The Forgotten (38 page)

Puller stared at her bag. “Open it.”

“What?”

“Open your bag.”

“You have no right to—”

Puller grabbed the bag and opened it. Wrapped in a silk scarf were four of Cookie’s watches.

Puller stared down at her. “Say goodbye to your life, Jane.”

Ryon was crying. “I didn’t kill him. I swear to God I didn’t.”

“Tell the police that. You just walked into his house, took his property that you could only take after he was dead, and he was coincidentally dead upstairs in the bath. It might give the jury a nice laugh before they sentence you to prison for the rest of your life.”

“Mason told me to go there and get the watches. So I did.”

“He told you to do that?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

“Didn’t you wonder how that was possible with Cookie still being alive?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Okay, look. He… he told me that Cookie was… was dead,” she said in a trembling voice.

“And how did he know that?”

“I don’t know.”

Carson looked at Puller. “Mason kills him for some reason, then orders her up to get the stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t Grif just snag the watches if he was already there?” asked Ryon.

“So it’s Grif now and not Mr. Mason?” Puller looked at her and shook his head wearily. “And the answer is because he wanted you to take the stuff, not him. That would put you at the scene of the crime. As soon as you found out Cookie was dead, you’d get suspicious. But you’re not going to say anything because you were in the house too. He set you up.”

“That little son of a bitch,” snarled Ryon, who was no longer crying.

“But why would he kill Cookie?” asked Carson.

Puller put his hand on Ryon’s shoulder and gripped. “Any ideas on that?”

“No. He never mentioned anything to me about it. He would have no reason to kill Cookie.”

“When did he call you to go over to Cookie’s?” asked Puller.

“Last night. I was in the area, so it only took me a few minutes to get there.”

“Would Mason have been at Cookie’s?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he went over for a drink. Or to get some baked goodies,” she said callously.

Puller shook her. “An old man is dead. Did you have anything to do with my aunt’s death?”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” said Puller.

“I’m telling the truth,” exclaimed Ryon.

“Well, a jury will determine that. Now, where is the little son of a bitch?” asked Puller.

“I don’t know.”

He shook her again. “Not good enough. Try again.”

“Is he at his home?” asked Carson.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” asked Puller.

“He has another place he goes to. It’s more isolated.”

“Why does he want isolation?” asked Puller.

“He just does sometimes.”

“Does it have to do with the photos of kids he has in his wallet?”

Ryon looked up at him, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“The guy’s a pedophile?” snapped Carson.

“Where is this place?” asked Puller sharply.

“It’s north of here, up near the bay. Nothing else really around it.”

“You have the address?”

“Yes.”

“Why, do you like kids too?”

“No, of course not,” shouted Ryon, and she started to cry again.

Puller squeezed her shoulder once more and cupped her chin and directed her gaze right at him.

“We’re going to give you a chance to make amends, Jane. But you only get one shot. You blow this, it’s all over. Do you understand?”

She looked back at him, the fear etched on her face.

“I understand.”

M
ECHO PUT HIS PHONE AWAY
after making the call.

It was the longest he ever had been on the phone. The man on the other end was critical to the success of Mecho’s task. The man knew this and Mecho knew this.

It was give-and-take. What the man wanted Mecho would have to give him, if he wanted to succeed. And he had never wanted anything more in his life.

“You will have to prove that to me, Mecho,” the man had said. “Words are available to anyone with a mouth and half a brain.”

“It will be done,” Mecho had told him. Now he just had to figure out how.

He left his room at the Sierra and walked to a diner nearby. He ate lightly for such a massive person. He had never eaten very much for the simple reason that he had never had much available to eat. Over the years one’s stomach and appetite withered.

But it was partly the hunger that drove him, kept him on edge. Complacency and comfort were not words that he accepted or even understood.

He drank copious amounts of water, though. The physical ordeal of swimming through the Gulf still lingered. He felt like he would never get enough liquid inside him.

He paid for the meal with some of the dollars he’d earned keeping Peter Lampert’s property pristine.

He considered it blood money. Anything that helped the man was blood money in Mecho’s mind.

He looked around the small diner and was not unduly surprised
to see two uniformed police officers eating their meals. They sat near the door. A man and a woman.

The male was short and burly with a shaved head. The woman was taller with an athletic build and blonde hair. They were having an intense discussion. The man looked upset, the woman looked consoling.

It seemed to be a woman’s lot in life to ease the ridiculous anger of men, thought Mecho.

As he rose to leave, both officers’ gazes rose to meet his.

He nodded, attempted a smile, and walked out.

He did not much care for the police. For him they were as much an adversary as his actual one. They were bound to uphold the law.

There was no law that would ever touch Peter Lampert or Stiven Rojas. They were too clever and too dangerous by half for anything as impotent as laws to bother them. They had to be punished in other, more straightforward ways.

He walked down the street, trickles of sweat winding down his shoulders and broad back. He opted to take a stroll on the beach, to attempt to catch an ocean breeze before he headed back to the little oven that was his room.

He trudged across the sand, oblivious to the other beachcombers, but his antennae were still on high alert.

Or so he thought.

“Mecho?”

He turned but he already knew who the speaker was.

Chrissy Murdoch stood there, sandals in hand. She had on a white sundress and the wind whipped it around her long legs.

Mecho simply stood there, neither advancing nor retreating.

She walked toward him, looked up at him.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I was just walking on the beach and saw you.”

“Mr. Lampert has a private beach nicer than this one.”

“I suppose he does. I’m surprised you know that, though.”

“Enjoy your walk.”

He turned to walk back to the Sierra. Every warning bell he possessed was clanging so hard he felt almost deafened.

“Mecho?”

He stopped but did not turn back around.

He felt her hand on his arm.

Still he didn’t look at her.

“I understand that you were asking about the whereabouts of my bedroom,” she said.

This question was not the one he had been expecting.

She stood in front of him.

“Was there a reason for your inquiry?” she asked. “Beyond the obvious one?”

“What is the obvious one?”

She smiled disarmingly. “Sex, of course.”

He did not smile back. He had no reason to smile. She was playing an odd sort of game with him. But of course it wasn’t a game at all. It was never a game when people died.

“I doubt that the guards would let me into the main house.”

“Well, we’re not at the main house right now, are we? Where are you staying?”

He turned and trudged off down the sand.

She followed, her feet making springy steps over the sand.

He stopped so abruptly that she almost bumped into him. He turned, looked down at her.

“So what is the non-obvious reason?” he asked.

She didn’t seem surprised by the question.

“Since it’s not obvious, I’m not really sure.”

“You treat everything so casually?” he asked.

“Your English is much better in town.”

“I learn quickly.”

“About my bedroom?”

“Who told you I was making inquiries?”

“I like being on the top floor. It gives one some interesting perspectives.”

“On what?”

“Lots of things.”

“Why are you at Lampert’s?”

“I’m staying with Mr. Winthrop.”

“The man who doesn’t care if another man screws you?”

“There are lots of men like that, Mecho.”

“I am not like that.”

“No, I would imagine you wouldn’t be.” She slipped her sandals back on. “The sand is so hot even at this hour. So where are you staying?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I like to know things.”

He turned and walked off.

“I can find out, you know. On my own.”

He stopped and turned back as she drew closer.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Maybe the same thing you want.”

“How would you know what I want?”

“Perhaps you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Mecho stared right through her.

“The thing is, Mecho, I’m not sure we can both get what we want. Only one of us can.”

“Only one of us can,” he repeated.

He turned and walked off. This time she did not follow and he did not look back.

Mecho was thinking only one thing.

I will have to kill her after all.

“
J
ANE
, what the hell are you doing here?”

Griffin Mason stared back at Ryon as she stood on the front stoop of his cottage near Choctawhatchee Bay. He was dressed in a robe and his hair was disheveled.

“Actually, it’s a threesome,” said Puller as he appeared on the right of Ryon while Carson appeared on the left of the woman.

Mason paled as he looked at the pair.

Puller said, “We need to come in and talk.”

He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “This isn’t a good time.”

Before he could look back he was being propelled into the house by a hard shove from Puller. His robe flew open, revealing his naked body.

“I didn’t say it was a request,” said Puller as he stood over Mason, who had ended up on his back on the floor.

“Where are they?” Puller demanded.

“Where is who?” yelled Mason.

Puller grabbed him by the shoulders and jerked him to his feet. “The kids,” he barked. “Where are they?”

“What kids?”

“Diego and Mateo.”

Carson glanced sharply at him.

Puller eyed her. “It occurred to me on the way over. This jerk-off can afford a thousand bucks to buy a kid.”

They all heard a noise from the next room. Puller raced to the door and threw it open.

Mason shouted, “Damn it, you can’t go in there.”

“The hell I can’t,” said Puller.

He froze in the doorway as the others joined him.

They all stared into the room.

A bedroom.

Someone was on the bed.

It was not Diego. Or Mateo.

It was Isabel.

And she was naked.

She barely had time to lift the sheet to cover her body.

“Isabel?” said Puller.

She stared back at him, her face a ball of anger. “What the hell is going on, Grif?” she exclaimed, looking over at Mason.

Mason grabbed Puller by the arm and tried to jerk him around, but Puller was so big and strong that Mason merely ended up knocking himself off balance and falling to the floor.

He jumped back up and screamed, “I am going to sue your ass off.”

Puller turned to him. “What is she doing up here?”

“That is none of your damn business,” yelled an apoplectic Mason.

“It is my business,” said Puller. He looked at Isabel. “Are you here voluntarily?”

“Of course I am.”

“Now get your ass out of here,” yelled Mason. “And you better damn well lawyer up. I’m going to own your military pension and every other asset you have, including your aunt’s house.”