Last Call (14 page)

Even in the dim light, Nick could see the
color had drained from Rhys's face. The realization nearly brought
him to his knees.

No, Rhys. No
. He silently willed for her to stay with him. He could
explain later. But first… "You set up Elliot Woodson's
murder?"

"Detective Clark's involvement was mere good
fortune."

Good fortune.

"You piece of shit," Nick said.

"That's enough, both of you." Vincent stepped
forward. "I suggest you see to our deal, little
brother."

"What—" But Nick didn't get a chance to ask.
Cutter had a gun, and while he pulled it on them he didn't seem to
know which way to point it.

Siegal didn't give him the chance to decide.
Before the unsteady waver could pass in his direction, he nodded at
the van driver.

Time seemed to hesitate until Nick saw the gun
in the driver's hand. Then it sped by in a blur, leaving Nick
without time to react.

The weapon discharged with a soft whoosh. An
instant later, Cutter crumpled to the ground.

Rhys's soft gasp was the only sound in the
room. Cutter lay motionless, his gun tipped listlessly between his
fingers and the floor.

"Get him out of here," Siegal said to the van
driver. "And take his gun."

The man gave a curt, expressionless nod, but
made no move for Cutter. He kept his attention fixed on his
boss.

It took seconds for Nick to realize what
happened. Cutter was dead — murdered. And right in front of Nick
and Rhys. Which meant one thing: Siegal had no intention of letting
them live.

"What do you want, Vincent?" Nick
asked.

"Cutter and I had a deal — one it doesn't look
as if he'll be keeping." Vincent turned to Tony. "Antonio, you know
what the police will look for. See to it that any records my
brother might have kept are wiped clean of my
association."

Tony took a step, but Vincent held up a
hand.

"We have time," Vincent said. "Let's enjoy the
party first, shall we? You can tend to the garbage
later."

Nick tensed. Vincent was too smart to leave
his witnesses alive. He hadn't risen to lofty heights by making
mistakes, and if he walked out of that room, he'd be making a big
one.

But Vincent seemed oblivious to any potential
flubs. With practiced calm, he adjusted his suit and walked past
Nick and Rhys without a second glance. "Come, Mr. Viccio, before my
guests begin to question my absence."

Tony followed, shooting Nick a brief, guarded
look — one lacking any indication as to whose side he was really
on.

Vincent paused at the door and glanced back.
"Enjoy the party," he said to Nick and Rhys.

If Nick hadn't been looking, he might have
missed the telltale flick of Vincent's hand — the same he saw
before Cutter hit the ground.

But Nick didn't miss it. Vincent just gave the
signal to kill.

Nick dove for Rhys in the same instant — much
to Nick's relief and surprise — Tony tackled the van driver. The
driver's shot went wild, sending an elaborate glass lighting
fixture to the ground in shards.

Quickly shedding Nick's weight on her legs,
Rhys scrambled to her knees and went for the gun. As soon as her
fingers closed on the weapon, she drew to her feet and fixed a
determined aim on the gunman.

Her prey took several backward steps,
cornering himself against the dark-paneled walls.

Behind Nick, the door clicked shut. Nick and
Tony spun in unison.

Vincent Siegal was gone. Was he
aware things had gone awry?
No
. He wouldn't have left them
alive.

"Rhys," Nick said, his attention darting from
her to the gunman to the doorway.

"Go," she said. "I'm fine."

Nick hesitated. She sounded small. And hurt.
And mad as hell.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but the
threat in her eyes silenced him. Heart heavy, Nick cast a final
look at Cutter's body before taking off after Vincent.

The corridor splitting the wing
where they'd
done business
echoed with silence and the distant sounds of the
party. Had Vincent rejoined his guests? Where was Tony? No matter
which side of the law his old friend furthered, Tony had helped
Nick. As long as Rhys remained safe, Nick wouldn't refuse Tony the
same courtesy.

Nick stopped long enough to dial nine-one-one
and alert dispatch to a murder. Guilt stabbed him when he told the
operator of his credentials.

He should have told Rhys from the beginning he
was working again, but moving on to a new job and a new partner
felt like betrayal. Somehow Cutter knew of his new job, but the
bastard had twisted it around before Nick had the chance to come
clean.

Swallowing regret, he followed the
guests' low murmur to what looked every bit a smaller version of
the grand ballroom of a lavish hotel. Gold and cream colors adorned
every surface. Lavish bouquets of white flowers kept the monochrome
theme alive. Against the far wall, a large sign leaned against an
easel:
Drug Awareness and Prevention
Charity Gala.

Nick almost laughed.

The guests — a few Nick recognized as the
local well-to-do — turned, one by one, in the direction of the far
corner. He followed their attention to where Vincent Siegal had
taken the makeshift stage.

"I'd like to thank you all for joining me
today," Siegal began.

Nick wanted to move closer, but didn't dare.
The way he was dressed, leaving the shadows would be a brutal
mistake.

"Your contributions this afternoon have been
most generous," Vincent continued. "I am pleased to announce our
collective efforts have raised nearly two million dollars for the
youth center. This alternative will keep kids off the
streets…"

Nick's eyes nearly left his head. Two million
bucks? That had to be twenty grand a person. He was in the middle
of a quick head count when motion from the stage caught his
eye.

Tony. He stood close to Vincent. Closer than
Nick expected.

Vincent's congenial mask cracked with a hint
of surprise — had he seen Nick? As quickly as it appeared it was
gone. But it was the hand motion that caught Nick's eye. A signal,
but to whom? Siegal wouldn't drop anyone in this crowd, would
he?

Outside, sirens wailed.

Inside, everything happened at
once. Several guests rushed the stage.
Security
. And judging by Vincent's
howl of surprise, not team Siegal.

As several men converged on Vincent, Tony
slammed him against the wall and cuffed him. The room had erupted
into chaos, and Nick's filthy, underdressed appearance would only
make things worse. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but
Siegal in cuffs was a good start. Satisfied he wasn't needed, Nick
retraced his steps to Rhys.

He'd make it right.

But something
wasn't
right.

When he returned to the study, the van driver
lay sprawled on the floor, a neat crimson hole in his forehead. And
he was alone.

Rhys was gone.

And so was Cutter.

Chapter Eleven

Rhys fought to wrap logic around
what just happened. Had Nick betrayed her? His demeanor had changed
the moment he walked into that room. Was it overcompensation — an
attempt to hide their personal involvement — or was the Nick facing
Cutter and Siegal the
real
Nick? She never had come to terms with him leaving
the way he did. Was this why?

The van driver — who she now recognized as the
man who shot her — sat slumped on the floor, whimpering. Rhys
didn't buy his pathetic display of defeat. She kept the gun trained
on his skull, mentally daring him to give her a reason to show him
what a flesh wound was really like.

Through the open doors and down the hall, the
steady murmur of the party continued unabated. What was going on?
Was Tony on their side? Was Nick okay? After what just happened,
the number of times he'd saved her life now numbered
two.

By the time she became aware of the slight
noise at the rear of the room, it was too late to turn around.
Something hard cracked against her skull, sending blinding pain
railing through her. She stumbled as the gun was wrenched from her
hands, then watched in horror as blood spilled from a neat hole in
the center of the driver's forehead.

Thick arms grabbed her from behind.
Rhys twisted in time to see Cutter leering, his fowl breath hot on
her face.
Cutter wasn't
dead
. Though the evidence was painfully
near, the truth was slow to register.

"You bastard." She lunged from his grip, but
he quickly reeled her in.

"Not so fast, Detective. I have a gun and
clearly no opposition to using it. How about we go somewhere
intimate and wait for Massey?"

"How about you go to hell?" Rhys
hissed. Pressed tightly to him, she felt the Kevlar that staved off
the gunshot.
A bulletproof vest.
Perfect.

"Already there. Have been since you took my
boy from me." He tightened his grip and half dragged her toward a
bookshelf. One pudgy hand reached into Rhys's field of view and
pressed the case, which then popped out and swung open
easily.

A hidden room.

Cutter gripped her shoulder and shoved her
through the door.

Rhys grabbed for the bookshelves, managing a
tenuous grip that immediately gave way with a soft plop. Had she
managed to pull a book off the shelf? And if she had, would anyone
notice?

Hopefully Nick would.

The doorway led to a room much larger than
Rhys expected. Dark and windowless, it boasted a small sofa, a
desk, and steps she presumed led down to the basement. Escape?
Perhaps.

"Brian didn't deserve to die," Cutter
grumbled. "He was a good boy."

"He was a
drug dealer
."

"He was trying to support his
family."

"And how many families — how
many
lives
— did
he destroy along the way?"

"How much money went into that neighborhood,
Detective Clark? More than you'll ever see. You can bet on
that."

"Yet there wasn't even a head stone. Only a
standard issue marker."

"
Shut
up
."

"Aw, come on, Cutter. Why the snub for your
precious baby boy?"

"He was
murdered
. Detective Massey
murdered
my
boy."

"And you couldn't honor his memory with a head
stone? Give me a break."

Sweat glistened in the dim light on Cutter's
face and neck. "A piece of rock won't change the fact he's in the
ground rotting," he said, the words harsh and uneven.

Rhys turned her back on Cutter and his gun and
casually meandered across the room, looking for a plan B. She ran
her fingers over the back of the sofa as she walked, hoping Cutter
was too mired in his thoughts to pay her any attention. After
toiling with the sofa a few moments, she moved to an end table and
played with the shade. With one eye on Cutter, she reached down and
absently drew an arrow in the dust on the wood. If she managed to
get down the stairs, she wanted Nick to know where to
look.

"My boy is dead," Cutter mumbled —
treading, she feared, close to a psychotic break. "Such a good boy.
Didn't deserve to die. Didn't deserve to be
murdered
."

Rhys appraised him from the corner of her eye.
He doubled her in heft, and that was before the gun entered the
equation. If she made a break of her own, it might be her last
move. Her best shot was the stairs, but she had no idea what waited
at the bottom and she'd be an easy target if she found herself
trapped in the stairwell. Besides, it would take him a split second
to pull the trigger; she wasn't in the market to be shot a third
time.

"I thought you were one of the good guys," she
said. Mundane conversation with a half-crazed, manipulative piece
of shit — one she'd just seen kill a man in cold blood. "How did
you get involved with the dark side?"

Cutter stopped mumbling and his
eyes fixed on her — really fixed on her—for the first time since
they'd entered the room. "It was my boy. He got into trouble with
one of Vincent's choir boys. Gave Vincent the dirt he needed to
bend me over — either I played it Vinnie's way or he turns my boy
in. He's been collecting evidence to keep me in line ever since.
Wasn't hard to make sure things went right for him when I'm pulling
so many strings behind the scenes." He looked at the gun in his
hand and grinned. "They call me
Puppetmaster
."

Rhys took a step closer to the stairwell.
After she had both feet planted, she threw another look over her
shoulder. She still couldn't see anything. And where was Nick? If
he was sipping champagne and tossing back hors d'oeuvres she might
never forgive him.