Footsteps of the Hawk (31 page)

"How could you…?"

"I'm not a cop," I said, pushing her, working fast, closing in now. "I'm a criminal. A professional. Just like you thought. Just like Morales told you. There were seven people on the list. In that pyramid trust, yes? George was first, so he gets the money until he's gone. You're way down…last. By the time you got your hands on that money, you'd be an old woman. I don't blame you. It was brilliant, the way you did it. And I know why you really want George out of prison. You tried to have him hit inside. That was a pretty good plan, but you didn't know who you were dealing with. I do. I know those guys. I can make it happen. Right in his PC cell. One word to the right guys and he's charcoal. I'm no problem for you, girl. We can do this. Together, you and me. All I want is some money Just a fair price for a piece of work. You were seventh on the list, right? Five people ahead of you, not counting George. And George, he's as good as dead right now. He stays, he escapes, he wins his appeal—it all comes out the same. That's down to five. You did three of them….at least three of them, right?"

"Four," she said. "There's only one left now. A man. I just made that up…about the red ribbon. I got the idea from George. I mean, he didn't know
why
I was doing it. But he said, if I made them look like sex murders, they'd never suspect a woman did it.
You
didn't suspect it, did you? You're just a man. A weak, stupid man. Chasing shadows, and scared of them too. There never
were
any red ribbons. But the last one, a man…I can't make it look like a rape, so…"

"…so that's perfect," I finished for her. "That's the kind of work I do—you said so yourself. A hundred grand flat and I'll do them both, George and the other guy."

"You
do
think I'm crazy, don't you?" she said, a bright smile on her face. "I let you go and you'd run right to your pal Morales, wouldn't you? You're no killer. I asked around—that was all bullshit street gossip. You're a con man, that's what you are."

"I can get it done," I told her. "Why don't you just—?"

"What, just
listen
to you? You're lying. You'd say anything to stay alive.
Do
anything too. I know about that. That's what I did. Did…did
anything
. That old man…"

"Capshaw?" I asked, trying to get her talking again, trying to catch her in a loop, anything…

"Capshaw? Oh yes. Capshaw. He's still making us play. Even dead, he can do that. He has the power. Money, that's the power. He told us. He
showed
us. And I was the last."

"What's this foundation thing?"

"The Adelnaws Foundation? That's his. And his friends' too. He told us about it. In his will, but it only happens if he dies of natural causes. He knew what we were. He knew what we'd do. So he made us wait. Spell it backwards."

I tried to do it in my head….SWANLEDA—didn't make sense. "I don't get it," I told her.

"Swan Leda," she said, offhand, the way you give someone your phone number. "It's from Greek mythology. Zeus turned himself into a swan. So he could rape Leda. Capshaw turned himself into…I don't know, whatever he was. Rich, I guess. He turned himself rich, so he could rape us. I was the last one. He called me, and I went up there to visit him. Just before he died. And he told me, about the will and all. I was last on the list."

"But if he told you—"

"Yes! You understand. You really do. That was my gift. Not the list—we all knew about the list—but the names, the
real
names…I was the only one who had
that
list."

"He knew what would happen…?"

"Of course he knew. He was my family, like he was my father. In my family, we know what to do. We all knew it, but I was the only one who knew it
all."

My spine shuddered. I took a shallow breath, tried again, "Look, all you have to do is—"

"
Here's
what I'm going to do, Mr. Burke." She stepped on my words, focused now, her voice clipped and precise. "Listen good. And see if you still think I'm crazy. I'm leaving here soon. I'm going to meet Morales. One–on–one, I told him. And he's too macho–stupid to ever tell anybody else. He's coming to the loft, the one on Van Dam. That's where you're going to kill him."

"Okay, sure. I'm with you…"

"Sure you are, honey. Believe me, you
are
going to kill him. Morales has his notes. Somewhere, I don't know where, he's got his notes. He's an old harness bull, he'll have notes. He's been tracking you for a good while now. Lots of guys on the job know about it."

"Bullshit," I said. "Morales has no friends."

"That's right. That's why you thought he was the one shooting at you. At that gym in the Bronx. That was me—I'm a very good shot—qualified Expert every year at the range. I missed on purpose…and it worked. See, Morales doesn't
need
friends for this one," she said, a wide smile on her face. "Because you're going to kill him. Bang–bang, he's dead. And then you're going to come after me. Come right here. You were waiting for me. No sign of forced entry—you must have picked the locks. I bet they'll even find a set of picks in your jacket. And here's your gun," she said, waving the automatic. "Silencer and all. A real pro outfit. But I was too fast for you. I got the gun away from you and shot you. Right between the eyes. At close range, as we fought over the gun."

"It'll never fly," I said. "Who's gonna believe I was waiting—"

"Oh, everybody will believe it all right," she said. "Why, look! Here's a cigarette butt. And I don't smoke. Maybe they should check the saliva, see if they can make a DNA match. They'll have plenty to work with—head wounds don't hardly bleed at all."

"Anyone can take a—"

"I know. I just did. See, the problem isn't really you, Burke. It's Morales. That stupid grunt, he's been chasing me for a long, long time. Only he didn't know it, I don't think. He knew something was wrong with a couple of those murders, but nobody would listen. Any other cop, he'd have gone on with his life. But Morales, he doesn't
have
a life. Sooner or later, he was going to…Ah, it doesn't matter, does it? You and Morales, you're both going to solve my problems. All my problems."

"It won't work. Why don't you—?"

"Shut up!" she snapped. "You're done talking. The only reason I'm not killing you right this second is maybe Morales won't show up on time. He could get in an accident, have a flat tire—I don't know. But I have to do him before I do you, just to make sure."

"It won't help," I said. "What I know, what I just told you—it's all written down. If anything happens to me—"

"
Liar!
" she hissed out at me. "Dirty liar. You don't have anybody. Just other…people like you. Thieves. Even if you did leave something, they'd only want money. I'll
have
money."

"What if Morales doesn't show up at all?" I tried. "Or what if he has backup? You could talk your way out of a lot of things, but not a dead body in your apartment."

"He'll show," Belinda said. "I got everything I need from you. Well,
maybe
everything. We'll see…."

She pulled the jersey bra up over her breasts, then over her head. She slipped off the shorts, stood there naked. "You think a man can be raped?" she whispered.

"I know they can," I said.

"I don't mean by another man, like in prison. Do you think a woman can rape a man?"

"I don't know."

"You and me, we're gonna find out, honey. Don't go away now."

She walked down the hall, an exaggerated wiggle to her hips, looking over one shoulder, blowing me a kiss. When she came back, she had a blue washcloth in her hand. She got on her hands and knees and started crawling toward me. When she got right on top of me, she raised her head, licked her lips. "I'm going to make you come, she purred. "In my mouth. And I'm going to spit it up on this," she told me, holding out the washcloth. Her eyes flickered under long lashes, looking up at my face. "Looks like you're not just a hit man, Burke," she whispered. "You're a rapist too."

"You're out of your—"

"No," she said. "No, I'm not. I look good, don't I? Isn't this perfect? I'm going to rape you. You're going to get nice and hard, and you're going to come in my mouth. Even though you know what I'm going to do with it. Even though you know you're going to die. You can't help yourself. Just watch…"

She pulled my cock toward her, stuffed its limpness into her mouth, sucked hard. I felt a tremor.
No!
Another, like a little shock wave. I couldn't…stop it. I felt myself go crazy, right in my own mind. I couldn't—she couldn't make me. But people
did
make me…when I was a kid. I felt that come back at me…and then the red dots flashed behind my eyes until they merged into a scream inside me and I snapped my head forward, trying to drive my forehead into the top of her skull….It didn't work—the leather straps pulled me up short. She craned her neck, looking up at me from under her bangs, my cock still in her mouth. She winked at me like we were sharing a joke—then she went back to work. I looked down, looked at her mass of chestnut curls covering my lap. And I went dead.

She tried for another few minutes, licking, sucking, making little noises. But I stayed dead.

Her head came up, lunatic eyes shining with joy. "It doesn't matter," she said. "You just sit here, be a good boy. Maybe, if you're
real
good, when I get back, I'll give you another chance."

She got to her feet, brought her face down to where we were almost touching, closed her eyes, and spit full in my face.

When I opened my eyes again, she was at the end of the hail, dressed in a yellow turtleneck and black pants, a pocketbook over one shoulder.

"See you soon," she said, and blew me a kiss.

S
trapped in that chair, waiting, I was cold. Not from the temperature, from inside me. I went into that safe place, the place where ice cauterizes, makes you numb. You can think things there, but you can't feel them. I didn't want to feel….The only option on that menu was Terror.

I had a plan going in—I thought it over first. It was a good plan—no way Belinda was going to kill me in her own apartment—too many risks. How could she explain it to the cops?

But after she explained it to me, I could see it happening.

Getting people out of the way, that was the real plan. Hauser was too much of a news hound to let him stay around. No telling what kind of stunt he'd pull if he thought there was a story in it. The Prof and Clarence, they were professionals all right, but they were my family first. The last time I got them in something…that time in the Bronx…I wasn't going to do that again.

I wanted to save Max for vengeance. If it came to that, he could take his time, work around the edges, strike when it was safe. Max isn't bulletproof—but if you don't know he's coming, he can't be stopped.

I had my backup ready: brains and muscle both. The Mole and Frankie. Only the Mole is a lunatic and Frankie's down to one arm.

I rocked in the chair, trying to tip it over. Maybe I could get free that way—maybe the crash would say something to the people downstairs. She hadn't put a gag in my mouth, so I figured yelling would be a waste of time. I shoved hard to my right—the chair didn't budge. I couldn't see where the legs met the floor, but I guess it was anchored somehow.

Calm, stay calm. I tried to remember everything I'd learned about escapes. There was a young guy I did time with once. He could get out of handcuffs like he was greased. The trick was to fold your hands over so they were no wider than your wrist—he was always practicing it. He would let you hold his wrist, tight as you wanted. And then just pull it free. I tried, but it was no good. Something like that takes practice….

There was a little play in the waist strap—I had pushed all the air in my lungs into my stomach when I saw what Belinda was going to do—I'd remembered at least that much. But it wasn't enough…I just had more room to squirm, a worm on a hook.

I could feel the baby spot beaming down on me, a hot, focused light. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beat…faster than I wanted, but still below the panic line. Maybe Morales would get the drop on her…Then all I'd have to worry about was starving to death.

If there's a way in, there's a way out. I said it to myself, over and over again, a mantra that gave me no peace. If only I had…

I heard the deadbolt on the front door snap open. The sound froze my heart. I stopped breathing. A thin beam of light came around the corner.

"Jesus Christ!" It was Frankie, a flashlight in his hand, the lens taped so only a sliver of light came through. He came forward slowly, wary as a stray dog offered food.

"I'm okay," I told him, willing calm into my voice. "But hurry it up, all right?"

He moved quickly to where I was strapped in. I saw the Mole materialize over his left shoulder, his leather satchel in his hand. The Mole pushed Frankie out of the way, held up his hand so Frankie couldn't get any closer.

"You wired up?" he asked me, making a sniffing noise like a bomb dog.

"No."

The Mole nodded, satisfied. He put his satchel on the floor, knelt to open it. Then he carefully examined the straps through his Coke–bottle glasses. He shook his head in disgust, reached in his satchel and came out with what looked like a giant pair of scissors. The scissors had a pistol grip on one side with a wide handle on the other, a spring between them. The Mole worked it under the strap on my left arm, resting the base of the scissors on the chair itself. He leaned forward, grunting with effort, and the thick leather parted. I flexed my arm, working some of the stiffness out while the Mole did the other strap, around my right arm. I could have slipped out then, but the Mole did the waist strap too, and I was free.

"She went out the front door, headed downtown," Frankie said. "We couldn't follow her. I mean, not and get in here too."

"You did the right thing," I told him, climbing into my clothes. "It doesn't matter anyway—I know where she's going."

"Can we—?" Frankie asked.

"You got a car?" I interrupted.