Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  111

  Lind hurried to the elevators. Pressed the call button three times and glanced down the long hallway. Nobody was coming. Somewhere in the distance an alarm was sounding. Lind pressed the call button again.

  The elevator doors opened. Lind stuffed the gun in his waistband and climbed aboard, his heart still pounding, the panic at his throat. He leaned against the elevator wall and waited as the car plunged to earth.

  He sleepwalked across the gaming floor. Passed an army of uniformed security guards headed up into the tower and felt a wave of panic so strong, it forced him off his feet. He sat at an electronic slot machine and tried to clear his head. He’d failed to complete the assignment. The man was going to be angry.

  Lind steadied himself on the back of his chair and then walked across the casino and out the front doors. He started down the curving driveway toward Las Vegas Boulevard, stopped halfway down, and walked to the shore of the vast lake that fronted the casino. Took out his cell phone and dialed the man’s number. After a moment, the man picked up. “You good?”

  “No good,” Lind told him. “I failed the assignment.”

  The man swore. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “The assignment wasn’t completed. I failed to complete it.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The man paused. “What the hell happened? Don’t answer that. Where are you now?”

  “Outside the casino. I found the target, but I couldn’t complete the assignment.”

  “You found him. He saw you?”

  Lind looked around. “Yes.”

  “God damn it. You have to get out of there.” The man paused again. “Your flight’s in, what, ninety minutes? Get to the airport and get the hell out of town.”

  Lind nodded. “Okay.”

  “We’ll talk about this later. Go.” The man ended the call. Lind pocketed the cell phone. Took the gun from his waistband and threw it in the lake. Then he walked to the Strip. Pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk. Hesitated a moment, and then walked off the curb and out onto the boulevard.

  Horns honked. Brakes squealed. Lind walked to a marooned cab. Opened the door and slid in the backseat. “Airport,” he said.

  The cabbie spun in his seat. “Shit, man, you crazy? I can’t pick you up here.”

  “Airport.” Lind pulled out his wallet. “A hundred dollars, cash.”

  The cabbie stared at him. More horns blared outside. Finally, the cabbie shook his head. “Shit,” he said. “Fucking tourists.” Then he stepped on the gas.

  112

  Someone knocked on the door. “One second,” Parkerson called, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I’ll be out in one second.”

  “Dad?”

  “Sweetheart, I just need one second.” Parkerson turned back to his computer. Stared at it a moment, blankly, and then reached for his scotch. The asset had failed his assignment. Who the hell knew why?

  The kid had been compromised in Miami. That was the problem. He should have been terminated. Should have died that night by the swamp. Parkerson hadn’t killed him, and now the Vegas job was shot. Now the whole program was at risk.

  Someone knocked on the door again. “Dinner’s getting cold, Daddy.”

  Parkerson spun. “One goddamn second,” he said. “Just give me one goddamn second of peace.”

  There was a pause. Then a wail from outside. Fast footsteps away from the door. Parkerson exhaled, shaking his head. Turned back to his computer. Tried to figure out a plan. He picked up the Killswitch phone. Dialed the Las Vegas client. “There’s been a problem,” he said. “The target wasn’t destroyed.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Fuck you.”

  “We had unexpected difficulties. I’ll refund the money. No problem.”

  The client swore again. “Fucking right it’s a problem. I need that man dead.”

  “My asset ran into a situation,” Parkerson said. “Look, I’ll get the job done. I’m just going to need a little more time.”

  “Bullshit,” said the client. “I need him gone this weekend. You’re saying you can’t finish the job?”

  Parkerson stared at his computer screen. Had a bad idea. A risky idea. “I might have somebody else,” he said. “Let me get back to you.”

  113

  Mathers sat up. “Bull’s-eye,” he said. “You’re a genius, Carla.”

  Windermere hurried over. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Mathers. What’d I do now?”

  “Ballistics.” Mathers grinned at her. “You were right.”

  Windermere frowned. “You’re shitting me,” she said, peering over Mathers’s shoulder. “The Nadeau piece is in the system?”

  If it was true, it was a lottery-ticket break in the case. The FBI’s ballistics database held unique fingerprints for over 500,000 weapons, data that could allow law enforcement officers to link crimes that had been committed using the same guns. Trouble was, there were over 220 million firearms in the country. The odds of hitting a match were pretty damn slim.

  “It’s not the weapon,” Mathers said. “It’s the bullets.” He gestured at the screen, his smile growing. “The killer left shell casings on the floor of the Carlyle. According to the NYPD, they’re a particular brand of nine-millimeter rounds, custom stuff. Only available direct from the manufacturer, somebody called OneShot, out of Galveston, Texas.”

  Windermere stared at the screen. “Custom rounds,” she said, straightening. “Anyone from the NYPD talk to these OneShot people?”

  “They didn’t get anywhere,” Mathers said. “Too many people buying up these bullets. But they had no idea the Nadeau murder was anything more than a stand-alone case.”

  “But if Killswitch used these bullets for more than one killing . . .” Windermere clapped her hands. “Hot damn, Mathers. Told you I was a genius. Stevens is going to flip when he hears this.”

  Mathers looked at her. “Assuming he cares.”

  “Of course he’ll care, Mathers. It’s his case, too.”

  “Except he bailed on us.”

  “He didn’t—” Windermere sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess he did.”

  Mathers glanced at his computer again. “Anyway,” he said. “Probably have to wait until Monday to get ahold of the OneShot people. And that search is going to take some time, too.”

  “So what do we do until we get the results back?”

  Mathers grinned at her again. “How about dinner?”

  THEY ATE AT A FONDUE JOINT a few blocks from the hotel. Three courses: cheese, meat, and dessert, the whole works. Mathers gave her his all-American smile. “It’s Saturday night in the City of Brotherly Love,” he said. “Might as well live it up.”

  They drank beer instead of wine, at Windermere’s insistence. A couple bottles in and she started to forget about Stevens. She looked across the table at Mathers. “All right, you goof,” she said. “What’s your story, anyway?”

  Mathers grinned wider. “Grew up in Wisconsin,” he said. “Studied law at Marquette. Graduated, joined the Bureau. Hilarity ensued.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Why what?” He laughed. “Hilarity didn’t actually ensue, Carla. It’s—”

  She shook her head. “Why’d you join the Feds, dummy? What’s so great about law enforcement?”

  Mathers chewed for a moment. “You want the truth?”

  “Hell no.” She drank. “I want the lie you tell the pretty girls at the bar. Of course I want the truth.”

  “All right.” Mathers grinned at her again. “You ever see that movie Point Break? Keanu Reeves, Patrick Swayze?”

  “The bank robbers in the Richard Nixon masks. Yeah, I saw it.”

  “The surfers. Keanu’s Johnny Utah. Has to infiltrate that gang of surfers, only Swayze figures him out.”

  “I remember,” s
aid Windermere. “They go skydiving.”

  “And the end, he tracks Swayze to that one beach. Monster waves. Swayze convinces Keanu to let him go out and surf, knowing full well he’s going to die.”

  “Good times,” said Windermere. “But what the hell does this have to do with you? You figured you’d join the FBI and it’d be all surfing and skydiving?”

  Mathers nodded. “Something like that.”

  “Instead you’re in Philadelphia. Working the damn phone book.”

  “I’m eating fondue with a beautiful woman,” said Mathers. “I’d say I’m pretty comfortable with my career choice right now.”

  Windermere might have laughed in his face some other time. Tonight, though, she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Jesus,” she said, looking down at her plate. “Easy, buddy.”

  Mathers looked at her. She could feel it, his eyes on her. Knew he was smiling that shit-eating grin. Thing was, she was starting to like it.

  114

  Windermere and Mathers walked back from the restaurant to the Sheraton Four Points after dinner. It was a cool night, and damp; Windermere shivered but refused Mathers’s proffered coat.

  “What are we, dating?” she asked the young agent.

  Mathers just grinned that all-American grin of his. “Just wanted to prove chivalry isn’t dead, Agent Windermere. No offense meant.”

  “Shit,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  She was drunk, a little bit, though she wasn’t sure why. She’d had three beers, maybe four. Normally, she’d be fine. But tonight, for some reason, she was tipsy. Giggly. She kept catching Mathers’s eyes on her. Hated herself for how flushed his looks made her.

  You’re tired. Exhausted from this ridiculous case. You’re pumped up because your idea worked, and that corn-fed goofball over there keeps giving you the eye.

  Well, so she was drunk. So what? She was allowed to get drunk. She was an adult, wasn’t she? She’d worked the case for a week plus, solid, no stops. She was allowed to relax a little. Unlike Stevens, she didn’t get to go back to Minnesota. Had to take her breaks where she could.

  And so what if she was maybe crushing on Mathers a little? The agent was pretty cute, and even if he wasn’t the most intellectual guy in the world—really, what the hell was up with that Point Break stuff?—he was better-looking than Stevens.

  Windermere let Mathers hold the door for her when they reached the hotel. Matched his grin and skipped into the lobby, light-headed and light on her feet. “Maybe you are a gentleman, after all,” she told him. “Even if you hide it well.”

  Mathers pretended to pout. “When have I been anything but a gentleman?”

  She punched his arm. “Man up, Wendy,” she said, pressing the elevator call button. “Drop your purse and try to keep up with me.”

  The elevator doors opened. Windermere walked in, pressed the sixth-floor button. Then glanced at Mathers. “Eight,” Mathers said. “Please.”

  She pressed eight. Curtsied. “You’re welcome.”

  They rode up in silence. Mathers grinned at her. Windermere watched her reflection in the mirrored doors. Watched his reflection. The elevator stopped at floor six. The doors slid open. Then they slid closed. The elevator climbed toward eight. Mathers frowned. “Thought you were on six.”

  She turned to him. “Shut up,” she said. She shoved him back until he hit the elevator wall. Then she leaned up and kissed him, hard. He went rigid for a minute. Then he relaxed, kissed her back, his tongue pressing against her lips, his hands wrapping around her and pulling her closer to him. She let herself melt into him, let his tongue spar with hers. She kissed him, and she thought, briefly, about Stevens. Then the doors opened and she pushed Stevens from her mind. Held Mathers’s hand and led him down the hall to his room.

  115

  You have yourself a very stubborn daughter, Agent Stevens.” Nancy Stevens looked across the bed at her husband. “Girl latches onto an idea and she won’t let go.”

  Stevens put down his paperback. Dared to give her a smile. “Takes after her mother,” he said. “Whip smart and stubborn as hell.”

  Nancy shook her head. “Got her dad’s brains, that one.”

  “Her dad’s looks, you mean.”

  “Better take that back,” Nancy said, frowning. “I’ll march you down there to her room and you can apologize right now.”

  Stevens laughed. “Fine,” he said. “She got her mother’s looks, too. Beautiful, smart, and stubborn. Lord help the man she ends up with.”

  “What, like you have it bad?”

  Stevens dog-eared his book and set it on the nightstand. “I have it just fine,” he said. “I need a pretty girl to keep me honest. Keep me in line.”

  Nancy frowned. “A policeman,” she said, sighing. “Or an anchor, holding you back. Kirk, that’s not how I want you to see me.”

  “I know,” he said. “And I don’t, I swear it.”

  It had been a tense homecoming so far. Stevens had walked the dog around Lexington-Hamline, bought milk and a newspaper from the corner store. He’d lobbied his son unsuccessfully for a game of catch, and settled instead for a distracted conversation while JJ slayed dragons on his Xbox. Then Nancy had come home from work, and if she’d been surprised to see Stevens, she didn’t show it.

  “How long?” she said, hanging her coat. “When are you gone again?”

  She looked worn-out, and Stevens’s heart ached to see her. “I don’t know,” he told her. “It’s up for debate.”

  But they hadn’t debated, not really. He’d made his famous chicken Parmesan for dinner and they’d eaten, largely in silence. Andrea was still upset, from the looks of it, and Nancy was exhausted. His attempts to engage either of them in conversation were met mostly with one-word responses. Meanwhile, JJ spent most of the meal feeding scraps to his dog. They’d eaten, cleaned up, and gone to bed with nothing accomplished.

  Now, though, they were talking. Nancy’s expression had softened; she looked at Stevens, it seemed to him, with something closer to the old spark. “I don’t want to hold you back, Kirk,” she said. “Not from something you love.”

  Stevens snuck an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Pulled her close. She leaned in readily, snuggled against his chest. “I don’t have to go back,” he told her. “Windermere and her partner have the basics covered just fine.”

  “What does Lesley say?”

  Stevens sighed. He’d talked to his boss earlier in the day. “Lesley says it’s up to me,” he said. “The Pyatts are cleared, as victims and suspects, so there’s no reason for the BCA to stay involved. I can be back in the office working cold cases on Monday, if I want.”

  “You don’t want to abandon your case in midstream, do you?”

  “I don’t want to abandon you,” he said, squeezing her tighter. “You need me at home more than Windermere does.”

  Nancy was silent awhile. Then she twisted in his arms and looked up at him. “Your daughter,” she said. “I don’t know how you got to her before I did, but she’s square on your side.”

  “Didn’t seem like it at dinner,” Stevens said.

  “Oh, believe me, she’s firmly pro-Dad.” Nancy laughed. “She ambushed me one night. Wednesday. Asked me what I thought would happen if you’d let Carter Tomlin get away with it. Asked me how many people I thought would have died before someone finally stopped him.”

  Stevens shook his head. “That’s different,” he said. “Her life was in danger. Of course I was going to chase Tomlin.”

  “That was my argument. She was ready for it. Asked me what made her so special, anyway? Why should she get special treatment when I didn’t want you helping anybody else?”

  “Jesus,” Stevens said. “You think she’s okay? I mean, after Tomlin . . .”

  Nancy sighed. “I don’t know, Kirk. I keep looking for cracks in her armor.”


  “She told me I should get back out there and solve the case,” Stevens said. “Before the bad guy came after our family again.”

  “The doctor said she might experience flashbacks. PTSD. You think we should take her to see someone?”

  “Counseling.” Stevens shook his head. “She seems so damn invincible most of the time,” he said. “Like her mother.”

  Nancy snuggled closer. “I’m not invincible. Not by a long shot.” She looked up at him and sighed. “I don’t know, Kirk. Maybe it’s selfish, but I want you around.”

  “I miss you,” he said. “God, I miss you when I’m gone.”

  “Bull.” She grinned up at him. “You’ve got Windermere to keep you company.”

  Stevens leaned down and kissed her, long and slow. When their lips parted, he sighed. “I don’t know what to do, Nance.”

  She grinned again, mischievous. “About Windermere?”

  “No,” he said. “About you. About us.”

  She laid her head on his chest and stared across the room. “I’ll be here, Kirk,” she said. “We’ll be here. Just don’t forget we’re not invincible, either.”

  116

  Late that night, the phone rang. Stevens rolled over in bed, checked the time: nearly midnight. He fumbled for the handset as Nancy groaned beside him. “Agent Stevens,” he said.

  “Agent, it’s Drew Harris. I’m sorry if I woke you.” The FBI’s Special Agent in Charge of Criminal Investigations spoke softly, but there was an electricity to his voice. “I haven’t been able to raise Mathers or Windermere.”

  Stevens reached for the light switch. “No problem, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been following your progress on the Killswitch case, Agent Stevens. It’s a big one for my division. The Bureau’s involvement in high-profile investigations like these is always under scrutiny, and this case in particular is not one we can afford to let slip through our fingers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stevens rubbed his eyes. “We feel we’re making good progress, sir. This guy is slippery, but we’ll get him.”