To Coach a Killer

by Victoria Laurie

I realized that Greta would likely win their battle unless I did something, so I used the only weapon I could find, which was the lantern again. I bent, picked it up just as Greta lunged toward poor Willem a final time. Flinging the lantern with all my might, I watched as it connected to Greta’s back and she went down to the floor.

  “Run!” I screamed at Willem, and I charged toward the door.

  Leaping over Greta as she rolled to her side, I was just about out the door when yet another wave crashed into the rocks below the house. There was a tremendous snap and more windows exploded outward.

  I fell to the floor yet again, and so did Willem. He was only inches from me, and he crawled on his belly to my side. “Come on!” he yelled above the sound of crashing surf, wind, and the raging storm. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  I clung to him and pushed against the wall to try and gain a purchase. The floor of the house had given way by several feet, and I realized the entire structure of the house was about to fall away onto the rocks below.

  With Willem’s help I managed to get to my knees, and then to my feet, and he pulled and coaxed me to the door.

  Behind me there was a terrible shriek, and I glanced one last time over my shoulder only to find Greta had slipped on the wet floor and slid down toward the far wall. As I looked she was clinging to the armoire, which was also beginning to slip down the increasingly steep slope of the floor. A wave as big as any I’d ever seen in my life was beginning to roll straight for us. We had maybe ten seconds to make it out of the house.

  “Goooooooo!” I screamed to Willem, but he held my hand tight and pulled me forward with a strength that belied his stature. Fueled by panic, we cleared the bedroom, then the living room, and raced down the hall toward the open front door.

  As we passed the kitchen, my head turned when I thought about Shepherd. I didn’t want his body to be lost to the ocean when it took the house, but I knew I’d have to leave him behind because there wasn’t time.

  We raced past the kitchen so fast that he wasn’t in view, which might’ve been a blessing, because I’d no doubt take that image of his prone body, lying there on the floor, with me to my grave.

  Behind us more snapping and glass breaking reverberated through the collapsing structure, and I truly didn’t know if Willem and I would make it, but with only three feet to go, Willem pulled hard on my hand and whipped me through the front door, diving out himself right after me.

  We landed in a tumble on the front drive, the cement tearing into my clothing and skin, and pounding my bones as hard as the surf had pounded the house’s underpinnings.

  As I curled myself into a ball from pain and fear, I heard a tremendous series of cracks and crashes, one final scream, and then only the sound of the howling wind, pelting rain, and raging sea. . . .

  Chapter 20

  A hand landed on my shoulder. In a dense series of chaotic, life-threatening, earth-shattering moments, that’s the one I remembered the clearest. Or maybe I just remembered the feeling of that warm hand on my person, letting me know I was alive, that I’d survived, that someone was there with me to offer me some comfort from all that I’d witnessed and experienced in just the past half hour.

  Lifting my face from its cradled position in my arms, I looked up, blinking through the rain, and sucked in a breath.

  “Hey,” Shepherd said. “You okay?”

  I sat up, wincing the whole way. “How . . . how’re you . . . I thought you were . . .”

  The detective—who had squatted down next to me—put a hand to his head where a nasty gash had grazed his temple right down to the bone. “The Angel of Death isn’t the great shot she thinks she is,” he said.

  I reached up too and put a hand on the side of his cheek. Tears formed in my eyes and streamed down my face, joining the rain. All that pent-up emotion came tumbling out and Shepherd seemed moved by it. He opened his arms wide and pulled me close to him, encircling me with strong, supportive arms. “Shhhhh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

  Somewhere in the distance came the sound of sirens, loud enough to be heard just above the raging sea. Wind and rain pelted us, but I still felt safe cradled against Shepherd.

  A long time passed, and there was no doubt quite a bit of movement was going on all around me. I heard the crunch of footsteps, and the words of first responders, and the work from paramedics who were tending to Maks.

  I finally pulled my head away from Shepherd’s chest just in time to see Maks loaded into the ambulance, an oxygen mask on his face and an IV hooked to his arm. And then I saw Gilley and Chanel, each huddled under a blanket, also staring with concern toward Maks.

  As the ambulance left the drive, its lights on and siren blaring, my attention went to two figures across the drive, staring down into the abyss where once had been a house. Willem was talking with a man in an FBI jacket, and I realized it was Sam.

  “How you doin’?” Shepherd asked me again.

  “Cold,” I said, shivering against him.

  He pulled me to my feet slowly and carefully and walked me over to the bay of another ambulance. “Can we take a look at that wound now, Detective?” an impatient paramedic asked.

  “Sure,” Shepherd said. “As long as you look her over first.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but I was gently eased out of Shepherd’s arms anyway.

  When the paramedic pulled on my arm I cried out. He eyed me with one cocked eyebrow, raised the sleeve on my right arm, and said, “Could be broken.”

  My wrist was swollen and turning an unflattering shade of purple. While Shepherd was attended to, my wrist was wrapped very gingerly in an Ace bandage and my entire arm put into a sling. They wanted to take us both to the hospital, and Shepherd began to decline, but I said, “I’ll go if he’ll go.”

  He frowned, knowing he could hardly turn the paramedics down now. “That’s some dirty pool, there, lady.”

  “You clearly need stitches and you lost an awful lot of blood, Detective.”

  “I’m fine, and there’s too much to wrap up here,” he insisted, but he didn’t look fine. He looked pale, and exhausted, and in need of a little TLC.

  Gilley came over to the open bay of the ambulance. “Nice to find him alive after being declared dead, huh?”

  Shepherd cocked an eyebrow at Gilley, and I was quick to explain. “When we entered the house we found you on the floor in the kitchen in a pool of blood. I felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one.”

  “You gotta press directly on the carotid artery,” the paramedic explained. “It can be a lot harder to find than people think.”

  “So it would seem,” I said, smiling at Shepherd. There were no words for how happy and relieved I felt at the sight of him alive.

  The ambulance took us to the hospital, but Shepherd insisted they not use the lights or siren. Once there, he was sent for an MRI and then stitches, and my wrist was X-rayed and set in a cast. I had a hairline fracture to the right radius and would have to wear a cast for six weeks.

  I found Gilley in the waiting room, still huddled in his blanket. He too looked exhausted but anxious to learn that I was okay.

  “Is there any word on Maks?” I asked after he’d given me a gingerly hug.

  Gilley nodded. “He was taken into surgery two hours ago. We won’t know anything more for a while.”

  “Chanel?”

  “She’s okay. She and that FBI agent were talking when I left to come here.”

  Sam would want to talk to Chanel at length, I imagined. “How’s Willem?” I asked next.

  “You mean the hero of the hour?”

  I cocked my head, not understanding.

  Gilley explained. “I accidentally hit Willem’s number on my phone when Maks entered the kitchen. I had no idea my phone had dialed his number until he told me about it later. He said he listened to most of what went on, thinking it was some sort of drama you and I were putting on to convince him to come out of his house. But then he heard gunshots, and he
heard Maks hit the floor and moan in pain. He hopped in his Range Rover and braved the storm all the way to Basayev’s house.”

  “How’d he even know where to go?”

  “I asked him the same thing, and he said that he knew where we were the minute Maks mentioned Sam telling him to find Shepherd at Boris Basayev’s house. Willem’s a news junkie—the local news is his only window into the community, and remember, he even mentioned to us on the way to the alpaca farm that he’d heard that a murder had taken place here.”

  I nodded. I did remember that.

  “Anyway,” Gilley continued, “Willem drove like a bat outta hell to get here, and he found Shepherd just coming to on the kitchen floor but still really out of it. He was going to call nine-one-one right there, but then he heard gunshots from the bedroom, and he had to be very careful to sneak Shepherd out of the house without drawing Greta’s attention.

  “When he got Shepherd safely out of the house and behind his car, he called nine-one-one. Dispatch told him they’d do what they could but it might be a while because they were fielding nine-one-one calls from everywhere in the area due to the storm. So, he sat tight with Shepherd for a bit, and he said he had his hands full with the detective because Shepherd kept trying to get up to go into the house and rescue us, but the man could barely keep his head up without collapsing.”

  “Concussion,” I assumed. One of the paramedics had found an egg-sized lump and another, smaller gash on the back of Shepherd’s head. He thought that when Greta’s bullet had grazed Shepherd, the detective had fallen backward from the recoil and hit his head on the kitchen island, which then pitched him forward again and he’d knocked his head a second time on the floor when he landed.

  “That’s why there was so much blood on the floor,” I added. “Shepherd had bled from not just one spot, but two.”

  Gilley nodded. “For sure,” he said. “So Willem finally convinced Shepherd to stay put while he went inside to see what he could do. Greta had taken Shepherd’s gun, so Willem had only the baton from Shepherd’s car as a weapon.”

  “No mace? No spare gun somewhere?” I asked.

  “You watch too many cop shows,” Gil said. “I’m surprised that Shepherd was even carrying the baton.”

  “Well, it is East Hampton. Shepherd probably didn’t think he’d need much of a backup for his police issued handgun.”

  “Truth,” Gil said. “Anyway, where was I?”

  “Willem was approaching the house.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gilley said. “So he gets inside and boom! That first wave hits and he hears one of the support beams give way.”

  My eyes widened. “The curse . . .”

  “For sure it was the curse,” Gilley said.

  I shook my head in wonder. “I’m surprised Willem didn’t run.”

  “He’s super brave,” Gilley said. “And you know the rest, except Willem told me that when the two of you came through that doorway as the house collapsed behind you . . . which, I know you didn’t see, Cat, but I swear it was like something straight out of an action flick. . . .”

  I shuddered. “I felt it collapsing under my feet, Gilley. I know it was an epic thing to watch.”

  “Yes, and one that Willem swears helped lift the curse from him. He says that as he went through the doorway it was like a heavy coat he’d always worn got pulled right off him. When he landed, he knew something had changed. He thinks the house and Greta took the curse over that cliff.”

  I put a hand to my mouth. “Heath had suggested that the curse might need a sacrifice in order to be lifted.”

  “Well, the Angel of Death would be a pretty good sacrifice.”

  I nodded. “She would indeed.”

  At that moment a figure entered the waiting room and Gilley and I glanced up to see Sam standing there, looking around. Spotting us, he came over and sat down across from us. “How’re you doing, Ms. Cooper?”

  I lifted my cast. “I’ll mend,” I said curtly.

  His brow furrowed. “You mad at me?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. “But I tend to get upset with people who point a gun at me.”

  Sam seemed taken aback. “Gun? I never pointed a gun at you.”

  “Yes you did!” I insisted. “As we were backing out of the parking space you pointed your gun right at us.”

  Sam began to laugh, but then he sobered quickly when both Gilley and I glared hard at him and crossed our arms.

  Holding up his hand in surrender, he said, “Let me show you.” Reaching behind him, he pulled up a small walkie-talkie. “I was using this because the storm took out a cell tower and I couldn’t get service. It just happened to be in my hand when I was ordering you to stop.”

  “Oh,” Gilley and I said together, and we both uncrossed our arms.

  “Well, it looked like a gun,” I said, still a little grumpy.

  “I would never point a gun at you, Ms. Cooper, or you, Mr. Gillespie, without a damn good reason.” Switching topics, Sam looked around again and said, “Is there any word on Grinkov?”

  “He’s in surgery,” Gilley said.

  “Care to fill us in on what exactly was going on with your little operation?” I asked. I wasn’t certain that Sam would tell us, but now that Basayev and the Angel of Death were dead, I thought maybe he’d clue us in on a few details.

  Sam seemed to agree. “I suppose I owe you that. Let’s see, where should I start?”

  “Start with Lenny,” I said. I wanted Sam to understand that her life had meant something. He might’ve been after a big fish when he tried to bring down Basayev, but Lenny Shepherd had meant something to the world, and her life was worth an acknowledgment of that.

  Sam dipped his chin in a show of respect. He got it. “Okay. As I’m now aware of the full story after having talked with Ms. Downey, let’s start with her.

  “But first a little background might be in order. Chanel met Boris when she represented him as the buyer’s agent for the plot of land where he built that house. As a side note, Paul Sutton was the architect who designed it. That’s how Maks knew about the panic room; Paul told him about it and how to get into it back when we were getting ready to move in to arrest Basayev because Paul knew Boris would’ve headed there at the first sign of trouble.

  “Anyway, Paul was a better artist than he was architect—”

  “Obviously,” Gilley interrupted. We both looked at him. “I mean . . . his house did fall into the ocean.”

  “True,” said Sam. “Mostly, Paul was a troubled alcoholic in a miserable relationship with an abusive husband. He wanted out of his marriage and he wanted to get away from Jason’s mafia connections, so he started a side hustle where he’d see what was selling through the gallery, then mimic the styles of that artist and get the paintings to Maks, who would pretend to sell them in Toronto and split the commissions with Jason.

  “It’s how we were able to nail him for fraud, and get him to flip to our side.”

  My jaw dropped. “Paul was your source? Your informant?”

  “He was,” Sam said. “But he was unreliable in many ways due to the alcoholism, which put Maks in a precarious situation that started to fall apart when Boris found out about the counterfeit paintings. He thought that Jason was the one who’d orchestrated the scheme, and the day you two were at the gallery, Boris nearly killed Jason, but Maks was able to talk Boris down. But then Maks went back to the gallery to try to smooth things over with Jason, because Maks was worried Jason was going to go home and kill Paul. Their talk didn’t go so well, and things got heated.”

  “The cut above his eye,” I said.

  Sam nodded. “Anyway, when Jason was found dead, we all thought Boris had ordered the hit, but we couldn’t figure out why Boris would frame Maks unless he was onto him. That’s why Maks had to lay low for a few days, to figure out what Boris might know.”

  “Did Boris kill Jason?” Gilley asked.

  Sam shook his head. “No, that was Greta. She must’ve been in the area, observing
things for a while. We believe she murdered Jason because she figured out he was working for Boris and she wanted to mess around with Boris as revenge for not paying her when Heather Holland was murdered.

  “We know she killed Boris as a message to Chanel and to frame her for the crime, which would put her life in jeopardy with the mob, but we think an additional side motive would’ve been to get further revenge on the guy who jilted her out of her contract money.”

  I shuddered when I thought about how close I’d come to being one of the people listed in Greta’s body count.

  “Anyway,” Sam continued, “Maks figured out it was Greta when Boris showed up dead. He knew the fact that Chanel was set up to take the fall would throw the whole organization into chaos. Nobody was gonna believe that Chanel killed Boris. She’d been a jilted lover or something. It was well known that Chanel was gay, and she’d sidestepped Boris’s advances before. So the real killer was somebody the family was actively trying to find. I don’t think anybody but Maks suspected it was Greta.”

  “But Chanel knew,” I said.

  “She did. She recognized the handwriting on the mirror, and knew her former lover was coming after her. And now you also know why Lenny was murdered.”

  “We do,” I said. “Chanel told us when we were all in the panic room together.”

  Sam nodded. “It was Greta who also insisted that Boris have the Suttons seek out Chanel for the listing on the house where Lenny was murdered.”

  “Why?” I asked, horrified by Greta’s cruelty.

  Sam shrugged. “It was another twist of the knife,” he said. “She wanted Chanel to suffer for cheating on her, and what better way to do that than to kill her lover and force her to represent the two men eager to benefit from that murder.”

  “Whoa,” Gilley said. “It stuns me that Chanel found the courage to leave Greta.”

  “Maks helped her,” Sam said. “He knew that Chanel was miserable in her relationship with Greta, but at the time, he didn’t realize that Greta was the Angel of Death. He thought Greta was Boris’s personal accountant, which is why he introduced Chanel to Greta in the first place. He was hoping to befriend her, and flip her too.”