Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

I’d had enough of this psycho-bully’s verbal fencing. “What do you want?” I said, with a steely confidence I didn’t feel.

“That delightful landlady of Cooper’s told me you came by and copied some of his paperwork, including his calendar and the ITN invoices. I want you to give me your copies of that information, along with all the information you got from that private eye in Philadelphia. Now don’t lie to me—I know the contents of that box were sent to you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you won’t be seeing your little friend alive again.”

The evidence from Cooper’s room, which I had yet to take to the cops, linked Cooper to the embezzlement; and the calendar linked Cooper with Diesel and Powell. Apparently, Diesel didn't realize the cops had other evidence of his involvement. As long as he didn’t know that, I could negotiate for Tina’s release.

“Okay,” I said. “How do we work this?”

“Bring all the documents to Calvert Road Park in half an hour,” he said. “I believe you know where that is.”

The phone went dead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Twenty-five minutes later I sat in my car at Calvert Road Park, clutching the file as I waited for the black compact to appear.

I had the radio on low. I could make out Billy Joe Armstrong of Green Day singing a request that someone wake him up when September ended. I was beginning to feel that way about October. The last couple of weeks had passed slowly as molasses. I glanced at my watch and looked around the parking lot. No other cars. Nothing to duck behind, not in the lot anyway. I swiveled round to scan the trees behind me. At one end of the lot were restrooms in a nondescript building with a shabby forest-green roof.

I didn’t see anyone. I tried to calm myself by singing along with Billy Joe.

I watched a black car reach the entrance and turn into the lot.

“Summer has come and passed,” I sang. “The in

nocent can never last . . . .”

The car pulled in front of mine. Diesel was behind the wheel. I could see the top of Tina’s head. She slouched in the passenger seat.

“Wake me up . . . when October ends,” I took some poetic license with the words and turned off the radio. I opened the door and slid out with the file. Diesel emerged from the black car, unfolding his bulk until he stood looking as friendly as a blond grizzly bear.

Holding the file up for inspection, I said, “Here it is. Is Tina all right?”

He raised his chin a fraction in acknowledgment, then reached into the car and yanked Tina out by her arm. Holding her tight to him, he walked her around the back of his car.

Tina looked terrified, but unharmed. I stepped a few feet from my car and waited. As he approached, he pulled a gun from under his jacket and pressed the barrel against Tina’s temple. She whimpered and sniffled, her face wet with tears. I focused on appearing confident, in charge. I tried to convey my false confidence to Tina by looking her in the eye and thinking, It’ll be all right . . . it’ll be all right.

“I hope that’s all of it,” he said.

I nodded and moved a little to his left, slowly. “I can show you, if you like.”

Diesel pivoted. He faced me, Tina held in front of him as a shield. “Of course, I like,” he said, the scorn plain in his voice. “I want to see it all.”

He moved closer. I stepped back.

“Can I put this on your trunk?”

He nodded and I moved toward his car, placing the file on it and fiddling with the contents. Diesel kept rotating so I was always in his line of sight. I made sure not to stand directly in front of him.

Now would be nice, I thought.

As if I’d willed it to happen, two popping sounds came from the woods. Diesel lurched and stiffened, blood spraying from two holes, one on each side of his chest. And inches from Tina’s head. He moaned as his arms went lax. Tina managed to wriggle free before he collapsed to the pavement. She ran to me, sobbing, and threw her arms around me. I hugged her and said, “It’ll be okay now.”

Little D emerged from behind the building and walked over, gripping a handgun with a long-barreled silencer, and picked up Diesel’s gun. “Nice job,” he said. “You got him in exactly the right place for me to take my shots.” He gestured toward the bathrooms.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to think about what we’d done.