Seeing Red(67)

Wilcox said nothing for several seconds, then softly, “I had hoped you’d see reason, and it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Come to what?”

“I didn’t come alone.”

Trapper kept his facial expression as blank as possible, but every muscle in his body tensed.

Wilcox said, “There are five men outside—”

“Bullshit.”

“—waiting to escort me safely out of here after you and I have concluded our business. If we don’t reach a conclusion that’s satisfactory to me, they’re to make certain that you die. I really didn’t need the madam’s pistol. I was only showing it off.” He smiled.

If the man was bluffing, he was damn good at it.

“I can see you’re unconvinced, Mr. Trapper. Give Kerra the phone.” Trapper hesitated. Wilcox said, “I strongly advise that you do as I ask.”

Trapper held on to the cell phone for only a couple of seconds more, then passed it to Kerra.

“Call this number.” Wilcox gave her a ten-digit number, which she tapped in. “After one ring, hang up immediately.”

She did as told.

“Now go to the window.”

She looked at Trapper for instruction. He didn’t take his eyes off Wilcox. “If you’re setting her up to be hurt, your gray matter is gonna be dripping down that wall behind you.” Again, he took a bead on the space between the man’s eyes.

Kerra got up and walked to the window that overlooked the street.

Within a few seconds, she said, “Two men are coming from the corner. A third from the other direction.”

Wilcox didn’t blink. Trapper could hear his wristwatch ticking in the silence. Fifteen seconds elapsed. Then ten more before Kerra said, “There’s a fourth, Trapper.”

“The fifth is inside the building across the street,” Wilcox said. “I suggest Kerra not move because she’s in the crosshairs of his scope.”

Trapper sprang to his feet.

“Sit down or she dies,” Wilcox ordered.

“I’m going to blow your brains out.” Trapper jabbed the barrel of his pistol between Wilcox’s eyebrows.

“If you pull the trigger, Kerra will die within a second of me.”

“How do I know there’s a fifth guy?”

“You don’t. But will you gamble with Kerra’s life that there isn’t?”

“Trapper, I’m okay,” she said.

Trapper stayed as he was. Wilcox said, “Those men have been instructed to wait for a second call, a second hang-up. If it doesn’t come within ten minutes, they’ve been given orders to rush the building and kill you, Mr. Trapper. After which, I go home. I haven’t touched anything. Not even the arms of this chair. No one will know I’ve been here, and the people who wish you dead will be thrilled to learn that you’re no longer a bother.”

Trapper risked a glance toward the window. Kerra remained with her back to them, frozen in place.

Wilcox said, “You’re reckless with your own life, but you won’t risk Kerra’s. And you’re too principled to shoot an unarmed man.”

“For you, I would make an exception.”

“You’re wasting valuable time, Mr. Trapper.”

Shit! Trapper retracted the pistol and sat back down. “Quite a setup. How did you even know we would be coming here tonight?”

“Deductive reasoning. I heard about your madcap getaway from Lodal last night. When were you last at your apartment?”

“Sunday night, when I was notified that The Major had been shot.”

“I sought you there first.” Wilcox indicated the mess. “This looks good by comparison. When your home didn’t yield anything, my … associates … must have reasoned, as I did, that whatever goods you have on me, and by extension on them, would be discovered here.”

He glanced at his gold Rolex. “You’re down to seven and a half minutes. Why don’t you start telling me what’s on that flash drive. What am I up against?”

Trapper thought about that scope fixed on Kerra and began talking fast. “You were thirty-two years, fifty-eight days old when the Pegasus Hotel was bombed. You were Dallas’s real estate whiz kid. You had it all goin’ on.

“But you stayed under the radar. You weren’t into party girls, cars, private jets, yachts, none of the trappings of a man who was making money hand over fist. You didn’t mix with society, you dodged publicity, you didn’t have any close friends.

“Then one day I got an anonymous tip that you did. Have friends, that is. Or at least the occasional visitor. Your guests crossed ethnic lines, age groups, came from different socioeconomic levels. No common denominator. Except that you met with them individually and under guard, and every one of them went in to see you looking mildly curious and came out looking like he’d been poleaxed.”

“Six minutes,” Wilcox intoned.

“The tipster went on to say that after such meetings with you, things happened. ‘What things?’ I asked. ‘Bad things,’ he said. ‘Like what?’ ‘Like the Pegasus Hotel bombing.’ Tongue in cheek I said, ‘Are you telling me that Thomas Wilcox was behind the Pegasus Hotel bombing?’ He said yes, and, to my everlasting regret, I laughed at him. Out loud and hard.”