The Perfect Murder by Kat Martin

TWENTY-NINE

Kenzie circled the main casino floor, pausing to play blackjack or put money into a slot machine. So far she hadn’t seen anyone familiar. She had purposely chosen a seat at a blackjack table with no other players, giving her a chance to chat with the dealer, a heavyset woman in her thirties with bleached blond hair curled under around her shoulders.

Her name was Shirley, divorced and raising two kids.

“I’m a single mother, too,” Kenzie said. “I’m raising a son on my own, so I know how tough it can be.”

“My ex-husband was a real loser.” Shirley slid cards out of a six-deck shoe and pushed them across the green felt table. “Cleaned out the checking account and just disappeared. Me and the kids have been fending for ourselves ever since.”

Kenzie picked up the hand she’d been dealt. “I divorced my ex-husband two years ago. Unfortunately, he came back a couple of days ago, beat the crap out of me, and stole our son.” Her eyes teared, the story too close to the truth.

Sympathy reflected in Shirley’s round face. “You call the police?”

“I did.” Sort of. Law enforcement in the form of Chase Garrett and the guys at The Max. She wiped a tear from her cheek. “So far they haven’t come up with anything.”

“So I guess that’s how you got the shiner.”

Kenzie touched the bruise next to her eye. Every time she moved, her body ached from the fight with Griff’s abductor. “I was hoping I’d covered it up.”

Shirley grunted. “I’ve had enough beatings to know a black eye when I see one.”

A memory of the short man with the curly black hair flashed in her head, but she pushed it away. “I don’t think Ray would hurt our son,” she said, making up a name. “But there’s no way to know for sure. I’m worried sick about him.”

Shirley dealt herself a twenty-one and Kenzie tossed in her cards.

“Men,” the dealer growled, raking in Kenzie’s chips. “They’re all bastards. Some just worse than others.”

Kenzie made no reply. A new hand of cards arrived. She tapped for a hit, then turned over her hand when she busted.

“That’s the real reason I’m here,” she said as the dealer swept in the bet. “My ex is a gambler. He used to come to the Pot-of-Gold all the time. He always lost way more than he ever won, but that didn’t stop him. I think he might be here with my son.”

Shirley began to shuffle all six decks in the shoe, breaking them into small stacks, shuffling until all of the cards were rearranged, then stacking them back in the box.

She slid Kenzie’s cards across the green felt table. “I’m about to take a break. I’ve got a couple of friends who work in housekeeping. Not many kids in a club like this one. How old is he?”

“Griff’s nine.”

Shirley nodded. “I’ll ask them to put the word out, see if any of the maids have seen a nine-year-old boy upstairs in one of the rooms.”

“That would be so great.” She placed a new bet as she took a photo out of her purse, wrote her cell number on the back, and handed it to Shirley.

“That’s Griff,” she said. “My cell number’s on the back.”

Shirley slid the photo into the pocket of her black slacks. “I hope I can help. Us gals gotta stick together.” She spread her hands on the table and walked away as a new dealer, a young Asian woman, appeared to take her place.

Kenzie played a few more hands, but her winning streak had died long ago and she was anxious to talk to Reese. She winced as she slid down from the stool, turned and spotted him seated at a slot machine a few feet away. In his battered straw hat and snug black T-shirt, he looked like a country girl’s dream. She had a hunch he’d been there awhile, keeping watch over her. Kenzie felt a rush of longing.

“I saw you talking to the dealer,” he said as she approached. “Find out anything?”

“No, but she’s going to ask around, see if any of the housekeeping staff has seen a nine-year-old boy.”

Reese’s black brows drew into a frown as he punched the spin button on the slot machine.

“I know it’s dangerous,” Kenzie said, reading the look on his face. “But if there’s a chance he’s here, we need to know.”

Reese’s sigh held a hint of resignation. “You’re right. Let’s wander some more, then we’ll head over to the casino steakhouse and get some supper. That’ll give us more time in the club. Maybe you’ll spot one of the men or your dealer will call.”

There was only a very slim chance either of those things would happen, but as they prowled the casino floor, Kenzie clung to the thin shred of hope.

Griff stared at the clock. It was almost time for one of the men to check on him. He could feel his heart thumping as fast as when he stole third base, and his hands were sweating. For the last hour, he had been planning, figuring a way to escape.

He had heard the men talking, knew their voices, knew the short guy’s name was Eddie. The other guy, Nolan, had left a while ago. He’d be back when it was his turn, he’d said. Which meant there was only one of them in there now.

Griff heard footsteps on the carpet, watched the door swing open and Eddie walk in. Both men always wore ski masks but there was just something creepy about Eddie. The guy was a scary dude.

Griff wished he could wait for the other guy, even though he was bigger, but he didn’t stand a chance against both of them. He had to go for it now.

“You need to take a piss?” Eddie asked harshly.

Griff managed to nod. “Yeah.”

Eddie walked over and unfastened the handcuff. “Behave yourself and I’ll leave it off. You can get a good night’s sleep. Fuck with me and you’ll be sorry.”

Griff’s mouth dried up. Did he really have the nerve to do this? “Okay,” he said.

Sliding off the bed, he hurried into the bathroom, closed the door, and just stood there, dragging in deep breaths of air, trying to work up his courage. There was no window in the bathroom. He had to get past Eddie to escape. The only possible weapon he could find was the toilet brush next to the john.

He grabbed it, walked out by the tub where there was room to swing it a few times and see how it felt in his hands.

“Hurry the fuck up in there.”

Griff quietly opened the bathroom door. Eddie stood across the room, facing away from him, his cell phone pressed to his ear. It was now or never.

Slipping silently out of the bathroom, he gripped the toilet brush like a bat and swung it with all his strength. He played Little League ball and he was pretty good. He cracked Eddie in the side of the head so hard the handle on the brush broke and flew off in pieces. The guy staggered sideways and Griff streaked past him out of the bedroom into the living room and raced for the door.

“Son of a bitch!” Eddie’s footfalls thundered behind him and icy fear slid into his stomach. Griff fumbled with the lock and jerked the door open but Eddie slammed it shut. Griff whirled and tried to punch him, managed to grab the ski mask and jerk it off over his head.

Rage turned Eddie’s expression demonic. He punched Griff hard enough to split his lip, then hit him again. His head spun as he slammed into the wall and slid down onto the carpet.

“Little motherfucker. You’re lucky I don’t kill you.” Eddie kicked him in the ribs, and he groaned.

“Get up and get back in the bedroom.”

Griff swayed as he climbed to his feet and Eddie followed, shoving him across the carpet toward the bed. The handcuff locked into place around his wrist. Eddie went over and turned off the TV.

“And you can forget about food or water or anything else until I say so. You got it?”

Griff nodded. His eyes burned. He blinked to fight back tears he refused to let fall.

The last thing he heard was Eddie on his cell phone.

“Kid saw my face,” he said. “We need to get rid of him.”

The person on the other end of the phone said something Griff couldn’t hear.

“Yeah, well, we’ll get rid of his mother, too. Tie up loose ends.”

Griff’s stomach rolled and he clenched his teeth to keep from puking. He’d failed. Even worse, trying to escape might get both him and his mom killed. The tears he’d been fighting spilled over and slid silently down his cheeks.

Jason “Hawk” Maddox sat at a table in the corner of a bar called the Blue Cypress, a block off the water at Cross Lake. The place wasn’t much more than an overgrown shack with a long bar and scattered tables, but it had video poker and pool tables, and the locals loved it.

Jase had been there half an hour, sipping a cold bottle of Red River beer, waiting for a guy named Long Bailey. Long was even taller than Jase, who stood six-four, but unlike his two-hundred-twenty-pound frame, Long was thin as a rake. He was half Cajun, with wrinkled cocoa skin and a toothy smile.

Hawk had known him for years, always paid Long well for whatever information he gleaned, and they’d become friends of a sort.

Long pushed through the front door, spotted Hawk at the back of the room, and sauntered in that direction, pausing at the bar to order himself a bottle of beer and carry it over to the table.

The men shook hands, and Long sat down across from him.

“Sorry I’m late. Wanted ta be sure I got here clean of a tail. These are some bad boys you’re a dealin’ with, Hawk.”

“I gathered that from the dead guy, Lee Haines, they killed in Dallas. You able to get the shooter’s name?”

Long nodded. “Name’s Jeremy Bolt. One of the best in the biz-ness. Got a reputation of walking away clean, no evidence, nothin’—leastways not unless he left it there apurpose.”

“Looks like he set up Haines’s ex-wife to take the fall for the murder.”

“Sounds like Bolt.”

“You know where I can find him?”

Long sipped his beer. “Can’t help ya there. Bolt likes to gamble, hangs around the casinos. That’s all I know.”

“Anything else?” Jase asked, sliding a crisp hundred-dollar bill across the table.

“I get sump-un, I know how to find y’all.” Long picked up the money, shoved back his chair, and stood up.

“Good to see you, Long,” Hawk said. “Thanks for the help.”

Long just nodded and sauntered back toward the door.

Hawk finished his last swallow of beer, set the bottle on the table, and followed. As he walked out into the night, he spotted Long’s thin frame beneath an overhead parking light, sauntering toward his old beater Chevy pickup. Just as Long stepped off the porch, Hawk caught a flash of metal in the dense shrubbery at the edge of the lot.

“Gun!” he shouted an instant before a rifle shot echoed in the darkness. Hawk pulled his Kimber semiauto and fired as he raced toward his friend. The shooter was running, sprinting through the leafy foliage, rapidly disappearing out of sight. Hawk pulled off a couple more rounds, but his target was nowhere to be seen and Long was down.

Hawk veered off the path and raced toward his friend, lying in a yellow circle of light, his shirt covered with blood. Long’s eyes were open and he was breathing.

“How bad is it?” Hawk asked as he knelt beside him, his Kimber still gripped in one hand.

“Shoulder wound. Be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“Just hold on.” Hawk shoved the Kimber into the holster at his waist and stripped off the denim shirt he was wearing over it. Wadding it up, he took Long’s hand and pressed the shirt against the wound. “Keep pressure on it.”

He pulled his cell, hit the button for 9-1-1, and spoke to dispatch, reported the shooting and the urgent need for an ambulance.

“Ambulance ain’t gonna help,” Long said. “Bolt gonna come for me. I’m already a dead man.”

Hawk reached down and gripped Long’s hand. “I’ve got friends. You’ll have a guard 24/7 at the hospital. In the meantime, I’m going after Bolt. He’s the dead man, not you—and that’s a promise. Understood?”

Long managed a single nod and closed his eyes. As Hawk waited for the ambulance, he phoned Chase and asked him to set up protection for Long at the hospital.

“I’ll make some calls,” Chase said. “Consider it done.”

“Thanks. I’ll stick around the room till your guy shows up. I’ve got a few things to do after that, then I’m going hunting.”