Photo Finished

Chapter 22

AS Carmela raced for her car, she was aware of someone sprinting after her, splashing headlong through puddles. A quick glance over her shoulder told her it was Shamus.

Shamus? What’s he up to?

With his longer, more powerful strides, Shamus reached the car at the same time Carmela did. Together, they ripped open the doors and hurled themselves inside Carmela’s Mercedes.

“Monroe Payne killed Barty!” Carmela told him between gasps as she fumbled in her beaded bag for her car key. “And now he’s kidnapped Ava’s granny!”

“Holy shit!” cried Shamus. “Did you see which way he went?” Shamus’s voice was tense and he wore his serious game face.

Carmela jammed the key into the ignition and cranked it hard. The Mercedes SL revved immediately with a throaty rumble. “No, but-”

“Hang on, I think we’ve got company!” yelled Shamus as he tucked his knees up under his chin and yanked at the seat belt.

Momentarily distracted, Carmela whipped her head to the right just as she stomped on the accelerator, building up rpm’s and almost red-lining the engine. With her car roaring like a jumbo jet, she was set to double clutch and pop directly into second gear. “What?” she asked him.

There was a moment of yelling and pounding on the outside of her car, then the passenger-side door was ripped open. Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, both breathing heavily, clambered in and squeezed themselves onto what could best be described as a token backseat.

Annoyed, Shamus glanced back over his shoulder. “Who do you guys think you are? The Lone Ranger and Tonto?”

“Drive, Carmela!” yelled Quigg, pounding the back of her seat.

“Drive!” echoed Chef Ricardo. His eyes were wild and rolling as he glanced nervously out the rain-streaked back window. Trying to see what had become of Ava, Carmela assumed.

“Where’s she supposed to drive to?” snarled Shamus. He wasn’t particularly happy about the two passengers who had opted to pack themselves in like sardines.

But Carmela’s car was moving now, roaring like an Indy car and spinning its wheels wildly as she jammed the accelerator to the floor. They fishtailed fifty yards down Perrier Street, then the Mercedes’s extra-wide tires finally found purchase and they really took off.

“Somebody’s behind us!” yelled Quigg.

“Is it a squad car?” asked Carmela.“Lieutenant Babcock?” She risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror even as her car rocketed down the street.

“Can’t tell,” said Quigg. He put a hand on her shoulder as she swerved wide around a corner. “Hey, take it easy. Do you even know where you’re going?”

Carmela responded with a tight nod. Yes, she did. In fact, she had a damn good idea of where Monroe Payne had probably spirited Sweetmomma Pam off to.

The shrimp-packing plant! Out on River Road. Has to be.

“HOLY BUCKETS,” WHISPERED SHAMUS AS THEY rolled silently into the little dirt parking lot. Carmela had doused her headlights some five hundred yards out and now they crept in slowly.

“Is that other car still behind us?” asked Carmela.

“I think we lost ’em at the last turnoff,” said Quigg. Everyone was talking in hushed whispers now, wondering what the next move should be.

Carmela made the decision for them. Springing lightly from her car, she gathered her skirt up around her knees and tiptoed toward the dilapidated building that Barty Hayward had used as his storage facility.

We can’t just sit around and hope Lieutenant Babcock is coming, decided Carmela. Got to act now!

“Wait!” called Shamus in a loud whisper. “You can’t go in there alone!”

“Watch me,” Carmela whispered back. She hadn’t bothered to tell him Monroe Payne had a gun. If she had, Shamus probably would’ve hog-tied her. And then where would Sweetmomma Pam be?

“Damn,” said Shamus, scrambling out after her. He hesitated, turned to stare at Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, who were still wedged in, yet making motions like they were going to extricate themselves. “Are you coming?” he groused at them.

“We’re trying,” said Chef Ricardo as he flailed about, trying to get a little leverage.

Carmela, meanwhile, had disappeared around the building. Tiptoeing through sucking mud in high heels wasn’t easy, and she was thankful for the rain as it slapped down upon the metal roof of the building and shook the trees around her. Covered any noise.

Way in back, close to where she’d gone in through the broken window two nights earlier, she found a dark-colored BMW hunkered down. Its nose was pointed into a grove of scrub brush, almost as though the owner had been trying to hide it.

Does this car belong to Monroe Payne?

Carmela ventured over and put a hand on the hood of the car. The metal was still warm to the touch.

Damn straight it’s his car. Has to be.

Carmela crept over to the broken window and peered in. Somewhere, toward the front, she thought, a dim light had been turned on.

Is Monroe Payne in there with Sweetmomma Pam? Only one way to find out.

Grasping the broken window, Carmela pulled at it. The sheer weight and bulk stunned her for a moment, then she was able to ease it down onto the ground. Hiking her skirt up above her knees, Carmela eased herself in through the window.

The interior of the shrimp-processing plant was just as dark and dank and dusty as Carmela remembered it. But this time, with her memory to guide her, Carmela was better able to navigate her way through the jumble of machinery and conveyer belts. And, as she edged closer to the giant cooker pot, she knew her hunch had been right. Someone was moving about inside one of the old blast freezers. One of the heavy metal doors was standing partially open, and she could see the gleam of a flashlight as light bounced off the freezer’s interior walls.

Darn. I saw those blast freezers before, but didn’t bother to look inside. Whatever’s in there must be pretty darn valuable if Monroe Payne saw fit to chase all the way over here.

Carmela crouched down behind the old cooker as murmurs from inside one of the blast freezers grew louder. She tried to still her breathing and, at the same time, cock her head at an optimal angle to catch what was being said.

At first she heard just fragments of words, but then she was able to make out a high-pitched, pleading voice.

Sweetmomma Pam!

Sweetmomma’s Pam’s voice was followed by a deep, angry voice.

Monroe Payne.

But what’s he up to? wondered Carmela.

She didn’t have to wait long. Monroe backed out of the blast freezer, a clutch of oil paintings in his arms, precariously balancing his flashlight. With his right shoulder, he began to muscle the heavy metal door closed on Sweetmomma Pam, obviously intending to trap her inside.

All the while, Sweetmomma Pam clawed frantically at the door. “Please!” she moaned. “Don’t leave me in here!”

That was enough for Carmela. She stood up from behind the cooker and shouted loudly at Monroe, “Back off, buster! Leave her alone!”

Startled, Monroe whirled toward her, dropping his arm-load of paintings. “What the…?” he called out, then his hand snaked inside his clothing.

Carmela sank down behind the cooker just as he fired and a bullet plinked off the rim of the giant metal cauldron.

At that exact moment, the front door crashed open and Lt. Edgar Babcock hurled himself in, landing in a very credible combat stance. He leveled his pistol directly at Monroe. “Drop it!” he shouted.

“Shoot him!” yelled Shamus, who stumbled in directly behind Lieutenant Babcock, wielding an enormous flashlight. There was a scuffle of feet on the wooden landing outside and then Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo also appeared.

“Watch out, everybody!” screamed Carmela. “He’s got a gun!”

“Back off!” yelled Monroe. In one swift move he reached through the door and grabbed Sweetmomma Pam by the arm, pulling her toward him. Now his gun was pointed directly at her heart, even as his eyes flashed nervously toward Lieutenant Babcock.

Carmela grimaced. When Monroe had hauled Sweetmomma Pam out roughly, the poor dear’s mask had slipped down over her face. She’s probably scared clean out of her mind, worried Carmela. And please, dear Lord, don’t let Lieutenant Babcock surrender his weapon. Under any circumstances.

“Just everybody back off or the old lady gets it!” With Sweetmomma Pam in his grasp, Monroe Payne was suddenly a lot more confident.

Trying to gauge the situation, Lieutenant Babcock lowered his gun slightly. “Okay now,” he said in a cool, reasonable voice, “let’s nobody panic. We can work things out.”

“You can get out!” snarled Monroe, angered by the glut of people who had suddenly appeared at the deserted storage building. He stared coldly at Lieutenant Babcock. “Put the gun down.” Spitting out each word hard, Monroe meant his order to be obeyed.

Lieutenant Babcock lowered his gun to his side.

Damn, thought Carmela.

“Ten o’clock!” boomed a tinny, mechanical voice.

Startled, not knowing where yet another strange voice was coming from, Monroe jerked his head wildly just as Sweetmomma Pam turned toward him. The sharp beak of her mask caught him squarely in his right eye.

“My eye!” he screamed.

Howling with pain, Monroe clutched at his face and fumbled his gun. Seconds later, it clattered noisily on the wood-planked floor.

“Rush him!” yelled Shamus.

“No!” screamed Lieutenant Babcock. “Stay back!” Chef Ricardo, never at a loss for action, grabbed one of the rusty knives from the old guillotine table and tossed it. It whooshed through the air, then hit with a loud thwack, remarkably pinning the fold of red fabric that contained Monroe Payne’s upraised arm to the wall.

Everyone gasped. It was a stunt worthy of an Indiana Jones movie.

“Jeez,” marveled Quigg, “you hit him.”

“I meant to,” said Chef Ricardo, pleased with what had to be a lucky, once-in-a-lifetime throw.

Lieutenant Babcock scrambled for the dropped gun as Monroe let loose with a second fearsome shriek that would’ve done a wounded animal proud.

“Yeoow!” he screamed. “I’ve been stabbed!”

Men, thought Carmela as she rushed forward and swept Sweetmomma Pam into her arms. Always with the theatrics.

“Get a doctor!” Monroe ’s outraged screams had turned to shouts and angry whimpers now. He stared fiercely at Carmela as she led Sweetmomma Pam a safe distance away, even as he held a trembling hand to his injured eye. “She attacked me with her beak!” he snarled. “Pecked me like a nasty bird from an Alfred Hitchcock movie!”

“Shut up,” barked Lieutenant Babcock as he wrested the knife from the fabric that pinned Monroe Payne to the wall, then tossed it to the floor out of reach. Then, with little wasted effort, the lieutenant snapped a pair of handcuffs on Monroe.

Monroe stared sullenly at Chef Ricardo. “That idiot threw a knife at me!”

Chef Ricardo stepped forward and peered at the ripped fabric and creased flesh with a proprietary glance. “Ees nothing,” he said scornfully. “Barely a flesh wound.”

“Sweetmomma Pam?” Ava Grieux, hair unpinned and swirling about her shoulders, teetered in the front doorway, a look of pure terror on her lovely face.

“Ava!” said Carmela, startled by her friend’s sudden appearance. “Sweetmomma Pam’s just fine. But how did you get here?”

“She came with me,” said Lieutenant Babcock. He pulled a radio from his belt and spoke rapidly into it, requesting a backup squad as well as an ambulance.

Shamus smiled broadly. Sweetmomma Pam was safe, the cops were taking over, the drama seemed to be wrapping up.

But Carmela wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot. Bartholomew Hayward had been stabbed. She’d been threatened and shot at. Sweetmomma Pam had been kidnapped. And Billy Cobb had been falsely accused and almost arrested!

Like an overworked image from a grade B horror film, Carmela felt a sheet of red descend before her eyes. And, in the tick of a single synapse, felt herself slip from fear into full-blown rage. Neurons popped like errant firecrackers inside her brain as a wave of anger engulfed her.

Baring her teeth in a snarl, Carmela hurled herself at Monroe Payne, grabbing tufts of red silk with both fists. “You arrogant asshole,” she yelled, “who do you think you are! Murdering… thieving…”

Shamus’s eyebrows shot up. He stepped forward and put a tentative hand on Carmela’s shoulder. “Hey, Carmela, take it easy. It’s over, you don’t have to make a big scene.”

But Carmela was not to be deterred. She delivered a sharp kick to Monroe ’s knees and yanked savagely again at his costume. “Blustering bully!” she screamed. “Kidnapping Ava’s grandmother! Stabbing Bartholomew Hayward! You’re pitiful… pathetic!”

Lieutenant Babcock watched her with a slack jaw. This was a side to the seemingly mild-mannered Carmela Bertrand he’d never have guessed at.

“Get her off me!” yelped Monroe. “The woman’s gone insane!”

Shamus continued to pull at Carmela. “Ease off, Carmela, it’s over.”

She refused to look at him. “No, it isn’t! It’s not over ’til I say it’s over!”

“Come on, honey,” Shamus entreated. “Back off, okay? You’re scaring the crap out of me… and, besides, you’re tearing the poor man’s dress.”

Abruptly, Carmela released her hold on Monroe Payne. He fell back against the wall, angry, shaken, and nervous that a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound woman had been poised to clean his clock.

Carmela turned and stared into Shamus’s brown eyes, allowing his words to slowly penetrate her consciousness. “What did you say?” she asked.

He shrugged gently. “You were tearing his dress?”

A hint of a grin dimpled Carmela’s face. Shamus stared at her for a second, then his mouth began to twitch as well. “I thought you were gonna kill him,” said Shamus. He gave an elaborate mock wipe at his brow. “Cripes.”

Then the tension fell away and Carmela and Shamus threw their arms around each other, hugging and patting each other on the back, reassuring one another that everything was okay.

“Did I just miss something?” asked Quigg Brevard, scratching his head.

Ava shook her head. “Jeez, Carmela. Just when it looked like you were over that louse…”

Sweetmomma Pam crinkled her old eyes and beamed. “Soul mates,” she whispered. “I can see it in their eyes.”