122 Rules (32 page)

A spark flashed in the mob boss’ eyes. “I now own the general and his wife too. Talk about a valuable resource. But that isn’t where it ends. Do you see?”

Barry did, and his bowels turned to slush.

“Mr. Hutton takes a small sum of cash from us every month, a pittance, really, though it’s a king’s ransom to him. He lives for these small investments in his pledge to become a fulltime gambler, and from time to time, I’ve asked him to do small tasks for us. The people that come through this facility are from influential families with deep pockets. Some would make Ms. Goldwater and General Hutton look positively like paupers; you’d be surprised.”

Barry couldn’t fathom the exact nature of those “small tasks,” but he believed them to be significant—very much so.

“You think you applied for this position. You think you beat out the competition because of your charisma in court, your deep understanding and experience with the law. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. There are hundreds, thousands of lawyers slithering around this city who are better than you. More qualified. More charismatic. They could talk you into the ground. But I don’t want any of them. Do you know why?”

Barry did, but he just stared at the little man who, by some miracle, grew bigger by the minute until he towered over Barry like a giant in huge black shoes, poised to crush him like a cockroach. His breath left his body, and he struggled to draw it back in. The air thickened, gelatinous and dirty like used motor oil.

“Because, Mr. Yamalki, I see the threads that connect everything together at a fundamental level. It’s what binds us all. Once you see the threads, all you have to do is tug the right one, and you can make anything happen. I don’t want a lawyer who’s only working for money. I wanted someone who was motivated by more than just greed, which is why you are sitting in that chair and none of them are. I wanted someone connected to me.”

When the bitch turned up as the star witness in the case the D.A. built against the mob boss, Barry found the appropriate threads and utilized them, tapping into the resources Laven needed to help destroy the prosecution’s case.

Laven didn’t use his connections often. Threads, by their nature, exhibit fragility—yank too hard, they stretch and break. Since the FBI held the girl in Witness Protection, Barry had no trouble locating her after placing the right people on the task. The country’s own government, the same one trying to put Laven in jail, located her. But the man they’d sent botched the job, and now she ran free.

Barry retrieved the information on Lisa’s car, a shiny red Audi. He put in a query to a private detective, a fat old gumshoe Laven kept on staff, and the man found the records of the car as it crossed tollbooths, making its way across the country. The latest hit came just two hours before in Missouri. Barry sent the information to Tyron.

During this research, he found the news item about the murdered waitress in Kansas. Fury flooded his veins, replacing the momentary victory that had just flowed there a minute before, and Barry picked up his cell.

* * *

Frustration tore through Tyron. At some point, he must have passed the women. Since he had no idea when he had done so, he spent several fruitless hours searching for them in St. Louis. Other than their descriptions, he had little to go on. They hadn’t used the laptop since Kansas, leaving the trail cold. Just when he started to think about burning off some of his pent up frustration with a little “extracurricular activity,” like he had done with the cunt of a waitress from the diner, his phone beeped with an email. The small red Audi the women drove, once belonging to the bitch he charred, had passed through a tollbooth less than two hours before.

He climbed into his car and began to pull into traffic when his phone rang. The caller ID read
Barry Yamalki
. Tyron detested the smarmy little man—though in truth he hated almost everyone—and coveted an hour alone with the pompous little shit. Why would Yamalki be calling now?

“What?” Tyron answered by way of greeting.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“You should know; you’re the one who gave me the assignment.”

“I’m talking about the waitress.”

Tyron paused. How the hell did Yamalki find out about that? Tyron did his hobby with extreme care—vigilant not to leave evidence behind. He understood enough about police procedure to know the big things never tripped a man up. The little things did—trace evidence, DNA, bodily fluids, and the like. So, he shaved every inch of skin to ensure he never left hair behind. He wore gloves and a condom during the wet work, which he burned afterwards.

Yalmaki had taken a dangerous gamble fishing without any proof. Tyron sneered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do!” The sound crackled and blasted through the tiny little speaker, and Tyron jerked the phone away from his ear.

“You don’t need to shout.”

“Really? Because I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here. You were told to eliminate a loose end, but instead you’re out there fulfilling some sick fantasy. Quiet—that’s the rule of the game here. We’re trying to get our boss out of prison, but if you get your ass caught that’s not going to happen. There’s enough to deal with without you creating a trail for the police to follow. You might
think
you’re the best, but even the best can fall. There’s a direct link between you and Laven. If the connection to that waitress’ murder is made to you, it’s going to be pretty much impossible to get him out. Perhaps you’d like to be the one to explain to him why he’s doing twenty to life?”

Tyron did not want to do that. Laven, a genius, ran things like the right hand of God—or Beelzebub, depending on the point of view—controlling everyone and everything around him. But he had about as much soul and mercy as flesh-eating bacteria. The mobster made a bipolar madman look tame, but Tyron liked crazy. He related to that spark of insanity, yet Laven also scared him. The man radiated darkness, cold as a black hole, leaving Tyron with the impression that, if the idea struck him, Laven would gut him and eat his liver while sipping a cold beer and watching a Mavericks’ game. “No.”

“Good. Glad to hear that you can be reasoned with. Now, there will be no more playing. You’re done with your sick little fantasies. Find these women, do your job, and make sure it’s untraceable. I don’t care how you do it, but be nice and neat. I do
not
want to read about it in the paper. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes.”

The call disconnected. Tyron sat in the idling car. He hated the thought of that sniveling piss-ant lawyer calling the shots, but the images of what his boss would do to him should the man spend even one extra day in jail made him shudder. Tyron dropped the car into drive and pulled out into traffic, headed towards the Gateway Arch.

* * *

Erebus received his hard-won victory when the snitch and her companion disappeared into the shiny silver structure. He sat on a bench, watching the entrance. Little rodent children ran around playing tag, shouting, and screaming, absorbing him into their chaos. Why anyone would have the blood-sucking leeches baffled him.

When the two women left the landmark and headed his way, Tyron pretended to be involved in a newspaper, pulling the baseball cap low to help hide the telltale scar on his face.

When they rounded the corner, almost out of sight, he got up and followed.

41

Monica sat cross-legged in the grass, watching as a paddleboat meandered up the river. Scattered, fat clouds reflected in the surface of the water. From the bank of the Mississippi, she could envision her problems floating away, faint and wispy as cotton. The FBI should be able to help her get a real identity. Perhaps they could even keep the mob thug behind bars for good or, better yet, issue him a one-way ticket to the electric chair. She was sick of looking over her shoulder. She longed to take control of her own destiny, to rid herself of the mob guys, then spend an inordinate amount of time relaxing on some tropical island.

Monica lit a cigarette and, blowing a lungful of smoke, said, “So, I’m thinking...”

“Sounds dangerous.” Angel lay on the grass, her hands behind her head, eyes closed. The sun made its lazy descent in the west, and once it dipped below the distant mountains, the light nip in the air would turn to a chill. Already, only a smattering of people remained on the grassy fields, and those that stayed kept their distance, busying themselves with children and blankets.

Monica frowned. “Funny, Ang. In all seriousness, I’m thinking about Paris.”

“What about it.”

“We should go there.”

“I know. We just need to get your little ‘identity crisis’ resolved.”

Monica shook her head. “It’s more than just that.”

“Someone’s feeling reflective. It’s the Arch, it makes you look at the big picture. I told you it was a worthwhile endeavor. Hey, give me a hit off of that.” Angel stretched lazy and cat-like and seemed to be on the verge of going to sleep when she reached her hand out for the cigarette. Monica placed it between her friend’s fingers and watched her take a deep drag without so much as opening her eyes. “I’m thinking dinner then a big comfy bed. How much exactly did you steal from Lisa’s heirs?”

Monica cocked her head. “It’s just a loan, and that’s really cold, you know.”

Angel shook her head. “Uh huh. You lifted her credit cards, money, and took her car. She may be dead, but isn’t that still grand theft auto or something? In your defense, I guess someone did just try to kill you. Then there was the whole FBI thing. By the way, that name they gave you, Susan Rosenberg, that was just appalling. A little funny, but still appalling.” Angel’s reflectiveness permeated the night air. “Guess having taste has nothing to do with being accepted into the Bureau. Maybe you could plead severe annoyance?”

Monica sighed. “That’s not a thing.”

“It should be. Also, I’m glad you are growing your hair back out. You can’t pull off the badass, black-haired chick thing. You’re definitely a blonde. Me? I could totally do it.”

Monica stiffened. “Hey! I look smoking hot with my black hair.”

“Oh, no doubt, if I were a guy, I’d totally do you,” Angel replied. “I’m just sayin’ you can’t pull off ninja chick the way I can.” She made chopping gestures without opening her eyes or relinquishing her relaxed, prone position on the lawn. “Wha-cha-cha,” she said under her breath as she puffed on the cigarette perched between her lips and swiped at invisible foes.

Monica sighed. “What do you want for dinner, ninja girl?” She snagged the cigarette back.

“Now you’re talking. I’m thinking pizza. Do they have pizza in France?
Ont-ils la pizza en France
? It’s been a few years since Ms. Roth’s French class, but I still have it. Don’t you think? Mon?” Angel opened her eyes, rolled over onto her stomach, and froze.

“Hello, bitch. I’ve been looking for you.”

A small, cold circle, which could only be the barrel of a gun, pressed to the back of Monica’s head. “Well, it seems you found me.” A calm resignation settled over her as the survivalist took control.

“Who…who is that?” Angel asked.

The voice was one Monica heard in her nightmares. “Does he have a scar on his face?”

“Yeah. He’s kneeling behind you. He’s got a gun, Mon.”

She nodded. “Then it has to be Joe Pesci’s evil henchman.”

A light chuckle emanated from the man behind Monica. “I wouldn’t let him hear you say that.”

Monica raised her hands. “Or what? He’ll send someone to kill me?”

“There are things worse than death. This is what’s going to happen. You’re both going to stand up, and we’re going to head towards the east entrance of the park. I have a car across the street, then we’re going to take a little ride. Ready?”

“Like we have any choice.” Bitterness rolled off Angel.

He smirked. “Good. If you do exactly as I say, things will go a lot easier.”

Angel raised her chin. “For you, maybe. We’re dead either way.”

The murderer sighed. “Unfortunately for me, I’m in a bit of rush, so we don’t have time to play. Now if you don’t mind.” He got up and indicated the east entrance with the gun.

He took an extra step back, concealing his gun in his pocket, as Angel and Monica stood. They started meandering toward the side of the park. “Not the main path,” he instructed. “Too many people. Cut through the trees next to the lake.”

“Anything else we can do to make killing us easier on you?” Angel turned to Monica. “Can you believe this guy?”

“Just do what he says,” Monica told her.

“You can’t be serious? He’s going to kill us. You know that, right? A couple shots to the head and a trip down the river.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.”

Angel gaped. “Melodra… You’re kidding, right?”

“Honey,” Monica said as they entered the canopy of trees, “listen to me. Do you remember the story about when I was a girl and my mom brought the guy home?”

“Yes, but what…” Angel paused, understanding dawning in her eyes then her voice grew louder. “I know what’s going on here.” She planted her feet, ceasing all forward momentum. When she did, the entire party stopped too. “This is one of your guy friends from back in school, right? Play a trick on the simpleton from the little town? You and your big city friends! Well, screw you!” She raged at Monica and then turned to the mobster. “And screw you too—” Before she got the words out, he hit her in the side of the face. Angel’s head snapped to the side, and she crumpled into a heap.