The Last Word (32 page)

“But I was here when he was killed,” Dent said. “I can prove it.”

“I’m not interested in proof. Does this look like a courtroom to you?” Elias said. “Who did you call after Dr. Sloan visited you?”

“Nobody,” Dent said.

“Wrong answer.” Elias hefted the bat. “Let me persuade you to answer correctly.”

“Wait!” Dent screamed. “They’ll kill me if I talk.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t. Die now or die later. Your choice.”

“Olivia Morales,” Dent said. “She’s an LAPD detective. She hates Sloan, too.”

“I wasn’t too fond of him myself.” Elias turned his back to Dent and lifted the roll-up door, filling the unit with harsh sunlight as he walked out.

Dent squinted against the blinding glare, but once his eyes adjusted to the light, he discovered he was all alone. His tormentor was gone.

He hunched forward and began to sob.

In the hours that Noah Dent spent alone, sitting shirtless and barefoot, his back against the rough cinder-block wall of the storage unit, he reached some important conclusions.

His first inclination was to run barefoot across the hot desert to the first phone he could find, call Olivia Morales, and tear her head off for killing a mobster’s nephew and bringing hell down on them all.

But what would that accomplish besides searing the flesh off his feet?

If Noah warned Olivia about Elias Stewart, she’d undoubtedly realize that he’d had ratted her out. She’d probably kill him for it and spend the rest of her life running from the Mob.

No, the best thing Noah Dent could do was keep this nightmare to himself. As soon as somebody finally showed up at this godforsaken place, and he got a ride back home, he’d pack up everything, withdraw all his cash from the bank, and disappear to an island somewhere. He’d leave it to his attorney to sell his house and get the cash to him wherever he was and under whatever new name he invented for himself.

Mark Sloan was dead and Tanya was avenged. And Noah Dent had paid dearly for it.

His task was done. It was time to start anew.

He didn’t give a damn about Olivia Morales, Carter Sweeney, and whoever else was involved in the plot against Sloan.

They were on their own. If Dent was lucky, Elias Stewart would kill them all.

 

Ever since DA Burnside was assassinated and Chief Masters was fired, the new police chief had kept the LAPD on emergency status, putting as many uniformed officers on the streets as she could, hoping the show of force would maintain control.

So far it had.

Olivia Morales hated being back in uniform and Kevlar, driving a squad car on patrol, and dealing with radio calls.

She was stuck that night in a black-and-white that smelled like puke, cruising the long Valley boulevards, the idea being that just seeing cop cars all over the place would dissuade the angry populace from taking their aggression out on local businesses.

The only time she got out of the car was to arrest an unruly drunk or break up some petty domestic squabble.

God, how she hated it.

But it would be over soon, and it was a small price to pay for the sweet retribution she’d enjoyed. Steve Sloan was in prison and Mark Sloan was ruined. The Sloans would suffer their entire lives for depriving her of the only man she’d ever loved.

Olivia felt no remorse over killing Mercy Reynolds or Neal Burnside. Mercy was a sociopath and a liability and had to go. Burnside was executed for the misery he’d inflicted on Olivia.

Fair is fair.

But Rusty Konrath was different. He was an innocent victim, a decent kid whose only mistake in life was renting the wrong apartment at the wrong time. She knew that she would always be haunted by the look of horror and bewilderment in his eyes when she shot him.

In a way, though, that guilt was a good thing. It made her feel better about herself, assuring her that she still had a conscience and wasn’t an entirely bad person.

She wanted to kill Dent, but Sweeney argued that anything Dent could say would only incriminate himself. Dent couldn’t harm them. She didn’t agree, but Sweeney had been right about everything so far, so she was willing to go along with him.

That was before she got the call yesterday from Mickey Katz, a cop with the Denver PD, giving her a heads-up on Dr. Jack Stewart’s murder and Dr. Sloan’s accusations. The Denver PD wasn’t taking Sloan’s rantings seriously, especially after she filled Katz in on the details of the scandal.

She was certain that Sweeney was responsible for killing Dr. Stewart. The timing of the bombing and Stewart’s association with Dr. Sloan were all the evidence she needed.

But since she didn’t kill Jack, that meant Sweeney had farmed out the job to someone else, even though they had agreed that she would do all the killings that were necessary. It wasn’t that she enjoyed the task. It was simply a matter of efficiency, practicality, and safety. She was an experienced homicide investigator. She could manage the crime scenes before and after her bloody work.

This wasn’t just a betrayal of trust. It was an act that put her at risk.

Olivia hadn’t talked to Sweeney about it yet because she wasn’t quite sure how she wanted to handle the situation. More than once she’d picked up the cell phone to call him and then tossed it back onto the passenger seat in anger. She had to strategize this the same way he would, to see every possible outcome of her actions.

She was still mulling her options when she got a call from the dispatcher to investigate a report of a prowler behind the Goodwill store on Owensmouth.

Probably another drunk. And she’d just finished cleaning up the puke from the last one.

Olivia arrived in the alley within a minute of getting the call. The alley was dark and lined with trash bins, the mobile homes of the homeless. One of the bins was in the middle of the alley, blocking her path.

She got out of the car and pushed the bin out of the way. That was when she saw the man standing in the middle of the alley. He wasn’t any drunk. His stance and the expression on his face instinctively told her that he might as well have been death himself.

Olivia reached for her gun.

He was faster. He shot her twice in the chest with his silencer-equipped gun, the muffled pops in sharp contrast to the impact of the bullets, which knocked her flat on her back. Her head banged against the pavement.

The Kevlar vest she wore under her uniform stopped the bullets from her flesh but not the force they carried. She felt like she’d been struck twice with a sledgehammer, the air completely knocked out of her.

She couldn’t get her arms to move, but even if she could have, it wouldn’t have mattered. The man kicked her gun out of her reach.

She fought to stay conscious, gasping for air, each breath like a dagger jammed into her lungs.

The man stood over her, placed his foot on her throat, and aimed his gun at her forehead.

“My name is Elias Stewart,” he said. “Jack Stewart was my nephew.”

Olivia looked straight into his eyes. She could see that this was someone who had killed before, and would kill again, and gave no more thought to it than brushing his teeth.

This wasn’t just an aggrieved relative. This was a professional.

And then it hit her.

Jack was one of
those
Stewarts. It was a miracle she was still alive, though that was bound to change in the next few seconds.

It never occurred to her that Jack was one of
them
because Stewart was such a common name and Mark Sloan was someone she thought would never let a mobster’s nephew into his inner circle.

That was a fatally incorrect assumption.

How could Sweeney have been so stupid?

Or did Sweeney know all along about Jack’s “family” connections? And was this just Sweeney’s way of getting the Mob to kill her for him?

She wouldn’t put it past the clever bastard—not that there was anything she could do about it now. Her brains were about to be splattered all over the alley.

“I don’t give a damn about Mark Sloan, his family, or his friends,” Elias said. “You could have done whatever you wanted with them. But you shouldn’t have touched my nephew.”

She would have agreed, but she couldn’t speak. It was hard enough just managing to breathe, a luxury she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be enjoying much longer.

“I’m postponing your execution for twenty-four hours. That’s how long you have to give me the person who killed my nephew. If you don’t, I will finish what I started here tonight.”

He leaned down and shoved a card into her breast pocket.

“Call me,” he said before lifting his foot from her throat and walking away. “Tick, tock.”

The beach house that Carter Sweeney was renting was two doors down from Mark Sloan’s home. Sweeney got the place on the cheap because it was the house where Cleve Kershaw and his lover had been murdered not so long ago. The house was supposedly haunted, but Sweeney didn’t see how the ghost of a movie producer and a bad actress could terrify anyone, least of all him.

Sweeney wanted to be here when Mark Sloan eventually returned from his wanderings, broken and defeated. It would only add to Mark’s misery to know that the man who’d destroyed him, and everything that mattered to him, was not only free but living close enough to borrow a cup of sugar.

He stood outside on his beach deck, leaned over the edge of the wooden railing, and craned his neck to take in the view of Mark’s house in the moonlight.

If things worked out as Sweeney planned, Mark’s complete financial ruination wasn’t far off. Soon, Sweeney would be able to add the extra humiliation of taking Mark’s house from him and moving in himself.

Oh, how sweet that would be.

Once Mark was destitute, forgotten, and scavenging in garbage cans for food, perhaps Sweeney would take pity on the doctor and hire him for odd jobs. Like washing his car. Trimming his shrubs. And cleaning his toilets.

As Mark’s reputation crumbled, Sweeney’s image was buffed, shined, and reimagined. In the space of just a few days, Sweeney had gone from convicted killer to a victim of corruption and injustice. Now Sweeney was being hailed as a courageous fighter for truth, justice, and the American way. All he was missing was blue tights, a red cape, and a big
S
on his chest.

He was even seriously considering entering the mayoral race. Community leaders and potential backers in both parties told him that if the election were held today, he’d probably win.

His father would have been so proud of him.

Sweeney’s only regret was that his sister, Caitlin, wasn’t at his side to share in his glory.

He would find a way to set her free. Or, at the very least, get her out of prison and into one of those country club mental institutions that make most five-star resorts look like dive motels.

There was plenty of time for that. And so much more. The Carter Sweeney era in Los Angeles was only just beginning.

The doorbell rang. Sweeney answered it and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

Olivia Morales pressed the gun to his forehead, backed him into the entry hall, and kicked the door shut behind her. She was wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a very angry expression.

Nevertheless, Sweeney remained calm. Very little unsettled him anymore.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” she said.

“I can’t think of any,” he said. “Pull the trigger. You can blame my murder on the ghosts.”

“I met Elias Stewart tonight,” she said. “He shot me twice to introduce himself. If I wasn’t wearing Kevlar, and if he wasn’t in such a jolly mood, I’d be dead now.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“He’s peeved that you killed his nephew Jack.”

“Who is Jack?” Sweeney asked.

Olivia cocked the trigger of her gun. “Do you really think this is the best time to play dumb?”

“Humor me,” Sweeney said. “Consider it my last request, if that helps your motivation.”

“Elias Stewart is one of the biggest Mob bosses on the East Coast and a major player on this one, too. Dr. Jack Stewart was Dr. Mark Sloan’s apprentice once. Jack moved to Denver and Jesse Travis took his place. Sloan called Jack for help. The next day, Jack gets into his two-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley and is blown to bits.”

“I see,” Sweeney said, processing the information, extrapolating all the possible scenarios, implications, and explanations.

He didn’t know about Jack, and he didn’t know about any Mob connections. But given what he did know now, Olivia was right to assume that Sweeney would have neutralized him in some fashion. The timing certainly suggested that was exactly what Sweeney did, even though he hadn’t. It was all very interesting to Sweeney.

And a little disturbing.

“Elias wants the person responsible for killing Jack in twenty-four hours or I’m dead,” Olivia said.

“Then you wouldn’t dare deprive him of the pleasure of killing me.” Sweeney turned his back on her and walked out to the deck to enjoy the view again. After years in Sunrise Valley, he couldn’t get enough of the fresh air and the endless horizon.

Olivia simmered for a minute, then jammed the gun into the holster on her belt and followed him outside.

“So you admit you’re responsible,” she said.

“You think I broke our agreement and killed Jack Stewart without consulting you first,” Sweeney said. “Thus betraying you and jeopardizing everything.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“But what you really think is that I did it so the Mob would kill you for me, thus removing the one person outside of prison who can tie me to the frame against Steve Sloan and the others.”

“Yes,” Olivia said. “I do.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I had nothing to do with it.” But the truth was, it was such a great idea that he wished he
had
thought of it.