Plot counterplot, p.9
Plot/Counterplot, page 9
Dylan typed the message quickly but carefully: TELL CARLTON REYNOLDS TO GO TO MEN’S ROOM AT 8. I WILL MEET HIM THERE. BIG STORY—MAJOR CRIMINAL OPERATION. PEOPLE ARE WATCHING. TELL NO ONE. TAGGART.
That ought to be sufficiently mysterious to get them all wondering. Just so Paolo delivered the message. Reynolds couldn’t resist this. And even if Xavier somehow tumbled onto the meeting, what could he do with a reporter and a hundred other people in the restaurant? Nothing.
He’d had two strikes. But he was not going to strike out. He would go on swinging. And this time, he would hit the ball out of the park.
The New York Times said Dylan was a master storyteller. He was about to prove them correct.
* * *
Just this once, Leilani’s prayers were answered. In a good way.
Someone unzipped the body bag and parted the sides.
Her boss, Dr. Iaukea, peered down at her.
“You two look cozy. Does the writer know you’re sleeping around?”
Leilani didn’t reply. Her first priority was getting out of the bag and she did so with all possible alacrity. She hoped she didn’t tear the corpse’s skin or body hair in the process, but that concern dwarfed beside her extreme need to get out of the bag.
“Sorry I took so long,” Iaukea said. “Never imagined it would be so hard to get in here. The ME’s receptionist is a real pain. Didn’t care who I was, wasn’t letting me through. When I finally threatened her into submission, who do I meet in the hallway but the ME himself? He was pleased with my interest in the case and wanted to come in with me. That wouldn’t work. So I made all kinds of excuses. Promised I wouldn’t disturb the body. Just wanted to search the pockets. And I didn’t want him with me because I didn’t want a witness just in case I found something unhelpful. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Never knew how quick I was on my feet till today.”
Leilani wasn’t hearing much of the soliloquy. She rubbed her hands up and down her body. She ran to a nearby sink and held her face under it, wiping away the slime. She was probably taking off a few layers of skin as well, but at the moment, she didn’t care.
“Anyway, you’re out, and you need to get the hell away from here.” Liane held out her car keys. “My car is on level five of the parking garage. Blue Ford Explorer. Decent gas mileage, very dependable. Get wherever it is you’re going and don’t come back till it’s safe. I have a junker at home. I’ll make do.”
Leilani snatched the car keys. “I don’t know how to thank you, Liane.”
She held out her arms as if to give her boss a hug, but Liane waved it away. “Oh, don’t start that. I don’t date people from work.”
“I wasn’t—”
“That was a joke.”
“Right. Sorry. Guess I’m not in a jolly mood.”
“Understandable. So go already. I’ll distract the receptionist. You can sneak past to the elevator, take it straight to P5. Three minutes and you’ll be a mile away.”
“Perfect.” Leilani started toward the door.
“One thing, though, Leilani.”
She slowed, doorknob in her hand.
“I talked to Michael, after he returned to the station. He was distraught. Thought he’d lost you somewhere. I convinced him that you and Maria were playing an elaborate practical joke and that the best thing he could do was ignore it and not give you two the satisfaction of enjoying his befuddlement.”
“Sound advice.”
“But he told me something else that bothered him. Even more than your vanishing act.”
Leilani felt her pulse quicken. “Yes?”
“Michael thought someone was following him. When he drove back to the hospital. He couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to follow an ambulance.”
Leilani’s lips pursed tightly together.
“Here’s the curious thing. He saw them as he left the crime scene, with you in the back. But he didn’t see anyone when he left the ME’s office.”
“Which means?”
Liane took her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful, Leilani. Sit low in the car. Wear my sunglasses. I’ve got a ball cap in the glove box—tuck your hair up into it. And don’t stop till you’ve arrived at your destination. You’ve got a full tank of gas. Use it.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll cover for you at work.” Liane hesitated, but Leilani didn’t know why. Then, all at once, her boss wrapped her arms around her. The squeeze was so tight Leilani temporarily lost her breath. “One little platonic hug. For luck.” She pulled back and held Leilani by the arms. “You’re the best medic I have. I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into—but I can tell it’s serious. So get in that car and drive. Don’t stop until you’re someplace safe. I know you’re a caregiver by nature, Leilani, but for the moment you need to take care of yourself. And most importantly—” She peered directly into Leilani’s eyes. “Don’t trust anyone.”
Chapter 16
6:00 p.m.
Six hours left
Taormina’s was on a side street just off the busiest section of the famed Beach Walk—not Dylan’s favorite part of the city. It used to be a place couples walked hand-in-hand to gaze at the Pacific shore. Now it was a place tourists went to buy ridiculously overpriced designer goods. Dylan hated watching honeymooners in matching outfits, or tourists in aloha shirts and cowboy hats, blowing big bucks to get status-symbol labels on their shoes and purses. People who wasted money like that shouldn’t be allowed to have any.
Of course, if it was something truly valuable, like his 175-thousand-dollar Bentley GTD convertible, it was justifiable...
Paolo, the maître d’, didn’t say a word out of the ordinary when Dylan entered. He was being discreet. Didn’t mention the hair buzz and his lacerated neck. But Dylan was certain the message had been delivered. And he suspected it was no coincidence that, as Paolo led Dylan to his table, they passed right by Carlton Reynolds.
Without making it obvious, Dylan nudged the table as he passed.
The chihuahua yipped.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Dylan feigned a double-take. “Carlton—is that you?”
“Dylan. What a surprise.” With his bow tie, linen jacket, and brown Oxfords, he looked like a reporter from another era. “How’s the world of fiction treating you?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Reynolds made a harrumphing sound. “Wish I could just make up my stories. Would save a lot of time.”
“No doubt. Still working the city beat?”
“In a sense. I have my own column now, you know.”
In fact, Dylan didn’t—he rarely read the paper. “Of course I do. Best thing in the whole damn rag.”
Reynolds tucked in his chin and acted as if he was embarrassed by the flattery. “It does have its followers.”
“Pardon me, but I have to rush.” Dylan didn’t think anyone could be watching, now that he’d ditched the necklace and the cellphones, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He wouldn’t do anything that might make an observer suspicious. He was tempted to talk to the man now, or to make some excuse to get him into the men’s room, but Dylan knew that wasn’t the smart play. He devised a plan. He would stick to it.
Carlton had been calm and cool and detached. He didn’t give the slightest indication that anything was out of the ordinary. But Dylan was good at reading people. He had trained himself to pay attention to details. And he saw something extra in the man’s eyes, an unspoken message that said, I’ll be there.
Dylan would be ready.
* * *
As Leilani pulled beside the skyscraper office building in downtown Honolulu, she knew instinctively what Dylan would think about her current activities.
He would be seriously pissed.
His instructions had been explicit, even though they were coded and cryptic. Ditch your tail. Don’t talk to me or anyone else. Get to the cabin and stay there.
She had eluded all potential pursuers. She had talked to no one. Even those who helped her dodge her tails, Maria and Liane, had no idea why she wanted to disappear. Dylan couldn’t fault her performance so far. But he could now. Because she was making a stop before she left town.
She was a born caregiver. Dylan had said so many times. He also told her that while this was a beautiful attribute, it could be damaging if she took it too far. To be blunt—she didn’t know when to stop. She understood the criticism—and consistently ignored it. She’d seen loved ones hurt in the past. That would never happen again. No matter what it cost her.
She drove down a side street and parked in the rear where she should be safe from prying eyes, not that anyone could possibly expect to see her emerge from Liane’s car. She found the rear entrance open and wound her way up the stairs to the fourth floor. Thank goodness they kept late hours.
“Is Mark Haliani still here?”
The receptionist at Bixby, Haliani & Chaffee, P.C., peered at her through half-glasses. “He’s with a client,” she said, with a clipped British accent. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he has to see me anyway.”
The receptionist arched an eyebrow. “Is there an emergenCy?”
“Yes. Tell him Leilani Kahale needs to speak with him right now.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here. As soon as he comes out of his conference.”
“I’m sorry, but I need to speak to him now.” She lowered her voice. “And don’t tell anyone else I’m here.”
Leilani could see her curiosity was piqued, but her British upbringing restrained her. “I understand you believe this is urgent, but I can’t interrupt his meeting.”
Leilani’s tolerance for this chitchat had reached its limit. Every moment she stood exposed in the lobby she was potentially in danger. “I can.” She marched past the receptionist and breezed down the corridor.
The receptionist jumped out of her chair, but Leilani had a head start and she knew where she was going. She raced to Mark’s office, opened the closed door, and stepped inside.
Mark sat in an armchair opposite his desk. Another man she did not know was speaking with him. They both stopped talking as soon as she entered.
“Mark, I need you. And it has to be now.”
The lawyer looked back and forth between her and the man in the chair. He seemed confused about what to do next. Or perhaps he was just mentally calculating which client was more valuable to him—Dylan Taggart or the guy in the chair.
Thank goodness for big royalty checks. “Sam...I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to take this. Would you mind...?”
“No, of course not,” the man said. His creased brow suggested he wasn’t as amiable about it as he acted, but he stood up anyway.
“This won’t take ten minutes,” Leilani said. The man nodded and left the office.
Leilani closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry, Mark, but it’s an emergenCy.”
He retreated behind his desk and picked up a pen, apparently unfazed by her dramatic entrance. Always the professional. “What do you need?”
She looked at him earnestly, eye-to-eye. “I need you to save my life. And Dylan’s, too.”
Chapter 17
7:55 p.m.
Four hours, five minutes left
Almost time.
The Uni Pasta Sea Urchin was one of Dylan’s favorite dishes, not that he was currently in a mood to appreciate it. He had no appetite. His nerves were on edge and all he could think about was getting the message out about the human vermin on his tail. He assumed Leilani was safely at the cabin by now. But he would feel better about it when he saw her there himself.
Dylan almost placed his credit card on the tray—then thought better of it and retrieved some cash. That left him almost broke. This plan had better work—for more reasons than one.
He checked the corner table. Carlton Reynolds was not there, though his place had not been cleared.
He must be waiting for Dylan in the men’s room.
He drew in his breath, then slowly released it. He knew he was taking a risk. But he had to stay strong. Weakness is cowardice. And he was not a coward.
He left the table and walked down the stairs, confident that this ordeal was finally coming to a close. He’d finally outflanked them and it felt good.
He pushed open the door to the men’s room.
No one was there. At least no one he could see.
“Carlton?”
No answer.
No one at the sink. No one at the urinals.
A pair of shoes were visible under the door of the farthest stall. Brown Oxfords.
He walked to the door, dropping his voice.
“Carlton? Are you in there?”
No reply. He tapped on the door. It wasn’t bolted.
He pushed the door open. And gasped.
Most of Carlton Reynolds was sitting on the toilet. His neck was severed at its base. His head dangled downward, barely attached. Blood and brain matter were sprayed across the tile wall behind him.
There was a note pinned to his shirt.
HOW MUCH ARE YOU WILLING TO LOSE?
Dylan stepped backward, stumbling. Jesus God. They killed him. Xavier had said someone would die if Dylan tried to contact anyone again and they really did it. They really did it.
If they would do that, they were capable of anything. Anything at all.
It seemed as if the bathroom walls were closing in on him. Think fast, Dylan. Think! He had to get out of here before someone else came in and thought he’d done this. He only had so much time before the twelve hours elapsed. He didn’t want to spend them trying to explain what happened to the police.
He tore out of the bathroom. No, stop, he told himself. Don’t run. The body will be found, probably soon. He didn’t want people to remember seeing him bolt out of the restaurant. He slowed down, nodded at the waiter, smiled at Paolo, and got the hell out of there, sweat streaming down the sides of his face.
He walked onto the sidewalk, hand covering his mouth. He felt like he was going to be sick.
A moment later, a black Hummer speeded in front of him, then skidded to a stop.
“Like new haircut, Dylan. Ready to go?”
It was Xavier, smiling that sickening smile, the one that gave Dylan the nearly irresistible impulse to knock all his teeth out.
He turned left. Xavier’s associate, the dark-skinned one, was heading his way, with two other men following in lockstep. They were obviously together.
Dylan turned the other way but saw the same configuration with different faces. They were going to grab him, force him into the Hummer.
He glanced back at the restaurant. There was a commotion in the front lobby, people pointing and shouting. Someone must’ve discovered the corpse in the bathroom. He couldn’t go back.
He was trapped like a rat in a maze. He could feel the seeds of panic churning in his stomach. He ignored them. He needed to focus. Think! He might be trapped like a rat in a maze but, he reminded himself, even the rat will eventually find an exit, if he’s smart enough.
On the opposite side of the street, Dylan spotted a uniformed police officer.
“Dylan,” Xavier said. “Do not do that.” Xavier reached inside his windbreaker. He was carrying a gun.
A thousand thoughts raced through Dylan’s mind. If he shouted for help, could the police officer get to him before Xavier plugged him? Xavier would shoot first then speed away and his thugs would disperse. But what would happen if Dylan got in Xavier’s car? His goons had just decapitated a reporter in the men’s room.
“Calm down, Dylan. Take drink.” Xavier pulled a silver flask out of his pocket.
In less time than it had taken Dylan to subvocalize all the options, he made a decision.
“Do not be stupid, Dylan. Get in car.”
“Sure.” Dylan grabbed the flask—and poured it over his head. Whiskey, if he wasn’t mistaken, the smelliest of liquors. Xavier gritted his teeth and opened his car door. The men on opposite sides closed in.
Dylan leaped up and raced across the hood of the Hummer.
“Chto za huy!” he heard Xavier growl, but Dylan didn’t slow. He jumped off the opposite end of the car and raced into traffic, weaving and bobbing between cars driving much faster than they should.
He didn’t know if Xavier’s goons were following him, but he saw that he’d caught the police officer’s attention. Time to start his performance.
He and his older brother had both been active in high school drama, an activity his father did not feel had much merit. In the eleventh grade, they were in The Silver Whistle, and he had the pleasure of playing an elderly character who was drunk throughout the key Act Two scene. At the time, Dylan had never actually been drunk, but his performance was sensational—or at least that’s what his friends said.
Time to see if he could revive his thespian gifts.
“Whass with all the carsss?” Dylan said, weaving and tripping in the middle of the street. “Where’sss my car?”
“Get out of the road!” someone yelled.
“I jusss wanna go home,” Dylan mumbled, punctuating it with a loud hiccup. He raised his voice even louder. “Where’sss my home?”
He didn’t look directly, but out the corner of his eye he saw the police officer moving toward him. “Come on, buddy. Get out of the street.” When he got close enough to smell Dylan, he winced. “I think you’ve had one too many, pal. Maybe six too many.”
Dylan weaved and shuffled. “I jusss need to find my car.”
“No way you’re driving home tonight. I’m taking you to the station for your own safety.” He ushered Dylan to the curb.
“You cannn’t do that!” Dylan said, plastering a goofy expression on his face, his eyes never focusing. “I dinn’t do anything.”
“Drunk and disorderly ought to cover it. At least until you’ve slept this off. Come on.” He escorted Dylan to his patrol car parked at the end of the street.
Glancing behind him, Dylan saw Xavier and his goon pack staring at him, pissed as hell. He smiled and waved at them.
