Double Down

  His best friend. Gone.

  Guilt sat, like a thousand-pound weight in the middle of his chest, pinning him to the seat.

  “Yep. Ballistics matched it to the bullet. Anybody have a guess where we found it?” The agent tapped the top of the gun.

  Dario stayed silent.

  The man waited, and the seconds slowly ticked past before the agent sighed, disappointed in their lack of response. “Fine. Hawk’s study. We found the gun in the top drawer of a writing desk.”

  “I’ve told you from the beginning that he killed her.” And he’d planted the gun as insurance, in case the wire hadn’t produced a confession.

  The agent scooted forward, his shoes squeaking against the floor. “So, you think Robert Hawk left his mansion at eleven o’clock at night, drove over to The Majestic, waited in a suite you set aside for your girlfriend, then shot his own daughter in the back of the head?” He tilted his head. “Come on, Dario. Those lines don’t intersect.”

  The guy was a fucking idiot if he thought that was the scenario in play here. And the guy couldn’t be a fucking idiot. Dario kept his mouth shut and fixed his gaze on a point just over the man’s shoulder.

  “Oh, you’re not talking now? You pointed every finger you had at Robert Hawk, and now you’re silent?”

  He paused, and Dario thought of Bell. Wondered if Laurent had already shared the news of Hawk. He glanced at the clock on the wall and fought the urge to quit this interrogation and call her. He’d fucked all of this up so far. Abandoning her in Louisiana. Not being there for her, at a time when she needed it the most. He’d felt her desperation—had seen the way she had broken down and sobbed.

  But he had to keep his distance, and his phone lines free from traceable actions. It wasn’t just Hawk he was worried about finding her; it was also this bunch of federal assholes and their idiotic questions.

  The FBI agent plowed ahead. “Plus, we’ve got an alibi. A forty-five-minute phone call between Robert Hawk and his financial advisor, with cell phone triangulation that proves he was in his home during the call.”

  Another paper slid forward, joining the gun registration. It was a cell phone report, one line highlighted in bright yellow.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re about to tell me that he hired someone else and kept his hands clean.”

  God, this guy was chatty.

  Dario leaned forward, ignoring the cell phone report. “I thought we had a common goal in mind—putting Hawk behind bars. Now, your team found the fucking murder weapon in his house, and suddenly you’re playing patty cake as if I need to sit down and do your job for you. Isn’t happening.”

  Agent King cleared his throat, folding his hands together as if in prayer. “Let’s just calm down for a moment, shall we? I didn’t say that you were under suspicion. It’s just that...”

  He opened the folder and pulled out a series of photos, lining them up in a neat line along the center of the table. Dario watched as the faces were revealed, the driver’s license photos of each player in the game.

  The agent pointed to the first face in the line. “Nick Fentes. Sleeping with your wife. Dead.”

  He slid his finger off the cowboy and on to the second photo. “Gwen Capece. Your cheating wife and owner of eighty percent of your marriage’s communal assets.”

  Everything inside Dario flared, each word boiling his blood. Cheating wife. Owner of eighty percent. That wasn’t what Gwen had been. Those words belonged to another woman, one who didn’t wrinkle her nose when she ate cinnamon, or bake cupcakes on Sunday mornings while singing Frank Sinatra. Underneath the table, his hands tightened into fists.

  “Dead.”

  Had he needed to say that word? Did he really think, in the midst of all of this, that Dario had forgotten that fact? The urge to stand, to fist his silk shirt and yank him across the table ... it was unbearable. Dario fixed his eyes on the table, on the blur of photos before him, and blew out a long, controlled breath.

  The agent slid his finger from Gwen’s delicate features and onto Hawk’s distinctive sneer. “Robert Hawk. Father of your wife. Principal of several outstanding real estate loans that you are responsible for and ... if I had to guess ... serious pain in your ass.”

  The words were said without humor, the final word delivered in a flat tone. “Dead.”

  Robert Hawk. Dead. It was something Dario had wanted for a decade, yet it felt hollow. Still, the confirmation of the news brought his gaze up, past the pointed chin and whiskery lips and to his light brown eyes.

  “He’s dead?” Dario shifted his legs under the table, stretching them out until they bumped into something. “I thought ... I didn’t know there’d been confirmation.”

  I didn’t know the bastard was actually mortal. That’s what he felt like saying. With all this time, the fact that such a simple act—a bullet in a parking lot—had felled Hawk ... it seemed too easy. Why hadn’t Dario done it years ago? But the question to that one was easy. Gwen. Gwen hadn’t wanted any harm to befell her father. Gwen had believed that, beneath all of his threats and despicable actions ... that there had been some redeeming characteristics there.

  Gwen had been wrong. And now, as a result, she was gone.

  The man nodded. “I got the call just before I stepped in here.”

  Dead, and Nick had done it. Dario felt both cheated and grateful, a contrasting mix of emotions that didn’t sit well.

  The agent tapped on the second to last photo in the row. “Bell Hartley. Your latest girlfriend and the potential target of the murder. Missing.” He said the word as if it meant dead, the suspicion in his voice completely unfounded.

  “And then... we have you.” He circled his finger around Dario’s photo. “Alive. Unscathed. In less than a week, you’ve gotten rid of your cheating wife, her boyfriend, her meddlesome father, and inherited an empire. Forgive me if everything seems a little too clean. Plus, there’s the matter of Bell Hartley.”

  Her name sounded foul on the man’s lips, and Dario wanted to reach into his mouth and yank the syllables back. “What about Bell Hartley?” Dario growled out the question.

  “She’s disappeared.” The man lifted his chin and fixed Dario with a hard look. “Know anything about that?”

  “She’s safe. I got her out of town and away from Hawk. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Actually...” The man shifted in his chair. “That’s not all we need to know. You can’t keep leaving us in the dark and then expecting us to jump when you snap your fingers. The FBI doesn’t work like that. When you lied to the police and told them that was Bell’s body in that condo—you brought her into this mess. The fact that she’s your girlfriend, and you’ve got a dead wife on your hands ... that doesn’t help anything as far as you are concerned.”

  Dario sat back in the chair and folded his arms. “Fine. You want Bell? I’ll bring in Bell. You can ask her whatever you want.”

  The man studied him, his finger tapping a slow beat against the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Capece, for that permission. Not that we need it.

  “You need it if you plan on finding her.”

  The edges of the man’s mouth turned down. “We are, I assure you, quite skilled in that art.” He leaned back and buttoned the top button of his coat. “Finding people is what we do, Mr. Capece.”

  “Well, not to measure dicks or anything, but that stack of missing girls’ posters says otherwise.”

  Dario leaned forward and tapped the stack of manila folders, his face hardening into a scowl. “I didn’t plan on Bell joining their ranks. You’ll have to forgive anything I did to keep that possibility at bay.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Anything? That’s a strong word, Dario.”

  It wasn’t. Anything was a weak word where she was concerned. Anything didn’t begin to cover the enormity of what he would do to protect her. Anything sat in nine-to-five cubicles, it played inside the lines and lived with modern society. Everything was a far better word. He’d do everything t
o protect her and burn down this town if that’s what it took. Planting the gun ... hiding her away ... it was all just the surface of what he was capable of.

  “I feel like we are getting off track.” The attorney jumped in, anxious to justify his eight-hundred-dollars-an-hour rate.

  The agent pointed that stupid finger back in Dario’s direction. “You mentioned that you could bring Bell Hartley in. Do it. We want to talk to her, to get her statement on what happened that night. And in the meantime, with this murder weapon in hand and no longer any need to mislead Robert Hawk, you’re free to go. But our investigation is still ongoing. As I said, this is a very convenient turn of events for you, Mr. Capece. All of your problems have suddenly found themselves in the morgue and off of your plate.”

  “Gwen was never a problem of mine.” Dario’s voice broke on the truth of the words. “And neither was Nick. Robert Hawk is the only one in this lot I wished ill of. But I didn’t want that.”

  He stood. “Being shot to death was too easy a death for him. I wanted him sentenced. I wanted his crimes exposed, those girls’ bodies found, answers and guilt assigned. I wanted him to answer for what he did, and for him to admit to the world that he killed his only daughter. You think I’m happy this happened? You think this is convenient for me? Fuck that. I want my wife back. I want to put her on that ranch, in that cowboy’s arms, and for her to have the life she deserved—one free of a sadistic and tyrannical man who called himself her father. I want to take my girlfriend and have a normal fucking relationship with her, one where she doesn’t have to change her cell phone number, or hide in a million-dollar suite with me instead of going on a proper date. I want the freedom, for once, to live my life without that puppet master yanking on every string.”

  He stopped, his breath coming hard, repressed emotions bubbling to the surface. This was bad. He was stronger than this. More controlled. More in control. “You tell me again that this is convenient, and I’ll break your fucking neck.”

  He glared at the agent, willing him to open that scrawny throat, to poke at him one more time ... but the man didn’t. He stayed quiet, and Dario turned and reached for the door handle, anxious to find a phone and call Bell.

  Twelve

  BELL

  For three hours, I continued to channel surf and watched the same videos over and over. Nick Fentes, shoving through the crowd. Gunshots. People running. A blurry look at a fallen Robert Hawk, the camera shoved out of the way. I watched reporters go through Nick Fentes history, his arrest record, and an interview with his childhood next door neighbor. When my phone finally sounded, the Vegas area code flashing across the small black Nokia screen, I jerked to my feet. “Hello?”

  I’d expected Dario’s voice, and my elation sank, then warbled back to life, when I recognized the voice at the other end. Lance.

  “Hey B.”

  “Lance. What’s...” I forced my voice to stay calm, tried for a sunny version of my old self, and failed miserably. “What’s up?”

  “Damn, it’s good to hear your voice. Your boy gave me this number, wanted me to make sure you’re alright. He’s at the police station, but said he’d call in a few hours. I guess the danger’s passed?”

  I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Maybe. I mean, we were worried about Hawk.” I walked into the kitchen, moving away from the television’s noise.

  “We’ve missed you, babe. Brit is twice as grouchy without you, Rick doesn’t know how to fetch his own fucking Sprite, and customers are blaming your absence for their bad luck.”

  I smiled at the sheer normalcy of the comments, grateful for their distraction. “Their bad luck increases your profit.”

  He laughed. “I know that shit, but don’t tell them. Where are you? Are they taking good care of you?”

  Laurent had strips of beef jerky drying on the counter, and I broke off a piece and popped it in my mouth. “I’m in the middle of nowhere. You’d probably love it here. There’s all sorts of stuff to take your Hummer through.”

  “Any single women?”

  I thought of Septime and smiled. “I’ve met one. But I’m not sure you’re man enough for her.”

  He scoffed and made a stupid comment about penis size. I ignored it and pulled a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the sink.

  “By the way, your boyfriend’s a complete pain in the ass. He gave me a whole list of things to do.”

  I heard the crinkle of paper and imagined him driving, squinting at the page as he wove through lanes of traffic.

  “What’s on your to-do list?”

  “Let’s see. Go by your parent’s house. They’re worried about you. I’m pretty sure your dad’s going to cut my dick off if you don’t get home in one piece. Oh, and I called Meredith. That chick doesn’t shut up. She’s also concerned—all of your roommates are. This week has been hell on everybody. And it doesn’t help that the police have been asking everyone questions.”

  A knot formed, twisted, and yanked in my gut.

  “Questions? Like what?”

  He snorted. “Everything. Random shit. How long you’ve been seeing Dario. What you’re like as an employee...how much money you make...whether we think you’re capable of murder.”

  Part of the beef jerky lodged in my throat. “They think I killed Gwen?”

  “Who knows. I’m not exactly surprised that the mistress—no offense, B—is a suspect when the wife is murdered. Vegas PD isn’t going to miss that fluorescent yellow possibility. Just like they aren’t writing Dario off their list of suspects.”

  Dario. Just the sound of his name and my chest grew warmer. “He didn’t do it.”

  He said nothing, and I sensed his suspicion in the silence.

  “He didn’t do it. Trust me. I was there. I saw him, his reaction—” I broke off the sentence, the memory sweeping over me, as painful as it had been the last time it hit. The way his voice had pitched, the awful cry of her name, the sounds of him sobbing. The last time I’d heard a man cry like that ... it’d been when I told my father what had happened at the barn. When the police had ignored him. When he’d swung his fist at the wall and missed. When he’d wanted to kill Johnny and his father but been too drunk to drive over and do it. He’d cried through all of it, and the sounds had broken my heart and stacked up the guilt.

  Dario had loved Gwen. If I didn’t know it before, I had realized it then, in that suite, the Vegas lights glittering in the background, her legs sliding forward as he had gathered her to his chest. The pinched look of his features when he had staggered toward me. The cold, businesslike air that had shuttered into place when he’d spoken to me.

  It’d been a different man who had come to me two days ago. The one who had lifted me off the stairs and carried me inside? The one who had whispered my name as he had thrust inside of me, his body framing me, touch protecting me, kiss soothing me ... he had been mine. Healed, slightly. Guilty, still.

  But not guilty for what Lance was suspecting him for. He was guilty—we both were—of trigger events that had caused her murder. But we’d been innocent of intent, a distinction that didn’t seem to matter. She was still dead.

  I lifted the glass to my forehead and pressed the cool side of it against my skin, taking a deep breath. I tried to remember what my mother had said, the words she had preached to me when I had struggled after the rape.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  They were the evil ones.

  God knew the truth.

  I was a victim, but I didn’t have to act like one.

  I had done nothing wrong.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  God, I needed her. I needed to tell her everything and have her tell me what to do. I needed to have her hug me, and comfort me, and to convince me that this was not my fault. Not Dario’s fault.

  Only, it was.

  I wasn’t an innocent farm girl, alone in a barn, just after dark.

  I had followed lust and emotion and disregarded safety, ethics, and the sevent
h freaking commandment. I just hadn’t believed the true evil of the psychopath lurking in the wings.

  “B? You there?”

  I brought the glass to my lips and took a deep sip, downing half of it before coming up for air. “Yeah. I’m here. When are you going to my parents?”

  “Tonight. I’ve got to run by The House and take care of a few things, then I’ll hit the road. I just called and let them know I was coming. Your mom’s got lasagna in the oven now.”

  Lasagna. I could almost smell it. Homesickness hit, and I set the glass down before I dropped it. “They don’t know about Dario. Not ... everything. I don’t know what they know, or what the police have told them.” The awareness of how little I knew sank like a rock in my gut. I felt a dozen steps behind, ignorant to everything and being fed information through an eye-dropper when I needed an IV.

  “Don’t worry about it, B. Keep yourself safe. I’ll see you soon.”

  No. Don’t hang up. Don’t. I need to hear your voice for more than that. I struggled to find something to say, a question to ask him, an excuse to prolong the conversation. I needed, for just another moment, to feel normal.

  I was too slow. He hung up the phone and I took a deep, wet breath, struggling to hold in the tears.

  Thirteen

  Frogs apparently, at nightfall, don’t shut the hell up. I sat on the back step, my arms wrapped around my knees, and listened to them. It was a concert of sounds, almost beautiful in their varieties.

  I swiped at a mosquito and resisted the urge to glance at my phone. I pictured Lance, on his way home from my parents’ house, his stomach packed with gooey hot lasagna. Mom made the best lasagna. Five layers high. Four types of cheese. Packed with enough sausage and beef to make you roll over on the couch and belch in satisfaction.

  I, on the other hand, had a microwave hot dog for dinner. Thirty seconds on high, the skinny dog wrapped in a napkin, and a little wrinkly when I pulled it from the microwave. Dipped in ketchup and mustard and washed down with some ginger ale. It actually hadn’t been that bad. Had it not been competing with Ma’s lasagna, I probably would have enjoyed it.