Jeff Abbott - Cut and Run

‘I thought more of saving my ass than saving the car.’ Gooch bit his lip, put on that anxious face that Whit seemed to wear so often lately. ‘It was nuts. I got to my friend’s house, started drinking, and lost myself in the bottle.’

‘Your car’s got what looks like a couple of bullet nicks in it.’

Gooch said, ‘Well, there was a lot of shooting going on. Y’all gonna get the guy who did it?’

‘He’s dead. It was on the news.’

‘I don’t watch TV much,’ Gooch said.

The policeman made a production of reinspecting his license, frowning again at the Port Leo address. He tapped it. ‘You’re a ways from home.’

‘I moved here this week to work for a company called Third Coastal Investments.’ He knew that was the name of the broker’s company. ‘I’m sure considering going back to small-town living.’

‘If you stay in Houston, you need to update your license. In thirty days.’

‘Yes, sir, I will.’

Fine. All right. Thanks, Mr O’Connor. We’ll be in touch if we need more information.’ The policeman nodded and his voice softened. ‘Good luck at your meeting. I’ve been clean eight years. You don’t want to slide.’

‘I know. One day at a time.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m gonna go to St Anne’s now. Thanks.’

Gooch drove the Mercedes past the police barricades and turned right onto Kirby. He headed away from River Oaks, toward the Southwest Freeway, toward West University Place. He watched the rearview mirror. Within four blocks, as he came to the intersection of Richmond and Kirby, a Mustang, inadequate-penis red, hovered up behind him.

‘Hello, goombah,’ Gooch said. He got out of the car, ignoring the braying honks from the cars stacked behind him. Went to the Mustang’s window, the driver behind it wide-eyed. Possibly reaching for a gun under the seat.

‘Hey,’ Gooch leaned down and yelled through the window. ‘You tell Paul and Bucks to back off, all right? And you’re gonna get the special served up last night at the Pie Shack if you follow me through this light.’

Fuck you, Mr Mustang mouthed through the window, but Gooch saw in the crinkle of his eyes that he understood. He was thirtyish, thick-armed, going gray early. Not bright-looking.

Gooch tapped on the window with one finger. ‘You I’ll deal with first. The guy last night? Once through the throat, once through the heart, once through the balls. I like the symmetry of it.’

The Mustang’s window started to go down.

‘Listen carefully, dick,’ Gooch said, ‘you shoot me, you got me dead next to a car that’s attached to Paul. Police gonna remember it for sure. They’re already asking me about Paul Bellini when I’m picking up the car. So they know. They know last night’s dead guy’s connected to him.’ The police had said nothing of the sort, but Mr Mustang couldn’t know. Let them sweat.

The Kirby light turned green. The honking behind the Mustang doubled, a big-haired brunette in a convertible Lexus leaning on her horn like the blare alone could make traffic disappear.

‘You understand the message?’ Gooch said, unfazed by the other drivers.

Mr Mustang, a molten glare in his eyes, nodded.

‘Good,’ Gooch said. Cars began to pass him, five inches away, in the other lane, a symphony of blaring horns. He reached down to his calf, hefted up his jeans cuff, pulled from a leg holster a stainless-steel knife with a wicked blade, and rammed it into the side of the Mustang’s front left tire. The air whooshed from the sidewall. Gooch got back into the Mercedes and drove through the light.

He reached for his cell phone, dialed Charlie’s house.

‘Hello?’ Eve.

‘I have your car,’ he said.

‘Good.’

‘Call Whit. I’m not being followed at the moment. I took care of the tail, but your old friends will spot him stuck in traffic soon enough, will collect him, and head back to your house. Whit should be done by now.’

‘Are you coming straight back here?’

‘Yes,’ Gooch lied. ‘I don’t normally do fetching. Getting this car back was a big risk.’

‘It got them out of the house.’

Gooch clicked off without a good-bye. Instead of continuing south he cut over on Bissonet to Shepherd, headed back toward Westheimer. Toward Eve’s house. He didn’t like the idea of Whit alone there.

Tasha closed her eyes, the gun nuzzling along her jaw, and thought: It can’t end like this, not now, not when I’m so close.

‘I figure you owe me about sixty dollars’ worth of talk still.’ Whitman Mosley stepped back from Tasha, the gun off her jaw now, but still trained on her.

‘Sixty dollars’ worth,’ she said. She kept her voice steady. ‘That’s cool.’ When he took the step back she sighed out a held breath although she still sat ramrod-straight in the chair. ‘Odd spot for a movie location, scout.’

‘Why you playing with the computer?’ He glanced over at the screen. A status bar, burning files to a CD, showed it was halfway filled.

‘My friend owns this house and everything in it,’ Tasha said. The thought of Paul gave her confidence. ‘He gave me a key. I come and go as I please.’ She ventured a smile. ‘You’re the burglar, scout. Or did you have a key, too?’

Whit said nothing. Watched her.

‘Eve,’ Tasha said, putting a little creak of fear in her voice. ‘You found her.’

Whit shrugged.

‘She hiding in here, too, Whit?’ See what that got her.

‘No, she’s not.’

‘Whitman Mosley was the name on the credit card you used to charge my time last night. I Googled your ass this morning, scout. Whitman Mosley’s a justice of the peace down on the coast in Port Leo. Feature stories written about you in the Corpus Christi paper. A bad-ass judge. Took down a senator, busted up an illegal archaeology dig. Haven’t you been busy.’ Tasha squinted. They didn’t include a picture though.’ She’d played the one card she had; she knew who he was. If he was going to hurt her, he’d do it now.

Whit shrugged. ‘A name to use.’

‘Let’s say it’s you. Why does a small-town judge care about a woman like Eve Michaels?’

‘Why does a smart woman like you hang with thugs?’

‘Job market’s tough,’ she said. ‘Might be tougher for you real quick. Makes me wonder what the Texas Board of Judicial Review would have to say about a JP smacking people around and pulling guns on them and harboring felons.’

‘I wonder,’ Whit said, ‘what the FBI would make of you discussing a hit.’

‘I didn’t say hit. I said it. I have that urban accent thing happening.’ What else had he heard? Her throat tightened.

‘Who’s the hit on, Tasha? Eve? Me or my friend? All of us?’

The laptop stopped its whirring. ‘I’ll take that CD, please,’ Whit said.

Wordlessly, she ejected the CD and handed it to him. She thought: this is not good.

‘Copying files instead of taking the laptop,’ Whit said. ‘Makes sense if you didn’t want Frank or Bucks to know you had all these files. What’s the data about?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re playing twenty questions until Bucks and Frank come back?’

‘Answer me. What are these files?’

‘Stuff Paul wanted,’ she said. ‘Everybody in this is cheating and stealing from him now, he wanted to know if there was any record of it.’ She shook her head. ‘Eve’s a dead woman walking, you know that?’

‘I want you to deliver a message for me, please.’

‘I love your manners,’ she said.

‘You tell Paul that Eve doesn’t have the money. She didn’t take it.’

‘She accused Bucks.’

‘He’s a solid bet. And now you’re all at each other’s throats, and Bucks could benefit. Or Kiko. Or someone else.’