Road Rules Online

The Chrysler’s trunk opened to let Mason see the Red Roof Inn sign shining in the night.  Luis wrinkled his nose at the smell.  Mason had long since gotten used to it, though he felt like a little boy wetting his bed.  Luis didn’t say anything, but yanked Mason out of the trunk.

Miguel looked him over.  “Perhaps we should have let you ride up front, but then the police could have spotted you.  You are now a suspect.  Did you know that?”

“You wouldn’t have had something to do with that, would you?” said Mason.

“Some, but our sources tell us your friends have sold you out.”

“Friends?”

“Yarazelski,” said Luis.  “And the Russian up in Cleveland.  He gave you up along with the buyer.”

If Mason hadn’t become dehydrated from his long stay in the trunk, he’d have wet himself again.  “That guy will kill me.”

“Or maybe we will,” said Miguel.  “We go get a few hours of sleep, then you help us get to Yarazelski.”

“What about my clothes?”

Luis reached around and picked Mason’s pocket.  He looked through the wallet.  “Should be enough here to go to Wal-Mart.”

Mason made a face as though he’d wet himself.

Mike began kissing her cheek, then her lips, then her eyes.  She smelled different.  Her skin smelled different.  And the booze on her breath, it smelled more like brandy than wine.  He kissed her lips again.  She rewarded him by teasing him with her tongue.

When she hooked her leg over his hip, he opened his eyes.

“You’re not Deanna,” he said. (continue reading…)

Sharon stirred about an hour after she’d nodded off.  She felt someone spooning her from behind, his arm around her waist.  She shifted and rolled onto her other side to see Mike still asleep, rousing just enough to change position.

Propping herself up on her arm, she watched him sleep.  Had he thought she was this Deanna he kept talking about?  From the sound of it, Mike had been with her and no one else since high school.  Sharon couldn’t imagine a life like that.  Half her boyfriends had been players, the last couple telling her she’d be fine if she would just accept it.  Of course, they always had an unspoken rule:  I can play, you can’t.

The ones who hadn’t played her weren’t worth remembering.  Dreamers and anal retentive types, one a serious control freak who had to be reminded she worked for a private investigator, none of them were worth the time she gave them.

Yet here was this man she’d less than a day ago.  He hadn’t hit on her.  He’d told her to run, even to turn him in if it meant saving herself.  Forced to stay in the room with her, he’d offered to take the chair.  Not once had he made a move on her, except to spoon with her in his sleep.

She leaned over and whispered in his ear.  “You’re very sweet.”  She kissed him lightly on the cheek and snuggled up to him.  “Too bad you’re not my type.”

(continue reading…)

The government jet touched down around 2:30 AM at Savannah-Hilton Head International Airport.  The beauty of the flight for Estevez, and he assumed Jordan, came in the Anonymous Blue Ford sent to meet them.  No security checkpoints, no baggage claim.  Straight to the hotel.

Two men greeted them at the foot of the steps, both in dark suits.  The one on the right looked as though he’d had himself starched along with his suit and tie.  The other one didn’t seem to fit his suit.  And the tie?  What tie?

The starched one met Kennedy first.  “Special Agent Kennedy?” he shouted over the dying whine of the jet’s engines.  “I’m Special Agent Vodrey of the Atlanta field office.”  He gestured to his more shabbily dressed companion, who leaned against the hood of the car.  “This is Agent Scalzi of the Miami DEA office.  We’ve been assigned to work with you and the Cleveland Police during your stay here in Savannah.”

Kennedy introduced Estevez and Jordan.  “We’d like to get to our hotel first and question Yarazelski in the morning if that’s all right with you.”

Scalzi, still leaning against the car, grinned.  “That’s okay.  He’s not going anywhere tonight.  No lawyer, and we’re still looking for Blake and the woman.”

The engines on the jet cut out, allowing Vodrey to speak normally.  “We also have some news,” he said in a near monotone.  He glanced back at Scalzi, who finally came off the car.

“While you guys were in route,” said Scalzi, “my agency stepped up surveillance on Julian Franco.  He must be watching Fox News or something between getting blow jobs and snorting coke  Around midnight, he high-tailed it out to the airport and boarded a private jet owned by some company we never heard of.”

“Dummy corporation,” said Estevez.  “Been seeing a lot of those the last two days.”

“Well,” said Vodrey, “I’m sure we’ll be doing a thorough background check on that company come Monday morning.  If we play this right, we might bag Franco on a conspiracy charge alone, if your man Koradovich is to be believed.”

That was a big if, thought Estevez.  “He has more to lose if he doesn’t cooperate.  Of course, that hasn’t stopped some of these guys from changing their minds before.”

“We’ve put you up at the Days Inn,” said Vodrey.  He nodded to a jumpsuited worker rounding the back of the plane.  “Put their bags in the trunk, Herrick.  We’ll drive them to the hotel ourselves.”

They climbed into Vodrey’s government-issue sedan.  The backseat had plenty of room so they weren’t sitting in each other’s lap.

“What a relief,” said Kennedy.  “Theft like this usually goes on for years.  Glad all the pieces are finally coming together.”

Estevez looked over at Jordan, who was staring out the window at the lights of Savannah and the inky blackness of the river.  He knew what Jordan was looking for.  They both knew Sharon was here somewhere, just not why.  “All but one piece.”

Chapter 21

Mike had finally started to doze, accepting the possibility of sheriff’s deputies marching in the door any minute.  He also accepted the possibility Cinnamon – Scratch that.  Her name was Sharon – might simply drive back to Cleveland alone, tipping the police off before she left.  Screw Mike.  Screw Stan.  Score another one for Timmy Mason.  At least he’d be out of Mike’s life for good now.

Deanna would also be out of his life for good if he went to prison.   He had come to the realization when the door opened.  Cinnamon – Sharon – stood in the threshold holding up two bottles.

“JB for you, Hennessey for me,” she said.

“Don’t take this personally,” said Mike, “but I love you.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Thanks.”

“And not my type.”

“I’m used to that, actually.”

She kicked the door shut behind her and set the bottles on the table, along with some plastic picnic cups she’d also bought.  “This beats the hell out of buying liquor in Ohio.  How late are state liquor stores open?”

“They need to line up all the prudes in Columbus and shoot them.”  He sat up on the bed.  “Doesn’t matter.  Unless they need me to testify in court, I’m never going back there again.”

She poured him some Beam.  “Don’t you have family there?”

“Oh, sure.”  He accepted the cup of bourbon.  “I’d go back to visit, but I’ll never live there again.  In fact, my brother and sister can come down to Florida if they want to see me.”

“Parents?”

“Dead.  What about you?”

“Same.”  She poured herself some Hennessey and went over to sit next to him on the bed.  “They died when I was twelve.  I lived with Uncle Bob as a teen.”

“So he raised you?”

She sipped some Hennessey and closed her eyes.  “I didn’t say he raised me.  I said I lived with him.  His job kept him from being a father to me.”

“What was his job?”

“A cop originally.  But he got into trouble with some guy from Internal Affairs.  Never told me what it was.  I later heard the IA guy wanted a payoff to leave Uncle Bob alone.  He quit the police force and went private.”

“Like you.”

She scoffed.  “Like me.  I didn’t even want that job.  Now look what I’m doing to get it back.  I still don’t want that job.  I just want to make things right with Uncle Bob.”

He said nothing and drank a little more whiskey.  They drank in silence, watching CNN.  After a while, they turned it into a drinking game.  Every time the anchor mentioned the Chest, Stan’s arrest, or Mike (as the nameless “suspect still in Savannah”), they took a drink.

Sometime around 2:30, Sharon nodded off, curled up against Mike.  He fell asleep shortly thereafter, vaguely aware he might have one helluva hangover the next morning.