Severed Threads (15 page)

Rachel grasped the handrail. “Body?”

“Just came over the radio. The SPPD thinks it might’ve been a homeless guy but they’re not sure yet. It wasn’t bad enough that the poor sap was beaten to a pulp. Whoever did it finished him off with a point blank shot in the face. It’ll take days before they I.D. him.”

Thirteen

Forty-eight hours had slowly passed as they waited in the sleazy hotel room. Marcos was slouched in his chair, thumbing through a smut magazine, his white sleeveless t-shirt exposing his huge chest and biceps – a physique built in all probability from bench-pressing up to five hundred pounds a day. His black tattoos looked like a roadmap to his time spent in prison and covered his brown skin with no rhyme or reason. On the opposite side of the table, Viktor shuffled cards, preparing for another round of poker. He wore his usual tight-fitting back shirt and loved touching his small muscles, which probably “arrived” with good genes and not through hard work. His cocky demeanor reminded Devon of a guy he met once who didn’t realize that people were bigger and stronger than he was and if told he was small, he simply won’t believe you. Besides idly flicking his knife, Vik had a peculiar habit of rubbing his bare head and flexing his right shoulder every time Pollero was around – like a nervous itch he couldn’t scratch. When he smirked, which was often, it came with a nasty curled lip and a scared dent in his chin. Between phone calls from Pollero and bathroom breaks, the slimy duo flipped through old movie channels, bragged about their guns, their female conquests, and the size of their dicks.

Devon tried his best to remain unaffected – to follow the rules for survival. Unless he was in immediate danger, he needed to bide his time. To wait for a slip-up then use the opportunity to escape. But patience was never his strong suit. He stood up and resumed his ritual, pacing back and forth in front of the curtains, consumed with Rachel and Selena’s safety.

Whomp!
A brown plaid pillow hit him square in the chest.

One look at Marcos’ snarl and he knew exactly where it came from. "Keep it up and I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck,” he promised.

Asshole.
Devon dropped his shoulder against the wall. He remained silent, measuring the validity of the man’s threat. Without a doubt, Marcos’ endurance was wearing thin but not on his account. Without asking, Viktor had drunk the last beer in the fridge while Devon watched him. Then he filled the ashtray with his smelly hand-rolled cigarettes. And now, with his poker losses piling up before Marcos, his open blade was resting on the table only inches away. He dealt another hand and peered over the top of his cards. He anted up the last of his wadded bills and waited like a flea-bitten alley cat for his rat to move.

After witnessing their verbal jabs for the past two hours, Devon was convinced that a fight would break out any minute – especially if Marcos delivered the final winning hand. On cue, Marcos’ cheek began twitching. His nostrils flared. He picked up a handful of bills and matched Viktor’s bet. He laid down two jacks and a pair of tens then boasted, “Beat that.” Confident in his win, he leaned forward to collect his money.

Viktor’s face tensed, adding furor to his demented stare. He grabbed his knife and plunged it into the table.

Marcos shot out of his seat. “Are you crazy?” he yelled.

The Russian psycho waved his four kings in the air. "I win. Read ‘em ‘n die.”

"
Weep
, you fuckin’ idiot."

"Why I do that?"

“
Forget it!”

Viktor scooped up his cash, keeping a wary eye on his partner.

“
Deal again,
socio,
” Marcos demanded. “I’ll prove you were lucky.”

Shit!
Devon kicked a pile of dirty clothes out of his way. He dropped down onto the foot of the bed. Close quarters and empty food cartons had turned the air into boiled sweat socks.

"It’s hot in here," Devon complained. “Can’t you crack a window or something?”

Marcos twisted in his seat. "How bout I crack your head, amigo?"

His partner flicked his lighter, igniting the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He drew in a short breath and blew out a stream. "Do it, Marcos,” he said. “Snuff him out…just like friend.”

Friend?
Devon swallowed hard. “What are you talking about? Pollero told me that Logan is – ”

“
What?” Marcos sniped. “Kissing nurses? Eating strawberry Jell-O?”

Devon’s hands were now balled into fists.

“
What is Jell-O?” Viktor asked.

Marcos rolled his eyes. He snatched the bag of Doritos from the floor and jammed the remaining chips in his mouth. He crumpled up the bag and tossed it aside. “When’s the pizza coming?” he grumbled.

Devon silently fumed. Why had he allowed himself to be taken in? To believe Logan had actually survived? With reckless abandon, he reached down and picked up the phone receiver. “I’ll call and find out."

Marcos’ black eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. "Just try it, smart ass."

He ignored the threat and began punching numbers. “9-1-1, right?”

“
Put it down!” Marcos yelled. He stood up and shoved the table, dumping everything on it. Devon pitched the phone at his head, but Marcos blocked it with his forearm, sending it flying. Before he had a chance to deliver a bone-shattering blow, Devon swung a powerful upper cut into Marcos’ gut, slamming him into the wall.

“
Omph,” came from his mouth.

Devon threw another punch with all his might, snapping Marcos’s head hard to the right. He followed with a kick to his midsection, sending him spinning and bouncing off the adjacent wall. With a blank look on his face, Marcos collapsed onto his knees.

Blind rage drove Devon on. He charged at Vik, ducking just as his fist hit the air. With precise aim, Devon landed a punch, lifting the Ukrainian and smashing him into the floor on his back. He straddled his chest and drew back his fist to deliver another blow. But Marcos caught Devon’s arm, blocking his punch. He wrenched his elbow behind his back, forcing him off of Vik. Then with a quick jab to Devon’s ribs, Marcos dropped him to his knees.

“
You’re dead,” he yelled. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He grabbed the knife from the floor and brought it tight against Devon’s throat.

"What the fuck’s going on here?" Pollero's voice blasted across the room. He stood in the open doorway, his frowning bodyguard at his side. "Get off the floor…all of you,” he ordered.

Viktor jerked Devon to his feet. He shoved him toward the bed then crossed the room to right the table and toppled chair.

Marcos’ frown deepened. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He glared at Devon, massaging his bruised chin. "It wasn’t my fault," he growled.

"It
never
is," Pollero scolded. "And why the fuck is it so hot in here? Open a goddamn window."

Marcos moved to the window and jerked the curtains back, nearly ripping them off the rod. He flipped a lever and shoved open the glass pane. Pollero joined him and murmured something that seemed to calm his tirade. All the while, his slick sidekick stood in the doorway, his narrow black eyes fixed firmly on Devon's face.

The phone on the nightstand suddenly came to life.

"Pick it up," Pollero said.

Marcos moved quickly, grabbing the receiver. After a brief indecipherable exchange, he hung up. He faced his boss and launched into a Spanish explanation. Although Devon's comprehension was limited,
crystal meth
and
courier
transcended any language.

Viktor ran a hand over his smooth scalp before piping up. "I go this time. We can handle it. Right, Bo?"

Pollero’s bodyguard lowered his layered arms. A question mark resonated on his face.

"Forget it,” Pollero answered. “She’s got it handled, just like always.”

Devon was lost. Who the hell was he talking about?

“
Just do the job you’re paid to do and – ”

Boom!
The explosion outside rattled the window in its frame. From where Devon stood, he could see flames shooting high into the night sky. Fire was encompassing a vessel in the harbor. Perhaps a sailboat boat, a tour boat or maybe a fishing charter. In the streets below, spectators flowed from surrounding buildings and parked vehicles. They collected in masses on the docks and waterfront watching and waiting like sharks for the first sign of blood.

Marcos turned from the window. "Nice…”

Pollero’s eyes gleamed. He faced Devon and flashed his perfect white smile. "I heard that pretty sister of yours is working with Chase Cohen. Be a real shame if she was on that boat."

Fourteen

Chase never understood the purpose of wearing a little noose around your neck. It just wasn’t his style. While parked in the federal courthouse parking lot, he pulled off his Tommy Bahamas t-shirt and tossed it onto the seat next to him. He slipped on a stiff white shirt, buttoned it to the neck and tucked it into his jeans. Then pushing aside his resistance, he tied his purple happy dot tie with a four-in-hand knot and cinched it tight against his throat.

As it turned out, his attire was the least of his problems. All afternoon, he sat in the courtroom, his thoughts wrapping around Rachel’s unpredictable mood swings and strange behavior. His preoccupation with her left him appearing mindless, uninvolved and, in general, board stiff. By day’s end, Chase’s attorney had to call his name three times before he finally answered, leaving the judge hesitant to grant his exclusive salvage rights.

Rachel.
What was he going to do with that woman?

He returned to his truck with papers in hand, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his strangling tie. As he waited for the traffic light to change, two blaring emergency vehicles and a fully manned fire engine whizzed by. They were traveling due west through the center of town. Chase edged his truck closer to the vehicle ahead of him and watched them weave with precision through the congested intersection.

What’s going on?
His gaze lifted toward the skyline in the distance. Just beyond the towering rooftops, gray smoke was billowing and darkening the early evening sky. Trepidation seeped into his soul. When the light changed, he searched for a gap in traffic then pulled out and accelerated, following the deafening procession toward the marina. When he arrived, cops were everywhere: pressing through hordes of onlookers and blocking off access to the marina. Local reporters with their camera crews in tow appeared to be negotiating for prime locations. Off to his left, the ambulance waited as paramedics checked for possible survivors. And just beyond the man-made reef, hoses from Coast Guard boats were running full bore, saturating a blazing hull.

With no place to park, Chase abandoned his truck beside a dumpster in an alleyway. Like a man possessed, he scrambled down the walkway dividing two waterfront shops. He squeezed through an opening in the security fence. Forty to fifty boats ranging from decades old motor cruisers to sail-driven skiffs bobbed on anchor lines in the north harbor. Nothing seemed odd or out of place. Once he reached the first row of docks, he picked up speed, visually scanning the vessels moored there for the night. When he reached the final section of occupied slips, he was stopped dead in his tracks. Number Forty-Nine was empty. His gaze claimed the south harbor, where his boat was now fully engulfed in flames.

Alegria!
His part-time home, only possession. Sole means of survival. Why would anyone do this? A sickening punched-in-the-gut sensation weakened his knees. He wrapped an arm around the wood post at the end of the dock to keep from toppling over.

A young police officer approached and stopped a short distance away, balancing his rocking stance. "Excuse me, sir. No one's allowed down here."

Chase turned around. He had no interest in addressing the rookie's remarks. Not with venom gathering in his heart.

The officer’s face softened. "Oh, it’s you, Mr. Cohen. I’m Gary Saunders. My dad’s the publisher for the
Examiner.
I’ve been reading about you for some time now. Treasure hunting…wow! Must be an exciting way to live. Anyway, I just wanted to assure you that we’ll get to the bottom of this, sir."