Paradise By The Rifle Sights (Greatest Hits romantic mysteries book #5) (Greatest Hits Mysteries)

by Langtry, Leslie

  One possibility was to smash through the mirror, like Ryan Reynolds did in Blade Trinity. There would probably be an extra way out in that room. But that required getting the drop on guys I couldn't see.

  Spraying the window with machine gun fire might work. It would have to be an Uzi or some other compact for me to smuggle it in. That would smash the window and kill pretty much everyone behind it. But it was noisy and would draw the attention of the actors in the hallway. I imagined a bunch of vapid, attractive men trying to keep their Botoxed features placid at such a noise, so as not to induce unsightly wrinkles.

  I also tried to imagine them rushing in to help, but I was pretty sure they'd flee instead. Why help someone and risk having your six pack abs scarred by a bullet? The idea made me laugh. Maybe going out the way I came in was an option after all.

  The other problem with the Uzi idea was that it would be tough to smuggle in. My Vic was paranoid and had security. No doubt, he'd have them searching everyone. At least, that's what I would do.

  The olive, grapes, and paperclips stared at me. Have you ever had an olive stare at you? It's creepy. I ate the food and shoved the paperclips aside. Once again, I had nothing. My cell beeped, and I pulled it from my pocket to check my email.

  Mr. Bombay,

  You have been selected to audition for The Bachelor! Please report to Studio 7B at the date and location listed below.

  Sincerely,

  The Producers

  I was in. I had two days. Two days to get to LA and complete Liv's assignment. Once home, I would finally look into some speed dating or something to get my life on track. That was something to look forward to.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Nothing is impossible. Some things are just less likely than others."

  ~Jonathan Winters

  "You want me to shake his hand?" I asked Dak, frowning.

  "It's a small, clear pin filled with tree frog poison." Dak grinned at me as he pulled out a small, nearly invisible needle.

  "So, he'll feel it when it happens?" I wasn't sure about this. Bombays weren't too keen on getting caught.

  Dak ran his other hand (the one unencumbered with frog poison) through his hair. "Well, yeah. But you palm the empty needle and get away."

  I examined the needle. "Exactly how do I hold the needle so it pierces him, and not me?"

  "You grip it with your palm." Dak's smile lost some of its luster.

  "I don't know about you, but I don't have prehensile palms." I shook my head. "And this whole plan is contingent on the fact that I can get a face-to-face with him." I pictured myself failing at this and attempting to throw the needle at the mirror in a last ditch effort. In this fantasy, the needle would clink against the mirror before shattering on the floor, spilling a microscopic amount of tree frog poison.

  Dak nodded. "Okay. That won't work. Sorry."

  I sighed, "No problem. I shouldn't have asked. Of course, I shouldn't have agreed with Liv either."

  "Ask Missi," Dak said.

  I told him about my conversation with her. "Anyway, this is my problem." I looked at my watch. "I have to pack for my flight tomorrow."

  An hour later, I had my black, Tumi roll-on neatly organized with everything I would need for the trip. Everything, that is, except for a plan. The whole thing was bothering me. I've always been organized…on top of things. How did this happen? It wasn't like me at all.

  I'd just have to think of something on the flight over. My audition was in twelve hours. Whatever I'd need I'd have to find in LA. I'd never been so disorganized. That's what happens when you take jobs that aren't yours. And because I was illegally on the job, I couldn't borrow the Bombay private jet. Word would get out. Family would know. If you got busted by the Council taking another Bombay's job, that meant corporeal punishment. And that meant I was taking a commercial airline.

  I was starting to believe that I'd lost it. Bombays lose it all the time. The pressure of the job makes having a normal life impossible. Our family tree was loaded with stories of assassins snapping—often spectacularly. In the early twentieth century, Sicily Bombay snapped and ran around the streets of Oslo wearing a Santa suit and throwing cauliflower at people before she was gunned down by the cauliflower-hating police.

  Forty years earlier, Kiev Bombay decided to swim the distance between Australia and New Zealand, while wearing a necklace made of steak. His remains were never found. Perhaps the most famous story in our history is that of Moosejaw Bombay. At the age of eighty-three he decided he was such an excellent assassin, he could kill an elephant with his bare hands. He even insisted on wearing a blindfold. I've heard he still stains the pavement at a bazaar in Pakistan—but I've never been to check it out myself.

  I didn't want to lose it. Sure, this business was pretty high pressure—but to go insane on a simple job would make it tough to find Mrs. Paris Bombay. I just had to hold it together through this assignment. If I did that, I could make Liv do the next gig assigned to me. And I hoped it was a messy one.

  I flew first class to LAX, naturally. My Armani suit jacket hung on a hanger behind me. After the hot towel and a whiskey sour, I could feel myself starting to relax. Of course I could come up with something. I'm a Bombay—and not one of the crazy ones. We've had four thousand years of experience making stuff up on the fly. In fact, that's what we all did before we had Missi. Great, Great Aunt Bethesda once had five seconds to figure out how to kill a South American dictator during a tennis party and escape without notice. (Hint, the secret was in the velocity of the tennis ball.)

  It would come to me. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

  "Excuse me?" A woman's voice said.

  I looked up and saw a statuesque brunette with full lips and a neat black bob. She was cute. Really cute.

  "Can you help me?" She was struggling with a carry on.

  I was on my feet in seconds, easing the bag into the overhead compartment. The woman stood close to me. She smelled like expensive perfume. I smiled at her and then returned to my seat.

  "Thanks," she said with a grin that implied she was interested. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that. She took the seat next to mine and extended her hand.

  "My name is Cindee," she said with a smile.

  She was tall and curvy in all the right places and made me think of noir black and white films. I felt like Sam Spade and immediately regretted not bringing my fedora.

  "Paris," I said, taking her hand in mine. "A pleasure to meet you."

  She had dimples and a voice that sounded like a tall, cool drink on a hot afternoon.

  "Nice to meet you, Paris." I wondered what to say next. Dak was the guy with the moves and great lines, not me.

  "So," I said, "heading to Los Angeles?" Okay, that might have been a bit stupid. The plane we were on was, after all, a direct flight to LAX.

  Cindee had the class to ignore my faux pas. "Yes, and I'll be there a while…I hope."

  "You hope?" I asked. "You don't know?"

  Cin shook her head, and a wave of silky, black hair fell perfectly into place. "I'm an actress." She made a face, and I thought that was adorable. I couldn't stand pretentious actors. This woman had a sexy, self-deprecating edge I found irresistible.

  "I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for." Clearly this conversation wasn't working for me. Maybe I needed another whiskey sour?

  Cindee rolled her eyes. "I'm just tired of doing theatre, that's all. It's a lot of work for little money. I want to see if I can actually make it on TV." She shrugged…adorably…"And if it doesn't work, I'll return to my parents' bookstore. That was the deal."

  That got my attention. "You like books?"

  "Sometimes more than acting, really. I love nothing more than to put on my silk pajamas, and sit in front of a roaring fireplace with a first edition of Tennyson." She shook her head. "Sounds pretentious and boring, right?"

  My head was pounding. Bookstore? Silk pajamas? Poetry? Was this some sort of a setup? Maybe the gig was just a ru
se for Liv to get me on the plane with my dream girl. I know, you're wondering why she didn't just set us up on a regular date. But the Bombays are different (and rather dangerous) that way.

  "So," she continued, "I got this opportunity to be on some, stupid Bachelor knock off, and here I am."

  And there it was. I had trouble returning her grin. She was one of the vapid bimbos for the show. I should've known better. I really should have.

  The steward began announcing the safety procedures as the plane began to taxi down the runway. Thank God. I didn't think I could continue the dialogue. What was I supposed to say? What I thought? That she was going to share a man with a roomful of women and discover he's her true love? There simply was no way to justify that kind of rationale. It felt dishonest and wrong.

  "Well, it was nice meeting you, Paris," Cindee said when I didn't respond. She turned away with a small frown as she pulled out a book to read.

  "You too." And I leaned back and closed my eyes. I had four hours to think of a plan. The sooner I took out the Vic, the sooner I could get back home and find a 'real' woman.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "The best defense against the atom bomb is not to be there when it goes off."

  ~British Army Journal 1949

  We landed at LAX, and I helped Cindee with her bag in the overhead compartment (Hey, I'm not a cad.), then nodded my goodbye. Within an hour, I was safe in my hotel room with my thoughts. My empty, empty thoughts. I'd never had this problem before, and I'd certainly never gone into a job cold, with no plan.

  Don't get me wrong, sometimes in my business you have moments where you have to improvise because of timing. I did just fine with that. It just wasn't my preference. Like the time I'd planned for days for a hit on this Latvian terrorist. I'd spent weeks setting the job up, and he just happens to walk into the same men's room in Munich where I was washing my hands. Two minutes and a destroyed urinal later, my job was done. It wasn't pretty, and it was obviously a murder, but the Council considered it a job well done. I just would've preferred doing it my way.

  You have to take pride in your work. I could take on four or five guys bare-fisted and leave them all drowning in their own blood (And yes, I actually did that in Paraguay once). But that lacked style. Each of us in the Bombay clan had our own way of doing things. Some liked to delay the deaths with poison so they could be two time zones away before the Vic fell over dead into his beluga caviar. Others preferred a swift and bloody execution that left no doubt what had happened. Still others liked their hits to look like accidents. (Hint – don't visit the Grand Canyon if there's a contract out on you.) I just wanted to leave a little elegance behind. It's a personal preference.

  The hotel concierge called as I unpacked and told me there was a voicemail for me. It was from the show. I needed to be at the studios first thing in the morning for the audition. This was cutting things too close—I needed some sort of idea now. So I did the first thing I could think of…I ordered room service.

  Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. These guys were fast. Through the spy hole I saw a waiter with a cart and opened the door.

  For a second, the man looked surprised to see me, which was odd. He quickly regained his composure. "Good evening, Sir." The man nodded as he pushed the cart past me into the room.

  "You can put it on the table," I said absently.

  The waiter nodded again and slid the cart up to the table. I waited for him to put the covered trays there, but he hesitated. Alarms went off in my head, and I checked him out. And that's when I noticed his shoes. They weren't the black, polished wingtips this hotel chain was noted for. They were brown. And they didn't match his black pants. That, in and of itself, was a crime.

  His arm came up in a second, and I saw the .45 with silencer in his left hand. How original. I charged him before he had a chance to fire. Straddling him on the floor, we wrestled for the gun. Who was this guy? Forcing his left arm to the floor with my left hand, I punched him in the throat with my right.

  The guy started wheezing, struggling for breath. I usually wouldn't hit someone in the throat without asking questions first, as this tends to crush their trachea, killing them prematurely. But I hadn't been expecting an attack, and he had a gun. The man choked while I held his gun hand down. After a few moments, he died. Prying the pistol from his hand, I got to my feet and then sat on the bed.

  Yup, he was dead alright. And I was very confused. Was there a hit on me? Or was this guy supposed to take out Liv—since the job was originally assigned to her? The only way I was going to know anything was to search the body.

  The room was still. It always felt still after taking a life. I always thought this was because my senses were on hyper-alert. The silence seemed blaringly loud, and my skin tingled. The adrenaline high had me in its grip.

  What a moron. He had his wallet in his pocket. I found a set of car keys on a Dodge truck key chain. I pulled out my cell and hit speed dial.

  "Hey, Paris." Dak sounded like he was in the middle of something.

  "Dak, I need you to look into something for me." I explained what just happened and got his full attention.

  "He had his wallet and keys on him? Is this a joke?" Dak laughed.

  "Yeah, and he also had a silenced .45. Stay focused!" I snapped. "According to his ID, his name is Luther Coswald." I paused to spell it and dictate the address. "There's five hundred dollars, cash," I sighed—wondering why so little. "Nothing else."

  "You want me to run it for you?" Dak asked.

  "No, I'll do that on my laptop. I just want you to put the word out to our contacts…see if Liv had a hit against her." My throat tightened. If anything happened to my sister…

  "Right. Do you want me to let her know?"

  "Yes, and I think you should let Gin and Leonie know too. Doesn't hurt to be extra careful."

  Dak didn't answer. I knew he didn't want to involve his new wife. But she'd been in the business before retiring. Leonie could handle herself.

  "On second thought," I said, "maybe Liv should get out of town for a while. Whoever did this thinks she's here, not me. And they'd be more likely to screw up."

  "Let them believe she is in LA. Good idea," Dak said. "I'll talk to mom about who the contract came from and let you know what I find out."

  In seconds I was on my laptop, trolling for info about the dead waiter in my room. The Bombays, thanks to my cousin, Missi, had some unusual search engines. We had complete access to DMV, census, and tax records—thanks to a long relationship with some government shadow agencies.

  Luther turned out to be on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted List for murder and counterfeiting—something I found ironic. How had he evaded the feds but couldn't get past me? The fact his face was hanging in every post office in America was odd. Usually the guys who come after Bombays are off the grid. Seemed a bit unprofessional to use this guy.

  His address was actually just a few blocks from the hotel, in Beverly Hills. And I had his keys. Perfect. Now, what should I do with the body?

  Luther was a little heavier, but his jacket and white gloves fit me. I'd use my own shirt, tie and pants, and the RIGHT shoes. The room service cart worked perfectly to smuggle out the body. It took a while to cram him in there so that a stray ankle or hand didn't pop out, but I managed. The dark green tablecloth covered everything but the back, but I'd be pushing it there so would probably be okay.

  I'd have to avoid the service elevator. I didn't want to run into the staff or end up in the kitchen. None of the guests seemed to think it strange that I was using the guest elevator. Hotel staff were usually invisible to most people. I made it to the parking lot easily enough.

  Finding his truck wasn't even hard. All I had to do was hit the unlock button on the key remote, and a navy blue Dodge truck flashed its lights. After unloading Luther into the vehicle, I started up the truck and made my way to the address on his driver's license.

  I pulled up into a set of elite condominiums in Beverly Hills. A r
ow of carefully manicured hedges kept the door from view. After changing back into my own suit jacket, I made my way to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. I tried again. No point in letting myself in if there was a Mrs. Luther at home.

  When several minutes passed, I inserted the key into the lock and turned. The key to breaking into a house that isn't your own is to look like you belong there. Once the door was shut behind me, I let out a breath.

  The condo looked more like a showroom than an actual living space. There was no dust, no wrinkles in the upholstery, nothing to indicate anyone had lived here. The cupboards and drawers in every room were empty. Nothing was plugged into the outlets. Whatever this address was, neither Luther nor anyone else had ever lived here.

  The condo was clean—devoid of any information at all. Even the computer was a prop. Now I had a different problem. Do I leave the body here? That was my original intention. Someone would eventually find him here and think he died at home. But now, with this being a false address, a dead body would only make it very newsworthy.

  But maybe that wasn't a bad idea. The local news might find out more than I could. Besides, I was running out of time. I waited in the condo until darkness fell, and smuggled the body in through the sliding glass door out back. After arranging the body on the bathroom floor, to look like he'd fallen and hit his neck on the sink, (and planting his wallet back on him) I slipped out the back door.

  Leaving the keys in the truck, I took side streets back to my hotel. Back in my room, I checked out the gun. At least I had a weapon now. But I still didn't know how I was going to kill my target in the morning. Fantastic.