by Ewan, Chris
And to some extent, I didn’t want to believe it, either. The book had always been there for me, watching over me when I was writing, and I missed it badly – not just because it was a handsome object, but also because of what it represented to me. Writing a novel even half as good as the Falcon was something to aspire to – perhaps even something worth dedicating one’s life to – and it couldn’t hurt to be reminded of that whenever I found myself stuck writing a particular passage, or griping about a set of edits.
What’s more, I couldn’t deny that I was experiencing the desire for some kind of revenge. Graziella hadn’t simply stolen something precious from me and duped me into doing her bidding – she’d also hurt my pride. As a thief, it went against the grain to be burgled, but what really rankled was the way Graziella had questioned my professionalism. True enough, I’d taken a sabbatical from my larcenous ways, but while I’d been plagued over the years by doubts about my ability as a writer, I’d never had any concerns about my talent as a housebreaker. I knew I was good at accessing other people’s homes, and even better at swiping their things, but Graziella had treated me like a bumbling amateur. She’d insulted me, but worse than that, she’d underestimated me, and I had an undeniable urge to make her pay for it.
So, in conclusion, when I broke everything down, I had plenty to ponder. And, to be perfectly frank, I wasn’t altogether sorry to find myself preoccupied. Why? Well, it was far more preferable than thinking about Victoria.
Right now, she was in her bedroom across the hall from me – perhaps reading my manuscript, perhaps fast asleep. Earlier on, we’d worked together to position the two intruder alarms in the hall and the living room, and then I’d made sure that she had her pepper spray and the Taser gun close at hand before going to my own room for the night. I’d offered to book her into the Hotel American just along from my apartment, which she’d point-blank refused to let me do, but for the time being she was as safe as I could possibly make her, short of sleeping on the floor of her room. On a different day, in other circumstances, I dare say I would have done just that. It was very probably the noble thing to do, and I can tell you without any hesitation that if I’d been writing the scene myself, it’s undoubtedly what my lead character Michael Faulks would have insisted upon. Mind you, Faulks has something of a runaway libido, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d have ended up seducing the woman he’d tasked himself with protecting.
Now, I’m not suggesting for one moment that I’d have attempted the same thing with Victoria. In fact, the very idea petrified me. But, no matter how hard I tried to block it from my mind, there was no denying that something had passed between us in that alley (and I don’t just mean saliva).
The kiss, that was the problem. I was a fool for having pulled the move and, in hindsight, I didn’t doubt that a squirt of Victoria’s pepper spray would have been a lot less toxic. I wasn’t at all sure how things stood between us now, and from the way Victoria had avoided eye contact with me during the evening, and taken herself to bed at shortly before nine o’clock, I couldn’t escape the fact that she was very likely as confused as me.
She was a work colleague, yes, but she was also my confidante and the closest friend I’d ever known. Given the choice, I’d rather have shut myself inside the palazzo strongroom with a hundred briefcase bombs than jeopardise our relationship. And yet, because I was a moron who’d acted on impulse, I might have done precisely that.
Listen, I can’t pretend that I’d never noticed Victoria was attractive. She was slim but curvy, smart and funny, and she was more than my equal in just about any department you could care to mention. We liked the same things, shared the same passions, and there was no denying that we’d flirted a little over the years. But the kiss had taken things to another level – one that felt so precariously high I was a little surprised my nose wasn’t bleeding.
Was it my imagination, or had she reciprocated? Did that mean it was something she’d secretly wanted to have happen between us, or had she been trying to save me from embarrassment? Was she experiencing the same conflicting emotions as me, or was it all a lot simpler for her? Was she upset?
Questions. I had far too many, and very few that were welcome. Victoria had said that we should erase the entire episode from our minds and I wished to hell I could do just that. In fact, if a little genie had appeared at the foot of my bed and granted me three wishes right then, my first would have been to go back in time and stop the entire episode from happening. Oh, and if you’re wondering what my other two wishes would have been, that’s easy. Number two, to get my book back safe and sound. And three? Well, that would have been to make it through the entire night without waking to find someone pressing a gun into my stomach.
TWENTY
Damn genies – they never materialise when you need them to. Sadly for me, other people had a habit of doing just that, and one of those pesky individuals happened to be jabbing a gun into my gut.
She had red hair this time. A bright punk-red. The strands, which fell to her shoulders from a centre parting and curled outwards, looked to have been made from the cheapest of plastics. Realistic, it wasn’t. Striking, it most certainly was.
Her outfit was just as memorable. Black leather gloves and a zipped leather biker jacket, black commando pants with multiple pockets, black training shoes and, of course, the jet-black pistol.
The gun was large and mean-looking and it was fitted with a silencer. The silencer wasn’t a detail I was especially pleased by, but then again, neither was the gun, and to be honest, I didn’t like the way her finger was curled around the trigger all that much either.
One of my guilty little secrets is that I don’t know a great deal about firearms, which is something of a no-no for a mystery writer. In the past, I’ve had readers email me to say that I’ve got the details all wrong in one of my books – that such-and-such a weapon doesn’t have a safety, or that Faulks has fired one more bullet than a Glock could possibly hold. But there were certain pieces of information I’d picked up over the years, and one of them was that it was never a good thing to have an automatic pistol aimed at you. Oh, and if you were unfortunate enough to find yourself in such a scenario, one of the least pleasant places to be shot was in your intestine. It hurt like merry hell, by all accounts, but left untreated, it also had a nasty habit of causing your demise.
I’d had characters use suppressors in my books before and there was only ever one reason for it. They wanted to kill quickly and efficiently and escape undetected. So all things considered, my situation didn’t look all that encouraging.
‘Don’t shoot me,’ I said. I understand it’s de rigueur to utter those words when you find yourself likely to be fired upon. ‘Please,’ I added, which was an embellishment I’d devised for myself. Good manners cost nothing, right?
‘Sit up,’ she said, and motioned with her gun for me to do just that.
I could see that she was gesturing with her gun and, come to think of it, I was able to describe her wig, her outfit and her weapon with such clarity because she’d taken it upon herself to switch on the lamp in the corner of my room. Strange. Sudden light was usually capable of waking me, but tonight it seemed that only a pistol pressed to my belly button could hit the spot (and boy, how I wished that wasn’t so).
‘Put your hands behind your back.’
Ah, now that was a command I was perfectly happy to obey. Shuffling towards my headboard, I slid my fingers beneath my pillow. Somewhere underneath was the stun gun Victoria had given me. Fifty thousand volts. If only Graziella moved a little closer, I might have a chance. Flip back the lid, slide the switch to one side and plunge the fizzing prongs deep into her neck. With any luck, she’d be completely disabled, unable to get a shot off.
It was a fine plan, and without question the best one I had at my disposal. Just one problem. I couldn’t find the damn stun gun.
‘You are looking for this?’ she asked, removing the very weapon from the bulky pocket on her thigh.<
br />
Oh, good grief. So that was just the bright light and the fact she’d fumbled around beneath my head that had failed to wake me. Typical. The one night when I knew I might have to be on my guard, I’d slept as if Victoria had slipped Rohypnol into my cocoa. Maybe it was the after-effects of the drug Martin had pumped into my system. I was beginning to wonder if he truly had been a doctor – it would have made a lot more sense if he’d treated me to a dose of horse tranquilliser.
Graziella turned the stun gun in her hand and smiled at me the way a cat might smile at a mouse before removing its entrails. Or, more accurately, the way a cat burglar might smirk at an out-of-practice thief before shooting him in the tummy.
‘You would use this on me?’ she asked, and pouted as if she was terribly upset by the notion.
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ I said. ‘Given you’re holding a gun on me.’
She thumbed back the lid on the stun gun, exposing the prongs, then flicked the switch until the bluish current buzzed in her hand. She rolled down her lower lip, intrigued, before passing an appraising eye over my body. I drew back my legs, folding them at the knees until there was as much distance between us as possible. The move seemed to amuse her. She smiled and cut the charge, returning the device to her pocket.
‘You opened the briefcase.’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head. The toxic-red wig shimmied like a hula skirt, the vibrant colour making her skin appear paler than normal – as if she was suffering a bout of anaemia.
‘You think? What gave it away?’
There was a glimmer in her eye, but it failed to reach her lips. ‘You are a fool,’ she said, in a voice leaden with fatigue. ‘You should be dead.’
‘I was lucky. The vault contained the blast.’
She winced, as if she’d feared I might say that. ‘The coins? The paintings?’
‘Gone. Everything’s toast.’
She released a long breath and raised the gun to scratch her temple with the muzzle. Shame my reflexes weren’t unbelievably fast. If only I could whip my hands out from behind my back and get to the trigger before she caught up with the move, I could decorate my bedroom wall with her brains. Then again, maybe she’d slip and do it for me.
Nope, sadly not. She lowered the gun, casually resting her elbow in the palm of her hand. I glanced down at her shapely waist. No climbing harness.
‘How’d you get in?’ I asked.
‘Your door,’ she said simply.
Huh, so she really was as good as I’d feared. Opening the locks I’d selected would have been tricky, and then there was the alarm sensor in the hallway. Part of me wanted to ask her how she’d managed to sneak in so easily. Only my ego, and a little professional dignity, stopped me from doing just that.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said.
She inclined her head to one side, red locks hanging unnaturally straight. Apparently, she wasn’t in a hurry to execute me.
‘Why me?’
She blinked. Looked almost dazed. ‘There is no reason.’
‘None?’
‘I hoped maybe you would be better. If you listened to me, and did as I told you, I did not think it was so bad for you. You could have taken something from the vault, yes?’
‘But you told me not to.’
She raised her eyebrows. Okay, it was a stupid point. She’d told me not to open the case, too.
‘I’d still have been involved in killing a man,’ I told her. ‘I mean, that had to be the idea, right?’
She barely nodded, but it was enough that she didn’t deny it. I suppose that should have come as no surprise, but it still shocked me to know that I’d almost carried out all the steps of an assassination. God knows how I would have reacted if my greed and curiosity hadn’t got the better of me.
‘So what made you think I wouldn’t go to the police?’ I asked. ‘Were you always planning on coming back here to kill me?’
Her face tangled. I didn’t know if I should trust my eyes, but she appeared perplexed. Saddened, too.
‘Kill you?’ she said, as though testing the words on her tongue. ‘But this is not so.’
‘It isn’t? Then how do you explain that.’ I jutted my chin at her gun.
‘Ah,’ she said, as if we’d finally broken through a stubborn language barrier. ‘But this is for you, yes?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘When I am gone.’ She nodded. ‘I leave it for you.’
‘Why? Are you expecting me to shoot myself?’ Now true, I was feeling a touch sheepish about what I’d done to Count Borelli’s home, but it was something I thought I could live with.
‘Idiot. It is so you can kill him.’
My eyes widened and my skin began to tingle. I was starting to feel uncommonly warm. Obviously, it was just me, because Graziella appeared ice-cool and unruffled.
‘Who’s him?’ I asked, although I really would have preferred not to know.
‘The Count.’
My voice had become small all of a sudden. ‘But why would I do that?’
She began to smile, coyly at first. ‘There is your book for one thing. But also,’ she said, the grin breaking for good and revealing perfect teeth beneath innocent eyes, ‘there is your friend. Across the hall from you, yes? If you do not do this . . . well.’
‘Well?’ I gulped.
She shrugged, as if helpless, then lifted the gun to her temple and faked pulling the trigger. ‘Poof,’ she said, meanwhile unfurling her hand on the opposite side of her head, as if her brain had just exploded from her skull. Something fell from her grip. A light, brownish substance floated down to my bedcovers like a feather. I peered at it. A clump of hair. Nutty, with the odd blondish fibre. It looked very much like Victoria’s shade.
Oh boy. So I wasn’t the only one who’d slept far too deeply. Apparently, Victoria had dozed through an impromptu trim.
I was beginning to suspect Graziella was a little unstable. It wasn’t simply her willingness to turn a loaded gun on herself to emphasise a point, it was also the way she thought it was perfectly acceptable to break into people’s homes to cut their hair or demand that they murder someone on her behalf. I was pretty sure that wasn’t normal behaviour. Mind you, normal was becoming a distant memory to me – it had already been a mighty eventful few days, and I had a funny feeling that wasn’t going to change any time soon.
‘Don’t bring her into this,’ I said, pointing at the sample of Victoria’s tresses. You’ll have to forgive me the line. This wasn’t a time for originality – I needed the message to be clear.
‘But it will not be necessary,’ Graziella announced, sounding like she was completing a basic sum, ‘if you kill him.’
‘To be perfectly honest, I’d really rather not.’ There was a twinge in the muscles around her eyes, like a response to mild pain, and I found myself having to explain my reluctance to commit premeditated murder. ‘Look, I’ve done some bad things in my time, it’s true. I used to be a burglar, you know that, and I was pretty good, even if I do say so myself. But I’m no hit man. I’m not in the habit of killing people. It’s just not something that I do.’
It had seemed like a reasonable argument to me, but judging from Graziella’s flustered reaction, it didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. She fidgeted on the bed, scratching her neck with her nails, clearly frustrated with me. I just wasn’t getting it.
‘But he is a bad man,’ she said.
‘What does that even mean?’
‘He has done terrible things.’
‘Such as?’
She paced to the corner of my room, then turned with her arms folded across her chest, the gun hanging down beneath the crook of her left elbow. Maybe she was slow, I told myself. Maybe she was a terrible shot. If I rushed her I might have a chance.
Before I thought any more of it, she stamped her foot into the ground and made a huffing noise, like a toddler brewing a tantrum. Her fake hair jiggled with a plastic rustle.
‘I cannot tell you wh
at he has done,’ she whined. ‘But you must believe me.’
Believe her. Oh, well sure, I was perfectly prepared to do that. I mean, what possible reason could I have not to trust her?
‘Then go to the police,’ I said. ‘Talk to them. If what you say is true, and the things he’s responsible for are so awful, they can arrest him.’
‘But this will not work.’
‘And why’s that?’
She tightened her free hand into a fist. ‘Because of who he is. They will not care. They will not help me.’
‘Then why should I?’
‘Many people want him to die. Powerful people. If you do not do this, they will be angry with you.’
‘What people? Do you work for them?’
She chose not to answer me, preferring to bite down on her knuckle instead. She gnawed at her flesh as if she planned to strip it to the bone.
‘Because if they hired you,’ I went on, ‘I imagine they’ll be more inclined to be angry with you than me. And if that’s the case, I don’t see why their feelings should trouble me unduly.’
She stared hard, eyes full of white, nostrils pinched, as though she hoped to convince me by force of will alone. When I failed to succumb, she raised her chin and closed one eye, then straightened the arm with the gun in it and aimed directly at my head. ‘Then I will kill you,’ she said. ‘I have to. You make it so. And afterwards, I will kill your friend. Believe me, I will do it.’
She certainly looked as though she was capable of carrying out her threat. I didn’t think there was much she wasn’t capable of. Her hand wasn’t even trembling. In every mystery novel I’d ever written, when a woman held a gun on Michael Faulks, her arm definitely trembled. But Graziella? Not a quiver.
‘That’s hardly fair,’ I told her, which, I confess, was more than a touch weak.
‘But what can I do? I cannot allow you to live. You will warn him.’