Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

She gave a little shake of her head, unable to talk. She felt as if she were going to crack and crumble, like one of those cartoon characters, Sylvester the Cat or Wile E. Coyote when they’d slammed into a brick wall.

“Somebody I need to toss?” Len asked darkly.

“No.” It came out as a breath. “Please, no.”

“Okay, babe. You just tell me.”

“I will,” she mumbled.

She glided away, her feet not making a sound on the floor, and slid against the bar next to Eric Shuji Shizumi.

Matthew double-parked on the narrow tree-lined street in front of Senator Samuel Ryder’s townhouse. Cars could just squeak by his. If they couldn’t, the hell with them. They could back up and go another way. He wasn’t going to be long. Although they lived within the same half-dozen blocks, he and Ryder never seemed to bump into each other. For a while they had, at least on occasion, but that was back when Stark worked for the Washington Post and was still being invited to some of the more desirable Washington parties. The ones where you didn’t wear Gokey boots and drink beer and talk baseball. He’d still go to those parties when he didn’t have anything better to do, like read the latest books panned by the New York Times Book Review or catch a game, and he’d provide the touch of cynicism and distance people expected from him. In drawing rooms filled with antiques and sterling silver and men and women who used poll results to tell them what was going on “out there,” he was a reminder of how different they all were. The chosen people. They’d all read LZ, of course-or pretended they had. “It’s so realistic,” they’d tell him, as if they knew.

That was another thing about Juliana Fall, he thought suddenly: no damn pretending. If she didn’t know who the hell you were, you got that blank look and that was that. Of course, with her pale beauty and international reputation, she’d get along just fine with the Washington crowd. Artists weren’t supposed to keep up with current events. They could be forgiven their airheadedness.

He bounded up the curving front steps and gave the garnet-red door two firm whacks. Ryder’s was a high-style Federal with black shutters, a Palladian window, pilasters, shiny brass fittings, and a delicate wrought-iron rail. An unadorned pine cone wreath hung in the middle of the door, put there, undoubtedly, by a conscientious housekeeper. The appearance of taste and perfection was important to the Golden Boy. Stark thought of his own townhouse. It needed renovating. Badly.

Ryder answered the door himself, in neatly pleated trousers and a casual sweater that made him look even more the rich, handsome, perfect young senator. They’d be begging him to run for president before long. Matthew wasn’t fooled-or impressed. He knew what Sam Ryder was, and he wouldn’t be getting his vote come election day.

Stark took no pleasure when Ryder went pale at seeing him on his doorstep. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

“I can’t, I haven’t the time-I’m going out.”

“It’ll just take a minute.”

Matthew pushed past him into the foyer, elegantly simple with its cream walls and Queen Anne furnishings. Such perfection. Ryder left the door open, and a chilly breeze floated into the warm house.

“I don’t want you here,” the senator said, his tone an unconvincing mix of arrogance and fright. “Get out before I-”

“Before you what? You’re not going to do anything, Ryder. You couldn’t risk it, not with Phil Bloch on your ass.”

The baby blue eyes widened, and Stark could feel his former platoon leader’s tension. But then Ryder gave a small supercilious laugh, as if he’d found relief in Stark’s words, as if to say, oh, so that was what all this was about. Just Phil Bloch.

“Bloch? I hate to disappoint you, Matthew, but I haven’t heard that name in years. I can’t believe you two are still at it. What’s he up to these days?”

Stark’s gaze was relentless. “You tell me.”

“Look, Matthew, honestly, I don’t have time to talk. I’m due at a dinner in half an hour-”

“I don’t care if you’re due at the White House.”

Matthew spoke in a level, deadly voice. “I want to know what you’re in with Bloch for, what you’re doing about it. And I want to know where he is.”

As he straightened up, Ryder made the mistake of looking into Stark’s black-brown eyes, and Matthew watched the air go out of him. “I-dammit, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Matthew clenched and unclenched his scarred fists. He wanted to choke the bastard-not that it’d do any good. Some people you could count on never to change. “Weasel’s been snitching to me,” he said. “The dumb bastard thinks he’s helping you. Bloch knows what’s been going on. I want to get to him before he gets to the Weaze.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“You owe him.”

“I don’t. He was just doing his job.”

“And you weren’t.”

“Look, I didn’t ask for his help.”

“I know. Weasel still thinks you’re worth more than he is. I don’t, Ryder. If Otis Raymond gets himself killed because he was trying to help you, I won’t forgive and I won’t forget. And I won’t keep my mouth shut. Not this time. Count on it.”

“If he gets himself killed, it’ll be because he trusted you!”

“Talk, Ryder.”

Matthew could see the sweat pouring down the senator’s face; he took no pleasure in it. “Otis Raymond is a drug addict and a loser,” Ryder said. “Whatever he told you about me I’ll deny. You have no proof, and you’ll get none.”

“Where you’re concerned,” Stark said, “I don’t need proof.”

Ryder licked his lips. “Don’t threaten me, damn you!”

“Tell me about the Minstrel’s Rough, Sam.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, then let me give you an idea of what I know. Rachel Stein, the woman you were with the other night at Lincoln Center, said something that made you decide you could get your hands on the Minstrel, give it to Bloch, and solve all your problems. The Dutchman, de Geer, is your connection to the diamond. He went to Johannes Peperkamp in Antwerp, who took him to Amsterdam to get the stone-only it was a wild-goose chase, wasn’t it?” Matthew had no sympathy for Ryder’s white, stricken face, graying slightly around the mouth as he realized how much the former helicopter pilot already knew. Stark kept his voice steady, unemotional. “You’re not going to collapse, Ryder, so don’t pretend you are. The old man didn’t have the stone, did he?”

“Matthew…” Ryder’s voice was little more than a pathetic whisper. “Matthew, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Did he, goddamn you?”

Shit, Stark thought. Shit, damn, hell. The old man didn’t have the stone. Did that mean one of the Peperkamp women did? Is that what Ryder thought-de Geer, Bloch? With Phil Bloch, thinking something was so made it so. Matthew focused again on Ryder, barely able to control the impulse to back the senator up against the wall and make him talk. But he’d never operated that way, and he wasn’t going to start now.

“If anything happens to the Weaze or to the Peperkamps, Sam, I’m coming after you.” He didn’t raise his voice. “I don’t care what shitpile you’re hiding under. I’ll keep digging until I find you.”

“You’re a has-been, Stark.” But Ryder’s voice squeaked, undermining his words. “You’re grasping. You want a story so badly you’ll listen to nonsense. I don’t know what Otis Raymond told you, and I don’t care: I’m not involved. I’m not afraid of you, Matthew. Now get out.”