The Artisan: An Artistic Assassin Thriller

by Dyal Bailey

  Utterly drained, he clutched his phone in frustration, frowning. He attempted to fight off his fatigue by scratching the thick mass of hair on his head. By the time his fingers reached the nape of his neck, he thought of something, and smiled.

  “Listen, how can even Wagner compare to an artist of your caliber? How can the music of a man who served beer and sausages at his intermissions, be compared to your art, which is truly eternal?” He knew he was making headway, so he continued toward his bedroom. “Yes. At the very least, I see you as apple strudel and wiener schnitzel.” After fluffing his pillow, he turned down his smooth satin sheets. “Make Carlitos and his cousins your masterpiece, then do the janitors as a kind of Indie short. I’ll watch both videos just as soon as I wake up.”

  Antonio clicked off the phone and slid under his covers. Tapping on his bedside iPod, his breathing slowed to the sound of Renée Fleming and Susan Graham soothing him with voices that entwined with the perfection of a rippling stream. While the awe-inspiring soprano and mezzo-soprano sang their Abendsegen lullaby from Humperdinck’s Hänsel und Gretel, Antonio, with childlike thoughts of angels at his feet, fell deeply asleep.

  …

  A frazzled Micah stormed into Puja’s office and slammed his fist on the desk. “Where have you been?”

  “What’s your problem? I left messages with everyone, day before yesterday, saying that I needed a couple of personal days. I haven’t taken time off in weeks.” Puja continued to organize the clipboards and lab sheets in front of him.

  “Rafaela has gone missing, and no one knows where she is.” Micah spoke through his teeth with forced restraint.

  “I’m sure Dr. Ramos will turn up in time.” Puja looked up at him, calmly.

  He clenched his jaw. “Dr. Jacobs is frantic. Why are you so calm?”

  “I see no reason to panic; if anything were amiss, surely we would’ve heard. More than likely, she had unfinished business and needed to go out of town in order to complete it. You shouldn’t take everything so personal.” Puja stood up, pranced over to a filing cabinet, and slid in some papers.

  “I can’t believe you. For all we know, she’s dead, and you don’t even care.” Micah stepped between him and the cabinet, shoved Puja aside, and slammed the drawer shut.

  Puja put his hands on his hips. “If, for even one moment, I thought that Dr. Ramos was in danger, I promise you, I would more than care—I would be devastated. I have a sixth sense about things such as these. Trust me; everything is going to be okay.”

  Micah glared at him in disgust, nostrils flared, and bounded away.

  Puja called out to him. “Where are you going? You have work to do.”

  “I’m not doing anything for you or anybody else, until I find Rafaela! And if you don’t like it, then I quit!” He slammed the door behind him.

  …

  Detective Cotton Blanchard allowed himself to be led into the DA’s inner office by a zealous young legal aide, as if he’d never been there before. Mallory Fairfax looked up and motioned for Cotton to take a seat.

  The young aide stood by with eager eyes. He knew the kind of dressing down his boss was capable of giving, and he couldn’t wait to hear what she was going to say to the detective.

  Mallory waved a hand toward the door. “You can go, Blanton, and be sure to shut the door behind you. Tell Margaret that Detective Blanchard and I are not to be disturbed.”

  Disappointed, the aide pressed his lips together tightly. He sighed, but did as he was told.

  Mallory gave the detective a once over. Crew cut, beer belly, broken redneck English, and a ridiculous grin. What in the world was she going to do with this man?

  As soon as the door shut, Cotton stood up and strolled around to her side of the desk.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

  “What do you want me to do?” He grinned, yanking her from her chair.

  Mallory slipped into his arms. “I want you to tell me you interviewed those janitors and these Dress-Up Murders are solved.”

  He pulled away. “The janitors are all gone missin’ without a trace. But I’ll confess to the whole thing if you let me come over to your house for dinner tonight.”

  “I’m working late.” Her lips were pinched.

  “Then I’ll come by even later.” He sat down and pulled her into his lap.

  She playfully slapped him. “Stop. What if someone comes in?”

  He laughed. “As if they would dare. You know what they call yah, don’t yah? ‘She who must be obeyed.’ Ain’t nobody brave enough to go through that there door.”

  “My husband …”

  “Your almost ex-husband is a cheating dog. Besides, he’s afraid of me.” He licked her neck.

  Her eyes grew wide. “Cotton…you didn’t say anything?”

  Cotton grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.

  Her hands flew to her face. “Oh no. Darling, you said you would play nice. You know who his daddy is?”

  “I know his daddy plays golf with your daddy, and his family owns half of Georgia and South Carolina. All I did was give the boy a little hint that this here serial killer wasn’t the only one good with a knife. I don’t think he’ll be messin’ with you any time soon.” He thrust out his chest, almost causing the buttons around his midsection to pop.

  “Be serious. You could lose your job.” She pressed fingers across her forehead.

  “Not if I crack this case.” He smiled and nibbled on her chin.

  She got up and pulled him to his feet. “Then get cracking.”

  He swatted her on the buttocks and gave her a quick goodbye peck on the cheek.

  “And Cotton.” She smiled and started fixing her lipstick. “See you around eight.”

  He gave her a dopey smile. “I’ll pick you up some wine on the way.” He was almost to the door when he stopped and turned to her, his ears turning a warm shade of red. “Better be texting me what kind.”

  She let out an uncharacteristic, teenager-like giggle and took out her cell phone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Günter had just finished wrapping a bandage around his hand when a musical email alert echoed from his computer. He ignored it, as well as his growling stomach. With utmost care, he gently placed his arm in a sling made from an old apricot-and-lavender boating scarf. The email chimed again. He glowered at it and sighed. By the number series, he knew it was from his best customer, Antonio.

  Pursing his lips, he laid one of his throwaway cell phones on the table and dialed with his good hand. “Where do you think? Back in New York.” He tilted his chin up and rolled his eyes. “Bah! Did you expect me to starve?!” Suddenly remembering his stomach, Günter walked into his spotless gourmet kitchen. With his undamaged hand, he painstakingly opened a pleasingly-wrapped takeout container. Finding a pair of recently polished serving tongs, he moved each piece of the prosciutto-wrapped melon morsels, one-by-one, onto a pastel, floral serving dish. “Hah! There were only three passable chefs in the area, and not one of them could make an edible Coquilles St. Jacques.” He struggled and managed to open his kitchen drawer. “The sushi bars? Ach! Tako Sushi is always crowded and the others put too much sugar in their rice.”

  After opening the accompanying sauce, he dipped the tip of a small silver spoon in and had a taste. He scrunched his nose. He reached into his spice cabinet and retrieved his whole nutmeg, vigorously grating exactly ten strokes onto some wax paper. After adding two pinches to the sauce, he replaced the spice to its cabinet, and put the soiled spice-grater into his pristine stainless steel sink.

  “While you were playing Lawrence of Arabia, I took care of Carlitos and those janitors you sent me to. What are you complaining about?” Taking a fresh spoon, he whirled in the added nutmeg and smiled as the refurbished dipping sauce made contact with his discriminating palate. “Ach. You can keep the entire state of Georgia for yourself, as far as I’m concerned. They're all a bunch of barbarians,” he snorted. “You know exactly what I mean.” Günter
bit his now trembling lip. “They were most uncooperative.” His accent thickened and his exquisite blue eyes began to mist. “I broke three nails, and one of those hillbillies actually bit me.” He cringed, peered down at his sling, and shuddered. Then he thought of the teeth marks just below his thumb, and it took him over the edge. A large teardrop fell onto his cheek. “You wouldn't think I was overreacting if you’d been bitten by that cave man.” Then he gasped. He noticed that his thumbnail hadn’t been filed right. It wasn’t symmetrical at all. He rushed to his emergency nail-care drawer and pulled out a file. “I’ll call you when I recover.”

  Günter clicked off the phone and began filing the offending nail under the light. He sighed. He knew he had been brusque, but the man was impossible. He slapped his chest and thought to himself.

  I mean, really! Have I taken years to cultivate my reputation as the most sought after assassin to only the world’s most refined “connoisseurs of death” to be treated like a drive-thru garbage disposal? No. I have not!

  Then he contemplated the ‘big finale’ Antonio promised him. If these subjects were all he claimed they were, then the video might be an incredible addition to his portfolio. The thought of this upcoming challenge brightened his mood and helped him become more forgiving.

  He popped a melon ball into his mouth and, after cleansing any trace of juice off his hands, he started whistling the Flight of the Valkyries while frolicking in the direction of his editing room.

  …

  Bailey pulled out his pocketknife and cleaned the grease from under his thumbnail, accidentally piercing the flesh. He sucked the blood off his finger.

  “Screw it!” he fumed then deleted the email from Dickinson explaining Rafaela was back in Augusta. She needed to understand that although science had principles and rules, war had none. And she was at war, whether she liked it or not. And the way to win this war was to be ruthless. Utterly ruthless. And to be ruthless, she couldn’t have any inconvenient encumbrances like Dr. Jacobs or Micah Carteret.

  Unlike most men or women, Rafaela had what it took. She killed as coolly and efficiently as a chef beheaded a stalk of celery. And Dr. Jacobs? Pfft! The man was a glorified lab technician. Whereas she was unique, special, and best of all—from head to toe—she was deadly.

  Jacobs wasn’t fit to tie her shoelaces. Him and all his “save the world” hypothetical bull! She served a purpose. Let all those other drooling, scientific nerds find the cure for the common cold.

  Taking out his knife, he finished cleaning the nails on both of his thick muscular hands. He put away his tool and lit a cigar. As the aromatic smoke filled the room, he pondered what to do.

  Something had to be done about Jacobs and this computer jerk. And with the latest information, it looked like he’d need to handle it personally. He sat upright and crushed his cigar, as if crushing the entire staff of Gen-Bio-Lab. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the automatic pistol he kept with him at all times. Sliding the weapon into the holster he wore under his arm, he pushed the button on his intercom. “Get my plane ready.”

  Bailey started to head out, then thought better of it, and, eyes narrowed, went back to his desk and picked up an extra gun clip. With continued resolve, he thundered out of the door.

  …

  Rafaela waited under the streetlights by the levy. She saw that Micah had parked and was heading her way. He marched toward her, tense reserve covering his face. He held his peace until they were face to face.

  “What the hell happened to you for three days? I thought those Colombians came back and snatched you! For Heaven’s sake, I thought you were dead!” He waved his arms and his face was strained.

  Her voice was full and her eyes started to mist. “I’m sorry.”

  He ignored the shaky emotion in her voice. “You’d think you’d at least have the decency to leave a message for Dr. Jacobs. He’s been frantic! Where have you been?”

  “A few old friends dropped by and we decided to take a little jaunt to Saudi Arabia.” She attempted a dismissive shrug.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. “You were kidnapped?”

  She nodded, holding back her tears. He pulled her into his arms. This time she fell into his embrace. After several moments, he brushed the hair away from her face and looked into her eyes.

  “You’ve got to stop this insanity.” He held her and rocked her in his arms.

  She pushed away from him and shook her head. “How? These kind of guys will never let up, not until I’m dead.”

  He set his jaw. “You don’t know that. If you just separated yourself from all of Bailey’s crap—”

  “And do what? Lock myself inside some lab as tight as Fort Knox?” She rubbed the back of her neck.

  “Yes, for a start.” He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her forehead. She didn’t resist.

  …

  In the heart of downtown Augusta, not far from where Micah and Rafaela were meeting, Dickinson’s eyes darted around as he walked toward a black Suburban. He continued to talk on his cell. “I understand. You’ll be the first to know.”

  He got in and met a newly arrived and impatient Bailey.

  “Who the hell was that?” Bailey griped, eyeing him with annoyance as he thumbed through the papers in his hands.

  Dickinson’s gaze diverted to his shirt pocket. He took out a mint. “I was checking on my men. How should we proceed with Dr. Ramos?”

  Bailey turned, studying him. “How is she, physically, after the Arab thing?”

  Dickinson opened his iPad and showed him the health report. “According to our physicians, fine.”

  Bailey’s piercing gaze moved straight ahead. “Then we wait.”

  Dickinson swallowed his mint. “Yes, sir.”

  “When will she be done with Jacobs once and for all?” He started cracking his knuckles.

  “She said two days, tops.” Taking a deep breath, Dickinson thought about his discussion with Puja. He knew it was now or never if he was going to confess all to his boss. He cleared his throat, but as if that drug that Puja gave him back in the helicopter still had him in a choke hold, the words wouldn’t come.

  “I need that Serbian neutralized before the end of the week.” He picked up a manila envelope and pulled several pictures out.

  “She said she would handle it.” He looked at him. This was not an understanding man.

  “And you believed her?” Bailey shot back.

  Dickinson’s eyebrow rose. “Shouldn’t I?”

  Bailey tossed several photos of Micah and Rafaela in front of him on the seat. “You should have kept a better eye on her in the first place.”

  “And done what?” His voice was less than respectful, his face flushed. They locked eyes.

  “Gotten rid of that decrepit old scientist and the computer analyst before either of them became a problem.” Bailey’s teeth were bared.

  Dickinson stared at him, dumbstruck. Surely the man wasn’t serious. Dr. Jacobs and Micah Carteret were innocent, totally innocent.

  Bailey continued without so much as a twitch. “It’s not too late. I’ll let you know when.”

  Dickinson nodded, incapable of saying what he wanted to say, what he needed to say. He pulled at his collar and came to a realization. There were no good guys in this. Nodding to himself, he made a decision. And afterwards, he felt total relief, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted off his chest.

  Suddenly, he was no longer looking at Bailey as his boss. He popped three mints into his mouth and breathed the breath of a traitor.

  …

  Mezzo Peloso opened the door and peeked at Antonio, who was working furiously at his desk. He scrutinized the brilliant young man’s eyes as his gaze darted like rapid fire across page after page on his computer.

  Mezzo smiled. He even read like a lawyer. He fondly considered his brother’s only child. There was no denying it, Antonio was his favorite. Antonio understood the necessity of doing whatever it took to get the job done. Anton
io was relentless about covering his tracks. And his nephew had men killed without letting his emotions come into play, especially the most futile of all emotions: remorse.

  If he could just find him the right woman. He knew Antonio wasn’t gay; his sources were very clear on that subject. And what a work ethic the boy had. He’d make a wonderful husband and father.

  But who? And when?

  Mezzo scratched through what was left of the scraggly hair on his head and smiled; he made a decision. As soon as Antonio was done with his current venture, he would locate him a suitable bride. Perhaps a nice girl with firm cheekbones and broad baby-making hips from the old country? One that would give him lots of fine, dark-eyed sons.

  Before he could do this, of course, he would need to somehow convince the young man to start slowing down. With the wide, confident steps of a mafia don, he sauntered all the way in and stood by Antonio’s desk. “Any closer to wrapping up your CIA science project?”

  Antonio nodded and kept working.

  “I just got word. That idiot Carlitos and his Colombian cuckoo cousins turned up dead.” Mezzo had a playful grin on his face.