Джеймс Паттерсон - Three Women Disappear

“I’m trying to imagine what brings an Italian American princess like you to this shithole on a weekday afternoon,” she said. “I’m not coming up with anything that makes my life better.”

“I’ve got questions,” I said. “Questions I’m pretty sure only you can answer.”

“Anthony did something to you, didn’t he?”

She was gloating. The poor thing really had no clue, and I wasn’t about to break the news until she told me what I wanted to know.

“In a way,” I said. “I’m not involved in his business dealings like you were. I was wondering who …”

“He’s in bed with?”

I nodded.

“You looking to hurt him? ’Cause if that could be done, believe me I’d have done it. Anthony’s protected from every angle. As bad as I wanted to see his little empire collapse—an empire I more or less built for him—I wasn’t going to get myself killed trying.”

“It isn’t that,” I said. “I just want to be prepared.”

An elderly patron at the end of the bar called out for a fresh pint. Vicki told him to keep his pants on.

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “But if you want to make a play against Tony, it won’t be me who stops you. Nothing would make me happier than to see you both go down in flames.”

“That’s sweet, Vic,” I said. “So tell me: where is he vulnerable? Most likely to get in trouble?”

“You asking who would come after him?”

I gave another nod, felt the hair clips knocking against my skull.

“Granted, my information’s dated, but I’d look to the boys in blue.”

“The cops?”

“That’s right, hon: the cops. Tony blackmails them. Gets them to do his bidding. His , not Vincent’s. You starting to see the picture?”

It was a much bigger and uglier picture than I’d imagined. I leaned hard against a stool. Vicki smiled, enjoying herself.

“Could be one of the cops is after him. Could be Vincent himself. But the question you need to ask yourself is, how does Tony know which cops are dirty? Who’s feeding him the intel? ’Cause that person has a hell of a lot to lose. Could be he wants out.”

“You know who it is, don’t you?” I said. “Give me a name.”

She laughed. Her laugh was as fake as the rest of her.

“I’m not a rat, hon. But then I’m guessing you don’t really need me to tell you.”

It was a good guess.

“So what is it?” she asked. “Death threats? A pipe bomb through the bay window?”

“No,” I said. “Anthony’s already dead.”

I’d like to say I told her the truth because I thought she should know, but the even bigger truth is I got a kick out of watching her face turn colors beneath all that rouge.

“What are you talking about?”

“He was stabbed to death. I found him this morning in our kitchen. I’m no expert, but it looked like a crime of passion. I’m sure those dirty cops will come knocking at your door any minute.”

She picked up the knife she’d been using to cut lemons and pointed it at the door.

“You bring this shit to me?” she said. “Get the hell out or I swear to God I’ll do you the way they did Anthony.”

“Vicki, I—”

“You think I’m stupid? You’re here asking questions because you know it’s you they’re coming for next. You’ve got ‘Loose End’ tattooed across your forehead. And now I’ve got to worry about your deathbed confession: ‘I didn’t know anything about anything until Victoria spilled her guts.’ You’re lucky we’re standing in a room full of witnesses.”

On cue, the drunks stumbled off their stools and gathered around. The poor dears thought they were really quite threatening; I could have knocked any one of them over with my little finger. I took a last look at Vicki and told myself it was better to be the widow than the ex.

CHAPTER 17

I DAMN near wore out those rubber clogs walking the seedier streets of East Tampa, looking for some hole to crawl into. I had a hundred dollars cash in my wallet, enough to rent a motel room for a night—maybe two if the room came with a mirror on the ceiling and an hourly rate. There was a surprising shortage of choices, and I wasn’t about to stop one of the locals and ask for a rec. Not without backup.

And that was the thing: I had no more backup. Anthony and I had more than our share of problems, but I always knew that if any man so much as laid a finger on me he’d end up trampled by an army of Costellos. At least that was true yesterday. Now that same army was hunting me. For the first time in a long while, I understood what it meant to be alone.

My Fitbit logged twenty thousand steps before I came across the Jackalope Inn, a circa-1970 structure with teetering breeze-ways and rusted-out railings—the kind of establishment that feels incomplete without a SWAT team huddled in the parking lot. Perfect , I thought. Even I wouldn’t think to look for me here .

Inside, the man behind the bulletproof glass told me it would be forty bucks for the night. I spent another five bucks at the vending machines, coming away with a Diet Coke and a bag of almond Mars bars—my first meal of the day. The room was more or less what I’d expected: a sagging twin bed, flea market paintings, peeling wallpaper, a carpet I’d make sure never to touch with my bare feet. What I hadn’t anticipated was the odor. It was as if somebody had sprayed every inch of the place with synthetic fruit punch. Whatever stench they were covering up didn’t stand a chance.

I switched on the TV in hopes that the voices might calm me. Big mistake. The Jackalope Inn only offered local channels, and at the ten o’clock hour they were all showing the nightly news. Anywhere I flipped, there he was: a full-screen headshot of my recently deceased husband. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t look away. So I sat there chomping on Mars bars (almond my ass—not one lousy nut in the whole bag) and listening to the pundits make uninformed guesses about who whacked Vincent Costello’s portly nephew. Surprise, surprise: my name came up. Some ace reporter had already managed to obtain from an anonymous source a “firsthand account” of the knock-down-drag-out Anthony and I had at his uncle’s party—the one where I threatened to kill Anthony in his sleep.

Of course, there were other suspects. Anthony did work for the mob, after all. It was perfectly plausible that I’d been framed, in which case I was either lying at the bottom of a swamp or locked in a closet somewhere with duct tape over my mouth.

Listening to that crap was giving me a full-blown panic attack. I pictured Vincent sitting on the edge of his overstuffed recliner, watching the same program, growing more and more convinced that it was my turn to die. I switched off the TV, but the sounds of bellowing drunks and blaring sirens didn’t do much to calm me down. Someone was walking back and forth along the breezeway outside. Defoe , I told myself. It had to be. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I wouldn’t survive the night.

Which is why I picked up the motel phone and made the call. The only call I could think to make.

“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.

I hemmed and hawed, gave her something less than the full story.

“You stay put now,” she said in the kind of soothing voice that truly anxious people find maddening. “Help is on the way.”

She didn’t say what kind of help. I went to the window, pulled back the heavy curtain just far enough to peer outside. The Jackalope faced the kind of cityscape that sends urban dwellers running for the country. Busted streetlamps, heavily graffitied storefronts, potholes you could climb down into, delinquents gathered on every corner. But no Defoe. No Broch. Still, my legs were trembling, and I had to fight to keep down all that chocolate and syrup.