Death Takes a Ride (The Cate Kinkaid Files Book #3): A Novel (29 page)

Cate remembered a finger jabbed in her back. “A real gun?”

“Yeah. A real gun. He keeps it in the bedroom. He doesn’t know I know it’s there, but I do. It’s duct-taped to the underside of the bed. Except I looked and now it’s gone. I-I’m scared. I’m afraid Andy is going to . . .
do
something to someone.” Pause while she struggled with those mixed feelings again. “I’m afraid someone might do something to Andy.”

Either was possible, Cate agreed.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know Andy at all. I mean, he’d never even told me about the different name thing. Or that he knew that Mace Jackson.”

“Maybe you should call the police.”

“And tell them what?” Lily flared. “That my boyfriend left the apartment, and
maybe
he has a gun? That
maybe
he’s meeting someone about selling a motorcycle, although he might be out there selling pot to someone in a warehouse somewhere? Or, for all I know, maybe selling the gun.”

Okay, not a report likely to send the police scurrying to find Andy and slap handcuffs on him. Yet Matt Halliday could be in serious danger if he thought he was meeting Andy about buying the bike and Andy had a much darker purpose in mind. She’d gotten to the point where she knew enough about Matt Halliday that she didn’t really
like
him. There was a dark side to both his personal and business relationships. But
her
personal and professional standards said she couldn’t let him walk into an ambush.

“I’m not sure why you called me.”

“I couldn’t think of anyone else,” Lily snapped. “But I can see now, it was a really dumb idea.”

“Look, I’ll see what I can do,” Cate said. “If you hear from Andy, or he comes home, you call me right away, okay? So I won’t be wandering around out there in the dark trying to find him.” She gave Lily her cell phone number.

“Okay. And, uh, thanks, Cate.”

A donut with that would be nice.

Cate first tried to call Halliday at the H&B number. It was past business hours, of course, but Halliday must be at the warehouse if he and Andy had a meeting set up there.

Except Halliday, if he was there, wasn’t answering the
phone. The H&B number got her a recording of Radine giving the business hours: 9:00 to 5:30 Monday through Saturday, closed Sundays except by appointment.

She looked up a home phone number for Halliday and tried that one. No live response from Halliday, but an answering machine did invite her to leave a message. She was reluctant to announce her suspicions on an answering machine, but she was afraid Halliday might simply ignore a request to call her even if she said it was an emergency. She finally did leave a message advising him not to meet Andy alone, that it could be dangerous. She added both her business and cell phone numbers and asked that he call her back immediately.

Which did not give her a feeling of having completed her duty satisfactorily. Now what?

31

She decided on a quick run out to H&B. If Andy was already there, which meant a strong potential for danger, she’d call 911. She wouldn’t earn points with police, Halliday, or Andy if the two of them were in the warehouse calmly negotiating on the bike when the cops arrived. She’d look like a paranoid redhead, the type who imagined a gun-toting outlaw behind every bush.

She’d take that risk. Making certain Halliday hadn’t set himself up for a hail of bullets or a lone shot in the back was more important. She figured Andy was capable of either, and she had to warn Halliday.

She paused briefly by the gun hanging in its holster from the hook on the wall. Take it along?

And do what with it, since she didn’t yet know how to put bullets in it, let alone aim and shoot?

She momentarily wished she had that voice-activated wristwatch-style cell phone Mitch had once given her, but it had disappeared. She suspected Octavia had a secret stash of treasures somewhere, but her cat just purred when asked that question.

Cate made sure, however, that her cell phone was in quick-draw readiness in her jacket pocket.

She was halfway to H&B, windshield wipers in a losing
battle with the onslaught of windblown rain, when an unhappy realization hit her. She’d run out of the house in such a hurry that she’d neglected to put Clancy out in the SUV. Octavia and Clancy were now alone in the house. She groaned. Disaster in the making. Anything from a festival of shredded furniture to a cat-and-dog demolition derby. Try explaining
that
to an insurance company.

But she couldn’t take time to turn around and go back. If Andy was already on his way to meet Halliday, she didn’t have much time.

She whipped into the parking area at H&B and hit a puddle hard enough to blast a spray of water over her driver’s side window. She pressed the button to run the window down to clear it and peered at a pickup and a car chained to a flatbed trailer standing under the lone yard light. The car Halliday had apparently gone to Salem to get, a big-finned ’50s model that looked as if it had been in an urban riot. No other vehicles in the parking area.

Good. Even though Andy’d had a head start on her, she’d gotten here before him. Her whoosh of relief vanished when she angled the car around and two lights flashed at her from the building. Another car murderously headed straight for her! She jerked the steering wheel and screeched the brakes.

Well, no. She slid her hands across the wheel, then shakily wiped each palm on her jeans. Not another vehicle about to run her down. Her own headlights reflecting back to her from the front window of the building.

Get a
grip, Ms. Licensed PI.

She shut the car lights off, and the glaring lights coming at her disappeared. Now all she could see through the rain was dim light from inside the office area. A closer peer over the steering wheel showed her the light came from the open
door to the warehouse at the rear of the room. Halliday must be back there waiting for Andy.

She closed the window and opened the car door a crack. She’d just warn Halliday about the possible danger and make a quick retreat. She didn’t have to wait around for Andy to arrive. Halliday could call 911 himself.

She fingered the cell phone in her pocket. Or maybe she should make that call right now. The police could be here when Andy arrived.

And do what? Andy would be righteously indignant and come up with an innocent excuse. He was here to sell his old bike.
Something wrong with that
?
He’d slither away, free and clear.

Stick with the
original plan.
Warn Halliday.

A sudden inspiration made her click the H&B number on her cell phone again. Maybe the ringing phone would bring Halliday out of the warehouse and she wouldn’t have to go inside.

She let the phone on the counter ring until Radine’s voice kicked in again. No movement inside the building. Just that oblong of light marking the warehouse door.

She slid out of the car but left the door unlocked, just in case. Just in case what? Whatever.

Wind hammered the rain against her back and dribbled a cold trickle down her neck. A harder blast rattled something on the battered car on the trailer. A wind-whipped plastic bag sailed by and hit the front of the building. It clung to the window like the misshapen remnant of some tattered ghost.

Okay, knock off the imagination. Yes, she’d have preferred a windless, rainless evening, but there was no reason to be apprehensive.

Oh? So how come her palms were slippery enough to surf
on, and streams of nervous perspiration raced like whitewater rapids over her ribs?

Does the PI need her mommy?

Maybe not Mommy, but having Mitch here would be nice.

Now she was right in front of the door. A branch blown in from somewhere hit the metal siding of the warehouse with a tinny
whap
. A stronger
flap-flap
sounded as if a section of siding or roof had come loose. She had to wipe her hand before trying the knob.

Good thing there wasn’t a dry palm test, or she’d never have gotten her PI license.

She turned the knob. Had she been hoping the door would be locked, and she could just say “I tried,” and trot on home? It wasn’t locked, of course. Halliday had no doubt left it open for Andy. Even with rain blowing in, she kept the door open a crack behind her as she called his name. “Mr. Halliday? Are you here, Mr. Halliday?”

No answer.

Rain made an indistinct rumble on the office roof, but it was hitting the metal roof out in the warehouse like a dozen watery jackhammers blasting full speed.

She took an uncertain step toward the light streaming from the open warehouse door. Another pause, and then she grabbed a breath deep enough to expand her voice to compete with the hammer of rain on metal roof. “Mr. Halliday, hey! Are you here?”

No answer.

She took another step and tried to stretch toward the door without getting too close, straining for any
different
sound from the warehouse. Rustle . . . whisper . . . murmur? Nothing. Beneath the pound of rain, silence. A very
dead
silence . . .

Had Andy already been here, made good on his threat, and gone? Her feet took root on the concrete floor. Was Halliday in there dead?

Another thought unrooted her feet, and she rushed for the door. Maybe not dead, maybe wounded, needing help—

The warehouse light blinked out just before she reached the door. She threw out a hand to grab the door frame and keep herself from skidding headlong through the dark opening. It didn’t stop her. She careened into the solid body of a live person who’d risen up like a 3-D apparition. The force of her rush carried them both into the warehouse. Fear grabbed her as the figure clutched her arm and held her upright.

“Cate! I heard you calling me—”

Relief as she recognized the voice. Which didn’t stop the flow of perspiration waterfalling over her ribs. She peered at him in the faint light coming through the front window from the yard light outside, but all she could see was a shadowy blob. “Mr. Halliday! I’m glad you’re okay. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Is something wrong?” He was almost yelling to be heard over pound of rain on metal roof.

“What happened to the lights?” Cate yelled back.

“I heard you calling so I ran to the door. I must have accidentally hit the switch.”

“Did you read the report I left with Radine?”

“No. I was late getting back from Salem, and everyone was gone by the time I got here. Was it something important?”

“Then you don’t know that I think Andy Timmons is the one who sent that threatening note—”

“Who?” he yelled.

“Andy Timmons! The guy I located for you, with the old Indian bike. And if you’re meeting him here—”

A dark shape barreled out of the blackness and whammed into Halliday. Something flew out of Halliday’s hand and clattered to the floor. Halliday slammed into Cate as he went down, and she hit the floor too. Her shoulder crunched into the solid concrete, and her head hit the metallic shelf beyond.

She lay there disoriented as a battle raged only inches away. Rolling bodies, striking fists, grunts and oofs. She shook her head, trying to clear the shooting stars behind her eyes and the ringing bells in her ears. A kick slammed into her leg. She scrambled away on belly and elbows to get out of the combat area. One of the shelf units loomed beside her. In spite of the stars and bells, one thought burst into her mind, sharp and clear.

The phone! Call for help—

She fumbled in her pocket. Kleenex, a mint—no phone! The collision of bodies must have knocked it out of her pocket. She got to her knees and frantically ran her hands over the concrete, searching for it. The wrestling bodies crashed into her again. She fell sideways.

A gunshot boomed and echoed through the warehouse.

Another crash as a kick or shove banged the door to the front office shut. Total blackness. Cate huddled against a metal something on a bottom shelf. Sharp points prickled her back. But the points weren’t moving, and they didn’t have a gun, so pressing into them felt safer than moving away. Who
did
have a gun? Halliday? Andy? Because the other person must be Andy.

A simultaneous boom and a flash of flame shot into the darkness from the barrel of a gun. But this came from farther back in the warehouse. A huff of exertion near her, then a flash of gunshot. Another gunshot from yet another direction. An answering gunshot from behind her.

How many shooters
were
there? How many guns? How many flying bullets?

She took a deep, steadying breath. At least as deep as she could with her ribs aching, knees throbbing, and nerves shooting flames of their own. No, surely not more than two shooters. Just Halliday and whoever’d taken him down there at the doorway. Which had to be Andy. But they were moving around, moving fast, so neither could use the flashes of gunshot to pinpoint the other’s position. Another boom and the bullet pinged into metal only inches from her head.

She didn’t think they were shooting at her. They couldn’t see her any better than she could see them. Which didn’t mean that the next wild shot wouldn’t get her in the crossfire.

She had to get to the door, get out of here—

Except she now had no idea where the door was. The blackness and booming gunshots completely disoriented her. If it weren’t for gravity holding her body down, she wouldn’t even know which way was up.

Up. That was where she needed to be. Up! Higher, out of the line of fire.

Find one of those ladders that moved along the shelves on rollers.

She grasped a metal upright on a shelf unit and inch by inch eased to her feet. Even in the noisy clatter of rain on roof overhead, any different sound, any creak or rustle or grunt, might bring a hail of bullets from one or both trigger-happy gunslingers.

She found the edge of a shelf and worked her way along it. She was going toward the rear of the building . . . wasn’t she? Maybe. Maybe not. The loose section of roofing rattled and flapped. Overhead, the hammering rain sounded like the drumbeat of some zombie band playing music to wake the dead.

A ladder! She felt for the bottom rung, then eased around to where she could step on it. A shot and flame from a gun only a few feet away, then hurried steps as the shooter ran to get away from an answering shot which came almost immediately. It hit something off to her left . . . no, maybe her right. Sound seemed to jump and dance in this echoing blackness.

No matter.
Climb.

She tried to picture the shelves as she’d seen them with Shirley working on them. A bottom shelf only inches off the concrete floor. Next shelf maybe two and a half or three feet higher. Two or three more shelves above that, all wide enough to hold big car parts. Her reaching hand touched something curved and metallic. A fender? Creeping giant with a bald head? Her imagination was running wild here.

She tried to be quiet, but two more shots blasted away any worry about silence. Nobody was going to hear her in the cacophony of sounds assaulting the warehouse. Hammering rain, banging section of metal roof, echoing gunshots.