Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,50

us. Then I remembered the familiar car at the scene of the Tanner building shoot-out. It was familiar because it was a navy blue Lexus with Maryland plates—same one that Colt identified on Constitution Avenue.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to reflect on how lucky I’d been to narrowly escape a hit on my life. No, I had another dilemma at hand: making sure Randolph didn’t kill me now. I kept talking—it worked during my last two kidnappings. “So you know too much? Is that why you’re running now?”

“Jorge told me everything after taking a call from Juarez today. He said he did it for me as much as for himself and Juarez.”

“How in the world would killing Kurt Baugh benefit you?”

“Not that he died, but how.”

Now it made sense. Something that had nagged at me. I never understood why Kurt’s murderer would choose to do it during a preview screening. Why not in the middle of the night, with no witnesses? And more importantly, why have Randolph ask for the supposedly poisoned yams, then frame Frankie? It had seemed a rather risky and backwards way of getting things done.

“He did it for the publicity, didn’t he? You’d get publicity for being the movie reviewer who was nearly whacked by the Mafia. Your job would become more secure, and he’d get publicity for the ACL. Bring in bigger and better names.”

“Something like that.”

I figured it was time to run my idea by Randolph. He was tired and sufficiently worn down mentally. “Listen,” I said, “there’s a cell phone at your feet. I can reach my husband and tell him that you’re willing to talk. They want Juarez, not you. I’m going to bet dollars to donuts that’s why they were at the ACL building today. Offer them a deal—you talk, they drop the kidnapping charges.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure if Randolph was going to bite, but it seemed likely since he’d dropped the gun and the rage. By now, we were surrounded by emergency and law enforcement vehicles of every kind, and we were all cruising at about forty miles an hour. Certainly he had to realize that we weren’t about to make another getaway without some fallout.

Randolph felt around on the floor until his hand landed on the phone. “What’s the number?”

***

Two helicopters hovered above us, and I suspected one was a news chopper. Guy Mertz was probably on the scene with a camera crew back at the ACL building, relaying the story to viewers with his usual melodramatic flair. He was right—by hanging around me long enough he’d landed the story of the century. Well, at least the story of the week.

Randolph dialed the number and handed me the phone. Howard, it turned out, was in the black car directly behind us. I waved in the rearview mirror.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” The concern in Howard’s voice warmed me like an electric blanket on a cold, snowy morning. It’s good to feel loved.

“I’m fine. The gun is down. I’m very safe.”

“What were you still doing at the Tanner Building? I told you to leave.”

“I did leave.”

“You said you were going home.”

He had me there. “I was just wrapping things up. Home was next on my agenda. And really Howard, how was I supposed to know that the FBI was planning a coup? Do you think I’m psychic?”

I sensed he was rolling his eyes behind those tinted windows, but didn’t have any proof.

Howard needed to talk to Randolph, so I handed the phone back. That conversation went on for five minutes. Meanwhile, we’d passed the turnoff for my house in Rustic Woods and were heading toward Haymarket and destinations West. At this point, if someone didn’t come to an understanding soon, I imagined a trip to California could be in my immediate future.

Finally, Randolph handed the phone back to me. “We’re good. Do what he says.”

I took the cell. “Hi, Honey. Will we be done in time for dinner tonight?”

“Marr,” said a woman’s voice. “This isn’t your husband.”

I winced. “Agent Smith?”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk to Howard?”

“You supposed correctly. He’s preparing,” she said. Then she walked me through the steps of where we’d be stopping the car and how slowly to do so. Even though the freeway was cleared, we were nearing an exit to a heavily populated business district. They wanted us to travel three more miles down the road, at which point they would sound the siren to let me know it was time to pull