DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series) (43 page)

“I earned my place with Parker’s organisation,” I said, “and I keep it on merit, not sentimentality.”

“Shagging him as well, are you?”

I sighed. “Just open the bloody door.”

His tone was mocking. “What makes
you
think I have a key?”

I shoved the business end of the Glock into his groin, not gently. “As a member of the O’Days’ security staff you have a key to all their rooms,” I said. “Don’t make me ask again.”

I left the Glock where it was while he reached into his jacket pocket. He moved slow and careful.

I took the card he offered and slid it into the electronic lock, waited for the green light to blink and pressed the handle down. The door swung open soundlessly. I nudged Morton through the gap ahead of me.

Inside, the first thing I saw was the body of a man lying face up in the hallway. He was so close to the entrance to the suite that the door bumped his foot.

The dead man was young, muscular, dressed in a suit with the jacket flipped open to reveal a white shirt and sober tie. He wore a paddle-rig holster on his right hip. It was empty. The gunshot that had killed him had been fired into his chest at very close range. His white shirt was stippled with powder burns. There was very little blood. His expression was one of frozen open-eyed surprise.

Through it I recognised him as the guy who’d accompanied Marie O’Day to Blake Dyer’s suite after the Bell crash. Thad. I guessed nut allergies were no longer a worry for him.

Rule one, page one—first kill the bodyguard.

“Shit,” I heard Morton mutter. “That
bitch
. . .”

My mind still flinched away from the possibility that Autumn was behind all this. She’d been the last person I’d suspected. She already had it all—why kill for more?

Because no matter how much some people have, it’s never enough.

I pushed Morton forwards roughly. We stepped over the unlucky Thad’s legs and ventured further into the suite. I tried to keep my spatial awareness broad, not let the tension narrow my focus.

Sean was sitting on one of the upright chairs at the small dining table. He was very still, with both hands on the tablecloth in front of him, fingers spread. His eyes tracked us as we came into view, flicked sideways towards the bedroom doorway to his right. Apart from that he didn’t move. I could read nothing on his face.

I didn’t ask what was going on. I didn’t need to. A woman appeared at once from the bedroom. She was wearing one of the thick white towelling robes the hotel provided. It contrasted strongly with the ratty straggle of her hair, her dirty face and bare legs—completely at odds with her usual effortless style.

Also not her usual style was the fact she was holding a hammerless compact-frame Smith & Wesson revolver in both hands. It was pointing firmly at the back of Sean’s head.

“Hello, Autumn,” I said, keeping my voice conversational. “Want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said with surprising composure.

“What happened?” I asked. “How did you get off the boat?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “One minute I was being hustled out of the casino and shoved into some kind of a storage locker on the
Miss Francis
, and the next I woke up here, bound with tape.” She lifted a shoulder. “I guess they must have given me something.”

“Nice story,” Sean said through his teeth. “But I arrived to find you standing over a dead body with a gun in your hand.”

“Believe what you want,” she snapped. “When I got loose Thad was already lying there dead. He was wearing this in an ankle holster.” She nodded to the revolver she was holding, still pointing at Sean. “You really think I could have taken a gun away from a professional bodyguard if he’d still been alive?”

“Why not?” Morton said casually. “Thad was Jimmy’s guy. You knew him pretty well—must have been well enough for him to let you get too close.”

There was something sly in his voice I didn’t like. Autumn liked it even less.

“You always were a slimy little bastard—”

“How
did
you get loose?” Sean interrupted.

She switched the gun into her right hand and held up her left, back towards him, fingers straight. On two, the nails were raggedly broken off, but on the others she had a set of talons like a wolverine. Duct tape has plenty of tensile strength, but slice it and it’s easy enough to tear.

So it was possible she’d escaped by herself, yes.

But likely . . .?

“Where’s the knife?” Sean asked. His voice was harsh and cold. It set the hairs riffling along the tops of my arms, the back of my neck. I glanced at him, wary. His jaw was set rigid, eyes narrowed.

“Sean, we don’t know that—”

“Shut up,” he said.

And suddenly I was back at the Stress Under Fire course we’d taken only a few weeks before. He’d said the same words to me in much the same way. Morton had been right—there were times when Sean didn’t remember me at all. Or—worse still –he remembered me only with contempt.

I swallowed, picking my next words with care.

“We need to know where Marie O’Day is,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Tom sent us to find her—remember? To make sure she’s OK.”

“Why—you think I killed her too?” Autumn laughed, short and sharp with an edge of hysteria to it. “Jesus, Charlie. I thought, of all people, I could rely on you.”

She ducked sideways, shifted her aim so now she had both Sean and me covered with the revolver. Her grip had a practised look to it and her aim was steady. I watched the tendons in the backs of her hands begin to stand out as her muscles tightened.

“You
can
rely on me,” I said quickly, trying for calm and hearing only a quiet desperation in my own voice. “But not like this. Please, where’s Marie?”

“She’s safe.”

“You’re covering for her,” Sean said with quiet vehemence. “Marie O’Day arranged the hijacking as a cover to have her husband killed and you’re covering for her.”

“What? No!” The revolver jerked dangerously in Autumn’s hands. Her voice was low and shaken. “Marie would never do something like that.”

“So why has she been transferring money to the Caymans unless it was for the payoff?”

Autumn’s surprise was evident. Her arms started to drop, letting the gun slide off target.

Sean shoved his chair back and came to his feet abruptly. My heart bounced into my throat, half expecting Autumn to squeeze the trigger in nothing more than involuntary reaction. I brought the Glock up fast. She caught the movement, her attention split between us.

Sean dived for the gun in Autumn’s hands, wrapping himself into her body and bringing his elbow back hard into her sternum. Her grip released instantly. She fell back, gulping for breath.

“Sean, for God’s sake—she’s pregnant!”

“We only have her word for that,” Sean said. “Easy to say—harder to prove.” And I knew he wasn’t just talking about Autumn now.

“I’m sure we can arrange medical reports if you need to see them,” I said icily, and I wasn’t talking about Autumn either.

I helped her to stand. There was a low sofa just behind her and I manoeuvred her onto it without meeting resistance. The fight seemed to have gone out of her along with the breath.

Behind me, Morton said, “So, what kind of a deal have you two ladies come to, that she thought she ‘could rely on you’, Charlie?”

I turned, ready to give him a mouthful. Only to find that Sean had moved across to stand beside Morton, and was now pointing the revolver at me.

I straightened, taking my time about it. The Glock was still in my hand, but gripped loosely by my side. For all his problems there was nothing wrong with Sean’s reflexes. If anything he was more tightly wound now than he’d ever been. I knew if I made any attempt to bring the gun up he’d react solely on instinct. I would become a viable threat to be eliminated.

Again I wasn’t sure if he really knew who I was.

Or what difference it would make if he did.

By his side, Morton’s eyes flicked between us, gleeful and predatory.

“Can’t trust ’em, mate,” he murmured. “They scheme behind your back and the next thing you know, you’re out in the cold. Happened to me, happened to you. Going to happen again . . . if you let her get away with it.”

“Get away with what, Morton?” I demanded.

“Obvious, isn’t it?” he said, his eyes still on Sean. “The blonde tries to get rid of O’Day, has her claws into the son and heir, and suddenly she’s in control of a multimillion-dollar enterprise. And when it all goes wrong she hightails it back here to disappear Mrs O’Day as a convenient scapegoat.”

“You’re mad,” Autumn said faintly. “I love Jimmy. And I told you—Marie’s safe.”

“Maybe the wife’s in on it too,” Morton said. “Wanted rid of the old man and knew she’d get bugger all if she went for a divorce.” He allowed his gaze to trail over me briefly. I had the urge to scrub where it had passed. “Made you a nice fat offer, did she, Charlie? You going to be her new head of security? Convenient, good old Rick Hobson getting his head stove in, now wasn’t it?”

“But Tom O’Day isn’t dead,” I pointed out. “Because
I
got him out of there. Why would I do that if I was playing any part in this?”

Being goaded into defending myself was a mistake. I realised that as soon as I saw the gleam of triumph in Morton’s eye. By then it was too late to call it back.

“Didn’t say you were in on it from the start, but you were never slow on the uptake, were you? Always had an eye to the main chance. Hooked into Sergeant Meyer here fast enough back when we were training. Needed him on your side if you were going to make it. Dropped him like a hot brick when the shit hit the fan though.”

“That’s not how it happened and you bloody well know it,” I said. A trace of anguished frustration had slithered into my voice. It made me sound desperate, maybe even a little guilty. I didn’t like it but there wasn’t much I could do.

Morton was spouting lies with a straight face and an earnest tone, just like he’d done at my court-martial, and later at the equally disastrous civil trial I’d allowed myself to be talked into. Why hadn’t I remembered what a good liar he was?

Sean was showing me nothing except the muzzle of a loaded gun. I tried to ignore it. My fingers tightened slightly around the pistol grip of the Glock. My only hope, I reasoned, was to give Morton enough rope and pray he’d hang himself.

“Come on then, Vic, let’s hear your theory on what’s going on.”

He grinned as if I’d just played into his hands. “Bluffing right to the end, eh, Fox?” he said. “Got to admire your nerve if nothing else.”

“Why not start with how you tipped off Castille about the helo trip so he could bring it down?”

“Nice try, but that must have been that tart van Zant,” Morton said without a flicker. “Castille’s been blackmailing her for years—ever since he was funding her run for office years ago. Why else would she give up her seat as soon as Baptiste got on board if she didn’t know it was all going to kick off?”

His confession in the stairwell, it seemed, was for my ears only. I stared at him, saw the momentary satisfaction and realised he’d done it deliberately, to make me suffer more.

“But—”

“Looks like this is an all-girl conspiracy,” he said to Sean. “Mrs O’Day provides the funding to get rid of her husband because of the punitive pre-nup. Autumn there arranges the hijack. And Charlie comes on board, as it were, at the clean-up stage.”

“You’re Mrs O’Day’s bodyguard,” I pointed out. “Surely if she was arranging to have her husband killed, you’d know all about it?”

For a moment I thought I saw a flicker of annoyance, of conflict, pass across Morton’s face. Admitting he’d missed something and done a slipshod job did not sit well with him.

“Hey, when she’s at home I don’t follow her round the house like a bloody lap dog,” he said.

“And how the hell would I arrange something like a hijack?” Autumn burst out. “I work in PR, for God’s sake.”

Morton shrugged. “Maybe you recruited poor old Hobson. Fluttered those pretty baby blues at him, got him to find you some manpower willing to do the job. Just your bad luck he used local muscle and Castille decided to screw the pooch.”

“So who killed Hobson then?” I asked. I fought to keep my voice reasonable. “He’d been with Tom O’Day for ten years. You really think he’d betray his principal so easily?”

“Who knows? Maybe he was just in the way, or had an attack of conscience and had to be got rid of? Even a woman could have done it—if they’d blindsided him.”

“You are so full of shit, Morton, I’m amazed your teeth aren’t floating.”

The grin widened. “Who was it said that insults are the last resort of someone who knows they’re fighting an argument they can’t win?”