Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [112]
“Shhhh. Keep it down. Turn around and face the garage and put your hands on your head.” Jules continued to hold the gun to the middle of the stranger’s back. “Hands on your head. Come on, you’ve arrested how many people, you don’t know where to put your hands when you’re going to be frisked?”
“Arrested . . . ? Hey, I ain’t no cop—”
“No. You’re no cop. You’re FBI.”
“FBI?” Burt Connolly was incredulous. “Buddy, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, or why you think I’m FBI—”
“Shut up.”
“Listen, you’ve got me confused with someone else. I swear. . . .”
“Oh, right, you were just passing through the neighborhood and decided to take a shortcut through the grape arbor.” Jules sneered softly and jabbed the gun into the middle of the man’s back. “And keep your voice down. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Listen, I can explain—”
“Where’s your ID?” Jules demanded.
“Only ID I got is my driver’s license.”
“That in your wallet?” Jules asked after he’d finished patting down his captive and finding only one weapon, which he confiscated and stuck down his belt.
“Yeah. Left back pocket.”
Jules retrieved it, but he couldn’t see the name on the license. It was too dark. There was nothing there that even vaguely resembled an FBI identification, though. He’d seen a few of those over the years, when they first started looking at Prescott for tax evasion. He knew that no agent would go on a job without his ID.
“If you’re not FBI, and you’re not a cop, you must be private security or private investigation. Which is it?”
“Neither.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I don’t work for anyone.” The man started to turn and Jules jammed the butt of the gun into his back again.
“Then what are you doing here? The truth.”
“I’m watching the house next door.”
“Why?”
“Because I think there’s someone in there I want to see.”
“Who?”
“Woman named Miranda Cahill.”
“Never heard of her.” Jules frowned. Had he underestimated Mara? Had she sold the house in his absence?
“She live there?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I followed her here.” Burt paused. “If you’re looking for FBI, though, maybe you’re looking for her. She is an FBI agent. And I suspect the guy who came with her is FBI, too.”
“So you’re telling me there are two in there?” Jules nodded in the direction of Mara’s house.
“Two that I know of.”
“How about this other house? How many?” He tilted his head toward Mrs. West’s.
“I don’t know about that house. I don’t know who’s there.”
“Who else is over there? With the two agents?”
“Some blonde woman, pretty. Mid-thirties, maybe. Another woman, dark. Small. I saw them yesterday, but I didn’t see them today.”
Annie. Mara. No surprise there, Jules thought.
“A girl? Blonde girl, about twelve, maybe looks a little younger?” Jules asked.
“Didn’t see a kid.” Burt shook his head.
“She’s got to be in there,” Jules muttered, more to himself than to his unwanted companion. “Where else could she be?”
They stood in the same place for another few minutes, the gun still solid in the middle of Burt’s back. Finally, Burt said, “Look, my arms are really starting to hurt. I don’t know what you’re doing here, or what you want with those people, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Let me just turn and leave. I haven’t even seen your face; I can’t identify you even if I wanted to. Not that I want to. The last people I need to see right now are the cops. . . .”
“What do you want her for?” Jules asked. “The woman you followed here.”
Burt took too long to come up with a good answer.
“Don’t bother trying to think up a story. Just tell me the truth, goddamn it. What do you want with the woman? She your ex or something?”
“Someone paid me to follow her.”
“For what purpose?” Jules poked him again with the gun. “Turn around. I want to see your face.”
Reluctantly, Burt did as he was told. “I’m supposed to take her out.”
Jules stared at the man for a long moment.
“By take her out, I assume you don’t mean on a date,” Jules said dryly. “You mean, you’re