It felt as though his knee were being crushed in a vice. The pain crawled up his ribs; cold sweat trickled down his spine.
He looked into the man’s eyes. “But why?”
“This was a mess.” The man from Chicago looked at his watch. “A small mess, all in all. But even a small mess creates a trust issue. Trust issues create liabilities. Mr. Plaski doesn’t believe in liabilities. I’m sorry about your maid.”
Eddie looked at Darla on the floor. She’d fallen on her knees, facedown on the carpet, arms bent beneath her, bare rump exposed. Just for him, she’d dressed that way. For fun. It wasn’t really Darla’s personality at all.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just let me…”
The man from Chicago said, “You’re still doing it.”
Eddie saw the little puff from the hole in the cylinder, but this time he didn’t hear the sound.
3.
PROTECT AND SERVE
24
Vargas had an office on the main floor. Dark walls and deep pile carpet, golf clubs in the corner and a humidor on the desk. He had some black leather furniture and a television. Even with the tension and hostility, there was enough room left over for a putting carpet, a speed bag, and an elliptical machine.
“Nothing was stolen,” Worth said.
Vargas sat with his arms folded, listening.
“Television, stereo, nothing touched. Four hundred cash in a bank envelope, still in the top drawer of the nightstand.”
“Nothing stolen,” Vargas said. “Your neighbor interrupted, took a knot on the head. I get it.”
Worth pulled a Ziploc bag from the brown kraft envelope he’d brought inside from the truck. He handed the bag to Vargas.
A stroke of genius. Or the stone dumbest thing he’d ever done. Either way, he’d done it. There was no undoing it now.
He said, “I found that under my bed this morning.”
Vargas held up the bag and looked at Russell James’s wallet through the clear plastic.
Originally, Worth had been thinking of using the credit cards to create a trail; in a few days, he’d book a motel room somewhere. Nobody would show up for the reservation, but the activity would be there just the same. At least enough to help solidify Gwen’s story. Their story.
“Last Friday, I took a battery call on a store employee,” he said. “Suspect, boyfriend, was code four at the apartment. Girl spent the weekend at Clarkson, released to a DVCC safe house near Creighton University yesterday afternoon. Boyfriend hasn’t been located.”
“What’s one thing got to do with the other?”
“That wallet,” Worth said.
He reached back into the envelope and pulled out a latex glove. Vargas humored him. He put on the glove and broke open the bag. He opened the wallet by the edges and looked at the driver’s license. “Russell T. James.”
“Warrant went out yesterday morning.”
“This is the boyfriend?”
“That’s him.”
Vargas allowed a smirk. “So dumbass broke into your house, attacked your neighbor, and left his wallet behind.” He dropped the wallet back into the bag. He put the bag down on the magazine table. “Who’s working it?”
“Roger Sheppard out of South.”
“Why aren’t you talking to him?”
“I will,” Worth said. “But I need to talk to you first.”
“Look, no offense, right, but given the shit…”
Vargas dropped his voice. They both knew Sondra was out there, listening. She’d looked about as stressed as Worth had ever seen her when he’d followed her new fiancé in the front door.
“Given the personal situation, I’m not seeing your point in being here.”
“It’s not exactly comfortable for me, either.”
“Well?”
Worth took out a second bag and put it on the table next to the first. Hard plastic clunked against glass.
“I called in this morning and took an annual day,” he said. “Spent the day turning my house over. I found that in my dresser drawer, tucked in a sock. Way in back. Never seen it before today.”
Russell’s phone. He’d intended to check the voice mail all weekend, but the phone had been as dead as its owner on discovery. One thing after another had diverted his attention since then. The storm. The trips to Vince’s. The crime scene at his house. Gwen.
First thing this morning, after the surprise meet-up with Briggs and Salcedo at the safe unit, Worth had paid cash for a Radio Shack battery charger and found Russell’s mailbox choked to capacity. Almost every one of the new messages had come in from the same number: Tice Is Nice Furniture on L Street, where Russell James had worked. Worth had deleted every message dated prior to Friday night, leaving the rest for Vargas.
“Back up,” Vargas said. “Somebody breaks into your house. You find a wallet. Instead of reporting it to the primary, you go and toss your own place? That’s your first instinct?”
“There’s more,” Worth said.
“Wouldn’t there have to be?”
It was difficult to pinpoint the sensation. Sitting here in Mark Vargas’s den. Handling the contents of the envelope, laying them out in plain view.
Nauseating. Reckless. Supercharged. Like attempting to dismantle a bomb in the dark.
Worth dried his palms and took his time.
It was a quarter past two in the morning when Tony and Ray arrived at the furniture store. They parked Ray’s Expedition around back, between the Dumpsters and the building, out of view of the street.
Troy Mather met them at the service door. He looked like he’d stumbled out of a car accident.
Tony grabbed him by the throat, shoved him inside, and slammed him hard against the wall.
“You don’t ever fucking call me,” he said. “Not ever. Nod if you understand.”
Mather’s eyes went wide. He tried to nod.
Tony eased his grip enough to give the kid a breath. Ray checked outside and pulled the service door closed behind them.
“The fuck you doing with Eddie’s phone in the first place?”
“I…shit,” Mather croaked. “Let me talk.”
Tony let go of his throat, grabbed Mather by the sweatshirt, and shoved him a few feet down the dark hall. “Talk.”
Mather caught his balance and straightened up. He rubbed his throat, caught his breath. All Mr. Thug Life, the last time Tony had seen him. Right now he looked like he wanted to cry.
“Man, I…you guys…”
“Take it easy,” Ray said. “Just chill out.”
“I didn’t know how to get you,” Mather said. He was practically whining. “I found ‘Tony’ on your uncle’s phone, man.” He dug the phone out of a deep pocket in his pants and held it out like a baby bird he’d accidentally squeezed too hard. “Sorry. Shit. I…yo, I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. Me and Derek—”
“Shut up,” Tony said. He stepped forward and swiped the phone out of Mather’s hand. Mather flinched. “Now take a breath and quit acting like a bitch.”
Troy Mather looked at Ray. He looked at Tony. He shook his head, took that breath, and chuckled like he’d heard something terrible.
“Fuck, man,” he said. “This shit ain’t right.”
Tony Briggs began to get a bad feeling. He looked at Ray.
“Hey, Troy,” Ray said. “Get a grip. It’s okay.”
“Fuck, man.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“Man, you guys need to come with me.”
“These guys had done their homework on me,” Worth said. “And they knew about…our situation.”