Certain Prey (8 page)

She trashed the kitchen and then the breakfast area, and finally cut herself on a broken glass. The sight of the blood flowing from the back of her hand brought her back.

“Fuckin’ Rolo,” she said. She bled on the floor. “Fuckin’ Rolo, fuckin’ Rolo, fuckin’ Rolo . . .”

FIVE

For the rest of the day, Carmel worked her way through alternate rages and periods of calm; fantasized the painful end of Rolando D’Aquila. And finally admitted to herself that she was in a corner.

She called Rinker, left a number and said, “This is really urgent. We’ve got a big problem.”

The next day, a little after one o’clock in the afternoon, Rinker called on Carmel’s magic cell phone. She didn’t introduce herself, she simply said in her dry accent, “I’m calling you back. I hate problems.”

Carmel said, “Hold on: I want to lock my door.” She stuck her head out into the reception area, said to the secretary, “I need ten minutes alone,” stepped back inside and locked the door.

“All right . . .” she began, but Rinker cut her off.

“Is your phone safe?”

“Yes. It’s registered under my mother’s name—she’s remarried, and has a different last name. Like the Volvo. It’s good for . . . special contacts.”

“You have a lot of those in your job?”

“Enough,” Carmel said. “Anyway, I’m calling about Rolando D’Aquila, who is the guy who put me in touch with you.”

“What happened?” Rinker asked.

Carmel explained, quickly, then said, “I would have thought the people on your side would have been warned against this. You push somebody into a corner . . .”

“What? What would you do?” Carmel could feel the warning edge on the other woman’s voice.

“I’m sure as hell not going to turn you in, or talk to the police, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Carmel said, defensively. “But there has to be some kind of resolution. Rolo’s a junkie. If I give him every dime I’ve got, he’ll put it up his nose. When he’s got every dime, he’ll still have the tape, and he’ll start looking around for somebody to sell it to. Like TV. Then I’m gone—and you, too. The cops will put Rolo through the wringer before they give him any kind of immunity, and you can’t tell what’ll come from that.”

“Maybe nothing,” Rinker said. “He’s off there on the edge of things.”

“Bullshit. Sooner or later, he’ll give them the guy he called about you,” Carmel argued. “Then they’ll squeeze that guy. You know how it works. This is murder we’re talking about; this is thirty years in the state penitentiary for everybody involved. That’s a lot of squeeze. And believe me, I’m well enough known in the Cities that there’d be a hurricane of shit if this got out. This is not something the cops would let go.”

“When are you paying him off? This Rolo guy?” Rinker asked.

“I’m supposed to meet him in the Crystal Court tomorrow at five o’clock. I put him off as long as I could, told him it’ll take time to get the money together. The Crystal Court is this big interior court . . .”

“I was there,” Rinker said.

“Okay. Anyway, I give him the money, and he gives me the tape. I insisted that he show up, personally. But the best he’ll do is give me a copy of the tape. He says there’s only one, but he’s lying. He’ll want to come back for more money.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“He’s a fuckin’ dope dealer, for Christ’s sake.”

After a couple of seconds’ silence, Rinker said, “There’s a flight into Minneapolis tomorrow morning. I can be there at eleven fifty-five.”

“I don’t know . . .” Carmel started. Then, in a rush, “I don’t know if I want to see your face. I’m afraid you’ll have to kill me.”

“Honey, there’re a couple of dozen people who know my face,” Rinker said. “One more won’t make any difference, especially when I know she paid me for a hit. I’d rather you
not
see me, but we’ve got to fix this thing. You’re gonna have to help.”

Carmel didn’t hesitate: “I know that.”

“The thing is, we’re gonna have to
talk
to him about where the tape is,” Rinker said.

“Yes. Talk to him privately,” Carmel said. “I’d figured that out.”

“That’s right . . . Why’d you insist that he meet you in person?”

“Because I thought you might want in . . . at that point,” Carmel said.

Rinker chuckled: “All right. You ever kill anybody?”

“No.”

“You might be good at it. With a little training.”

“Probably,” Carmel said. “But it doesn’t pay enough.”

Rinker chuckled again and said, “See you at eleven fiftyfive. Bring the Jag. And wear jeans and walking shoes.”

• • •

C
ARMEL
HADN’T KNOWN
what to expect. A tough-looking, square-faced hillbilly with bony wrists and shoulders, maybe—or somebody beefy, who might have been a prison guard at Auschwitz. The next day, at noon, she looked right past the first passengers getting off the plane from Kansas City, looking for somebody who fit the assorted images she’d created in her mind. When Rinker’s voice came out of a well-dressed young woman with carefully coiffed blondover-blond hair and just a slight aristocratic touch of lipstick, Carmel jumped, startled. The woman was carrying a leather backpack, and was right at Carmel’s elbow.

“Hello?”

“What?”

Rinker grinned up at her. “Looking for somebody else?”

Carmel wagged her head once and said, “It’s you?”

“It’s me, honey. I checked a bag.”

As they started up the concourse, Carmel said, “God, you really don’t look like . . . you.”

“Well, what can I tell you?” Rinker said cheerfully. She looked past Carmel to her right, where a tall, tanned man was angling across the concourse to intercept them. “Carmel,” he said, dragging out the last syllable.

“James.” Carmel turned a cheek to be kissed, and after James kissed it, asked, “Where’re you off to?”

“Los Angeles . . . My God, you look like an athlete. I never suspected you had jeans or Nikes.” The guy was at least six-six and looked good, with a receding hairline; like an athletic Adlai Stevenson. He turned to Rinker and said, “And you’re cute as a button. I hope you’re not a raving leftwing feminist like Carmel.”

“I sometimes am,” Rinker said. “But you’re cute as a button your own self.”

The guy put one hand over his heart and said, “Oh my God, the accent. I think we should get married.”

“You’ve been married too often already, James,” Carmel
said dryly. She took Rinker’s arm and said, “If we don’t keep moving, he’ll drown us in bullshit.”

“Carmel . . .”

Then they were past him and Rinker glanced back and said, “Nice-looking guy. What does he do?”

“He’s an accountant,” Carmel said.

“Hmm,” Rinker said. Carmel caught the tone of disappointment.

“But not a boring one,” Carmel said. “He stole almost four million dollars from a computer software company here.”

“Jesus.” Rinker glanced back again. “They caught him?”

“They narrowed it down to him—they figured out that he was the only one who could have pulled it off,” Carmel said. “He hired me to defend him, but he never seemed particularly worried. Eventually, the company came around and said if he gave the money back, they’d drop charges. He said that if they dropped charges, and apologized for the mistake, he’d tell them about the software glitch that they might want to patch up before their clients started getting ripped off, and they found themselves liable for a billion bucks or something.”

“They did it?”

“Took them aweek to agree,” Carmel said. “They hated to apologize—hated it. But they did it. Then he insisted on a contract that would pay him another half-million for isolating the bug. Said it was severance pay, and he deserved it. They eventually did that, too. I guess they got their money’s worth.”

Rinker shook her head: “Don’t people just
work
for money anymore?”

Carmel didn’t want to think about that question. Instead, she said, “Um, listen, what do I call you?”

“Pamela Stone,” Rinker said. “By the way, do you know how to get to South Washington County Park?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll show you on a map,” Rinker said. “We gotta get my guns back. Can’t fly with them, you know.”
C
ARMEL
KEPT
looking
at Rinker as they headed out of the airport to the parking ramp; looking for some sign that she could be an executioner for the mob. But Rinker wasn’t a monster. She was a
chick,
chattering away about the flight, about an airline-magazine article on body piercing, and about the Jaguar, as they pulled through the pay booths: “I drive a Chevy, myself.”

Carmel listened for a while and then Rinker put a hand on Carmel’s forearm and said, “Carmel, you’ve gotta relax. You’re tighter’n a drum. You look like you’re gonna explode.”

“That’s because I don’t want to spend the next thirty years locked in a closet like some fuckin’ squirrel,” Carmel said.

“They’re locking squirrels in closets now?” Rinker asked.

Carmel had to smile, despite herself, and loosened her grip on the steering wheel. “You know what I mean.”

“Ain’t gonna happen anyway,” Rinker said. “We’ll get this Rolo fellow in a quiet place, explain the situation to him, and get the tape.”

“And kill him?”

Rinker shrugged. “Maybe he’s made three or four copies. If he tells us about two of them, and the third one is hidden somewhere . . . maybe if he’s gone, it’ll never be found.”

“We can’t take the chance that there’s a third one. We have to make sure we can get them all before we do it. Kill him.”

“We’ll scare him,” Rinker said. “I can guarantee that. But there’s no way we can finally be sure.”

“How’ll we do it?”

“Leave it to me. I’ll pick him up with you, tag him, and when he’s alone, I’ll take him. Is there a farm store around here? Or a truck store? Or a big hardware place?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“We’re gonna need some chain and a couple of padlocks and some other stuff . . .”
S
OUTH
W
ASHINGTON
C
OUNTY
P
ARK
was twenty miles south of St. Paul, a complex of hiking and skiing trails. Only two cars were parked in the entry lot, but their drivers were nowhere to be seen.

“Park down at the end,” Rinker said, pointing. Carmel parked, and they got out. Rinker, carrying her leather backpack, led the way down a trail along a tiny creek, then up a hillside covered with thick-trunked oaks. At the top of the hill, she took a long look around, then led the way off the trail, back into the trees. After a minute, they came to a fence separating the park from a farm field. Rinker turned down the fence, finally said, “Here.”

She stepped away from the fence, knelt next to an oak and probed between two of its roots. The dirt was soft, and came away easily. After a minute, she pulled two automatic pistols from the ground, the dirt still clinging to them.

At that moment, Carmel was aware that she was out of sight of everyone, in a nearly deserted park, with a killer who now had two guns. If Rinker killed her, here and now, who would know, until some hiker
way
off the beaten path found her body? Rinker could take the Jag and park it downtown. Or who was to say that she hadn’t somehow pre-positioned one of those cars in the parking lot down below?

The whole scenario flitted through Carmel’s mind in a half-second. Rinker brushed dirt off the two pistols, put them in her leather backpack, and said, “You worry too much.”

“I anticipate,” Carmel said.

“Why didn’t you anticipate that Rolo was making a movie?” Rinker asked politely.

Carmel didn’t dodge the question. She grimaced and said, “I fucked up. I knew something wasn’t right. I remember thinking that he wasn’t embarrassed by how he lived now. Wasn’t embarrassed. That was wrong.”

“At least you know you messed up,” Rinker said. The guns clinked in the bag as she hung it over one shoulder. “We need to get some oil. When we get the chains and padlocks. Oil for the guns.”

“Doesn’t burying them . . . sort of wreck them?”

“Yeah, it would if I left them buried for more than a couple of days. In a week they’d be rusted wrecks. Then, even if somebody found them, there’d be no way to connect them to the death of Barbara Allen.”