Surest Poison, The (31 page)

A computer-generated notice on the
building entrance advised that the firm would re-open at three o’clock. The
door was unlocked, however, and Sid stepped inside. The entrance hall didn’t
seem big enough to qualify as a lobby.
Maybe a
vestibule.
He faced an open window behind a counter, closed doors on
either side. Two straight chairs sat along one wall. A small display of
gaskets stood against the other. The window opened onto an unoccupied office
with several desks, filing cabinets,
the
usual
paraphernalia of a small business.

Sid walked up to the window. He called
out in his bad cop voice, “Decker!”

A few moments later, the door on the left
opened. The man they had met as Trent Decker four days earlier smiled at
him. He wore a blue business suit, the thick ponytail dangling in back of
his collar. “Come on in, Mr. Chance. Let’s go back to my office.”

He took a few steps along the hallway and
turned through an open door on the left. Sid followed him into a
modest-sized office with dark wood furnishings that looked stylish but not
expensive. Colorful photos of concept cars decorated pale brown walls.
Pastel green drapes covered the windows.

Decker moved behind his desk and waved to
a chair in front. “Have a seat and tell me what I can do to help.”

Sid eased into the chair and looked
Decker in the eye. This was not a social call. Chit-chat did not appear on
his agenda.

“Let’s start with this,” he said. “Since
I talked to you on Tuesday, we learned the Tony Decker obituary was a hoax.”

“You told me on the phone my brother was
still alive.”

“Yes, Tony Decker is still alive, and I’m
certain he was here last Friday when Pete Rackard called. The call lasted
seven minutes.”

“How could that be? We were closed.”

Sid ignored his protest and continued.
“Monday we asked Bronson Fradkin and Hank Keglar in Lewisville about Tony
and Auto Parts Rehabbers. That night someone placed a device under the small
house behind Jaz LeMieux’s mansion, setting off an explosion and fire that
destroyed the place.”

Decker stiffened.
“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because we found evidence indicating the
people who touched off the explosion came here for a van before going to
Jaz’s place.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Is it? Somebody thought Bobby Wallace
would be in the house that was destroyed. They were afraid he might talk.
Well, this morning he did. He said he recognized Tony Decker’s voice when he
was threatened last week. He told us how he had dumped more than twenty
drums of TCE behind the plant on Tony’s instructions.”

Decker bolted up from his chair. “I’m
going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Chance. This has nothing to do with
me, and I don’t have to listen to any more of it.”

Sid rose as well. “I think it does have
to do with you. You’ve been masquerading as Trent Decker the past ten years,
but the party’s over. We checked your birth certificate, Tony. You have no
twin brother.”

Decker looked down and reached for his
desk drawer.

Sid drew the Sig, pushed back the slide
with an ominous clack.

“Keep your hands out of the drawer,” he
ordered.
“Up where I can see them.”

He held the gun in his right hand,
keeping an eye on Decker. With his left hand, he reached for his cell phone.

Decker’s face softened into a smile. His
hands relaxed. Sid tightened his grip on the gun. What was the man up to?

“Vince, why don’t you relieve Mr. Chance
of that weapon he likes to threaten people with?” Decker said.

Sid was ready to call the bluff when he
felt something round and hard press against his back.

“I guess this three-fifty-seven Magnum
trumps that nine millimeter.” The man behind him reached around for the Sig.

50

Sid held the
gun until he heard the unmistakable snap of a trigger being cocked.

“Easy does it,” Vince said, grasping the
weapon.

He moved around to where Sid could see a
shiny revolver held by the thick, muscular man he had kicked off the porch
Friday night. The one he had dubbed “Scarface.” Judging by the grin on his
jowly face, he enjoyed the switch in roles.

The carpet was a soft plush. The man had
moved like a ghost. It made Sid feel a little better about being taken by
surprise last night. He wasn’t losing his touch.

“I believe you’ve met before,” Decker
said.

Scarface waved the gun. “He ain’t so
cocky now.”

Sid gave him a look icy enough to freeze
steam. “I should have hauled you off to jail right then.”

“You ain’t
no
cop now, Chance.”

“You obviously didn’t follow my
instructions last night, Vince,” Decker said. “We wouldn’t be in this mess
now if you’d done the job right.”

“I swung that club hard as I could. He
went down like a flat tire. I thought he’d had it.”

Sid stiffened. He reached up to touch the
sore spot on his head. “You’re the guy who did this, huh? It’s a good thing
I got my arm up in time.”

Sid’s cell phone rang and Decker motioned
to Vince. “Get that thing.”

The man with the scar continued to grip
the revolver but shoved the Sig into his pocket. He eased behind Sid and
slipped the phone out of its scabbard. It soon fell silent.

Sid considered making a move for the gun
but thought better of it. Decker likely had one in his desk drawer. Anyway,
this didn’t appear to be an opportunity with acceptable risks. What they had
in mind for him wasn’t clear, either.

Decker moved from behind his desk. “Let’s
get him tied up before he causes any more problems.”

“Then what?”
Vince asked.

“I need to call Lewisville and give them
a heads up. We’ll stash him in an office down the hall until we find out
what they want to do.” He glared at Vince. “If he got his arm up last night,
you should have known you didn’t put him out of commission.”

“I didn’t see
no
arm. That whack woulda dropped an elephant. He must have a head like a rock.
Anyway, I got your damn file.”

Sid gripped his fists and took a deep
breath. He’d love to deck the guy with a quick right cross, but a .357
Magnum round wasn’t worth it.

“Not my file,” Decker said. “That was for
Hank and Bronson.”

They force-marched him into a smaller
office with a desk, a roll-around secretarial chair, a computer, a printer,
a two-drawer file, and a metal straight chair. They sat him in the straight
chair and Vince held the gun on him while Decker went back to the shipping
department. He returned with a large coil of twine. Wrapping it around and
around, he tied Sid’s arms and legs. They went out and closed the door. Sid
heard the lock click.

Except for the computer’s soft hum,
silence filled the room. Cars in various colors and shapes scrolled about
the flat monitor on the desk. Though the lights were off, the window
provided ample illumination, despite the morning’s dusky skies. Sid spent a
few moments surveying the small office, looking for anything that might be a
help in freeing himself. He saw no sharp edges to saw against. A letter
opener stuck out of a cup on the desk. There was no way he could get his
hands on it.

Because of his long legs, they had tied
his ankles to the outside of the chair. He found he could push with his feet
and maneuver the chair over the tight weave of the carpet. Turning to face
the window, he saw the street lay too far away to attract any attention,
even if he had some way to wave. He tugged at his hands and flexed his
wrists. The twine didn’t allow enough movement to work anything loose.

Inch by inch, he walked the chair over to
the desk. In and out boxes accommodated a stack of papers. Besides the cup
with the letter opener, a few pens and pencils, there was a photo of a plump
young woman and a stout, smiling man. A box of tissues sat at one side, a
single tissue on top bearing the imprint of a lipstick blot.
A woman’s desk.
He eased the chair around until
he could get a hand on a drawer and pull it open. Then he turned until he
could see inside.

It contained a folded red and yellow
scarf, a half-eaten chocolate bar, judging by its turned-back wrapper,
a
box of Christmas cards, a few small
unidentified objects, and a zippered plastic case with a floral motif. It
looked like one of those reward gifts from a department store make-up
counter. Since the chair had a solid back, his arms weren’t tied to it,
giving his hands the ability to maneuver up and down. He scooted around
until he could reach into the drawer and feel for the cool of the smooth
plastic.

Pulling out the case, he felt around
until he found the zipper.
Then began the tedious task
of pulling while holding it steady.
Long fingers helped. When he got
it open, he reached inside. He held his breath as he almost dropped it. He
felt a small bottle, maybe fingernail polish, and a round container that
could be powder. When his finger hit a sharp point, he checked further,
moving until he traced the outline of a long metal fingernail file. Feeling
the rough edge, he knew it would cut through the twine if he could work it
like a saw.

Grasping the handle between his thumb and
two fingers, he slipped the file out of the case, which fell to the carpet.
He rotated the file, turning the sharp end to point toward his wrist. He
pushed until he felt it contact the twine that bound him. He began to work
the slim metal shaft back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

How long had it been since they left him,
he wondered? There was no clock on the wall. He couldn’t see his watch. He
knew they could return at any moment. He prayed for a busy phone line in
Lewisville.

His fingers soon tired, but he kept
sawing.

Then it happened.

He felt his bonds loosen. Still holding
the file, he twisted his wrists as hard as he could. The strands began to
pull apart. He worked one hand free and swung both arms in front. His wrists
burned from rubbing against the twine, but he quickly shucked off the rest
of it. Bending down, he sawed away at the strands binding his ankles.

As soon as he was able to move, Sid
bounded over to the casement window and started cranking it open. At the
rattle of a key in the door lock, he realized he was too late.

51

Jaz raced
down Franklin Pike to Old Hickory Boulevard, which cut across the southern
end of the county, changing names to Bell Road before it reached I-24. She
had checked the map before leaving and found Dixie Seals almost to the
Rutherford County line, off a reincarnation of Old Hickory Boulevard several
miles down the interstate. Under the best of driving conditions, it was a
twenty-to-thirty-minute drive. Today was not the best of conditions. She got
tangled in slow-moving traffic around a major intersection. A few minutes
later, she found herself behind a long funeral procession. She thought of
trying to pass the line of cars with their headlights on but knew she’d be
butting heads with the aggressive funeral escorts. She had witnessed them
dash back and forth from front to back, lights flashing, loudspeaker blaring
to force people out of the way.

She put on her headset and punched the
number for Bart.

“Masterson,” he answered.

“Where are you?”

“Dodging idiots.
I had to stop for gas. I should have done it on the way home this morning,
but I was bushed.”

“I’m stuck behind a funeral procession on
Old Hickory Boulevard.”

“I should be coming out I-24 by the time
you get there. If I blow by you, just kick it in afterburner and ride my
draft.”

She clicked off the phone. By now she had
begun to fight off unwanted images of Sid lying in a pool of his own blood.
Her impulse was to jam her foot on the accelerator, but she cooled it until
the funeral turned off at an intersection.

When the key
rattled in the lock, Sid dashed across the office. He barely made it behind
the door before it opened. He heard a gasp as Vince stepped in, revolver in
hand, and faced the empty chair. The stocky man’s scarred face reddened as
he rushed toward the open window. Sid came up behind him and delivered a
hard chop to his wrist. The gun bounced out. Following through with all his
weight, Sid flung the startled man against the wall. The .357 hit the floor
and fired.

The shot made a deafening roar in the
small room. The bullet ricocheted off the metal desk and tore through the
end wall. Sid shook off the shock of the discharge, though he could hear
nothing above the ringing in his ears. He glanced down at Vince. The man lay
motionless on the floor. Blood trickled from a scalp wound where his head
had hit a metal stud in the wall. Sid grabbed the revolver off the carpet.
He knew the shot would bring Decker on the run.