Deadly Intent (12 page)

“His name is Ben. He’s nine years old. Don’t you see? She’s got too much at stake. That’s why she agreed to give me the money.”

Once again, Liz fell silent. Ian wasn’t sure what she was

thinking because she was so damn hard to read. ‘ ‘Why are you doing this?” she asked suddenly.

“Doing what?”

“Blackmailing Abbie.”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you spacing out on me, too, girl? Irene killed our father. Christ, Liz, aren’t you mad, knowing what she did? How she wrecked our lives?”

“If revenge is all you want, call the cops and turn Irene in.”

“Revenge is not enough. I want to be compensated.”

“So you’re blackmailing Abbie.”

“Hey, I’m not fussy. I’d gladly take money from Irene, but the old broad’s got zip.” He scooted to the edge of his chair. “So, are you going to help me out? With the money, I mean. I spent all I had on a bus ticket to come up here. Rose will kill me.”

Liz sighed and glanced at her watch. “I get off at seven. Stick around and we’ll walk to the ATM together. Right now, I’ve got to go back to work.”

Ian grinned, already thinking how he and Rose would be celebrating tonight. A nice juicy steak maybe, a bottle of wine—the kind that came with a cork—and a nice romp in the sack.

Life couldn’t get much better than this.

Thirteen

Ian felt on top of the world. He had returned from New York yesterday five hundred dollars richer, thanks to Liz’s generosity, and he was now only an hour away from pocketing an additional forty-eight thou. His pinching-pennies days were over.

Humming softly, he stood in front of the mirror in his motel room and tugged a thick gray wig in place, making sure none of his hair showed on either side. Satisfied, he picked up the matching mustache, the back of which was covered with a thin coat of theater glue, and patted it gently above his upper lip.

He pulled back to admire his handiwork. The New York shop owner who had sold him the wig yesterday hadn’t exaggerated. The transformation was uncanny. Even his own mother, rest her soul, wouldn’t recognize him. And neither would Arturo Garcia, if and when that son of a bitch found him. The odds of this happening had diminished considerably in the last twenty-four hours, thanks to another of Ian’s brilliant ideas—bribing the motel clerk. With a wink and fifty bucks held between two fingers, Ian had mentioned a jealous husband hot on his trail. The clerk had returned the wink to show he understood, and pocketed the money.

The disguise was extra insurance, just in case Arturo was roaming the streets of Princeton in search of his prey.

Feeling more excited than he had been in weeks, Ian chuckled. Even the minor setback of having to settle for less money didn’t seem important anymore. What mattered was to get out of here and put as much distance as possible between him and Arturo. New York City still sounded good, or maybe L.A. Or Chicago. Once he reached his destination, he’d send Rose some money. She didn’t really need it now that she had found a job, but it was the decent thing to do. She might come in handy someday, though he doubted she’d ever forgive him for bailing out on her that way.

He glanced at his watch, feeling a little jittery. Abbie wouldn’t be here for another hour and the wait was killing him. He hoped nothing would go wrong on her side. But why should it? Her stakes were just as high as his. She wasn’t about to screw up now. Maybe he should start packing. The activity would quiet his nerves.

Whistling the tune of “Happy Days Are Here Again”, he walked over to the closet and took a quick inventory. He didn’t have much, just the clothes Rose had bought him before they left Toledo, but that would soon change.

He was debating whether to pack now or later when a strong arm suddenly clamped around his throat, cutting off his air supply.

“Going somewhere, amigo?”

Arturo. Ian felt as if his bowels might let loose at any moment. He clutched at the man’s steely arm, trying desperately to loosen its grip. He opened his mouth to talk, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was a strangled aargh.

The arm relaxed a fraction of an inch. It was enough for Ian to take a gulp of air.

“What did you say, McGregor?”

“Pl-please,” Ian gasped. “You’re...killing me.”

“And that’s gonna break my heart?”

Ian tried to wiggle out of the viselike grip but only managed to wedge himself in even tighter.

“Quit squirming, will ya, or I’ll really hurt you.” To show he meant it, Arturo jabbed him in the back with his knee, hard enough to make Ian groan. “You’re gonna be still?”

Eyes closed, Ian nodded.

“And what’s with this getup, anyway?” With the tip of a nasty-looking blade, Arturo plucked the wig off Ian’s head and dangled it in front of his nose. “You thought you could fool me with this? Or with that motel registration under your girlfriend’s name? What the fuck you take me for, McGregor? An idiot?”

That lousy, double-crossing clerk.

Ian got another hard jab. This one was on the kidney and brought out a cry of pain. “Arturo, please,” he said when he could talk again. “Let me explain.”

With a shake of his wrist, Arturo let the wig drop to the floor then brought the switchblade to Ian’s throat. “Okay, explain. You’ve got one minute.”

Ian’s mind worked furiously, trying to come up with a way to get that ape to let go so he could make a run for it. Unfortunately, at this moment, Ian wasn’t in a particularly creative mood.

“I...I know you’re pissed off about...what happened in Toledo, but it’s been a long time, man.” The sharp point dug deeper into Ian’s skin. Something warm trickled down his neck. Christ, he was bleeding. The bastard had cut him. Ian held his breath, afraid the slightest move would be fatal.

“Not long enough, you miserable piece of shit.” Arturo’s breath was hot against Ian’s ear. “Not long enough for me to forget how you ratted on me ten years ago. Or how you stole my thirty grand.”

Ian licked his lips. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this death trap. “Arturo, look...about the money. You can get it back, man. Every penny.”

“Yeah?” The blade didn’t budge. “How?”

“My sister is going to loan me some money. Thai’s why I’m here.”

“Liz?”

“No, not Liz. Abbie DiAngelo. My stepsister. Her mother was married to my dad a long time ago. She owns a restaurant here in Princeton.”

“Are you fucking with me, McGregor? I don’t know nothin’ about a stepsister.”

“I’m not fucking with you, man, I swear. Abbie’s agreed to loan me some money so I could get back on my feet—forty-eight grand. You can have it all.”

“You owe me a hundred.”

“A hundred! Are you nuts? I only took thirty from you. You said so yourself.”

“A hundred with the juice. And I’m giving you a break. You know what the rates are.”

“All right, all right. I’ll...get you the rest...somehow.”

The hold around Ian’s neck relaxed some more. “When are you getting the cash?”

Ian’s mind started working double time. He had a chance to get out of this alive after all. In fact, if he played it cool, he’d be able to run and take the money with him. But he couldn’t do much in this motel room, where Arturo clearly had the advantage. He had to draw him out in the open.

“Tonight,” he said in answer to Arturo’s question. “At ten o’clock, after Abbie closes the restaurant.”

“She’s coming here?”

“No. We’re...meeting at the pier,” he improvised, remembering walking along the lake a day or so ago.

“Where the fuck is the pier?”

“At Lake Carnegie. It’s close by, maybe three blocks from here. That’s why I picked that location, so I could walk to it. Rose waits tables at a local diner and she needs her wheels.” He figured the more details he gave, the more credible his story sounded. How he’d find an opportunity to call Abbie and tell her the plans had changed was something he hadn’t worked out yet. But he would. He had to.

Arturo laughed. “Your old lady works and you’re here, playing dress-up. That’s real manly of you, McGregor.” The smile faded as quickly as it had come. “When is Rose coming back?”

“Midnight.”

Arturo was silent for a moment. “All right,” he said suddenly. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll go to the pier—together. Once your stepsister shows up, you get the money, wait until she leaves and hand it over. You got it?”

That was exactly what Ian had hoped he’d say. He nodded. “And then what?”

“If you don’t give me no trouble, I’ll let you live.”

Yeah, right, Ian thought. Like he was going to believe that.

Arturo pressed his mouth against Ian’s ear again. “But if you cross me, amigo, I’m gonna make you regret it—in a bad way. Comprende?”

“Si. I mean...yes.”

“Good.” Arturo let him go and Ian turned around, taking his first look in ten years at the man who had come almost two thousand miles to find him. Christ, he was even bigger and uglier than Ian remembered. He had shaved his head, exposing an uneven skull and disgusting warts, and had grown a goatee. He still wore multiple earrings in his left ear, one of them in the shape of crossbones. He had dark, beady eyes that didn’t exactly sparkle with intelligence, but when a man was as large and as mean as Arturo

Garcia, brains didn’t much matter. He wore frayed jeans, a grungy T-shirt cut off at the shoulders and scruffy boots. Naked mermaids and fire-spitting dragons were tattooed on his beefy arms.

Ian glanced at the door he knew he had locked. “How did you get in?” He immediately realized that was a stupid question.

Arturo laughed, showing the gap between his two front teeth. “With my trusted pick.” He grinned again. “Never travel without it.”

He snapped his switchblade shut. “Now. I’m gonna sit right there until it’s time for us to go,” he said, pointing at the chair by the window with his knife. “If you try anything, you’re a dead man.”

“We’ve got to stay in here for seven hours?”

“You got a problem with that?”

Being cooped up in a motel room with a madman? Yeah, he had a problem with that. Was he going to admit that to Arturo? Hell, no.

Ian shook his head. “If you don’t give a shit, why should I?”

Arturo went to sit in the chair, stretching his long legs in front of him, and turned on the TV. After flipping through several channels, he finally settled on a Power Rangers cartoon. Ian rolled his eyes as he laid on the bed. The man’s intellect never failed to amaze him.

While the action heroes did their stuff, Ian’s mind tried to work out a plan. He had to contact Abbie before she left the restaurant. A few more minutes and he wouldn’t be able to get hold of her.

His gaze swung toward the nightstand and Rose’s cell phone. If he could get it without Arturo noticing, half the problem was solved.

He waited until his unwelcome guest was lost in the

antics on the screen, then, slowly, he extended his arm, palmed the small phone and slipped it into his pocket. The easy part was done. Now for the hard part—making the call.

Ian waited another minute, swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “Okay if I go take a leak?”

Without moving, Arturo looked at him, then at the bathroom door, which was ajar. He stood up, and without a word, headed for the John.

Ian laughed. “What? You’re afraid I’ll escape through the toilet drain?”

“No, but you’re dumb enough to try the window.”

“There ain’t no window, man.”

In the bathroom, Arturo glanced around him, chuckling when he saw Rose’s undies and a pink baby-doll nightgown hanging on the shower rod. Apparently satisfied there was no way out, he nodded. “Make it quick.”

Ian closed the door, simultaneously taking the phone from his pocket. He dialed, his mouth tight, his whole body tense with the fear Abbie wouldn’t be there.

Come on, come on.

One of the kitchen workers—not the wise-mouthed kid—answered, and within seconds, Abbie was on the line. Ian spoke fast and in a furious whisper. “Abbie, it’s me, Ian. There’s been a change of plan. Do not come to the motel. Meet me at the Lake Carnegie pier instead, at ten o’clock tonight.”