Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (24 page)

 The reception room wasn’t particularly receptive—a couple rows of cubbyholes that faced each other with a giant window of safety glass between them. Prisoner and visitor spoke over phones, a scene Nemo had watched at least a hundred different times on television—and replayed a few himself.

 The guy behind the glass was waiting for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “You are Robert Nemo, aren’t you?”

 “You asked for me, didn’t you?”

 “Uh, yes. Yes, I did.”

 “So who the fuck else would I be?” Nemo had no patience for retards.

 The guy took a business card from his breast pocket and pressed it up against the glass. “Simon Escalante,” he said. “Your attorney?”

 Nemo squinted at the card, saw the name above the words
ASST. FEDERAL PUBLIC DEFENDER
, and groaned inwardly, thinking, now I’m fucked. Another shit-fer-brains mouthpiece who couldn’t make it in the real world. The last public defender he’d had managed to get him five years in stir.

 Escalante returned the card to his pocket. “You did request an attorney, didn’t you?”

 “Yeah,” Nemo said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “I just didn’t think anyone was listening.”

 “Guess you were wrong about that. I may have some good news for you.”

 “Oh?” Nemo figured this probably meant he’d get chocolate pudding on his dinner tray tonight, because on every other level he was about as fucked as you can get. Not even the late great Johnnie Cochran could change that.

 “Do you know anything about federal criminal law, Mr. Nemo?”

 “What’s to know?” Nemo said. The way he saw it, the only difference between a state and a federal rap was the color of your jumpsuit. The bunks in the marshals’ lockup were just as uncomfortable, and you still had to watch your backside in the showers.

 “Title Eighteen, Section Five, of the criminal code prohibits holding a suspect in custody longer than twenty-four hours,” Escalante said. “Seems the Feds dumped you in here, then promptly forgot about you. That, coupled with the testimony of two eyewitnesses who say they saw you grievously manhandled by federal agents, makes a compelling case for your immediate release.”

 Nemo stared at him. Somebody had actually seen those assholes attack him in the alley? “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

 “I shit you not,” Escalante said, and smiled. “I’ve asked the court for a hearing, and I expect to be in front of a judge within ten minutes.”

 “Isn’t it a little late for court?”

 “This is an emergency situation. All I need is your signature.”

 “Signature?” Nemo said, balking. “I’m not signing any friggin’ confession, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nice try, asshole.”

 “Please, Mr. Nemo, I’m on your side. And if I have anything to say about it, there won’t be a single confession in your future. What I need you to sign is a waiver.”

 “What the hell’s a waiver?”

 “A simple document that says you waive your right to appear in court this evening.”

 Nemo frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”

 “Because,” Escalante said, “if you insist on being present for the hearing, the marshal will have to prep you for delivery to the courtroom and delay the proceedings for an indeterminate amount of time. If it takes too long, the judge may postpone until a later date—and I’d like to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

 The guy was still smiling. Nemo studied him a moment, thinking there was something wrong with this picture. He was up for bank robbery, aggravated assault, and multiple murder charges. And hadn’t the Feds just told him they considered him some kind of homegrown terrorist?

 Nemo might not know much about federal law, but he’d watched enough Fox News to know that thanks to a bunch of towel-heads on crack, the Feds routinely locked up terrorism suspects and threw away the key—all without charges or even the benefit of some retard lawyer. So what made Robert Edward Nemo so friggin’ special?

 Escalante said, “You’re probably a little wary, Mr. Nemo, and I can understand that. But it turns out the Feds have made some major mistakes in handling this case and the lead investigator has just been relieved of his command.”

 “What?” Nemo wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “Jackass Donovan?”

 “I believe his legal name is John,” Escalante said.

 
Yessss
, Nemo thought, feeling a sudden surge of triumph. Make that motherfucker skip recess and stand in a corner.

 “Since Agent Donovan is the only eyewitness who can connect you to the Northland First and Trust incident, the Department of Justice is in a bit of a bind.”

 Holy Jesus. The ski masks. Nobody but Donovan had seen him without that sweaty-assed ski mask. Thank yoooou, Luther, you big, ugly bastard. The masks had been his idea.

 “Needless to say,” Escalante continued, “they’re scrambling to cover their asses.”

 “Meaning what?”

 “They’re fighting very hard to keep you in custody. Fortunately, the law’s on our side. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble convincing the judge to cut you loose.”

 “What about the MP5?” Nemo said.

 “The what?”

 “The weapon they found.”

 “Ahh,” Escalante said, nodding. “It seems their warrant only covered you and not Ms. Devito’s apartment. Any weapons they recovered were the fruits of an illegal search and, as such, can no longer be used as evidence against you.”

 “Halle-fuckin-lujah,” Nemo said.

 “Don’t start celebrating too soon,” Escalante warned. “You’re not completely out of the woods. If the Feds can put together a strong enough case, you could be back in here as early as tomorrow afternoon.”

 Jeez, Nemo thought, that doesn’t leave much of a window. If these idiots were stupid enough to let him out, he didn’t plan on giving them a chance to take it back.

 One of the deputies had told him about Alex last night. How the cops had shot him down in cold blood, the stupid twit. That was the thing about Alex. Always letting his ego get the better of him, especially after Sara took her nosedive. Alex had been out of control.

 Nemo, on the other hand, was only interested in two things: cash and pussy. And he’d be damned if he’d wind up facedown in a rat-infested train yard all because some rich bitch got her brain fried.

 Instead, he’d do what he should have done two months ago and hop a bus to Ensenada. Plenty of pussy there. All those tight little Mexican
chochos.
 

 
Caliente
, baby,
caliente.
 

 Now all he needed was cash.

 “Well, Mr. Nemo?”

 Escalante was unfolding a sheet of paper with official-looking writing all over it. Nemo stared at it, thinking, the guy’s serious. This is the real thing.

 “You tell these crank-yankers to get me a pen,” he said, “and I’ll sign whatever you want.”

Y
OU THINK HE
swallowed it?” Donovan asked.

 “Like a twenty-dollar whore,” Waxman said, his voice distorted over the cell line. “He’s being processed as we speak.”

 “And you’re sure he didn’t recognize Franky?”

 “Even
I
barely recognized him. Put on a fake beard, glasses, did a whole number on the moron. Cited some bullshit criminal code and even made him sign a waiver—you believe that?” Waxman laughed. “This thing pans out, we’ll have to give Franky another trophy.”

 “Or a ticket to Hollywood,” Donovan said.

 Despite what Waxman thought, Bobby Nemo was no moron. If they had simply let him go, he was bound to be suspicious, and sending the Chameleon in with an appropriately long-winded cover story was designed to allay those suspicions.

 They had discussed coming down hard on Nemo, the way they had before, but if it backfired, if Nemo clammed up this time, then where would they be? Better to make him think he was in control rather than take it from him.

 And the next step was key.

 Donovan just hoped it would work.

 He sat behind the wheel of his sedan, parked across the street from the U.S. Marshals’ office, which occupied the lower floor of the federal building. It was just past 7:30 p.m., and the streetlight above his car was burnt out, offering him an extra layer of darkness as protection.

 “You sure you don’t want me along?” Waxman asked.

 “I can manage.” It would be hours before the brass figured out what they were up to, but Donovan had decided it was best to err on the side of caution and handle the surveillance duties solo while Waxman played lead agent.

 “What about the woman? You talk to her?”

 “She’s on board,” Donovan said. “Not that she’s happy about it, but she’ll come through.”

 “She’d better or we’re screwed.”

 “We’re screwed no matter how you look at it,” Donovan said, then clicked off.

 Once word got upstairs that Nemo had been released, about two tons of shit would hit the fan, but neither Donovan nor Waxman had bothered to think that far ahead. They’d weather that storm when it blew in.

 Donovan tapped his fingers on the wheel, feeling the jumpiness in his legs, as if an alien life force had crawled into his body and was struggling to take control. His head had started to throb again and he wished he had a couple of Advil and a nice cold Coke to wash them down.

 Ten long minutes later, the lobby doors of the federal building swung open and Bobby Nemo and a little guy with a goatee emerged. The Chameleon. Franky Garcia. And Waxman was right, he was barely recognizable.

 Garcia handed Nemo a business card along with a few bucks in cash, then shook his hand and headed off toward the parking lot. Nemo kept his eyes on him a moment, then glanced around as if he suspected someone might be watching. Then, turning his attention to the street, he waved a hand at an approaching cab.

 The cab sliced across a couple lanes of traffic and pulled to the curb. Nemo jumped in the back, made a gesture, and the cab took off again, tooting its horn as it merged back into traffic.

 Here we go, Donovan thought, then started his engine and pulled out.

42

N
EMO TOLD THE
driver to drop him off near the alley behind the Pussy Palace, a narrow strip of urine-streaked asphalt that led to the backstage door. He’d been tempted to have the guy take him straight to the Greyhound station, but there were a couple of snags in that plan.

 First, he was horny as all hell. As much as he’d like to save it up for the Mexican hotties, he’d never had a lot of willpower when it came to women. His five-year drought at Danville had been pure torture (he’d never fancied himself a butt pilot), and he’d been making up for it ever since. As far as Nemo was concerned, a day without tang was like a day without sunshine.

 Second, the only cash he had on him was the twenty bucks Escalante had given him, and half of that went for the cab. With what was left, he could probably afford a decent sub sandwich and a soda. If he counted pennies.

 That was where Carla came in.

 Not only was she a Grade A piece of ass, the twenty or so grand he’d managed to pocket during the Northland First & Trust heist was stashed in her apartment.

 She didn’t know this, of course. Nobody did. Nemo figured if the Feds had found it, either Donovan or the lawyer would’ve mentioned it, but neither had.

 After Tina had crashed the news van, he’d always felt a little sick about leaving all that bank loot behind. But when you’re running from the cops, dragging a couple of fifty-pound duffel bags behind you is usually a bad idea. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to fill his pockets in the vault.

 Luther had seen him, shaking his head in disgust. “When Alex finds out, he won’t like it.”

 “He’s not gonna find out, is he?”

 “Not from me,” Luther said. “But Alex has the power. Knows all, sees all. And I think maybe Sara’s got it, too.”

 Nemo looked at him, continuing to stuff his pockets. Luther was definitely a dim bulb in a dark room. “What Alex has is a smooth line that only suckers like you fall for,” Nemo said. “As for Sara, don’t get me started. She’s got rich relatives and a nice ass. That’s about it.”

 Luther scowled at him then. Nemo knew the dimwit had tapped Sara’s ass a couple times himself, knew that he and Alex and Sara had a freaky little threesome thing going on, but that had been more about control than anything else. Alex playing puppet master, Sara the willing apprentice. Luther was either too stupid or too horny to realize he was being managed.

 Nemo was his own man, thank you, and Alex or no Alex, he figured it never hurt to carry some insurance. Unfortunately, his pockets could only fit so much.

 Two days after he’d moved in with Carla, he had removed her toilet tank, punched a hole in the wall behind it, stuffed the cash inside, and replaced the tank. Nice and neat. His own personal bank vault.

 Now all he had to do was make a withdrawal.

 Escalante had told him that no charges had been brought against Carla, that the Feds had released her shortly after he was taken into custody. He supposed he could just head over to her apartment and grab his stash, but why not take a few minutes for a proper goodbye? After a couple days in stir, he figured he deserved it.

 He stepped over a fresh stream of urine and crossed the alley to the backstage door. Faded letters across it read
TALENT ONLY
. He pounded on the door and waited. A moment later, it creaked open and music spilled out, a guy in leather pants frowning at him. “What the fuck you want?”

 “I’m looking for Carla.”

 Leather Boy nodded toward the door and started to pull it shut. “Read the sign, asshole.”

 Nemo caught the door with his right hand. “I forgot my glasses.”

 “Look, you wanna see the show, go around front like everybody el—”

 Nemo swung his left hand up between the guy’s legs and grabbed his balls, applying just enough pressure to send a clear message.

 “Carla,” he said. “She here or not?”

 Leather Boy’s eyes bulged, his whole body going stiff. You could almost see his brain working, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this delicate situation without getting his nads crushed. “Uhhh,” he said involuntarily.