Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  “Jess? You okay?” It was Laura. “Your face is all white.”

  Jessie didn’t answer. She’d barely heard the question. This morning she’d thought this guy looked familiar, that she’d seen him on TV, and now she remembered where it was.

  The afternoon news.

  A few weeks ago she’d come home from school, flipped on the set. Channel Two had a story about a woman in a coma being transferred to a new hospital. The woman was young and pretty, but she’d done some really horrible stuff, most of which they blamed on the Svengali-like influence of her husband—whatever that meant—a big, badass bank robber that practically every cop in the country was looking for.

  A big, badass bank robber with a ponytail.

  Knowing he was now only feet away made Jessie sick to her stomach. A dozen different scenarios ran through her mind, none of which made any sense.

  Why was he following her?

  And what the hell did he want?

  Sitting here wondering about it didn’t help. She had to do something and do it now.

  One thing her dad had always drilled into her head, even when she was just a kid, was this: if you find yourself in a situation beyond your control, don’t be shy, do everything you can to regain that control—immediately.

  And that’s what she intended to do.

  Without even thinking about it, Jessie tossed her backpack off her lap and shot up from her seat.

  Laura looked up in surprise. “Jess? What’s wrong?”

  Jessie didn’t look at her. Her eyes were on the bus driver.

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop the bus!”

  13

  INTERROGATION ROOM 3 wasn’t much more than a table, two chairs, and four blank walls that always felt as if they were closing in on you. Whether they had an effect on Bobby Nemo was anybody’s guess.

  Jack Donovan dropped a tagged and bagged submachine gun to the tabletop. An H&K MP5. Unlicensed. Fully automatic. They’d found it under Carla Devito’s bed—part of a shipment they’d been tracing for months. They’d also found something in Carla’s bathroom, something distinctly incriminating, but Donovan was keeping it under wraps for the time being. Saving it for leverage.

  “Here’s how it plays, Bobby. Just on the HK alone, you’re looking at five in the bucket. Throw in Northland First and Trust and a handful of dead cops, and we’re talking some very serious sphincter time.”

  Nemo sat in one of the aluminum and vinyl chairs, his shackled hands in his lap. He eyeballed Donovan, but said nothing.

  Donovan grabbed his own chair, straddled it. “You hearing me, Bobby? Multiple counts means consecutive sentences, my friend, so you can kiss off any hopes of an early release.”

  Nemo remained silent.

  “I’d be happy to show you the guidelines.”

  “Fuck the guidelines. What are you selling?”

  “I think you know.” Donovan pulled a manila file folder from under his arm, flipped it open, and slid it across the table. Inside was a Most Wanted flyer featuring a grainy black-and-white photo of Alexander Gunderson.

  Nemo snorted. “This is a joke, right? You think I’m some kinda half-wit?”

  “I figure you’ve got enough rattling around in there to know when someone’s offering you the only prayer you have of ever seeing daylight. Gunderson’s underground and I’ll bet dollars to donuts you know where to find him. Help me out and I’ll talk to the AG’s office. Who knows, they might even go for immunity.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Is that yes or no?”

  “It’s you’re outta your fuckin’ mind, is what it is. Where’s my lawyer?”

  So that’s how it’s going to be, Donovan thought. A month and a half searching for this piece of shit and the wall immediately goes up.

  “Don’t make a mistake here, Bobby.”

  Nemo shook his head. “You’re the one making the mistake. Gunderson’s had a hard-on for your ass ever since you turned his bitch into creamed cabbage. You think I’m gonna get in the middle of that?”

  “Beats the middle of a federal cellblock for the rest of your natural life.”

  Nemo eyed him dully. “You’re so anxious to find him, why don’t you give Sara a jingle, see what she has to say?”

  “Very funny, Bobby.”

  Nemo shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be a problem for Alex.”

  Donovan just looked at him.

  “You think I’m kidding? Guy thinks he can commune with the dead, for crissakes—and I guess creamed cabbage is close enough to qualify.”

  “Uh-huh,” Donovan said. He’d heard rumblings about Gunderson dabbling in mysticism, but had never taken them seriously. Was Nemo pulling his chain?

  “He doesn’t make a big deal about it,” Nemo continued, “but you get him high enough, he’ll start spouting all this ancient Book of the Dead bullshit he picked up from his whack job of an aunt. Reincarnation, mind control, swapping souls and shit … Guy’s convinced he’s got a suite reserved in the afterlife. Tells me, ‘Don’t be afraid to die, Bobby, that’s when all the fun starts.’ ” Nemo snorted again. “Thanks but no thanks, baby. I’ll take my chances right here and now.”

  Donovan remembered reading a report in Gunderson’s juvenile file about his wayward aunt, a two-bit fortuneteller. When Gunderson was twelve, she was dragged off to the nut farm after she strangled one of her clients. Proclaiming innocence, she told the arresting officer that the client had committed suicide. That he’d been taunted by “the voices.” When the officer asked her what voices, she told him matter-of-factly, “Why, the voices of the dead, of course.”

  If Nemo was on the level, maybe the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree.

  “So if Gunderson’s such a head case,” Donovan said, “why join his crew in the first place?”

  “Shit, man, I was his crew until Sara and the rest of those idiots showed up. And for all his bullshit, there’s one thing you can say about Alex: he knows how to generate cash.”

  “Doesn’t do you a whole lotta good right now.”

  “Excuse me while I break down and cry. What’s your point?”

  “I think you know,” Donovan said. “Why not use the only leverage you have and tell me where to find him?”

  Nemo’s eyes glazed over. “Tell you what. You wanna deal?” He made fists with his shackled hands, then raised the middle finger of each and pointed them at Donovan. “Deal with this.”

  Six weeks. Six weeks nursing a wounded leg that still hadn’t healed right, calling in favors from informants, staking out the homes of known associates, looking for something, anything that would lead him to Gunderson … and Donovan had popped a foul.

  Finding Bobby Nemo had been pure luck. Nemo’s new girlfriend had flashed a Mormon missionary kid, who, despite the distraction (and Nemo’s freshly grown beard), had recognized a wanted fugitive parked on the naked woman’s sofa. The kid sat on the information for close to two weeks, afraid the incident would either get him in trouble with the Church or with Nemo himself. But he’d finally let good sense get the better of him and picked up the phone.

  That was this morning. Donovan and his team had spent half the day staking out Carla Devito’s apartment, then decided to make their move when a take-out man showed up with a couple boxes of Chinese noodles. Donovan had high hopes that nabbing Nemo would get him that much closer to Gunderson, but now Nemo was playing hard-ass.

  And there wasn’t much Donovan could do about it.

  He slammed out of Interrogation Room 3 and found A.J. waiting for him in the hallway. A.J. had observed Nemo’s display of affection through a two-way glass.

  “That was a regular laugh fest,” A.J. said. He looked restless. Ready to get busy. “Think you’ll ever wear him down?”

  Donovan shook his head. “Not without a serious breach of his civil rights.”

  “I’ll bring the beer if you bring the peanuts.”

  Donovan put a hand on A.J.’s shoulder. His muscles were twitching. “Easy, Ram
bo. That kind of thinking makes the boys from D.C. nervous.”

  A.J. smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “But it feels so goddamn good.”

  THE TASK FORCE command center was in motion as usual, a well-oiled machine that pushed forward relentlessly but never seemed to get a lock on a specific path to follow. The harried agents and support staff who populated the place had a purpose but no real sense of direction.

  Donovan shared their frustration. Probably felt it stronger than all of them combined. But his only solution to the problem was to keep going, keep working, keep waiting for something to break.

  Gunderson was still in town, he was sure of it. Sooner or later the bastard would have to show himself, and Donovan would be there, the full force of the attorney general and United States Treasury behind him.

  He and A.J. exited the elevator and crossed the command center toward Donovan’s office. A.J. made an abrupt turn, heading for the break room. He still looked jittery. “You want coffee? I brewed up something special.”

  “Maybe you should lay off a little.”

  “Lay off? I’m two cups shy of my quota. You want one or not?”

  “No thanks,” Donovan told him. “I’m trying to cut down.”

  “Jesus, Jack. No booze, no cigarettes, now you’re turning your back on the almighty java bean? What exactly do you do for fun?”

  Donovan tossed him the tagged and bagged MP5, wondering himself what the answer to the question was. After twenty years in law enforcement, he supposed it hadn’t changed.

  “Chase bad guys,” he said.

  14

  STOP! STOP THE bus!”

  When he heard the shout, Lavare Singleton’s attention snapped to his rearview mirror. Near the back of the bus, a girl stood at her seat, a look of pure panic in her big blue eyes. One of the little cuties from Bellanova Prep.

  Come on, kid. Maneuvering a ten-ton hunk of steel through afternoon traffic is tough enough without you giving me grief.

  Chances were pretty good her dilemma wasn’t much more urgent than a forgotten history book. These kids got rattled over the dumbest stuff.

  “What’s the problem?” Lavare sighed, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  “You have to stop, call the police,” blue eyes said. “I think …” She paused and looked around. Everybody on the bus was staring at her. “I think I’m being followed.”

  Oh, for criminy sake, Lavare thought. You’re on a bus, you little twit. Who the hell could be following you? The two blond chipmunks on the seat behind you?

  Lavare kept his foot steady on the accelerator, not about to surrender to her demand. “I’m sorry, miss, you’ll have to sit down. I’ll let you off at the next stop.”

  But blue eyes didn’t sit down. “Listen, you jerk. You think I’m making this up?”

  Lavare scowled. Jerk, huh? Little bitch.

  “There’s a guy driving next to the bus,” she said. “He keeps looking at me. I’ve seen him before. I think he may be stalking me.”

  “Look,” Lavare said, “just sit your butt down and we’ll take care of it at the next stop.”

  Blue eyes continued to protest. She was babbling on about this imaginary stalker being some kind of fugitive, when a maroon Suburban cut in front of Lavare and screeched to a halt.

  Son of a bitch.

  Lavare stiffened and shifted his foot to the brake pedal. The bus yanked to a stop, air brakes hissing. His passengers reacted audibly, and blue eyes nearly toppled over into the next seat.

  A few of her classmates giggled.

  The Suburban sat in the middle of traffic, blocking Lavare’s path. What the hell was this all about?

  He angrily slid the side window open and leaned out. “Hey, fool, you wanna move that piece of tin before I mow it down?”

  More giggles rose behind him. At least somebody was having a good time.

  The Suburban didn’t budge. Instead, the driver’s door flew open and a guy with a ponytail climbed out.

  Uh-oh, Lavare thought. Road rage alert.

  Only he had no idea what this guy’s beef was. Traffic was bad, sure, but he hadn’t cut anybody off for at least half an hour.

  Not that it mattered. It was Lavare’s experience that these nut bags didn’t need much provocation. Their whole day was centered on confrontation, the more the better.

  If Lavare had it his way, he’d be happy to oblige.

  Unfortunately, CTA policy made it clear that in tense traffic situations an operator must always use wisdom and diplomacy and keep an even temperament. Calling the guy a fool probably hadn’t been too wise or particularly diplomatic, but Lavare was more than willing to do a little backpedaling to avoid any job-threatening situations.

  The guy with the ponytail walked past the windshield and came around to the door. Lavare studied him through the glass, but didn’t see any sign of rage on his face. In fact, he was smiling. As friendly as a neighbor looking to borrow your lawn mower.

  Then it hit Lavare.

  Had blue eyes really been serious? Could this be the somebody she claimed was stalking her?

  The guy kept smiling and gestured for Lavare to open the door, but Lavare didn’t budge. He had to think this thing over, figure out exactly what was going on here.

  Behind him, a voice said, “Jessie, what’re you doing?” and Lavare checked his mirror again.

  Blue eyes was in the aisle now, working her way toward the gap in the middle of the bus where the side door was.

  Lavare was about to tell her to get back to her seat when he heard a rap on the glass and returned his attention to the guy with the ponytail. Smile still intact, ponytail gestured again to open the door.

  Something wonky was going on here and Lavare wasn’t about to start speculating what it might be. Instead, he picked up his two-way and clicked it on.

  “Base, this is Unit 219. Looks like I got me a situation.” No judgment calls for Lavare. Leave them to the brass. “Unit 219 to base, do you read me?”

  He was waiting for a response when the guy with the ponytail pulled a handgun from behind his back and pointed it at the glass.

  JESSIE HEARD A firecracker pop, then glass broke, and the bus driver jerked backward, his chest bursting blood.

  She screamed. The bus erupted in panic, passengers looking around in confusion as others immediately ducked in their seats and covered their heads with their hands.

  The forward door slammed open with a loud crash. Mr. Ponytail came up the steps carrying an ugly black gun, then turned and looked directly at Jessie, his smile gone, his eyes flat, reptilian.

  Stranded in the middle of the aisle, Jessie dove for the side door. She tried desperately to pry it open, but Mr. Ponytail was on her in seconds flat. Grabbing her by the hair, he yanked her out of the door well. Needles of pain shot through her skull.

  Jessie cried out and stumbled backward, losing her footing. Mr. Ponytail readjusted his grip, pulled her to her feet again.

  Jessie winced, the pain nearly unbearable. “Please …” she cried.

  Mr. Ponytail leaned in close, his breath hot against her cheek. “Make a fuss, sweet pea, and this is only the beginning.”

  He released her hair, then grabbed her collar and jerked her backward. Jessie struggled to remain standing as he dragged her toward the front door.

  Off to her side, a big guy in a Megadeth T-shirt started to rise, a threatening look on his face. “Let her go, asshole!”

  Jessie heard another firecracker—this one loud and close to her head—and a hole the size of a dime opened up in the guy’s neck. He flew backward, slamming against his window.

  Jessie screamed again. A half dozen passengers echoed her, including Laura, Karen, and Kathy, who sat riveted to their seats, their faces twisted in terrified disbelief.

  Mr. Ponytail spun Jessie around now and shoved her toward the steps. She stumbled down them, glass crunching beneath her shoes. Feeling his hand on her back, she stepped through the doorway and onto the blacktop.

 
Horns were honking, angry drivers oblivious to anything but the snarl of traffic backing up behind the bus and the Suburban. All along the sidewalk, startled pedestrians stood frozen in place, gaping at Jessie.

  “Somebody help me!” she cried. “Get the police!”

  A hand smacked the back of her head—“Shut up, bitch”—and a burst of hot, white heat shot through her brain. She stumbled again and Mr. Ponytail grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the Suburban.

  Take control, Jessie, take control. Don’t let him get you into that truck.

  She tried to wriggle away, battering his shoulder with her free hand, screaming again for help. A couple of men in business suits started toward her, but froze in place when Mr. Ponytail waved his gun in their direction. “Think about your loved ones.”

  An arm slipped around Jessie’s waist and jerked her off her feet, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Then the Sub-urban’s rear passenger door was yanked open and Jessie was thrown inside as if she were nothing more than a sack of cement.

  “Ladies first,” he said.

  She fell hard across the seat and the door slammed shut, nearly clipping her left foot. The engine idled beneath her, but there was nothing soothing about it.

  Mr. Ponytail climbed behind the wheel, popped the gearshift into Drive. “Get your clothes off.”

  Jessie tried to catch her breath. “W-what?”

  “Get your fucking clothes off, now,” he said, then hit the gas pedal.

  Jessie stared at the ugly black gun in his hand, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Too stunned to cry, she reached a trembling hand to her regulation Bellanova Prep sweater and fingered the top button.

  All control was lost now, relinquished to the stranger behind the wheel.

  Help me, Daddy.

  Please help me.

  15

  ANY LUCK WITH Nemo?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Uh-oh, somebody’s grumpy.”

  Donovan had learned a long time ago that there wasn’t much point in trying to hide his moods from Rachel. She’d been the team’s investigative analyst for over two years now and could read him like a polygraph.