THE CAR DOOR opened and Mara slid in, thin hips first, with the other man’s hand cupping her blond head of hair. Nicholson saw him tuck a .45 into his waistband before he slammed shut the car door behind her.
His girlfriend looked understandably freaked out. Hell, she was only twenty-three years old. Her arms came together in front, with a sweater draped over them to hide the cuffs. He’d given her that sweater as a present. Cashmere. From the Polo store in Alexandria. Happier days.
“You okay?”
“Jesus, Tony, what’s going on? He told me he was the police. Showed me a badge. Is he?”
“Just don’t say anything,” Nicholson told her quietly. His injured leg felt as though it were going to explode. It was nearly impossible to focus, and Mara’s being here only made matters worse. A whole lot worse, actually. Nicholson loved her.
She was the complete opposite of Charlotte. For one thing, she knew too much. For another, she was New York Irish Italian. Keeping their mouths shut wasn’t exactly a strong suit for most New Yorkers.
“What do they want?” she pressed. “Where are they taking us? Tony, tell me.”
“That’s a bloody good question,” Nicholson said, and kicked the back of the seat with his good foot. He shouted at them. “Where the fuck do you think you’re taking us?”
That got him a backhand across the cheekbone with the .45. He felt the pain, but it was getting hard to care. In fact, pain could be considered a good thing—it meant he was still alive, didn’t it?
“Whatever this is, I don’t work for him anymore,” Mara was already telling the two men in front. “You have to believe me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I was the bookkeeper.”
“Shut up, Mara,” Nicholson said. “Won’t do any good anyway.”
“He’s been shaking people down. Important people. For money. Taping them and—”
He leaned into her, which was about all he could do. “Mara, I’m warning you.”
“Or what, Tony? It’s a little late for warnings, isn’t it? I shouldn’t even be here.”
Her dark brown eyes flashed fear and anger, the same things he was feeling, so it was hard to completely blame her. “I’m talking about big names,” she rattled on. “Rich guys. Politicians, Wall Street, lawyers, that kind of thing—”
“Yeah, yeah.” The driver cut her off. “Tell us something we don’t already know. Otherwise, like the man said—shut up, Mara.”