CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 HAVING PASSED THE CORONADO NAVAL BASE AND THE HOTEL DEL Coronado, Peter and Drew cruised along Central Beach, where condominiums and mansions boasted semi-private beaches. Sailboats, docked a dozen yards from the exclusive boardwalk along Beachcomber Estates, forested their view. Attached in a row were units 1242, 1244, and 1246, each with cantilevered balconies suspended over white sand. Across from this row of dwellings, on the opposite, non-beach side of Sunshine Avenue, were the odd numbered units. Former Detective Sean Ellis’ address was 1246, which meant he had direct ocean access. Being at the end of the block, Ellis—more blessed than his neighbors—enjoyed 180 degree vistas of the harbor, ocean, and two-man volleyball.

“A three-story condo,” said Drew. “This is an unbelievable spot. Over there.” He pointed. “Guy with a flat top, aviator glasses, drinking beer. Probably has a gun under the towel on that table. Looks like the stereotypical steroid cop.”

“Yeah. Hope this doesn’t get into a wrestling match,” Peter said. “I’ll approach along his blind side.”

“Damn,” Drew said. “Must have been some inheritance.”

“Or he sold influence and told a ton of lies over the years. That’s what I need to find out.” Peter scanned the street. It was deserted, as if the residents knew enough to stay indoors and out of harm’s way.

“What if he did lie about Hannah’s accident?” Drew slowed the car, then parked at the end of the dead-end street, half a football field’s distance from Ellis’ unit.

“If this guy’s dirty, then I have to conclude that some of what Dawson said is true. How much, I still won’t know for sure.”

“You think it’ll indicate foul play in Hannah’s death?” Drew asked.

“Probably. If so, I nail whoever’s responsible.”

“Maybe I should take to the beach, like I’m sightseeing. Shuffle in the sand and watch. I’ll be near enough to react.”

“Just don’t do anything until necessary,” Peter said, nodding. “I prefer to get answers without a confrontation. If possible.”

Peter planned his strategy as he veered towards the co-op. Politeness sure as hell wouldn’t work. He decided to try tough. He’d draw on all the vile language he’d learned in the trading room. Drew strode through the dry portion of sand as Peter reached the building’s edge. On this protected section of beach, the water lapped rather than broke along the shore, and the breeze smelled sweet, without the briny scent of seaweed. The calm felt eerie, as if the mighty Pacific were powerless.

Peter waited for Drew to make his way to the section of beach off Ellis’ porch. Once his friend had positioned himself within striking distance, Peter turned the corner and approached his target. Screwing on a sour face, he flipped his baseball cap, wearing it backwards. “You Ellis?” Peter said, feigning arrogance.

The man rotated his twisted steel-like torso. The motion caused his neck to knot and his shirtless chest to flex. His shoulders rolled into two enormous balls. Evenly tanned pecs, biceps, and triceps danced in readiness.

A furrowed brow indicated to Peter he had the right man. “I got some questions for you,” Peter continued.

“I got a question for you: get outta here.” Ellis had unsparingly vicious eyes and an overmuscled face to go along with the rest of his physique.

“Sorry, Asswipe, but that’s not a question,” Peter said as he attempted a swagger.

“You wanna be shot, or have your pencil neck broken?”

“Now, at least that’s a question. An interrogative, don’t ya know, ends in a question mark. A statement is adorned with a period. Maybe you’re not dumber than a post, after all.” Through peripheral vision, Peter saw Drew wag his head as Ellis reached for a towel. Peter prepared to duck bullets.

“You got a smart mouth,” Ellis said, mopping his damp hair, continuing to examine Peter as if at an autopsy. “You’ve also got too much brass to be a run-of-the-mill jerkoff. So who sent you?”

“Smart boy, Detective Ellis. People who sent me want you to know we’ve got a little problem. Kind of a warranty issue. Need you to say a few things a second time. Maybe in front of a DA.”

“Yeah? Who you referring to that’s needing my help?” Neck veins writhed, looking ready to burst evil.

“You expect me to spell it out, Numbnuts? Person who recently helped pay for this pad? Got it yet?”

“You mean the crash thing? They told me that was it. Arrive at the scene, say she drove too fast . . . you know the rest. I did my job, I got paid.”

“Maybe Mizz Guzman needs more.”

“You tell that blond witch . . .” His jaw clamped shut and his Adam’s apple rode up and down as he swallowed the profane thought.

“Maybe somebody don’t quite believe you—someone’s thinking it wasn’t an accident,” Peter said. “If they figure things out, it ain’t just our asses, dude. Capiche?” Peter hoped to God this didn’t sound as lame as it felt.

“A deal’s a deal. I didn’t come back and ask for more money after.”

“Oh, my. I am so sorry for bothering you. I’m sure Señor Nuñoz will understand.” The change in Ellis’ demeanor confirmed to Peter what Agent Dawson had said: Nuñoz was a man everyone feared. “You don’t mind if I climb this here plexy-wall so’s I don’t gotta shout?”

Peter straddled the three-foot Plexiglass gate and stepped over. He took a couple strides and stood next to Ellis. The ex-cop stood an inch taller and weighed at least fifty pounds more than Peter. The monsterman’s exposed skin glistened and smelled of tanning oil. Peter felt like a gnat ready to get squished.

“This is got Nuñoz involved?” The ex-cop looked upset.

“I’m a nice guy, but Nuñoz, he’s likely to take that stinkin’ Coppertone and squirt it up your ass until it soaks your pea brain. If I was you, I’d talk to me.”

“This sucks . . . don’t tell that cocksucking beaner I said that. Don’t tell him I called him—”

“Relax, Detective. I only wanted to know that you would—” would what? Peter wondered, suddenly tongue-tied. Ellis squinted in the way a man does when he suspects someone is full of it “—that you’ll confirm in a court of law—if necessary—that you witnessed that accident and crash. That you’ll confirm your lie.”

The wild dangerous animal reemerged. Ellis trembled with rage, and his buffed arms blew up into something resembling ham shanks.

“Confirm my lie?” Ellis asked. “What kind of a dipshit way to ask a question is that? You ain’t from Nuñoz. I know when I’m being bullshitted by a bright boy. Who sent you?”

“You dare challenge Nuñoz?” Peter silently said goodbye to his thin cover. “I’ll have to tell him—”

“Yeah? Go ahead,” Ellis said through a sneer. “In fact, dipshit, I’ll call Nuñoz. I’ll take my chances that he don’t give a rat’s ass about me insulting you. Or kicking your ass.” Ellis’ stiff finger jabbed Peter’s chest. The action forced Peter backwards.

Ellis grabbed a cell phone from the table. With his free hand he snatched a 9mm from under a towel, just where Drew had guessed. He held the handset to his ear, the gun to Peter’s forehead. It took a few seconds, but before anybody answered Ellis’ call, Drew hurtled the fence. His right foot landed on the aluminum rail, using it as a launching pad. His shoulder tucked, his body parallel to the patio surface, he hit Ellis just below the neck with a vicious clip. The dense man’s skull snapped back. In the process of crashing, the ex-cop fumbled both items—the gun and the phone.

Ellis’ forehead rebounded from whiplash in time to crush a low table, shattering the glass top. Drew bounced off his victim and landed off to one side, his right hand supporting his weight, keeping him from wiping out.

Peter glanced at Drew and understood that they had arrived at an identical conclusion—the time had come to exercise rules number one and two: run like hell, then drive faster than hell. To anyone observing them leap over a chaise lounge and the low wall, then hit the beach and sprint away, the pair would look like athletes in thieves’ retreat. They retraced the path Peter had taken ten minutes earlier and flung themselves into Drew’s Pinto wagon. A few seconds later, they circled the roundabout and sped off.

“You didn’t like his answers,” Drew said through winded breaths.

“He’s a damn liar. I’m certain Mom was murdered.”

“I’d say it’s time to nail someone.” The screech of tires failing to hug a corner punctuated Drew’s comment.

“You’ve got an eight-month pregnant wife. This is up to me.”

“What’s my wife got to do with this?”

“Everything, Drew. They’ll go after your family if they have to. You hang back. Relay messages.”

“No—”

“Yes. I’ve got a plan,” Peter lied. “It doesn’t require your direct help.” Peter sensed that Drew somehow understood the danger, not to himself, but to his wife and unborn child.

“You better keep me in the loop, White Bread.”

“I will,” Peter said, lying for the second time in less than twenty seconds.

Half an hour later, again on his own, Peter phoned for messages. When he got Kate’s urgent directive to meet for dinner, he checked his watch. He had four hours to kill. Fifteen minutes later, he accessed and withdrew cash from an automatic teller machine. With four hundred of those dollars, he purchased a twenty-one speed, all-surface bike. Peter decided he didn’t dare rent or borrow a car. For the time being, he figured he’d be much tougher to locate on a bike or on foot.

Peter rode the new bike into Del Mar to wait for Kate. He sat in a corner of a bar, ordered a beer, and watched the front door as nonchalantly as he could manage. At half past five, he checked for messages on his home answering machine and in Drew’s mailbox.

He never returned to his table.

Howard Muller couldn’t be happier. All he needed was for Neil to pick up his messages, phone for instructions, and get his ass to the office. It was nearly perfect. Neil confronting ex-Detective Ellis had everybody paranoid. That Neil alluded to Sarah Guzman and mentioned Carlos Nuñoz by name had sealed his fate.

While Guzman and Nuñoz operated in the background on their own complex plans, Muller had made the unilateral decision to take matters into his own hands. He didn’t need Nuñoz’ help. He didn’t even need to consult with the sub-intelligent wetback. He had figured out a way to solve several problems at once. He’d get those damning papers back, not because he cared about Nuñoz or Guzman—on the contrary, he’d just as soon see their bodies in a state of decomposition—but because his name was attached to nearly every illegal Stenman transaction in the last five years. Even those idiot bureaucrats at the SEC would be able to trace his involvement. In some ways, even more satisfying than settling that matter would be scaring the shit out of Neil. Maybe, as payback, even break him. And once the documents were safe, Neil’s life expectancy would be days if he was nimble, hours if he wasn’t. Muller laughed. This felt better than watching a company he was short declare bankruptcy.

Muller looked around the room and approved. He had chosen his office as the place of confrontation for a simple reason: he owned every person on these premises. If the unforeseen happened and a problem arose—which he didn’t think could happen since he controlled all the information—then he had the ability to erase everything. Stenman’s crews were all former government agents, and they knew how to clean up a mess and make it disappear. And they would do anything for the right kind of money, and Stenman Partners had more than enough of that particular commodity.

Muller had only a small fear that Neil might not take the bait. Failing to check for messages in time would puncture his plan. He kept his fingers crossed that Neil didn’t screw this up for him.

Near six p.m., Muller’s phone rang. He hit speaker.

“You son of a bitch!” Peter’s voice sounded like an attack-dog’s bark.

Good, Muller thought. He’s primed. “Get your ass moving,” Muller ordered, having a hard time working the words through a ridiculous grin. “The guards’ll wave you through.”

“Where is she?”

“I’ll look forward to explaining.” Muller hung up.

He rose from his desk and went to the file cabinet. He opened the drawer and took out a thin, two-inch by three-inch metal box. He depressed a red button located next to a small antenna. The process made him feel warm inside.

Sliding the metal box across his desk as if it were an attacking queen, he said, through an exultant laugh, “Checkmate, Mr. Neil. Check and mate.”

Peter hung up and reached into his pocket for additional change. He silently cursed himself for having left his cell phone at home. The sloppiness did nothing for his already waning confidence.

Before pedaling the last quarter mile and confronting Muller, Peter phoned Drew at home. Drew picked up on the first ring.

“Any word from Monica?” Peter asked.

“No. Where are you, Bread?”

“I’m checking things out. Don’t leave the house unless you hear from her. I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything.”

Peter hung up, jumped on his bike, and began pedaling through the dark.

None of this made sense, he thought as he struggled to focus on the white curb. Muller had called Peter’s home and left a message. “I have a trade in mind,” he had said. “Someone’s welfare for some papers—I’m certain you know what documents I’m referring to. Check with your friend Drew Franklin. He’s missing something valuable.”

Peter had called Drew. “Monica’s gone,” Drew had told him. “Left no message. This isn’t like her, and I’m worried.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Peter said, not at all sure.

Now, approaching the guarded gate, Peter couldn’t figure out why Muller was so mindless as to leave an incriminating message on an answering machine. If the fool had kidnapped Monica and planned to use her as leverage to get those registered letters returned, why leave such a blatant trail? It didn’t add up, but Peter didn’t have the time to deliberate.

As promised, the guards waved him through Stenman’s main entrance. He downshifted and coasted down the hill leading to the front doors, not dismounting his bike until he reached the steps. Ignoring the watchman’s gaze, he dropped the bike on the lawn at the base of the stairs, used his pass card to enter, and signed in at the front desk. As he stepped inside the elevator, he saw the downstairs guard make a call.

On the third floor, Peter stepped into the half-lit hallway. Past experience suggested that the only people in on a Saturday evening were research analysts on the second floor and weekend cleaning crews. No cleaning crews on the third floor, though. A mop stood upright, its cloth tendrils soaking in an aluminum pail—obviously left behind by someone told to leave in a hurry.

Reaching the keypad outside of trading, Peter heard the lock disengage before he could enter the password. He opened and stepped into the room, completely darkened except where a crack of light leaked from between Muller’s drawn curtains. The main door retracted at Peter’s back and self-locked. Feeling his way along the desks, he took care not to trip over trashcans or electrical cords. Disinfectant now masked the predominant weekday aroma—fried food. The silence unnerved him. The place no longer felt familiar.

Peter mentally reviewed what he knew about Muller’s office. Stuart had mentioned large amounts of cash behind one panel. Muller kept his desk key in a card file in a far corner, and had Civil War crap mounted behind glass cabinets—probably wired to an alarm in the event of theft. The interior office walls were see-through, like glass, but soundproof. With the drapes drawn, that meant that whatever went on inside would remain private, even if somebody stumbled into the trading room.

What else? He racked his brain. Peter recalled a fire alarm and numerous overhead sprinklers. Also, the locks on his office door were sophisticated. Muller changed the code weekly, Stuart had said.

Before Peter knocked, the door swung open. Looking self-satisfied, Howard Muller sat perched behind his desk with a smart-ass grin pasted ear-to-ear. “I realize you are in a bit of a rush, so please step in,” he said.

Peter complied. This door also self-shut and locked. “Where’s Monica Franklin?” he snapped.

Muller, a bundle of explosive energy, looked like he enjoyed the confrontation with Peter. “You have something I want: those documents. You tell me, I tell you.”

Peter stepped forward. As he did, Muller picked up a metal box and held it outstretched—as a magician might hold a deck of cards for his audience to see.

“Stop right there, Neil. I anticipated your non-cooperation.” Muller’s fingers folded over the box. Peter fixated on the thumb as it depressed a red button.

Peter looked around the room, moving only his eyes.

The immense skull shook. “Here’s what’s happening: this is a detonator, tied to a room wired with explosives. In that room, several miles away, is a very pregnant black woman.”

“You’re insane. What’s wrong with you?” Peter needn’t have asked the question. Muller’s eyes were chutes that led straight to hell and thoroughly billboarded his problems. The man was vile, and his evil was joyous, enraptured, and at the core of his being. It’s what made him so good at what he did for a living: lying, breaking the law, unnecessarily destroying people, and amassing fortunes at the expense of others. And for Muller, this current drama was about more than simply retrieving those damning papers. It was about hatred. And sport. About obliterating his most despised opponent.

“You are a pissant, Neil,” Muller said, using a tone that confirmed all of Peter’s suspicions. “I suggest you listen, carefully.” Muller again grinned, as if reacting to an inner joke. “Think back to that moron, Stanley Drucker. It’ll save us some time . . .” Muller gave an explanation identical to the one Carlos Nuñoz had given to Stanley Drucker. “If you try and remove my thumb,” Muller said, “the Franklin woman will blow up. If you substitute your own hand—assuming you can do that without this button retract-ing—she will blow up. The sensors will recognize only my thumbprint. So as to make certain we reach a resolution expeditiously, this device will send its signal in twenty minutes, no matter what I do. You may thank Sarah Guzman for the idea. And while I don’t much like her personally, she has a formidable mind. Don’t you think?”

Peter took another step, placing himself only a yard away from Muller, then stopped. What to do? He didn’t have an answer.

“You don’t want me to lift my thumb,” Muller said, the calmer halfof his split-personality now speaking.

Peter watched as Muller’s thumb twitched, on purpose, as if a central part of the damn show. “How do I know you won’t kill Monica anyway?” Peter asked, buying time to think.

“Trust.” Muller laughed a mocking belly-laugh. “That’s funny. Almost as funny as you saying I could be a Macy’s Parade float.” With those words, Muller flipped a mental switch and his voice became hard and crazy, worse than before. “What do you say, Neil? A fucking trade? Huh? Come on, wise guy. What do you say? Hit the bid? Take the offer? How’s it feel to be an impotent piece of nothing, you nothing? You have a split-second to decide. Assess your risk-reward. You ready to shit in your pants yet? Sure you are. You’ve been screwing around with the best. Me. Did you really think you had a chance? Get fucking real—” The man sounded like Stuart on drugs. Only Muller mainlined suffering.

Aware of the emptying hourglass, Peter cut the tirade short. “Shut up, Muller! Tell me: do you have a way to disengage that thing?”

As Peter waited for an answer, something nagged his subconscious. He looked at the Civil War trophy case. The safe. Toward the small desk-key hidden in the index card box. Tape. Matches. He considered all of Muller’s words, and then glanced at the man’s hand and arm and body. He imagined noise and chaos. How did all these pieces fit together? Did they fit together?

“Of course I have a way to disengage things,” Muller finally said, not sounding as if he cared whether Peter believed him or not. “I’m here to trade a life for some worthless documents.”

Muller stood, holding the detonator chest high, and a bit too casually, Peter thought.

A powerful shudder suddenly passed through Peter’s body, rattling his spine and clearing his mind. In that moment, he convinced himself of the futility of negotiating with Muller. He had the seeds of a plan that was less than brilliant, but seemed better than taking his chances with Muller. A tight knot released from Peter’s belly like a spring, catching Muller in total surprise. Peter reached out and slammed both hands across the extended box, enveloping the CIO’s fat thumb atop the button, making certain he couldn’t relax the pressure he had on the detonator. Muller went from bent to rigid in a fraction of a second. With a leveraged twist, Peter wrenched the imprisoned wrist. Pain spread across the man’s gigantic face faster than the flash of a struck match.

Peter pulled the twisted arm, circled it behind Muller’s back, and lifted. As large as Muller was, he did not match Peter in strength or agility. In a helpless reflex, Muller rose up on his toes, and Peter pinned the wrist and arm against his back in a half-nelson. Muller breathed so heavily that his airborne blasphemies were unintelligible.

Don’t let go of his hand, Peter reminded himself in a steady mantra.

“Where is she?” Peter hissed in Muller’s ear.

“Nowhere.” Tears supplanted sparks as Muller melted. “I wouldn’t have had you come . . .” He coughed, then tried again to speak: “Had you come if—”

“Wrong answer.” Peter pulled on the pinned arm. Muller screamed. “Where is she?” Peter repeated.

“I told you . . .”

Peter tuned him out. Even if Muller revealed where he held Monica, they had too little time to find her and deliver her to safety. Taking another tack, he asked, “How do you disengage this thing?”

“You don’t disengage,” Muller said. It sounded like a plea.

Peter gave up trying to get through to Muller. A wireless signal. Radio waves, traveling through walls. He had earlier formulated an extreme plan and, with all other options tapped out, he decided to go for it. It amounted to a longshot, but at least it was some kind of shot.

Peter did a final inventory of the office contents. “I’m going to tell you to do something,” he said. “If you don’t, I swear to God I’m going to kill you. You understand?”

“Yes . . . but a mistake—”

“Your safe,” Peter said. “The one built into that panel. The one with all that cash for paying-off scum. Open it.”

“No . . .”

Peter tugged at Muller’s wrist, driving a hip into the man’s back and forcing him against the wall, near his desk. “Do it.”

Muller’s free hand depressed a button on the lip of the desk. A wall panel slid open, revealing a two-foot safe with a mounted keypad.

“Enter the damn code. Now!” Peter yelled, compliance with his commands no longer an issue.

Muller leaned in and pressed a series of numbers. The safe popped open an inch. Peter looked to his watch. Time seemed to move illogically, in chunks of seconds. Clutching Muller’s hand with his right palm, Peter used his left to finish opening the heavy door. Reaching in, he pulled out two bags and dropped them to the floor. Bundled bills were evident through the canvas.

He then steered Muller to the Civil War trophy case. Peter smashed the glass, activating a burglar alarm. Muller no longer attempted to speak or resist. In a sweeping motion, Peter grabbed one of the two unsheathed swords mounted in a metallic X. He yanked. The pitted blade of the field officer’s sword held its mount. Peter made a second attempt, leveraging his weight. This time, the relic released with a jerk. The momentum caused Peter to teeter. Muller limply flowed with the action, but his thumb-grip on the detonator held.

Peter unwound Muller’s arm, bringing it from around the back. He then flattened that arm across the wooden desk and raised the blade overhead, clutching the sharkskin wrap of the grip. Aiming, he brought the edge down in a chopping axe-motion. At mid-forearm, the lower halfof Howard Muller’s appendage separated from his body-main. Peter moved before blood spraying from Muller’s stump could soak him.

Peter carried the forearm across the room, thumb still attached to the small metal box, still depressing the red button. Muller collapsed to the floor with a thud.

Peter found the index-card box that held the key to the desk drawer, not daring to look at the gray flesh of Muller’s arm. He snatched the small key and returned. Unlocking and opening the desk drawer, he found a tape dispenser. He began winding scotch-tape around the lifeless thumb, pinning it in place against the button. He counted the seconds. He reached eight the moment he stood next to the open safe. He estimated the steel-reinforced walls at four inches. He dropped the taped creation, fingers already gone stiff, through the twenty-inch opening. He swung the door shut.

Would the safe’s heavy walls blunt the radio signal when the time limit expired? Yes, it would, he told himself. Four inches of hardened steel should do the trick. It had to.

Peter stepped over Muller’s hemorrhaging body to the far window. The overhead lights reflected off skin, making Muller’s face look as lifeless as ivory. Peter tried to bury his feelings. He had never brought such physical pain to another person, but this was an unprecedented moment in his life, calling for unprecedented actions. He did what he had to and did it without further pause. And he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on these thoughts. If he survived, he’d have plenty of time in the future for regret. As for now, he needed to move quickly and waste no time. He unlocked and opened the thick-glassed window. The exterior lights, beaming from multiple floodlights, made the ground as bright as day. The sounds of a siren filtered through the opening. The police were responding to the burglar alarm.

Muller’s internal phone line—on a corner table—flashed, diverting Peter’s attention. Peter picked up and listened: “This is Security . . .” Peter felt the concern in the hired cop’s voice.

When the guard said, “I know you told us not to interrupt, no matter what—” Peter had an inspiration. Doing his best imitation of Muller’s vile voice, he said, “Then fucking follow instructions,” and hung up. He hoped the guard feared Muller more than the chaotic situation going on around him, at least for a few more minutes.

Peter again stepped over to Muller’s desk. He retrieved a gold lighter he recalled seeing moments earlier. He swept the loose papers on Muller’s desk into a metal trashcan. Lighting the papers, he opened the windows on the west side of the office, making certain that anyone outside could see the smoke. The overhead vents pushed cool air out, into a breezeless night. Peter crossed over to, and opened, the south window. He put the lighter to the drapes. It took a precious few seconds for the material to ignite, but when it did, it burned steadily, contributing a rich, dark smoke.

He next yanked the fire alarm on the wall between those two windows. To the sounds of stereo alarms, people began to file out the exits while sprinklers spit a river, cooling Peter’s blistering skin. The smoke thickened and billowed with the downpour. Good.

A minute later, a second set of emergency vehicles—fire crews and two ambulances—entered the compound. Out front, weekend cleaning crews assembled on the steps. Peter counted four analysts and two of their assistants leaving through the front door. Several security guards used flashlights to highlight the building walls. The sirens grew loud enough to drown out most voices, but not loud enough to break Peter’s concentration. He still didn’t know if Monica Franklin was dead or alive. He also had no idea where Muller held her hostage. He initiated his hundredth prayer that day, this one shorter than the others—he still had a hell of a lot to do and not much time left.

Grabbing the two bags of cash, Peter leaned through a third window, out of view of the masses assembling in the front, and targeted a thick, low hedge, ten feet from the building. He tossed the first bag and watched it vanish into the dense brush. The second bag followed. Satisfied that nobody on the ground could see the money, Peter returned to the first window in time to see the fire trucks pull up to the fire hydrant at the edge of the building.

He made it to the desk a third time, picked up the phone, and dialed Drew’s home number. He didn’t know what to say, but somebody had to initiate a search—assuming the explosives hadn’t already gone off.

When Drew picked up on the second ring, Peter said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know—”

“White Bread. Where are you?”

“It’s about Monica—”

“She’s home . . .”

Drew explained that a man had called Monica, convincing her that she needed to meet him in the middle of nowhere. She left Drew a note, she said, but Drew suspected someone broke into their house and removed it. “Her car broke down . . . it was one small disaster after another,” Drew said, the relief evident in his voice.

“She’s home?” Peter tried to figure everything out in the few seconds he had left before Stenman’s security forces barged in.

“What’s all that noise, Bread? Sounds like you’re in the middle of a war.”

“I am, buddy. I need you to get hold of Agent Dawson.” Peter fumbled for the slip of paper Dawson had stuffed in his shirt pocket back at the garage. “Here’s his number . . .”

When they finished, Peter looked at Muller’s suffering body and shook his head, disbelieving the insanity—Muller’s life, draining away, onto a third-story office floor, and all because of an elaborate ruse? Muller never had a detonator, only a prop made to look like one. It made sense, though. Muller was a classic bully, someone who used intimidation and threat to get his way. Thinking himself smarter than everyone else, he figured he could manipulate Peter with his mind and his words. What an asshole! What did he think I was going to do? Peter asked himself. Sit back and wait for him to admit what he was doing? Laugh at the brilliance of his joke?

Peter trailed over to Muller. Blood drained, forming a pool. Soaking into the gray carpet, it looked like wet rust. Peter took his jacket and wound it around Muller’s bloody stump. He pulled the bulky knot tight, hoping to stem the flow of blood. He then reached down and felt Muller’s neck pulse. It was weak, but detectable. That done, he returned to the window, away from the lapping flames consuming the drapes, leaned out, and yelled, “Help me! Get a ladder and get me out of here.” Peter looked at Muller and shouted, “And get a doctor up here. A guy’s hurt. Bad. He needs help fast.”

Ten minutes later, two bags tucked under his arm, Peter crawled into the back of one of the ambulances. He had soot smeared across his face, masking his features. He perched with his knees tucked to his chest, coughing convincingly. The medics attempted to put an oxygen mask over his face, but Peter indicated no. They sped off, sirens wailing. Just before the ambulance reached the freeway onramp, Peter insisted they stop. When they resisted, he opened a bag and pulled out a thousand-dollar bill, still crisp despite its age.

“You didn’t get a look at me. I held you at gunpoint. Say whatever you want. Just forget as much as you can about me and this trip.” When the driver hesitated, Peter pulled a second bill from the bag. “Two grand. That oughta do it.” The medics involuntarily nodded and Peter understood— money really could buy almost anything. It could even make people forget. Reaching into the bag one last time, Peter asked, “Anyone want to sell me their clothes?” Again, a willing seller.

A few minutes later, Peter jogged towards a hotel, up a hill overlooking the freeway. He changed clothes behind some brush and bought a room for cash. He left a message for Kate on Drew’s voice mail.

With eyes closed, he waited.

When Peter’s hotel phone woke him several hours later, he quickly picked up. “What took you so long, counselor?” he said. “I think I need an attorney.”

“You’re damn right you do.”

“You know what happened at Stenman’s?”

“No,” Kate said. “That’s not what I’m referring to.”

“What, then?”

“You haven’t heard?” Kate’s voice cracked.

“If you’re not referring to Stenman, Muller, and the fire, then no.”

“Ellen Goodman.”

“Ellen?” His former girlfriend’s was the last name Peter expected to hear. “What about her?”

“Where were you tonight, Peter?”

“At Stenman’s. Starting a fire.”

“That isn’t funny. Where?”

“I told you. At Stenman Partners. Third floor. Howard Muller’s office.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I think so. The guards saw me. Muller, he . . .” Peter didn’t know quite how to explain. “What happened with Ellen?”

“Ellen’s been raped and murdered. Somebody tied her to a bed, spread-eagled, and tortured her. The police are looking for you.”

“Ellen’s dead?”

“Peter, they think you’re involved.”

“Me? No way. I haven’t seen Ellen since the day I left my job. Dead? Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, and several things have the police convinced you’re involved. Your moonstone was in her bedroom.”

“I haven’t seen that since it was stolen.”

“Did you call Ellen the other day?” Kate asked.

“Yes. She left me a message. I returned the call.”

“Do you still have the tape?”

“No.”

“We’ll have to check phone records. Did you give her a present?” Kate sounded like a prosecutor.

“No. Ellen thought I gave her a cat, but I didn’t.”

“The DA’s a family friend. He gave me some information. Said her cat’s a calico. Just like Henry. Is that a coincidence?”

“Kate, I’m sorry about Ellen—devastated, in fact—but I’m not involved.”

“The cat’s tag indicated that Ellen named him Peter. It seems natural to assume that she named him after you. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope you’re not lying . . . I can’t help myself. I still care . . . You’re not bullshitting me, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because there’s a lot more. Dark head-hair. Same color as yours on her sheets and pillowcase. A coffee cup in the kitchen. Your prints. A microwave—again, your prints on the door. Semen on the sheets. It looks real bad.”

“I’ve never been in Ellen’s apartment. She insisted on staying at my place so her other boyfriends, including our boss—Craig Hinton—wouldn’t find out.”

“Then we need the DNA results on the semen found on the sheets. They’ll show it wasn’t you. The rest of the stuff could’ve been planted— you’ve pissed off enough people to make that plausible. But in the meantime, you’ve got to turn yourself in. The labs are running a preliminary DNA test known as PCR. They expect results in two or three days.”

“PCR? What’s that?”

“It stands for Polymerase Chain Reaction. Forensics extracts the semen and vaginal samples from the sheets, grows DNA in the lab, then compares those to a sample of your DNA. Not as statistically significant as RFLP, but it should be good enough to get you off. The DA tells me he already got a sample of your DNA from a sealed envelope in your apartment.”

“An envelope?” Peter asked.

“They got a search warrant. He didn’t tell me what else they found, only that he was able to obtain a saliva sample from some outgoing mail you left behind.”

“How’d you get all this information?” Peter asked, in awe of Kate’s thoroughness.

“I told the DA I thought I could get you to turn yourself in if I knew what we were facing. He believes me. My credibility’s on the line.”

“Kate, it may be your credibility, but it’s my life. I need time.”

He then reviewed in detail the day’s events with her. “I’ve got what looks to be a coupla million in cash lying on my bed. Stacks of thousands, hundreds, and twenties. All worn. I’m sure untraceable.”

“Your alibi is that you robbed Stenman—” Kate said, her voice near shock “—either killed or maimed Stenman’s Chief Investment Officer, set the building on fire, then escaped in an ambulance? This isn’t helpful, Peter.”

“Can’t you do something? At least stall until I can meet with Agent Dawson.”

“I’ll negotiate with the DA, tell him we’re coming in. I’ll try and give you until four tomorrow afternoon. After that, I’m screwed. Can you live with that?”

“Yes. One last thing, Kate.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I still need to meet with your father. Can you arrange that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why? He loves you more than life itself.”

“I confronted him. His responses convinced me he’s done some bad things. Then he sort of threw me out. And Peter?”

“Yes?”

“He said someone was killed. I think he meant your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“I’ve arrived at the same conclusion after talking with Detective Ellis.”

“If he helps you, Father intimated that he’s liable to end up in serious legal trouble, or worse.”

“I’m sorry, Kate, but I need to talk to him. Will you ask? If nothing else, I want to understand the past—the history of our families.”

“Our lives have crisscrossed in a painful pattern. Lovers, friends, and enemies, all intertwined. I’ll try my best to set it up.”

“Thanks.”

“You aren’t leading me down a primrose path, are you, Peter?”

“You mean with Ellen?”

“Yeah. Ellen and everything else.”

“You have to believe me. I’m being straight with you. Stenman Partners isn’t the greatest alibi in the world, but no way my semen is on those sheets.”

“I believe you. I’ll work on Father and leave a message on Drew’s voice mail. You have a way to get hold of Dawson?”

“Drew’s got his number and is gonna phone him.”

“I’ll camp out in the District Attorney’s office,” Kate said. “By the time you’ve turned yourself in, they’ll have checked out your bizarre alibi. I should be able to get a reasonable bail.”

“Unless they want to nail me for what happened at Stenman’s,” Peter said.

“You said you were justified. Somebody’s going to have to do some heavy-duty explaining.”

“That’s true,” Peter said.

“You have any theories on how your moonstone made it to Ellen’s bedside table? Your prints on a cup and on her microwave?”

“Beats me,” Peter said, “unless Ellen, or maybe even Craig Hinton if he was jealous, had me robbed the day I moved out of my old place.”

“You think either of them engineered the theft?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “I’m grasping at straws.”

“I’ll follow up on Hinton, just in case. His relationship with Ellen and the fact that he disliked you makes him a natural suspect. You’ll meet me outside the courthouse, tomorrow at four?”

“Yeah. Four. How long before you get my release on bail?”

“Once we confirm things, a day, tops. You should plan to return Stenman’s money when you turn yourself in.”

“I took the money, hoping to trade it for answers. Under the circumstances, I’m happy to give it back.”

Once he re-cradled the phone, Peter flopped across his bed and clamped his eyes. He wished he were back at the old apartment, with its tiny bathtub, bathing with and making love to Kate Ayers. Instead, questions, one stacked on top of the other, weighed like a mountain.

Tomorrow . . . Peter looked at the bedside clock. The red digits flashed 1:04. “No, not tomorrow. It’s today already,” he told himself. “Will I find answers today?”

Especially to the questions about Ellen Goodman—they had been intimate, and that meant something. But who would rape her? Torture her? “Same person who murdered my mother,” he said, almost inaudibly.

The victims were innocent. The game was perverted. And Peter Neil was just beginning to learn how to play.