The Low Between, page 11
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“Who would’ve thought?” Stout’s smooth voice coated the murky alley beside Eaton’s office, like oil filming across a motionless river. Carlo had the irrational desire to dunk himself in a tub to wash it off his skin. “It’s rather karmic we would end up back here of all places, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” Carlo muttered.
At least he was still alive. When Stout had demanded to know where the meeting had been scheduled, Carlo hadn’t hesitated to tell him. Of what use was the knowledge now? Eaton was dead. Cooperating with Stout was also the only way to guarantee he didn’t shoot him on the spot. The more time Carlo had, the better the chances he’d find a way to survive.
He hoped.
The barrel of the gun was wedged into the small of his back as he led the way to the back door. The lock hadn’t been replaced yet, so it swung open easily when he prodded it. They entered a small wetroom, muddy footprints from the cops who’d gone back and forth still marring the tiled floor.
“Keep going,” Stout said.
The scant light from the alley did little to illuminate past the first few feet. He could see another door in front of them, but that was it. With the gun pressing harder into his back, though, he didn’t have a choice. He fumbled forward to let them in.
The second door opened into pitch black, but it was the thick scent of blood and ammonia that made Carlo gag. He clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up, while his other hand reached blindly around the jamb in search of a switch. When he found it, he blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness.
Behind him, Stout sighed. “Lucky for you, the police are mostly worthless.”
“How is that lucky?” Carlo said around his hand.
“If they’d actually found the ransom when they came for the body, you wouldn’t be able to earn your second chance.” Stout prodded him deeper into the office, pushing the door shut behind them. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the stench. “Unless you’re lying to me again, though I hope you would’ve learned your lesson about that by now.”
The tape outline of a man was on the floor, a desk pushed to the wall to keep from covering it up. Blood spattered the wall and carpet, dark stains filling the space Eaton had been found but more sprayed outside the lines. Two other desks had papers disarrayed across their surfaces, their drawers pulled open as well, while a row of filing cabinets lined the far wall. The only other door in the room nestled at the end of the cabinets, presumably leading to a reception area.
He stumbled when Stout tried to push him farther into the office. “Why do I need to be here?” he said. “I gave you what you wanted.”
“What I want is that fifty thousand dollars Mr. Ascher tried to steal from me. What is it about young people today that they can’t do what they’re told? If you did, you wouldn’t have nearly the problems you do.”
There was no good way to answer that, though he didn’t think Stout was looking for a response anyway. “Just tell me what you want. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“You’re going to help me find the money.” He gestured with the gun toward the filing cabinets. “Start looking.”
The weight of the gun aimed at his back was plenty motivation to move quickly. After he opened the first drawer, it occurred to him that his fingerprints would be all over this room now, but at this point, he couldn’t muster the fear to care about what the police might suspect. His first priority was to get out of this still breathing. If he managed that, he’d have to hope that Joe would help in whatever way he could to clear his name or lessen the charges.
Joe. Just thinking about his name was inspiration enough to do what he was told. What would Joe think when he got back to his apartment and Carlo wasn’t there? Would he suspect something was wrong? Or would he assume Carlo had chickened out? It had to be the former. After everything they’d been through, he couldn’t believe the worst of Carlo. Carlo had to trust in everything he knew about Joe.
He found nothing in the first cabinet. Halfway through the second, Stout started humming. The sound grated across Carlo’s nerves, so much so, he spoke even when he knew it was a dumb idea.
“Why didn’t you look for the money last night when you were here?”
“Because I didn’t know the money was here,” Stout replied. “How would I know Eaton would be such an idiot that he’d keep it in plain sight?”
“But didn’t you kill him?”
“I did what I had to.”
“Why, if you weren’t looking for the ransom here?”
“Because he needed a way to get rid of both Copper and Eaton at the same time.”
Carlo whipped around at Joe’s voice, but Stout was even faster. Stout grabbed onto Carlo’s arm and hauled him close, the gun jammed into his side.
Joe stood in the door from the wetroom, his own gun aimed straight at them. His steely gaze was fixed on Stout, and though his posture seemed relaxed, he wasn’t. Not really. Joe’s tension was betrayed by the twitch in his jaw, a detail Carlo realized he recognized as easily as he would his own reflection.
He had never been happier to see anyone in his entire life.
Or terrified.
“Who are you?” Stout asked, genuinely perplexed.
Joe ignored him. “You all right, Carlo?”
Afraid to answer, Carlo just nodded.
“I asked you a question,” Stout said.
“I’m not here to talk to you. Carlo, come here.”
Stout snorted, his grip tightening. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“He moves, and I shoot him. That sounds like a choice to me.”
“Then I shoot you,” Joe said. “Stalemate.”
“Wrong.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I have someone you very obviously want.”
Someone, he said. Not something. No mistaking who he was referring to, by either of them.
“You think I care about some kid? He’s just blocking my shot.”
Joe’s denial was a punch in the gut, but the reaction was brief. Carlo was paying too close attention to fall for the blunt dismissal. He could see the truth in Joe’s eyes, but more importantly, he heard it in his voice, and his very obvious word selection.
He’s just blocking my shot.
In other words, if Carlo could get out of the way, Joe would take care of Stout for both of them.
“How does killing Eaton get rid of Copper?” Carlo addressed the question to Joe, hoping the attempt at conversation would throw Stout off his game.
“Shut up,” Stout growled.
“He was going to set Copper up, weren’t you, Stout?” Joe edged sideways, away from the door, only stopping when Stout shoved his gun harder into Carlo’s ribs. “That’s why you tossed the gun where the police would find it. You probably had someone buy it using his name, too, just to link it back to him.”
“You must be a friend of Mr. Ascher’s,” Stout said. “Were you the one who talked him into giving the money back?”
“You mean, instead of giving it over to you? Nah, it’s just your bum luck he’s actually got a conscience.”
Joe’s theories were new, but Carlo wasn’t questioning them. They’d led him to Eaton’s office, hadn’t they? That was all that mattered.
“Every conscience has a price.”
“Not mine. Not Copper’s. And not Carlo’s.”
The corner of Stout’s mouth quirked. “Ah, so that’s it. You’re their vigilante fairy godfather. How quaint.”
“For the last time…” Though Joe didn’t move, his eyes locked on Carlo’s. Sure. Knowing. “Let. Him. Go.”
Stout’s smile disappeared. “And for the last time—”
A gun went off. Carlo twisted as hard as he could out of Stout’s hold, throwing himself down and away. He expected a second shot at any moment, or pain because he was hit, but the only sound he heard was his sharp exhalation when his chest slammed into the floor, the only feeling the aching jolt up his arms.
Footsteps pounded across the room. Carlo rolled over in time for Joe to fill his vision, the stalwart mask he’d worn since walking in stripped away. In its place was fear, manifested in hands reaching out for Carlo’s shoulders, fingers roaming over his shoulders and chest in search of fresh blood.
“You all right?” Joe asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
Something wasn’t right, though. The footsteps he’d heard were still coming. The hardest thing he’d done all night was look away from Joe, but somehow he managed to do it, his gaze sliding past to see a pair of burly cops pulling a bleeding Stout to his feet. Captain Wallace stood off to the side, arms folded over his chest as he surveyed the arrest.
Carlo held his tongue as Joe slipped an arm around his back and helped him stand.
“You all right, young man?” Wallace said.
Carlo glanced at Joe before answering. A rush of warmth stretched across the space between them to confirm everything he had hoped and believed.
“I’m not hurt,” he said. “Just glad you got here when you did.”
“You’ve got Donnelly to thank for that,” Wallace said. “Well, him and his itchy finger.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Wallace. “Stout was going to shoot.”
Wallace didn’t blink. “Yeah, I thought it was self-defense, too.” He turned away and nodded toward his men. “Put him in the car, boys. We’ll get a doc to patch him up so we can finally get some real answers out of him.”
Stout held his hand over his bloody arm, his features grim and furious. Blood seeped through his fingers, and more dripped onto the floor, marring the previous crime scene as he was hauled away.
“You know you need to bring Copper in now,” Wallace said when he was the last one in the room with them.
Joe sighed. “I know.”
“It’ll be tough, but we should be able to keep him free from charges. From the sound of it, Stout’s the only one who actually broke any laws.”
“He’ll clam up when you get him in.”
Wallace shrugged. “I’ve got three uniforms who heard him. I’m not too worried.”
“I don’t get it,” Carlo said. “Why did he hire me if he didn’t care about the meeting?”
“He needed to get to Copper before Halford did,” Joe explained. “He’d get the money, kill him, and then the police wouldn’t have bothered investigating Eaton’s murder because they would’ve thought the killer was dead.”
“But why here?”
“Because the hotel was out. Monica would’ve been a witness. Eaton’s office was the best alternative. My money says he came back here when you didn’t call, so he could make it look like a burglary instead of following his original plan. That’s why the door wasn’t jimmied when I saw it.”
The incidents that had seemed so random now made a lot more sense. “So Eaton was dead then?”
“Probably,” Wallace interjected. “Miss Halford said in her statement he’d left her after dinner last night, claiming he had work to catch up on and not to expect him back right away. It fits the timeline.”
“And explains why the umbrella wasn’t open when I saw it,” Joe said. “He got here before the storm hit.”
The coat had been wet, though. That’s what Joe had told him. Which meant he’d almost walked in on Stout. Carlo felt sick to his stomach at how close the call had been.
“Come on,” Wallace said. “I’ll give you a ride home.” He glanced at Carlo. “What about you?”
His heart pounded in his throat until it was too tight to swallow. “One of Mr. Stout’s men tossed my suitcase in his trunk.”
“Which means it’s at the station already.” At Carlo’s frown, he added, “We rounded them up when we got here.”
“Just drop him at my place,” Joe said. “I’ll run him over in the morning to pick up his stuff.”
He was glad Joe was the one to suggest it, and even more so when Wallace didn’t question him. They had to separate as they left the office, but under the cover of darkness in the alley, Joe surprised him by catching his shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze.
His fears vanished. Everything was finally going to be okay.
CHAPTER 12
Stepping through the front door of the bookstore was like visiting his old grade school after he’d graduated. Everything was familiar and comforting, but at the same time, it was all different. It hadn’t been nearly as long since Carlo had last been there, either. Eight days had passed since Joe had walked him into the police station to make an official statement and collect his belongings.
Eight days since he’d gone home and pretended nothing had happened. Lying to his mother about his distracted mood. Finding excuses to call into work.
When Wallace had called with an update, assuring Carlo he was perfectly safe, that Stout was locked away and Mr. Halford was more than a little embarrassed at the turn of events in his business and private affairs, Carlo had finally found the nerve to call Joe.
“That’s good,” Joe had said when Carlo filled him in. “You can get back to life as normal.”
But what was normal? Walking around like he hadn’t almost died at gunpoint? Pretending that he’d never met Joe face-to-face? He could get lost in his usual routine, running for auditions, complaining at work about how nothing ever panned out, but the memories of the past few days would be there in the wings, waiting for their cue to come rushing out and remind him of what could’ve been.
He waited until almost closing time to arrive. Joe would be busy seeing to the end of day business, and if things were awkward between them, Carlo could leave with a valid excuse, putting the past behind him once and for all with the certain knowledge that at least he’d tried.
The store was mostly empty, only an elderly gentleman near the front perusing the British history section. Joe was nowhere to be found, so Carlo took up residence in the drama aisle, flipping through collections as he tried not to look too disappointed.
“I found that book, Mr. Lind.”
Joe’s voice preceded the firm tread of his footsteps. Carlo looked up in time to see him emerge from the back room, a slim volume in his right hand. He looked like he had every other time Carlo had seen him in this environment, but like crossing the threshold, certain details had changed.
Now, Carlo could see the slight lines pinching the corner of Joe’s mouth, either because he was upset about something or tired. He noticed the shirt cuffs weren’t quite as crisp as usual, too, which leant more credence to the latter theory.
As Joe passed his corner, Carlo closed the book he held. The whisper of pages coming back together drew Joe’s automatic response, but as he glanced toward the sound and saw Carlo standing there, his pace faltered. His lips quirked swiftly, and he stood a little straighter.
He looked pleased. Carlo’s trepidations about coming vanished.
Joe gave him a brisk nod, then turned back to the front of the store. “How about I ring this up so you can get home in time for dinner?” he called out to his customer, disappearing from view.
Carlo turned back to the shelves, as much to hide his smile as it was to stay busy until Joe was free. The ticking seconds were interminable as he listened to the low murmur of the two men talking, but when the bell jingled over the door, he nearly made a mad dash for the counter.
He collided into Joe coming back to find him.
Strong hands gripped his arms to keep him from falling back onto his ass, but Joe was slow to let him go even after he’d found his balance. “This is a surprise,” Joe said. “I thought that phone call might’ve been it.”
Carlo blushed. “I wanted to see you.”
The smile that came this time was slower but just as sweet to witness. “Have you had supper yet?” At Carlo’s shake of his head, he added, “Would you like to go out and grab a bite? It’d be nice to catch up.”
He said yes because it was Joe, and because he craved the time with him, but he had to admit, as he followed Joe out onto the sidewalk, he was a little disappointed they were eating out. His ideal night would’ve been spent in Joe’s apartment, where he didn’t have to watch what he said. He knew they were only friends. He respected Joe’s choice. But being out in public limited what the range of their conversation could be.
Was that what Joe wanted? To sweep everything under the rug and pretend none of it ever happened?
Did it matter if he could still call Joe a friend?
Joe took him to a diner called Phil’s, a tiny restaurant Carlo had never noticed before. The tables were half-full, but the waitress who greeted them gestured toward the counter.
“Not tonight, Lizzie.” Joe nodded toward the back corner booth. “We’ll be back there.”
The vinyl seat was still warm from its previous occupant when Carlo slid onto the bench. Joe handed him a menu as he sat opposite.
“Where’s yours?” Carlo asked.
“I don’t need one. The choices haven’t changed here in twelve years.”
Though Carlo scanned it over, his mind wasn’t on food. He still had no idea what he wanted by the time the waitress came to their table.
“What’re you doing working days?” Joe asked her.
She lifted a bony shoulder. “Change of pace. What’re you doing coming in while the sun’s still out?”
His eyes twinkled. “Change of pace.”
“Usual for you?”
“Yep.”
Lizzie turned toward Carlo. “And what about Monty Clift here?”
Carlo’s gaze snapped to attention. “You think I look like Montgomery Clift?”
“Nah, you’re cuter.”
Joe laughed. “Don’t say those kind of things to a struggling actor, Lizzie. They’ll go to his head.”
“I just call ’em like I see ’em.”
Carlo handed her back the menu. “I’ll have the turkey sandwich and some coffee, please.”
Her mouth twisted into a moue of surprise as she looked back to Joe. “This one’s got manners. I like him.”
