One Dead Witness (5 page)

But if that was the case, why hadn’t they done him in the
parking lot? That would’ve been nice and easy. This was
complicated.

No matter how many questions he asked himself, he could not
work any of it out.

So here he was, bundled up like some damn amateur in the back
of his own van after all he’d been through and survived in his life
so far. Taken by two spunkless punks who were young enough to be
his sons.

How the mighty are fallen.

The sound of the tyres on the road changed to a high-pitched
hum which Kruger recognised. The van was travelling over one of the
causeways which linked the city with Miami Beach, South Beach or
possibly Key Biscayne.

So they were travelling east. Not that the knowledge helped
Kruger in any way.

The van slowed. There was a series of twists and turns. Kruger
sensed he was near to the end of his journey.

The van stopped.

He became very frightened.

His two captors manhandled him out of the back of the Chevy,
pushed, prodded and almost dragged him across a gravel surface. He
stumbled up a short flight of what he imagined to be concrete
steps. He heard a door open and then he was inside a building,
still being roughly pushed, cajoled, pulled and directed. Finally
they brought him to a halt. He was told to stand still. They held
onto his biceps with firm grips.

He was completely disorientated.

He had no idea where he was.

No idea why he was there. Abducted off the street like some
millionaire tycoon.

He did as instructed and stood completely motionless, wrists
cuffed in front of his groin. It was hot beneath the black hood,
which was made from some sort of thick polythene, like a garden
refuse sack. He sweated. Standing there in silence, it became even
hotter, unbearable, made even worse as his imagination ran riot. He
ground his teeth and dilated his nostrils whilst the tension began
to build up in him like a geyser.

Something told him very bluntly, ‘This is it, Buddy Boy. This
is where you buy it. The end of the line - and you don’t even know
why.’

He fought hard to control his heartbeat and his bowels and
prepared himself for the bullet. The third one he would have taken
in his life.

The fatal one.

A female voice Kruger thought he recognised said softly,
‘Handcuffs.’

His hands were bent outwards in order to get the key into the
locks. The ratchets swung back, his wrists came free. In the
confusion and fear of his predicament Kruger had not realised how
deeply the steel rims of the cuffs had been biting into his flesh.
As they were opened, the blood rushed back into his hands with a
surge of pins and needles.

His biceps were still in the grip of his captors.

He became suddenly aware of someone standing very close in
front of him. Very close indeed. Almost touching. He could smell a
scent, a familiar perfume. Couldn’t quite remember its name. He
shook his head. Must be dreaming. Then he felt a hand on his chest
and jumped as if he’d been electrified. The grips on his arms
tightened.

The top button of his shirt was already undone. The fingers of
the hand at his chest slid up to the second button and skilfully
tweaked it open. Then the third and fourth. The hand slid under the
shirt and rested on Kruger’s left breast, playfully pinching his
nipple.

. . . At which point Kruger bellowed and exploded without
warning.

Almost like Samson escaping from shackles, he lifted his arms
and pushed outwards at the same time, driving the back of his fists
against the men on either side of him, sending them staggering
away.

He ripped the hood off, ready to fight for his
life.

And the nightmare continued because standing in front of him
trying to control her giggling was one of the worst mistakes of his
life: his third wife, stage name Felicity Snowball. Real name,
Felicity Bussola. Born, plain Jane Creek.

‘
Jesus Christ, you godamned bitch!’ screamed Kruger. ‘What the
hell you playin’ at?’ He lurched towards her and grabbed her
shoulders. His arm drew back and he was about to lay one of his
mightiest slaps across her cheeks when for the second time that
day, a gun was poked in his neck. His hand screeched to a halt in
mid-arc. He allowed it to flutter down uselessly to his
side.

He stood upright, breathing heavily.

‘
Stevie baby,’ cooed Felicity. ‘Baby, baby ... you don’t wanna
hit your honey-pie, now do you, sweetie?’

‘
Yes, I do.’

The muzzle of the gun was ground into his neck.

Felicity’s face became serious. ‘Cos I ain’t foolin’ around
here, Stevie. You touch me, babe, and I’ll waste you.’

Kruger nodded.

The gun was withdrawn. He glanced briefly at the two men who’d
brought him here and said, ‘No trouble promise.’ He felt obliged to
put it into plain English because if the two goons were connected
to Felicity’s new husband, they would have no qualms in filling him
full of lead then dumping his concrete-encased body in the
foundations of a new apartment block somewhere in the
city.

He turned to face Felicity. ‘What the hell d’you
want?’

She shooed the men away. ‘I’ll scream if he touches me,’ she
told them, ‘then you two boys come runnin’, okay?’

When they were alone she tiptoed up to Kruger and kissed him
on the lips. What began as a friendly peck suddenly developed into
a passionate embrace. She ran her arms around his neck, yanked him
towards her, forced her tongue into his mouth and ground her hot
sex into his groin.

Despite himself, he responded ... until common sense
prevailed. He eased her away.

‘
Hey, what about hubby? If he strolls in here, I’m dead
meat.’

‘
Aw, fuck him,’ she said dismissively.

Which was not a sentiment Kruger shared. Mario Bussola was a
very feared and respected individual in Florida’s low-life, widely
recognised to be the number one mobster in the state following the
blood-soaked demise of Tony Corelli a couple of years before, who
was then tops.

Bussola, it was rumoured, had people put to death for far less
contentious issues than French-kissing his wife.

Joe Lilton rolled slowly over onto his back. He held his
breath and listened. Next to him in bed lay his wife, Ruth. She was
breathing heavily in a very deep sleep induced by several large
glasses of wine and a couple of strong sleeping pills. ‘The worry’s
over now,’ Joe had cajoled her earlier on their return from
hospital. ‘Claire’s back home. You can relax, chill out. You
deserve a good night’s rest. After all, you haven’t slept a wink
for the last two what with worrying about Claire. Come on, off to
bed now. Tomorrow we’ll get everything sorted out.’

Once Ruth had supervised a hot bath for Claire, some supper
and tucked her up for the night, she had been easy to manipulate by
Joe. She had willingly supped the wine, almost a full bottle of
Hock; easy to drink, cheap and extremely effective.

Joe had had a few stiff brandies himself, whilst acting the
concerned husband and father.

When he’d suggested sleeping tablets and shown Ruth the box of
Nitrazepam, there had been no resistance. She was already woozy as
her jaded body had been an easy target for the alcohol.

It didn’t take long for the combination to take effect. Less
than fifteen minutes later, Joe steered. her to bed, helped her
undress and eased her under the covers. After checking the hotel
and briefly chatting to the night porter, Joe had also gone to bed
in the family annexe at the rear of the ground floor.

When he entered the bedroom, a bedside light was still on, but
Ruth was fast asleep. Just to make certain, Joe had purposely
crashed round the room, deliberately dropping things.

Ruth did not even flinch.

As he climbed in next to her, naked, Joe had smiled
dangerously to himself. From past experience he knew she would be
out of it for at least ten hours. Not even a bomb could have woken
her. Joe had free reign.

Just to be on the safe side, he prodded her. There was no
reaction. Ruth was as good as dead.

He lay by her side for a few more minutes, slightly concerned
when she shifted, though all she did was flip over onto her back,
mutter something incomprehensible, open her mouth and commence to
snore gently.

Joe even closed her mouth with the tip of his forefinger and
then let her jaw drop open again. She stayed asleep. A feeling of
elation zipped through him, coupled with a tight feeling in his
throat.

He reached down and grabbed his penis. It was already rock
hard with expectation. He drew back the foreskin and squeezed his
damp glans, drawing a stuttering breath.

Carefully he peeled the duvet off himself, and sat up on the
edge of the bed. The hardness of his curved erection pressed into
his stomach. He stroked the length of it proudly and caressed his
balls with his fingertips.

He was feeling good. Alive. He stood up. It swayed in front of
him. It was huge, throbbing urgently. She would love every painful
inch of it.

He glided out of the bedroom, his feet creeping along the deep
carpet. Moments later he was at the far end of the hallway outside
Claire’s bedroom. He pushed the door open.

Claire’s teddy-bear nightlight glowed in the darkness, casting
enough of a dim glow to allow Joe’s eyes to see into the room.
Claire’s petite figure was curled up in a ball underneath the
quilt. She moved when Joe opened the door, lifting her head to
see.

She had not been asleep, but had been ready, waiting fearfully
for this moment.

‘
Claire, you’re awake,’ Joe whispered, as if surprised. ‘I was
checking to see if you were okay, darling.’

‘
I am, so go away please.’ Her voice trembled.

Joe stepped into the room, clicking the door closed behind
him.

Claire stiffened and drew the cover up to her chin. Joe took
two steps across the room to the bed and settled down on the edge
of it. Claire emitted a little whimper of fright.

‘
Its okay, sweetheart,’ he reassured her. He reached over and
stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ The whimper
metamorphosed into a despairing groan. ‘Now be quiet, honey. ..
come on, don’t be afraid. . . you know you like it as much as I do.
Give me your hand.’ She drew away from him, but he grabbed her with
great strength. ‘That’s it, come on . . . touch me here - and don’t
forget, it’s our little secret, so let’s make sure we don’t wake
your mummy up.’

This was the first time Kruger had been into one of the homes
Felicity shared with Bussola. It was the one on Ocean Drive, South
Beach, facing the Atlantic. The other two houses were too far away
for Kruger to have been driven there in such a short space of
time.

Had he been less inclined towards wringing her neck, Kruger
might have enjoyed the Grand Tour of the house that Felicity gave
him. Impressed to see what crime could buy in terms of material
possessions. As it was, the whole shooting match passed him by;
even the less-than-subtle pause in one of the bedrooms when
Felicity’s body language screamed out the word ‘screw’. When he
didn’t respond to the invitation she gave him a look like he was a
piece of shit and carried on with the tour.

He dutifully followed, brooding intensely, aware that the two
goons were lurking in the background shadows, ready to pounce
should Felicity give the signal.

Eventually they sat in a huge conservatory overlooking the
outdoor pool (there was an indoor one, naturally). She poured him a
very colourful drink which tasted like paraffin.

‘
Why the hell have you dragged me out here?’ he wanted to
know.

‘
You’ve been avoiding me, Stevie.’

‘
I haven’t. I’ve just not got round to returning your
calls.’

‘
Same as,’ she said childishly.

‘
And anyway, what earthly reason would I have to call you,
Liss? As far as I’m aware, our marital business has been finalised.
You stung me for more than you deserved, I paid up, we’re even, you
married Bussola.’

‘
Aw, it’s not about money,’ she said with a flutter of her
hand. ‘I got more money now than I ever had in my life. I’m rollin’
in the stuff.’

‘
In that case,’ Kruger cut in, not one to miss a chance, ‘how
‘bout giving me back that quarter of a mill your shyster lawyer
screwed outta me?’

Felicity snorted dismissively. ‘Spent it. Every last godamned
cent - as a gesture to our short, momentarily sweet, then very sour
marriage.’

‘
That figures,’ Kruger responded with a bitter tone, recalling
a marriage that had been pretty much a shambles from day
one.

They had met at a point in time when both of them had been at
a low ebb in their lives. Kruger was in a deep rough patch
following the disappearance of his second wife with some creep of a
Disney executive in Orlando. Kruger felt he had been struck by
lightning because he had been truly, madly, passionately in love
with the woman, worshipped the ground she glided over, even. For
all that, she had dumped him with all the ceremony of taking the
trash out, leaving a gaping hole in his heart.