Lethal Bliss (Dark Short Reads #6)
Chapter 1
Enzo
Identifying and shaking off a tail is one of the easiest things for me. I've shaken off so many it's become like a second nature. However, I’ve never had to deal with one while shadowing someone else.
Five car lengths ahead of me, Flora Mount’s silver Honda makes a lazy left turn out of sight. In a few seconds, I roll up to the intersection and make the same turn to bring her back into sight. Now she's further ahead of me down a tree-lined avenue.
Moments later, the truck that has stayed behind me for more than three blocks also rounds the corner. The harsh glare of its headlamps makes it impossible to make out what type of car it is. But I don’t need to see it to know that whoever is in the car is not a friend.
That worries me. The last thing I need right now is an unexpected variable that might mess up things tonight.
For now, I keep a light pressure on the gas, maintaining a steady distance behind my quarry. There’s only one car between us now, a gray hatchback that belongs more to the pound than the streets of the city.
Unexpectedly, Flora swings right up a ramp and into a four-car parking lot, then slows to a stop. I slow down and scan the sidewalk for the nearest free parking spot. There's one just a few yards away. I ease the car into it and turn off the engine.
Behind me, a few meters away, the truck follows suit. Its headlamps go out mere moments after mine.
These people are not amateurs.
I pull out my gun from the door-side holster and draw back the safety. At this point, I’m supposed to settle in for the waiting game, but I can’t because I don’t know what the guys in the truck want yet. I have to keep my attention on Flora and also on the rearview mirror.
She steps out of her car now and shuts the door. After taking a few cursory glances up and down the street, she walks up to the house at the end of the driveway and goes in, out of sight. It's a motel. The neon sign mounted to the side of the parking lot announces its name: Everest!
I check the time on my wristwatch: It's 8:49 p.m. I set a timer on the watch to measure how long she stays in the house. The longer the time, the higher my hopes of getting what I want.
My eyes go to the rearview mirror next. Now, with the glare of the headlamps out of the way, I can take a closer look at the truck.
There’s no car in between us and no tint on the windshield to obstruct my view.
So in a matter of moments, I can discern two figures in the truck's front seats.
They're still and unmoving, the same as me.
As long as they stay that way, everything will be alright. Sadly, I know they won't. This is probably going to be an eventful night.
A light comes on in one of the windows of the motel. Flora is meeting someone there. I don't know who it is, but I know that this person is the key to finding out who killed Lieutenant Raymond Carter.
“Carter.” The name escapes my lips unbidden. It falls off like bile-laden spittle, ejected with distaste and a twisted face.
Carter's death has brought us all more trouble than the cop was worth. There's a saying that a gunslinger rejoices at the death of a law man but tumbles into the arms of sorrow if the death happens on his watch.
Raymond Carter was shot dead in the middle of a meeting with Franklin Benetti, my godfather.
It didn't matter that Franklin denied committing the murder, that the murder weapon hasn't yet been found, or that there wasn't enough blood spatter consistent with a gunshot wound at the scene of the crime.
The police hauled his ass off to jail less than an hour after the deed was done, and he's been in there for five days now.
It was Franklin who brought me into Don Cartagna's family and vouched for me. It was also under his watchful eyes that I rose rapidly through the ranks to become not just a made man but also one of the Don’s most important caporegimes.
Now I’m here to find out the truth and get the evidence that will set him free. Two nights ago, the Don summoned me to his mansion to discuss Franklin’s situation.
“I’d have come to you immediately myself,” I told him, “yesterday, perhaps, but I had to wait to see Frederick first to get enough information about the case.”
Frederick Lorenzo was his consigliere, the man whose brains ensured that the family’s dirty money got cleaned up and its henchmen stayed out of jail.
His face was grim when I met him the day after Franklin’s arrest. It was all I needed to know—getting Franklin out of this was going to take extra work.
“That is good,” Cartagna told me. “I know that Franklin did not do it. Carter has always been our friend, and even if he switched sides at some point, Franklin would never be foolish enough to handle his betrayal that way.”
“I agree,” I told him.
“Find the truth,” he instructed, “and make whoever is behind this pay.”
Now, I’m here, in a beat-up Buick, waiting for Flora to dig up the truth so I can pounce. It makes me feel like a coyote hanging around a badger or the wolf following a crow’s cawing in search of prey.
It's hard to shake off the disquieting feeling that she’s smarter than me and has a better nose for digging up information.
The fact that the woman is a seasoned investigative journalist is not enough to dispel the discomfiture the thought brings to me.
It doesn’t matter that I’m the one who set her on the right track in the first place.
All it had taken was an anonymous email to her with the details of the case that the police deliberately kept from the public. It was enough to get her on the trail, like a hound with a scent.
Movement in the rearview mirror startles me, and I look closely at it.
Behind, three of the truck’s doors are open.
Three men alight together.
I clutch my gun tighter and push open my own door.
Finally, it’s show time!