
“What the fuck were you doing under our bed? Who are you?” His eyes focused on her face. “Wait. I’ve seen you before. You’re the bitch from the auto shop.”
Condoleza shrieked again. She threw on a robe and yanked its belt tight. “She was here. She’s the lady who brought Enrique’s jacket.” She lapsed into a frantic stream of Spanish, interspersed with hand-waving, finger-pointing, and more shrieks.
Claire stared at Travis, not daring to swallow with the knife
under her chin. Her tongue was too thick to speak.
He stepped closer. Baring his teeth, he pressed the blade against her throat.
A drop of blood trickled down Claire’s neck. A wave of nausea passed through her gut.
He waved the blade in front of her face. “What’s your game? Talk or I’ll slice you.”
Claire gulped. “I’m sorry.”
The room swayed and tilted. She groped backward with her hand for the bed and plopped down on it. She tried to focus on something. Travis’s black satin boxers swam in her vision before she clamped her eyes shut and dropped her head between her knees.
He laughed. “Damn lady’s gonna faint.”
Condoleza finally stopped shouting.
Travis clamped an iron grip on Claire’s shoulder and shook her violently. “Don’t you fade out on me. You got questions to answer.”
Claire sucked in two deep breaths and opened her eyes. The room stopped swaying. Slowly, she raised her head and faced the young man glaring at her.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her dry mouth making her speech hoarse. “I meant to be long gone before you came home. But you came back early, so I hid. I didn’t mean to spy on or listen to . . . you know.”
“So you’re saying you ain’t no pervert.” Travis squinted at her.
Claire rubbed her damp hands on her jeans. “Yes.”
“You’re a thief. You’re after our coke.”
Claire shook her head. “I don’t use it.”
“But at the shop you talked like you wanted to buy some.” Travi
s glanced at Condoleza. “This bitch don’t make sense.”
Condoleza came around to their side of the bed to study Claire’s
face. “Why’d you break into our apartment?”
“To look for—”
“
Un momento
.” Condoleza shuffled through some newspapers on the floor. “I know who you are. Here.”
She pulled out a section, showed it to Travis, and tapped the front-page photo. “She’s the wife of the man who shot Enrique.”
“Roger didn’t kill Enrique,” Claire said.
Condoleza stabbed a finger in Claire’s face. “You’re one of Enrique’s whores, those old ladies from the gym who couldn’t keep their hands off him. I hate you. I hate all of you.”
“Hey, you could make a man jealous with talk like that.” Travis swelled his chest, causing his nipple ring to poke out.
Condoleza sniffed and swiped at a tear. “The bitches all thought they were better than him, but he was too good for them.” She glanced at Travis. “So are you.”
“That’s better.” He read from the paper. “Claire Hanover. Well, well, well.” He tossed the paper aside and frowned at Claire. “What’re you looking for?”
Claire’s mind whirled. What could she tell him that wouldn’t make him angry? He’d probably kill her if he knew she believed he might be the murderer. “I . . . I . . .”
“You a narc?”
Condoleza punched his arm. “
Imbécil
. She won’t accept that her jealous husband killed Enrique and thinks one of us did it. Right?” Her face livid with rage, she poked Claire.
Claire nodded miserably.
Travis threw back his head and laughed. “
Imbécil?
She’s the
imbécil
. Hiding under the bed of someone she thinks is a killer.”
He leaned down and leered in her face. “Maybe I should prove you’re right. Maybe I should slice you right now and toss you out the window into the garbage where you belong.” He swung the knife under her nose in a slow, mesmerizing cobra death dance.
Frozen with fear, Claire stared at the knife.
Condoleza put a hand on his arm. “Wait. We don’t need trouble. Leon will be angry if the cops find a body and start searching his building.”
Rubbing her forehead, she paced the floor, then paused. A sly grin bloomed on her lips. “We are good American citizens, right? We should turn in this crook.”
“Call the cops?” Travis’s eyes flew open.
Claire felt equally puzzled.
“Sure.” Condoleza stood with hands on her hips. “Listen to me. She broke into our apartment. This is a crime. If we turn her over to the cops, they will throw her in jail, where she cannot bother us.”
Claire caught on. Jail was much better than death at the end of Travis’s knife. She’d play Brer Rabbit and beg to stay out of the briar patch. “Please don’t turn me in to the police. They’re already mad at me for interfering in the investigation.”
Detective Wilson’s face, contorted with anger, loomed in her mind.
“Sweet.” Travis leered at Claire. “Mrs. High Society gets her face in the paper again, but this time as a crook.”
Maybe getting turned in to the police isn’t such a good idea.
“Or you could let me go. I’ll pay you for your trouble, and I won’t tell anyone what I found here.”
His eyes narrowed. “What
did
you find?”
That was a mistake.
Claire mentally kicked herself.
“Search her pockets,” Travis said to Condoleza.
Condoleza found the photo and showed it to him.
Travis snorted, grabbed the photo by the corner, and threw it across the room. The photo twirled into a pile of trash heaped around a mostly empty trash can. “Damn. Missed again. Anyway, that picture don’t mean nothing. Anything else?”
Condoleza shook her head.
Claire shook hers, too.
Travis stuck the knife under Claire’s chin and spoke slowly. “Find anything interesting in the kitchen?”
If there was ever a situation where Claire needed to lie and lie well, this was it. She had to hide the fact that she’d seen the cocaine. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she told a half-truth. “A gun receipt.”
“For Enrique’s gun!” Condoleza shook Travis’s arm. “The one her husband used to shoot him.”
“Roger didn’t—”
“Shut up!” Condoleza slapped Claire.
Claire accepted the pain gratefully because Condoleza’s outburst had distracted Travis.
He motioned for Claire to stand. “Go to the front door. We don’t want the pigs in here searching the place.”
As they walked down the hall, he snickered. “Can’t wait to see their faces.” He called over his shoulder. “Get dressed, Leza, and call the cops. Tell ’em we nabbed a burglar.”
FOURTEEN:
THE CROOK
Claire hunched on the
e
nd of a narrow metal bunk with a thin, soiled mattress. The bunk was bolted to the floor of the women’s holding cell at the Gold Hill police station. She glanced at her watch—past midnig
ht. But with the harsh, unshielded bulbs burning overhead, getting any rest was impossible.
She wasn’t thinking about sleep, anyway. Her mind churned over what she should do next. Who she should call. She’d been too embarrassed to call Roger when she was brought in. Whatever made her think she could get away with breaking into Condoleza’s apartment?
I’m an idiot, and now I’m a criminal to boot.
She faced the bars fronting the cell, leaned her chin on her hands, and stared at the gray-green stains on the floor. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she wondered what had made those stains. The strong odor of industrial-strength cleanser that permeated the place was somehow reassuring.
Her head throbbed, and her cheek burned, although the scrape had stopped bleeding. She eased her fingers across her cheek and felt bumps of clotted blood. Her clothes were a mess, too. She picked a glob of dusty spider web off her pants leg. She itched to get home and shower, but she had no idea when that would be possible.
She refused to acknowledge the curious glances of the cell’s other occupants, two surly looking, stringy-haired teenage girls in patched and tattered jeans and jean jackets. The girls sat on a back bunk and whispered furtively to each other. They needn’t have bothered. Claire had no interest in their conversation.
A loud clang announced the closing of a metal door. Heavy footsteps rang in the hallway. Claire glanced up as the footsteps stopped in front of her. A massive belly met her gaze. A uniform shirt gapped open between strained buttons, revealing a hairy belly button at Claire’s eye level.
She looked up.
The guard’s thick-lipped mouth sneered above two fat chins. He barked, “Claire Hanover.”
Claire said, “Yes?”
“Stand two steps away from the door.” The guard waited for her to comply, then opened the cell door. He waved her through. After locking the door, he walked her to the end of the hall.
They passed through a maze of locked doors and narrow hallways until the guard stopped in front of a scratched wooden door. He opened it, pushed her inside, and closed the door behind her.
The institutional gray room was bare except for a table and two chairs—and Detective Wilson. Wearing a rumpled trench coat and sitting slumped in his chair, he looked exhausted and angry.
Claire’s heart sank.
Oh, God
.
He gestured at the other chair.
She slipped into the seat and sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap.
“Imagine my surprise”—Wilson’s voice dripped with sarcasm—“to be awakened close to midnight and told that the wife of my murder suspect had been arrested for breaking and entering.”
Claire stared at her hands.
Wilson’s voice rose. “And the apartment she broke into was leased by the man killed by her husband.”
She had to say it. “Roger didn’t kill Enrique.”
Wilson slapped the table. “Your belief in your husband’s innocence does not, I repeat,
does not
give you the right to break the law.”
Claire flinched. “I understand. All I can say in my defense is that I was desperate.”
“You better have been desperate to break into a drug dealer’s apartment. You could’ve been killed! And we couldn’t have done anything about it, because of the Make My Day law.”
Claire’s chin jerked up. She stared at the detective. “How did you know Travis was a dealer?”
Wilson looked at the ceiling, as if beseeching God for patience. “Why do you think they called me in? Your meddling upset a delicate drug interdiction operation. We had almost collected enough evidence to arrest him.”
When he glared at her, Claire shrank back.
“Imagine how our officers felt to have a dealer watch them haul off a society dame. He stood there in his silk boxers smirking at them the whole time, because they didn’t have enough on him and couldn’t search the place.”
Claire wanted to crawl into a hole and die quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Wilson rubbed his forehead. “He’ll have a field day with the story, bragging to every street hustler willing to listen about how he put one over on us. And what’s worse, we can’t go after him for a while, because his lawyer will claim whatever new evidence we have was acquired illegally during your arrest.”
Horrified, Claire realized the broad repercussions of her headstrong actions. “I didn’t think—”
“Damn right you didn’t think. I’ve spent the last hour trying to placate people on both sides.”
“What do you mean, both sides?”
“Don’t ask.” With his last outburst, Wilson seemed to have blown off enough steam and sat fuming.
Claire wrapped her arms around her chest. Morose, self-
chiding thoughts swirled in her head. She could never explain herself to Detective Wilson. “As soon as I can get hold of Dave Kessler, I’ll be out of your hair.”
Wilson chuckled.
Claire stared.
Why is he laughing?
Wilson cracked a wry smile as the laugh subsided. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “That’s what’s so ironic. You’re already out of my hair. For now, anyway. For some mysterious reason, Miss Martinez and Mr. Smith decided not to press charges. You’re free to go, Mrs. Hanover.”
Smith must be Travis’s last name. Or a not very original alias.
“Why would they do that?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? But I suggest you don’t ask them. You should avoid any and all contact with them whatsoever.” He peered at her, as if waiting for agreement.
“Don’t worry.” Claire shuddered. “I don’t intend to see either of them again. But I discovered some things in the apartment. A photo—”
“Stop.” Wilson held up a hand. “I can’t use anything you found while snooping in their apartment. In fact, I don’t even want to know. It could taint the investigation.”
“But—”
“No.”
Claire slumped in her chair. What good was it to find out stuff if he refused to listen? At least she could tell Dave Kessler. Maybe he could use the information in Roger’s defense.
Wilson stood. “I said you were free to go. Usually a cab or two is loitering outside, even this late. If you don’t see one, you can call a cab from the pay phone in the lobby. The guard will take you to get your personal effects.”
He opened the door and faced Claire. “I plan to go home and go back to sleep. I suggest you do the same, Mrs. Hanover, and I hope I never see you or hear from you again.” He walked out and let the door swing shut behind him with a loud thump.
Claire buried her head in her hands, too worn out to cry.
The door creaked open. The guard stood waiting.
With a sigh, Claire eased out of the chair and followed the guard. He led her to a desk where she retrieved her car keys, burgling tools, and flashlight. She remembered her car still sat parked at the Faith Redeemer Baptist Church. She wondered if it, and her purse inside, was still there. If it wasn’t, she couldn’t pay the cab driver. But that was the least of her worries.
Like an automaton, she plodded after the guard to the lobby. Before she knew it, she stood alone at the front entrance. Heeding Detective Wilson’s advice, she stepped outside to look for a cab.
The street was quiet, with no car or foot traffic. Slick patches of melted snow refrozen into ice reflected the stark glare of a streetlight on the corner. Dark storm clouds raced overhead, blocking out starlight.
The somber scene echoed Claire’s gloomy mood. Clutching her coat tight against her, she walked down the station steps to the street. She looked to her left for a cab.
Nothing.
As she turned right, two pairs of rough hands grabbed her, and a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
“Don’t make no trouble now. The man needs to talk to you.” The speaker and his companion lifted her off her feet and carried her down the street, away from the police station.
Claire glanced right and left, and her eyes grew wide. She recognized Leon’s driver and bodyguard. She struggled, but she was trapped firmly in the grip of the large men flanking her. She tried to scream, but the hand over her mouth muffled the sound.
Where are the police when you need them, especially outside their own damn station?
She remembered what Leon had said when he spoke to her on the phone—“Don’t talk to Travis or Condoleza again”—and the implied threat.
Claire’s scalp and arms tingled as her hair rose to full alert.
They rounded the corner. With its engine running, the black limousine waited at the end of the block.
Oh, God.
Furiously, she fought her captors again, but Leon’s thugs easily overpowered her.
The driver’s companion opened a back door of the limousine, and the two shoved her inside.
Howling, “Let me go! You can’t do this to me,” she landed on all fours on the car floor. The door slammed shut behind her, whacking her on her rump and heel. Sharp pains zinged up the nerves from both sites.
The door lock clicked.
Another loud click sounded from the back seat of the limo.
Her head whipped up. A wicked switchblade gleamed, reflecting rays from the streetlight overhead. She bit her lip to still the trembling.
Leon’s large, black visage grinned at her from behind the weapon.
“They not only
can
do this to you, Mrs. Hanover, they just did.”
The two henchmen climbed in front, and the driver gunned the engine. The car shot forward.
The acceleration threw Claire against Leon’s legs. Anxious to put distance between herself and the knife, she clambered onto her knees on the rear-facing seat, hands pressed against the side and ceiling of the car.
Deliberately, Leon turned the blade, scraped it under one of his fingernails, then wiped it on his pants leg. He waved the knife. “Sit down.”
Staring at the blade, Claire slowly slid down until she was sitting in the corner farthest from Leon.
“Now put on your seat belt like a good girl. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt if we make any sudden stops.” Leon chuckled.
Claire didn’t like the sound of that chuckle. Fingers trembling, she pulled the seat belt across her lap. She wondered what Leon planned to do. It took two tries to fasten the buckle.
He lowered the switchblade but kept it in his hand, tapping the side of the blade against his other palm.
Claire had no doubt he could use the knife with speed and deadly accuracy. She licked her dry lips.
Leon shook his head and clucked his tongue. “What are we gonna do with you?”
Claire had a suggestion—let her go—but she doubted he wanted to hear it. She glanced out the window, but she didn’t recognize any landmarks in the dark. Where were they taking her?
A lighter flashed, and Leon held it to the end of his cigarette. He blew a large smoke ring.
The acrid smoke stung Claire’s nose. She coughed.
“Bad habit, I know. But I ain’t had a chance to break it yet.” He took another drag. “Or a desire to.”
After two more quick drags, Leon stubbed out the cigarette. “And I never do anything I don’t have a desire to do.”
Claire screwed up her courage to speak. “I hope you don’t have a desire to kill me, Mr. . . .” She realized she didn’t know his last name. “Leon.”
He laughed. “Maybe, maybe not. But as I told you before, I don’t ‘desire’ for you to mess in my business, either.” He gave her a stern look.
“You said not to talk to Condoleza or Travis. I didn’t plan to.”
Leon rolled his eyes, but she plowed on. “I meant to be out of the apartment long before they returned. They never should have known I was there, but they came home early.”
“I know.”
“So one of them told you. That’s why you were waiting for me.” Another realization hit her. “You knew Travis dropped the charges. That’s how you knew when I’d be leaving the jail.”
Leon fisted his hand and studied his fingernails. “I told him to drop the charges.”
This admission jolted Claire. “Why?”
Leon waved his hand dismissively. “The last thing I need is Travis on a witness stand under oath.”
He laughed again. “Travis didn’t like it, no sir. He was enjoying his little game with the cops. Have to admit turning you in was a smart idea. The cops’ll have to stay away from him for a while, and they were getting too close for my comfort.”
“Turning me in wasn’t his idea. It was Condoleza’s.”
“Really? In addition to being hot, the gal’s got brains.” Leon stroked his chin. “Well, well, well.”
Claire put her own brain to work. “Since the outcome was positive for Travis, and for your business, maybe you can find it in your heart to let me go.”
Leon dropped his hand and peered at her. “Did you tell the cops about the coke you found?”
“No.” Claire’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute. How did you know I found cocaine?”
“I didn’t.”
Damn
. Her naiveté had gotten her in trouble again. Maybe she could use it for her benefit. “I didn’t tell them Travis was a dealer, either. They already knew that.”
“I know. Once this blows over, I’ll probably have to work a deal to save his sorry ass again.”
“You bribe the police?”
Leon shook his head.
Claire thought for a moment. Besides money, what else could Leon trade for the young man’s hide? “Information. You must—”
Putting a finger to his lips, Leon smiled. “A smart businessman’s got to find some way to eliminate the competition.”
Claire realized he might be involved in the delicate drug interdiction operation Detective Wilson had mentioned. That would explain a lot. The notion also gave her some hope she could get out of this situation alive. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“No, you won’t.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
Leon scowled. “Besides, it gives me satisfaction to get scumbags who hook kids on meth off the streets.”
“But don’t you do the same thing?”