Plot counterplot, p.8
Plot/Counterplot, page 8
“Good. No one else has the right to monitor calls coming in or out of server towers. Even the cellular companies who own them aren’t allowed to do that.”
He hoped Keona was right. But even if Xavier and his gang could trace him somehow, he wouldn’t give them an hour. Five minutes would be long enough to reveal the essential details and arrange a meeting at a safe place. Then the authorities could take him into custody. When everyone was safe, he would talk his head off.
“What else can I get you, dude? If you’re in trouble, I want to help.”
“Just the phone and the scrambler.”
“What about a nonlethal weapon? An air gun that shoots tranquilizer darts?”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Directional shotgun microphone. Can pinpoint and pick up a conversation from half a mile away.”
“I’m traveling light.”
“How about this?” Keona picked up what looked like a black magic wand.
“I write Fargo Cody, not Harry Potter.”
“It’s a metal detector. Just like they use at the airport, but smaller.” He pointed it at Dylan and a ringing sound immediately emerged from its base. “Dylan—are you packing?”
“Of course not.”
Keona moved the wand upward and it sounded even louder. “Have you got a metal plate in your head?”
“Don’t be—oh.” His necklace. Leilani had given it to him for the three-month anniversary of their first date. She bought it at Tiffany’s on the Beach Walk. An Atlas clock face in white gold. She said it meant they had all the time in the world.
“Mahalo, Keona, but all I need is the phone. How much?”
“Four grand.”
Dylan blinked. This would be the most expensive phone call of his entire life. He handed Keona his credit card.
Keona ran it through his Square scanner. “Been living large, Dylan?”
“Not the way you mean. Why?”
“Credit card’s been declined.”
“That’s impossible. Try this one.”
Keona ran the second card. Same result.
Dylan swore under his breath. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Xavier and his people were screwing with him. “Fine. Just use my ATM/debit card. Take it straight out of my checking account.”
Keona ran the third card. And a moment later, he was shaking his head. “Sorry, Dylan.”
“Declined?”
“Actually, it says they don’t recognize the account number. You don’t seem to exist, at least as far as your bank is concerned.”
Last he checked, he had sixty thousand dollars in that bank account. Somehow, Xavier had erased it. He wondered if the blond giant had gotten to his savings account, too. That would really hurt.
He still had some cash, but not enough for this purchase. Fortunately, he’d brought his checkbook to use at the retirement home. “Look, Keona, can I just write you a check?”
Keona put his hand on his chin and batted a finger against his lips. “Will I take a check from a guy who just had two credit cards declined written on a bank account that doesn’t seem to know he exists?” He grinned. “Sure, dude. I know you’re good for it.”
“You’re a prince, Keona. I won’t forget this.”
He wrote the check, grabbed the phone, and ran out of the spyware emporium. His plan was back on track. Now he would make Xavier and Mr. X see what plotting was all about.
* * *
Michael Anders’ mouth gaped as he peered into the rear of the ambulance. This was impossible. “Where is she?”
“Not here,” Maria replied. “C’mon, help me with the gurney.”
“That corpse isn’t going anywhere.”
“Not without your help. Grab the other end.”
“But—what about Leilani?”
“She stopped off for doughnuts.”
“There’s no way—”
Maria put a finger across her lips. “Michael, shush!” She gave him her sternest glare. “Don’t you know when you’re being given the international sign to shut the hell up?”
“But Leilani’s disappeared!”
“Intentionally. And if anyone comes around asking, she was never there. They must’ve seen me and thought it was her.”
“But I know—”
“Michael, listen to my words. She was never there. Now grab the gurney. We have work to do.”
“I’m...confused.”
“Life is like that. Let’s get this body to the morgue. If you’re a good boy, later on I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
“And then you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
“No. But at least you’ll have an ice cream. Now lower the ramp. We can’t afford to be lollygagging.”
Michael did as instructed. “I hate my job. I must be the most miserable person on this island.”
Maria sighed. “I’m pretty certain you’re not....”
Chapter 13
4:01 p.m.
Seven hours, fifty-nine minutes left
Dylan ducked into an alleyway across the street from the Keona’s Spy Shop. He could smell the enticing aroma from the Little Village Noodle Shop, one of the best and most economical restaurants in Honolulu. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time for food.
He pressed his back against the brick wall. He looked both ways up and down the alley. He even looked above. No one was watching. No one could possibly be watching.
He pulled out the high tech super-secure phone and dialed. He decided to try the police. Despite Mr. X’s grandiose claims, Dylan could not prove there was any international terrorism in play. But he could prove there’d been an assault, and a murder. Extortion, threats. And those were police matters. He would start there. With his good buddy, the Chief of Police.
Someone picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Is this Chief Fernandez?
“No, he’s out today. This is Detective Michael Li. Who’s calling?”
Of all the days for Bill Fernandez to be absent. But Dylan knew Li, at least by reputation. He was a high-flyer, frequently in the paper heading important investigations. He had to be trustworthy. “I need your help. People are trying to blackmail me. To force me to participate in an insane criminal scheme against my will. They hurt my girlfriend. They killed a security guard. They—” He realized how loudly he was speaking and lowered his voice. Could anyone hear him? There was no one in sight, but what if they used a directional microphone like the one Keona offered him?
No. Stay cool, Dylan. That was not possible. No one followed him. No one knew where he was.
“What did you say? You’re reporting what?”
“Murder. Extortion.”
“Where?”
“It started at the Splintered Paddle condo building. It’s—”
“I know where it is. Near the Outrigger Canoe Club.”
“Exactly.”
“How many witnesses?”
“Just me and my girlfriend.”
“When did it happen?”
“It started last night. A little after midnight.”
The detective’s voice rose. “This happened more than twelve hours ago and you’re just now calling?”
“They were holding me captive. Threatening me.”
“But now they’ve released you.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m trying to explain—”
In his pocket, Dylan’s cellphone vibrated.
He picked it up and looked at the Caller ID screen.
Xavier.
Dylan’s pulse pounded as he stared at the name on the Caller ID screen.
They knew.
Dylan hung up on the detective and answered his cellphone.
No one said hello. Instead, he heard his own voice.
“I need your help. People are trying to blackmail me. To force me to participate in an insane criminal scheme against my will.”
The sound quality was imperfect. There was a hollow echoing tone, as if he were speaking in a wind tunnel. But he could hear every word.
And apparently, so could they.
“This happened more than twelve hours ago and you’re just now calling?”
“They were holding me captive. Threatening me.”
The recording was replaced by a male voice with a Russian accent he knew all too well. “Only reason you’re not dead is you did not give names and you ended call before you said anything important.”
“Is Detective Li...one of you?”
“All you need understand is I know everything you do. Everywhere you go. Mr. X tried to tell you. You cannot contact anyone.”
“Where are you? How are you doing this?”
He heard Xavier chuckling, a sound rapidly becoming his least favorite in the known universe. “You disobeyed. Now bad things happen.”
“They already have. You screwed up my credit cards. My bank account.”
“It will get worse. Try to talk again and someone will die.” He paused. “You have seven hours, twenty-two minutes.”
Chapter 14
4:38 p.m.
Seven hours, twenty-two minutes
Dylan pressed back against the wall of the alleyway, breathing in short, quick huffs.
How had they found him? How had they traced the call?
Think, he told himself. Don’t get rattled. Keep plotting. That plan didn’t work. You still have time. Come up with another one.
They must be monitoring all calls coming in to the police station. It seemed incredible, but that was the only possible explanation. They could easily anticipate that he might call the police. So they tapped those lines. Maybe they had an operative on the inside.
Another disturbing possibility popped into his head. His necklace had set off Keona’s metal detector. That had never happened before. He’d worn it through airport metal detectors and never had a problem.
Maybe this wasn’t the necklace Leilani gave him. Maybe Mr. X made a switch while he was unconscious. Maybe it was a listening device or a tracking device. Or both.
He ripped the necklace off, snapping the clasp. Sorry, Leilani. He’d always loved this gift. But he was going to have to part with it. He hurled it down the alley into a nearby Dumpster. He tossed the four-thousand-dollar cellphone after it. It had been compromised. They knew the number. It was useless to him now, and possibly could be used to trace his movements.
He raced back to Keona’s Shop, pushed through the door, and ran to the counter. Keona was still eating.
“Keona, I decided to take you up on your offer.”
“You want the air gun?”
“No. I want to use your phone. The land line.”
“But I just sold you—”
“Just give me the phone, okay?”
Keona slid it over to him. Dylan dialed. He knew the number of his NCTC contact, Eustace Doss. He was a middle-management desk jockey, but he could get Dylan somewhere safe and take his statement. He’d know how to mobilize troops to round up Mr. X and everyone working with her.
“Hello. National Counterterrorism Center.”
“Eustace Doss, please.”
And just as soon as he said it, he felt the buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his cell and looked at the screen.
Xavier.
Damn! He didn’t answer the phone. He knew nothing good could come of it. How were they doing this? Were they using hot-mike technology to turn his cell into a listening device, even when he wasn’t using it? He would soon find out.
“Keona, is that a hammer on the shelf behind you?”
“Ye-es...”
“Give it to me.”
Keona complied. Dylan put his cellphone on the counter and smashed it. With great vigor.
Keona jumped. “Whoa! Extreme action, dude.”
“These are extreme times. Can I borrow your laptop?”
“If you promise not to smash it.”
“I assume it’s secure. All the top spyware installed?”
“Of course.”
He opened Keona’s Chrome browser, entered his Gmail account, and typed. There was more than one way to contact someone. Even if Xavier was capable of tracing email, he couldn’t possibly anticipate that Dylan would use Keona’s email account. The question was: Who to email? The police weren’t safe. He knew all law enforcement agencies had websites, but he would just be sending a message to some anonymous email monitor. He couldn’t expect a fast response. So what was left?
Think, he told himself. Think! If ever you needed an ingenious plot twist, it was now.
When the idea came to him, the cleverness of it made his heart race.
Forget law enforcement. Contacting them was too dangerous. He’d try someone else.
The fourth estate.
* * *
Leilani had been inside the body bag for more than two hours.
Michael hadn’t noticed the extra weight. He wasn’t lifting the gurney, only pushing it. Maria disguised the weight by pushing extra hard.
Leilani had the easy job. All she had to do was cling like Leilanin wrap to this kid’s dead body.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t take the next step alone. She couldn’t unzip the bag from the inside, and Maria couldn’t do it with Michael and the ME’s people watching. After depositing the body in the morgue, she’d left. Leilani would have to wait until someone else let her out.
That would be some time yet.
Stay calm, Leilani, stay calm. If you lose your head, you’re no use to Dylan. Eyes on the prize, girl. We have a future together. And no one is going to take that future away.
But the corpse was starting to slime. The ooze, the dead man’s sweat—whatever you wanted to call it—was all over the left side of her face. She couldn’t risk moving. Couldn’t even risk wiping it off her face. She didn’t know who might be in the morgue. She had heard the door open and shut a few times. She thought the room was empty, but she didn’t want to take any chances. If the body bag started moving, she might give some young ME’s assistant a coronary.
Or she might tell Pock-Face where she was hiding.
Either way, she was toughing it out.
She might’ve pursued a simpler way of disappearing. She and Liane considered all the possibilities. Jumping out the rear of the ambulance at a stoplight. Hiding under the gurney. But none of those ideas was foolproof, not if the people watching her were observant and smart. And she believed they were both. So she chose the path that was revolting but certain to give the appearance she had disappeared. Because in a very true way, she had.
In the early stages of decomposition, Leilani knew, a dead body breaks down proteins, lipids, and carbohydrates, producing new acids and gases which in turn form VOCs—volatile organic compounds. Some caused the body to ooze. It seeped through the pores. Skin developed blisters containing cerous fluid. Those blisters would burst and...the result was currently smeared all over her face. She was desperate to wash. Sometime. Soon. When it was safe to move.
It wasn’t as if she could leave anyway. The bag could only be unzipped from the outside. She was stuck here until someone released her. Before the ME arrived to do his job. She assumed he would open the bag before he started cutting away with the bone saw, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She’d known all along it would take a while to get out of here. She didn’t think it would take two hours, though. Two hours that passed like twenty.
One happy note—she was wearing a luminous glow-in-the-dark watch, so she knew how much time had passed. She could count every minute, every passing second. Which made time pass all the slower. While corpse ooze crept all over her body.
The glow from her watch provided not much light, but enough to reveal a small patch of the body’s increasingly green skin. She knew why this was happening. Homeostasis ended at the time of death, which resulted in increased bacterial activity in the cecum. Those bacteria converted hemoglobin into sulfhemoglobin, which caused the body to turn green. But knowing why it was happening didn’t make it any more pleasant to observe. Or to smell. She didn’t know why his eyes were bloating or why something black was seeping out of his ears. Guess she should’ve gone to medical school after all...
Wait. Somewhere outside, she heard a door open.
Leilani stiffened, although she was still nowhere nearly as stiff as her current companion. She heard footsteps crossing the room.
They were coming closer.
She felt a hand on the bag. Someone was manipulating the zipper. But who? She’d lost Pock-Face this time, hadn’t she? He couldn’t possibly be here now. Right?
She prayed to God for one small favor—that when the light flooded in, she saw the face of the person she wanted to see. Not the face of the person she wanted to kill.
Chapter 15
5:05 p.m.
Six hours, fifty-five minutes
“Carlton Reynolds,” Dylan murmured under his breath.
“Is he the dude you’re running from?” Keona asked.
“No. He’s a reporter.” A pale, heavy-set reporter who carried his Chihuahua in his messenger bag. Had no living family. Never been married. Pretentious snob. But a fine reporter. His story last year on the slumlords of West Oahu was nominated for a Pulitzer.
But the most important thing Dylan knew about Carlton Reynolds was: he can’t cook. And has no one to cook for him. So he eats at Taormina’s, a lovely Italian restaurant on Lewers, near the upscale Beach Walk shopping district. Eats there every night. Has his own designated table where everything is just as he likes it. Probably has OCD issues. But the salient point was—Dylan could count on him being there tonight. Even without contacting him.
Carlton could get him to a safe house. Dylan knew he had done it before for mob squealers and corporate whistle-blowers. Why couldn’t he do it for Dylan?
And then they could bring in Dobie and Leilani. Dylan would tell Carlton everything. And the authorities could stomp out Xavier and Mr. X like the cockroaches they were.
He checked his watch. Carlton had probably left the office. Dylan knew he ate early, as soon as the place opened, and generally made it last all night long. Beat going home to an empty house, he supposed.
It would take him a good while to get downtown. So he sent an email to the restaurant, at the reservation address. He knew who would get it: Paolo, the maître d’. He knew Dylan and he knew how to be discreet.
He hoped Keona was right. But even if Xavier and his gang could trace him somehow, he wouldn’t give them an hour. Five minutes would be long enough to reveal the essential details and arrange a meeting at a safe place. Then the authorities could take him into custody. When everyone was safe, he would talk his head off.
“What else can I get you, dude? If you’re in trouble, I want to help.”
“Just the phone and the scrambler.”
“What about a nonlethal weapon? An air gun that shoots tranquilizer darts?”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Directional shotgun microphone. Can pinpoint and pick up a conversation from half a mile away.”
“I’m traveling light.”
“How about this?” Keona picked up what looked like a black magic wand.
“I write Fargo Cody, not Harry Potter.”
“It’s a metal detector. Just like they use at the airport, but smaller.” He pointed it at Dylan and a ringing sound immediately emerged from its base. “Dylan—are you packing?”
“Of course not.”
Keona moved the wand upward and it sounded even louder. “Have you got a metal plate in your head?”
“Don’t be—oh.” His necklace. Leilani had given it to him for the three-month anniversary of their first date. She bought it at Tiffany’s on the Beach Walk. An Atlas clock face in white gold. She said it meant they had all the time in the world.
“Mahalo, Keona, but all I need is the phone. How much?”
“Four grand.”
Dylan blinked. This would be the most expensive phone call of his entire life. He handed Keona his credit card.
Keona ran it through his Square scanner. “Been living large, Dylan?”
“Not the way you mean. Why?”
“Credit card’s been declined.”
“That’s impossible. Try this one.”
Keona ran the second card. Same result.
Dylan swore under his breath. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Xavier and his people were screwing with him. “Fine. Just use my ATM/debit card. Take it straight out of my checking account.”
Keona ran the third card. And a moment later, he was shaking his head. “Sorry, Dylan.”
“Declined?”
“Actually, it says they don’t recognize the account number. You don’t seem to exist, at least as far as your bank is concerned.”
Last he checked, he had sixty thousand dollars in that bank account. Somehow, Xavier had erased it. He wondered if the blond giant had gotten to his savings account, too. That would really hurt.
He still had some cash, but not enough for this purchase. Fortunately, he’d brought his checkbook to use at the retirement home. “Look, Keona, can I just write you a check?”
Keona put his hand on his chin and batted a finger against his lips. “Will I take a check from a guy who just had two credit cards declined written on a bank account that doesn’t seem to know he exists?” He grinned. “Sure, dude. I know you’re good for it.”
“You’re a prince, Keona. I won’t forget this.”
He wrote the check, grabbed the phone, and ran out of the spyware emporium. His plan was back on track. Now he would make Xavier and Mr. X see what plotting was all about.
* * *
Michael Anders’ mouth gaped as he peered into the rear of the ambulance. This was impossible. “Where is she?”
“Not here,” Maria replied. “C’mon, help me with the gurney.”
“That corpse isn’t going anywhere.”
“Not without your help. Grab the other end.”
“But—what about Leilani?”
“She stopped off for doughnuts.”
“There’s no way—”
Maria put a finger across her lips. “Michael, shush!” She gave him her sternest glare. “Don’t you know when you’re being given the international sign to shut the hell up?”
“But Leilani’s disappeared!”
“Intentionally. And if anyone comes around asking, she was never there. They must’ve seen me and thought it was her.”
“But I know—”
“Michael, listen to my words. She was never there. Now grab the gurney. We have work to do.”
“I’m...confused.”
“Life is like that. Let’s get this body to the morgue. If you’re a good boy, later on I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
“And then you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
“No. But at least you’ll have an ice cream. Now lower the ramp. We can’t afford to be lollygagging.”
Michael did as instructed. “I hate my job. I must be the most miserable person on this island.”
Maria sighed. “I’m pretty certain you’re not....”
Chapter 13
4:01 p.m.
Seven hours, fifty-nine minutes left
Dylan ducked into an alleyway across the street from the Keona’s Spy Shop. He could smell the enticing aroma from the Little Village Noodle Shop, one of the best and most economical restaurants in Honolulu. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time for food.
He pressed his back against the brick wall. He looked both ways up and down the alley. He even looked above. No one was watching. No one could possibly be watching.
He pulled out the high tech super-secure phone and dialed. He decided to try the police. Despite Mr. X’s grandiose claims, Dylan could not prove there was any international terrorism in play. But he could prove there’d been an assault, and a murder. Extortion, threats. And those were police matters. He would start there. With his good buddy, the Chief of Police.
Someone picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Is this Chief Fernandez?
“No, he’s out today. This is Detective Michael Li. Who’s calling?”
Of all the days for Bill Fernandez to be absent. But Dylan knew Li, at least by reputation. He was a high-flyer, frequently in the paper heading important investigations. He had to be trustworthy. “I need your help. People are trying to blackmail me. To force me to participate in an insane criminal scheme against my will. They hurt my girlfriend. They killed a security guard. They—” He realized how loudly he was speaking and lowered his voice. Could anyone hear him? There was no one in sight, but what if they used a directional microphone like the one Keona offered him?
No. Stay cool, Dylan. That was not possible. No one followed him. No one knew where he was.
“What did you say? You’re reporting what?”
“Murder. Extortion.”
“Where?”
“It started at the Splintered Paddle condo building. It’s—”
“I know where it is. Near the Outrigger Canoe Club.”
“Exactly.”
“How many witnesses?”
“Just me and my girlfriend.”
“When did it happen?”
“It started last night. A little after midnight.”
The detective’s voice rose. “This happened more than twelve hours ago and you’re just now calling?”
“They were holding me captive. Threatening me.”
“But now they’ve released you.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m trying to explain—”
In his pocket, Dylan’s cellphone vibrated.
He picked it up and looked at the Caller ID screen.
Xavier.
Dylan’s pulse pounded as he stared at the name on the Caller ID screen.
They knew.
Dylan hung up on the detective and answered his cellphone.
No one said hello. Instead, he heard his own voice.
“I need your help. People are trying to blackmail me. To force me to participate in an insane criminal scheme against my will.”
The sound quality was imperfect. There was a hollow echoing tone, as if he were speaking in a wind tunnel. But he could hear every word.
And apparently, so could they.
“This happened more than twelve hours ago and you’re just now calling?”
“They were holding me captive. Threatening me.”
The recording was replaced by a male voice with a Russian accent he knew all too well. “Only reason you’re not dead is you did not give names and you ended call before you said anything important.”
“Is Detective Li...one of you?”
“All you need understand is I know everything you do. Everywhere you go. Mr. X tried to tell you. You cannot contact anyone.”
“Where are you? How are you doing this?”
He heard Xavier chuckling, a sound rapidly becoming his least favorite in the known universe. “You disobeyed. Now bad things happen.”
“They already have. You screwed up my credit cards. My bank account.”
“It will get worse. Try to talk again and someone will die.” He paused. “You have seven hours, twenty-two minutes.”
Chapter 14
4:38 p.m.
Seven hours, twenty-two minutes
Dylan pressed back against the wall of the alleyway, breathing in short, quick huffs.
How had they found him? How had they traced the call?
Think, he told himself. Don’t get rattled. Keep plotting. That plan didn’t work. You still have time. Come up with another one.
They must be monitoring all calls coming in to the police station. It seemed incredible, but that was the only possible explanation. They could easily anticipate that he might call the police. So they tapped those lines. Maybe they had an operative on the inside.
Another disturbing possibility popped into his head. His necklace had set off Keona’s metal detector. That had never happened before. He’d worn it through airport metal detectors and never had a problem.
Maybe this wasn’t the necklace Leilani gave him. Maybe Mr. X made a switch while he was unconscious. Maybe it was a listening device or a tracking device. Or both.
He ripped the necklace off, snapping the clasp. Sorry, Leilani. He’d always loved this gift. But he was going to have to part with it. He hurled it down the alley into a nearby Dumpster. He tossed the four-thousand-dollar cellphone after it. It had been compromised. They knew the number. It was useless to him now, and possibly could be used to trace his movements.
He raced back to Keona’s Shop, pushed through the door, and ran to the counter. Keona was still eating.
“Keona, I decided to take you up on your offer.”
“You want the air gun?”
“No. I want to use your phone. The land line.”
“But I just sold you—”
“Just give me the phone, okay?”
Keona slid it over to him. Dylan dialed. He knew the number of his NCTC contact, Eustace Doss. He was a middle-management desk jockey, but he could get Dylan somewhere safe and take his statement. He’d know how to mobilize troops to round up Mr. X and everyone working with her.
“Hello. National Counterterrorism Center.”
“Eustace Doss, please.”
And just as soon as he said it, he felt the buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his cell and looked at the screen.
Xavier.
Damn! He didn’t answer the phone. He knew nothing good could come of it. How were they doing this? Were they using hot-mike technology to turn his cell into a listening device, even when he wasn’t using it? He would soon find out.
“Keona, is that a hammer on the shelf behind you?”
“Ye-es...”
“Give it to me.”
Keona complied. Dylan put his cellphone on the counter and smashed it. With great vigor.
Keona jumped. “Whoa! Extreme action, dude.”
“These are extreme times. Can I borrow your laptop?”
“If you promise not to smash it.”
“I assume it’s secure. All the top spyware installed?”
“Of course.”
He opened Keona’s Chrome browser, entered his Gmail account, and typed. There was more than one way to contact someone. Even if Xavier was capable of tracing email, he couldn’t possibly anticipate that Dylan would use Keona’s email account. The question was: Who to email? The police weren’t safe. He knew all law enforcement agencies had websites, but he would just be sending a message to some anonymous email monitor. He couldn’t expect a fast response. So what was left?
Think, he told himself. Think! If ever you needed an ingenious plot twist, it was now.
When the idea came to him, the cleverness of it made his heart race.
Forget law enforcement. Contacting them was too dangerous. He’d try someone else.
The fourth estate.
* * *
Leilani had been inside the body bag for more than two hours.
Michael hadn’t noticed the extra weight. He wasn’t lifting the gurney, only pushing it. Maria disguised the weight by pushing extra hard.
Leilani had the easy job. All she had to do was cling like Leilanin wrap to this kid’s dead body.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t take the next step alone. She couldn’t unzip the bag from the inside, and Maria couldn’t do it with Michael and the ME’s people watching. After depositing the body in the morgue, she’d left. Leilani would have to wait until someone else let her out.
That would be some time yet.
Stay calm, Leilani, stay calm. If you lose your head, you’re no use to Dylan. Eyes on the prize, girl. We have a future together. And no one is going to take that future away.
But the corpse was starting to slime. The ooze, the dead man’s sweat—whatever you wanted to call it—was all over the left side of her face. She couldn’t risk moving. Couldn’t even risk wiping it off her face. She didn’t know who might be in the morgue. She had heard the door open and shut a few times. She thought the room was empty, but she didn’t want to take any chances. If the body bag started moving, she might give some young ME’s assistant a coronary.
Or she might tell Pock-Face where she was hiding.
Either way, she was toughing it out.
She might’ve pursued a simpler way of disappearing. She and Liane considered all the possibilities. Jumping out the rear of the ambulance at a stoplight. Hiding under the gurney. But none of those ideas was foolproof, not if the people watching her were observant and smart. And she believed they were both. So she chose the path that was revolting but certain to give the appearance she had disappeared. Because in a very true way, she had.
In the early stages of decomposition, Leilani knew, a dead body breaks down proteins, lipids, and carbohydrates, producing new acids and gases which in turn form VOCs—volatile organic compounds. Some caused the body to ooze. It seeped through the pores. Skin developed blisters containing cerous fluid. Those blisters would burst and...the result was currently smeared all over her face. She was desperate to wash. Sometime. Soon. When it was safe to move.
It wasn’t as if she could leave anyway. The bag could only be unzipped from the outside. She was stuck here until someone released her. Before the ME arrived to do his job. She assumed he would open the bag before he started cutting away with the bone saw, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She’d known all along it would take a while to get out of here. She didn’t think it would take two hours, though. Two hours that passed like twenty.
One happy note—she was wearing a luminous glow-in-the-dark watch, so she knew how much time had passed. She could count every minute, every passing second. Which made time pass all the slower. While corpse ooze crept all over her body.
The glow from her watch provided not much light, but enough to reveal a small patch of the body’s increasingly green skin. She knew why this was happening. Homeostasis ended at the time of death, which resulted in increased bacterial activity in the cecum. Those bacteria converted hemoglobin into sulfhemoglobin, which caused the body to turn green. But knowing why it was happening didn’t make it any more pleasant to observe. Or to smell. She didn’t know why his eyes were bloating or why something black was seeping out of his ears. Guess she should’ve gone to medical school after all...
Wait. Somewhere outside, she heard a door open.
Leilani stiffened, although she was still nowhere nearly as stiff as her current companion. She heard footsteps crossing the room.
They were coming closer.
She felt a hand on the bag. Someone was manipulating the zipper. But who? She’d lost Pock-Face this time, hadn’t she? He couldn’t possibly be here now. Right?
She prayed to God for one small favor—that when the light flooded in, she saw the face of the person she wanted to see. Not the face of the person she wanted to kill.
Chapter 15
5:05 p.m.
Six hours, fifty-five minutes
“Carlton Reynolds,” Dylan murmured under his breath.
“Is he the dude you’re running from?” Keona asked.
“No. He’s a reporter.” A pale, heavy-set reporter who carried his Chihuahua in his messenger bag. Had no living family. Never been married. Pretentious snob. But a fine reporter. His story last year on the slumlords of West Oahu was nominated for a Pulitzer.
But the most important thing Dylan knew about Carlton Reynolds was: he can’t cook. And has no one to cook for him. So he eats at Taormina’s, a lovely Italian restaurant on Lewers, near the upscale Beach Walk shopping district. Eats there every night. Has his own designated table where everything is just as he likes it. Probably has OCD issues. But the salient point was—Dylan could count on him being there tonight. Even without contacting him.
Carlton could get him to a safe house. Dylan knew he had done it before for mob squealers and corporate whistle-blowers. Why couldn’t he do it for Dylan?
And then they could bring in Dobie and Leilani. Dylan would tell Carlton everything. And the authorities could stomp out Xavier and Mr. X like the cockroaches they were.
He checked his watch. Carlton had probably left the office. Dylan knew he ate early, as soon as the place opened, and generally made it last all night long. Beat going home to an empty house, he supposed.
It would take him a good while to get downtown. So he sent an email to the restaurant, at the reservation address. He knew who would get it: Paolo, the maître d’. He knew Dylan and he knew how to be discreet.
