Come Spy With Me (John Sand Book 1) by Max Allan Collins & Matthew V. Clemens

Author:Max Allan Collins & Matthew V. Clemens [Collins, Max Allan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781647342050
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2020-11-17T16:00:00+00:00

Ten

SANDS AT THE SANDS

The phone call to the President was brief, and however secure the line might be—and one would assume it would be secure indeed—Sand was discreet.

“My homecoming was intruded upon by the individual we discussed,” Sand said, mildly surprised Kennedy himself had answered, “regarding possible Caribbean disruption.”

“I see.”

“Apparently the gentleman decided to drop by and pay his respects. But now he won’t leave. I don’t think he’ll ever leave.”

“I will, uh, send help to convince him.”

“He won’t need convincing. He’s made himself at home in our master bedroom and is dead to the world.”

“Ah. If he’s made a mess, I could, uh, send over a crew from Charon Services.”

Charon—in Greek mythology, the son of the night who ferried the deceased over the River Styx in return for a coin left in the mouth of each corpse.

“Please,” Sand said.

The familiar voice gave away nothing at all. “I’ll take care of the fee.”

“When can I expect them?”

“Well before dawn. Your, uh, trip to a warmer clime will have to be postponed for a day or two.”

“The clean-up will take that long?”

“Certainly not. I know you’ve been busy, John, and probably haven’t seen the weather reports. Most of the Caribbean is being hit by a tropical storm that will be a hurricane by morning. You’ll have to postpone your vacation until Monday, at least. In the meantime, relax, regroup. I’ll have the letter I promised delivered. Monday, a direct flight from Houston to your vacation spot should be possible.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sand said. “You make a most efficient travel agent.”

“We, uh, aim to serve.”

And protect.

After using the phone downstairs in the kitchen for the call, Sand did a thorough search of the grounds, determining that Glace had come alone. By the time he was done, Cuchillo had been collected by his friend in a beat-up Ford pick-up and Stacey was waiting in the living room with a fresh pitcher of vodka martinis, which they both felt they’d earned.

In what was perhaps an act of defiance, they made love on the couch before the little fire in the big fireplace, Sand confident it would take the cleaning service a while to arrive. To put distance between them and the upstairs unpleasantness, the couple took the guest room downstairs, showering in the bathroom, separately (which was not always the case).

Sand put on a fresh lightweight suit, with company coming; this included the Walther in its shoulder rig. Stacey had slipped into a metallic silver jumpsuit. On the couch in the living room again, she sat with her eyes downcast. There had been a giddiness following the rescue, in which she’d been as much help to herself as either Sand or Cuchillo.

But now came the melancholy. A human being, however vile, had been killed. In her home. She was dealing with it, yet another martini serving as sedative. Sand, watching from the archway onto the foyer, recalled too well the impact such deaths had once had upon him.

Once.

The doorbell rang, and she reacted.

“I have it,” Sand said.

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