Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery)

by Michael Koryta

  I nodded. "That's understandable. I'm not criticizing you or suggesting you sit her down on the bed and tell her immediately, but I wanted to know. Last question--what's your relationship with Aaron Kinkaid?"

  She frowned, puzzled by the question. "Aaron? He was Wayne's partner."

  "I know that. He's also helping us on this case, and he claims he was in love with you. Said their partnership ended because Wayne was mad about Aaron's feelings for you."

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Aaron hit on me once at a Christmas party. He was drunk, and it was just a silly thing. Wayne wasn't happy, but it was no big deal. I can't believe it really meant anything to Aaron."

  I looked at her, taking in her beauty, and I thought that what seemed like a silly, drunken advance to a woman like Julie could mean an awful lot more to a man like Aaron Kinkaid. She went back to the bedroom, and I looked at the tape in my hand. I was surprised to see it was an ordinary Sony VHS tape with eight hours of recording time. I'd expected Weston would use higher-grade stuff. I slipped the tape into the VCR, turned the television on, and pressed play.

  For a minute there was nothing but a light blue screen, and then a dimly lit room rolled into view. I leaned forward and squinted at the screen. There was a round card table and wood paneling, but nothing else was visible. I didn't recognize the room. A lone man was seated at the table. Only his upper body was visible, but there was a lot of it. He was an enormously fat man, balding, with bushy gray eyebrows. As I watched, he looked up at something out of view of the camera and nodded his head, then got to his feet and walked out of the room. Three new men stepped into view, and I recognized two of them--Alexei Krashakov and Ivan Malaknik. Krashakov was the tall, blond Russian who had given me the twenty. I'd never met Malaknik in person, but Cody had showed us pictures of him. The third man, who was shorter than Krashakov but muscular under a black shirt, I'd never seen before. He was clean-shaven and wore a silver chain around his neck. His dark hair was short and curly.

  The three of them sat around the table and talked. I tried turning up the volume, but it was pointless, because there was no audio. Wayne Weston hadn't been as efficient as I'd expected. Somehow, I found that hard to believe. Probably there was an audiotape floating around, too.

  Two minutes of talking passed. I'd been anticipating violence, but I was still surprised when it happened. All three men appeared to be laughing heartily when suddenly Krashakov slipped a gun out from under the table and shot the third man in the chest. I jerked when he did it. It seemed that out of place in the apparently jovial meeting. The third man slumped onto the table, and blood began to drip onto the floor. Krashakov and Malaknik got up and pushed the body out of the chair. Then Malaknik opened a rear door. The door appeared to open to the outdoors; a slight glow from streetlights on the pavement was visible. Malaknik disappeared outside, then came back a minute later with a blue plastic tarpaulin. Krashakov helped him roll the body onto the tarp. They folded the ends--to keep the blood from leaking onto their clothes, probably--and carried the body out the door. Several minutes passed, and then Malaknik returned with another man. I recognized him: Vladimir Rakic, who lived with Krashakov. Rakic had a bucket and a mop. The two of them set to work cleaning the floor. Krashakov never returned to the room. He was probably busy disposing of the body. Rakic and Malaknik worked on the floor for a while. I could hear Julie and Betsy Weston laughing in the bedroom, and I knew I might not have much more time. I hit the fast-forward button and advanced the film quickly. They continued cleaning the floor, and then they left, too. No one else came inside. Almost immediately afterward, the tape ended and the screen went blue again.

  I rewound it and played the first five minutes again, staring closely at the first man in the room and the victim. I didn't recognize either of them, but I wanted to be able to offer a good description. I didn't know too much about camera surveillance, but my guess was Weston had been using a wireless camera system. He had told his wife a camera that was illegally installed captured the murder. That implied breaking and entering to install the camera, which meant it had to be small and well concealed. A closed-circuit camera seemed out of the question in that circumstance, because that meant the camera, recorder, and tape all had to be on the premises. That would be far more difficult to conceal than a wireless camera. Joe and I had equipment catalogs with some extremely small color video cameras that would broadcast a signal fifteen hundred feet or more. Some of them, the really expensive stuff, used satellite technology much like a cellular phone and could broadcast a signal as far as you needed it. Hubbard could certainly afford to pay for that, if he'd wanted such technology.

  Betsy's laugh grew louder, and I realized they'd left the bedroom. I ejected the tape, put it back into its box, and slid it under the couch, then turned to them. Julie's eyes were searching me as if she could absorb what I had seen without asking. I kept my face impassive.

  "Get the room cleaned up?"

  "We made the bed real pretty," Betsy said. "Wanna see?"

  Julie laughed. "I don't think Mr. Perry needs to see, hon."

  "She can call me Lincoln," I said. "You guys ready for that walk now?"

  "Yes!" Betsy said, clapping her hands. "I love the beach."

  "Wonderful," I said. "To the beach we go, then. Hold on one second while I go brush my teeth."

  I went into the bathroom, carrying my bag, and removed the Glock. I clipped my holster onto my belt near the small of my back. The holster fit inside the waistband of my shorts, helping to conceal it, and it clipped onto the belt with two snaps, meaning I didn't have to take the belt off each time I put the holster on or removed it. The gun was secure and hard to detect, but I could draw it quickly. I hadn't been expecting to need to wear the gun at all times, but that plan had changed. Death can come when least expected. The morning's video viewing had reminded me of that.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT WAS an amazing day. The sun was out in full force, and the rays reflected off the sand and water, making the entire beach sparkle. There was a mild breeze off the water, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. We walked along the tide line. Betsy walked very close to the water, jumping back when the waves came close and shrieking with laughter when the water touched her feet.

  "It's cold," she said. "Too cold for swimming. That's not fair. I wanted to go swimming." Her skin looked dark enough that I was sure she'd spent plenty of time in the sun the past few days. Julie's was the same shade. I was trying not to pay too much attention to her skin, though. Once you started, it was damn hard to stop. Better never to get started.

  "Don't whine too much," Julie said. "If you whine about the water being cold, Lincoln will probably get tired of you and throw you into the ocean."

  "He would not!" Betsy regarded me with wide eyes.

  I shrugged. "No promises."

  "Mom!" she squealed. "Don't let him throw me in the ocean."

  "He looks pretty strong," Julie said in mock seriousness. "I don't know if I could stop him."

  There were dozens of people lying on the beach on blankets or in lawn chairs, soaking up the sun and relaxing, but I knew it was nothing compared to what you'd see in the summer, when tourist season was at its peak. We walked north along the beach for maybe a mile. We passed nothing but hotels and saw nothing but more hotels stretching on before us in either direction. It was amazing. How many hotels did this town have?

  After about a mile we turned and headed back. Betsy was still playing her game of dancing away from the waves, and she held her mother's hand as they walked. They fit together so well, so naturally, mother and daughter, a little bit of one in the other. I wondered if Wayne Weston had fit in as well--if people sitting on the beach would have watched the three Westons stroll along and said, "Isn't that a perfect little family." Maybe I stood out to the people watching us as the puzzle piece that didn't fit. Perhaps I could combat that by walking hand in hand with Julie.

  "Well, Lincoln?" Julie said.

  "Huh?"r />
  "Weren't you listening?"

  "Sorry. Lost in thought."

  She smiled. "Betsy was talking to you."

  "I'm sorry," I repeated, and looked down at the girl. "What did you say?"

  "I said I knew you wouldn't throw me in the water," she announced. "And I was right. We're back at the hotel and you didn't throw me in."

  I snapped my fingers as if recalling a forgotten task. "I knew I had something to do before we went back inside."

  She shook her head. "Nuh-uh. You aren't going to throw me in."

  "Says who?"

  "Says me," she said, and giggled.

  I glanced at Julie, saw the smile on her face, and realized she was enjoying this silly exchange between her daughter and me. I stopped walking and slipped off my tennis shoes, the sunbaked sand warm against my bare feet.

  "All right," I said. "You're going in now."

  "No!" Betsy yelled, trying to duck behind her mother, but I reached down and scooped her up under her arms, then ran toward the surf, holding her high above my head. She was unbelievably light. I'd lifted cats that felt heavier. She was half screaming, half laughing as I stormed into the water. She'd been right, too--it was cold. I ran in up to my knees, and then a wave hit me, soaking the lower half of my shorts. I held Betsy over my head--making sure my T-shirt didn't ride up enough to expose my gun--and began counting.

  "One . . . two . . . three . . ."I pretended to heave her toward the water, and she shrieked, but I didn't release her. "Okay," I said. "I'm feeling nicer than I thought. I guess I won't toss you in until this afternoon."

  I carried her back out of the water, wondering if maybe my silly game had been a bad move, something that would irritate Julie. She was laughing as she waited for us, though, and seemed anything but irritated.

  "You should have done it," she said when I dropped Betsy onto the sand beside her. "You would have had my blessing."

  "I thought he was going to throw me in," Betsy said, gasping for breath but still giggling.

  Julie glanced at my dripping legs with a small smile. "Cold?" she said.

  "Little bit," I said, and she laughed again.

  They wanted to go shopping, so we spent the next two hours wandering the strip. I saw more versions of T-shirts with the words myrtle beach than I'd thought possible, and some pretty bizarre creations made from seashells, but nothing that tempted me to take out my wallet. Julie and Betsy seemed to enjoy it, though. We ate lunch at a Subway and then walked back to the hotel. They went in the bedroom to relax, and I told Julie I was going to run back down to my room and make a phone call.

  I called Joe.

  "Seen the tape?" he asked as soon as I said hello.

  "I've seen it. Someone definitely got whacked, but I don't have any idea who. I know the shooter, though."

  "Who?"

  "Krashakov."

  "The big blond asshole?"

  "You got it." I told him the details of the tape.

  "You can't tell where it was taken?"

  "Not really, but my guess is it's the back room at a bar somewhere--quite possibly The River Wild. That makes the most sense. You've already attached it to the Russians, and there's a logical reason for Weston to be shooting tape there."

  "One thing's bothering me."

  "Yeah?"

  "Weston films this from a concealed camera, right? A wireless setup, you suggest. And, clearly, the Russians didn't know it was there. Yet when Weston talked to his wife he said the Russians were going to be coming after him."

  "True."

  "So how'd they figure out he had this tape?"

  "Found the camera before he had a chance to remove it, maybe."

  "And he'd taped a return address label to the thing? Carved his initials on the side? Those cameras are designed to be discreet. There aren't a lot of them in circulation, but it would still be difficult to trace one back to the owner in most circumstances."

  "Good point." I didn't have an answer for that one, so I shifted gears. "You find out who the vic might be?"

  "Not yet. I called a few of our old friends at homicide, and they said they'd get back to me."

  "Okay. I was thinking of calling Amy, putting her on it."

  "Be careful what you tell her."

  "We can trust Amy, Joe."

  "I know we can trust her, but I don't want us getting her in more trouble. Just because you're in love with her doesn't mean we have to call her at the first excuse."

  "I'm not in love with her."

  "Uh-huh." He grunted. "Speaking of love, how's the widow Weston look in person?"

  "Homely," I said. "The camera does wonders for that woman. In person she looks much more like my great-aunt Nedra."

  "I bet."

  "Where's Kinkaid?"

  "Sitting right in front of me."

  "You two playing checkers?"

  "Quiet, son. We're getting ready to break this case wide open."

  "Hard to do that sitting on your ass."

  "I know it is. That's why we're on our way out the door. I'd like to check on our Russian pals again, see where they are and what they're up to."

  "Watch your back, Joseph."

  "Always, son. Always. I'll give you a call on your cell phone tonight when I hear from homicide."

  I hung up with Joe and called Amy's office number. She picked up on the first ring, which was a rarity, and she was in a shitty mood, which wasn't as rare.

  "Do you miss me?" I said when she answered.

  "No, I don't miss you. You're one of them."

  "Them?"

  "A male," she snapped. "You know, those folks with penises? You do have one of those, right?"

  "What's your problem?"

  "Men."

  "Uh-oh," I said. "Surely it can't be a problem with Mr. Terry."

  "Mr. Terry can kiss my beautiful ass," she said. "My friend Rochelle saw him in a restaurant holding hands with some bimbo and drinking wine last night. Rochelle said it was expensive wine, too. He only buys the cheap stuff for me. Bastard."

  "I'm sorry, Amy," I said genuinely. I was no fan of Jacob Terry, but I liked Amy too much to enjoy seeing her hurt.

  "Ah, screw him," she said. "I couldn't be with a man who used that much hair gel, anyhow. It was doomed from the start."

  "I tried to tell you that."

  "Yeah, yeah, you and your advice. I've never taken it before, and I'm not going to start. Just because you were right about Terry doesn't mean you're not an idiot. Now what the hell do you want?"

  I hadn't planned on telling Amy all the details, but I realized she was going to pester me with questions, so I decided to go ahead and give her something to think about other than her hatred for my gender.

  "I'm in South Carolina," I said.

  "Really? What the hell are you doing down there? And, hey, didn't I hear about you being a witness to some guy who got shot near your building the other day? I called you, but you weren't home. Come to think of it, wasn't he from South Carolina?"

  "Amy," I said, breaking in on her tangent, "do you want to hear my news or not?"

  "Yes."

  "I've got Julie and Betsy Weston."

  For a long time, I could hear nothing but the faint murmur of background voices in the newsroom around her. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and serious. "You better not be playing with me, Lincoln. I'm not in the mood."

  "I'm not playing with you," I said. "They're in South Carolina, and they have been since Weston was killed. But no one--and I mean no one--can know about this yet. There's too much uncertainty right now. Some big-league killers are looking for this woman, and they might have sources within the police."

  "What are they doing there?" she whispered. "Do they not realize the FBI is looking for them?"

  "Julie realizes," I said. "The little girl is blissfully ignorant. And they're here because Wayne Weston pissed off the Russian mob. He shot a videotape of a hit, and somehow they found out about it."

  "So the Russians did kill him."r />
  "Julie doesn't think so. She thinks Hubbard did it, or had someone do it."

  "This is real big, isn't it, Lincoln?"

  "Bigger than you can imagine," I said, thinking about Hubbard, Cody, and the Russians. It was big, all right. And deadly.

  "I'm not going to breathe a word of this to anyone," Amy said, "but you've got to keep me updated."

  "I will. Now, can you do me a favor?"

  "Sure."

  "Like I said, Weston videotaped some poor bastard getting killed by the Russians. We don't know who the guy is. I watched the tape and didn't recognize him. Some short, strong-looking guy with curly dark hair and a silver chain around his neck. I need you to check it out and see if you can figure out who some potential candidates might be. He's got to be connected to Belov and the rest of them somehow."

  "I'm on it."

  "Thanks. I'll call you later this afternoon and we can reconnoiter."

  She laughed.

  "What?" I said.

  "Reconnoiter. That word just amuses me--it sounds so ridiculous. It seems strange, too, that you can only reconnoiter. Wouldn't it seem you should connoiter to begin with and then reconnoiter? Of course, that sounds kind of dirty. You know, like, 'the police caught the teens connoitering in the backseat of the car--' "

  "Goodbye, Amy." I hung up and sighed. My friends. What can you say?

  I went back upstairs and knocked on Julie's door. She answered a minute later with a bright smile. "Good news," she said. "Betsy has decided what she wants to do with the afternoon."

  "What's that?"

  "Play miniature golf," Betsy said. She was sitting on the couch with her feet sticking out in the air because they were too short to reach the floor. I suppose this is the type of thing parents never really pause to think about, but if you're not around children much, it looks pretty comical.

  "Miniature golf," I said. The glamorous work of the private detective never ceases.