Head Shot

by Otho Eskin

  “Then you’d better get a move on and consult His Excellency. If another identical meal is not here within twenty minutes, I will be obliged to consult His Excellency in person. And that will annoy us both.”

  The man in the tuxedo makes a small bow and leaves the room. I tell the members of the security detail to help themselves to the dinner on the trolley, minus the champagne.

  I call the hospital and am told Janet’s in surgery and the doctors believe she will survive.

  Twenty minutes later the man in the tuxedo appears again with an identical trolley with the same dinner items. He looks terribly put-upon. “Will that be all, sir?” he asks with the tone of arrogant obsequiousness all professional waiters master.

  “That will be all. I’ll see to it that the prime minister gets her dinner.”

  After inspecting the second trolley and its contents, I knock gently on the door to Nina’s suite and hear her say “Come,” I open the door and push the trolley into her sitting room.

  She’s on a couch in the same clothes she wore at the reception. Her face is pale and drawn, her hair loose and disheveled. One strawberry-blond curl falls across her forehead.

  “What’s that?” she asks, almost smiling when she sees me.

  “I think it’s your dinner, Nina.”

  “I never ordered dinner.”

  “Compliments of His Excellency, the ambassador.”

  She stands up and studies the trolley and its contents, scowling slightly. She lifts the cover from the steak and potatoes. “What was he thinking? I can’t eat anything. Not after what happened tonight at the reception. Would you please take this away? I don’t want it in my room.” She slams the cover down.

  I start to wheel the trolley out the door.

  “Please keep the champagne. And a glass. Two glasses, please. I wouldn’t want to see the champagne go to waste.”

  I push the trolley out into the waiting area and return to Nina’s suite.

  “Please join me,” she says.

  I shut the door. “How is Janet?”

  “She’s in surgery. The doctors are optimistic.”

  “Thank God.” Nina sits back onto the couch and presses her hands to her face. “I’ve been so worried about her.”

  Nina seems to crumple. “Viktor Savich told me the assassin was killed.”

  I’m not sure how much Savich has told her or how much she knows about what happened at the reception this evening. She’s obviously deeply shaken. Her hands are trembling. I don’t want to see her go to pieces. I doubt Nina Voychek has ever gone to pieces.

  “I think I could use a drink,” she says. “Would you be so kind as to open the champagne? Two glasses.”

  I peel off the foil wrapper from the Dom Pérignon, twist out the cork until it makes a satisfying pop.

  “Stay with me for a while,” she says. “I need someone to talk to.”

  I fill two flutes with champagne. Nina and I toast one another.

  “Nazdravlje,” she says.

  “To life,” I reply as we touch glasses. “Would you like some music? I find it sometimes helps settle my nerves.”

  Nina looks around the room, almost helplessly. “There’s a TV here. And some speakers. I haven’t figured out how they work.”

  I take my phone from my pocket, switch on the Apple Music, and turn on Bluetooth to connect my phone to the room speaker. “What’s your pleasure? Rock and Roll? Jazz? Big Band? How about some Wagner?”

  “I’ve had quite enough Wagnerian Sturm und Drang this evening. Can you get dance music on that telephone of yours?”

  “I can get any kind you want.”

  “When I was growing up in Montenegro, I lived in a small village in the mountains, our only entertainment then was our local village festivals. Of course, we didn’t call it entertainment. Four or five times a year, the village would organize a festival. Honoring some saint, celebrating spring or harvest time. There would be music and traditional food. And dancing. We would dance round dances. We call it kolo dance. I don’t suppose you can get one of those dances on your phone.”

  “I don’t think my music app is that broad minded.”

  “When I was at Columbia, I used to go out dancing in the evenings with the kids in my class.”

  “What kind of dances did you like?”

  She takes a sip of champagne. “I took dance lessons. Can you believe? Actually, I loved it. Twice a week I’d go to a dance studio on upper Broadway and get swung around the dance floor by some would-be Latin lothario. It was a different world then. Can you find a tango on your gadget?”

  I hunt through the menu and find not one but several tangos. I switch it on, and we are transported to Argentina, or at least some aural facsimile of Argentina. There is the sound of an accordion, a violin, and some bass string instrument.

  Nina smiles happily.

  I stand, bow, and hold out my arms in what is supposed to be a Latin American gesture of romantic courtesy. Probably something I once saw in an old Hollywood movie. I’m only missing the ruffles on my shirt and brilliantine in my hair to complete the image. This is as close as I can come to being a Latin lothario.

  Nina rises with a broad smile, and our bodies entwine, my left hand lightly touching her waist, my right hand holding her hand. She dances with suppleness and grace, her body comfortable in my arms. As we get into the rhythm of the dance, Nina begins to improvise—a swing, a deep dip. I know how to dance the tango, but she’s way ahead of me. She has the dance in her blood.

  We move around the floor of her suite, trying to avoid bumping into the furniture. We almost collide with the couch, but Nina skillfully swings around just in time without losing the beat.

  A phone somewhere in the room rings and she stops.

  “Excuse me.” Nina stops and looks at the caller ID on the phone.

  “Sorry. I’ve got to take this call. It’s the President of the United States.”

  I turn off the music as she picks up the phone. “Yes, Mr. President … I’m just fine, thank you.” She looks across the room at me and covers the speaker with one hand. “I need to talk to him. Will you excuse me?”

  The evening is over. There’ll be no more champagne; no more dancing. I feel a pang of regret. I want to hold her for a little while longer, to feel her lithe body sliding under my hands. I wish Nina would ask me to stay.

  I know that’s hopeless.

  “Good night, Nina. Your security detail is right outside your door. There’s no need for you to worry. You’re safe tonight.”

  “Until tomorrow,” she whispers, and smiles uncertainly. Then speaks into the phone.

  I go to the door and step into the waiting room, glancing one last time at Nina Voychek as she stands, the phone clutched in her hand, speaking urgently. I shut the door silently.

  Four members of the State Department security detail are sitting at a small table finishing up what’s left of the two meals the man in the tuxedo delivered. A new man named Fergusson stands at the door to Nina’s private suite holding the shotgun.

  Savich stands by the door, waiting for me. “How is Nina holding up?” he asks.

  “She’s on the phone with the President. She may be a while.”

  “There’s no need for you to stay here any longer, Detective. I know you’ve had a taxing day. The security here is tight.” He gestures at the squad of armed guards in the room. “I suggest you go home and get some rest. We want you at your best tomorrow when you accompany the prime minister to the airport.”

  Savich may be right about security inside the embassy. It does seem in good shape. But … after this evening’s attack at the Lincoln Memorial, I feel unsure.

  “You’re right, Viktor. I should get some rest.”

  Savich gives me a warm smile. Then he leaves.

  I follow him out the door and head down the marble steps to the reception desk, where the same pimply-faced man I met the first day stands behind the desk, talking to the two security men Rick Talbot stationed at th
e front door.

  Savich unlocks the outer doors, and I walk onto the street. I sense Savich and the others watching me as I leave. I walk two blocks north of the embassy, stopping to be sure no one is following me, then reversing my course and head back, using a different route so no one in the embassy can see me approach.

  I stop at the entrance to the embassy garage, where a DC police cruiser is parked, blocking the driveway to prevent any unwanted intruders. I speak for a couple of minutes to the two bored cops, then go to the garage door. To one side a cyber lock has been installed in the concrete wall. I punch in the cyber code 821914 that Savich gave me. There’s a clinking sound and the doors rise slowly.

  As soon as there’s just enough room, I slip under the rising door, stop the door mechanism, and press the Close button.

  The garage is dark and I have to use the light from my phone to see my way to the far end. I’m alone. Just the two limousines and me. I move quietly past them and find the door to the embassy. It’s unlocked and I step through into a corridor that leads to the elevators and the stairs to the chancery and the residential area.

  I skip the elevator. It would make too much noise. Somebody would hear the elevator mechanism and want to find out who’s prowling around the embassy this late at night. I take the stairs to the second floor and immediately step back into the waiting room of Nina’s suite. The room is as it was when I left it twenty minutes earlier. The security detail has consumed the last vestiges of the second serving of the steak and potatoes.

  “Anything happen while I was away?” I ask.

  There are a couple of negative grunts.

  “Any word from the prime minister?”

  “Not a thing,” Fergusson, the guard with the shotgun, answers.

  I’m tempted to open the door to Nina’s private suite and see if she’s still on the phone but decide against it. She deserves her privacy. Instead, I collect a blanket from the security detail’s room and find an empty couch not far from the entrance to Nina’s suite.

  “I’m going to try and get some sleep,” I tell the security team. “If anything happens, wake me right away.” I roll over and shut my eyes. For a while I think about Nina and how she moved when she tangoed.

  It’s almost six when I wake up. I’m annoyed I slept so late. The members of the security team are now once again at full complement, all heavily armed. They assure me nothing happened overnight.

  I wash up in an adjoining bathroom as best I can, run my fingers through my hair, try to get rid of the creases in my clothes, and leave the waiting room.

  I once again take the stairs to the street level. I see no one as I go into the garage. I step into the empty garage, cross to the garage doors, punch in the cyber code from the inside, wait for the door to rise, slip under the door, close the door, and walk away briskly onto the street.

  There’s very little traffic at this early hour: only some delivery vans and a garbage truck. I see a taxi and hail it and I give the driver the address of the embassy of Montenegro. He looks at me funny. “That’s two blocks from here. You want me to drive you?”

  “If you please.”

  He shrugs and in a couple of minutes we’re there. The embassy receptionist sees me through the glass door.

  “Good morning,” he says to me. “Did you have a good night?”

  “Perfect,” I reply.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “I FUCKED UP.” Lucy looks up at me from her coffee, as I take a seat across from her at a table in the police department coffee shop. Her face is drawn and pale. The morning’s Washington Post is spread out. “Terrorist Attack in Nation’s Capital,” “Massacre at Lincoln Memorial,” the headlines read.

  After checking with the security detail posted outside Nina’s private suite at the embassy, I decided to return to police headquarters. I was reluctant to leave Nina, but she’s well protected by Janet’s security team.

  “I totally fucked up,” Lucy says again.

  Several men and women, sitting at nearby tables, eating what passes for breakfast, look up at her in surprise.

  Lucy is close to tears. “I just stood there. I had a clear shot at the son-of-a-bitch and I did nothing. Janet was almost killed.”

  “She’s going to be okay.”

  “You could’ve been killed. Right there in front of me. I’m turning in my badge today.”

  “Don’t do that. Give yourself some time.”

  “I lost it last night: I froze. You told me the difference between life and death is hesitation. In a moment of a life-or-death decision, your instinct must kick in—instantly. If you think, you said, you’re dead. Last night on those steps I thought—thought about killing a man. I thought about shooting a man in the head. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. That makes me useless as a cop. You know that.”

  She looks at me intently. “Marko, I have a question I must ask you.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s a question I wanted to ask you on the day I became your partner. Why don’t you carry a weapon?”

  “Sometimes I do. When it’s really necessary. I was armed last night at the reception.” I pat the Ruger in its holster under my left arm. “I still am.”

  “But usually you’re unarmed. I’m your partner. I need to know.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is. But the day may come when your partner, whoever that might be, is in danger, and your partner’s life may depend on you taking action. I have a right to know what your hang-up with guns is.”

  I think carefully before I answer. I don’t want to reveal more than I have to. I know that would complicate my relationship with Lucy, who’s already stressed out about her own failure. At the same time, I know Lucy will not let me get away with some bullshit answer.

  “The truth is, I’m not sure I can really trust myself with a gun.”

  “You’re a cop. You’ve been trained.”

  “There’ve been times when I’ve been in a situation … where I came close to killing someone even though it was unnecessary. There have been situations where I wasn’t sure I was in full control of myself.”

  “But you’re the coolest, most controlled person I’ve ever met. I’ve seen you in desperate, dangerous situations and I’ve never seen you lose self-control.”

  “Control comes with practice and experience.”

  “What about instinct? Isn’t that what you told me I had to trust? My instinct?”

  “Instinct has to be trained and controlled—like any other skill.”

  My mind goes back to a summer in Maine. I was a few years out of high school when my life changed. I’d spent the day tracking my quarry: the boot prints along a trail led deep into the pine forest. This was a place I knew well. The man I was hunting was a city person; he knew traffic and sidewalks and grocery stores. This was my world, not his.

  I’d been hunting in those forests since I was a kid and I knew every thicket and hill and ravine, every place where a hunted man might hide. I never doubted I’d find the man who’d raped and murdered my sister, Rose. I was good at tracking—born to it my dad used to say.

  It was late afternoon when I found the man beneath a tree, half hidden in deep afternoon shadows. He was holding a Colt Python pistol. “This ain’t no game, son,” he said.

  “You killed my sister.”

  He laughs softly. “What are you gonna do about it, boy? Call the sheriff?”

  “I’m gonna kill you,” I said, and shot the man in the head.

  No need to tell Lucy about that afternoon. I’ve never told anyone what happened that day. That will always be my private memory.

  “You’ve trained yourself to control your instincts?” Lucy asks. “Like some kind of Zen technique? Is that how it works?”

  “It takes time and patience and discipline. I’m not sure I’m there yet. That’s why I prefer not to carry a gun.”

  “I don’t have the character for that kind of self-discipline,” Lucy says.
“Which is why I have no future in the police.”

  “Don’t give up,” I urge her. “Give it a few more days, at least until we close the Victoria West case. It’s your case. See it through to the end.”

  She makes a helpless gesture. “We’re nowhere on the West case. Or on the murder of Aubrey Sands, for that matter. Or the theater guard. And now we have the murder of that man in the hotel room.”

  “That’s Roy’s case.”

  “I’ve spent hours going through the records of everyone even remotely connected to these killings,” Lucy says. “I’m nowhere. We may never close these investigations.”

  “The murders are all connected. When we close one, we close them all.”

  “How can you be so certain? I don’t see the connection.”

  “Natalie Esmond told us what one of the connections was when we interviewed her at the theater.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “You will. You’ll understand when we meet at the theater at one p.m. this afternoon as we planned.

  “I’ve contacted all the major witnesses: the stage manager and Arthur Cantwell. And the director, Garland Taylor, along with the actors Natalie Esmond and Tim Collins. Including that props girl. They’ve all said they will be there.”

  “Where will you be until then?”

  “I have to interview the people who catered last night’s reception and talk to Janet as soon as the doctors will let me see her. I’ll join you at the theater at one.”

  Lucy stands to leave. “The Medical Examiner’s office sent photographs of the assassin who was shot last night. They’ll be on your phone.”

  “Don’t do anything rash,” I say. “Don’t quit on me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  TIP TOP CATERERS is located in a small strip mall. Four large white vans are parked out front, each painted with the name “Tip Top” along with an email address and images of balloons and happy bubbles. Inside the small dingy office there is an absence of balloons or happy bubbles. A young black man stands at a long table near the entrance, packing glasses into a cardboard box.