David Baldacci - The Forgotten

“You and Mason have a nice scam going. You get inside the houses of elderly people that Mason represents and find out what their valuables are. Then when they die, you take them and Mason alters the inventory list accordingly, fences the items, and the poor heirs aren’t any the wiser. Then Mason can afford his Aston Martin and trips around the world, and I’m betting you’re damn well paid for your part.”

Ryon’s face had been growing paler with each word spoken by Puller.

Carson added, “And maybe you help your targets into the hereafter. You kill Cookie and that way you get his property faster.”

“I didn’t kill Cookie.”

“But you were in his house.”

Puller stared at her bag. “Open it.”

“What?”

“Open your bag.”

“You have no right to-”

Puller grabbed the bag and opened it.

Wrapped in a silk scarf were four of Cookie’s watches.

Puller stared down at her. “Say goodbye to your life, Jane.”

Ryon was crying. “I didn’t kill him. I swear to God I didn’t.”

“Tell the police that. You just walked into his house, took his property that you could only take after he was dead, and he was coincidentally dead upstairs in the bath. It might give the jury a nice laugh before they sentence you to prison for the rest of your life.”

“Mason told me to go there and get the watches. So I did.”

“He told you to do that?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

“Didn’t you wonder how that was possible with Cookie still being alive?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Okay, look. He… he told me that Cookie was… was dead,” she said in a trembling voice.

“And how did he know that?”

“I don’t know.”

Carson looked at Puller. “Mason kills him for some reason, then orders her up to get the stuff.” “Why wouldn’t Grif just snag the watches if he was already there?” asked Ryon.

“So it’s Grif now and not Mr. Mason?” Puller looked at her and shook his head wearily. “And the answer is because he wanted you to take the stuff, not him. That would put you at the scene of the crime. As soon as you found out Cookie was dead, you’d get suspicious. But you’re not going to say anything because you were in the house too. He set you up.”

“That little son of a bitch,” snarled Ryon, who was no longer crying.

“But why would he kill Cookie?” asked Carson.

Puller put his hand on Ryon’s shoulder and gripped. “Any ideas on that?”

“No. He never mentioned anything to me about it. He would have no reason to kill Cookie.”

“When did he call you to go over to Cookie’s?” asked Puller.

“Last night. I was in the area, so it only took me a few minutes to get there.”

“Would Mason have been at Cookie’s?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he went over for a drink. Or to get some baked goodies,” she said callously.

Puller shook her. “An old man is dead. Did you have anything to do with my aunt’s death?”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” said Puller.

“I’m telling the truth,” exclaimed Ryon.

“Well, a jury will determine that. Now, where is the little son of a bitch?” asked Puller.

“I don’t know.”

He shook her again. “Not good enough. Try again.”

“Is he at his home?” asked Carson.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” asked Puller.

“He has another place he goes to. It’s more isolated.”

“Why does he want isolation?” asked Puller.

“He just does sometimes.”

“Does it have to do with the photos of kids he has in his wallet?”

Ryon looked up at him, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“The guy’s a pedophile?” snapped Carson. “Where is this place?” asked Puller sharply. “It’s north of here, up near the bay. Nothing else really around it.”

“You have the address?”

“Yes.”

“Why, do you like kids too?”

“No, of course not,” shouted Ryon, and she started to cry again.

Puller squeezed her shoulder once more and cupped her chin and directed her gaze right at him.

“We’re going to give you a chance to make amends, Jane. But you only get one shot. You blow this, it’s all over. Do you understand?”

She looked back at him, the fear etched on her face.

“I understand.”

Mecho put his phone away after making the call.

It was the longest he ever had been on the phone. The man on the other end was critical to the success of Mecho’s task. The man knew this and Mecho knew this.

It was give-and-take. What the man wanted Mecho would have to give him, if he wanted to succeed. And he had never wanted anything more in his life.

“You will have to prove that to me, Mecho,” the man had said. “Words are available to anyone with a mouth and half a brain.”

“It will be done,” Mecho had told him. Now he just had to figure out how.

He left his room at the Sierra and walked to a diner nearby. He ate lightly for such a massive person. He had never eaten very much for the simple reason that he had never had much available to eat. Over the years one’s stomach and appetite withered.

But it was partly the hunger that drove him, kept him on edge. Complacency and comfort were not words that he accepted or even understood.

He drank copious amounts of water, though. The physical ordeal of swimming through the Gulf still lingered. He felt like he would never get enough liquid inside him.

He paid for the meal with some of the dollars he’d earned keeping Peter Lampert’s property pristine.

He considered it blood money. Anything that helped the man was blood money in Mecho’s mind.

He looked around the small diner and was not unduly surprised to see two uniformed police officers eating their meals. They sat near the door. A man and a woman.

The male was short and burly with a shaved head. The woman was taller with an athletic build and blonde hair. They were having an intense discussion. The man looked upset, the woman looked consoling.

It seemed to be a woman’s lot in life to ease the ridiculous anger of men, thought Mecho.

As he rose to leave, both officers’ gazes rose to meet his.

He nodded, attempted a smile, and walked out.

He did not much care for the police. For him they were as much an adversary as his actual one. They were bound to uphold the law.

There was no law that would ever touch Peter Lampert or Stiven Rojas. They were too clever and too dangerous by half for anything as impotent as laws to bother them. They had to be punished in other, more straightforward ways.

He walked down the street, trickles of sweat winding down his shoulders and broad back. He opted to take a stroll on the beach, to attempt to catch an ocean breeze before he headed back to the little oven that was his room.

He trudged across the sand, oblivious to the other beachcombers, but his antennae were still on high alert.

Or so he thought.

“Mecho?”

He turned but he already knew who the speaker was.

Chrissy Murdoch stood there, sandals in hand. She had on a white sundress and the wind whipped it around her long legs.

Mecho simply stood there, neither advancing nor retreating.

She walked toward him, looked up at him.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I was just walking on the beach and saw you.”

“Mr. Lampert has a private beach nicer than this one.”

“I suppose he does. I’m surprised you know that, though.”

“Enjoy your walk.”

He turned to walk back to the Sierra. Every warning bell he possessed was clanging so hard he felt almost deafened.

“Mecho?”

He stopped but did not turn back around.