Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  Viva Las Vegas, Parkerson thought. Viva Killswitch.

  123

  Stevens landed in Las Vegas early, the sunrise having paced the chartered FBI Citation over the Midwest. He climbed off the plane at the private jet terminal, bummed a ride to McCarran International, and settled in between the baggage claim and a bank of slot machines to wait for Mathers and Windermere.

  He hadn’t slept much all week, and the cramped Cessna hadn’t offered much in the way of space to stretch out. He’d spent the flight staring out the window, watching dawn overtake the small plane and thinking about his daughter, hoping he was doing the right thing.

  He should have been exhausted. He wasn’t. He was wired. Somewhere in this city, amid the cacophonous jangle of slot machines and the crush of tourists, a man had faced down Richard O’Brien and lived. No way Stevens was sleeping until he talked to the guy.

  O’Brien had failed. He’d left his target alive. From what Stevens could tell, there was no reason for it. He’d snuck into the target’s room, apparently with a key card. He’d ambushed the guy. Waved the gun in his face and shot a hole through the ceiling. Then he’d walked.

  A scare tactic, maybe? A threat? Or maybe the gun jammed. Maybe the kid’s weapon misfired and he didn’t have a backup. He couldn’t kill the target, so he ran. Either way, Stevens needed answers. And somewhere in this city, there was a man who could give them.

  Windermere and Mathers arrived just after nine. They walked through the terminal, bleary-eyed, coffee cups in their hands. Windermere gave him a half smile when she saw him. “Stevens,” she said. “Hey.”

  Stevens hesitated. “Hey,” he said. He grinned at her, awkward, for a second. Shook Mathers’s hand.

  Windermere and Mathers swapped glances, and then Windermere cleared her throat. “Been here long?”

  “Couple hours. I hate it already.”

  “You ready to work?”

  He nodded. “Just waiting on you.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s talk to this guy. Unless you’d rather hit the slots first.”

  Stevens glanced at the machines. “Already lost my whole stake. I got nothing better to do than chase Killswitch.”

  Windermere grinned at him. “Well, okay,” she said. “Let’s go get him.”

  124

  Caity Sherman stared at Lind, her face a mask of concern. “What is it?” she said. “What did you do?”

  Lind stepped back, allowing her into the apartment. She paused in the foyer, looked in at the living room, the sunlight streaming in through the windows. “This place looks even better in the daytime,” she said.

  Lind followed her gaze. It was impressive, the apartment, vast and open and stylish, though he’d never really noticed. It was far nicer than any home he’d lived in before the man—

  Lind felt his throat constricting. He couldn’t think about before. The panic suffocated him. He ran his hands over his eyes. Leaned against a wall. The girl—Caity, her name was Caity—put her hand on his shoulder. “What’s going on?” she said. “Are you okay?”

  Lind opened his eyes. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m just—fine.”

  Caity took his arm. Led him into the living room and sat him down on the couch. He heard her walk away, heard the tap running. Then she was back beside him, pressing a glass into his hand.

  He drank. He was thirsty. Emptied the glass and she refilled it for him. Then she sat down beside him and studied his face. “What’s going on, Richard?”

  Lind set the glass down on the coffee table. The man wouldn’t like this, he knew. The man was already displeased. He’d told Lind to wait for new instructions. He would be angry if he knew about the girl.

  Except she kept calling him Richard, and that wasn’t his name. Maybe she didn’t know his real name. Maybe she didn’t know who he was. Every time Lind thought about it, his head hurt even more.

  He knew he didn’t want to kill her. He didn’t want her to leave, even. Every time he looked at her, he felt the panic again, but he felt something else, too. Something better. Something like the clarity he’d felt at the Bellagio.

  “You said you did something bad,” Caity said. “What was it?”

  Lind hesitated. “I failed the assignment,” he said, finally.

  “Wait, what assignment? Like, for school or something? What did you fail?”

  He shook his head. Couldn’t tell her. If he told her, she would leave. He couldn’t let her. Caity put her hand on his. Squeezed. “I’m sure everything’s fine,” she said. “Everybody makes mistakes, Richard.”

  Lind didn’t say anything. Didn’t bother to tell her his name wasn’t Richard. He sat and let her hold his hand, felt the warmth of her body close to his, and he closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything. Tried to keep the panic at bay.

  125

  The client’s contact waited at the bottom of the escalators. He was small and dark, with suspicious eyes. “FBI’s here,” he told Parkerson. “They’re onto your hit.”

  Parkerson stared at the man and felt his throat tighten. The goddamn FBI. “Where is the target?” he said. “Where’d they take him?”

  “Still at his hotel, last time I checked,” the contact said. “He switched rooms last night. Moved across to the Rio, other side of the highway. FBI guys are talking to him there.”

  Parkerson tried to focus his thoughts. No way they’d get access to the target’s room now, no matter which hotel he’d moved to. Not with the goddamn FBI on the scene. What the hell was he going to do?

  The smart money said walk away. Cancel the hit and refund the client’s money. Make it back later. There was no shortage of jobs. Parkerson glanced at the asset. The asset looked back at him, blank-faced. “Shit,” Parkerson said. “I guess we’re headed home.”

  The contact pursed his lips. “There is another option.”

  “What option?” Parkerson said. “I can’t take the guy out if the FBI’s watching.”

  “There’s a parking garage at the Gold Coast,” said the contact. “Across the street from the Rio. If your man here can shoot from long range, I can get you the equipment.”

  Parkerson frowned. “Like a sniper.”

  The contact nodded. “It’s not a difficult shot.”

  “The target will be in transit later this afternoon,” Parkerson said. He glanced at the asset again. Mulled it over and saw an opportunity. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed the client. Left the asset with the contact and walked behind a Starbucks kiosk. “I hear the FBI’s got your man,” he said. “You still want him dead?”

  “Want him dead?” The client laughed, humorless. “Buddy, I need him dead. Before he gets on that plane.”

  “We’ll do it,” said Parkerson. “But the price just went up. A half million in my account before we pull the trigger.”

  “Christ.” The client paused. “This is your fucking fault, you know that?”

  “You want him dead or what?”

  Another pause. Then, “Five hundred thousand. I’ll get you the money.”

  Parkerson ended the call. Walked back to the contact. “Wouldn’t be Vegas without a little gambling,” he grinned. “Let’s find us a rifle.”

  126

  Julio Ramirez didn’t want to talk.

  “FBI?” he asked Windermere. “The fuck I need you for?”

  They’d driven to the Rio in a rented Buick. Windermere drove. Stevens rode shotgun. Mathers sat silent in the back. There was something up with the kid, Stevens thought. He hadn’t said much since he’d climbed off the plane. Tired, maybe. Worn-out from the case. Except this was a big break. He should be thrilled.

  Julio Ramirez had moved from the Bellagio to the Rio immediately after Richard O’Brien’s visit. It was something of a step down: the Bellagio sat plum in the center of the Strip, featured art galleries and high-roller tables and high-e
nd shopping boutiques. The Rio stood a mile distant, gaudy in blue and red, a crummy consolation prize amid strip malls and fast-food joints and interstate on-ramps.

  “Kind of a last-minute request,” the Rio’s head of security told Stevens. “Guess we were the only penthouse in town.”

  Stevens nodded. “How long’s he booked?”

  “Just one night. Heard he’s flying home this afternoon.”

  Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Good thing we got him in time.”

  ALONG WITH HIS CHANGE in surroundings, Ramirez had picked up a couple new friends. They stood by the door, imposing and inscrutable, mountains of men with bad dispositions.

  “Private security,” Ramirez said. “Best in the business. Damned if I need any FBI with me.”

  Windermere tried to peer around a guard and into the room. The guard shifted slightly, blocking her path. “Even if you don’t need the FBI, Mr. Ramirez, the FBI needs you. How about you tidy up in there and let us come in and talk?”

  Ramirez scowled. “Talked to the cops already.”

  “The LVPD, yeah, and they appreciate it.” Windermere stuck a hand on her hip. “We’re the Feds, Julio. There’s big things popping off. You’re a target. We’re trying to catch a killer.”

  Ramirez stared at her. Windermere held his gaze. Finally, the big man shook his head. “Puta,” he said. “Give me five minutes.”

  127

  Fifteen minutes later, Julio Ramirez’s door swung open again, and a security guard led them into the suite. It was vast and airy, overlooking the Strip. Stevens could see Caesars Palace in the distance and, to its right, the Bellagio. He stared at the sprawling structure and wondered again what had made O’Brien fail.

  The security guard led Stevens and the two FBI agents into a large living area. The scent of marijuana lingered in the air. Two women decades Ramirez’s junior lounged on the couch. There was a baggie of something hidden between the couch cushions.

  Ramirez said something to the women in Spanish. They looked at Stevens and Windermere and disappeared into a bedroom, muttering as they went. Then Ramirez looked at Windermere. “So what the hell do you want?”

  Windermere sat down opposite the big man. Stevens walked to the window. Mathers lurked by the hallway. “I want to know what happened,” Windermere said. “Step by step, nice and slow. I want to know why he didn’t kill you when he had you begging for your life.”

  Ramirez made eyes at a security guard. The guard raised an eyebrow. Then Ramirez looked back at Windermere. “You can’t read a police report?”

  Windermere shook her head. “I want to hear it from you, Julio. This kid found his way into your room. How?”

  Ramirez shrugged. “Maybe he bribed a maid.”

  “Ambushed you. Held a gun to your face. What’d he say?”

  “He said nothing. I asked him did he want my money, he didn’t say nothing.” Ramirez frowned, his veneer slipping a little. “He just stood there and looked at me with those eyes, man. Like a ghost or something.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Then what?”

  “Then he pulled the trigger, man. Nearly blew out my ear and still didn’t say nothing.”

  “Then he ran,” said Stevens.

  “Like a little bitch. Like he just figured out who he was fucking with.”

  Stevens looked at the big man. “You call security?”

  “Fuck you, did I call security. Somebody somewhere must have heard the shot, though. The big guys came up in a hurry.”

  “You know anyone would want you dead, Julio?” said Windermere.

  “I know a lot of people.” Ramirez narrowed his eyes. “But that’s my business, not yours.”

  Windermere looked at Stevens. Then she shook her head. “You know we can do this the hard way.”

  “Not without my lawyer. I got rights.” Ramirez grinned a toothy grin. “Now, if that’s all you got for me, you gotta scram, Feds. I got a plane to catch in about ninety-five minutes.”

  128

  The contact gave Parkerson a car key and promised to return with the rifle. Parkerson took the asset to the parking garage at McCarran and found a dark blue Honda Civic in the long-term lot. There was a shopping bag in the back with a pistol and a couple pairs of sunglasses and twin “Viva Las Vegas” hats.

  The asset let Parkerson maneuver him into the passenger seat. He still hadn’t said much. Parkerson buckled him in and looked at him. “You ever done any sharpshooting?”

  The kid nodded. “Little bit.”

  “You any good?”

  “Killed everything I shot at.”

  Parkerson studied the kid’s face. No emotion anywhere. Scary. He circled around the car and climbed in the driver’s side. Drove out of the parking garage and along the highway to the casino.

  The Gold Coast Casino was a sad-looking white building with a glitzy marquee advertising one-dollar Heinekens and good odds on craps. There was a low parking structure attached. Across from the garage was the Rio.

  Parkerson drove the Civic to the top of the structure. Angled the car to get a good look at the Rio. Directly across the street was a long taxi queue and the valet line, uniformed bellmen keeping watch. Parkerson sat back in his seat and cranked up the AC. Settled in to wait for the contact.

  THE CONTACT SHOWED UP a half hour later. He backed his Cadillac truck up to the Civic and climbed out with a package the size of a suitcase.

  Parkerson gave the man an envelope in return and watched him drive away, leaving nothing but empty cars around them. Parkerson opened the package and unwrapped the rifle. It was a big gun, powerful, deadly. Looked like a movie prop. Parkerson cradled it in his hands. Imagined shooting the target himself, imagined what it would feel like.

  Messy, is what it would feel like. Dirty. This is what the asset’s here for.

  He felt around in the backseat of the Civic for his briefcase. Took out a picture of the target, a description. Studied it and showed it to the asset. “This is your target,” he said. “I want him eliminated.”

  The asset looked at the picture. “Memorize his face,” Parkerson told him. “He’s going to come out of the casino over there. You’re going to shoot him. Then we’re going to leave. Understand?”

  The asset nodded. “I understand.”

  Parkerson slipped the pistol into his waistband. Gave the asset sunglasses and a Las Vegas hat. “Don’t let anyone see you,” he told him. “Don’t tell anyone what we’re doing. This is covert, you follow?”

  “I follow.”

  Parkerson studied the asset, trying to gauge his level of obedience. This was it, he knew. The moment of truth. The smart money still said he should run. He knew it. Five hundred thousand dollars, though, said he should stay.

  He pulled his own hat low, over his face. Slipped on the sunglasses and stared out at the Rio, waiting for the target to show.

  129

  Stevens and Windermere left Mathers to watch Ramirez’s room at the Rio. Drove across to the Bellagio to check out the security footage.

  “You believe that guy?” said Windermere as she pulled up to the valet stand. “Barely escapes with his life and still doesn’t want to help catch the killer.”

  Stevens climbed out of the Buick. “From the look of it, I’d say he considers us a bigger threat than O’Brien.”

  “Yeah, well.” Windermere shook her head. “The hell do I want with some gangbanger and his girlfriends? All I care about is taking down Killswitch.”

  They walked into the casino. Crossed the gaming floor to the hotel and found the director of security waiting. Gates was his name. He was a big guy, officious. Studied Windermere’s badge hard, and then nodded and led them into the bowels of the building.

  “What’s up with Mathers, anyway?” Stevens asked as they walked. “You wear him out back in Philly? The kid’s pretty damn quiet.”


  Windermere struggled to keep her face neutral. Felt her stomach do an unpleasant flip. “Guess he’s tired,” she said. “Long days. Tough case.”

  “Guess so,” said Stevens. “He’s usually so damn chipper.”

  Windermere said nothing. Hurried to catch up to Gates and prayed Stevens would drop the subject. Mercifully, the security director chose that moment to stop before a heavy door. “Security center,” he said. “The Fed goes in. State cop, no way.”

  Stevens frowned. “Seriously?”

  Gates looked at him, impassive. Then Windermere stepped up. “He’s assisting a federal investigation,” she said. “Has the same rights as I do. We both go.”

  Gates didn’t say anything.

  “You want I should call my boss first?” Windermere asked him. “Or yours?”

  Gates exhaled. Shook his head once and stepped aside. Windermere smiled at Stevens. “After you, partner.”

  They walked into the Bellagio’s massive security center. Machines hummed in all corners. There were screens everywhere, all of them cycling between views of the casino. Windermere turned to Gates. “Show us the kid.”

  HE WAS AS SCARY ON-SCREEN as he’d been in real life. Stevens watched O’Brien appear on the security footage, a sleepwalker amid the hotel lobby’s chaos. He stood there, unmoving, as people ebbed and flowed around him. Bystanders glanced at him and hurried away.

  “Too grainy to see his eyes,” said Windermere. “But that’s him.”

  “Sure is,” said Stevens. “The guy gives me the creeps.”

  They watched as O’Brien seemed to jolt back to life. He looked up and then walked, steadily, out of the lobby and into the casino. The view on the screen changed. O’Brien walked down a long carpeted floor, past slot machines and roulette wheels. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t look around.

  The screen changed again. A bank of elevators and a security guard. O’Brien walked on-screen. Showed the guard something. “A room key,” said Gates. “We don’t know how he got it.”