Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

Cleared.

  He saw a face he didn't recognize.

  Mediterranean? Not Greek, he decided. The skin was too fair. Certainly the black hair that looked tinged with gray could belong to anyone with ancestors from the shores of the Mediterranean.

  Italian?

  He studied the face.

  Strong. Hard lines. A prominent nose bent sharply toward the bridge. Not a hawk nose. Romanesque.

  But the eyes drew him.

  They were cold. A light shade of blue. Almost gray, in fact.

  Stahl frowned. The eyes of a killer.

  And a good one at that.

  But who was he?

  Why did his face show up tonight in Stahl's mind? Why now? Why here in Boston of all places.

  It didn't make any sense.

  Stahl took his hands away from his eyes and waited for the cloudiness to vanish so he could see again. He reached for the television remote control and flipped it to a local station he knew would have an early nighttime broadcast of the local news.

  He didn't have long to wait. The murder of the cabby was the top story.

  A camera crew brought the report in live from where Stahl had stood and killed the Bulgarian just a few hours ago. Bright lights illuminated the surrounding neighborhood. Wrought iron fences and stately brownstones bordered the yellow-taped crime scene.

  Police, according to the reporter, were busy inspecting the cab for evidence.

  Stahl smiled. Good luck. He'd wiped down the entire interior and knew they'd have a coat fiber at best to go on. Nothing more.

  The anchor in the studio asked if the police had any leads. The reporter in the field said they did not.

  Stahl breathed a sigh of relief.

  Over a picture of the Bulgarian, a voice-over asked for any information in the case and ran a toll-free number for tips.

  Stahl smiled. There'd be no tips. None at all.

  He'd managed to stay invisible.

  For now.

  The second story was another murder. A new face appeared on the screen. The anchorwoman identified the man as an Italian who had been murdered three nights ago in a section of town called Revere.

  Stahl felt a tremor of pain begin in his head.

  He frowned.

  According to the anchorwoman, the police were no closer to solving the murder of the Italian - a man named Vespucio - than they were of the new death tonight. Although the anchorwoman was quick to point out that the Italian had been killed execution-style, while tonight's murder did not appear connected.

  But they'd allude to a connection anyway, thought Stahl, aware of the pain increasing, but still somewhat tolerable.

  Stahl certainly hadn't killed any Italians in Revere three nights ago.

  He'd been killing someone in Germany.

  But someone else had killed someone here on the same night. Stahl wondered what time the kill had happened here and where he was when it had gone down.

  The wave of pain in his head subsided as soon as the Italian's face disappeared from the television screen.

  Stahl sat very still in his room.

  Maybe the anchorwoman had something. Maybe she'd hit on something else entirely and not even known it. She'd alluded to a connection in her quest to instill terror in her viewers. After all, terror begot ratings in the world of news reporting.

  Stahl walked to his window and looked out over the city. Bright neon and yellow sparkled back at him from a thousand different angles. Out there people moved through life oblivious to his existence. They saw only what they needed to see in order to continue functioning in their humdrum lives.

  He frowned. Speculation was a dangerous thing to get involved in in his line of work. It led to mistakes. It led to unnecessary worry and anxiety. Things like that slowed reaction time, dulled reflexes.

  It got people killed.

  Stahl began undressing. He needed sleep, he decided. A good rest tonight and he'd awake feeling much better in the morning.

  So he hoped.

  Part of him wasn't so sure.

  And a part of him wanted to know more about the overweight Italian man who'd been executed in Revere just three short nights ago.

  Because Stahl had a sneaking suspicion that the local TV news anchorwoman might just be right.

  There might be a connection there after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frank wished he could utter the words and be done with it. He grinned. Be like some magician in a faraway land. A simple spell spoken into the night air and moments later, your target was dead.

  That would have been the safest way to kill Don Patrisi.

  Anything else was going to be tough. But tough or not, it had to be done. Frank sincerely hoped that by eliminating Patrisi, he'd be eliminating many of his current problems.

  Then there'd only be two left: Gia and the headaches.

  The first problem he'd stowed back at Moe's. Gia hadn't been happy about it, but Frank didn't care. Her life expectancy on the street now was measured in minutes.

  Frank's wasn't much better.

  Back at the warehouse's garage that opened up on Sleeper Street, he'd chosen the Ford Explorer for this jaunt. The truck was registered to a homeless Vietnam veteran named O'Reily whose identification Frank had purchased for the kingly sum of fifty bucks. Frank could pass muster as a dark-haired Irishman thanks to his mother's great grandfather who'd emigrated to the states during the potato famine.

  He'd edged his way out of the garage and then turned right until he hit Northern Avenue. Traffic was light. The Financial District seemed deserted by comparison to earlier today when he and Gia'd driven down here with a bullet-blown rear windshield.

  It hadn't attracted much attention.

  He maneuvered around the numerous Big Dig detours and cruised slowly over toward Government Center. He turned the radio on until he found the jazz station he liked to listen to.

  If Don Patrisi lived in the North End, taking him out would have been a problem. An unfamiliar Explorer like the one Frank drove would stick out. Lookouts posted up and down Hanover Street would sound a silent alarm network of vibrating beepers and cell phones. The soldiers would mobilize.

  And the last thing Frank needed was a pitched gun battle.

  But the Don didn't live in the North End. It was too cramped for his taste. Instead, he lived on Beacon Hill in a swank brownstone that bordered the State House. Frank had always found it amusing that the most powerful underworld figure in Boston lived next to where some of the toughest crime laws were passed down.

  He wasn't so amused right now.

  He kept telling himself he hadn't had a choice earlier today. Once he'd figured out he wasn't going to kill Gia, his path was set.

  Even if it made his stomach hurt like a bastard.

  What had made Gia really want to go to the Feds? It didn't make sense to him. Gia had supposedly grown up surrounded by the Family. She knew all about various members being involved in organized crime.

  And yetÉ

  Something bothered him about the whole thing.

  Was Gia lying to him? It wouldn't be the first time. Back when they were dating, there were times when she'd disappear for days on end, only to reappear and offer up excuses that left Frank feeling like he was being made a fool of. He'd accused her of seeing other men and she'd shrugged the suspicions off.

  "If you don't trust me," she'd stated, "then we should end this relationship right now."

  As it was, it hadn't lasted much longer.

  But now she was back.

  If I didn't love her so much, he thought, there's no way any of this would be happening.

  He stopped.

  There it was.

  He almost laughed at himself in the darkness of the Explorer. He'd told himself he'd stopped loving Gia a year ago. He'd told himself that she was a no-good woman he was better off without.

  He'd told himself a lot.

  Obviously he didn't believe a damned word of it.

  It made sense thou
gh. It was the only thing that did. The way he'd reacted when the Don had told him about the hit. The way he was determined to keep Gia alive. The way he was willing to sacrifice everything he'd worked for.

  All for Gia.

  I wonder if she feels the same way.

  He grinned. Hell, he wondered if she'd ever felt that way about him.

  Their relationship had been fun while it lasted. On Frank's part, it felt a little stilted in retrospect. The passion had been there. Gia was a fiery mare in the sack.

  But love?

  From her?

  He didn't know about that.

  He sighed. Once again, he'd fallen for the wrong woman.

  Story of my life, he thought as he wheeled up Albany Street.

  He saw blue flashing lights.

  "What the hell is this?"

  The entire street was strung with bright neon yellow crime scene tape. He slowed down by a cruiser and bored-looking uniformed cop. His window came down with a dull hum and January's cold bite rushed into the truck.

  "'Evening, officer."

  The cop looked up. "You need something, pal?"

  "Just trying to drive through. What happened here?"

  The cop cocked an eyebrow. "What, you haven't been listening to the radio or watching the tube? Guy got killed up here earlier."

  Frank's heart leapt. Patrisi? Had someone done Frank a favor? "What guy?"

  "A taxi driver."

  Damn. "Yeah? What was it a robbery?"

  "Don't look like any robbery I ever seen," said the cop. "Nothing stolen off the driver. Had his neck broken by someone."

  "No gun? No knife."

  The cop shook his head. "Exactly. Whoever did this guy was good. Used his hands. Not the kind of thing you see all that often."

  "Why the taxi driver, though?"

  "Damned if I know."

  "You guys get any prints?"

  The cop looked at him.

  Frank smiled. "I watch a lot of those crime shows on TV."

  "What I heard," said the cop, "was we got nothing. The killer wiped down the inside of the cab. No evidence."

  "Other than the dead cabby."

  "Yeah."

  "You guys going to be opening up the street again any time soon?"

  "Why, you live here?"

  "Not me, no," said Frank. "Place is a little too rich for my blood. I'm just a working class dog."

  "Ain't we all," said the cop.

  "Lady friend of mine, she lives around here, though. I'm supposed to water her plants for her while she's in New York. Be a shame if she came back and found them all dried up and dead."

  "Lady friend?"

  "Sounded better than Ôthe bitch I'm banging', don't you think?"

  "Oh, I don't know. That sounded pretty good to me."

  Frank smiled. "Yeah, well, I'll be the ex if I don't keep her damned ferns and shit alive."

  The cop grinned. "I think we're almost done. Why don't you park it over there under the streetlight for now and I'll wave you through as soon as we clear."

  "'Preciate it."

  "Forget it. My wife worships her plants, too. I know what it's like having that kind of responsibility."

  Frank slid his window back up and steered over to the side. He watched the cop go and talk to some other policemen. After ten minutes, Frank saw them ripping the tape down. A tow truck appeared and hoisted the cab before driving off.

  As he watched, he thought about the murder.

  A broken neck wasn't the kind of thing you heard about happening in this city every day. Most of the murders in Boston happened with guns and knives and various other implements.

  But barehanded?

  Frank knew only very few people who had the skill to pull off unarmed combat in a real fight. The world might be full of karate experts, he thought, but it was a different story when your life was on the line on the street and the safety of some padded martial arts school was nothing but a fond memory.

  He looked at the cab.

  And felt a vague tremor of pain at the base of his skull.

  He put a hand up and massaged the base, feeling the throb grow. He closed his eyes and instantly images danced in front of his eyes.

  Frank saw a face.

  A man a few years older than him. Short hair. Strong jaw line. Frank couldn't detect a hint of what nationality he was. The waves of pain seemed less intense than they'd been before.

  Odd.

  He wondered if this was connected to the images of the plane coming across the water he'd seen earlier today.

  Or what had happened when he'd capped Vespucio the other night.

  What the hell was happening to him?

  A knock at the window made him jump. He opened his eyes and saw the cop he'd just spoken to looking at him funny. Frank rolled down the window.

  "You okay, pal?"

  Frank nodded. "Yeah, got a nasty headache. Been bugging the shit out of me all day long."

  "I get those every once in a while," said the cop. "They suck. Best thing for it? Get some Jack Daniels and a hot bath."

  "Never tried that," said Frank. "I think I just might tonight, though."

  "We're done here," said the cop. "You can go through."

  "Thanks a lot," said Frank.

  The cop looked at him. "We ever met before? You look kinda familiar in this light."

  Frank smiled. "What light?" He shook his head. "I don't think we've ever met. I give a lot of money to the policemen's ball, though. Maybe you saw me there one year or something."

  "Yeah, probably. Listen, you have a good night, okay?"

  "You, too," said Frank. He rolled up the window and pulled out. In his rearview mirror he could still see the cop staring at the truck.

  Despite the little jump in his heart rate, Frank wasn't worried. The cops didn't know him. He'd never even been arrested. He had no record. If the cop thought he'd seen Frank somewhere before, he probably had. But not in a bad way.

  He slid down the street and found a space.

  Ordinarily, he would have liked to take a cruise by Patrisi's joint before parking. But with the cops all over the place, he'd raise too much suspicion doing that. Especially after what he'd told that officer.

  He didn't want anyone running his plates and asking for identification. If Patrisi thought too much activity was going on out on the street, he might just decide to come see what was going on. If he spotted Frank, the game would be up.

  Frank shifted the .22 Beretta he'd brought out of the armory in the warehouse to his coat pocket and got out of the Explorer.

  The cold night air stung his cheeks. He turned up the collar on his coat and shuffled down the street, out of view of the police.

  He had to duck into the shadows of a large linden tree as two cruisers rolled past him. He heard the heavy engines churning and looked away from the headlights to maintain his night vision.

  Patrisi lived down on the corner of this street and a small side alley that bled into Beacon Street. Frank stopped by another tree and surveyed the area.

  The Don disliked having visible guards wandering around his house. The security was more discrete, tailored to the fact that the Don uncharacteristically lived in a Yuppified neighborhood.

  Video cameras took the place of roving guards on the exterior of the house. From his vantage point, Frank could make out three of them on slow pan rotation as they each covered an arc of the front house, overlapping with others so that supposedly no area was ever uncovered.

  But that overlap meant a hole opened up somewhere else. And Frank knew the timings of the video cameras from a tour of the Don's house one time previously.

  It went back to what Moe had taught him.

  "Loyalty's one thing, kid," he'd said while chomping on his ever-present cigar. "But ya gotta look out for number one, too. That's why as soon as you find yourself in a nice comfortable working relationship, you go and make sure you know how to take that guy out just in case there's ever a falling out. You could be best buddi
es with the guy, but one time, you never know. Shit could happen. And you'd be fucked if you didn't know the guy's weaknesses."

  Now, standing in the shadows, another piece of Moe's legacy struck home with Frank. The things he'd learned from the crazy old Jewish guy had saved his life so many times, he'd almost lost count.

  Now there was another one to add to the tally.

  Frank gave a silent thanks and then concentrated on the video cameras again.

  He found the hole five minutes later, just as his bladder began sending him a memo requesting his presence at the nearest urinal.

  The camera on the rotating knob by the corner of the house stuttered in its rotation. The timing suffered two seconds as a result.

  Probably needs to be oiled, thought Frank.

  But it didn't matter.

  Frank had found the hole in the first perimeter of security.

  And now it was time to pay Don Patrisi a visit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sleep.

  The stress of the day's activities caught up with him. His body collapsed, and the mattress embraced him. He felt his bones and muscles relax. Stahl lowered his eyelids partway and thought about Alois alone in the hospital room.

  The sooner I finish here, the sooner I can be with my son again, he thought. And that's all that matters to me right now.

  Darkness seemed to reach for him in the room. Shadows drawing long over the bed caressed his eyes, urging them to close and enjoy the peace. Stahl obeyed and then felt a rush of motion behind his eyes. If he hadn't been lying down, he might have lost his balance. It almost felt like vertigo.

  Images swirled again. Just like a few minutes ago, he thought. But it seemed a little different at the same time. Almost like he was watching a movie on a screen behind his eyes.

  The cloudiness cleared and he could make out a street scene. He frowned. Was it the same street he'd been on earlier this evening? Was he revisiting the place where he'd killed the cabby?

  Wait.

  Movement caught his eye. A lone figure moving smoothly from tree to tree. His motions weren't sporadic. They were controlled. Stahl recognized the technique of a professional and tried to somehow focus on this individual.

  In the dark it was hard to make out much detail. Stahl's vantage point seemed to be from overhead, like a camera on a crane shot in the movies.