leaned across the counter. “Lady, the man I’m after is willing for his mother to lose her home rather than show his ass in court. I’m not in a very good mood, so don’t start making excuses for your clientele. You and I both know most of them rent by the hour, so if you want me to notify some friends in vice that you’re running a little something on the side, just say the word.”
Her expression shifted to one of defiance, but she didn’t mince words.
“Yeah, he’s still in there, but if you bust somethin’ up when you take him down, you’re payin’ for it.”
“And by the same token, if you call and warn Paulie I’m coming up, I’ll come after you for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”
She blanched, then held up her hands and stepped back as Wilson left the office.
He quickly moved into the shadows of a stairwell, glancing up to the second-level balcony and the long row of motel-room doors. The cold air, mixed with the warmth of his exhaled breath, was marked by small, cloud-like vapors. Despite the chill, he could smell something rotting from a nearby garbage bin and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
As he started up the stairs, he saw the corner of a maid’s cart and knew she was already on her rounds, cleaning rooms. He didn’t think Paulie was armed, but he couldn’t take a chance on getting an innocent person hurt. Once he reached the second level, he hurried down to the open doorway where the maid was cleaning and flashed his badge.
“Stay inside,” he said quickly.
The woman’s fear was evident as he closed the door between them, then hurried down to 216.
The curtains were pulled, and there was a thin layer of frost on the windows. He stood to the side of the door and listened, but heard nothing, no one moving around. Too cold to linger, Wilson knew there was only one way to rouse Beach and only one way out of the room.
Wilson made a fist and pounded on the door, but got no response. He pounded again, this time louder and longer.
“Get lost!” someone shouted from another room.
“Paulie! It’s Wilson McKay. Get your ass out here now.”
There was a long moment of silence; then Wilson heard footsteps hit the floor. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the curtains, knowing that Paulie would look out. When he saw the curtains move, he yelled again.
“Open the door, Paulie. You jumped bond on me. I’ve come to take you in.”
Paulie Beach’s expression was a mixture of surprise and anger as he stared at Wilson in disbelief.
“Like hell,” he yelled, as he let the curtains fall back in place.
It was all Wilson needed to see. Impatient and cold and ticked at the world in general, he kicked the door with a vicious blow. It flew inward, revealing Paulie in the act of pulling on his pants.
“Son of a bitch!” Paulie yelped, and bolted for the bathroom.
Wilson caught him by the back of the pants. “Shut your mouth,” he said, as he grabbed the man by the arm and shoved him facedown on the bed.
He snapped on handcuffs and dragged him back up on his feet while Paulie cursed and argued.
Wilson wasn’t in the mood to listen.
“Just shut up, Beach! You’re one sorry bastard, you know that? What the hell were you thinking…pulling a no-show in court and putting your mother in danger of losing her house?”
“Piss off,” Beach muttered.
Wilson grabbed Paulie’s shirt, coat and shoes, and dragged him out the door.
“Hey! It’s cold out here. Give me my shoes, damn it. You can’t take me—”
“Yes, I can,” Wilson said.
The little maid was peeking out past the door when Wilson dragged Paulie Beach out of the room and onto the landing.
“He’s checking out,” he told her, and then pulled Paulie down the metal stairs, taking satisfaction in the fact that the little bastard wasn’t wearing any shoes.
He dropped Paulie off at the jail, spent a few minutes listening to the jailer talk about his first Christmas as a father and tried not to hate the man’s guts. It wasn’t the jailer’s fault that Wilson’s personal life was one big mess.
Then, as if fate wasn’t through messing with him, he met Art Ball coming in as he was on the way out. All it did was remind him of the female bounty hunter who kept tearing a hole in his heart. Still, he managed to be cordial without making an ass of himself and asking about her. It wasn’t Art’s fault that Cat was a loner.
Once inside his truck, he jacked the heater up to high, taking comfort in the flow of warm air on his feet, and headed out of the parking lot.
Remembering his promise to LaQueen, he picked up a sack of doughnuts from a deli counter as he filled up with gas, then headed back to the office.
While Wilson was plying his secretary with doughnuts and coffee, Cat was pulling out of a drive-through ATM. She had three-hundred dollars cash in her pocket, a suitcase with several changes of clothes and a pair of tennis shoes, besides the boots she was wearing. There was a to-go cup of coffee in the cup holder on her dash and a small sack of fresh hot pretzels on the seat beside her. Every now and then she took a bite, savoring the crunch of salt between her teeth, as well as the warm, chewy bread.
The rain from last night had passed over, leaving gray but clear skies. The grass in the center median of the interstate was brown and soggy, and there were still a few puddles in the road indentations.
Her cell phone was in the seat beside her, but she’d turned it off. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The only person who knew what she was doing was Art, and only because she’d had to come clean with him to keep from getting fired. He hadn’t been happy with her news, but he understood how Cat’s mind worked. He had the number to her cell phone, and her promise that she would call him at least every other day, so he would know she was all right.
Once again, Cat was the predator, after her prey.
Solomon Tutuola was not the same man who’d driven Mark Presley into Mexico. The burns on his face and neck had been serious and, though they were finally healing, they would leave scars. Most of the hair on the left side of his head was gone and, from the consensus of the last two doctors he’d seen, it wasn’t going to grow back. There was a large portion of flesh underneath his chin and on the right side of his neck that had burned deep enough that the tattoos he’d had since his eighteenth birthday were gone. The healing flesh was red and tender, and the web-work of scarring was visible there, as well. The last two doctors he’d seen had recommended he be sent to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to their burn center. It was one of the finest in the country, and Solomon was in serious need of some rehabilitation. However, Solomon had his own reason for ignoring their advice, and he’d found it in Mark Presley’s big duffle bag.
It was money.
One-hundred-dollar bills banded in five-thousand-dollar stacks—hundreds and hundreds of them. More money than he’d ever seen in his life. He’d given the bound bills a quick count, then
