Did You Miss Me? (11 page)

Pouring himself some cereal, Mitch sat next to Mutt and pointed to his brother’s laptop. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, even though he knew.

‘I’m doing the books,’ Mutt said. ‘Figured I’d keep busy while I waited for you to get your ass home.’

‘Well, I’m home now,’ Mitch said blandly. ‘Need any help with that?’

Mutt rolled his eyes. ‘As if. You can’t even balance your own checkbook.’

That Mitch couldn’t balance his own checkbook was not true. He did his own personal accounting, he just didn’t advertise it. It was better to let your adversaries believe you were stupid and technically challenged. It made them less careful around you – after all, what harm could you do with a P&L statement or a page of passwords?

Mitch shrugged. ‘Guilty as charged.’

‘You need an accountant, Mitch,’ Mutt said, serious now. ‘I found your stash of cash in the root cellar when I was looking for Cole. You can’t just leave that kind of money lying around. Anybody could come in and steal it.’

Mitch narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait. How did you get in? I never gave you a key.’

‘The back door was unlocked. I just walked in.’

Mitch ground his teeth.
Cole
. ‘Damn that boy. Where’s your car?’

‘I parked around back. Didn’t want Cole to know I was here in case he was up to no good. I’m serious about that money, Mitch. I knew you’d pulled some from that last job in Florida, but I had no idea you just had it lying around. You’ve got to have a couple hundred thousand down there, just piled up in plastic storage tubs.’

There was three times that, actually. Most of it was in the basement room where he’d hidden Pamela. The money was what he’d been able to load onto a U-Haul trailer right before the Feds crashed the ‘pain clinic’ business he’d worked for in Miami. Florida was the go-to state for pill-poppers. Dealers and addicts alike swarmed from the Midwest to buy cheap prescription pills doled out by doctors on the take. There was huge money to be made and Mitch had needed huge money.

His original plan when he’d been paroled was to set his stepfather up to be arrested for the same crime for which Mitch had lost three years of his life – possession with intent to distribute. He basically planned to gather as much money as he could, buy as much heroin as he could with it, plant it on his stepfather, and call in an anonymous tip. They’d raid his stepfather’s compound, seize his books – both sets – and bring his empire crashing down. Simple, yet elegant.

He’d stuck it out in Miami as long as he’d dared, working for the uncle of his cellmate until the Feds began raiding the pain centers and hauling away the dirty doctors. Mitch had been skimming cash off the top – there was so much money floating around that nobody missed it. Over the course of two years, he’d skimmed a hell of a lot of money, which he vacuum sealed into tidy little bricks and stored in plastic tubs in his Miami garage. When the raids started, he rented a U-Haul, loaded it up, packed a protesting Cole into the truck’s cab, and high-tailed it for Aunt Betty’s house. For home.

Only to find things had changed within his stepfather’s business. No longer were drugs his principal source of revenue. To Mitch’s delight, his stepfather had gotten himself involved in something even better – gun running. Highly lucrative and extremely dangerous. And perfect for what Mitch had in mind. Plus, he didn’t have to spend any of the money he’d hidden in the basement. Money that Mutt now knew about.

Part of it anyway
. Mutt hadn’t found all of it, not by a long shot.

‘It’s not like I can walk into a bank with tubs of cash,’ Mitch said grumpily. ‘I’ve been depositing it slowly, staying under the bank’s radar.’

Mutt blinked at him. ‘You’ve been depositing it ten grand at a time?’

‘That’s the magic number, isn’t it? Over that and they have to report it to the IRS?’

Mutt sputtered, nearly speechless. ‘Well, yeah, that’s the number if you care about being legal, but . . . My God. Ten grand at a time,
in the same bank
? With no business charter, no P&L? Mitch, that’s . . .’
Stupid
, his brother clearly wanted to say. ‘Incredibly inefficient,’ he said instead. ‘I can set you up so that the money doesn’t raise any flags and works for you instead of sitting in plastic tubs in your root cellar.’

Out of the goodness of his little heart
, Mitch thought. ‘For how much?’

Mutt shrugged. ‘A third of whatever I process.’

You rotten little sonofabitch
.
A third? A tenth would be highway robbery
. But Mitch just smiled. ‘That sounds more than fair.’ He’d let Mutt set up the business paperwork and then he’d take over the deposits himself. And then when Mutt wasn’t looking, Mitch would log in to Mutt’s accounting software and wire the money back to himself. No harm, no foul.

Knowing that his brother kept all of his passwords in a file on his iPhone was useful. Knowing Mutt’s phone pass code was more useful still. This password Mitch had gotten the old-fashioned, totally low-tech way – he’d gotten Mutt drunk and looked over his shoulder as his brother had entered it into his phone.

So getting his money back would be no problem and the opportunity would come sooner than later. In just a few more days Mutt and his daddy would be in hot water with people far more dangerous than the cops and the Feds put together.

While Mitch was in prison, his stepfather had entered into a business association with a Russian named Fyodor Antonov. Antonov ran one of the Eastern European crime families that were quickly taking root up and down the East Coast.

Mutt’s old man had been expanding his drug business, but an independent could grow only so much on the East Coast before encroaching on one of the big guys. He’d skated too close to the edge and got smacked back by Antonov’s goons.

His stepfather had been given a choice: work for the Russian or surrender his entire business. He’d gone for the first option and now claimed stockpiled rifles shipped from the Ukraine into the Port of Baltimore, transporting them south, presumably to the Mexican cartel.

Mutt had been put in charge of the drivers and he’d offered ‘poor big brother’ Mitch a route. Driving for Mutt offered a much better way to destroy his stepfather than his original plan of simply framing him for drug distribution. Mitch had been skimming rifles from shipments for months. He’d also hacked into Mutt’s computer to make the invoices match what he’d actually delivered, forging his stepfather’s signature on all the reports.

Because Mutt believed him to be stupid, he’d never been suspected, not even once. Because Mutt’s daddy had no clue he was a driver, he’d never been concerned about him. It was perfect.

The rifles would soon be discovered by the cops – again, part of Mitch’s plan. The cops would see AK47s and think ‘Russian’. Because they weren’t stupid, either. When the Russians got wind of an investigation, they’d hunker down and check inventories. His stepfather’s books would be audited and the discrepancies discovered. Antonov would believe Mitch’s stepfather was a thief.

From what Mitch had gleaned in prison, the Russians didn’t take kindly to thieves. If they didn’t kill his stepfather, the old man would wish they had.

Mutt packed up his laptop, a gleam in his eye. ‘I think I’ll go down to the basement to see how much cash we’re talking about.’

Mitch just smiled at him. Mutt would be so focused on all that pretty money that he wouldn’t think to look for anything else, like Pamela MacGregor. ‘I appreciate the help.’

Mutt grinned at him. ‘What are brothers for?’

Ask me in a week
.
I’ll have a really good answer then
.

Tuesday, December 3, 11.10
A.M.

The cold wind felt good. Daphne drew a deep breath of fresh air and scanned the crowd. All the reporters were here. About twenty feet to her left stood Detectives Stevie Mazzetti and JD Fitzpatrick along with half a dozen deputies, their eyes watchful. After what had happened in the courtroom, it looked like the cops were taking no chances, for which Daphne was grateful.

Still, there was a tension, a foreboding that crawled up her spine. Ignoring it for the moment, she cloaked herself in her composure.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve all heard that a jury of Mr Millhouse’s peers returned with a guilty verdict this morning. We are exceptionally pleased and hope this sends a clear message. We will not allow the murder of innocents to go unpunished and we will fight to bring justice to those who believe themselves above the law.’ She forced a small smile. ‘Now, it’s been a very long morning. If you’ll excuse—’

‘Miss Montgomery!’ It was Phin Radcliffe, the alpha dog of all the reporters. ‘Is it true that Reggie Millhouse’s mother slipped him a knife?’

Somehow Radcliffe managed to be in the front row, every time.
Pact with Satan
, Daphne thought darkly. But he was good about giving their women’s center on-air coverage, promoting their fundraisers, so Daphne bit back her dislike.

‘There was a knife, but who gave it to whom, I don’t know for certain. The police acted swiftly to contain the threat, but there were injuries.’ She knew the media had gotten the EMTs on camera as they’d entered and exited the justice center. ‘I appreciate your discretion until the families of the injured have been notified.’

Another reporter piped up. ‘Is it true Reggie’s mother attacked you?’

‘No comment,’ Daphne said, her smile faint.

‘Miss Montgomery!’ A young woman pushed her way to the front, at the far edge of the crowd.

Daphne caught a flurry of motion from the corner of her eye. Stevie Mazzetti had answered her phone, her expression going very still. Her eyes flashed to Daphne’s. Something was wrong.

‘Miss Montgomery!’ The young woman raised her voice, her tone abrasive and accusatory. ‘I have a question for you.’

Daphne ripped her gaze away from Stevie and back to the young woman, who stood far enough away that she had to squint.

The woman smiled and Daphne had a flash of recognition, but it was too late. Her gaze dropped to the gun in Marina Craig’s hands. Reggie’s sixteen-year-old girlfriend, pregnant with his child, held the weapon at her hip with an ease that suggested she’d done so many times before.

‘Don’t do—’ Gunfire cracked the air and Daphne gasped, thrown backward against the concrete step as pain radiated from the center of her chest, then the back of her head. She tried to breathe, but her lungs weren’t working.

Get up
.
Get away
. Daphne struggled to open her eyes, flinching at the loud noise. More gunfire. Screams.
She’s shooting people
.
Fucking hell
.

She pushed herself to her elbows and looked around, blinking. People, running away. People on the ground, not moving.
She’s shooting people
.
Somebody stop her
.

Daphne watched Stevie run toward her, the movement almost slow motion, then another shot cracked the air and Stevie was down, her hands gripping her thigh. There was blood. Lots of blood. Where was JD? Grayson?
Don’t be dead
.

Daphne rolled to one side, her lungs starting to function again.
Kevlar
, she remembered. The vest she’d complained about wearing. She blinked hard.
Oh God
. Next to her lay Radcliffe’s cameraman, his white shirt now crimson.

Fear rose up to choke her.
Not now
. Glancing around frantically, she saw the cameraman’s bag. It was heavy. It would have to do. She rolled farther, edging her fingers forward until they closed against the bag’s strap.

‘Stop,’ Marina barked. ‘Put it down, now.’

Daphne froze, then realized the girl wasn’t talking to her. She lifted her eyes, and her heart stopped.
Grayson
. He stood five feet away, the gun in his hand pointed at Marina. The laser sight of Marina’s gun was centered on his forehead.

Daphne looked past him. And had to swallow back the bile. He’d taken the gun from a dead cop. How many had Marina killed? Where was JD?

‘I said, put it down,’ Marina said furiously. ‘I will shoot you right here and now.’

‘No,’ Grayson said. He was pale, but his hand didn’t waver.

‘I can drop you before you even pull the trigger,’ Marina boasted.

This stops
.
Now
. Daphne tightened her fist around the camera bag’s strap, gathered her energy, and flung it as hard as she could.

It went only about three feet, skittering along the ground. But it was enough. Startled, Marina spun, pulling the trigger, spraying bullets as she turned in an arc.

Back to me
.
Nowhere to run
.
Nowhere to hide
.

And everything happened at once. Gunfire erupted from everywhere as a dark blur flew through the air from her left. A man. It was a man.

The air was crushed from her lungs again as he landed on top of her, shielding her. Daphne felt the jerk of his body against hers – once, twice. Marina was shooting him.

No
. Daphne tried to shout, but there was no air. She could only stare horrified as he twisted, his arm extended toward Marina in a straight unwavering line, a gun in his hand and grim resolve on his face. A final shot rang out and Marina dropped to the ground.

And then it was quiet. No gunfire, just the sound of heavy breathing. Some moans. Sobs. A voice shouting for someone to call 911.

Dazed, Daphne looked up. He hung over her, supporting his weight on his elbows. He was tall, dark, dangerous. And familiar. She blinked, wondering if she was dreaming.

‘Joseph?’ she gasped.

Tuesday, December 3, 11.08
A.M.

Stunned, Joseph pushed himself to his knees, looking over his shoulder. The woman with the gun was dead. But he’d never pulled the trigger. He looked to his right. Stevie was propped up on one elbow, her arm still extended, the gun slipping from her bloody hand. She’d fired. She fell back and Maynard was suddenly at her side.

Holstering his gun, Joseph looked down at Daphne and his heart stopped beating. She’d been hit.
Bullet holes
. There were bullet holes in her coat. He ripped at the buttons and his heart stopped.
Her blouse was covered in blood
.