by Otho Eskin
I move slowly along the hallway until I find the door marked STAFF ONLY, and a new text appears on my phone. Happy to see you are being cautious. So very wise of you. Open the door and go down the stairs. Oliver is waiting for you in the carpentry shop.
The door opens onto a narrow flight of steep, wooden stairs. I turn off the overhead stair light so I do not make myself a target, then cautiously work my way down, bracing myself on the walls.
The step next to the bottom is loose and creaks under my weight. In front of me is a door with a sign that reads SHOP.
I step into a large room brightly lit by fluorescent lights and filled with carpentry machine tools. There’s a sweet smell of sawdust in the air—plywood and cedar—and glue and oil paint. In the center of the room is a worktable on the center of which lies a small object that was once a cheap, green plastic turtle named Oliver.
Oliver is now a pile of crushed plastic.
I’ve just walked into a trap.
I lunge to one side and grab for the light switch next to the door. I’m lucky: my fingers find the switch, and I turn off the lights, plunging the room into darkness just as a shot is fired at me from across the room.
For the moment I’m blind: so is the shooter.
I hold my breath, crouching behind what I think is a workstation, and reconstruct in my mind the layout of the room from my brief glimpse before it went dark. The shot was from a small-caliber handgun fired from about twenty feet away so the shooter was probably standing with his back to the far wall. Did I stumble onto a burglary? Who burgles a carpentry shop?
This was carefully planned. Someone has lured me here, waiting for me to walk through the door. In the brief instant before I killed the lights, I saw nobody, so the shooter must have been hiding behind a tall drill press waiting for me to open that door. The staircase behind me was dark, and I made a poor target. Had I left the stair lights on, I would be dead.
Now the shooter has missed me, and he’s lost his best chance. He has to figure out where I’m hiding. He can’t risk turning on the lights; he doesn’t know I’m unarmed and I can’t shoot back. To my far left, I remember seeing a table saw. To my far right, as near as I can reconstruct the room, there is a band saw or maybe a table-mounted router.
I wait and listen in the darkness. I try to remember to breathe.
The killer must be moving silently through the room toward me, listening for any sound that will give away my location.
There’s another shot. I see the muzzle flash, closer this time and to my left, from somewhere near the drill press. I hear the round strike metal.
The shooter takes two more wild shots in the dark, but he isn’t aiming to hit me because he can’t know where I am. He’s trying to force me to stay motionless and hide until he can get between me and the door I entered and trap me inside the workshop, blocking my escape back up the stairs. The shooter is doing the smart thing. That makes this a game of nerves, and I don’t plan to play his mind game.
I dash through the open door I just entered, stop at the bottom of the wooden staircase, remember which is the loose step—second from the bottom, I think. I reach down into the black void of the stairwell and smash my fist onto the wooden step, making a loud creak, then step as far away from the stairs as quickly as I can.
My killer fires twice more. He thinks I’m escaping up the stairs and am trapped in the narrow, confined stairwell—an easy target. He’s not trying to hide now. He thinks he’s got me trapped, and he dashes up the stairs in search of what’s left of me.
I wait at the bottom of the stairs half expecting the killer to come back down when he discovers he’s missed me, but no one appears, and after two minutes, I go up the stairs, being careful to avoid the creaking step. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder.
There are loud voices when I get to the top and the corridor flickers with flashlight beams. Somebody switches on the corridor lights, and two nervous cops, both with guns drawn, stand at the stage door.
“We heard gunshots,” one of the cops says nervously.
I identify myself while one of the cops goes downstairs to search the workshop. It’s pointless: he’ll find out soon enough. My attacker has long gone.
“Nobody in sight,” the cop announces when he returns. “Looks like you flushed a burglar. All I could find was a broken plastic toy on one of the tables. Does this belong to you?” He holds in his hand the crushed remains of Oliver.
“Nothing to do with me,” I say.
I explain to one of the cops this was not a burglary but a planned attack—on me. The cop listens politely but is unconvinced while his partner prowls the area around the stage door. I show the cop the texts on my cell phone. He looks more perplexed than convinced but records the texts in his notebook
“Oh, Sweet Jesus,” the prowling cop yells. He’s looking into a small utility closet cluttered with brooms and mops. Huddled in a fetal position on the closet floor is a man wearing some kind of uniform with a shoulder badge reading “Special Police.”
I’ve found the missing guard. A thin black cord is wrapped tight around the man’s throat, cutting deep into his flesh.
I now have two murder victims to deal with: Vickie and this poor son of a bitch.
I call Lucy and fill her in on what has happened in the theater shop. The two cops have already called in their murder report, and it’s only a matter of minutes before this part of the building will be swarming with police investigators.
“Are you okay?” Lucy asks as soon as she arrives at the stage door.
“I’m fine.” I can see she’s unconvinced.
“Somebody tried to kill you? That’s not fine. Who did this?”
“I have no idea.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I got a text message on my phone telling me to come here. It indicated that I might get important information about Victoria West’s murder.”
“You came by yourself? Without backup? That was stupid.”
What can I say?
“Why didn’t you call me?” She’s mad now. “You should have called for backup.”
“I know. I just thought this might be personal.”
“What do you mean personal?”
I show Lucy the text messages.
“Who’s Oliver?”
“Oliver is a cheap plastic toy turtle. The kind you buy at souvenir stores. Oliver has a little spring inside that made him hop. That cop has what’s left of Oliver.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Vickie bought it for me years ago. After one of our arguments. It was a kind of peace offering. We swore on a stack of paper napkins that if she was ever in trouble, she’d send Oliver to me as a sign she needed help.”
Lucy looks slightly disgusted. “Who knew about this Oliver turtle?”
“It wasn’t a secret exactly. It was just a private thing between me and Vickie. When I got the text, I thought …”
“You thought Vickie was communicating from the next world?” Lucy is exasperated.
“Not at all. I just thought that somebody Vickie knew well; somebody she might have trusted—maybe she told him about Oliver … I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You weren’t thinking, Marko. That’s the plain truth.”
“Have our IT people check these text messages. See if they can find out who sent them.”
She takes my cell phone. “I’ll assign this case to Roy Hunt. He’ll jump at the chance to run his own murder investigation.”
I’m sure Roy will be overjoyed. I’m also pretty sure he’ll get nowhere. This was too carefully planned, and Roy is a fool.
While Lucy calls Roy and gets her troops in order, I review the events of the last few days to see if I can make sense of what’s happened. I now understand two things: this attempt on my life is connected to the murder of Vickie West and may be connected to the attempt in front of my house. I’m now a target as well. Whoever is after me knows a great deal about me, in
cluding my private cell number. Even worse, he knows about Oliver.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“SOMEBODY TRIED TO kill you last night,” Frank Townsend says. He’s at his desk, clutching the morning crime report. I can tell, even at a distance, it contains information on the shooting in the theater basement.
“You were in the theater?” Frank demands. “Why were you there?”
“I was investigating the Victoria West murder case.”
“That’s no longer your case, remember? Who tried to shoot you?”
“Assailant unknown.”
“Somebody’s trying to kill you, Marko. I won’t have it.”
I don’t remind Frank this is hardly the first time that’s happened.
“I don’t need babysitting, Frank.”
“I say you do. I can’t have my officers being shot at by person or persons unknown. Flitting around the city like you usually do—you’re an easy target.”
This is going to get sticky. I really can’t have a record of everyone I see.
“Are you using your own car to get to work?” Frank asks.
“I’m driving a rental car.” I sigh. “Okay. For the next few days, until we nail the man who attacked me, I’ll keep my Corvette safely tucked away in my garage and I’ll use rental cars.”
“Not good enough. You’re an easy target any time you’re on the street.”
“Do you want me to hide out in the men’s room for the rest of my career?”
“I don’t think you’re taking this situation seriously.”
He’s wrong about that. I do take this seriously. Deadly seriously. Frank doesn’t even know about the attack on me the other evening when I was going into my house.
“I’m assigning an armed police officer to accompany you when you’re away from police headquarters,” Frank announces. “He’ll pick you up in the morning at your home and drop you off at night until we clear up this shooting mess.”
“I don’t think …”
“Don’t argue. That’s an order.”
“I’m going to be traveling all around the city in connection with my duties with the State Department.”
That’s a desperate ploy on my part. I know it won’t work.
“Go ahead with that assignment. Your armed escort will take you wherever you need to go.”
“You’re overreacting …”
“And you’ll be driven in a marked police cruiser. That way, if there’s an attack on you or there’s a roadblock or someone tries to force you off the road, your escort can use his flashers and siren and can get away fast.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I’ll instruct your escort to use a different route when he picks you up in the morning and brings you back to your house at night—a different route each day.”
This is going to get complicated. I’ll just have to work around the problem and hope for the best.
“I’ve selected a very special police officer for your escort,” Frank Townsend is saying. “He’s a splendid young officer with an outstanding record. He’s a trained marksman and has won national championship competitions in handgun and carbine shooting. You’ll be safe with him.”
Why is Frank doing this? Why is he authorizing the cost of a police officer just to keep me company? He knows I can handle this situation. I always have in the past.
“What’s going on here?” I ask. “I’ve been in tight spots before, but you’ve never assigned someone to act as my bodyguard.”
“If you must know, the Chief called me into his office first thing this morning. He read about the attack on you and said it would be intolerable if you were attacked again, maybe injured, maybe even killed. The press and TV would spin a scandal out of this. They’d say it was gross negligence if the police couldn’t protect one of their own after we knew he was already a target of a prior attack. And you were personally requested by the Secretary of State to provide security for a visiting head of state. The Mayor doesn’t want the Secretary of State to get on her case. If I allowed you to be harmed after what we know, I could lose my job. So just do it.”
I give up.
“I have a lunch date across town. Can my bodyguard give me a lift?”
I’m at the main doors of police headquarters when a police officer in a smart-looking uniform stops me. He wears a crisp white shirt, dark navy-blue trousers with sharp pleats, a gold shield. Under his arm he holds a standard-issue eight-point service hat and at his waist he wears a Glock service weapon in a holster.
“Detective Zorn?” he asks. He speaks in a soft, courteous voice. He’s maybe thirty and has handsome features. His skin is olive.
I wonder for a moment whether I’m about to be arrested for something. The insignia on his collar tells me he’s a lieutenant, and the tag on his immaculate white shirt tells me his name is Bonifacio. I’ve never met him before.
“That’s me,” I say brightly, trying to exude innocence.
“I am to be your escort,” the lieutenant tells me. “I will drive you whenever you are obliged to leave police headquarters.”
“That’s not necessary, Lieutenant. I can take care of myself.”
He sort of smiles. “Those are my orders, sir. From Captain Townsend. I’m sure you understand.”
“Good to meet you, Officer Bonifacio. Do you know where the Isle of Capri restaurant is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it sounds like we’re good to go.”
“We climb into a police cruiser parked in the police pool lot. It’s a standard Ford Crown Victoria, less scratched and dented than most. Bonifacio must have pulled strings to get a cruiser this nice.
Tucked just above the front windshield is a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.
“Expecting trouble, Lieutenant?” I ask, pointing to the shotgun.
“You never know. I thought, seeing as how you are my passenger, I better be prepared.”
The Isle of Capri went out of style sometime in the late nineties, as did its menu, so I was touched when Carla Lowry left a message telling me to meet here for a late lunch. Has she decided to forgive and forget?
That would be so out of character.
The Isle of Capri was once where the rich and powerful came to play and admire one another. No rich or powerful people come here anymore. The carpeting is worn. The once-bright upholstery is shabby. The old photos of scenic views of Italy are faded. The waitstaff is from Honduras.
Carla Lowry looks up from a stained menu with a photograph of the Roman Forum on its cover. “You’re late.”
“And a good afternoon to you, Carla.”
“I’ve had a terrible day. Don’t say anything to annoy me.”
In the old days, Carla and I used to come here for dinner. The food was no better then than it is now, but the carpet and upholstery were cleaner and brighter. There were candles on the tables: battery-powered electric lights have replaced the candles.
A waiter brings a wicker basket of bread, and Carla orders spaghetti Bolognese and snatches a piece of bread from the basket.
“A cappuccino for me,” I tell the waiter. Even the Isle of Capri can’t ruin a cappuccino, I figure.
“Somebody tried to kill you last night,” Carla announces between bites. “According to my morning crime report, you were in the basement of the Capitol Theater and somebody shot at you.”
As head of the Criminal Investigation Division at the FBI, Carla makes it her business to know everything.
“That’s about right.”
“Do you have any idea who that person was? Or why he has it in for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“What are you up to, Marko?”
“Nothing special.”
She looks unconvinced. “I hope you’re making progress on the murder of that actress,” Carla says, between bites of bread. “I seem to remember you once knew the lady.”
“That was a long time ago. I am now a person of interest in the case.”
“Of course you are.”
Carla takes a second piece of bread from the basket and tears it ferociously to pieces. “I understand you were in Chicago recently.”
“It was just for one day.”
“A lot can happen in one day. I believe Leland Cross has briefed you on the planned assassination of Nina Voychek.”
“The Secretary of State gave me a sketchy outline.”
“Leland can be obscure when he wants to be.” She dips her bread into a saucer of olive oil. “You understand, it’s critically important that Nina Voychek come to no harm.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I have the same assignment for you,” she tells me. “Keep Prime Minister Voychek alive and well at all costs. You’ll get your standard fee from the Bureau.”
I see no point in telling her about the substantial fee I’ll get from Cyprian Voss for the same thing. Carla doesn’t know about Cyprian Voss and I intend to keep it that way.
Why is the Bureau paying me when the State Department is already doing so? Carla isn’t saying, but I suspect she wants me to be a little more proactive than does the Secretary of State.
“You’re telling me to take a bullet for the lady?” I ask.
Carla shakes her head impatiently. “I’m not telling you to take a bullet. I want the assassin to take a bullet.”
“Why is the FBI asking me to do this? I’m not a trained security guard. Why don’t you hire a professional bodyguard? Or use one of your own agents?”
“Because you have already been assigned by the State Department to the minister’s security detail. Because you are resourceful as you recently demonstrated when you foiled a plot to assassinate the President. Because you’re a badass.”
Carla never seems bothered about hiring me from time to time for special services. It’s strictly against police department rules and I’m pretty sure it’s probably against FBI rules as well. Neither of us is disturbed by breaking rules if that’s what it takes to get the job done.
“What can you tell me about this assassin?” I ask.