Free Fatal by Eric Drouant Page A

voice he had expected to hear after the exchange in the hotel.
    “What kind of problem?”
    “Not on the phone,” Cassie said. “You’ll have to come back to New Orleans. Book a flight for tomorrow night. Get a room at the Sheraton on Canal Street under your own name and we’ll contact you. But listen, no more meetings in the middle of the day. We’ll let you know when and where. In the meantime, don’t try to find us. We’re pretty sick of you already. Oh, and come alone. This isn’t going to be a group hug.” The phone went dead.
    “You think he’ll come alone?” Ronnie asked.
    “Oh, hell no,” Cassie said, with a wave of her hand. “He’ll bring every available man. But he won’t let anyone else know what’s going on. He hasn’t told anyone why he wants us or what we can do. He’s a guy who likes to hold all the cards. But he’ll have people around in case he needs them.”
    “So now we call Kohl,” Ronnie said. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” He looked at Cassie, reached across the table and took her hand. “You know we’ve got that safe deposit box. Archer knew it might come to this. We can always run, just take off. Go live somewhere else, become different people and not have this thing hanging over our heads all the time. We can still do that.”
    “I know, I know,” Cassie said, grasping back at his hand. “We could do that. But we’d still be looking over our shoulders every day, wouldn’t we? I don’t live like that. It was alright with Archer, but I don’t trust anyone else. I’m not going to be trapped. I just can’t do it. And listen, one thing Archer never thought of, or one thing he couldn’t do anything about, is our families. If these people know who we are, then they know about our families. And we can’t ask everybody to run.” She pushed her hair back with her hand, leaned back in her chair. “I think we’re going to have to deal with this ourselves.” Outside, a line of storm clouds rolled across the lake, heading toward the camp.
     
    *****
     
    When the phone rang, Kohl was expecting it to be Brooks or Mead. There was probably some simple explanation for their absence. What he wasn’t expecting was the voice of a woman, a young girl, really.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Kohl, if that’s your real name. You need to listen to me. I’m going to hang up soon, and if you don’t get it right the first time you won’t get a second chance.”
    “I’m sorry,” Kohl said. “Who is this?”
    “Cassie Reynolds. We met your friends last night. They say to tell you ‘Hello,’ by the way, and to let you know you won’t be hearing from them for a while. Now shut up and listen.”
    “I’m sorry, young lady, you must have the wrong number,” Kohl said. He picked up a pen off the table, pulled a sheet of hotel stationary over. “I don’t know anyone by the name of Reynold.”
    “Cut the crap. You want what we have, the same way Luke Francis wants what we have. We’re willing to deal but only on our own terms. We want money. We don’t like the way we’re being treated by Mr. Francis or his people. We also don’t like what you tried to do last night, but we’re willing to let bygones be bygones if the price is right. Do you want to listen or should I hang up?”
    Kohl hesitated for only a moment. “I’m listening.”
    “Do you know where West End is?” Cassie said.
     
    *****
     
    At ten minutes to six in the evening it was still light outside Chalmette Arms, a small store set back off Paris Road, a main thoroughfare in this suburb of New Orleans. Business was slow, and Kenny Watt, the assistant manager on the staff of two, was ready to close up shop on the day when things got interesting. The door opened, the bell nailed on top rang, and in walked the best thing Kenny had seen all day. She had a big head of curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a pair of cutoff jeans that hugged her hips tightly and rode high on long lean legs. A t-shirt hugged