Head Shot
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“No, sir. Someone at the Guthrie told Mr. Taylor I was available. He was desperate and he called me.”
“No interview?”
“Who interviews props?”
“Had you ever met Miss West before you joined the production?”
“I saw her in the movies.”
“You didn’t know her?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you have any connections with her after you joined the production?”
“She introduced herself on my first day. That was it. She was very nice that way.”
“How about the other members of the cast and crew? Did you know any of them?”
“I never knew or heard of any of them. Except maybe for Mr. Collins. I saw him on TV in that terrible spy series.” She smiles a sweet smile.
“Where are you from? Not from around here, are you?”
“I’m born and raised in Cedar Rapids.”
“Natalie Esmond’s here,” Lucy calls from the stage.
“Thank you, Lily. You’ve been very helpful. You can leave.”
She cocks her head and smiles. “Thank you, Detective Zorn.”
A pretty woman, about thirty, is waiting on stage.
“Please take a seat, Miss Esmond.” Lucy gestures toward several chairs she’s arranged on the set for the interview. “We have just a few questions.”
Lucy dives in with her questions about what Natalie saw and heard in the minutes leading up to the murder of Victoria West.
While this goes on, I let my mind wander. I trust Lucy’s meticulousness. She’ll spot anything wrong or inconsistent in Natalie Esmond’s statements. Not that I expect any.
“Miss Esmond,” I say during a pause in Lucy’s questioning. “Did you know that Victoria West forgot her final line in her performance?”
“Sure. We all heard about it.”
“Why do you think she did that?”
“I don’t know. It happens sometimes.” Natalie Esmond shifts in her chair. Until now she’s been watching either Lucy or me steadily, poised, not breaking eye contact. Now she’s looking at the door to the drawing room, then at the floor.
“Did Vickie often forget her lines?”
“Never. I never heard her hesitate on a line or a cue. She was line perfect in our first table read-through. She was a true professional.”
“Natalie,” I say, “I want you to think very carefully about this. Did you talk to Miss West before her last performance?”
“Just a few words.” She looks away. “I was upset.”
“Why were you upset?”
“I’d just got some disturbing news. Vickie stopped by my dressing table, she saw I was upset, and she tried to comfort me. She was always very kind that way.”
“What news did you receive?”
For a moment I think Natalie’s going to close down on me; her face is rigid, even a little hostile.
“What was it?” I ask again. Gently.
“One of my New York friends sent me a text message.”
“Saying?”
“She told me about a memorial service for a friend in New York. An actress.”
“And this upset you?”
“For sure. This girl … she’d just died. It was a real shock.”
“What was the name of this girl who died?”
Lucy is watching me, puzzled, trying to figure out where I’m going with this.
“Is that important?” Natalie asks.
“Humor me. You said something to Victoria West about the woman who died. Tell me her name.”
“Valerie Crane.”
“Did Vickie West know Valerie?”
“They knew one another.”
“Was Victoria West upset?
“It was shocking news.”
“Tell me.”
“Valerie Crane was a beautiful, young actress with enormous talent. She’d been in some small parts in several prestigious productions and got good notices. We all figured she was on a roll to a successful career.”
“And?”
“She committed suicide.” Natalie stops until she can get hold of herself. “She had a day job as a barista somewhere. She put in her normal workday, went home, and hanged herself.”
“Did she have an acting job at the time of her death?”
“She was between jobs. She was looking for work but wasn’t having any luck getting cast.”
Natalie chokes and for a few minutes I hold back my questions.
“Were you close to Valerie?” I ask.
“Not really. We met at parties and auditions. That kind of thing.”
“But you were deeply affected?”
“Of course I was affected. How could I not be? Those of us in the profession … it’s a kind of sisterhood. Valerie was about my age. We competed with one another, trying out for the same parts. But we were always on good terms, sharing tips on upcoming auditions, gossip. You know.
“But when something like that happens… you can’t help asking: How could she do that? What was going on in her life we didn’t know about? Could her friends have seen this coming and done something for her? Did we somehow let her down? Could that have been me?” She takes a deep breath. “Such a waste.” After a moment: “Is that all?”
I look at Lucy. She shakes her head; she has no more questions.
“What has Valerie’s suicide got to do with Victoria West’s murder?” Natalie asks as she gets to her feet. She holds her hands in tight fists. “I don’t see it.”
“I’m not sure what the connection might be,” I say. “But my instinct tells me Valerie’s suicide has everything to do with why Vickie forgot her last line. And why Vickie was murdered a few minutes later.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AS I LEAVE the theater after my interview with Natalie, a limousine pulls up, and Horst, one of Cyprian Voss’s bodyguards, steps out and gestures for me to get in. He holds a machine pistol in his right hand, close to his body so it can’t be easily seen by others on the street. He pats me down, using his left hand, his eyes flicking back and forth, searching for danger.
“The man wants to talk to you. Get in. We’re in a hurry.”
I look over Horst’s shoulder, expecting to see Raoul, but the driver is a stranger to me.
The car is in motion as soon as I’m inside, moving fast. I squeeze myself into the back seat corner. Cyprian Voss takes up most of the space. He holds a large, soiled handkerchief in one hand. He sniffles and wipes his nose.
In this confined space he seems even larger than normal. He probably feels uncomfortable being so close to another human being. Not half as uncomfortable as I’m feeling.
I can’t see where we’re driving. Velvet curtains have been drawn over the car windows, shutting out the rest of the world.
Voss seems deflated, if a man his size can be said to deflate.
Voss never meets in public like this, so this meeting can’t be good. Nothing about this unscheduled meeting can be good.
“There’s been a change of plans.” Voss’s voice is hoarse.
“A little late for that, isn’t it? I’m fully engaged in your assignment.”
“Not anymore, you aren’t. You must abandon your protection of Prime Minister Voychek. Immediately. There is to be no further contact between you and Voychek or her entourage.”
“I can’t agree to that.”
“Of course, you can. It’s just a job. And I’m paying you.”
“It’s not just a job. Others have instructed me to protect Nina Voychek while she’s in the country.”
“Who has given these instructions?”
“The United States Secretary of State, for one.”
Voss makes a dismissive gesture with his free hand as if what I’d said was a trivial matter.
I have no intention of telling Voss that the head of the FBI Criminal Investigation Division also gave me the same instructions. That would probably upset him.
“You made a serious mistake during the Chicago business. I
cannot allow something like that to happen again.”
“You said you were happy that Mykhayl Drach was killed. You said something about having relatives in Montenegro.”
“Did I say that? I have no relatives in that part of the world. I lied.”
I’m not surprised he lied to me. It would make no difference to Voss if he did have relatives who’d suffered at the hands of Mykhayl Drach and his brother. Normal human relations are alien to Voss. He’d told me he had a personal stake in Drach’s death just to obfuscate his real motive: money.
“I’m not backing out of my responsibility to protect Nina Voychek,” I say.
“Why on earth not?”
“I have a strong personal commitment to seeing that Nina Voychek comes to no harm.”
I sense Voss’s mass recoiling as if I might be infected. “That’s very unprofessional of you.” He blows his nose into his handkerchief. “That would be so unwise. In our business the first rule is never to allow an assignment to become personal.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I’ve come to admire Nina Voychek. Even to like her. And I admire what she’s doing for her country.”
“Your sentimental drivel bores me.”
“I’m not going to abandon her.”
“You disappoint me. Stop your protection of Nina Voychek. That’s an order.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no.”
“This is not a request. This is a direct order.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
Voss blows his nose loudly.
“What’s this all about?” I ask. “Why are you terminating the protection job? Is someone paying you off to betray Nina Voychek? Has Vladimir Putin gotten to your organization?”
“There’s no need to be rude, my boy.”
“So now you’re going to run away?” I ask. “You’re going to get on your private plane and leave Nina Voychek to the tender mercies of Vladimir Putin and his Russian thugs? Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
I think I hear Voss laugh softly behind his dirty handkerchief.
“I won’t be a party to betraying her,” I say. “Have you no moral scruples?”
“I don’t know where you got the idea I had moral scruples,” Voss says. “I thought you a better judge of character than that.”
I understand now; Voss has decided my activities are putting him in danger.
“What are you afraid of?” I ask.
Voss makes a pretense of laughing. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”
“I know you’re afraid. I can smell it.”
“There is reason I should be afraid. And you, too. Raoul was murdered last night.”
This I didn’t expect. From the look on Voss’s face, neither did he.
“What’s this all about?” I ask.
“It’s a message. To me. And to you, Detective. Raoul was garroted. We both should know what that means. Back off.”
“Horst must be upset,” I say.
“He’s in shock.”
Raoul was a trained bodyguard. Probably a trained killer. Not an easy man to take down. Next to impossible to murder. Somebody very special must have done that job. And the use of a garrote? That’s getting close to home.
“I might be next,” Voss sighs. “Or you.”
I reach into my pocket and grasp my cell phone. I know when the moment comes, I’ll have to move fast. Voss is probably not armed but Horst is and the driver as well. And after what’s happened to Raoul, they will be ruthless defending themselves and their boss.
“I don’t suppose I’m going to get paid,” I say, trying to make our conversation sound normal, almost friendly, as if I hadn’t figured out he was going to have me killed.
“Paid? Of course not. You didn’t carry out your side of the bargain.”
Bargain? I’m puzzled by what he says. “What do you mean, ‘my side of the bargain’? There was never a bargain. Just a straightforward assignment: protect Nina Voychek.”
“Don’t be naïve.”
I should have known. At that first meeting with Voss at the Thai restaurant, I knew Voss was not telling me everything, but I didn’t figure out what it was he was hiding. My job was never just to protect Nina Voychek. My job, unspoken, was to find her assassin and kill him. By being assigned to Nina Voychek’s security team, I’d be close to the assassin who would expose himself and I could eliminate him. That was Voss’s plan.
The assassin is still very much alive and is now a direct threat to Voss and his organization. Raoul’s murder was a hint of things to come.
“Pull over and stop the car,” Voss bellows. I feel the driver jam the breaks and the car swings over toward the curb. “Horst, you know what to do.”
I pull my cell phone from my pocket. My fingers find the photo and flash button, and I point the phone at Voss’s face. He sees me and recoils, turning his face away. The flash lights up the interior, just as the limousine comes to a stop. I can see Horst leap out, machine pistol in hand, and reach for the car door handle.
“Tell Horst to stand down.” I add the words “Cyprian Voss” to the photo and transmit to Lucy. It’s not a full-frontal picture; more of a profile. But more than enough to identify him through FBI and police facial recognition files.
Horst pulls open the door and aims his machine pistol at me. He can’t fire. Voss and I are in close quarters, and in the darkness he might hit his boss. He’ll wait until I’m out on the street to make his move.
“Forget it, Voss. Your man’s too late.”
“Did you just take a picture of me?” Voss demands. “Did you just take a picture of me?”
“I’m afraid I did. It’s already been sent to the police. If anything should happen to me, the police, the FBI, and who knows who else, will know you’re responsible. Give up, Voss. You’ve lost this round.”
Voss shrinks back into his corner and blows his nose.
I need something more from Voss, but this isn’t the time to make demands. I can’t test Voss’s patience too far. I need Voss and his gunmen to be far away before I make my next move.
“I’m leaving,” I say. “Tell Horst to stand back. If he so much as looks at me funny, it’s the end for you.”
I get out of the car, keeping a close eye on Horst, who makes no threatening move with his machine pistol. Voss nods from the back seat and Horst climbs back into the car and it moves off, fast.
I wait until it’s a block away, then call Voss’s cell number.
“What is it now, Zorn? Our business is done.”
“The game’s not over just yet, Cyprian.” He hates it when I call him by his first name. “There are two more things you need to do before I let you get onto your plane parked on some private strip somewhere.”
I can hear Voss breathing heavily.
“There are a few details we didn’t take care of while we were in your car. A couple of points I didn’t want Horst or your driver to overhear.”
“What do you want?”
“First: I want to be paid.”
“You didn’t dispose of the assassin.”
“I’ll dispose of the assassin in due course. In the meantime, transfer $250,000 to my private Luxembourg account.”
Voss grunts.
“Second: I want the name of the assassin.”
Silence on the other end of the phone. I think I hear a sigh.
“If you refuse,” I tell Voss, “I’ll have the FBI informed you’re in the country. I expect the FBI has a thick file on you and would love to ask you some questions. And if you’re thinking of escaping to some foreign country with no extradition treaty with the US, I’ll inform the FAA and maybe NORAD as well. You won’t be allowed to take off. And if you do get into the air, you’ll be shot down. I guarantee. Now: What’s the name of the assassin?”
“I don’t know his real name. I only know him by his code name.
“What’s his code name?”
“Domino.”
“How do I find Domino?” I ask.
“Nobody finds Domino. He finds you.”
“You never had direct contact with Domino?”
“Certainly not. I never want to. Nobody has. Anybody who’s seen his face doesn’t live. All contacts with Domino go through intermediaries and are done by phone or text message. People who need his services use a middle man.”
“No one has ever seen Domino’s face?”
“There’s only one man who did see Domino’s face. And lived. A man I think you once knew. Someone you had dealings with when you were a NYPD cop, according to my files.”
“What’s the name of this man I was supposed to know in New York?”
I’m pretty sure I can guess who it is, but I want to hear Voss say the name. I need to be certain there isn’t a second man out there I don’t know about.
Giving me information for free hurts him. In Voss’s world, information is money. Telling me what I want to know is like burning money.
“The name of the man who saw Domino face-to-face is Asa Forest,” Voss murmers.
I remember Asa well. He was the New York mob’s accountant and bookkeeper. Turns out he was also skimming from the mob. When they found out they sent two hoods after him. Asa Forest managed to kill them both. So much for being a mild-mannered accountant. Then the mob sent for Domino to do the job properly. That’s when Asa saw Domino’s face. The next day, Asa turned himself into the NY police and pleaded guilty to a double homicide and to racketeering charges. Asa knew the game was up for him. No one ever escapes from Domino.
“This Asa Forest seems to have disappeared,” Voss goes on. “Four or five years ago. My guess is Domino got to him. The $250,000 payment is on its way to your account now. If you are able to kill Domino, you will receive a generous bonus. Final advice: Find Domino and kill him.”
“If I don’t?”
“Domino will find you and kill you. You can count on that.”