“I want to know why you’re killing people, and who’s paying you to do it.”
“Anything else?”
“Where we can find your boss?” Sandy added.
That made sense to Tory. Now he needed time to think. To buy time, he turned toward the killer chef. “What did he tell you? How did he convince you to do this to me?”
“No convincing was required. I’m not Sandy, I’m Skylar. You tried to cremate me alive.”
Of course! It hadn’t occurred to him that the former triathlete might join forces with the ex-CIA agent. Most women would still be curled up in a ball on their therapist’s floor. Most men too, for that matter.
“Oh, you get it now,” she said.
Tory knew better than to start down that path. He put the conversation back on course. “What are you offering for the answers to your questions?”
“Two-thirds of the American dream,” Chase replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Life and the pursuit of happiness.”
Tory scoffed. “But no liberty.”
“That’s up to the courts.”
If Tory wasn’t mistaken, the vision in his right eye was improving. “And if I refuse to answer?”
“Not really an option.” Chase walked into the galley, carrying Skylar’s bag. It was a different galley, smaller than the one on the Lucky Seven. He extracted the omelet pan and placed it on the stove’s central burner. Then he turned the dial.
Tory felt an involuntary shudder run down his spine as the gas igniter clicked out sparks. Chase seemed to sense this, as he left it sparking long after the telltale ignition whoosh. “You going to torture me, Zachary?”
By way of answer, Chase emptied the remainder of the olive oil into the pan.
Tory worked himself into a kneeling position, testing his bonds in the process. Both wrists and ankles were tight. A chain tethered him to the fixed table leg. Not good. He needed to get free. Since his arms and legs were uninjured, he could fight his way out of this if given the chance. Even three-quarters blind.
He found himself fantasizing about having his eyelid sliced open to relieve the swelling, the way Mick had done for Rocky before the final round. The sound of water crackling in hot oil brought him out of the trance.
Chase brought the omelet pan over and held it under Tory’s chin. The heat coming off it would have been agonizing, given his existing burns, had Tory let the feeling register.
“Tell me why you’re killing people, and who’s paying you to do it. Or I’m going to press your face into the pan.”
“No, you’re not.”
Tory put conviction in his tone, but Chase showed equal certitude. “You cremated my college roommate alive.”
“Yes, I did,” Tory admitted, now speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. “So you’re going to have to choose. Do you want revenge, or do you want answers?”
“I’ll take both. We’ve got two more liters of oil.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“And why not?”
“What Skylar did back on the Grey Poupon could be construed as self-defense. But now that you’ve got me, anything additional would be considered torture. By torturing me, you will be eliminating an important option. Specifically, the option of turning me over to the police. That means you really only have two alternatives. You can either kill me when you’re done with your questions, or let me go. Given that I don’t see you letting me go, I have no reason to answer any of your questions. So you see, logic reduces your available options to exactly one: negotiation.”
“You can’t negotiate if you can’t walk away. Not while I maintain the unlimited ability to inflict pain.” Chase spat in the oil, which crackled in protest and sent a furious sprinkle of boiling oil onto Tory’s neck and chin.
Tory did not flinch. “That threat may work with most people. But not with me. Look at my face, then try to tell me you need more convincing.”
“Plenty of people start off tough. Time changes things. And there are lots of ways to inflict pain without leaving marks.”
“You don’t have the time for sleep deprivation and cold therapy. You don’t have the pharmaceuticals for chemical inducements. And you don’t have the stomach for endless hours of inflicting pain. Even in my condition, I can see your soul straining behind those big gray eyes.”
Chase said nothing.
Skylar said nothing.
Tory said nothing.
“What’s your offer?” Chase finally asked.
58
Limited Options
AS MUCH AS I WANTED TO, I could not fault Tory’s logic. Going to the police would not be an option if I inflicted additional detectable physical harm.
On the other hand, I could kill Tory with a clean conscience—and save the taxpayers a few hundred grand. I had witnessed the crime and heard the confession. Capital punishment was justified. The rest was bureaucracy.
But justice for past actions wasn’t my primary goal. Preventing additional attacks took priority. To obtain the information that would empower me to stop Tory’s employer from cremating more innocent people, I was prepared to do whatever it took.
Up to a point.
I wasn’t certain precisely where that point was. But standing there studying the war-torn face before me, I had to admit that Tory’s cracking point was likely well beyond it.
Fortunately, Tory had been wrong about the number of options available. I had more than one. I had two. Negotiation and deception.
“What’s your offer?” I asked.
Tory resisted the urge to smile, which must have been tough. “I tell you everything, and then you turn me over to the police—with a clean conscience. Let justice prevail.”
I looked at Skylar.
She signaled accord with a slight dip of her head.
“Telling isn’t good enough. You’ll need to show us. Prove to us that your words are more than an elaborate con. We happen to know that you’re good at those.”
This time, Tory did smile. “But of course. Consider me the penitent man, ready to cooperate.”
Tory’s angle was clear. Appear contrite before the court and police. No doubt play himself off as a pawn. Attempt to cut a deal. Testify against his employers in exchange for lenient sentencing. No doubt they had paid him well enough to provide for a first-rate defense. He’d hire a team of top lawyers, men with courtroom skills and political connections. Enough BS to bamboozle any jury.
Not on my watch.
I set down the omelet pan, then pushed Tory over, off his knees and onto his side. I pulled another zip tie from the packet and hog tied the hitman, binding his ankles to his wrists. “We’ll start with your laptop.”
“Whatever you like,” Tory said, not reacting to the additional restraint.
“Is it on the Grey Poupon?”
“No. It’s in my hotel room.”
“Lie to me and I’ll pluck out your other eye.”
“It’s in my hotel room.”
I sailed the Miami Viceroy back to the marina, just long enough for Skylar to disembark with Tory’s hotel key. He had an executive suite at the Fontainebleau, which was two miles north of the marina on Collins Avenue.
As she set foot on the gangway, I repeated the highlights of our earlier discussion, a move more reflective of my needs than hers. “Be careful, and bring everything. Have the valet hold your car. Tell him you just need to grab your bag.”
“I got it.”
“I know you do. I’ll be listening.” I tapped my earbud, then surprised myself by kissing her on the cheek.
What was that about? To camouflage the act, I called down through the hatch to Tory. “At the first sign of foul play, I’ll put a fork in your eye.”
“She won’t have any trouble. I work alone.”