John Sandford - Silken Prey

Bradley said, “Wait, wait . . . you won’t be able to talk to her for a while. Channel Three and Eleven called it for her. It’s a mob scene in here. . . . She’ll be up on the stage, making a speech . . .”

Lucas could hear a wall of noise in the background, and he said, “Okay. Call me as soon as she gets offstage. But you and Jane must keep track of Dannon and Carver.”

“That’s almost impossible, Lucas,” Stack said. “We can keep track of them, kinda, but they keep going backstage with these politicians, these out-of-bounds areas, and then they’ll pop out somewhere else. If we stay right on them, they’ll spot us for sure.”

“Do what you can. Call me when Taryn gets offstage. The minute she gets off.”

The party rocked on.

Lucas rang off and Del said, “Maybe you ought to have them identify themselves, and tell Carver and Dannon that they’re bodyguards and they aren’t going away.”

“Then we’re right back to where we started,” Lucas said. “With nothing—and with them knowing that we’re on them like a cheap suit. If we go to them directly, we’ll lose it all.”

“Is that better or worse than somebody getting killed?”

Lucas had to think about that, and finally said, “I want them.”

They sat in the street for an hour, talking to Stack and Bradley, and were finally told that the noise and tumult were beginning to wind down. Most of the good food and booze was gone, and the less needy of the party faithful were beginning to leak out the doors, Bradley said. Taryn was thanking some fourth-level party worker and his big-hair wife, a guy who’d raised a quarter million or something.

• • •

DANNON WAVED CARVER into the back where the food service people were working, where the hotel functionaries were counting bottles and security guards were taking breaks, got him back to a side room with the soft-drink and candy machines and said, “She can’t get you all of it, not right now. She can get you a good part of it, if you’ll take gold.”

Carver was truculent: “What’s a good part of it?”

“Quarter million, give or take, in cash,” Dannon said. “She’s not sure of the exact amount, but it started at a half million that she stacked up over the last six years, for the campaign. As it turned out, she only needed about half the cash. The good thing is, it’s all cold, in case we had to make some payoffs. Then there are two hundred gold Eagles, no serial numbers or anything else. Right now gold is selling for seventeen hundred an ounce, which is another three hundred and forty grand. That’s close to six hundred thousand that we can get our hands on tonight. The diamonds . . . She won’t give up the diamonds. They’ve all got sentimental value for her. She says that as soon as we get clear of the campaign, she’ll put another four hundred thousand on you, in Panama. You might have to make some arrangements—”

“Like what kind of arrangements?” Carver asked, but he’d brightened considerably.

“You might have to get a piece of land down there with your own money. Like, pay a hundred grand for a piece of oceanfront, or whatever, under a different name. She pays you half a million for it. That keeps things straight with the tax people. It’ll all be handled through front companies.”

“Well, shit, we can do that,” Carver said.

“Sure. It’s not rocket science,” Dannon said.

“When do I get it?” Carver asked.

“When do you want it?”

“Tonight, if we can do it,” Carver said. “I can be on a six o’clock plane for New York.”

“There are going to be people around the house, people coming back with Taryn,” Dannon said. “I’ve got the numbers for the safe. We could do it right now—take your truck, you can drop it at Hertz on your way out of town. We were going to turn it back in tomorrow anyway.”

“Good. Good. Can we go now?”

“Let me talk to Schiffer.”

• • •

LUCAS AND DEL were still sitting in the street. Everything was running behind schedule; Taryn had been expected to speak at 11:30, but that got pushed to 11:45. She was supposed to talk for ten or fifteen minutes, but the thank-yous went on and on. Finally, at 12:30, Stack called Lucas and said, “It’s winding down. She won’t be here long after she finishes speaking.”

“When was the last time you saw Carver and Dannon?”

“They’ve been going in and out of the back,” Bradley said. “But Dannon’s here right now, he’s talking to Schiffer.”

“Carver’s right at the edge of the stage,” Stack said. “He’s talking to some guy in a suit. . . . Wait, he’s going into the back again.”

“I’m coming in,” Lucas said.

Lucas took the stairs to the ballroom where the party was; people were going out through multiple folding doors, most of them with yellow credential tags around their necks that said, “Taryn VIP”—party invitees. There were guards at the door doing perfunctory credential checks, but there were more people leaving than arriving. A TV guy carrying a light stand hustled by, and a guard put a finger out to Lucas, a gesture asking for a credential, and Lucas showed him his BCA identification. The guard’s eyebrows went up and he waved Lucas through.

Inside, a few hundred balloons, red, white, and blue, were scattered around the floor and floating around the ceiling, and a drunk young man was popping them with what looked like an Italian switchblade while his friends laughed at him. The carpet smelled like spilled champagne.

Taryn seemed to be getting ready to leave the stage, waving fairly randomly at the crowd, laughing; strobes popped in her face and her teeth flashed in the brilliant white pops.

Four sixty-inch TV screens were sitting on high stands at the edges of the ballroom, and Lucas paused to check the numbers: Taryn was up more than sixty thousand votes and the Iron Range was still coming in large; there were a few Republican counties yet to report out west, but they’d make little difference. It wasn’t a huge victory, but a clear one: Smalls was toast.

• • •

CARVER AND DANNON took the back stairs to the parking ramp. Carver said, “Man, I wasn’t sure she’d go for it. You gotta get in on this, dude. She’s not gonna fuck you forever, and money is definitely better than pussy.”

“Shut up,” Dannon said.

“True love, huh?” Carver said, and he laughed.

Dannon was checking the garage. An older couple was getting into a Prius a hundred feet away, and a Chevy Tahoe was rolling toward the exit. He could see a man standing in the elevator lobby, apparently waiting to go up. They got to Carver’s truck and Carver went to the driver’s side, got inside, and Dannon took the pistol from his waistband and held it in his right hand, waited as Carver unlocked his door.

When the locks clicked, he opened the door with his left hand and then climbed inside, keeping his right hand out of sight. Carver looked at the dash as he started the car, and Dannon pulled the door shut with his left hand, and Carver shifted into reverse to back out, looked over his left shoulder, checking for traffic . . .

Dannon brought the .22 up and shot him in the temple. Carver’s head bounced off the side window and Dannon shot him again, the .22 shots deafening inside the truck, but hardly audible outside. Carver slumped, his face not even looking surprised. Dannon pushed the gear shift back into Park, took a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and pulled it over Carver’s head, and cinched it around his neck. If Carver weren’t quite dead, the plastic bag would do the job; and it would keep blood out of the car, though there shouldn’t be too much in the way of blood, with the small-caliber bullets going straight into the brain.