Crimson Eve (5 page)
How
dare
some smart-mouthed realtor think she could outwit him. No way was he going to lose that half-million dollars.
Tony hadn’t climbed into his job; he’d fallen into it. Down and drunk ten years ago, living on the streets — and out of the blue, a proposition from a woman he barely knew. Five thousand bucks for getting rid of her abusive husband.
Five thousand dollars
. All he had to do was pop off some lowlife who knocked his wife around.
The job had gone down like smooth vodka — and Tony’s new habit was born. The next two years brought a dozen more hits. Meanwhile he cleaned himself up good. Landed a pretty wife. Learned new skills and made some key friends. He studied accents, how to dress. How to look educated around hoity-toity people.
Four years ago he’d hit the big time, working behind the scenes for one very powerful person. Was paid more than ever and hadn’t even had to kill anybody. Until now.
Tony stumbled and nearly went sprawling. He spit out a curse, caught himself with both hands. Rough aspha
lt scraped his palms. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back up, dragging searing air in, out, in, out.
He
had
to get off this property.
Tony’s eyes wouldn’t focus on his watch. How long had he laid on the ground after Carla Radling screeched away?
She could be headed any direction by now.
His cell phone went off again, different tone. Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Great, the home ring. Tony told himself he’d call his wife back later, but the next thing he knew, he was pulling the phone out of his pocket. Robyn would worry if he didn’t answer. He tried to make his voice sound normal. “Hello.”
“Hi, Daddy!”
Timmy, his three-year-old. Tony’s heart surged. Timmy was the one person who made this gopher job worth it. “Hey, Boo. What’s up?”
“Mommy said I could talk to you before I went to bed.”
“Yeah, great.” Tony turned his head and coughed hard.
“You sick, Daddy?”
“No,” he wheezed. “I’m fine.”
“Then whatcha doin’?”
“Just got out of a dinner meeting.”
“Whatdja eat?”
Eat, what did he eat?
Tony’s mind went blank. “Uh, hamburger. And fries. And a chocolate shake.”
“Wow! Yummm. I wanna go with you next time.”
A click in Tony’s ear. Had to be his boss calling on the other line. He made a face. “Hey, Boo, gotta go, another call’s coming in. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“ ’Kay, Daddy. Love you.”
“Love you too, big guy.”
Violent coughing seized him as he closed the phone. A fireball from his chest rose up his throat.
The phone rang his boss’s tone. Spitting curses, Tony snapped the thing open. “Yeah.” The word sounded like a sick bark.
“What kind of a way is that to answer a phone?”
Hello to you too.
Tony bit back a retort. This voice covered his bills — and then some. This voice had agreed to pay him a half million to take out Carla Radling. What he could buy his family with that money.
“Sorry, I was coughing.”
“Well, cough on your own time. Is it done?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t show for our appointment.”
A long breath seeped over the line. “Think she’s onto you?”
“No way. She just got held up at her office. We’ll probably meet tomorrow morning.”
“
Tomorrow?
This was supposed to be done tonight, Tony. I was all set for a peaceful night’s sleep.”
“Don’t worry, I’m working on it.”
“What is this, a crocheted sweater? I didn’t agree to pay you a fortune so you could ‘work on it.’ ”
Tony’s jaw clenched. Someday he was going to pop some teeth right down that pompous throat. “I
am
taking care of it. You know these things don’t always go as scheduled. If Plan A doesn’t work, I’ll get her in Plan B. I’m always prepared.”
“I
do not
want this left hanging until tomorrow. Put a bullet in her head while she’s sleeping tonight.”
“You wanted her to disappear, remember? Pretty risky getting a body out of a house on a residential street. Better to have her meet me at the estate as planned.”
The caller grunted. Tony wondered if his lie had been believed.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I went through her house. Took some photos I found. Nothing personal, though.”
“Sure you got them all? Could make a real mess, leaving something behind.”
Yeah, no kidding.
Despite what he’d told Carla Radling, after finding those photos Tony could make a pretty good guess why he’d been sent here. Wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened in America. Sometimes powerful people were powerfully stupid. “I
told
you I’ll take care of everything.”
“Watch your tone; who do you think you are?” The voice hardened to stone. “
Nothing
you have ever done is as important as this job, Tony. So let me make this clear to you, in case you’re not getting it. This doesn’t go down as planned, you’re as good as dead.
After
I get through with your son. Do you understand?”
Tony’s blood turned to water. His mouth hung open, fingers crushed against the cell phone. Knowing this person the way he did, the driving ambition involved, he didn’t dare doubt the threat.
“Derrat?”
“I hear you.”
“Good.” Breathing sounded in Tony’s ear. “Tell you what, now that we’ve had our heart-to-heart, I’m feeling especially generous. I think you’re right about the hit at night. I’ll give you until . . . three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That’s more than enough time.”
Three o’clock.
Timmy would be at preschool. Robyn would pick him up at five. Nobody would bother his son at school. Right?
“No problem; I’ll call you by then.”
“Be assured if you don’t, I’ll be calling
you
.” A pause, followed by a satisfied sigh. “Beautiful sunset over here. Hope yours is equally pretty.”
The line clicked in Tony’s ear.
Slowly, he lowered the phone and slid it into his pocket.
More coughing shook him. Tony hacked and spat, his brain already spinning desperate plans.
When the coughing ceased, he forced his feet toward the rental car. No matter that he could hardly see.
Nineteen hours. No matter what it took, Carla Radling would be dead in nineteen hours.
In Tanya’s house, every light burned. In all bedrooms, all baths, the dining and living and family rooms, even the garage. Outside every porch light beamed, plus the powerful front and back spots at the house’s four corners.
All doors were locked and bolted. All windows shut and double-checked.
Tanya felt anything but safe.
The violation of her home stretched from room to room. Every corner she turned, every door she passed threatened to yield another unwanted intruder.
With one word, I can make you disappear . . .
Tanya perched on the edge of her office chair, focusing on her computer screen. On her right sat a cup of tea, still steaming. To her left, beige blinds on the large windows were closed tight. Her desk was neat, every pen in place, the phone angled just so.
The feigned orderliness of her life.
Tomorrow loomed unyielding and unsure. But tonight while she had the chance, Tanya would follow the clarion of her conscience
.
It had begun to blow the minute the hated intruder disappeared out her door. After all these years of complacence, Tanya now felt driven to find the name that had so haunted her:
Carla Radling.
She went to
Google.com
, typed in her search. Up popped dozens of hits. Tanya sucked in a breath. Could it be this easy?
She started down the list.
Apparently, more than one Carla Radling existed. Tanya read the 2003 obituary of ninety-six-year-old Carol Whitamah in Atlanta, Georgia, survived by numerous children, one of them a Carla Radling in Westchester, Tennessee.
Mother who was
ninety-six
. The ages didn’t fit.
A Carla Radling in Little Rock, Arkansas, currently played in her high school’s marching band. A third in Wheaton, Illinois, age fifty-six, had been elected to city council. This one offered the most hits — Web site after Web site. Tanya skipped over all similar links, praying to find the Carla she sought.
There — a fourth. Carla Radling, realtor in Kanner Lake, Idaho.
The town name alone was enough to steal Tanya’s breath.
The
Kanner Lake, where the famous Edna San had lived and been murdered. Where just six months ago, other fearsome killings had occurred, spinning the town onto TV screens and newspaper pages for a second time. Over a year ago, Tanya had never heard of Kanner Lake. Now, who in the United Stated
hadn’t
heard of it?
According to this Carla’s Web site, she was the realtor who’d listed Edna San’s estate.
Tanya stared at the photo.
Same glossy black hair, same dark eyes, same lovely face. The eyes that had cried so hard, the face that gazed at her with a trust that shattered Tanya’s heart into pieces.
Her throat tightened.
She eased back in her chair, unable to rip her gaze from the picture. Pressed her palms to her mouth. The computer blurred, tears falling on her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.
When she could move again, she pulled pen and paper close and wrote down Carla’s office number. No cell number. Strange. Didn’t most realtors live on their cell phones?
Tanya’s tea grew cold as she read every Web site that pertained to Kanner Lake realtor Carla Radling. One was a blog at
www.kannerlake.blogspot.com
called Scenes and Beans. “Life in Kanner Lake, Idaho, brought to you by Java Joint coffee shop on Main.”
Java Joint.
Tanya remembered the name. It too had made the news last spring after the town’s murders. Carla was listed as one of the blog’s contributing posters.
For the next two hours, Tanya read the posts from Scenes and Beans.
Carla rotated with the other bloggers, appearing about every two weeks. Tanya both laughed and cried as she read Carla’s posts. She could see the feistiness she once saw in the teenage girl. At least Carla hadn’t lost that. What Tanya didn’t see, as opposed to most of the other bloggers, was anything about Carla’s past. No mention of childhood, of her teenage years, of anything but the present. No mention, either, of a husband or boyfriend.
Had the events of years ago cost Carla that?
Fresh guilt pierced Tanya. What had she done to that young girl?
She finished reading. For a long time she sat staring at the blue water background of the Scenes and Beans blog. And Carla’s name as contributor — “realtor at your ser vice.”
With one word . . .
No matter. It was too late to turn back now. She’d known that the moment she saw Carla’s picture. Maybe even before, when those threatening words had wound the noose around her neck, poised a foot to kick away the flimsy stool upon which she’d stood for all these years.
Tanya erased the Internet history, then shut down her computer.
Tonight she would sleep with her bedroom door locked and one of her son’s old baseball bats on the
bed beside her. If she lived to see tomorrow, she would set out to do what should have been done years ago. Who knew if she would survive after she’d accomplished her task?
Even so, for the first time in years, Tanya Evans’s conscience felt a hint of peace.
Driven
Eight-thirty. Less than nineteen hours.
Tony Derrat’s eyes and throat still burned, and his face was beet red. But he had work to do.
He parked the Durango a block away and headed for Carla’s house, keeping his head down. He’d stopped at a gas station and changed his clothes in the men’s room. Jeans, a navy button-down shirt, running shoes. His silk pants and expensive sport coat looked like they’d been dragged through the mud. It would be a miracle if they ever came clean.
Tony didn’t expect to find Carla at home. No doubt she’d run off by now. But she’d probably stopped to pick up some things. Women were so predictable. About to die, and they’d want a makeup kit.
He needed to know what she’d taken. Just might tell him which direction she’d headed.
Tony reached the house. Nice-looking place. Green lawn and flowers. He walked up the driveway as if he belonged there, around the side and to the back. He put gloves on, then pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and aimed it at the kitchen door lock. With practiced ease, he jimmied the lock for a second time that day and slipped inside. He closed the door without a sound.
Tony moved through the dark kitchen, senses prickling. He could tell things about a person from her house
. This one had a feeling of order and coolness. Everything in its place, no clutter. In the living room sat a light blue sofa — in the daylight he’d seen its color. Matching chairs grouped around a white-tiled fireplace, magazines stacked on a glass-topped coffee table. Knickknacks and books on built-in shelves. No photos. Art prints on the walls. Nothing commemorating Carla Radling’s life.
Who
was
this woman?
