Jeff Abbott - Cut and Run

‘Maybe she killed him,’ Gooch said, ‘and she’s waiting for us back at Charlie’s house.’

Whit handed him his cell phone. ‘Call. Or Bucks took her. Getting rid of the leadership on both sides. I don’t think Kiko shot Paul.’ He moved Kiko’s body to one side, peered down the back of the pants for lividity marks. ‘He’s been dead for hours, probably about the same time that Paul died.’

‘You can tell by looking at a dead man’s ass?’ Frank asked.

‘Um, yeah,’ Whit said. It wasn’t a good time to announce he was a judge and coroner, that he’d seen several gunshot bodies and recognized the timing of postmortem conditions.

‘I knew we shouldn’t have recruited from the corporate world,’ said Frank. ‘Those people give me the creeps.’

‘Whit, if Bucks killed Kiko, he would have killed Eve, too,’ Gooch said. His voice wasn’t so slurred now, but Whit didn’t like the pallor of his skin or the shakiness in his hands. He watched Gooch dial, but he felt by a sinking in his gut that Eve wasn’t curled up in front of the TV at Charlie’s.

‘What the hell?’ Frank pointed at Kiko’s mouth. A bit of green protruded from between the lips. Even though most of Kiko’s face was raw meat, his mouth was relatively untouched and Whit knelt

down, conscious he was disturbing a crime scene but not caring. He peeled back the little tube of paper. It was a twenty-dollar bill. He unrolled it and written in heavy black ink across the money was A PUBLIC SERVICE.

Frank peered over his shoulder. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Whit said. He carefully rerolled the bill, stuck it back between the dead man’s teeth. ‘But I don’t see Bucks leaving little notes on the body.’

There was no sign of a fight other than half of Kiko’s face being splattered on the breakfast nook wall. An answering machine held two messages from a young-sounding woman, in Spanish, asking Kiko to call her, she was better this morning.

The condo itself was sparse; a few pieces of leather furniture, TV with DVD player, a breakfast table, a toaster, and a coffee maker. More like a temporary camp than a home. Whit found a small amount of cocaine in the pantry, double-bagged, tucked behind the cornstarch box. Not a good hiding place. He expected better from Kiko. The outer bag had loosened masking tape on it, as though it had been stuck to the wall and hidden elsewhere. And moved.

Why move it out of the hiding place? To snort. To sell. But then you would hide it again, being careful was part of the job. It bothered him.

Whit tried the redial on the condo’s phone, got a Chinese delivery restaurant down the street. Hung up.

‘Jose’s not here,’ Frank said. ‘Kiko’s right-hand guy.’

‘Probably out mailing resumes,’ Gooch said.

‘So what do we do?’ Frank said. ‘Leave and call the cops?’

‘Are there more drugs here?’ Whit asked.

‘Thanks, I’m cutting back,’ Gooch said.

‘Or cash or records? Anything relating back to them being dealers.’

‘No cash that I found, but I haven’t looked hard,’ Gooch said. ‘Ain’t thinking they got receipts.’

‘Let’s look. Quickly.’

‘What, you’re gonna take the dead guy’s money?’ Frank said.

‘Yes, Frank. Go through his pockets for me,’ Whit said. Frank stood uncertainly over the body, as if deciding whether or not Whit was serious.

Whit searched, carefully, through the closet in the first bedroom. Silk shirts, polos, pressed linen slacks, stylish jackets. Of course, the better to hide a holster under. And expensive shoes, all perfectly polished. Kiko probably threw out a pair at the first scuff. He either packed heavy or planned a long stay in Houston.

He checked the rest of the bedroom. The bed was unmade and rumpled. Underneath the bed was nothing but a dust bunny or two. Whit expected firepower to be hidden under there, but nothing. No notes, no papers of any sort. No PDA, no cell phone.

The other bedroom’s empty,’ Gooch said. ‘All the clothes are gone.’

‘Then Jose took off,’ Frank said.

‘Then odds are Jose killed him,’ Gooch said.

‘Why turn on his boss?’ Whit asked.

‘Why not?’ Gooch said. ‘Jose thinks Eve has the money, decides to take it himself. Kiko’s in the way.’

Whit hated the clarity and simplicity of it, because it put them back at zero. ‘But she doesn’t have it.’

‘Are you absolutely sure, Whit?’ Gooch said quietly.

‘She doesn’t.’

‘Let’s say Bucks delivered the money to Kiko,’ Frank said. ‘Eve got the upper hand, killed him, took off with the money.’

‘No,’ Whit said. ‘She’d call me. She wouldn’t run away from me again.’

Frank said nothing, turned, went back into the den.

Whit went into the bathroom. He glanced through the materials in the cabinet. Nothing unusual. Mouthwash, allergy medicine to deal with the inescapable Houston pollen, shaving kit. He opened the toilet, thinking more coke could be hidden there, that it was the common place in movies but Kiko wouldn’t be that dumb.

Or yes he was. A package lay taped inside, heavily wrapped in plastic.

Carefully, Whit pulled it free, laid the package on the floor. Too thin for a cocaine brick. A DVD in a case, unlabeled.

‘Let’s get out of here, boys,’ Frank said as Whit headed back into the den.

‘Wait a minute.’ Whit slid the disc into the player, set it running. Gooch and Frank watched behind him.

A darkened shot, the camera clearly hidden at a slightly tilted angle. Four men entering a house at night. Bucks one of them. All nicely dressed, young executive types. Two minutes passed. Then Bucks coming out. Carrying a body, dumping it in the trunk of a BMW. Then another. And another, Bucks then getting in the car and roaring away.

‘Our smoking gun,’ Frank said. ‘Thank you, Lord.’

‘If Bucks or Jose killed Kiko, why leave this behind?’ Whit popped the disc from the machine.

‘Bucks didn’t know the disc was here,’ Gooch said. He sat down suddenly, touched his chest, frowned. ‘And what’s it to Jose if Bucks gets caught for murder?’

‘Bucks did know about the film,’ Whit said. ‘Kiko told me he had Bucks in his pocket. This is how he got him there.’

‘Whit.’ Gooch clutched at his chest. ‘Whit, oh, man…’ And he collapsed onto the floor, groaning, eyes rolling into whites, a thin sliver of spit oozing from his mouth.

Claudia stood over Whit, holding a cup of steaming coffee in her hand, and he wondered for a second if she would pour it on his head.

‘You look terrible,’ she said quietly. A family was camped in the corner of the intensive care room, and she spoke in a hush.

‘Hello to you too,’ he said.

She handed him the coffee. It was close to six Sunday night, Gooch lying in critical condition for the whole afternoon.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Claudia sat next to him. He didn’t look at her.

‘Whit.’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s going on?’ she said.

‘Sitting here with a coffee that my friend brought me,’ he said.

‘Don’t,’ she said in a low, harsh whisper. ‘Do you know what I’ve been through?’

‘Does it matter if I know? You’re mad at me before I’ve even opened my mouth.’

‘Walk with me,’ she said. ‘There’s a little garden outside. I’m going to yell at you, and I don’t want to disturb these people.’

‘Visiting time is in another fifteen minutes. I can’t miss it.’

‘Level with me and you won’t,’ she said.

‘I love it when you get all authority figure.’ He walked out past her. She followed him.

The evening was damp, rain having ceased its fall an hour ago, and the wet held the air in a swampy embrace. Whit sat down on the damp stone bench. Claudia stood.