Cliff whispered something to Cindy and headed for the back hallway. Too bad. He’d been using coded language to discuss a gun deal with his pool opponent—I was sure of it. But Cindy had interrupted it before I heard a location.
Cliff’s shit-eating grin said he was about to get lucky.
Cindy headed for the front door instead of following him the way I expected—not a quick blowjob out back after all.
I shifted my concentration to the two guys at the farthest pool table. They weren’t a pair I recognized, and before long it became clear that the shorter one was an Oxy supplier. Finally, something I could use—not big, but better than nothing.
Money and a baggie changed hands at the end of the pool match, and two more guys lined up to play Shorty.
A half hour later, both of them had lost to Shorty and handed over money, but come away with pills. I’d also learned that Shorty’s name was Paulo. He’d told them he played at the Sandbar one town over on the weekends. That’s what I needed for Riggs—an easy bust, and away from here, with no connection to me.
I checked my watch. It had been forty-five minutes since Debbie had gone to call her uncle. It obviously had gone the way I’d expected, and her uncle had laid down the law.
Uncle Lloyd would get his way, and life would go on. She’d go back to California and her suffocatingly rich family.
Given enough time, I’d get over her, because I had no other choice. Fighting them for her would be like trying to stop the Mississippi River. It couldn’t be done. Not it shouldn’t be done, but it couldn’t be done.
Cindy stopped by the table. “More nachos?”
I shook my head. “Not tonight, thanks.” Now that I had something for Riggs, I could quit early.
She picked up the empty plate. “Struck out with the redhead, I see. She took off in one hell of a hurry.”
I shrugged. “Not my problem.”
Once outside, I scanned the lot. No Harley with an eagle on the tank anywhere.
Debbie
The hood was still over my head, and the condensation inside it wet my face, but at least I could breathe.
Through the fabric, I could see enough to tell the lights were on. I lay on a mattress in a dank, musty room, with zip ties cutting into my wrists. I quit struggling against them when it only made the pain worse.
How had I fallen for it? Going behind buildings was off my list of approved activities. I should have known better after the gas station.
As I concentrated on the voices in the other room, I made out snippets of what they were saying.
“Do you think they can afford ten million?” the woman asked.
“The bitch’s family is rich. It won’t be a problem,” the man answered.
When he said the words rich and bitch, I put it together. The scar and the voice from last night and now were the same as at the incident behind the gas station: Scarface.
I’d sensed he was bad news, but not this bad.
“When should we make the call?” the woman asked. It was Chesty’s voice, the waitress who’d sent me around back. That part made sense now.
“I say now. The sooner we get to that tropical island, the better.”
The words after that became harder to hear, but I heard the man say, “Ten million by three tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in touch with directions…” A few seconds later he bellowed, “Three tomorrow or I send her back piece by piece.”
I almost gagged at the threat, but swallowed it back. Vomiting with this bag tightly around my face would not end well.
I heard the door open.
“Tell them who you are,” Scarface demanded.
“Deborah Benson,” I answered.
“I want to see her face.” The voice was Uncle Lloyd’s. They must have put the phone on speaker.
“No way are we letting her ID us,” Scarface responded angrily. “Ask her a question, if you don’t believe her.”
“Debbie, name the cousin you first contacted,” my uncle said.
I thought quickly. “Josh from SF,” I replied through the hood.
“That’s enough,” Scarface said as the door closed again. “Three tomorrow,” he yelled from the other side of the door.
He must have taken it off speaker, because I didn’t hear any more from Uncle Lloyd.
“No extensions. Three tomorrow. Tick tock.”
Chesty gave out a happy scream. “What will you do with your five?”
I didn’t hear his answer as another door shut between me and them.
Chapter 48
Luke
The loud sound of splintering wood woke me as I jerked my head up.
“Hands where I can see them,” the man yelled.
“What the hell?” I shut my eyes against an intense light that instantly blinded me.
“FBI. Hands up, I said.” The man’s voice was insistent.
As my mind started to process what was happening, I put my hands above my head. I knew enough about this drill to do as I was told or end up another statistic in the book of police shootings.
The cold metal of handcuffs clicked onto my wrists as I kept my eyes closed against the light.
The man backed away, and the light subsided. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Where is who?” I shot back. I blinked my eyes open to make out that it was Adam fucking Cartwright and a woman who hadn’t spoken yet interrogating me in my bedroom. “What time is it? And what the hell are you doing here?”
“Where is she?” the woman asked.
I’d had enough of this treatment. I jerked my head toward Adam. “I know this asshole. Who the hell are you?” I asked. “And who the hell are you talking about?”
“This is Special Agent Cartwright,” she said. “And I’m Special Agent Brolin. Deborah Benson has been kidnapped.”
I jerked up. “Again?”
Moving fast hadn’t been a wise move. The gun Adam held now pointed at my forehead.
“Let’s start over,” he said. “Where is she?”
“We know she went to meet you last night,” Brolin added.
I took a deep breath to calm down. “She came to see me. We talked. She left. That’s all I know.”
This was how it always began. They’d subject me to endless hours of repetitive questions, trying for a slipup.
“What makes you think she’s been taken?” I asked.
“The ransom call you made,” Adam said.
“Now why would I do that? I fucking love her.” My eyes went as wide as his at my words. I’d just admitted out loud what I’d been denying to myself every night since I walked out on her.
Brolin undid my cuffs. “Get dressed.”
I knew better than to ask for a lawyer. If I did, I’d end up in a holding cell for the entire forty-eight hours. Debbie would be out there, in danger, and relying on these clowns to find her—the same FBI that had let her original kidnappers slip through their fingers almost twenty years ago and doomed her.
“A little privacy,” I told Brolin as I slid to the edge of the bed.
She turned to let me pull on my clothes.
“Now, tell me what you know,” I said as I finished with my shoes.