Fuck. No, he hadn’t. He’d taken her key, but he hadn’t removed her as someone authorized to open the box. Ephraim pursed his lips, abruptly furious with himself and with Burkett. And with his mother, if he was being honest. It wasn’t her fault that she had dementia, but it had become a fucking pain in his ass.
‘What do you think is in the box?’ he asked, stifling a yawn. He hadn’t swallowed any of what was probably drugged coffee, but he’d also had a very long day.
‘The money you and your brother stole from that bank thirty years ago. I figure that with Aubrey dead, you get to keep it all.’
Oh. Now it made sense. His mother hadn’t known that they’d given all the money to Pastor to invest as payment for joining Eden. ‘It’s marked,’ he said. Which it had been. Apparently Pastor’s connections had known how to launder it before socking it away offshore.
Burkett’s eyes lit up. ‘So you still have it. I don’t care if it’s marked. My creditors don’t care, either. We only care that you haven’t spent it.’ He tensed his jaw. ‘Tell me which bank. Now.’
Ephraim yawned again, this one faked. ‘Ask my mom,’ he said, slurring his words for effect.
‘I did. She doesn’t remember. Listen to me, Harry, and listen well. Once that sedative drags you under, you’ll be asleep for at least twelve hours. If you tell me where to find the safe-deposit box, you’ll wake up. If not, I’ll kill you and tell the cops that I shot you in self-defense because you broke into my home.’
It was what he’d expected, but rage still boiled up from Ephraim’s gut. Asshole.
He could go for his own gun, but the doctor would shoot him before he could draw it from its holster. He swallowed hard. And pretended to be getting sleepier. Play along until he lets his guard down. ‘What difference does it make what the key is for? She gave it to Mercy. The cops probably have it.’
‘True, but they’ll have to get a warrant. All that takes time.’
‘And if I tell you, I’ll wake up?’
Burkett nodded too eagerly. ‘I promise.’
Yeah, right. He let his eyelids dip to half-mast, so that he looked affected by the sedative but could still see Burkett. ‘What if she’s too batshit?’
Burkett frowned. ‘Your mother?’
Ephraim made a production of swallowing hard. ‘Yeah. What if the bank knows she’s incon . . . incomp . . .’ He pretended to be frustrated. ‘Incompetent?’
Burkett’s frown melted into a smile. ‘Then you and I will take a trip to the bank together. When you wake up, of course.’
Fuck you, asshole. But the asshole still held a gun on him, so he continued to play along. ‘Won’t work. Cops will catch me. Bank will call the cops.’
‘No, because I’ll stay with the bank teller, and if she tries anything, I’ll give her the same thing I just gave you. She won’t be making any phone calls.’
Ephraim snorted drunkenly. ‘And she’ll just drink your coffee?’
Burkett smiled. ‘I have other ways to administer the drug.’
Ephraim smiled back, making himself look as goofy as he could. ‘Then I can see my mother?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll bring her here when we’re done at the bank so that you can see her with your own eyes.’
‘Okay.’ Ephraim dropped his head to his shoulder. ‘Costa Bank,’ he slurred. ‘Main branch.’
‘Thank you,’ Burkett murmured. ‘Was that so hard?’
Ephraim let out a sleepy groan and let his eyes droop closed. He was tensed, though, listening for the sound of Burkett’s finger on the trigger of his silenced gun. So far so good, he thought when nothing happened. I’m still here. He played possum for at least two minutes, biding his time until he heard the shuffle of the doctor’s shoes on the carpet, followed by an audible sigh of relief.
‘Sleep well, Harry,’ the man said softly. ‘Sorry about this, really.’
Amateur, Ephraim thought with contempt, then braced himself when he heard the jangle of . . . It didn’t matter. Springing from the sofa headfirst, he stayed below the line of fire to head-butt the doctor’s gut. Burkett dropped like a rock with a cry of shock, discharging the gun as his back hit the floor. The bullet hit the ceiling harmlessly, sending plaster dust falling like rain.
Ephraim kicked the gun away, then shoved a knee into Burkett’s chest. Grabbing his head, he snapped the doctor’s neck. ‘Sleep well, Doctor,’ he mocked, breathing hard. ‘Sorry about this. Not really.’
He glanced to one side, realizing that the jangle had come from the handcuffs that Burkett had dropped to the carpet. He shoved them into his pocket, then, threat eliminated, fell back onto the sofa. He needed to think. There was a chance that Mercy still had the safe-deposit box key, that she hadn’t turned it over to the cops. At least not yet. They wouldn’t have even gotten back to Sacramento until well after six. If she didn’t know what she had, she might be waiting until morning to hand it over.
And you might be wishing for a miracle that’s not coming.
Regardless, he needed to empty the contents of that safe-deposit box before the cops got a warrant. He had a key of his own, but he couldn’t just waltz into a bank and ask to open his safe-deposit box. Because thanks to Rafe Sokolov and that damn airport video, his face was all over the news.
I could go back to Eden and not worry about it. He’d be safe in Eden. Ironically enough, Eden was the only place he could be safe right now.
Unless Mercy gave the key to the cops and they opened the damn safe-deposit box.
The Feds would raid the compound faster than they could move to a new location. And all those beautiful millions under Pastor’s control would be confiscated by the motherfucking government.
Unless he got the bank codes first.
Or . . . I could just chuck it all and go to Mexico. There were ways to slip over the border undetected. He could figure it out. He’d be free. But poor.
Dammit. It was simply too much money to leave behind. With all that cash, he’d never have to work again. He could retire someplace warm where he had no responsibilities. And hopefully he’d be surrounded by beautiful girls who were exactly to his liking. I want that money. I earned that money.
So once again, it came back to Mercy. He needed her. Needed to haul her ass back to Eden. And preferably before she handed that damn key over to the cops. Once the Feds opened the safe-deposit box, it was all over.
He rubbed his temples, trying to think of what to do next. First on the list was to trade the old vehicle he’d stolen that afternoon for Burkett’s ride, which would be less noticeable around Rafe Sokolov’s Victorian. He searched the dead doctor’s jacket pockets, staring in surprise when he pulled out four prepared syringes and a bottle.