by Mike Lawson
Boris said, “Let’s wait a bit, see if he leaves.”
“Aw, come on,” Yuri said.
At that moment, a battered black Camaro parked on the street about fifty yards in front of them. Whoever was driving, however, didn’t immediately get out of the car.
“Now we’re going to have to wait for this asshole to leave,” Yuri said.
A long five minutes later, the driver got out of the Camaro: a short, tough-looking Muslim woman wearing a blue hijab, jeans, and a T-shirt. She stood there next to her car, appearing to study Spear’s house, then turned to get back in her car.
“Holy shit!” Yuri said. “She’s got a gun.”
Yuri was right. The woman hadn’t pulled her T-shirt over the Glock stuck in the back of her jeans.
Anita Ramirez had been amazed when Hector Montoya came to her mother’s house yesterday and said he’d pay her twenty grand to kill a guy.
“That DeMarco guy?” she said.
“No, not him. Stay the hell away from him,” Hector said. “It’s another guy, this rich guy named Sebastian Spear. I’m paying you so much because he might have guards and shit.”
“Why do you want him dead?” Anita asked.
“What do you care?” Hector said.
Anita decided that she really didn’t care, and for twenty grand—hell, she’d probably be willing to kill her mother. If Anita had known how much Brayden was paying Hector, she would have asked for more, but she didn’t know, and twenty grand was a lot of money, enough so she could afford to move out of her mother’s house and get a place of her own again. And there was something else: she was really pleased that Hector had come to her again to kill someone. She’d become, like, his designated hitter. If there was any outfit that had a glass ceiling when it came to women, it was MS-13—but Hector had somehow become enlightened.
Anita drove to Spear’s house in McLean the next morning, not knowing what she was going to do, but figured as it was a Saturday, the guy might be home. Once she got to the house she’d decide what her next step would be—like maybe just knock on the door and shoot the fucker.
She parked in front of Spear’s place, studied the house for a while, then got out of the car, thinking she might walk around and see what the place looked like from the back. She was happy to see that the big wrought-iron gate for the driveway was open. Then she noticed the security camera over the front door. She was glad she’d decided to wear her Muslim disguise, the blue hijab. If she decided to go into the yard, she’d wrap the hijab around her face like a mask, let the cameras see her, and after she killed Spear, the cops would go crazy looking for a terrorist.
She turned to get back into her car to think things over, when she noticed the car parked down the block from her and the two big guys sitting in it. Who the hell were they? Spear’s security? She’d just sit awhile and see what they did.
Then, she couldn’t believe it. Another car arrives, and this one drives right through Spear’s open gate and parks in front of his garage. When the driver got out of the car, Anita said out loud, “What the hell?”
It was that guy DeMarco. What was he doing here?
65
Sebastian Spear was sitting in a dew-damp Adirondack chair near his swimming pool.
He was wearing a white bathrobe, the robe open, and white boxer shorts. He didn’t remember getting undressed and putting on the robe. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting by the pool. He suspected he’d been there all night. He was vaguely aware that there was something heavy in the right-hand pocket of the robe.
He remembered talking to Jean yesterday. At least he thought it was yesterday. He’d gone to the cemetery to say good-bye to her, as the last time he’d been there he’d been arrested before he could do so. Then he had decided to lie down on her grave so he could be as close to her as possible. As he lay there he had vivid memories of her, so vivid it was as if a movie had been playing inside his head. He remembered the way she’d looked at the senior prom in high school, wearing a blue dress with spaghetti straps that had transformed her from a girl into a woman. He recalled her on a cold day at the stadium at UVA watching the Cavaliers play, her cheeks red, her eyes shining with excitement, her hair blowing behind her in the wind. He remembered the last time he saw her, two days before she died, lying next to her in bed, mesmerized by the heart-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck.
He remembered everything.
Including the last thing he’d said to her: We’ll be together soon.
His right hand moved slowly toward the heavy object in the pocket of his robe.
DeMarco knew it was possible that Sebastian Spear wouldn’t talk to him, but he was going to try. As it was early on a Saturday morning, he drove to Spear’s house thinking Spear might be there, unless he was out of the country. When he arrived at Spear’s place, he was surprised to see that the wrought-iron driveway gate was open.
DeMarco drove through the gate and parked, noticing that the garage door was also open. A Mercedes SUV with snow tires was parked in one bay; in the other bay was a Tesla, but the Tesla was only halfway in the garage. He couldn’t imagine why the driver wouldn’t have driven the car all the way in.
He rang the doorbell, but no one came to the door. He pressed the bell again, holding it down long enough to be irritating to anyone inside, but still no one came. He walked away from the door and looked in through the front windows. With the gate and the garage door open, someone had to be there.
He walked toward the rear of the house, looking into windows as he walked, until he came to the backyard and a low fence surrounding a patio and a swimming pool. Spear was sitting in a chair next to the pool, dressed in a white terrycloth bathrobe, looking down at the water.
DeMarco opened the gate to the pool area, figuring Spear would hear him and turn to face him, but he didn’t. He just continued to sit there, oblivious to the world.
DeMarco walked up to him and said, “Spear.”
Spear didn’t appear to hear him. He seemed captivated by the blue tiles at the bottom of the pool. It was as if he was in a hypnotic trance.
“Spear!” DeMarco said again, this time yelling the name.
Spear slowly turned his head and looked up at him. His eyes seemed to have a hard time focusing, as if he’d been awakened from a dream.
“Go away,” Spear said.
“Do you know who I am?” DeMarco said.
“No, and I don’t care. Go away.”
He wondered if Spear was telling him the truth, and he really didn’t know who he was.
“Well, you should care,” DeMarco said. “I’m Joe DeMarco. The guy you tried to frame for Canton’s murder.”
Before DeMarco could say another word, Spear came out of his chair—he popped up like a jack-in-the-box—and pulled an ancient-looking revolver from the pocket of his bathrobe. He pointed the muzzle at DeMarco’s chest.
Oh, shit! DeMarco thought. I’m going to die.
But Spear didn’t pull the trigger. He said, “Are you here to kill me?”
“What? No,” DeMarco said. “I just wanted you to know that—”
Spear took a step toward him, still pointing the gun at him—then he reversed the weapon in his hand, now holding it by the barrel, and thrust it at DeMarco.
“Take it,” Spear said. “Go on, take it. Kill me.”
He’s insane.
DeMarco backed away, holding his hands up. “I don’t want to kill you. I just wanted to tell you that—”
“Take it,” Spear said, advancing closer, thrusting the gun at him. “Go on, take it. Kill me.”
“You’re fucking nuts,” DeMarco said. “I just came here today to tell you that I may be out of a job thanks to you, and if I ever get the chance, I’m going to make sure you go to jail. But I didn’t come here to kill you.”
“Why not?” Spear said.
Jesus! DeMarco knew he had to leave, and he had to leave now. At any moment Spear might change his mind and shoot him. Or he might kill him
self, and DeMarco sure as hell didn’t want to be there if that occurred. He could just see himself trying to explain Spear’s death to a bunch of cops who might not believe him and would most likely think that he’d killed Spear.
He backed away from Spear, toward the patio gate, watching Spear as he did, and Spear finally stopped moving forward with the proffered gun. Then, as if nothing had happened, Spear put the gun back in the pocket of his robe, sat back down, and resumed staring into the pool.
DeMarco began walking rapidly away, toward the front of the house and his car, his heart still hammering in his chest.
DeMarco had been expecting to confront the diabolical mastermind who’d ordered Bill Brayden to frame him, but it was obvious that Spear had had some sort of mental meltdown and hadn’t even known who he was. To Sebastian Spear, he’d been nothing more than a nameless pawn that had to be sacrificed to avenge the queen that Spear had lost. It was as if everything that had happened to him—almost going to prison for life, almost dying—had been as random and as senseless as being struck by lightning.
DeMarco could understand Spear hating Lyle Canton and wanting him dead, because he blamed Lyle for taking Jean away from him. He could also understand the man plunging into a deep, suicidal depression after Jean died. DeMarco had known a man personally who had become so depressed after his son died that he’d killed himself. But what he couldn’t understand was the son of bitch being willing to frame an innocent man for murder so he could satisfy his need for revenge.
He took a breath.
It was time to get on with his life. He was going to enjoy the next four months with Sebastian Spear’s money, and come November he’d see if he still had a job. And if Spear was still around after he returned, he might do as he’d promised and see if he could find some way to put Spear in a cell. But he was starting to think that he might not have to do anything, because it looked as if Spear could end up spending the rest of his miserable life in a loony bin. That is, if he didn’t kill himself first.
66
DeMarco started to get back in his car, when he noticed, parked across the street, two guys in a Caddy with New York plates. They were big guys, hard-looking guys—and although he didn’t know them, he knew them.
DeMarco’s father had worked for a mob boss in Queens named Carmine Teliaferro. The men in the Caddy looked like the type of men Carmine had employed: large muscles, small brains, no scruples. They were the ones Carmine sent when he wanted someone maimed. DeMarco’s father was the one Carmine sent when he wanted someone killed.
It was then that he remembered Emma saying that Olivia Prescott might leak it to that Russian oligarch—DeMarco couldn’t remember his name—that Sebastian Spear posed a threat to him. Could these two thugs have been sent by the Russian?
He realized he was staring at the two men in the car and looked away. That was when he noticed a second car, an old black Camaro with Bondo on one fender. It was parked about fifty yards in front of the car containing the thugs.
A woman was in the driver’s seat, apparently a Muslim, as she was wearing a blue hijab. She was looking over at him, just like the guys in the Caddy. Then he thought: Blue hijab? He remembered when he was in the hospital, a brown-skinned woman in a blue hijab leaning over him. He thought he’d been having a dream, but why would the woman in his dream be here and why was she just sitting in her car?
Anita thought: What is it with this son of a bitch? Why is he just standing there? First the goddamn guys in the Caddy behind her and now this yahoo, DeMarco.
She hadn’t known what to do about the guys in the Caddy. She’d been thinking she’d wait awhile and see if they left, and after they left, she’d use the hijab to cover her face and walk into Spear’s house and shoot the asshole. If the guys in the Caddy didn’t leave, then she had a plan B—and plan B would be really bad for them. She’d walk over to their car, all smiley, looking all little and humble and harmless, and say, “Hey, I’m lost. Can you tell me where Elm Street is?” When they relaxed, she’d whip out the Glock and shoot them both—then she’d go shoot Spear.
But now, goddamnit, DeMarco was standing there, first looking at the guys in the Caddy, now looking at her. Why didn’t he just get in his car and drive away?
Yuri said, “What the hell’s he doing? Why’s he standing there?”
“How the hell would I know?” Boris said.
Until this guy, whoever he was, had shown up, Boris had had a plan. His plan, although he didn’t know it, was pretty much the same as Anita Ramirez’s plan. They would wait a few minutes to see if she left, and if she didn’t, he and Yuri would put on the ski masks they’d bought last night and walk toward her car, holding their guns in their hands. She’d sure as shit leave then. After she’d split, they’d kill Spear, drive to Dulles, and catch the first plane out of the country.
But now this damn guy was standing there, looking at him and Yuri. Maybe he should modify the plan. Yeah, they’d put on the ski masks, Yuri would scare off the Muslim while he shot this asshole who was screwing things up, then they’d kill Spear.
Aw, shit. The guy just took out his phone.
DeMarco’s inclination was to get in his car and leave—but he couldn’t do that.
There was something wrong with this situation, these people all parked on the street in front of Spear’s house. And although he didn’t know who the Muslim woman could be, it did seem possible that the guys in the Caddy were Russians sent to deal with Spear. He’d told Olivia Prescott that he wasn’t going to play any part in some underhanded NSA plan to execute Spear, and he’d meant what he said.
He thought for another second or two about what to do, then did the simplest, most straightforward thing he could think of: he pulled out his phone and called 911.
He told the 911 operator that he was at the home of Sebastian Spear, gave her Spear’s address, and said that Spear was armed and appeared to be suicidal. He said, “You need to send a cop here to disarm him before he kills himself. And maybe you ought to send a suicide counselor to talk him down.”
As he’d been talking to the 911 operator, he’d been watching the people in the cars on the street, particularly the car with the two men in it. He noticed they were looking intently back at him while he was on the phone.
Then he did something that maybe he shouldn’t have. He used his phone to take photos of the men in the Caddy and the woman in the Camaro.
“You motherfucker!” Anita screamed.
“Fuck me!” Boris yelled.
Yuri said, “Let’s do it. I’ll go shoot that fuckin’ woman. You go shoot that asshole and take his phone.”
“He called someone,” Boris said.
“So what?” Yuri said. “He doesn’t know who we are.”
“Okay. That’s it,” Anita said out loud. These sons of bitches were costing her twenty grand. She was going to kill them all. She wrapped the lower part of the hijab around her face, pulled the Glock out of the back of her jeans, and started to open the door when …
“Yeah, let’s do it,” Boris said. He started to pull the ski mask down over his face when …
A Fairfax County Sheriff’s cruiser turned the corner, its light bar flashing blue and red, and came directly down the street toward Spear’s house.
Thank God, DeMarco thought.
When the deputy parked in Spear’s driveway, the two guys in the Caddy and the woman in the Camaro took off, leaving like a two-car Shriner parade.
The deputy who stepped out of the cruiser was an irritated-looking guy in his forties with a buzz cut. His nose was peeling from a recent sunburn, and his gut flopped over his gun belt. DeMarco got the immediate impression that he was one of those arrogant small-town cops who reveled in the authority a badge gave them.
The deputy said, “You the one who called nine-one-one?”
“Yeah,” DeMarco said.
“You look familiar.”
Oh, great.
“What’s your name?” the deputy asked. “Where have I
seen you before?”
“Look, forget about me,” DeMarco said. “I came here this morning to talk to Mr. Spear and—”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I went to talk to him—he’s in the backyard sitting by the pool—and he pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. But then he tried to give me the gun and told me to kill him.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. He’s obviously got some kind of mental problem, and I think he might be suicidal. Which is why I called nine-one-one.” DeMarco decided not to mention the two thugs and the woman in the Camaro.
“Okay,” the deputy said. He started toward Spear’s backyard.
“Hold on,” DeMarco said. “You need to get someone here who can talk to him, like a hostage negotiator, a suicide shrink, someone like that.”
“Hey, I’m not going to call a bunch of people until I’ve assessed the situation. You just stand back and stay out of my way.”
“I’m telling you, the guy’s dangerous, to both you and himself. If you go back there—”
“Just stay out of my way,” the deputy said.
Less than a minute later, DeMarco heard the deputy yell something he couldn’t understand.
The next thing he heard was a gunshot.
Aw, shit.
DeMarco ran toward the backyard, already knowing what he was going to find. He turned the corner where he could see the swimming pool, and there was the deputy standing over Spear’s body. Spear was on his back, looking skyward, the expression on his face oddly peaceful. His bathrobe was open and there was a small black hole in the center of his chest. The old revolver was clutched in his right hand.
The deputy turned to face DeMarco, the arrogant putz now ashen and shaken looking. He said, “He pointed his gun at me. He wouldn’t put it down. I didn’t have a choice.”