Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie
Thirty-One
Chase
Screeching tires on concrete wake me. My head throbs. A sharp pain on my wrist intensifies when I tug repeatedly, attempting to touch my head. That guy decked me. Fuck, it hurts.
I’m horizontal. Soft material covers my nose on the inhale. Shifts away on the exhale. Using the tips of my fingers, I feel behind me and find a hard plastic object. I can barely make out the shape of seats. I must still be in the back seat of the van.
Based on the silence, I assume I’m alone. If anyone is inside with me, he’s being very quiet. A car door slams. I listen intently. Should I stay silent? Shout for help?
“You got him?” I recognize that voice.
“Yep.”
“I want you to put him in this trunk, under the floorboards, and drive down 95. All the way to the Everglades. Feed the gators. Then come home. You got it?”
“I’m not driving across state lines. What if he gets away? What if we get stopped? I didn’t sign up for this shit.”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“It’s okay, Joe. He’s new.” There’s a beat of silence, and the same voice continues, “We’ll kill him before we head down. Hide his body in the back of the van.”
“He’s alive?”
“Yeah, he’s in the van. Knocked out.”
“This the same van you grabbed him in?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you can’t drive it down. Someone might’ve made the plates. I’ll send another car over for you to use for the trip. Why the fuck’s he still alive?”
“I don’t have a silencer. What? I wasn’t expecting this shit. This place is dead at night. Once everyone clears out, we’ll off him, and no one’ll hear.”
“Who uses this place?”
“Small company on the top floor. There’s usually about six or eight cars on top-level parking. Down here, where we are, no one ever comes.”
“What the fuck are you worried about someone hearing a gunshot for, then?”
“You want this job done right? I’ve got no interest in going back to Rikers. What’re a few hours, anyway?”
“Where is he?”
“I told ya. In the van.”
The grating sound of the van door sliding open fills the vehicle. I can’t see a thing, but I sense men are standing nearby. I don’t recognize any of the voices except for one. The one I recognize is Joe McGurn. I’d heard rumors he had mafia connections. I thought those rumors were bullshit. Now, not so much.
“Maitlin. Fuck, man. You know, I really liked you.”
“May I ask what changed your mind?”
He chuckles at my question like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s heard all day. Then he growls, “How much does that FBI agent know?”
“About what?”
“Don’t play dumb. I know you’ve been banging her. What’d you give the feds?”
“The FBI has my sworn testimony. Killing me won’t help anyone’s case.” I’m not entirely sure my meeting with the FBI constitutes sworn testimony, but he won’t know that.
“You already met with the feds?”
“Yes. With my lawyers. Everything is documented. They have all the records.”
“Don’t matter, my man. There’s this little thing called doubt. Jury gonna have to question if it’s possible you’re the kingpin. As we speak, a look-alike in a baseball cap is boarding a plane out of the U.S. using your passport.”
Fuck. I stored my passport in a file at work. In one of the now empty file cabinets.
“And all your money is in the process of being transferred to accounts out of the country. Any jury is gonna find reasonable doubt. You know, it’s really not smart to keep your passport and all your business account information in the same file folder.” He chuckles again, and it’s sinister. “I did like you. Fun to hang out with.”
Story of my life. And now he’s going to off me. I am not Houdini. There’s no way I’m getting the handcuffs off. Talk. Work some magic.
“Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to join you guys? I would have, you know.”
“Ya know, I asked the guys about bringing you in. I did. But you were always gonna be the patsy. The backup plan.” His voice trails off, and desperation kicks in. I have nothing to offer. No way out. This might actually be how I die. Framed for some accounting scam.
Sadie. She won’t doubt me. She’ll work to prove I’m innocent. At least my parents won’t have to think I’m a criminal. A disgrace. A visual of my parents graveside comes to mind. My Mom. Okay, Chase. Get it together. Negotiate.
“I don’t like leaving him for hours in the back of the van.” Joe’s voice is distant. But I can hear feet on concrete close by. Someone flicks something repeatedly. Maybe the top to a pen. Or maybe it’s the click of a lighter. Click. Click. Click.
“You know, I have all the electronic files. Don’t you want those?” I’m not above begging.
“Hey, I might have a silencer.” A trunk pops open somewhere nearby. Shit. This is really the end. I’ve been fucking around for years, acting like I have forever, and what do I have at the end of the day? A lot of meaningless shit. An apartment that photographs well. A solid list of hook-ups. An impressive net worth. Good friends. Parents. Sadie. The start of a real relationship. Not a bad list, but…a shitty obit.
“Nope. Must be back home.”
“Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. I can testify for you guys. Or still be your fall guy. Just alive.” Even to me, it sounds desperate. They’d be nuts to take me up on it, but no silencer means more time. Keep the ball in play.
“Shut the fuck up, you god damn moron. I’m going to fucking enjoy this.” I’d recognize his voice anywhere. His nasty cologne fills my nostrils.
Garrick Carlson.