Chapter Fifteen

October 2000

  

Blu had an idea what was next. He just couldn’t believe he was thinking it.

“Jansen’s also playing a game.”

Crome coughed out smoke from his cigarette. “Why?”

“Think about it,” Blu said. “He goes in his house. You guys are practically on top of him. And he’s kidnapped? Grietje’s men are not that good—we should know. It’s the only explanation.”

“So he pays us to dupe us?”

“No.” Blu had to think about his answer. It still didn’t make complete sense, but his hunch felt right. “Something’s missing. We don’t know the reason yet.”

Crome flicked ashes off his smoke. “So what are we supposed to do now? Forget about our client and hope you’re right?”

With a smile, Blu said, “We’re going to play along. I’ll call Grietje tomorrow.”

“Before you forget,” Crome said, “you’re still married.”

Blu heard his partner, and at the same time didn’t hear him.

  

Hope looked up at her father with the eyes of an angel. They were his eyes, but were filled with her spirit. And they were perfect.

Blu lifted her up and kissed her on the forehead. “How’s my girl?”

“Good, now.” She rubbed her nose on his.

Abby said, “We haven’t seen you for two days, Blu.”

It always came back to this—his job. The source of their income while she finished her nursing classes. He had a feeling after she graduated, sooner or later, she’d leave and take Hope with her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Someone kidnapped our client.”

“How’d they do that, Daddy?”

He said, “They were sneakier than me and Uncle Crome. But we’ll get him back. We always do.”

Hope chanted, “We always do! We always do! We always do!”

Abby took her from Blu. “Come on, Sweetie. It’s bedtime.”

“No!” Tears ran down her face.

One moment she’s happy. The next, she’s miserable. Such was the life of a three-year-old.

Blu watched his wife take their crying daughter to bed and got a glass and filled it from the kitchen faucet. Abby liked the bottled stuff. Blu was just a tap water kind of guy. And that wasn’t going to be good enough for her in the long run. He couldn’t remember the last time they had a quiet moment together, much less made love.

His phone buzzed.

He looked at the display, saw Grietje’s number, and thought tonight wouldn’t be any better for his marriage.

  

Grietje stared at him from her seat at the bar, giving him her full-lipped smile, as if she’d never tried to have him killed.

“Miss You” by the Rolling Stones played in the background.

Blu pulled two cigarettes, lit them with the Pirate’s Cove matches, and gave one to her.

She took the offered smoke between two long slender fingers, held it to her mouth, and inhaled a lungful. Blowing out a steady stream to the ceiling, she smiled. “I’m surprised you would want to see me again.”

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’m not sure I’m thinking clearly.”

Fingering the stem of her wine glass, she hesitated before speaking. “My men wouldn’t have killed you.”

Using the same hand that held his cigarette, Blu picked up the tumbler of club soda, raised it to her, and took a drink, not believing a word of what she just said.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” she asked.

“Not at all, but it’s a nice thought.”

“What is?” she asked, leaning in. “Thinking that I wouldn’t have you killed, or wanting to accept what I say to you as truth?”

The halo of the dim lighting around her curls made him want to touch them. He said, “You didn’t enjoy it very much when I carried you down the street.”

She sat back and hooked an elbow behind the backrest of her barstool, retreating but still open to him. “You find that funny, don’t you?”

“Not at the time.” But thinking about it now: her weight over his shoulder, the closeness of her, and the smell of her perfume on his clothes afterward.

“Probably not,” she said. “But now, here facing me. You’re thinking about it and liking what you did. How you handled me.”

“Lady,” he said.

“You know my name.” She moved toward him again, getting in close. “It’s Grietje.”

He didn’t blink. “I know what you said your name is.”

Nose to nose, like he’d been with Hope, but nothing like he was with his daughter, Grietje said, “I’m just the person in the middle. I’m not bad. I’m just doing my job.”

With noses still touching, he said, “You’ve been doing this for too long.”

With a slight head tilt, but still making skin contact, she said, “What do you mean?”

“You’re so good at lying that you can lie to yourself.”

She put a hand on his shoulder and guided him in for a kiss.

He didn’t resist. Hell, he wanted this. And a distant part of him, deep inside, said he’d also been doing this for too long because he didn’t care anymore.

  

Crome sat alone and nursed a pint and his pack of Winstons while he watched his partner across the room. The woman really was beautiful. She’d flipped some switch in him when he first saw her with Jansen. And now she was using her beauty to hoodwink his partner. The worst part was it worked.

When the woman pulled Blu in close, Crome said sotto voce, “Oh, no.”

There were a lot of things Crome could do. Try to call his partner on his cell phone, see if the poor sap would actually answer the call with that woman’s hands all over him. He could walk up to them, slap his partner on the back, and remind him he was still married. Yell from where he sat. Pull out his Beretta and fire a warning shot.

He did none of those things.

Blu could be crazy, unpredictable, and often totally wrong. But the ladies loved him.

  

Blu didn’t know how far this was going to go. Grietje seemed to want to take it over the edge. He wanted to find his client.

There didn’t appear to be any middle ground.

They left the bar and made it to her hotel room. Blu realized he was way past the line of sense and sensibility.

Except for one detail: Crome.

Blu was putting quite a bit of confidence in his partner exercising good judgment and stepping in to save him from himself. It might not have been the best of plans. The phone in his pocket buzzed. He checked the display and found the number he and Crome had agreed upon for “all clear.”

The room was actually a suite with a large sitting area next to the bed. She made herself a drink from an already opened bottle of bourbon, kicked off her shoes, and sat on a couch.

“Why am I really here?” he asked.

She patted the cushion next to her. “Take a seat.”

Blu sat next to, but not beside her. “I want to talk to my client.”

“Impossible.” She sipped her drink.

“Call your handler and hand me the phone.”

“He already knows you’re here. Ron hasn’t agreed to the terms, yet.”

“So, again, why am I here?”

“Because,” she said, “I don’t want you out there looking for him.”

“You think you’ve got me locked up?”

“My team is close by. You’re not going anywhere.”

He said, “I think you might have overestimated yourself.”

She paused from taking another drink. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I’ve got a man outside your door. I’ve got a van waiting down at the curb. And I’ve got a place a lot less comfortable than this where you’ll be while I look for Jansen.”

“You think you can take me?” she asked.

“It’s what I’m good at,” he said. “Making people disappear.”

“And I thought we were getting along so well in the bar downstairs.”

“We were,” he said. “But you have my client and I want him back.”

“What if I scream?”

Blu rapped on the wall. “This is old construction with solid beams and horsehair insulation. Scream all you want.”

“My men will stop you.”

With a smile, Blu said, “Your men are already out of the picture.”

The turn in her expression was slight. The confidence of someone usually in control now wavering. Next would be anger and then fear. It didn’t matter. Only getting his client back mattered.

Grietje tried to play it cool. She took another drink, set the glass on the coffee table in front of the couch, and ran her fingers through her hair.

If Blu hadn’t had Abby and Hope to think about, he knew he’d have succumbed to Grietje’s beauty. And if he didn’t have Crome at his flank, he’d already be dead.

It was time to go back to church like his mother had taught him and thank God for keeping him alive these twenty-seven years.

He picked up her purse and took out a nice Ruger thirty-two which he stuck down the front of his jeans.

“You can have my lipstick too, if you want.”

With a smile, he took a cell phone out of her purse and handed it to her. “Go ahead and make the call.”