Killer Kisses (13 page)

~*~

Web sat in his mother’s room at the Victorian style assisted living facility and played with the remote control for the television. “What would you like to watch, Mom?”

“Is that you, Webster? When did you get here?”

“An hour ago, Mom.” He sighed. It was the same thing with every visit. “How about the news?”

“Your father said he’d be coming in from the garden soon. Go get your dad, tell him to wash up for dinner.”

“We had dinner, Mom.”

“We did?”

“Yes, chicken and green beans. Very tasty.”

“I used your grandmother’s secret recipe.” She waved at him to come closer and whispered. “It’s the cinnamon. Don’t tell anyone I told you.”

“My lips are sealed.” He pretended to lock his lips with a key. “Our secret.”

“Time for sleep, Webster. It’s a school night. You have to be up early if you want to catch a ride with me.”

He shook his head, sighed and stood. “Get some rest. Don’t stay up all night watching TV.”

“Pshaw! That’s your dad. He loves all the old movies.” She pointed at her cheek. “Now, give me a kiss and run along to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s a good boy.” She looked up and her tone shifted. “Whatever happened to that Lola gal, the one you had the crush on?”

Startled, Web stepped back a pace. “What’s that, Mom?”

A vacant expression came over her face. “Good night, dear. I love you, too.”

What on earth had made his mother ask about Lola? And how did she know that he’d had such a major crush on the girl? Sure, Mom had been the Secretary for the Counseling Department back in the day, but he could have sworn he’d kept that secret to himself. He shook his head. Even though she was demented, his mother was still able to spook him.

Lost in thought, Web closed the door, strolled past the nursing station and said goodnight to the African American woman at the desk.

Beverly gave him a warm smile. “Will I see you the same time tomorrow?”

“It’s a date. But I’ve got to be at work by ten-thirty, so don’t you even think of trying to get me liquored up.”

She giggled. “Go make Summerville safe.”

“You been talking to my boss?”

He heard her giggles all the way out into the parking lot.

Dickhead was driving everyone crazy. He’d even posted a countdown calendar in the station. “
Only Five More Days!”
one sign proclaimed while another read, “
Keep Summerville Safe!”

With the U on summer break, incidents of underage drinking were way down, and not a single unexplained Chinese person had arrived under cover of night, except for the occasional guy delivering take-out. If the little burg got any safer, it might as well be a morgue. He yawned and glanced at his watch. He had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee, before he reported in for another mind-numbing night at work. Maybe it was time to put in for a lateral transfer to the Staties. Perhaps Rory McDaniel had spots open in the County Sheriff's Department.

~*~

On the seventh morning, there still was no rest for Lola. She rolled over in the no tell motel’s rickety bed and tried to remember where she was, and what day it was. Picking up the disposable phone, she couldn’t believe so many days had passed. Her mind still reeled in disbelief and shock from the whole chain of events.

From the narrow escape and harrowing drive down the Mexican mountain side, to driving straight through for forty-eight hours, fueled on Flora’s chicken mole, coffee, and pure, unadulterated fear.

When she caught herself nodding off and driving on the shoulders of the highway, she pulled the Hummer behind a sleazy motel and checked in. Twelve hours later, she hit the road again, not stopping until after dark to check into a series of roach ridden rooms. Just one more day, one more leg of the trip and she’d be at the safe house.

The phone buzzed, jangling her nerves and shocking her into hyper vigilance. She didn’t recognize the number. It stopped buzzing. Then a text popped up:

Call # on your phone.

Izzy.

Lola’s hands shook as she hit the call-back button, then almost cried with relief when she heard the familiar voice. “Izzy! What’s going on?”

Her cousin’s husky voice rumbled in her ear. “Inside job. Your maid set you up. Someone must have made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”

“No! That can’t be.” Her stomach knotted. “Flora’s been with my family, since I was a child. She was my rock when Rico was killed.”

“Rock or no, she’s definitely the one who told the guards she saw lights in the hills. Classic diversionary tactic.”

“All the shooting? The flashes?”

“My guys returned just in time to see you flying down the mountain in your Hummer. They tossed in a flash bang, so you could get away,” Izzy paused. “I lost a couple good men, but we returned the favor and captured some of theirs. Extracted information out of them the old-fashioned way.”

Lola didn’t want to know what that meant.

“They definitely said Flora?”

“The guy wasn’t talking too well at that point, but yeah, he said,
Vieja
. The old lady.”

Lola swallowed hard. “Any idea who she was working for?”

“Someone big enough to have the
cojones
to try to take me on.” Izzy snickered. “I’m looking forward to cutting them off.”

“Jesus.” As Lola sank back on the creaking bed, the room began to spin.  She closed her eyes and the open envelope with chocolate finger prints danced before her, taunting her.

The chicken mole.
Mierda. How could she have been so stupid?

Lola took a shaky breath. “What about—about Flora?”

“In the wind. Her, I’m not worried about. It’s the guy she was working for that has me concerned. You could have a tail, someone looking to make some money on you.”

Lola felt as if she was going to be sick. “What should I do?”

“Get out of harm's way.”

“The safe house?”

“Go there, get what you need, but do
not
stay there. Flora was in your house twenty-four/seven and could have found your instructions. Go somewhere
you
can blend in, where an outsider will stick out like a sore thumb.”

Feeling uneasy, Lola glanced around the room, checking the curtains and the chain on the door. Her gaze fell on the chipped Formica coffee table, reminding her of her front hall table in her home, and the invitation that arrived seven days ago. “I have an idea.”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Izzy, I really owe you.”

“Family sticks together. Get going. Find someplace safe.”

Lola jumped up and threw her belongings into her bag. A high school reunion in Summerville. What could be safer than that?

CHAPTER THREE

~*~

On the Thursday before the reunion, Web sat in his cruiser on a side street, radar gun pointed toward Lakeshore Boulevard. The Art Festival crowd, nicely tucked in bed at this hour, was pretty tame. So far, the biggest news this week came out of one of his fellow officers arresting two septuagenarians for smoking pot. Rumor had it the administrative judge could barely keep a straight face during the proceedings and released the gomers on their own recognizance.

Now
that
would have made a nice human interest piece for the
Summerville Gazette,
but he doubted it would ever surface. The pristine image of Summerville had to be maintained, at all costs.

Web sipped his third coffee of the night and tried to think about what he had to do the next day.

Sleep.

Shower.

Clean the house.

Pick up some food and wine.

Visit Mom.

Go back to work on the graveyard shift.

He groaned. He had to
do
something,
change
something or he’d turn into a lush like his Dad—or worse. He’d almost gotten married once, until his footloose bride-to-be realized he would never abandon his mother. She took off with a long-distance truck driver and left a note saying she was going to be “Queen of the Road.” He shook his head. He hoped she was happy in her mobile sovereign nation. She just never got that above all, family sticks together.

A black Lexus drove past his hiding place going five miles
below
the posted speed limit. Web’s pulse quickened and his mind switched into full alert. He tossed his iced coffee out the window and put the cruiser into gear. At two in the morning, going under the speed limit could be a sign of a drunk driver—or a careful coyote. With the largest trunk space in a luxury car, that Lexus could hold at least two, maybe three illegals, if they were small.

He pulled onto the road behind the vehicle and noted a busted tail light.
Excellent
. He turned on his overhead lights, automatically activating the video camera mounted over the dash. A small pang of disappointment coursed through him when the car immediately pulled over to the shoulder at the first blink of his strobe lights. He’d been half-hoping for a chase.

He assessed the situation as he approached the car, considered calling in for back-up, but decided he wasn’t in the mood for Dickhead’s nasal whine of, “What’s wrong, Dweebster? Afraid some little old lady’s going to pull a gun on you?”

The tinted windows on the Lexus offered no sense of the driver; all he saw was a dark shape moving within. He tapped on the window with the butt of his Maglite. The window slid down in slow motion.

Well, Dickie
would
have had a heyday. It
was
a woman.

Beneath a baseball cap, black hair cascaded down her back; she made no effort to brush long bangs away from her eyes. “What is the problem, Officer?”

Her husky voice sent a frisson down his spine. She sounded familiar. He had to be so buzzed on caffeine and adrenaline that his mind was playing tricks on him.
Focus.
“Please step out of the car.”

“What is wrong?”

She had a slight accent. One he couldn’t place.

She
had
to be a trafficker.

He stepped back and turned his body at an angle, his sidearm
away
from the driver. “Just step out of the car, please. Now.”

The woman scrambled at the door, then slid out. She was dressed completely in black. Black baseball cap pulled down over her face, black slacks, and blouse. Hell, even her flip flops were black.

In the summer.
Yeah, that’s normal.

“License and registration.”

She reached into the pocket of her jeans and extracted both, as if she’d known she’d get pulled over.

He glanced at them briefly. Lara Spencer of Baltimore, Maryland. For all he knew, the documents were phony. He held onto them and motioned toward the back of the car.

She hesitated.

He stepped back a pace and gripped his sidearm in case she made a lunge for him. Instead, she shook her head, sighed and flapped to the back of the car.

Nerves tingling, sweat running down his back, he knew this was the break he’d been looking for. “Your tail light’s out.”

The woman stared at the light and her shoulders slumped.

Guilty as hell.
“Open the trunk.” His heart trip hammered and his hands shook.

Using the key fob, she popped the trunk.

He swept the dark space with his flash light.

An overnight suitcase and nothing more. He ground his teeth in frustration.
Something was off.

“Ms. Spencer, what are you doing out at this hour? And where are you going?”

The flash of surprise crossing her lovely features sent an immediate jolt from his head to the toes of his boots.

“Webster? Webster Bond? Is that
you
?”

~*~

Strung out on caffeine, adrenaline and energy drinks, Lola's stomach had dropped at the sight of the police lights, a Pavlovian response to all the bad experiences she’d had with the corrupt cops in Mexico, including the ones she’d had to bribe at the border. From the moment she saw the cruiser in her rear view mirror, she thought she was going to be pulled over and gunned down. When he made her open the trunk, all she could think of was that this was the kidnapper she’d eluded for over a week—only to be caught by him in the safe, sleepy town of Summerville, New York.

Paranoia alarms screaming and jangling all fingers and toes, she almost cried with relief when she recognized him. “Webster! Oh, my God, it’s so
good
to see you.” She sagged against the armored Lexus, fatigue weighing down every muscle.