Beholden (2 page)

“Yeah, me, too. This guy swears he’s got proof positive tying the mob to several top cops.” His eyes shimmering with excitement,
Don stopped behind his red Nissan and smiled at Terry. “Wish me luck. I may get a bonus for this one.”

“Let’s not count our Pulitzers before they’re typed,” she said with a smile. “Good luck, Don. And please, be careful.”

“Thanks, I will. Catch you later.”

Terry walked on to the last space against the wall, where she always parked her tan Volkswagen. The car was only three months
old and she hoped to keep it from getting banged up for at least the first year. She’d noticed that people drove like they
were trying out for Indy on the sloping garage ramps.

Shifting her bundles, she dug around in her jacket pocket for her keys. Just as she reached her car door, the pile she was
balancing in one hand slipped to the cement floor. “Damn,” she said aloud, then smiled as she bent to retrieve her things.
Her father hated hearing her swear and made her hand him a quarter every time she let loose around him with a four-letter
word. Last time she’d visited her parents, John
Ryan had collected three over the course of the evening and told her his penalty jar was getting full.

As she reached for her folders, she heard the squeal of tires from a vehicle roaring around one of the bends. Not Don, she
was certain, for he tended to drive like a little old lady out for a Sunday outing.

Terry slid the second folder onto her pile as she heard the approaching car screech to a halt nearby. She stretched to retrieve
her zippered case from beneath the car. Before she could straighten, car doors flying open froze her in place. Then the sound
of a gruff voice sent a warning shiver up her spine.

“Simon, this is for reporters who stick their noses where they shouldn’t.” The remark was followed by two dull pings, which,
to her horror, Terry recognized immediately. The unmistakable sounds of gunshots muffled by a silencer.

Heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears, Terry flattened herself, then peeked beneath the Volkswagen and down three car
widths. What she saw nearly had her gasping out loud.

Don Simon lay in a twisted heap with three sets of legs standing over him. Scooting lower and peering upward, she didn’t recognize
the short, swarthy one holding the gun or the well-dressed taller man beside him. But the third man was as familiar as her
father: Police Sergeant Fred McCarthy, better known as Mac, a man who’d been a lifelong friend of the Ryan family. Dear God,
Terry thought, afraid to breathe.

Shocking her further, the gunman leaned down toward Don’s dreadfully still body, checked his pulse, then straightened wearing
a cold, satisfied smile.

“He won’t be writing anything ever again,” the man said. He turned then and looked around. “Where’s the girl he came in with?”

The sound of a car traveling overhead had them glancing up. “That’s probably her now,” Mac said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The bitter, metallic taste of fear clogged Terry’s throat. Unable to look away, she watched the three men climb back into
a waiting gray sedan with tinted windows. Just before the doors closed, she caught a fleeting glimpse of another man inside
the car, but only from the knees down. The next sound she heard was the sedan taking off, wheels squealing as it turned the
corner on its way out.

Terrified beyond belief, Terry lay where she was, wondering if her legs would hold her. She saw no one else, heard nothing
else. Quickly, she scampered upright and found her keys. It took three tries before she managed to unlock the door. She tossed
her things in, climbed behind the wheel, and shoved down the lock. Again, she had difficulty inserting the key, this time
in the ignition, with her hand shaking so badly. At last, the motor turned over. Her system cried out for a cigarette. She
dared take the time to find one in her purse and light it. Inhaling deeply, she backed out.

Where the hell was everyone? she wondered, changing gears. The garage operated on a monthly basis, drawing on office personnel
in the busy downtown area. How was it that not a single soul had happened by and witnessed what she had?

There had to be a watchman around somewhere, or did he only work nights? Maybe there was an office with a phone. No, she’d
be better off getting far away and then calling.

Cruising to just behind Don’s red Nissan, she stopped, staring out the window where his body lay sprawled on his back, his
white shirt bright with his blood, his broken glasses beside his head. Minutes ago, he’d been so excited, so alive. And now…

Fighting nausea, Terry started toward the exit ramp. Please, God, she prayed, don’t let the gray sedan be anywhere in sight.

Flipping on her lights, she emerged onto Van Buren into light evening traffic. She paused, checking in both directions.
No gray cars. The trembling was back or maybe it had never left her. What should she do? Call the police? But Mac
was
the police, at least at the nearest station, Central Phoenix Precinct. Stopping at a light, looking about fearfully, Terry
considered her other options.

She could call Andy Russell, a friend she’d dated sporadically awhile back. Andy had recently made detective and worked out
of the Mt. Shadows Precinct. Or maybe she should call her father, tell him everything, and see what he’d advise. John Ryan
had instincts she could always trust, especially about police matters. Yes, that’s what she should do, Terry decided as the
light changed.

Impatient, she couldn’t wait until she drove to her parents’ home. Up ahead on the right, she spotted a Circle K convenience
store. Lights, people, safety. Terry drew on her cigarette, trying to calm herself as she pulled into the small lot. Her eyes
scanned the area, but she saw nothing threatening. She grabbed her bag, stubbed out the cigarette, and hurried to the outside
pay phone.

Her mother answered on the second ring, but when Terry asked to speak to her father, she told her he was out.

“Have you forgotten? Dad bowls on Fridays,” Emily Ryan said in explanation. “Is something the matter, Terry? You sound out
of breath.”

Terry swallowed hard, ordering herself to sound cool and collected. “No, nothing, Mom. I… I just had something I wanted to
ask Dad.”

“You could come over and wait for him. He’ll be home in about an hour. I’ve got pork chops made.”

The thought of food had her stomach roiling. “Thanks, but not tonight, Mom. I’ll call back later.” She hung up as a man wearing
a grubby shirt and soiled jeans came out of the store tearing open a pack of cigarettes. He glanced over, gave her a tobacco-stained
smile, and started toward her.

Terry hurried to her car and climbed in as the man gave a throaty chuckle.

“Where you going, honey? I just want to use the phone.”

Jumpy with nerves, Terry carefully backed out into traffic. In the right lane, she cruised along, considering where to go.
She had to get to a place where she felt safe, where she could figure out who to call about Don. The picture of him lying
in his own blood swam into focus in her mind’s eye, and she struggled with another wave of nausea.

She’d go home, Terry decided, to the apartment she shared with her cousin. Lynn Hartley was solid as a rock, as sensible as
her widowed mother, Julia. They’d figure out what to do together. That decided, she felt better. She turned on her left blinker
and checked the rearview mirror before changing lanes. And her heart leaped to her throat.

The gray sedan with the tinted windows was right behind her.

Sandra Porter stepped off the second floor elevator in the Van Buren parking garage and smiled up at Curt Gervaine. Tall,
dark, and French, he intrigued her. Finally, after working together at the Arizona Bank for six months, she as teller and
Curt as assistant manager, he’d asked her out. Dinner, dancing, and who knows what to follow. It was only seven-thirty. She
took his arm. “Why don’t I follow you to the Hyatt?”

Curt walked with her toward their cars on Row Four. “That’ll be just fine.” He paused as they reached his sleek Infiniti and
squeezed her hand. “See you in a few minutes.”

“Mmm hmm.” Still smiling, Sandra hurried on. Her Toyota was parked just on the other side of a red Nissan. But as she walked,
she noticed something dark red and wet trailing down the walkway. Glancing to the right between her car and the Nissan, she
saw the man lying on his back, one leg twisted under his body, blood trailing from his chest onto the cement floor.

Sandra let out a piercing scream that echoed through the high-ceilinged building.

***

Almost dizzy with fear, Terry tried to focus on a plan as her eyes darted from the windshield to the rearview mirror. Was
that the same gray sedan? Where had they come from? How had they spotted her? Was it really them or was her imagination on
overtime? Damn those tinted windows that kept her from seeing inside. Her damp hands clutched the steering wheel as she found
a break in the left lane traffic and scooted into it. If the gray car wasn’t the right one, it wouldn’t follow her.

Just past the next light, the gray sedan moved into the left lane, leaving only a white Buick between them. Terry felt nervous
sweat trickle down her spine. Where the hell was a police station that wasn’t Central? But would they even believe her if
she accused a sergeant from Central Precinct of being involved in a brutal killing?

Up ahead, she saw the signs indicating the approach to Papago Park and a maze of roads that led to the Phoenix Zoo. The area
was well lighted and usually filled with people, residents and winter tourists. Without signaling, she bided her time, then
quickly turned left. Holding her breath, she watched the rearview mirror. The gray sedan followed, about three car lengths
behind.

Her Volkswagen couldn’t outrun the more powerful sedan, Terry thought. She’d have to outwit them. She knew this park well,
having picnicked here often with her family over the years. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped down on the gas and swerved
to the right.

For long, frightening minutes, she zigzagged around the winding roads, the sedan following like a patient predator wearing
down its prey. Finally, luck smiled on her as a bus-load of tourists returning from a day’s sight-seeing moved to their respective
cars in the zoo parking lot. Terry managed to maneuver her VW between a truckload of teenagers and a family of six in a station
wagon.

Eyes shifting every which way, she spotted the gray
sedan stuck behind an older couple in a staid Lincoln ambling along. Adrenaline pumping, she stayed with the cars, noticing
the sedan falling farther behind. Finally, she saw her chance at Hayden Road, hung a quick left, and pressed the pedal to
the floor. She was in Scottsdale now, another police district, and if she got picked up for speeding, so much the better.

No cops in sight when you need them, she thought as she switched lanes and whipped through an amber. She was nearly to Chapparal
now and couldn’t see anything resembling a gray sedan behind her. If she could make it to her apartment, she would have a
fighting chance. She felt so vulnerable in her car. Even if, as cops, they learned her identity from her license plate number
and therefore her address, surely Mac and his companions wouldn’t storm her apartment. She’d feel better there. She could
call 911, her father, someone.

She drove as if her life depended on it, and it very probably did. At the same time, her mind raced like a runaway train.
Had they spotted her in the garage, after all? If so, why had they waited till she’d left to go after her? Had Mac recognized
her car? The VW was new. Maybe not. If Mac had been a party to killing Don, would he stand by and watch the gunman shoot her
as well?

Too horrible to contemplate, Terry decided as she swung into her parking space. Cautiously, she looked around and saw no cars
that didn’t belong there. She also noticed that Lynn’s space was vacant, meaning her roommate wasn’t home yet. Damn.

Gathering her things, Terry hurried up the stairs and made it inside the apartment. Quickly, she closed the drapes over the
picture window, then collapsed on the couch and lit another cigarette. She had to do something, had to. But what?

She reached for the phone and dialed her parents’ number. The answering machine came on. Great. Now her mother
was gone, too. She hung up without leaving a message, not wanting to alarm whoever arrived home first. She’d call when she
got some place safe. Feeling desperate, she searched her memory and finally recalled the name of the bowling alley her father
frequented. She looked up the number and dialed, only to be told he’d left ten minutes ago. Frustrated, she slammed down the
receiver. Be calm, she told herself.

She needed to think, to get away. Mac knew where she lived. He might lead them here. Where could she go where he wouldn’t
follow? The idea came to her, a place away from people where she could lock herself in and decide what to do.

But where was Lynn? Terry rubbed her forehead where a headache was pounding. The cigarette wasn’t helping and she snubbed
it out. At her mother’s, most likely. She dialed Aunt Julia’s home and nearly sagged in relief when Lynn answered.

“Hi. Listen, Lynn, I need a serious favor,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “I need to go away for the weekend and
I want you to come with me. Right now.”

“Right now?” Lynn’s voice was hesitant.

“Yes, please. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Okay,” Lynn finally answered. “Is everything all right?”

No, nothing was all right. “I can’t go into it now.”

“Where are we going?” Lynn asked. She knew her cousin almost as well as she knew herself. Though Terry could be impulsive
occasionally, there was an edge to her voice tonight that had Lynn frowning.

“I’ll tell you when we get going.” Actually, she’d thought of a place, the cabin in Sedona. The house was jointly owned by
the Hartleys and Ryans, a place where her father and Lynn’s often had spent weekends fishing, taking Terry’s two brothers.
The two-bedroom place was tucked into the woods near Oak Creek Canyon and well stocked with staples, the
perfect retreat. If he were intent on pursuing her, Mac probably wouldn’t think she’d go there this late in the season.