by Dan Simmons
They were in Arlene's kitchen. When Frears's back was turned, Kurtz said, "Arlene, you still have your…" He opened his peacoat slightly to expose the pistol on his belt.
She shook her head. "It's at work, Joe. I don't keep one here."
Kurtz said to Frears, "Excuse us a moment," and led Arlene into her living room. He handed her Angelina Farino's gun—not the Compact Witness she had a sentimental thing for, but the little.45 he'd taken away from her at the hockey arena. Arlene slid the magazine out of the grip, made sure it was loaded, slapped the magazine back in, checked to make sure the safety was on, and slipped the small but heavy pistol into the pocket of her cardigan sweater. She nodded, and the two of them went back to the kitchen.
"I'm afraid this is going to be a terrible imposition," began Frears. "I'm perfectly capable of finding—"
"We may find you another place after a day or two," said Kurtz. "But you saw the situation with Hansen/Millworth. Right now I think you'd be safer here."
Frears looked at Arlene. "Mrs. DeMarco… Arlene… this will bring danger into your home."
Arlene lit a cigarette. "Actually, John, it will bring a little much-needed excitement into my life."
"Call me if anything comes up," said Kurtz. He went out to his Volvo.
"Got him!" said Detective Myers. They had been headed down Union Road in Cheektowaga when they saw Kurtz's Volvo pull out of a side street and head north toward the Kensington Expressway.
Brubaker made a U-turn through a Dunkin' Donuts' parking lot and pulled the floral-delivery van into northbound traffic.
"Keep way back," said Myers.
"Don't fucking tell me how to tail someone, Tommy."
"Well, just don't fucking get made," whined Myers.
"Kurtz doesn't know this van. We stay back, we got him."
Brubaker stayed back. Kurtz got onto the Kensington headed into town and the van followed six vehicles back.
"We should wait until he's into the city to take him," said Myers.
Brubaker nodded.
"Maybe near that flophouse hotel of his, if he's headed there. It would make sense that we'd have probable cause to roust him near there."
"Yeah," said Brubaker. "If he's headed to the hotel."
Kurtz was headed to the hotel. He parked in the crappy neighborhood nearby, and Brubaker drove the van a block farther and doubled back along side streets in time to see Kurtz locking his car and walking toward the Royal Delaware Arms. Brubaker parked the van in front of a hydrant. They could intercept Kurtz on foot before he got to the hotel. "We've fucking got him. You got your club and the throwdown?"
"Yeah, yeah," said Myers, anxiously patting his pockets. "Let's do this."
Kurtz had just turned the corner a block from the hotel. The two detectives jumped out of the van and began quick-walking to catch up. Brubaker pulled his Glock from its holster and carried it in his right hand. He clicked the safety off.
Myers's phone rang.
"Ignore it," said Brubaker.
"It might be important."
"Ignore it."
Myers ignored Brubaker instead. Answering the phone even as he ran, he said, "Yeah. Yeah? Yes, sir. Yes, but we're just going to… no… yeah… no… right." He folded the phone and stopped.
Brubaker whirled at him. "What?"
"It was Captain Mill worth. We're to drop the surveillance on Kurtz."
"Too fucking late!"
Myers shook his head. "Uh-uh. The captain says that we're to drop the surveillance and get the hell over to Elmwood Avenue to help Prdzywsky with a fresh street killing. We're finished with Kurtz… his words."
"Fuck!" shouted Brubaker. An old woman in a black coat stopped to stare. Brubaker took three strides, rounded the corner, and looked at Kurtz approaching the hotel across the street. "We have the fucker."
"We go after him now, Millworth will have our balls for breakfast. He said not to mess with Kurtz. What's your hard-on for, Fred?"
Tell him about the money from Little Skag Farino? thought Brubaker. No. "That perp killed Jimmy Hathaway. And those Three Stooges from Attica, too."
"Bullshit," said Myers. He turned toward the van. "There's no proof for that and you know it."
Brubaker looked back toward the hotel and actually lifted his Glock as if he was going to shoot at Kurtz's retreating back a block away. "Fuck!" he said again.
Someone had been in Kurtz's room. Two of the tiny telltales on the door had been knocked free. Kurtz pulled his gun, unlocked the door, kicked it open, and went in fast Nothing. He kept the S&W in his hand as he checked both rooms and the fire escape. He didn't see anything out of place at first inspection, but someone had been in here.
A knife was gone. Just a sharp kitchen knife. Kurtz went over everything else, but except for the fact that his shaving kit and brush had been moved slightly in the bathroom and some books set back on the shelf not quite as he had left them, nothing else was missing or out of place.
Kurtz showered, shaved, combed his hair, and dressed in his best white shirt, conservative tie and dark suit. The black Bally dress shoes in the back of his closet needed only a buffing to be brought up to full shine. His trench coat hanging in the closet was old but well-made and clean. Slipping the.40 S&W into his belt and dropping Angelina's Compact Witness.45 into his coat pocket, he went out to the Volvo and drove to the Buffalo Athletic Club. On the way, he stopped at a Sees Candy, bought a medium-sized box of chocolates in a heart-shaped box, and tossed away most of the chocolates.
"You're late," said Angelina Farino Ferrara as he came into the exercise area. "And out of uniform." He was still wearing his suit and trench coat.
"No exercise for me today." He handed her the box of chocolates. The Boys looked over curiously from where they had just finished their work in the weight room.
Angelina untied the ribbon, opened the heart-shaped box, and looked at the Compact Witness nestled under the few loose chocolates. "My favorite," she said, eating a pecan cluster and closing the lid. "Did you still want to do lunch?"
"Yes."
"You're sure that today's the right day?"
"Yes."
"But nothing dramatic is going to happen there, right?"
Kurtz remained silent.
"We'll talk about this out at my penthouse," said Angelina. "I have to change before lunch. You can ride out with me. I'll have to introduce you to the Boys and anyone else who's interested. So far, you've just been the Man Hitting on Me at the Athletic Club. What did you say your name was?"
"Dr. Howard Conway."
Angelina raised an eyebrow and mopped her sweaty face. "Dr. Conway. How nice for you. Surgeon?"
"Dentist."
"Oh, too bad. I understand that dentists suffer from depression and suicide at an alarming rate. Are you armed today, Dr. Conway?"
"Yes."
"You know the Boys are going to relieve you of it as soon as we get in the car?"
"Yes."
Angelina Farino Ferrara's smile was predatory.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They rode out to the marina in silence. Marco and Leo had shaken his hand in the parking garage and then searched him well.
"Why does a dentist need a gun?" asked Leo, slipping the S&W into his cashmere coat.
"I'm paranoid," said Kurtz.
"Aren't we all?" said Angelina.
Marina Towers rose twelve stories above an expanse of snowy lawn that overlooked the Buffalo Marina and the frozen Niagara River. From the parking garage beneath the complex, the four of them rode a private elevator to the eleventh floor, where the Boys lived—Kurtz caught a glimpse of desks, computers, teletypes, a few accountant types, and knew that this was where the Farino offices had been moved—and then Angelina took him up the final flight on a separate elevator. They stepped out into a marble-lined foyer, where she produced a key and let them into her penthouse.
The series of open rooms ran the full length of the building and filled the entire floor so that Kurtz could lo
ok northeast to downtown Buffalo and southwest toward the marina and the river. Even with low clouds on a gray day, the view was impressive.
"Very nice—" began Kurtz and stopped as he turned. Angelina was aiming the Compact Witness.45 at him and had pulled a second, larger automatic from a drawer.
"Can you think of any reason I shouldn't gut-shoot you right now, Joe Kurtz?"
Kurtz did not move his hands. "It might ruin your plan to surprise Mr. Gonzaga."
The woman's lips looked very thin and bloodless. "I can make other plans."
Kurtz had no argument for that.
"You humiliated me twice," said Angelina. "Threatened to kill me."
Kurtz could have mentioned the four men she had hired to kill him, but he didn't think that would be the best argument to make in these circumstances. If she shot him now, she'd earn points with her brother.
"Tell me why I shouldn't get rid of you and get someone else to go after Gonzaga," said Angelina Farino Ferrara. "Give me one good reason."
"I'm thinking… I'm thinking," said Kurtz in his best Jack Benny voice.
Maybe Angelina was too young to get the joke. Her finger curled on the trigger. "Time's up."
"Can I reach slowly into my suit pocket?"
Angelina nodded. She was holding the larger.45 aimed steadily at his midsection and had set the Compact Witness on the maple table under a painting.
Kurtz took the cassette tape out of his pocket and tossed it to her.
"What is it?"
"Play it."
"I hate games," said Angelina, but she walked five paces to a stack of stereo components built into a bookcase, slipped the cassette in, and punched "Play."
Her voice came from the speakers. "Oh, but I did. I did. A boy. A beautiful baby boy with Emilio's fat, rubbery lips, lovely brown eyes, and the Gonzaga chin and forehead. I drowned him in the Belice River in Sicily." Her voice went on for a minute, explaining how hard it would be to get to Emilio Gonzaga in his compound, and men came Kurtz's voice: "How did you plan to kill him?"
"Well, I sort of hoped you'd take care of that detail for me now that you know what you know," came Angelina's voice.
Angelina shut off the player and pocketed the cassette. She was actually smiling. "You miserable son of a bitch. You were wired that night out in Williamsville."
Kurtz said nothing.
"So," said Angelina, "in the event of your disappearance here, who gets copies of me tape? Emilio, of course."
"And your brother," said Kurtz.
"Not the cops?"
Kurtz shrugged.
"I should shoot you just on general principles," said Angelina. But she put the.45 back in its drawer. Then she hefted the smaller Compact Witness. "You gave it back to me loaded?"
"Yeah."
"You take chances, Joe Kurtz. Stay here. There's fruit juice in the refrigerator over there, liquor at the bar. I'm going to shower again and get dressed. Emilio's car will be here to pick me up in thirty minutes. I hope to God you have a plan."
Kurtz looked at his watch.
Fifteen minutes later, Angelina phoned down for the Boys to come up. She met them in the foyer and led them into the penthouse, where Kurtz was waiting with his S&W, now sporting a silencer she had loaned him. Angelina closed the door behind the Boys.
"What the fuck…" began Leo. Marco, the bigger man, simply raised his hands and watched both Kurtz and Angelina.
"Quiet," said Kurtz. "Unload the hardware. Carefully. Tips of fingers only. Good. Now kick the guns this way. Gently. Good." He sat on the edge of a couch, the pistol covering both of them.
"Ms. Farino?" said Leo. "You part of this bullshit?"
Kurtz shook his head and tapped one finger against his lips. "Gentlemen, we have a proposition for you. Do the smart thing and you live and make quite a bit of money. Do the stupid thing and… well, you don't want to do the stupid thing."
Marco and Leo stood with their hands half-raised, Marco vigilant, Leo twitchy, his eyes flicking back and forth as if gauging his chances for leaping at his revolver on the floor before Kurtz could fire.
"Are you listening, fellows?" said Kurtz.
"We're listening," said Marco. The big man sounded calm.
"I want to visit the Gonzagas today with Miss Ferrara," said Kurtz. "Since they only allow two bodyguards with her, one of you will have to stay behind. We thought the big bathroom up here would be a good place for the volunteer to stay until we get back. Miss Ferrara had a pair of handcuffs in her bedroom, I didn't ask why, and one of you will wear those, probably connected to the washbasin pedestal in there with your arms behind you, until we return. Then we'll find a more comfortable arrangement for the next couple of days."
"Next couple of days!" shouted Leo. "Are you fucking out of your fucking mind? You know what Little Skag Farino is going to do with your sorry ass, cock-sucker?"
Kurtz said nothing.
Marco said, "Where does the money come in?"
Angelina answered. "When our negotiations with Emilio Gonzaga are completed, there's going to be more money coming in than the Farino Family has seen for decades. Anyone who helps me with this will get a lion's share."
"Helps you?" sneered Leo. "Who the fuck do you think you are, cunt? When Little Skag gets out, you're going to be—"
"My brother Stephen is not a part of this," said Angelina. Kurtz thought that she had spoken very politely for someone who had just been called the C word.
Marco nodded. Leo looked at him with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced at the weapons on the floor again.
"So which one of you volunteers is going to stay behind?" said Kurtz.
Neither man spoke for a minute. Kurtz could see Marco mulling it over. Leo's fingers were twitching.
"No volunteers?" said Kurtz. "I guess I'll just have to pick." He shot Leo through his left eye.
Marco did not move as Leo's body fell back onto the parquet floor, blood streaming from the back of his skull. Leo's legs twitched once and were still. Angelina gave Kurtz a startled look.
"You understand the drill?" Kurtz asked Marco.
"Yeah."
"My name's Howard Conway and I'm filling in for Leo, who has the flu."
"Yeah."
"You'll have your gun back, minus the bullets. Of course, when we're at the Gonzagas', you can blow the whistle on us any time."
"What would that get me?"
Kurtz shrugged. "Probably the eternal appreciation of Emilio Gonzaga."
"I'd rather have the clap," said Marco. Angelina had picked up the bodyguards' guns and was thumbing the slugs out of the magazine in Marco's semiauto. "Can I ask a question of Ms. Farino?" said the bodyguard.
It was Angelina who nodded.
"Ma'am, is this your show or this… dentist's?"
"It's my show."
Marco nodded, accepted the now-empty pistol, and slid it back in his shoulder holster. "Can I move?"
Kurtz nodded.
Marco glanced at his watch. "The Gonzaga limo's going to be here in about three minutes. You want me to do something with this?" He inclined his head toward Leo.
"There are a couple of blankets in that first closet," said Angelina. "Store him in the back of the big walk-in freezer for now. I'll get the mop."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
James B. Hansen left his office at police headquarters in late morning and drove to the Airport Sheraton. He had an absolutely untraceable.38-caliber pistol in his briefcase, right next to the clear evidence bags containing the knife, thread, and hairs he had picked up in Joe Kurtz's hotel room.
It might have been a slight problem finding John Frears's room number—Hansen was certainly not going to show his badge and ask at the desk—but the old violinist had left his phone number, complete with room extension, when he had spoken to a bored lieutenant in Homicide the week before about the unlikely sighting at the airport. Frears was making it almost too easy.
Hansen knew what the old man was up to, speaking to the Buffalo News,
going on a radio talk show and all the rest. He was offering himself up like a staked-out goat, trying to flush the man he'd known as James B. Hansen out of hiding so the police would put two and two together and track down the killer. Hansen had to smile at that. Homicide detectives, under Hansen's supervision—after all, John Wellington Frears was an important man in his own little musical circles, and his murder would demand the A-team's presence—would put two and two together all right. And then the fingerprints on the knife and the DNA in the hair would lead them straight to an ex-con killer named Joe Kurtz.
Hansen entered by a side door, went up an empty staircase to the fifth floor, paused outside Frears's room, and readied the card key—programmed by Hansen himself to open any door in the Sheraton—in his left hand and the.38 in his right. The pistol, of course, would later be found in Kurtz's flophouse room. The knife—which would not be the murder weapon, but which would draw blood as if the two men were fighting over it—would be found in the hotel room. Hansen had taken care to wait until the maids would be done with their housekeeping and the long hallway was empty as he keyed the door open. The chain lock was not on. Hansen had planned to hold his badge up to the peephole if it had been.
As soon as Hansen saw the sterile, empty room and neatly made bed, he knew that Frears had fled.
Damn it. Hansen immediately asked forgiveness from the Lord for his curse.
He closed the door, went out to his SUV, and used a disposable cell phone to call the Sheraton's front desk. "This is Detective Hathaway of the Buffalo Police Department, badge number…" He rattled off the retired number he'd looked up in the dead detective's file. "We're returning a call from one of your guests, ah…" He paused a few seconds as if looking up the name. "Mr. John Frears. Could you ring him for me, please?"
"I'm sorry, Detective Hathaway, Mr. Frears checked out this morning. About three hours ago."
"Really? He wanted to talk to us. Did he leave a forwarding address or number?"
"No, sir. I was the one who checked Mr. Frears out and he just paid his bill and left."