"Just like we said. We take 'em out on the narrow strip. I got all the stuff in the van. Wait till you see the fake old man, looks f.u.c.kin' real. He's in these rags, even got a gray-haired ponytail! Gonna look like the old mierda pa.s.sed out pushin' his f.u.c.kin' shopping cart across the road, bags and s.h.i.t falling out. Driver's gonna have to slow down no matter what, gotta figure out whether to run over the old mierda or go around him. Not a good choice because the road's so skinny and rutted. We'll have 'em in our crosshairs."

"Nice," said Frank as he fingered the nine millimeter Glock he'd removed from its holster. "You gotta respect how Carlos gets the inside information on the shipments, right down to the map the f.a.ggots are usin' to get off Hooker's Point. If they got only one fool ridin' shotgun, shouldn't need more than this, but I also got my throwaway." He reached down and patted the lump on his ankle.

Carlos Tosca, underboss for organized crime in South Florida, had received word that a shipment of high-grade cocaine was due into Tampa Harbor lined up for some Mexicans. That wasn't supposed to happen since the "big boss" had brokered deals with Latin drug groups: Costa Rica, Peru, Ecuador, Puerto Rico, and Mexico, to control cocaine coming into the country. But now, just like the Asians, the Mexicans and South and Central Americans were trying to cut them out and go it alone. "Take care of it," he told Frank. "f.u.c.kin' ingrates. Take 'em out. That'll teach 'em to f.u.c.k with Carlos Tosca."

"Me and Ritchie'll handle it, boss. No problemo."

Frank then charged Ritchie Noval, his second in command, to work out the details to surprise the Mexicans just after they'd loaded the packages and as they headed off Hooker's Point away from the Port of Tampa. n.o.body else was in on the job - just the two of them. They'd stash the stuff, dispose of any bodies, then disappear from the city for a couple of weeks.

Frank could have a.s.signed the job to his underlings, but he'd come up through the system and liked getting back to basics. Besides, he'd just been in Miami with Tosca for three weeks and was anxious to get back to Tampa. He'd missed Kim Connor. Not that there weren't plenty of women in the Miami clubs, but just thinking of her gave him a hard-on. Sure, she was a beauty, but so were dozens of others. She just made him feel so G.o.dd.a.m.ned good. He knew that she used to be a drug addict and he admired how she stayed off the dope and went easy on the booze. He'd never known a woman like that, so cla.s.sy, smart, s.e.xy. Truth was, maybe she scared him a little. And Frank's reaction to that was - and always had been - bad. With Kim, he kept telling himself, he had to keep himself in control. Maybe he could slap his other women around, but not Kim. He knew it as soon as he'd hit her.

She'd avoided him the following day, disappearing that night with some story about how she lost her keys. He wanted to believe her, but what about that Nelson p.r.i.c.k? The kid at the station saw them leave together, but so what. She came back to the station after she figured out she lost her keys, that's what happened. Then Frank had to leave for Miami.

Kimmie. She was different, so different that he'd even discussed some of his plans with her. And, yeah, it was time to take a wife and have sons to take over the business when he got old. Kim Santiago. He could see it clearly - Kimmie and a bunch of little Frankies and Kimmies.

Of course, she'd have to quit her television job. And change her mind about having kids.

Kim lived in a modest two-story townhouse in Temple Terrace, on the outskirts of Tampa. All the houses looked alike - creamy stucco with green shutters and red tile roofs a but they were all nicely maintained and the neighborhood looked safe and pleasant.

"Here we are, boss," Ritchie poked Frank, disturbing his reverie. "Ain't that where she lives?"

Frank scowled. "Yeah, that's it. Where the f.u.c.k is her car? Just keep driving till you find a pay phone."

"Right now? I mean, we got business -"

"Right now means right now. Quit your b.i.t.c.hin', I'm just gonna leave a message on her f.u.c.kin' answering machine."

After he'd left a phone message, Frank and Ritchie drove on according to plan and exchanged the Lincoln for a white unmarked van at the designated warehouse. There, Frank carefully removed his clothes and shoes, donned a pair of coveralls and sneakers, and they headed down to the Port of Tampa on Hillsborough Bay. Since it was a Sunday and the location remote, they would make the hit shortly after the blow had been unloaded from the ship into the panel truck. There'd be the driver and one, or maybe two, security guys. Using the dummy to confuse the driver, they'd simply spray them to pieces. Ritchie would drive the truck to a warehouse nearby, and then they'd both disappear.

"Let's do it, Ritchie." Frank Santiago's voice sounded like steel. "There's the f.u.c.kin' panel truck, just like Carlos said. f.u.c.k, they won't even know what hit 'em."

Ritchie grunted. Each man, one on each side, stood under cover of the thick palmettos that encroached upon the deserted road at its narrowest point.

The gray panel truck slowed to a stop in front of an overturned grocery cart blocking its way. An old man in ragged clothes lay sprawled on his side next to the cart - only the form was a mannequin. Strewn around him were half-open plastic garbage bags that had presumably tumbled out of the cart. As the bewildered driver focused on the body in the road, Frank stepped forward, his eyes locked on the man in the pa.s.senger seat who warily swung his gun in an arc around the perimeter of the cab. Glock in hand, equipped with silencer, Frank fired point black at the swarthy pa.s.senger's head. There was a pop, and the man's head exploded into pieces. On the driver's side, Ritchie had already leapt onto the road before firing at the driver. Then the two men jumped into the truck just long enough to a.s.sure themselves that there was no one in the back with the blow. Frank shoved the dead pa.s.senger to the floor, went back out, and hastily hauled the dummy over to the truck and tossed it inside while Ritchie pushed the dead driver to the side, engaged the gears, and pulled out. By that time Frank had jumped back out of the truck.

No way should Frank stop before returning the van to the warehouse, but he was filled with a nasty feeling about Kim - a nagging, sick premonition that he couldn't shake. Why wasn't her yellow Firebird parked out front of her place like it always was? Had she come back and picked up his message that he was going to come by just for a few seconds for a quick kiss? Then he clenched the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. What if the little b.i.t.c.h thought she could walk out on him? If she ever tried that, what choice would he have?

Frankie felt the rage build in that familiar way and he shook his head from side to side. Part of him wanted to beat the s.h.i.t out of her. The other part warned him not to lay a hand on her. With an up-and-down nod of his head, he made up his mind. No matter what, he'd promise her everything. h.e.l.l, they could get married right away. They'd leave right away, go to a safe place while things at the Port of Tampa cooled down. Yes, he nodded his head more vigorously now. Vegas would be perfect.

When Frank pulled up to Kim's place, heart beating excitedly with this new plan, he felt his body lurch forward in the seat. He arrived just in time to see Kim climb into her Firebird and drive away. He followed.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

By six o'clock Sunday, Laura's frustration was uncontained. The phone hadn't rung all afternoon. Even though she was not on call, someone from the hospital or some patient's relative usually got through the switchboard, something that would distract her from her missing children and defiant husband, but nothing.

After waking on the sofa that morning, Laura had changed into a pair of faded cutoffs and her favorite, tattered "Michigan" T-shirt. She'd splashed cold water on her face, but hadn't wanted to chance missing a call by taking a shower. All day she'd done nothing but pace back and forth from the kitchen door to the front door, climb the stairs to again and again check the empty rooms, and open and shut the refrigerator, taking nothing out. Accelerating fear competed with blinding rage as Laura paced, unable to sit, unable to think. Could they have had a horrible accident? No, of course not. Somebody would have notified her. Steve was doing this just to aggravate her, the selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Had they really come to this? How hopeless, draining, depressing.

She called his apartment again. That stupid answering machine. Another hour. She looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall over the refrigerator. She went back to her desk. Sat down. Got up. She went back upstairs and made her rounds of the bedrooms once again, stopping to straighten Mike and Kevin's room. She thought about fixing something to eat, but decided on donuts instead. Three chocolate donuts that she didn't even taste.

At seven with fumbling fingers, Laura flipped through the Tampa phone book's white pages searching for Kim, or Kimberly, Connor. No such listing. She called information. Learning that Kim had an unlisted number, Laura pushed herself to call George Granger. She desperately needed to find her kids.

"h.e.l.lo, George," she said, trying to sound calm when he picked up on the first ring. "It's Laura Nelson. How are you?"

"Well, what a surprise, Laura. I'm fine."

"And Melanie?"

"Oh, she's great. She was able to catch up and finish fourth grade with her cla.s.s. You'd never know she'd been that close to - well, Laura, we owe you everything."

Laura knew quite well that Melanie had fully recovered. She was on the same Little League team as her own girls. "She's such a lovely child, George."

"Thank you. You know, I wanted to talk to you about Steve. I knew he'd take it hard, and I told him I'd try to help any way I could. I hope you understand that with Kim moving to Atlanta, we really couldn't keep him on as anchor. The decision was out of my hands."

"You did what you had to do, George. I understand. He'll just have to pull himself together and find another job."

Laura didn't know whether George was aware of their separation or about the night with Kim Connor. She'd called him impulsively, not knowing how she'd approach him to get Kim's number. Her stomach began to hurt.

"Whatever I can do, Laura. Just let me know."

"Actually, George, I do need a favor. Steve asked me to call Kim and ask her to drop off some photographic equipment she'd borrowed." Laura felt her body stiffen, a reaction to the blatant lie. "He's away for the weekend and I thought I'd get on this. Could you give me her home phone?"

"You just hang on while I get it," George said. A few moments later, he read off the seven digits. "She's moving, as you know. It might be this weekend."

"Great. Thanks, George, and give my love to the family. See you at softball one of these days. Your Melanie and my Nicole take the game much more seriously than my Natalie."

He chuckled. "I know what you mean. Okay, Laura. Nice talking to you."

"Same here. Good night now."

Laura took a breath and dialed the number. It was seven fifteen. Could Steve actually be at that woman's house with her children? It's not possible, she thought. Laura a.s.sumed that Kim had no use for kids, but she might act like she did if she wanted Steve badly enough.

"G.o.d, I just don't know what else to do," she said aloud.

Three rings. A click. Of course. Like Steve, Kim would have an answering machine too.

"Hi there. Sorry I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you just as soon as I can." No identification, but it was Kim's voice all right, her s.e.xy public voice.

"Kim, this is Laura Nelson. I'm looking for my husband." Laura didn't know what else to say. "Listen, I don't want you anywhere near my children. I'm warning you. Stay away from them."

She hung up, glancing for the hundredth time out the front window. There was still plenty of light for the late June evening as Marcy's car pulled into the driveway and headed toward the garage. Should she tell Marcy the kids still weren't home? No, she decided. Surely they'd be home soon. She called Steve's again. The d.a.m.n answering machine. She slammed down the phone.

That was it. She was going over. Marcy could keep an eye out for them in the meantime. She picked up the receiver and dialed the phone once more. "Hi, Marcy." She struggled to sound cheerful. "Have a nice day in St. Pete?"

"I did, but I'm ready to get into my robe and plunk down in front of the TV."

"Sounds good. Listen, can I ask a favor? I have a little emergency in the ER that should just take a few minutes." Another outright lie. "Would you watch out for Steve and the kids and tell them I'll be right back?"

After Marcy agreed, Laura hung up before the housekeeper could ask any questions. Hot angry tears spilled down her cheeks as she backed the Olds wagon out of the garage. She hadn't bothered to touch up her hair or lipstick. Trance-like, she drove past Tampa City Hospital and across the bridge that connected Davis Island to Tampa's mainland. An ache in her throat, she noted that Steve's billboard had been replaced with a car dealer's ad. The thermometer near the bridge registered eighty-one, and it had started to drizzle. Before reaching Steve's downstairs apartment on Oregon, she pulled over to dab at her eyes, blow her nose, and wipe the sweat off her brow. If the kids were there, she didn't want them to see her such a mess.

It was eight ten, still plenty of light outside as Laura approached Steve's place. Parking behind a late-model yellow Firebird she found vaguely familiar, she silently advised herself to remain calm. Once she got the kids home safely, she would figure out what to do about Steve.

Despair and panic eclipsed antic.i.p.ation as she walked to the front door and pushed the doorbell. Did it even work? This was not exactly the high-rent district. The house needed a lot of work. The roof was sagging on one side and the cement stairs had begun to crumble. The houses on the block were built close together and she noticed that they were in much better repair than the one Steve occupied, which needed a paint job badly. Two stories high, these were much older than the homes on Davis Island. As she glanced around, she saw a child in an upstairs window next door looking at her. A girl with pigtails and a cute, inquisitive face. About the age of the twins, Laura guessed. She did not want to embarra.s.s the child by waving, so she proceeded to knock on Steve's door. No response. She knocked again before trying the doork.n.o.b, which turned easily. Stepping inside, she walked across the empty living room. There was a sofa and two matching chairs in a faded plaid pattern. Newspapers, dirty dishes, and empty beer cans were scattered about.

Disgusting, she thought. How could a person so meticulous about his personal appearance be such a slob? What a bad influence on the kids. The last month must have been much easier on Marcy without him around. One less person to pick up after.

"h.e.l.lo?" she called.

She picked her way through the hallway and looked into the room on the right, a bedroom. Besides the unmade bed and clothes strewn about, only a bureau filled the room.

Down the hall, she stepped into the kitchen. What a mess there too - it seemed that Steve had not washed a single dish since he'd moved in. Completely repulsed, Laura fumbled in her cluttered purse for her car keys, nearly tripping on the foot before she noticed it.

A human foot. Only inches away.

The body of a woman lay on the kitchen floor. Blank eyes stared at the ceiling and feet - nails painted a fiery red - protruded from spiked high heels. Laura gasped as she took in the black eyes frightfully wide open, the short, dark hair neatly combed behind her ears exposing diamond cl.u.s.ter earrings shaped like starfish. She wore a sleeveless cobalt blue dress above tanned bare legs and the sling-back heels precisely matched the dress's color. But it was her chest that riveted Laura's attention - the gaping wound in her chest, the blood that was everywhere.

At a glance Laura knew the woman - and she knew the woman - soaked in a pool of blood on Steve's tiled kitchen floor, was dead.

Kim Connor was dead.

Nevertheless, Laura knelt down beside the body, feeling for the carotid artery with her right hand, trying to find a pulse. She knew she wouldn't find one even though the flesh was warm. Ripping open the top two b.u.t.tons of the dress with both hands - the blue cloth was warm and sticky, drenched with blood - she reached in. The chest was immobile, no trace of respiration. Should she try manual open-chest cardiac ma.s.sage? As she inched closer to make absolutely sure there was no pulse, her left hand, sticky with blood, landed on something cold and metallic nestled against Kim's hip. She ignored it, never taking her eyes from the woman's chest. Finally, she stood up.

Kim was dead. Who had killed her? And here, on Steve's kitchen floor? Steve? Could he have done this? And the kids? Had they been here?

Help. She needed to call for help. That's when Laura heard footsteps behind her.

Two uniformed cops had let themselves in while Laura stood mute and unmoving. They'd been cruising the Hyde Park area when the request came through to respond to a call from a female who had reported hearing a gunshot from upstairs at this Oregon address. The front door had been open and unlocked, and at precisely 8:13 p.m., the officers let themselves in, planning a cautious walk through.

"False alarm," Belinsky, a big-bellied Tampa veteran, mumbled just before he heard the wheezy voice of Parker, his younger partner: "Freeze. Police."

Darting toward the kitchen, Belinsky entered a scene that looked like a staged tabloid. Hands b.l.o.o.d.y, a blonde female stood staring down at her apparent victim: a familiar looking, pet.i.te female with short dark hair lying in a pool of blood on the tile floor, a Colt thirty-eight beside her. Parker's .45 was locked on the blonde's back. Belinsky started blankly at his partner for only an instant before drawing his own gun. He felt cold sweat trickle down his neck and down his forehead into his eyes as the blonde started to turn.

"Hands up," Belinsky barked, his gun taking aim at the center of the blonde's chest. She seemed dazed and disheveled. Maybe a crazy?

"Lady, hands up," Belinsky repeated more slowly as he inched closer. "Easy now." Signaling his partner to stay still, he said evenly, "Let's n.o.body get hurt." His warning too late for the young woman bathed in blood on the floor.

In slow motion, Laura lifted her hands up into the air.

"I got her," Parker said in a high-pitched wheeze.

"Okay, man," Belinsky said as he inched close enough to reach down and grab the piece that lay on the floor with his handkerchief. "I got the weapon."

Belinsky placed the thirty-eight on the Formica counter, moving quickly to slip the handcuffs off his belt. Clamping them shut over Laura's bare wrists, he was careful not to smear her b.l.o.o.d.y palms as he pulled her arms behind her back. She had not moved.

"Stay put, lady," Belinsky grunted, "Parker, keep watching her."

Kneeling over the b.l.o.o.d.y body, he carefully checked for a pulse, respiration, any sign of life. "Dead as dead can be," he announced. "Parker, ambulance first, then the station. There's a phone in the living room." Belinsky turned toward Laura as Parker walked out. "Name," he demanded.

"What," Laura whispered.

"Your name, lady," Belinsky repeated.

"Laura Nelson," she whispered almost inaudibly.

"Do you live here?"

"No." Again almost inaudible.

"Speak up. Do you know who does live here?"

"My husband," Laura answered a little louder this time.

"You don't live with your husband?"

"No - not anymore," Laura managed. She was shaking now, all traces of color drained from her face.

"Do you know this woman?" Belinsky demanded.

The younger cop returned and started in with his own questions as he pointed to Kim's body. "Do you know who she is?"

"Yes."

"Well, are you going to tell us or do we book you first?" Parker grabbed Laura's arm.

"Ms. Nelson," Belinsky said in a conciliatory tone, "why don't you just answer the questions. For starters, who is that woman?"

"Kim Connor," Laura answered simply.

Belinsky whistled. "Connor? The Channel Eight News lady. Thought I recognized her."

"Doesn't look so good blood soaked, does she?" Parker commented. He let go of Laura's arm with a little shove. "Wasn't she on with some guy all the time? Both their mugs are plastered all over town."

"That's my husband," Laura said quietly.

CHAPTER NINE.