Читать книгу Up Against the Wall - Julie Miller - Страница 5

Three years ago

Reuben Page knelt over the bloody corpse of his informant and cursed. “Damn, Dani.”

His stomach soured. Maybe he was getting too old for this type of investigative reporting. The kid had just started her Master’s degree. Couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Reuben’s own daughter. Danielle Ballard was still a government intern, filing papers for Kansas City’s economic development task force.

The symbolism of the young woman’s throat being slashed wasn’t lost on Reuben.

Keep her from talking.

Nor was the fact that he was alone near the rundown docks on the Missouri River just north of Kansas City’s City Market, long after midnight, hovering over a dead body. If Dani had been made, most likely Reuben’s investigation had, too.

“Sorry, kiddo. Has to be done.” Disturbing a crime scene went against years of training as a crime reporter, but Reuben needed the disk that Dani had promised to deliver tonight. It held names, numbers, bank accounts. Clear evidence of bribes. Enough information to turn Reuben’s suspicions into facts.

He bit down on his conscience and leaned over the body.

Even though Dani didn’t smoke, the scent of fine tobacco clung to her clothes, mixing with the salty, dank smells of blood and flesh. The night was dull, the autumn air chilled by a heavy dampness in the air that wasn’t quite rain. The wash of the river was a lonely sound as it swept past in the darkness beneath the empty docks. He should be calling the cops. Calling Dani’s family. Putting a blanket over her.

Instead, Reuben turned out Dani’s pockets and discovered he wasn’t the first to search the corpse that night. Even her raincoat had been ripped open—with the same bloody knife that had slashed her throat, judging by the dampness of the dark red traces at the seams. The only item on her was a ring of keys in her fist. Her open purse lay in a puddle beside her. Either the disk had been taken by the killer, or Dani never had it in the first place.

But on the phone that morning, Dani had sworn that she’d found evidence to prove a new breed of organized crime had come to Kansas City. Reuben had already pieced together a pattern—a rise in intimidation crimes, suspect investments that mimicked the money laundering schemes he’d written about on the police beat in Chicago, select, ruthless murders like this one. Dani’s insider evidence would connect the dots, and Reuben could expose the problem and win a second Pulitzer in the process.

“It has to be here,” he muttered. If the killer had it, then Reuben’s story was dead.

If the killer had the disk, then so was he.

His heart beat faster and Reuben hurried his search, silently apologizing as he ran his fingers over the body, nudging it from one side to the other with the same speed and determination with which he typed out his columns on the keyboard.

When he saw the bulge in Dani’s purse, he turned it inside out and dumped the contents at his feet. Though it wasn’t the right shape for a disk, he might find a note, or a clue to lead him to the disk’s location. “Tell me you were a smart kid.” Reuben froze. “What the hell?”

Money. Not just a couple of twenties, but hundreds, no…Reuben caught the bills before the misted breeze off the river blew them away. “There has to be ten thousand dollars here.” A plant. Had to be. Idealistic kids fresh out of college didn’t carry that kind of cash. “What’s this?”

Reuben held the tiny plastic bag up to the dim circle of light hanging over the rusted door of the warehouse behind him. He recognized the crack from his research into numerous drug-related crimes.

“A setup.” One look at her dewy skin and straight white teeth, and anyone who knew the signs could tell Dani didn’t use. A crusader like her wouldn’t sell, either. So why…?

Reuben peered over his shoulder into the night, trusting his reporter’s nose. He was being watched. But by human eyes? Or by whatever was scurrying beneath the trash bin beside him?

He breathed a measured sigh of relief when a rat darted past and disappeared through a hole in the building’s foundation. But it was warning enough for him to get his butt into gear and get out of there.

Reuben pushed to his feet, pocketing the cash, the drugs and the keys. The kid was a hero in Reuben’s book, and would earn a deserving mention in his next Kansas City Journal column. He wouldn’t let the thug who’d silenced her tarnish her reputation.

Reuben’s crepe-soled shoes squeaked on the damp pavement as he hurried toward the vintage Cadillac he’d parked on the street side of the warehouse. He emptied the drugs into the river, dropped the plastic bag into a trash bin, and stuffed the wad of cash into his jacket pocket. Then he sped away into the heart of downtown K.C., planning to dump the money in a foreign location where it wouldn’t be traced back to Dani Ballard. Maybe he’d donate it to a shelter, or leave it in a church’s mailbox. Maybe he’d head on south of the city and toss it into one of the landfills.

Reuben Page did none of those things.

One of the keys in the passenger seat winked at him as he passed beneath a street lamp. The game was still on. “Brilliant, kiddo.”

The rush of discovery fueled the story composing itself inside his head as Reuben swung the car toward the city bus terminal. He reached for the key to a bus-station storage locker and tucked it into his pocket. In the same motion, he retrieved a pen and notepad, turned to a fresh page and jotted a cryptic note.

Balancing the pad on his knee and writing as he drove couldn’t make his handwriting any worse. There was only one person left in the world who could decipher his illegible scrawl, one person who looked forward to reading his notes, one person he loved and trusted enough to share them with.

Dear Rebecca, he began.

Since his wife’s death a decade earlier, Reuben had started sending his story notes to his daughter. Once upon a time, his wife had translated them and typed them up for him. But now that Rebecca was away at the University of Missouri’s journalism school in Columbia, following in his footsteps as a reporter, she seemed to enjoy reading them as though she was keeping up with a journal of his activities. He supposed they replaced the letters he always intended to write, but never could quite get onto paper or into an e-mail. His scribbles connected them in a way that the dangers and demands of his job rarely allowed them to. Besides, with the number of computers he’d sent to their makers, it never hurt to have a backup copy of his current work in someone else’s hands.

As he sped through the fog-shrouded streets, Reuben briefly detailed Dani’s murder, skipping the more graphic elements. He wrote about the disk, listed abbreviations of the names he thought would be linked to the murder. He sent his love and promised to visit Mizzou for homecoming in a couple of weeks. He pulled an envelope from his briefcase, tucked the notepad inside and addressed the package. He stuck a wad of stamps onto one corner and dropped it into a mailbox en route.

The bus terminal was a surprising hive of activity at one in the morning. Parked cars lined the street and Reuben had to squeeze his long sedan into a tiny space nearly a block away. The street lamps barely cut a path through the fog, but still he looked—peering up and down the sidewalk as he turned up his collar and checked for familiar cars. Then, when he felt certain enough that nothing beyond leaving the scene of a murder was out of the ordinary for the night, he crossed the street. Two buses were loading and unloading passengers beneath the driveway canopy on the west side of the building, and he jogged up to lose himself in the parade of travelers entering the terminal.

Inside, Reuben separated himself from the crowd and made a beeline across the lobby to the rows of storage lockers. He found number 280 easily enough and inserted the key.

The square, squat locker could have held an entire computer, but there was only one small item inside. A padded envelope with his name on it. Hunching over the open doorway to hide his prize, he slipped the disk inside his jacket. He couldn’t resist a satisfied smile. “You’re gonna be more famous than Deep Throat, kiddo.”

When he closed the door and saw the man in the tailored suit at the coffee counter, cradling a plastic cup between his well-manicured hands, Reuben’s temporary rush of victory chilled in his veins. Dani had never stood a chance. That smug son of a bitch. Publicly claiming to be a friend of the press. A friend to Kansas City. A friend to all.

The eyes that met Reuben’s gaze said he was no man’s friend but his own.

And the evidence to prove it was burning a hole inside Reuben’s pocket.

His story wouldn’t get written. Not tonight. Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Then he became aware of the bruiser with a mustache standing at the exit, watching him without blinking. Another overbuilt guard dog waited with the passengers lining up for St. Louis. Obliquely, Reuben wondered which one of them had Dani Ballard’s blood on his hands. Maybe they both did. Their boss, still sipping his coffee, certainly wouldn’t dirty his hands that way.

Reuben cursed beneath his breath and slowly walked toward the heart of the lobby. How had he been followed? When had he missed the car that must have been waiting for him to leave the docks? Or had they tailed him some other way? A tracking chip, maybe? He swallowed hard and gathered his thoughts. Whys and hows no longer mattered.

Justice did.

Survival seemed a mighty distant second.

He could be bold and approach the man at the counter, disk in hand, and dare him to deny the truth. Or he could take a chance.

The same chance Danielle Ballard had taken.

With a firm resolution, Reuben Page pulled his shoulders back and exhaled a steadying breath. With his gaze darting from one threat to the next, he strode with purpose to the center of the crowded waiting area.

And tossed the ten grand of cash into the air.

As the passengers converged and chaos erupted, Reuben shoved his way past them and ran. Once-weary citizens attacked the free money with a frenzy that blocked the two thugs and gave Reuben a clear path to the door. He shot outside, never sparing a glance behind him until he reached his car.

There was no finesse to slamming the bumper of the car in front of him, no apology for scratching a strip of paint from headlamp to taillight. He jerked the wheel, floored the accelerator and sped into the street. He turned two corners and ran one stop sign before daring to turn on his lights. Hopefully, he’d gotten enough of a lead that the three men couldn’t follow him.

No such luck.

Now he was painfully aware of the screech of tires and blare of horns behind him as the men who wanted to silence him closed the gap between them. Though little more than a pair of lights in the fog behind him, they closed in with an ominous intent. His own low-slung Caddy bottomed out over a pothole as he barreled through town. The base of skyscrapers gave way to empty parks, then tiny homes. The sleek black car chasing him took shape and color as it rammed his rear bumper. He skidded on the pavement made slick by the drippy fog and careened into a narrow alley. A gunshot cracked his rear window and a telephone pole tore off his side mirror as he whipped past.

Reuben couldn’t remember breathing, much less turning toward the decaying isolation of the warehouses that lined the river. Another gunshot shattered the rear window and debris slammed into the back of his neck and scalp. The lacerations burned, startled. The steering wheel lurched in his grip.

He thought of his daughter as the sedan flew off the end of the dock and plunged into the river. The water was a cold shock that slapped him in the face and sharpened his senses. The heavy car sank quickly, but as the murky water pooled around him, Reuben had the presence of mind to unhook his seat belt and swim up through the empty rear window.

He kicked to the surface as the current carried him downstream. Reuben coughed up water and gasped for breath. But bright car lights from the street that ran the length of the docks caught him in their glare. Shouts and bullets followed, and he dove beneath the water again.

Rebecca would love an adventure like this one. She’d inherited her mother’s beauty, but she had his tenacity. His reckless determination to know.

Reuben slammed into the rusting steel hull of the abandoned Commodore riverboat, permanently anchored and left to be sold for scrap metal. As his breath whooshed from his chest and he sank beneath the water, Reuben thought like a father, not a reporter. He didn’t want Rebecca risking her life for a news story. He didn’t want her to wind up like Dani Ballard.

As he swallowed a lungful of dense green-brown water, he wished his daughter could content herself with marrying a nice young man and filling a sweet suburban home with babies. Reuben knew Rebecca would love her children just as fiercely as he loved her. Maybe he should have showed her better what was in his heart.

The chance to meet those grandchildren, the chance to tell Rebecca the things he should have told her long ago, gave Reuben the strength to kick to the surface one last time. He hoisted himself up over the edge of the boat and rolled onto the deck. Sapped of strength, he crawled to the nearest opening and tumbled between the rotting floorboards, crashing down to the lower deck.

Shaking his vision clear, he staggered to his feet. The grandeur of what had once been a row of staterooms was lost on him. He saw only two-by-fours and steel joists and a rickety ladder descending into the pit of the engine room. Hearing footsteps running along the dock, he slid down into the bowels of the ship. Reuben slipped the disk from his pocket and hid the envelope inside the first cubbyhole he could find. Then, limping to the nearest exit, he pulled a marker from his pocket and scribbled a crude code of symbols on his hand in a shorthand that only Rebecca would understand.

“Mightier than the sword,” he rasped. He hoped. He prayed.

Reuben was lightheaded and weak when muscular arms pulled him back to the Commodore’s deck and propped him up against the bulkhead.

“Well, if it isn’t the legendary Reuben Page. You wouldn’t be planning another exposé now, would you? Where’s the disk Dani gave you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The voice laughed without amusement. “I’m afraid the truth is going to die with you, Mr. Page.”

Reuben blinked the face and suit into focus and stood as tall as his battered body would let him. “The truth never dies.”

“It does tonight.”