Sting

But Jordie seemed to know.

When it was over, he pulled her up beside him, eased her onto her back and rolled onto her, kissing her mouth long and deep, tasting himself. Finally coming up for air, he whispered, “I take it back.”

“What?”

“Your thumb is the third best thing.”

Chapter 35

Mr. Panella?”

“Speaking.”

“I know it’s terribly late where you are, but you left a message for me to call you an hour before the bank closes for the day.”

“I did, and the time doesn’t matter. I just got in, actually.” Flicking sweat off his brow, he looked over at the hoodie, now lying on the floor just inside the door. It had spatters of the FBI agent’s blood on it and would have to be burned.

The banker was saying, “Prior to calling, I took the liberty of checking to see that everything is in order. I noticed that you never requested the two-million-dollar wire transfer which we discussed a few days go.”

No, he hadn’t needed the two million because Mickey Bolden’s recruit had turned out to be a cop!

Shaw Kinnard hadn’t kidnapped Jordie from that bar. He’d saved her. All that bargaining and squeezing him for more money? Bullshit. Kinnard wounded, captured, and in custody? More bullshit.

“Mr. Panella? About the wire transfer…?”

“Yes, right, sorry, I was distracted.”

He’d been hoodwinked. By Shaw Kinnard, who’d finagled a new deal for a hit he never intended to carry out. By FBI Agent Joe Wiley, who’d told him that Kinnard had been arrested.

He hated being had.

If he hadn’t been in Tobias today, he might not have discovered the ruse. But he’d been drawn back to the town to enjoy firsthand the chaotic aftermath of Royce Sherman’s murder. Of course, he hadn’t gone near the side road where he’d shut up that redneck loudmouth for good, but he’d picked a spot in which he could remain out of sight while observing the comings and goings at the busy sheriff’s office annex.

He’d recognized the girl when she arrived. She was wearing the same clothing she’d had on the night before while being pawed by Sherman. Today she had looked a wreck, crying her heart out, needing the supporting arm of a friend as she stumbled into the building.

No doubt she was grateful to be alive and equally fearful that he would decide he shouldn’t have left a witness and would come after her. He couldn’t be bothered. She would never be able to identify him. The electrolarynx could be implicating, he supposed, but since anybody could get one, that would never hold up in court.

Not that he would be caught or brought to trial.

He hadn’t been all that surprised when Agents Wiley and Hickam joined the party. Like good lawmen everywhere they would have connected dot A to dot B and concluded that there were coincidences, and then there were bizarre coincidences, and that the murder of Royce Sherman qualified as the latter.

What had come as a shock—and more of one than he was willing to admit—was seeing Kinnard climb out of the backseat of their unmarked sedan. Anyone giving him only a passing glance might have missed the sharp cheekbones beneath the silly sunglasses.

However, if one was looking closely, Kinnard was recognizable from his mug shot, which had been shown on TV. He was accused of being the abductor from whom Jordie Bennett had been rescued. He was the alleged slayer of Mickey Bolden.

But he hadn’t been shuffling along in an orange jumpsuit and leg irons, a prisoner. No, he’d been wearing cowboy boots and a hoodie. Despite the outfit, he was obviously very much a part of the law enforcement team.

Well, fuck me.

The group had stayed inside the annex for approximately an hour. When they piled into the sedan and left Tobias, he’d followed them back to the city, figuring they would eventually lead him to Jordie. Because trickery or no trickery, he still had every intention of killing her. The fact that he’d been made a chump only heightened his resolve.

The feds’ car pulled into the parking garage of a multistoried hotel. The Panella Investments Group had once hosted a seminar in one of its conference rooms, so he knew its general layout. Recognizing both the unique challenges and opportunities that a busy hotel presented, he drove past the entrance to the garage and parked in another lot several blocks over.

Returning on foot, he took an idea from the FBI and bought a hoodie at a souvenir walk-up. He kept his head down and melded with the ebb and flow of foot traffic on the sidewalks surrounding the hotel while monitoring the maw of the parking garage.

At dusk, three official-looking SUVs caravanned into it. Soon after that, the police presence increased around the hotel—men in uniform as well as undercover officers. (Did they really think they would fool him?)

Something was about to happen. He’d considered retrieving his car. If they transported Jordie in one of the SUVs, he would need his car in order to follow them. But if he were gone even for a few minutes, he might miss the big event.