He’s not carrying anything, I thought.
‘Okay, on schedule. What time is it?’ I said.
‘Twenty to ten.’
‘So Bouvert probably doesn’t have time to eat first.’
‘Probably not, or not a whole meal. He’ll probably have a drink or two first, a vodka martini, maybe.’
‘Probably,’ I said.
Perhaps he has the money in an envelope, I thought, tucked into a pocket of his long black overcoat. Sixty grand, however, is a lot of dough to tuck away in your coat pocket.
‘Did you notice he wasn’t carrying anything?’ said Darren.
‘I did. I was thinking maybe the money’s in his coat pocket, in an envelope.’
‘That’s a lot of bread to keep in your pocket.’
‘I agree.’
‘Or maybe the money’s already at the restaurant.’
‘Sound thinking, Darren.’
I aimed the binoculars at the wharf, looking at the benches by the pier, looking for Michael O’Meara, but I didn’t see a soul. I pointed them toward the park and thought I saw a homeless man staggering in the distance.
‘No sign of Adamson,’ said Darren.
‘No sign of Adamson.’
‘Maybe he’s at the restaurant.’
‘Could be. Or possibly he’s sitting this one out.’
‘I highly doubt that.’
‘Me too.’
‘Look,’ said Darren, looking through the viewfinder of his camera, pointing it toward a bench on the wharf, extending the lens, zooming in on it, and applying pressure to the shutter release. On foot, O’Meara approached the bench – he looked to be alone.
‘It’s definitely O’Meara,’ I said, pointing my binoculars in the same direction. ‘Do you spot backup anywhere?’
‘I don’t,’ said Darren, looking around.
‘I think I saw a homeless guy way in the distance staggering around but I doubt he’s backup.’
‘So you think O’Meara’s solo?’
‘Hard to tell,’ I said, looking around.
O’Meara sat down on the bench near the pier and lit a cigarette. Looking out on the waterway, he had his back to the restaurant. He wasn’t checking his phone or making sure his gun was loaded; rather, he simply smoked his cigarette and stared out at the placid harbour water.
Despite the flower smell in the car, the area smelled of horse shit, I thought, from the tours they give of the port in horse-drawn carriages, the horses with their double bridles and blinders, and tourists in their carriages. Although I didn’t see any horses or hear the clopping of their hooves on the cobblestone streets, I did smell their shit, I thought, despite the lingering smell of flowers.
There appeared to be movement. Bouvert was exiting the restaurant and I shot my binoculars over to O’Meara as his head swung around, as if he could hear Bouvert exiting the restaurant, despite the distance between them. I shot the binoculars back to Bouvert, who stood in the open doorway, which glowed softly red behind him. His frame was large, though, and blocked and absorbed most of the light.
‘It’s happening,’ said Darren.
‘Yes. Be on the lookout for any surprises.’
‘I’m getting prepared right now,’ said Darren, securing the nail gun beside him.
‘He’s got something in his hands,’ I said, focusing in on Bouvert.
‘What?’
‘A small gym bag, it looks like … ’
‘So he’s got the money, it’s going down.’
‘Looks like it.’
Bouvert crossed the street and the small park and continued toward the wharf. He was alone, I thought, by the looks of it.
‘It’s too bad we won’t be able to hear them,’ I said.
‘I know. I was just thinking that, too. What can we do?’
‘Not much. They’ll spot us if we try and get any closer. This is a good vantage point. We just don’t have any sound.’
Bouvert crossed the park and was large and probably doesn’t walk much, I thought. O’Meara spotted him right away and made his way over to him. They talked. Darren took photos. They seemed to be getting along amicably, I thought, and it looked like O’Meara had made Bouvert laugh, the hearty laugh of a corpulent man. But it was hard to tell. O’Meara took the small gym bag and they shook hands. They talked a little more and then Bouvert turned toward the restaurant and O’Meara turned back toward the wharf.
‘That went smoothly,’ said Darren.
‘Yeah. Something’s up.’
‘Clearly,’ said Darren.
We watched Bouvert make his way back into the restaurant and O’Meara walk eastward along the wharf, away from us. O’Meara walked and strung the gym bag around his chest and seemed carefree, from where I was sitting, with Darren in the delivery car, watching through binoculars. Everything seemed wrong, I thought. I felt a sense of anticipatory dread and its attendant nausea. Bouvert and O’Meara were too friendly and it all seemed too easy, I thought. I could tell Darren was thinking the same things. I saw movement in the bushes ahead of O’Meara. A thin man in a long black overcoat came out of the copse.
‘What’s going on?’ said Darren.
‘Someone’s coming out of the park.’
Someone who looked like Adamson emerged from the park and walked toward O’Meara. They were talking, at a distance. The person I thought was Adamson slowly and calmly produced a handgun from his overcoat pocket – a 9mm semi-automatic, I thought, but it was impossible to tell from the distance – drawing a bead on O’Meara.
‘Holy shit,’ I said.
‘Let’s go!’ said Darren, grabbing his nail gun and stuffing his camera into his coat pocket.
‘You stay here. Give me the gun. Take photos,’ I said.
‘But, Bob – ’
‘Don’t argue. There’s no time.’
I took the nail gun from Darren and got out of the hatchback and started running toward O’Meara and who I thought was Adamson. I was yelling. Darren was honking his car horn, holding down on it. They were too far away. O’Meara drew his gun, but by the time he had it out he had three bullets in him. I kept running, nail gun in hand, but the person I thought was Adamson ran off. In vain, I fired off a few nails in his direction. But I had to see if O’Meara was all right, if he was alive.
O’Meara lay bleeding on the ground with his hands covered in blood resting on his bleeding chest and stomach and the small gym bag strapped across his torso. I got down beside him, propping up his head.
‘Where’s your phone? I’ll call an ambulance.’
He didn’t say a word so I searched his coat pockets and dug it out myself. ‘What the fuck just happened?’ I said, dialing 911. O’Meara raised his hand and smacked the phone out of mine. ‘What? You want to die?’
O’Meara gave me a look and its meaning was clear. He attempted to prop himself up and began to take off the small gym bag but needed help.
‘You want that off?’ I said and helped him out of it. It was clear he was going to die, as he bled in my arms. His breathing was strained because he had holes in his chest and he was gut-shot. He looked me in the eye, then at the small gym bag, then looked me in the eye again, motioning with his forehead.
‘You want me to take the money,’ I said.
He nodded.
‘Were you working for them? Were you working for the lawyers?’
He nodded.
‘Doing what?’
He just looked at me, unconcerned, moribund. He motioned at the money and then his eyes went out. I shook him, repeating his name, but nothing: O’Meara was dead. I looked around and grabbed the nail gun and grabbed the gym bag and left O’Meara’s Glock and wiped my fingerprints off his cell and ran toward the hatchback. When I got close enough, I motioned for Darren to stop honking the damn horn. He did. I ran up to the car and got in.
‘That’s amazing,’ I said. ‘No one seems to have heard a thing, looks like … ’
‘There’s no one around, except for in the resta
urant, and no way they could hear gunshots from there.’
‘O’Meara’s dead, as I’m sure you could tell. He gave me the money, though.’ I held up the gym bag, unzipping it. ‘He couldn’t speak but he motioned for me to take it.’
‘Probably didn’t want to be found dead with sixty grand.’
‘That’s what I figured, too, but this isn’t sixty,’ I said, looking at the money in the gym bag. ‘It’s more like twenty grand or so but mainly in twenty-dollar bills.’
‘So they shortchanged him and killed him.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘What the fuck do we do?’
‘Well, we either take the money and split or we try and take these fuckers down. They just killed a cop.’
‘Bob, if they killed a cop, it’s because they can.’
‘So what do you propose we do?’
There was a tapping at Darren’s window and I looked up and it was a 9mm doing the tapping. ‘Get down,’ I said, and Darren ducked and I fired off several rounds from the nail gun and the driver-side window shattered and I wasn’t sure what had happened. ‘Start the car but keep down.’
Darren complied. Keeping down, I looked out the shattered window and saw the man I thought was Adamson drawing a bead on us. I fired off several more rounds and heard his 9mm fall to the ground. (I think I hit him, I thought.) I got out of the car and Darren followed, brandishing a baseball bat, and I ran toward the man I thought was Adamson, who was running off. I ran up to the 9mm and picked it up with my shirtsleeve, even though I doubted there was a single usable fingerprint on the gun.
‘Okay,’ I said, holding up the gun, catching my breath, ‘now we have the murder weapon and the loot. We probably have a photo or two, too, that turned out – at least of Bouvert paying off O’Meara.’
‘Who do we go to?’
‘The cops.’
‘You’re holding the weapon that murdered Detective Michael O’Meara.’
‘But we’re turning in the money,’ I said.
‘Bouvert and Adamson and whoever they work for, whether it’s the Andrewses or whoever, are powerful people. We’re not. They’ll arrest you for the murder of a police detective and then you’ll be killed before you stand trial.’
‘So what are you saying? We should take the money and run.’
‘Maybe.’
‘If we confront anyone with what we’ve got, it should be Bouvert. I’m sure he’s filling his fat face as we speak.’
26
There was no way I was letting Darren go into Diavolo Cucina, so I convinced him to wait in the car because it was integral to the plan, and in fact it was integral to the plan, I thought, namely, what little plan there was and there wasn’t much. Regardless, I wasn’t going to let him get hurt. I needed him to sit tight with the loot and the nail gun while I confronted the lawyer with the 9mm, a Browning Hi-Power (Made In Belgium/Assembled In Portugal embossed on its barrel), the gun that killed Detective Michael O’Meara, Robbery-Homicide. I didn’t want to get my fingerprints all over it so Darren found a pair of gardening gloves in the trunk of the hatchback. I put them on.
‘If I’m not out of there in ten minutes,’ I said, ‘I want you to call the cops.’
‘But the cops’ll – ’
‘Darren, man, they’re the only option.’
‘What if I hear gunfire?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going in there to get in a firefight. I’m just bringing the gun to show him what we’ve got. Evidence. Protection, too, but mainly evidence. If we have the gun, then he’ll know we’re not bullshitting about the money, and then we’ve got him by the balls.’
‘The question remains. What if I hear gunshots?’
‘Call the cops.’
‘And then what?’
‘We find out what the hell has been happening.’
‘And then what?’
‘I don’t know. We turn Bouvert in.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘We extort him. Listen, we have to do something. These people are murdering people. I can go above the heads of the corrupt people he knows in this goddamn city, if that’s what has to be done. I’m a detective. With a shitload of evidence. Someone will listen. I know people too.’
‘Man … ’
‘Yeah?’
‘Be safe.’
‘I’ve got a gun. I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr. James,’ Bouvert said to me as I approached his table. It had a cream-coloured tablecloth and candles and was at the back of the long dark restaurant. ‘Please, join me,’ he said, and I sat down across from him, Bouvert with his back to a wall and me with mine to the rest of the restaurant, which was empty save for the bartender behind me at the bar and the rest of the small staff, who were in and out of the dining room, and me and Bouvert, who leaned back in his chair, a large glass of red wine in front of him, a half-emptied bottle on the table, and bread and olive oil and a plate of calamari. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ he said and I shook my head no. ‘Some wine,’ he insisted, and he picked up the bottle and poured into the glass in front of me before I could answer. ‘I like the gloves. You can take them off. You won’t be needing them.’
I did. And stuffed them in my coat pocket, with the gun.
‘Well,’ he said, forking a piece of squid into his mouth, ‘say your piece.’
‘I saw everything.’
‘And … ’
‘I know you’re behind everything,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Believe it or not, I’m not the Evil One, Mr. James.’
‘Bob’s fine and you’re plenty evil. I have the murder weapon in my pocket and the money stashed with an associate.’
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘And I have photos of you paying off O’Meara, before you had him whacked.’
‘Whacked … ?’
‘I saw him shot dead in cold blood.’
‘O’Meara … ?’
‘Don’t be cute.’
‘Mr. James.’ Bouvert pursed his lips, staring at me. ‘If you leave the weapon with me and walk out that door right now, you can leave with the money and your life, if you disappear for good.’
‘What happened with Elaine Andrews?’
‘Still hung up on Mrs. Andrews?’
‘How was she involved?’
‘Mr. James, no questions. Leave me the weapon and then walk out of this restaurant.’
‘Or … ?’
‘Or you die.’
‘You’ll kill me right here?’
‘If that’s what needs to be done.’
‘With these witnesses?’
He smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘For a man with such bad teeth you smile a lot, you know.’
‘Also,’ Bouvert said, still smiling, ‘we’ll kill your friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘The kid. Your associate. The delivery driver.’ He took a sip of wine, swirling it around in his glass. ‘The kid outside the restaurant. We’ll kill him.’
I stuffed my hand in my pocket and, gloveless, grabbed the pistol and said to Bouvert, ‘If you mention the kid again, I’ll shoot you dead right now.’ I pointed the gun toward him, still stuffed into my pocket, underneath the cream tablecloth.
‘No need to get dramatic, Mr. James. I’m giving you a chance to get away, without any consequences. I’ll forget about the kid completely,’ he said. ‘He means nothing to us. And neither do you if you disappear. Take my offer. It’s the best you’ll get.’
‘Thank you, solicitor, but I’m interested in getting to the bottom of this case.’
‘Well, you have a long way to go.’
‘Then I’ll keep going,’ I said. ‘I’ll get to the truth.’
‘The truth is that if you don’t put that gun on the table right now and leave, then I’ll send someone out to see your friend, with a large kitchen knife, and he can carve the boy up. Cut him up piece by piece. I’ll get him to bring me his eyes.’
‘I
told you not to mention the kid,’ I said, and stood up and flipped over the table. I pulled the Hi-Power out of my pocket and pointed it at Bouvert, who stood with his back up against the wall, covered in dark red wine and calamari.
The bartender behind me bent down behind the bar and popped back up with a pump-action shotgun, which he cycled as he stood. ‘Drop the gun,’ he said.
I could feel him pointing the gun at my back. I could feel the hole the shotgun would blast through me.
‘I’ll kill him,’ I said. ‘You drop that shotgun, barkeep.’ I kept my gun levelled on Bouvert, looking straight into his truculent eyes. I think I saw beads of sweat form on his forehead.
‘Protect the kid, Mr. James. Don’t be an imbecile. Look at all the bodies that are piling up. I know you don’t give a shit about your own life, but think of the delivery driver. You can shoot me and then you get shot and then my friend here,’ he said, motioning toward the bar, ‘will go outside and kill the delivery driver.’
‘Who killed Gerald Andrews?’
‘Does it really matter to you?’
‘Yes. Who killed Gerald Andrews?’
‘For argument’s sake, let’s say it’s your friend Elaine. But in reality there were several forces that wanted Gerald Andrews dead. Is that a satisfactory answer?’
‘Not at all. Why did you kill O’Meara?’
‘I did no such thing,’ said Bouvert.
‘Let me shoot this fucking guy,’ said the barkeep.
‘Let’s not be too hasty,’ said Bouvert. ‘I’m confident Mr. James will come to his senses.’
‘You made a deal with the Devil, Bouvert, and one thing about the Devil – ’
‘Mr. James. Ich sagte ja, dass die ganze Geschichte zum Teufel gehen wird.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I know what you’re about to say, He always comes to collect …
‘Right. You’ve heard that before.’
‘At some point, we all make our deals. Now we find ourselves vis à vis. This is your turn, Mr. James. Save yourself and the boy and move on. All the people who were hurt were hurting others, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam. I don’t think innocent people should be hurt. Save the boy. Besides, you’ll walk away with twenty-five thousand dollars.’
‘You’ll leave the kid alone … ’
The Devil and the Detective Page 11