Sting (17 page)

She said, “There's no love lost between us.”

“Hmm. Interesting choice of words. I asked Mickey what your relationship was with Panella. He said he didn't think you had one. That you were just Josh's next of kin, and, as such, you were a pawn, and that was all there was to it.”

“There you have it.”

“No, I don't think so. In my experience, if a man wants a woman dead to the tune of two million, his reason usually involves R-rated activities. What I'm thinking—and tell me if I'm getting warm—”

“Just drop it, please?”

“Panella had a lech for you.”

She didn't say yea or nay.

“You turned him down.”

She didn't respond.

“Which irked him, and he's still irked. But he must have gotten some satisfaction from scaring off your boyfriend.”

Her reaction to that was swift and angry. “What do you know about it?”

He gave a meager, nonapologetic shrug. “Mickey liked to gossip, and we had time to kill.”

“While you were tailing me all over Tobias.”

“What happened with the boyfriend? Panella edged in on him?”

“No. There's never—ever—been anything remotely romantic between Panella and me. From either side.”

“Then why aren't you and the boyfriend still together?”

“What does it matter?”

“Maybe it doesn't. But humor me.” He nodded toward the door. “I'm a man on his way to the gallows.”

“In which case one would think you'd rather talk about something else. Your immortal soul, for instance.”

“It's doomed. No amount of talking will change that. Besides, I want to talk about this.”

“I don't.”

“What happened with—”

“He got married.”

The waspish answer momentarily silenced them. Then, in a more even tone, she repeated. “He got married. Saint Louis Cathedral. All the trimmings. The union of two families with roots deeply imbedded in New Orleans society.”

Watching her closely, he said, “Bitter pill?”

She gave a rueful smile. “No. I bear Jackson no ill will. He's a nice man. Too nice to have become involved in a scandal.”

“The scandal being that your brother was a crook.”

“Jackson and his family couldn't be associated with something that unsavory. He and his father are bigwigs in the financial community. Highly regarded and respected for their integrity. They serve on the board of a major bank.

“In fact, that's how Jackson and I met. He was put in charge of organizing the bank's Mardi Gras fete and retained Extravaganza to plan it. He and I worked together on it, and I wound up being his date for the occasion. The party was a huge success and so was the date. We were together for more than two years. Then Josh's malfeasances came to light.”

“Suddenly you're a taint on Jackson's good name. Jackson takes a hike.”

“Essentially.” She reflected for a moment. “Although I understood why he broke up, it did hurt at the time. In hindsight, however, I realize that everything worked out as it should. His bride is perfect for him. All sweetness and light. Not a breath of scandal. She has no aspirations beyond presiding over social and charitable events and being Mrs. Jackson Terrell. I would have soon grown bored with that life.”

“Not enough challenge for you.”

“I suppose. I wouldn't know how to function in a vacuum, without responsibilities, deadlines to meet, clients to pacify, vendors to haggle with.”

“A spineless brother to defend.”

She gave him a baleful look and said coldly, “Yes. That's exactly right.”

He backed off that. “You enjoy your work?”

She was still hacked, and he wasn't sure she would answer, but eventually she said, “I love it. I have an excellent staff.”

“How many people?”

“Eight full-time. Others work only the events. They're all talented and hardworking. They didn't tuck tail and run when Josh began making headlines.” Her eyes began to fill with tears again. “In fact, they remained fiercely loyal. I regret the hell they must be going through right now, not knowing whether I'm dead or alive.”

“You can blame me.”

“I do.” Her expression turned even bleaker. “You've asked me a lot of questions. Am I'm entitled to ask you
one
?”

“You can ask. Don't know if I'll answer.”

“If…” Her voice became husky with exhaustion, anxiety, fear, and a mix of other emotions he couldn't isolate and identify but wished he could. “If you finally had come to accept that I couldn't deliver Josh to you, and if I hadn't done this…” She nodded down at the wound. “If you were certain that Panella would have paid your price…” A single tear slid from the corner of her eye and ran unchecked down her cheek. She took a catchy breath. “Would you have killed me?”

H
er question hung in the air between them.

Suddenly the quiet was shattered by his name being boomed through a speaker and reverberating through the building. He sprang bolt upright and almost blacked out from the reflexive movement and the riot of pain it caused. But his left hand was steady as he aimed his pistol toward the door.

“This is Special Agent Joe Wiley, FBI. Shaw Kinnard?”

“Yeah. And I'm not deaf. Turn off that damn bullhorn.”

After a pause of several seconds, the agent spoke to them in a voice no longer amplified but loud enough to carry. “All right, you asked for me, you got me. I'm coming in.”

“Alone and unarmed,” Shaw said.

“I'm both.”

Jordie slouched with relief. “Thank God,” she breathed, and said to Shaw, “You can put the gun down now.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“But he said—”

“He's lying.”

A silhouette appeared in the open doorway, arms extended at his sides, fingers spread wide to show that his hands were empty.

She whispered, “See? He's keeping his word.”

“Not to me he isn't.”

“But—”

“Ms. Bennett?” the agent called.

Shaw nudged her with his elbow. “Don't say anything until you hit him with the spotlight.”

Jordie looked at Shaw with misgiving. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“Hit him with the spotlight.”

“So you can see to shoot him?”

“I could already have shot him, and if I'd fired, he'd be dead. Now shine the light on him.”

Still uncertain, she picked up the spotlight, turned it on, and pointed it toward the agent, who blinked against the bright beam but didn't recoil from it.

“That your guy?” Shaw asked her.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. Answer him.”

She cleared her throat. “Agent Wiley? I'm here.”

“You all right?”

“Yes. I'm fine. But Mr. Kinnard is seriously wounded.”

“How so?”

“I…I—”

Shaw said, “She stuck me in the gut.”

Joe Wiley took a moment to process that. “You're bleeding out?”

“Not quickly. But I think my entrails are filling up with pus.”

“Then you're out of options except to surrender peacefully.”

“Wrong. I could opt to kill you where you stand.”

“You do and it's likely that you and Ms. Bennett would also be cut down.”

“At least I'd die trying.”

“It still amounts to a hopeless outcome.” Joe Wiley let that sink in. “Surrender, Mr. Kinnard. You'll receive immediate medical attention. You have my word.”

During their exchange, Jordie had kept the spotlight trained on the federal agent, afraid of what either he or Shaw would do if she switched it off. She feared a hair-trigger reaction to the sudden darkness that could result in an eruption of catastrophic gunfire.

She looked at the small but menacing pistol still gripped in Shaw's hand, then into his fever-glazed eyes.
Please.
She didn't even speak the word. It was merely a beseeching movement of her lips, and it persuaded him.

He lowered his gun hand, drew in a deep breath, and released it slowly. Turning his head to bring their faces close, and speaking in a voice only she could hear, he said, “To answer your question . . . The moment I laid eyes on you, your life was spared.”

She took that in, her throat constricting with emotion. “So all this time I've been safe from you?”

“Safe from me?” He gave a grim smile and shook his head. “Not for a single second.”

He held her stare for several beats more, then, moving quickly, reached behind his back, took the knife from his seat pocket, and flicked it open. “Hold still.” He cut the cuff from their wrists. “Now go.”

“Shaw—”

“Go!” His whisper was harsh, emphatic.

Sounding alarmed, Wiley shouted from the doorway. “Ms. Bennett, what's going on?”

Shaw said,
“Go!”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Jesus!” He reached for her hand and slapped the pistol into it. “Now will you get the hell away from me?”

She hesitated a second more, then made to stand up, but Shaw grabbed her arm. “Alert him, so he won't blast you.”

“Agent Wiley,” she called shakily. “I'm coming out. I have his gun. He gave it to me. All right?”

“Hold it where I can see it.”

Shaw released her arm and gave a brusque nod. Again, she wavered, then stood up, turned away from him, and started walking slowly toward the door, holding her right hand away from her body.

In one glance, Joe evaluated the physical condition of the woman coming toward him, and his immediate impression was that she was a much diminished version of the Jordan Bennett he remembered from months before.

She was walking unsteadily. As she neared him, she raised her hands in surrender. Both her hands and her clothing were liberally bloodstained. In her right hand she was holding a small pistol.

“Set the pistol on the floor.”

She did.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Okay, just like that,” Joe said, “with arms raised.” He jerked his head toward the open door behind him. “
Now.
Hick?”

“Here!”

“She's coming out.”

She scurried past Joe and through the door. Joe stayed where he was, but he could hear Hick speaking to her quietly and urgently. After a moment, Joe spoke softly over his shoulder. “Hick, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“She all right?”

“Shaking like a leaf. Dazed. Otherwise okay.”

“What'd she say about him?”

“Badly wounded.”

“Is he armed?”

“She says he has what sounds like a nine-millimeter, but it's empty, and he hid the cartridge. Or so he told her.”

“Any other weapons?”

“A pocket knife. But in her opinion it's not much of a threat.”

Joe thought,
Yeah, but she's not a hired assassin
. “She left his palm pistol on the floor here, about ten yards inside the door. Be sure it's bagged.”

“Got it.”

Joe took several deep breaths to bolster himself mentally and physically for whatever might occur in the next few minutes, then called out Kinnard's name.

“I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me,” he said from out of the hollow gloom. “What's taking so freakin' long?”

“Turn the spotlight around so I can see you.”

“I'm not armed.”

“Convince me.”

He directed the light off Joe and onto himself. Nevertheless, Joe still could barely make him out, and he didn't trust the fucker as far as he could throw him. He reached back and slid his pistol from its holster. As he started forward, an inane thought flashed through his mind: Marsha would kill him if he got himself killed.

As he moved farther into the building, he gained a clearer view of the man sitting on what appeared to be a blue tarpaulin. He was angled thirty degrees to his right, bracing himself on that arm. His left hand was pressed against his left side, which he was obviously favoring.

“Raise your hands,” Joe said.

Grimacing, he shifted into a more upright position and removed his left hand from his side, then did as ordered. The skin across his sharp cheekbones looked stretched tight, waxy, and pale. Sweat had plastered strands of hair to his forehead. Blood had soaked into his clothes and was smeared beneath him on the tarp.

He was blinded by the spotlight, so as Joe came nearer, he had the advantage of being able to see Kinnard better than Kinnard could see him. He halted while still out of arm's reach. “Lie down and turn over.”

“Bet you a thousand bucks you lied about coming in unarmed.”

Joe gripped his extended pistol tighter. “Hands behind your head.”

“On my stomach? Hands behind my head? That'll hurt like a mother.”

“I don't give a shit. Do it.”

Either he was a damn good actor, or he really was in excruciating pain. Even the slightest motion caused him to gasp. He paused several times, switching between holding his breath and panting. It took him a full minute to do as Joe had ordered, but when he was in the position, Joe called out for Hick and the others.

Joe himself was nearly mowed down by the special ops officers in assault gear who charged into the building and rushed past him to form a ring around Kinnard, shouting at him not to move, their weapons primed to fire if he did.

Hick jogged up to Joe, who lowered his pistol to his side, noticing that his hand on the grip was wet with nervous sweat. “You called the cowboys after all.”

“The whole damn cavalry,” Hick said. He squatted and picked up the palm pistol before it got lost in the shuffle.

As Kinnard was being cuffed, he was Mirandized by a deputy, then paramedics were allowed in and, for the next five minutes, he was in their charge. While they performed triage and got an IV started, Joe glanced through the door to the outside.

Several officers, including Deputy Morrow, were grouped around Jordie Bennett. Someone had draped a slicker over her. Joe could see her lips moving, so he knew she was responding to Morrow's questions, but she was staring straight ahead through the yawning door of the building, past him and Hick, as though in a trance.

“She looks spooked,” Joe said. “Does she need medical attention?”

“She says no.”

“They should at least put her in a car, get her out of the rain.”

“They tried,” Hick said. “She wouldn't budge.”

Joe turned and met Hick's gaze. Hick raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Find out what she's telling Morrow. They're probably doping Kinnard with painkillers, and I want to talk to him before the juice takes effect.”

Hick went back outside. Joe walked past Kinnard's car, which was already being gone over by investigators from Morrow's department. Others were setting up portable lights so they could search the building, although there didn't appear to be much to search. No hiding places that Joe could see.

He stepped over two halves of a broken arrow and called a detective's attention to it. The detective squatted down. “It's a toy, the kind that comes in a kid's starter set.”

“Any blood on it?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Collect it anyway.”

Another of the officers approached Joe with a bagged object. “Thought you'd want to see this.”

Joe looked at the thing in the bag. “What is it?”

“Her weapon.”

When the detective told Joe what it was, he shook his head in awe. “No wonder he's hurting. He gonna make it?”

“He's asking, too. Paramedic told him it depends on what all was sliced and diced by this propeller. Also on how tough he is.”

One of the detectives who'd been examining the car joined them. “Agent Wiley, we just pulled this out of the tailpipe.” He handed Joe an evidence bag. “Cell phone battery. We figure it belongs to the phone we found near him on the floor.” He also passed Joe the evidence bag containing the phone.

“Thanks.”

Joe walked over to where the paramedics were transferring the suspect onto a gurney. Morrow's man cuffed both his hands to the rails. During the process, Kinnard was jostled. That brought on an outburst of vile and profane language the likes of which Joe hadn't heard since Marsha had delivered their son breach. One of the paramedics assured Kinnard that the pain med he was getting intravenously would soon begin working.

Kinnard nodded at the paramedic, but his gaze had moved beyond him and connected with Joe's. He looked him up and down and gave a derisive snort. “I didn't know the FBI was so hard up.”

Joe smiled. “I caught them on a slow day.”

“Must have. They actually issued you a weapon?”

Joe turned his back and raised his rain slicker to reveal the holster, where he'd replaced his nine-millimeter.

When he came back around, Kinnard asked, “You ever actually fired it?”

“Practice range.” When Kinnard registered his scornful opinion of that, Joe added, “At least I never got stabbed with a broken boat part. By a
girl
.” He paused, then added, “'Course, a man who takes money to kill a woman doesn't have any balls.”

Kinnard gave another snuffle of contempt and closed his eyes.

Not to be ignored, Joe nudged the sole of his cowboy boot. “Whose phone is this?”

Kinnard opened his eyes, looked at the evidence bag Joe was holding up to him, then closed his eyes again. “Get fucked.”

“If I call the last caller, who am I gonna reach?”

“I don't want to spoil the surprise.”

“Okay, be a smart-ass. It's not my shit being pumped through my system. It's not me who'll be charged with kidnapping and three homicides.” When Kinnard's slitted eyes opened wider, Joe said, “Two dead guys in Mexico. One dead Mickey Bolden. An abduction. You've had a busy week. And on account of it, my personal life was put in time-out. When I finally do go home, I look forward to getting fucked.” Joe leaned down, smiled, and whispered, “You already are.”