To Hell in a Handbasket (21 page)

Nick's forehead furrowed. “If he tries to crash through the block
ade, my mother could be hurt.”

Owen tapped the mike against his chin. “There's that risk. But we think he'll be too smart for that. Most likely, when he sees the blockade, he'll pull a U-turn. By then, we'll have set up our own blockade behind him. He'll have nowhere to go.”

It seemed like a smart plan to Claire. Hopefully it would work—and result in Ivanov peacefully surrendering, so no one would get hurt. But that was asking for a lot.

Judy and Nick looked drained, faces drawn with worry. The knuckles of the hands they held clutched together had gone white.

They probably didn't have any feeling left in their fingers, Claire
thought and wished she had Roger nearby so she could hold his hand. She glanced at the Summit County cruiser behind them. How much had that officer told Roger about what was going on?

Owen chattered on the radio, making plans for the two blockades and getting status reports on Ivanov's location from the two state patrol cars that now had Ivanov's black SUV sandwiched between them. They each were staying about a quarter mile away to keep his suspicions from being aroused.

Ramstead eased up on the accelerator.

“What's happening?” Claire asked. “Why are we slowing down?”

“We're about three miles behind him now,” Owen said. “We'll stay that far back to give us time to set up the blockade behind him after we all get off the highway. The exit's coming up soon.

“Now, I need you three to cooperate once we stop. There's no time for arguments. This car won't be part of the blockade. We'll swap Mr. Hanover for myself, and Ramstead here will drive you four out of shooting range. And you'll stay put and do whatever he says, right?” He peered at each of them in turn.

Nick and Judy nodded, and Claire said, “Yes, sir.”

Owen stared at Claire a little longer. When she didn't flinch, he seemed satisfied and turned around.

He pointed out the Eagle exit to Ramstead. “We'll go through the roundabout then turn right on Highway 6. Right outside of town there's a mile stretch with no side streets. Airport security and the first state cruiser will set up on the other side. We'll stop at this end, do the swap, then you take these civilians up the nearest side road. I'll radio you when it's over.”

Ramstead nodded as he exited the interstate. The expression on his face reflected in the rearview mirror showed disappointment that he would miss out on the action.

In a way, Claire was disappointed, too, but felt glad Judy would be out of harm's way. And Roger. Her lips twitched. Of course, he was probably thinking the same thing about her.

As Ramstead drove through the roundabout, then headed west,
the streets of the dark town were deserted, though lights showed in some of the condo and hotel windows. Claire checked her watch. Almost eleven. Sunday night in the small mountain town was dead.

She cringed.
Bad word choice.

After they left town, Owen pointed to a lone side street on the left. “Pull over there.”

The other Summit County cruiser pulled in behind them, and Roger hopped out.

The state patrol car that had been in front of them positioned itself across the two-lane highway, past the point where the side street intersected.

With a last “stay put,” Owen got out and ran to the cruiser behind them. He gave Roger a pat on the shoulder as the two passed each other.

As soon as Roger closed the door, Ramstead took off down the side road then turned around about a mile away. He put the car in park and turned off the lights but left the engine running and the heater going. His fingers began a nervous staccato on the steering wheel.

Roger turned to Claire. “So, as I understand it, Ivanov's between the two blockades, but we don't know if Angela's with him.”

“Right, but—”

“He spotted us and made a U-turn,” a voice on the radio said. “He's headed your way. We're in pursuit.”

The two cruisers at their end must have turned on their lights. Red and blue flashed in the distance in front of them.

Everyone strained forward to hear the radio.

Owen's voice came on. “We see him. He's coming straight at us. He's not slowing down . . . Shoot at the tires, not the vehicle! We don't want to harm the hostage.”

Three shots rang out. Tires screeched.

Claire held her breath, hoping she wouldn't hear the sound of a crash next.

“He drove off the highway, went around us,” Owen said. “One tire's out. Ramstead, he's headed your way!”

“Shit!” Ramstead flipped on the lights and positioned the cruiser
across the road. He slammed on the brake, unlocked the doors, and pulled out his gun.
“Everyone out. There's a flashlight in the glovebox. Get in the ditch.”

Nick jumped out, letting cold air blast into the car, and pulled on Judy's arm. “C'mon!”

Claire and Roger ran to catch up with the young couple. Roger beamed the flashlight into the ditch beside the road. About three feet deep, the bottom looked to be a jumbled mix of weeds, rocks, ice and snow.

Nick slid into the ditch with a clatter of loose gravel and frozen snow clods, and helped Judy down. He offered his hand to Claire.

Holding on, she scooted down on her bottom then stood. One foot slipped on an ice puddle, and her sore knee buckled. A white hot flash of pain shot up her leg.

Nick steadied her, then pulled her and Judy beside him.

Roger slipped down the embankment next to Claire, scattering his own little avalanche of dirt and snow.

Claire popped her head up over the rim of the ditch. When Roger tried to pull her down again, she pushed him away. “I need to see what happens.”

“If shooting starts, I'll knock you down.” Gritting his teeth, Roger turned off the flashlight.

Owen's voice sounded from the radio in Ramstead's cruiser, “You in position, Ramstead?”

Legs planted, Ramstead stood behind the cruiser, licking his lips and aiming his service pistol down the road. He keyed his shoulder radio. “Yes, sir. Civilians are in the ditch.”

A rough, lumbering rattle made Claire whip her head around. The black Range Rover barreled down the road with a flat front tire flopping against the rim. Three cruisers followed close behind with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

As the SUV neared and its headlights lit up Ramstead, he held up an arm. “Stop!”

Ivanov kept coming.

Claire clenched her fists.

Ramstead fired a slug through the Range Rover's front grill, then
leapt to one side, rolled, and came up on one knee, gun still pointed at the SUV.

Steam poured out of the punctured radiator. The Range Rover skidded and swerved. Its speed slowed, but it still slammed into the side of Ramstead's cruiser.

Owen's voice came out of Ramstead's car radio. “Good work, Ramstead. Stay put and cover us.”

Ramstead kept his gun aimed at Ivanov.

Owen's cruiser and the state patrol car screeched to a halt behind the Range Rover. The three officers ran out, all but Owen with pistols drawn. They crept along either side of the Range Rover.

Claire could see Ivanov's head resting on the steering wheel.
Has he given up? Is he injured? Or only pretending and hiding a weapon?
She held her breath.

The state patrolman and the officer who drove Owen opened
the
driver and passenger front doors simultaneously, yelling, “Freeze!
” then, “Hands up!”

Ivanov slowly raised his hands. They were empty.

With a whoosh, Claire let out the breath she had been holding.

Nick lurched forward, but Roger pulled him back. “Wait, Nick, until they've got him cuffed.”

“But Mom—”

“A few seconds won't make a difference.”

Within those seconds, the police cuffed Ivanov, searched him, and laid him out on the road with Ramstead's boot on Ivanov's back and his gun aimed at the Russian's head. A cocky grin played across the man's lips.

Owen opened the far back door of the Range Rover and looked in. He called out, “Nickolas Contino,” then leaned into the vehicle.

Nick bolted out of the ditch, followed by Judy, Claire, and Roger. They ran over to the car, and Nick wrenched open the near back door.

Angela Contino sat up, rubbing her wrists, where Owen had just finished cutting off a rope. She held out her arms for Nick.

Nick gathered her in a fierce hug. “You all right, Mom?”

“I am now, honey.”

They looked at each other, tears running down their cheeks, then clutched each other again.

Claire pulled Roger and Judy away. “Let's give them a moment of privacy.”

She walked over to Owen, who was reciting rights to Ivanov. The man lay in the road cursing his fate, Petrov, and the Continos. At least that's what she assumed he was doing, since the names were all she could make out among the angry Russian words.

When Ivanov saw her, he spat at her and resumed his cursing.

Claire kicked dirt over the glob of already-freezing spittle in front of her shoe. For a second, she was tempted to do the same to Ivanov but realized the impotent Russian mob boss wasn't worth the effort.

She put her hand on Owen's shoulder. “You did it. You caught him.”

Owen shot her a wry grin. “Yep, and Ramstead will be impossible to live with for a couple of weeks.”

He turned serious. “But we wouldn't have figured out who killed Stephanie Contino and Boyd Naylor—or why—without your help.” He offered his hand.

A warm glow of pride suffused Claire while she shook hands. “Thanks.”

She turned to the Range Rover, and saw that Nick and Angela had climbed out. Judy wrapped her arms around the two of them. Claire frowned.
Now, on to problem number two.

Twenty:
What's Best for Judy

Claire awoke Monday morning
to a ringing in her ears and a muzzy, thick tongue. She glanced at the clock. Almost ten.
Boy, we slept in.
Of course, after the drive back from Eagle and giving statements to Owen, they hadn't gotten back to the townhouse until well past two a.m. She still felt bushed.
What woke me up?

The doorbell rang.

Ah, ha.
She crawled out of bed and limped into the closet to fetch her robe.

Roger shifted then opened one eye to peer at her. “Why're you up?”

“Someone's at the front door.” She gave him a kiss. “I'm going to answer it.”

With a groan, Roger sat up. “I'll go with you.”

They padded down the stairs in their slippers and opened the door.

Nick stood on the stoop. Wearing a sheepish expression, he looked them over. “Sorry to get you out of bed. May I come in?”

Roger waved him in and took his coat while Claire loaded the coffeepot.

Nick ran his hand through his already-mussed hair. “Mom and I have been up all night talking. We decided we need to get away for a while, where Ivanov's mob can't reach us.”

“Isn't the Russian mob worldwide?” Claire asked.

“They're not in Sicily,” Nick said. “Mom has cousins there who said they'd put us up.”

“Don't you have charges pending?” Roger asked. “Kidnapping and obstruction of justice, if I remember correctly.”

Nick nodded. “I talked to the DA this morning. Detective Silverstone lobbied to drop the kidnapping charge, said Judy went along willingly and he probably would have done the same thing if
she were his girlfriend. And I agreed to community service in exchange for dropping the obstruction charge. I'll be contacting Dad's business associates to ask them for donations to the Summit Foundation, and I'll put in some hours doing hands-on work, too.”

Claire set out coffee cups. “How can you leave, then?”

“I have a year to fulfill my obligation, and the work doesn't have to be done here. The DA agreed that it's probably a good idea for Mom and me to disappear for a while.”

“What about your classes?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nick frowned. “I'll have to wash out this semester. If I explain what happened to the dean of
the business school, he should allow me to maintain my active
student status even if I drop all my spring classes. Hopefully I can pick up my studies again in the fall somewhere else, maybe even Italy.”

Roger quirked an eyebrow at Claire then asked Nick, “So you plan to stay in Italy?”

Nick's returning stare was both defiant and desolate. “If we have to.”

Claire leaned on the counter, bolstering her confidence to ask the question they had all been tiptoeing around. “What about you and Judy?”

“That's why I'm here,” Nick replied. “I need to talk to her.”

Roger gave a nod, his face serious, as if anticipating Judy's reaction to Nick's news. “I'll wake her up.”

While Roger headed downstairs, Claire poured herself a cup of coffee. “You want coffee, Nick?”

“No, thank you. I've already drunk a whole pot of Mom's tea.”

Claire sat on a stool by the counter. “I want you to know that Roger and I think you're a fine young man, and we know you and Judy care a great deal about each other.”

She paused.
How should I phrase what I need to say next?

Nick's dark eyes were wells of sadness. “But—”

Claire's heart went out to the miserable young man. “Judy is our daughter, and we worry about her safety.” She laid her hand on his arm. “As I know you do, too.”

“Yes,” Nick whispered.

Footsteps signaled that Roger and Judy were ascending the stairs.
Claire picked up her coffee cup. “I know you'll do the right thing. And if it helps you to know, we'll provide whatever comfort and support Judy needs to get through this.”

With a gulp, Nick said, “That does help. Thank you.”

Judy entered the room, sleepy-eyed, barefoot, and wearing her sheep-print flannel pajamas. As Nick's gaze swept toward her, it was obvious that everyone else in the room was forgotten by the couple.

While Judy walked over to hug Nick, Claire poured Roger a cup of coffee. “Let's go watch some TV.” She pointed with her chin toward their bedroom door.

Claire followed Roger up the stairs. When she turned to close the door, she saw Nick pulling Judy down to sit on the sofa, his lips drawn into a determined line. She wished she could protect Judy from what she was about to hear, that she could stop her daughter's heart from breaking.

She sighed and shut the door.

Roger had turned on CNN. The two of them sat on the bed and quietly sipped coffee, until Claire lost patience with the depressing stories of war, terrorism, and disasters and switched the channel to a game show.

“You think he's breaking up with her?” Roger asked.

Claire nodded. “And it'll make them both miserable.”

“I wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?” Claire scanned his face.

“If they really need to break up. After all, Ivanov's in jail.”

“But what about the rest of his gang? And the whole Russian mob? Somebody's bound to target Nick. He's smart to get out of the country and to put some distance between himself and Judy.”

“I suppose.” But Roger didn't sound convinced.

Raised voices filtered up from downstairs. Though Claire ached to know what the love-struck couple was saying, she bumped up the volume on the TV to drown them out. Soon the front door slammed.

Judy burst through their doorway moments later, with tears running down her cheeks. She collapsed on the bed, sobbing.

Roger turned off the TV and retrieved a box of tissues from the bathroom.

Claire stroked her daughter's hair and waited for the storm to abate. Finally, as the sobs diminished, she asked, “Want to talk about it, dear?”

Judy sat up and swiped at her nose. “Nick's being totally unreasonable. He said he's going to Sicily and I shouldn't wait for him to return. He said I should date other people.”

She shoved herself off the bed and paced the room. “He has no right to tell me that. I love him! I told him I'd wait as long as it takes. Or go to Sicily, if I have to. But he refuses to tell me where he's staying or how to contact him.”

Claire shot a worried glance at Roger. The conversation between Nick and Judy hadn't gone exactly as she thought it would. “Did he try to break up with you?”

“Yes, but I refused. I said I'd break off the relationship only if he looked me in the eye and told me he didn't love me.” She stopped and stood with hands on her hips.

“And—” Claire prompted.

A triumphant gleam lit Judy's eyes. “He couldn't do it. He loves me and I love him. We belong together. It's as simple as that.”

Oh, God.
“What did Nick say to that?”

Judy waved her hand in the air. “Said Ivanov's organization will go after him, that I wouldn't be safe with him.”

“He's right, you know.”

“I'll take my chances.”

Claire hated to do it, but it was time to sink the knife in deep. “Will you take chances with his life, honey, with the life of the man you love?”

Judy stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“If the Russian mob gets its hands on either you or his mother, kidnaps you, and threatens to kill you, what will he do?”

Judy opened her mouth then hesitated.

“He said it in the car last night,” Claire continued, “in reference to his mother, but he would do the same for you. He'd buckle under and go to work for the mob to save your life. Do you want that for him, Judy? A life of crime?”

The realization slapped Judy in the face, wiping clean her look of defiance and replacing it with horror. “No. God, no.”

Knife set, time to twist it.
Claire swallowed back tears. Once again, the old adage of “this will hurt me more than it hurts you” applied.

“Then if you love him, you have to let him go.”

Judy's face crumpled as the tears began flowing again.

Roger gathered her in his arms.

She stared at Claire over his shoulder. “Dammit, Mom, why does doing the right thing have to hurt so much?”

_____

Claire walked into the family room that afternoon, where Judy lay under an afghan on the sofa, staring blankly at a black-and-white movie on cable TV and clutching a pillow to her chest. A pile of used tissues sat next to the box on the coffee table.

I knew she would just sit around and mope.
Claire hadn't wanted to leave Judy alone to go skiing with Roger, but he insisted, saying Judy needed some time alone to accept her situation. Busy brushing snow and ice off their ski equipment in the garage, he couldn't see how miserable Judy had made herself while they were gone.

Claire sat on the sofa arm and swept a lock of Judy's hair off her forehead, then left her arm resting on her daughter's shoulder. “I'm going to buy some things to make a thank you basket for Owen Silverstone.”

“Why?”

“If not for him and his office catching Ivanov, you or Angela Contino could be hostages or dead right now. I want him to know we appreciate having our daughter safe in our arms again.”

“Okay, I'll be here when you get back.”

“You're going with me.”

Judy shot Claire a “what-are-you-kidding?” look.

“You need to get up and do something to take your mind off this
situation with Nick, and I want some help picking out stuff.”

Judy returned her gaze to the TV. “I'd rather stay here.”

“I know. But I'd rather you didn't.” Claire stood and offered her
hand. “C'mon. I'll keep bugging you, and you won't be able to hear the rest of the movie anyway.”

Judy let out a monumental sigh, then threw off the afghan and sat up. “All right, already. Give me half an hour to shower and dress.”

An hour later, the two of them were downtown in a sporting goods store. Claire picked up a boxed set of double-walled plastic beer mugs with trout flies embedded between the walls.
Perfect.
She walked over to Judy, who was studying the small gifts in a glass display case by the cash register.

“Owen's receptionist said he likes fly fishing, so I'll build the basket around that theme,” Claire said. “He was drinking a beer at the fundraiser, so we'll get these and a twelve-pack of assorted Breckenridge Brewery beers.”

Judy pointed at a pewter keychain in the display case with two pewter trout hanging off it. “What about this, too?”

“Great idea.” Claire waved over a store employee and asked her to get out the keychain.

When the clerk saw their purchases, she picked up a bag of candy hanging on a rack on the other side of the register. “Giving a gift to a fisherman? How about these chocolate river rocks?”

“You are a smart saleswoman,” Claire said with a smile. “Add them in.”

They stopped at the brewery next to buy the beer, then Claire said to Judy, “Now, if we could find some fishing-related music that he could listen to while he's having a drink, the basket would be complete.”

Judy raised a skeptical brow. “Fishing music? Good luck.”

They walked into a music store, and Claire waved over a long-haired clerk with a ski-goggle tan. “I've got an unusual request. I'm putting together a gift basket for a fisherman, and I was wondering if you had any CDs with the word ‘fish' in their titles, or by bands with ‘fish' in their names, or even with a fish on the cover.”

“That is unusual,” the clerk replied. “Let me do a computer search.” He typed “fish” into his computer, scanned the results, then flashed Claire a goofy grin. “I've got the perfect CD.
Ask the Fish
by Leftover Salmon.”

He walked to a rack, flipped through a tray, and pulled out a CD with a large orange salmon on the cover. “It's even on sale because it was cut in 2001.”

Claire took the CD. “What kind of music is it?”

“Cajun slamgrass.”

“What the heck is that?”

“Sort of a mix of blues, Southern rock, and bluegrass.”

Judy pursed her lips. “I doubt he'd like that kind of music, Mom.”

Claire thought back to the times she had visited Silverstone in his office. “I remember hearing Tab Benoit playing in his office once. That's Southern blues, right?”

The clerk gave a nod. “Pretty close match to Leftover Salmon.”

“And it matches the basket's theme,” Claire said. “At least it's not punk rock or that stuff they were playing in Sherpa & Yeti's.”

The music clerk's eyes widened in surprise, and he gave Claire the once-over, as if he couldn't believe she had been in the nightclub.

Claire handed him the CD. “We'll take it.”

_____

Claire and Judy returned to the house, where Claire dug through the supplies she had brought with her to find a suitably sized basket and packaging materials. After constructing the gift, she dragged an unwilling Judy with her to visit Owen at the Summit County Justice Center.

He looked up from his computer when they walked in and watched Claire place the basket on the center of his desk. “What's this?”

“A small appreciation gift from us.” Claire waved Judy into Owen's
visitor chair and borrowed the other detective's visitor chair for herself. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Rubbing his chin, Owen said, “We're not supposed to accept gifts over fifty dollars from private citizens. It could be misconstrued as a bribe by defense attorneys.”

Claire did some quick mental calculations, leaving out the basket. That was packaging, after all. “You're safe. It's under the limit.”