Irreparable Harm (37 page)

The headed down to the parking area; when they got off the elevator, a deputy marshal working the motor pool jogged off in search of the Camry keys. He jogged back with them and tossed them at Leo.

“Hey, Connelly,” Pulaski said casually, as he and Morgan got into their car, “it was a pretty punk move to keep that cell phone when you turned the prisoner over.”

That had been a bone of contention between the Special Agent in Charge and the Chief Deputy; Leo had heard raised voices discussing that point while he waited outside the office.

“What’s done is done,” he said.

Morgan gave him a look.

Leo shrugged.

Pulaski waved it away with his hand.

“You know where you’re going? Ohio River Boulevard to the village square. Bistro’s on the main drag on the left.”

“Hang back once we get close. I don’t want to spook him.”

“We’ve done this before, Pilot Prettypants,” Morgan said.

Leo couldn’t help himself, he busted out laughing. “Pilot Prettypants?”

Pulaski chucked and, a minute later, Morgan cracked a grin.

They had to give him a hard time, interagency penis-measuring tradition required it. The truth was, they were all prepared to work together to take down Irwin.

In fact, although Leo was convinced the federal air marshals received better training, most of them they didn’t have much opportunity to use it. These two inspectors were more active, protecting witnesses with mob targets on their backs. They’d have the instincts to act if Leo needed backup.

Leo and Pulaski programmed one another’s cell phone numbers into their phones, all three of them strapped on the vests, and the two cars swung out of the parking lot, with the Camry in the lead, nearly forty minutes after Irwin had called.

Leo rode an urban wave of green lights down Grant Street, with Pulaski and Morgan right on his bumper. Leo checked the rearview mirror. Morgan was driving and Pulaski was either subjecting him to a running monologue or singing along to the radio.

As Leo joined the line of cars merging onto the bridge, Gregor’s cell phone rang. He palmed it and read the display. It was Irwin again.

He put the phone on speaker and answered, hoping that when he spoke, the background noise would mask the fact that he was not Gregor.

“Yes,” he said in a clipped voice.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Uh, got lost.” Leo laid on the horn, just for the noise cover it provided.

The curly-haired woman in the blue minivan in front of him raised her head and put her hands up, palms facing the roof of the vehicle, unsure what his problem was. There were at least three kids in the back. One of them, a freckle-faced boy about nine, twisted around in his seat and shot Leo a double bird. His siblings rocked with laughter.

Behind him, Pulaski was the woman’s twin, hands in the air, miming confusion.

Irwin let out a hiss of frustration. “You two really are a pair of brain-dead twits. New location. Take Ohio River Boulevard—that’s Route 65. You’ll see a country inn on the right. Go through the next two lights, then hang a left, go up the hill. At the third stop sign, make a right. Two houses in from the end of the block, there’s a big white house with a white fence and a bunch of pumpkins and flowers and shit on the front porch. Park on the street and come to the front door. Don’t block the driveway. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Irwin hung up on him.

The minivan nosed out into the travel lane and joined the flow of cars crossing the bridge. There was a break in the traffic, so Leo followed her. Morgan couldn’t make it; he was left behind at the merge point.

Leo picked up his cell phone to call Pulaski and let him know about the change of location. He thought for a minute. If Irwin had changed the location because he was suspicious, Leo couldn’t risk spooking him by rolling in with backup. He read the text from Sasha and pulled up her number instead. Four rings, no answer.

Leo hung up on her recorded message and punched it.

Morgan probably wouldn’t work too hard to catch up with him. He knew where they were supposed to be headed, and Ohio River Boulevard was a straight shot. If he covered enough ground, he could easily lose the pair of inspectors.

Once he had Irwin in his sights, he’d call Pulaski. They could gripe at him all they wanted. They wouldn’t want to let their SDUM know they lost him, so it would stay between the three of them.

Chapter 43

Jerry paced around Laura’s enormous gleaming kitchen, fuming. Bringing Vivian and those two idiotic goons into Laura’s home would sully it. He had intended to draw a line between his old life and his new life with her and not let his business bleed into their relationship. It was not off to a good start.

He’d been about to leave to meet Gregor and Anton at the bistro when Vivian had called from the federal courthouse. He couldn’t follow everything she was saying in an angry whisper, but he’d gathered they’d suffered some sort of legal setback that had pissed her off. She had insisted she had to see him right away and asked him to stay put.

The legal end of the plan was Vivian’s responsibility. So any problems were her problems, not his. All the same, he didn’t want there to be any hiccups when they were this close, so he’d decided to wait for her.

That left him no option but to call Gregor and tell him to bring the files to Laura’s house.

As he waited for his unwelcome guests to arrive, Jerry tugged at his hair with both hands, thinking. Laura was out running errands. When she finished, they planned to have a quick lunch together at the house, then she would leave again for a meeting with her priest to go over Noah’s funeral service.

He looked at the time display on the control panel of Laura’s complicated espresso machine, just above the tangle of nozzles and wands that made him long for Folgers. It was 10:02.

He’d just have to get rid of everyone before Laura returned.

He heard the purr of a car engine and the crackle of crushed stones as a vehicle made its way up the driveway. He looked out the window over the kitchen door, expecting to see Gregor’s Camry. Instead, Vivian pulled up in her maroon SUV. She had someone in the passenger seat.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sasha stared at the Petersons’ gracious home, but her mind was still on the globe hanging from Vivian’s key ring. Vivian was feeling around under the driver’s seat for something, but Sasha paid no attention. Her instincts were screaming at her to get out of the Mercedes. Too many things were wrong with the situation.

Much later, when she replayed the events in her mind trying to rewrite the ending, she would chalk up her failure to react to two factors:  One, she had been intimidated by Vivian because she was a client. Two, she was distracted by that keychain.

In the moment, all she knew was she turned back to Vivian to ask why they were at Noah’s house and looked straight down the barrel of a handgun.

Reflexively, she began to calculate the steps to disarm Vivian. Almost immediately, she realized the conditions were no good. Vivian’s hands were shaking badly. The safety was off. Sasha assumed the gun was loaded. And they were in very close quarters. A struggle for the gun in the front seat of the vehicle almost guaranteed someone would be shot.

It was better to bide her time and take Vivian down later. Assuming she got an opportunity.

“Out,” Vivian ordered, hands still shaking.

Sasha complied with slow, deliberate movements. Vivian was tense and wound up tight. Sasha didn’t want to spook her and end up dead.

Vivian shut the driver’s side door and walked around the car to Sasha’s side.

“Can I get my briefcase?” Sasha asked.

“No.”

Vivian nudged the passenger door closed with her hip and jabbed the gun at Sasha.

“We’re going in the side door. Hurry.”

Sasha trotted up the path, unsteady in her heels on the crushed stones. Vivian followed behind, more slowly, the gun aimed at Sasha’s back.

Sasha swept both sides of the path leading to the doorway with eyes. No brush that would provide cover if she were to dive, just two glazed, stoneware pots—one on each side of the door—both home to fat, wine-colored chrysanthemums.

She reached the door and stopped. Vivian leaned forward, over Sasha’s head, and rapped on the glass with the butt of the gun. Sasha could have grabbed it then. Wrapped her hands around the barrel and pulled it down, out of the bigger woman’s hands. But Vivian was not practicing good weapon retention. By using the butt end of the gun to knock on the door, she was pointing the weapon up and at herself. Bad idea. If Sasha grabbed for gun now it would be pointing up and toward Sasha as she wrested control of it away. Worse idea. Unless she wanted to get shot in the head.

Not the right time.

A man’s face appeared in the door. He was wide-eyed with surprise and his mouth was set with anger. The two emotions battled for supremacy on his face.

He pulled the door open and stepped back. Vivian used the gun to push Sasha inside. She followed and pushed the door shut behind her. As soon as she stepped inside, Sasha felt Noah’s death hanging over the house like a cloud.

“What the hell, Vivian?” The man’s voice was tight and fast. He looked from the gun to Sasha to Vivian then repeated the circuit.

Sasha wondered if he was a relative of Laura’s. She saw no resemblance. He was in his late fifties. He was bald on top, with wispy brown hair that hung in a fringe from right above his ears down to his collar. He was perfectly average in height and weight. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. He wore a turtleneck and jeans. Socks, no shoes.

“Jerry Irwin, meet Sasha McCandless.” Vivian said.

The man—Irwin—reared his head back, disbelief painted across his face. “Her?!”  He blinked behind his glasses.

Sasha felt like telling him the feeling was mutual. This mundane–looking man was the psychotic genius?

His eyes shifted to the cream-colored, tumbled limestone floor. Sasha and Vivian followed his gaze. Their heels had tracked in mud from the wet ground.

“Take off your shoes, please.” He said it in that same strangled voice.

Sasha kicked hers off fast and lined them up beside the door.

Vivian huffed. “Is Laura home?”

“No, she went out. Take off the fucking shoes, Vivian!”  Irwin’s face flashed deep red as he screamed.

Vivian muttered under her breath but propped her back against the door and lifted her right foot. She kept the gun in her right hand and used her left to pull off her right shoe. She let it fall to the floor. Mud flew off the stacked heel when it hit the ground.

Irwin frowned at the mess then stalked off toward the mud room to the right of the door.

Sasha waited, off to Vivian’s left.

Vivian raised her left foot and kept her gun hand up against the door while she fumbled with the left shoe with her left hand. She was off balance and struggling with the strap.

It was time.

Redirect.
Sasha wheeled across Vivian’s torso and used her left hand to pin Vivian’s right wrist against the door. The gun was pointed up—less than ideal—but away from everyone in the house.

Control.
She stretched on her toes and pressed her elbow deep into the hollow under Vivian’s ribcage. Vivian gasped. She drove it deeper and held it there.