Unlucky 13

Chapter 83

I had no problem believing that Donna Timko was a loose cannon. She was adrenalized. Her gun was braced four feet directly across the table from me. Her finger was on the trigger and she’d aimed her gun just so.

If she sneezed, she’d shoot me between the eyes.

Two feet to my left, Conklin sat in the chair with his hands in the air at shoulder height.

Walter Brenner stood to the right of his sister, training his gun on Conklin, grinning and bouncing on his feet like a four-year-old waiting for a pony ride.

Forget ponies. Make that a crazy four-year-old with a gun.

Some wave of serenity came over Timko’s face, which I read as her having made up her mind. To her we were dead cops walking, and now she was thinking ahead to how to get rid of our bodies.

She said to her brother, “Walt, here’s an idea. We can get into the processing plant. You can work the grinder, right?”

“You’re thinking cop burgers?”

“Exactly. Cop Prime. With bacon. Well done.”

They both had a good laugh.

I couldn’t help it. I pictured my body going through an industrial-grade meat grinder and heard the whirr of the blades cutting through muscle and bone. It gave me the horrors.

Why didn’t Walter and Donna just shoot us now?

Simple answer. It would be easier for them if we went into the transport van on the hoof.

I wanted to look at Conklin but didn’t dare take my eyes off the sweetheart of Chuck’s executive board, a woman who had sympathized with the bomb victims and the little people who worked at Chuck’s and was now transformed into a grinning, bloodthirsty ghoul.

Timko was not only thinking ahead, she wanted my opinion.

She said, “That’ll work, right, Sergeant? Take you out through the garage, and we all get into the van. Who knows, we might drop you off somewhere and make a run for Canada.”

“That’s a better idea than the meat processor,” I said. “We go missing, the FBI will be all over that plant, and you know human blood and remains will spell it all out, PDQ.”

“Good point. Well, I’m loaded with ideas. That’s my best one so far. Walt, get his gun. Come on. I can’t do everything.”

Walt was a lefty.

He walked over to Conklin and pressed the gun muzzle to his temple. Sweat rolled down my sides, but my partner was cool, give him credit. Give him all the credit in the world.

Walt said, “Take out your gun with the tips of your fingers and pass it to me. No sudden moves. My metabolism is high, normally. Now? I could shoot you out of pure freaking jitters. So do what I say. Okay?”

If Conklin didn’t hand over his gun, Brenner might reach for it. That would give my partner an opportunity to head-butt him, elbow him in the groin, any number of moves that might work—or get us both killed.

Timko flicked her eyes toward Conklin, who was gauging the situation, looking to see what her brother was going to do.

I knew what I had to do, and that I had to get it right the first time.

It might be the only chance Conklin and I had to get out of El Cerrito alive.