Chapter 15
Now that Casey was no longer blindfolded, the thick layer of dust covering the floor in the room where she was being held was obvious.
The footprints marring the gray-white surface were evidence of the degree of traffic that had come into Fostoria Biggers’s home since she’d been gone.
The absence of glass in two of the three windows of her temporary cell did little to offer an avenue for her to escape.
They had all been boarded up from the outside.
She couldn’t get out and fresh air couldn’t get in.
Last night when they thought she’d been sleeping, she’d dug and pulled and pushed at the boards until her fingers were raw and her nails were gone. Only after she heard one of the men stirring around had she ceased her futile bid for freedom.
Now, she thought it was some time after daybreak. The smell of morning coffee had drifted into the room. On the one hand, she felt justified in celebrating the arrival of a new day, but if Lash was to be believed, she would not celebrate another.
She stood at the door, holding her breath and desperately trying to hear what the two men in the other room were saying. It was impossible. Their voices were too low and the door was too thick to hear anything other than an occasional murmur.
A plate lay on the floor near her feet. Remnants of the sandwich they’d given her yesterday to eat. She’d taken the food and a good look at the filth on their hands and decided she would rather go to her grave hungry.
Whatever it was that kept coming and going through a hole in the floor had made a meal of it last night. By now she didn’t much care what she shared the room with, as long as it came on four feet instead of two
In deference to her constant requests for drinks of water and bathroom privileges, her feet and hands were no longer tied.
And, since Lash’s departure yesterday, the blindfold had also been discarded.
But while she now had an odd sort of freedom within the small, boarded-up room, the implications behind it were frightening.
They no longer cared if she saw their faces because she would not be alive to tell the tale.
The sound of a chair being scooted across the floor made Casey bolt for the other side of the room.
Ever since the arrival of Skeet Wilson, Pike’s cohort, Casey had been afraid to sleep.
Bernie had threatened her, but it was Skeet Wilson whom she knew would willingly do the deed.
He was tall and skinny and walked with a limp.
His hair was long and gray and tied at the back of his neck with a piece of shoestring.
Some sort of blanket fuzz was caught in the knot and it was Casey’s opinion that the shoestring had been there for a very long time.
Skeet bore more scars on his face than teeth in his head, and he carried them all with a wild sort of pride.
He had a face straight out of a nightmare with the disposition to match.
She stood with her back against the wall, holding her breath and praying that it would be Bernie who came in the door. If she’d been betting on the odds of that happening, she would have lost.
Skeet Wilson stepped inside then paused, carefully eyeing the tall, slender woman with her back against the wall.
Even though the blue suit she was wearing was filthy and torn and her legs and feet were bare and scratched, there was an odd sort of dignity to the way she was braced.
In a way, he admired her. But it didn’t matter what he thought.
Skeet was a man who could be bought. And right now, Casey Justice wasn’t a woman to him, she was fifty thousand dollars on the hoof.
“What?” Casey asked, as always, choosing to be the first one to speak.
Skeet grinned and smoothed his hand down the front of his fly, just to remind her who was boss. “Bed check.”
Unless a miracle occurred, today was the last day of her life, but she refused to go out screaming and crying and begging for mercy they weren’t capable of giving. She lifted her chin and squarely met his gaze.
“It’s certainly obvious where you spent your last vacation.”
It crossed his mind to be pissed, but her reference to the fact that his speech was peppered with penitentiary lingo was too good to ignore.
He grinned, revealing his lack of a full set of teeth.
And she was right. His world did revolve around the legal system. Just not on the side of law and order.
“Don’t get too prissy, lady. You’re real close to meetin’ your maker.”
Don’t let him see your fear.
The thought came out of nowhere, and somehow Casey knew that at that moment, Ryder was with her in the only way he could be. Her hands fisted as she stared him down.
“That’s what the mugger said before he snatched the old lady’s purse and ran into the street.”
Skeet’s smirk froze on his face. Either she was losing her mind or it was already gone. He’d never known a woman with the balls to try to tell a joke to someone who was holding her captive. “That don’t make much sense.”
“It does if you know that, seconds later, the mugger was run over by a car. The old lady then walked into the street, lifted her purse out of the dead mugger’s hands and bent over and whispered something in his ear.”
Skeet knew he shouldn’t ask, but he was too intrigued to let the subject lie.
“So, what did she say?”
Casey grinned. “To tell her maker hello.”
Skeet cursed and slammed the door shut between them. He wasn’t all that smart, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what she’d been getting at and he didn’t like it.
He and Bernie had gone through a lot these last two days.
Marlow had threatened them with everything from murder to reneging on the last of their money if they so much as touched a hair on Casey Justice’s head.
Marlow had all but frothed at the mouth, claiming that right was to be his.
Sick of his ranting, they’d finally complied.
But Skeet wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of her.
She was too damned mouthy for her own good.
He kicked at an empty bean can in the middle of the floor and flopped back down in his chair.
There wasn’t any way this plan could fail.
By tonight, he and Bernie would be rolling in dough.
After that, he didn’t give a damn what Marlow did with the bitch.
Whatever it was, it was still less than she deserved.
* * *
“What are those?” Ryder asked, as Roman sorted through a small case in his lap.
“Tracking devices, something like the ones the FBI will probably put in with the ransom money.”
Ryder nodded, although his opinion of the FBI left a lot to be desired. In his opinion, they asked too many questions and didn’t give enough answers. They acted as if what was going on was none of his business.
“Won’t the kidnappers be expecting something like that?”
Roman looked up. “That’s why I’ve got these. The Feds can do their thing. I’m going to do mine.”
“They’re not going to like it,” Ryder warned. “You already ticked Wyandott off yesterday.”
Roman leaned back in his chair, remembering the confrontation he’d had with the special agent in charge. “No one dies from being ticked.”
“You are a hard man, Roman Justice.”
“Tell it to Uncle Sam. He took credit for making me this way. He can take the blame, as well.”
If the situation had been anything else, Ryder could have laughed. As it was, he almost felt sorry for the man who got in his brother’s way.
He glanced at the clock. It was almost noon.
Where the hell was Lash Marlow with the money?
He kept remembering what Roman had told him about Marlow’s financial situation.
It seemed to him that there was a fault in the theory that Lash should be responsible for its deliverance.
It was like giving a starving man the keys to the cupboard.
The doorbell rang. Ryder jumped, then started down the hall, unwilling to wait for Joshua to let whoever it was in. Maybe there was news of Casey. But the Feds beat him to it. Lash was admitted carrying two large duffel bags.
“I’ve got it!” he crowed.
Two men in dark suits relieved him of the bags, leaving him standing in the hall with a jubilant smile on his face. Lash could hardly contain his joy. It was almost over.
“The armored car was late,” Lash said, by way of an explanation for his tardiness.
Ryder listened without comment.
Lash smoothed a hand over his hair. “Any news?”
Ryder shook his head. “No.”
What seemed to be a genuine grimace of dismay spread across his face. “You know, sometimes this all seems like a dream.”
“More like a nightmare, if you ask me.”
Lash nodded. “Of course, that’s what I meant.”
A man Ryder had never seen before came out into the hall from the main salon. Another Fed.
“Mr. Marlow, Detective Gant wants to speak with you.”
Lash straightened his suit coat and followed the man into the room. Ryder was right behind.
Gant waved his hand toward the open bags. “It’s all here, I presume?”
Lash nodded. “Three million dollars in unmarked bills. None of them larger in denomination than a fifty, none of them smaller than a five.”
Gant nodded and turned back to the desk while Ryder struggled with a notion that wouldn’t come. Something Lash had just said rang a chord of memory, but he couldn’t figure out why.
Lash started toward the door. “If you have no further need of me, court awaits.”
Gant paused and looked to Wyandott, who was officially in charge of the investigation. Wyandott didn’t bother to look up. Gant shrugged. “I guess not. But if something comes up, I’ll know where to find you, right?”
Lash chuckled. “One can only hope.”
Ryder’s hands were itching. The urge to grab Lash was overwhelming. It was all he could do to stay put as Marlow left. But at this point, Ryder couldn’t pinpoint what it was that was bugging him.
The front door slammed behind Lash as Roman walked in the room.
“Who was here?” Roman asked.