Head Shot

by Otho Eskin

  “That kind of ‘evidence’ would never stand up in court.”

  “Maybe not in a court of law, but it will have great weight in the court of public opinion. I expect, once the word gets out, many women will come forward with their own stories.”

  Garland Taylor scans the faces of those around him to find support.

  “You thought you were in the clear,” I say. “No one saw you put the gun in the drawing room and into Vickie’s hand. And then this stranger appears: this funny little man who wrote mystery novels shows up asking questions, and you realized he’s figured how you did it. How you must have contracted with someone to kill Vickie, then have him pass you the gun so you could place it in her hand to make it look like suicide.”

  “You can’t prove any of this fantasy.”

  “The murder weapon wasn’t in the drawing room before the performance, so our writer figures someone had to put it there after the murder. And that had to be you, Mr. Taylor. You were the only one to go inside that room. If you are not the killer, you are the accessory. So then you arranged to have the detective–story writer murdered. By the same person who killed Victoria West.”

  Roy Hunt steps behind Garland Taylor and grabs him by the right arm. The second man from homicide takes Taylor by the left arm.

  My cell phone rings. It’s Rick Talbot, Janet Cliff’s deputy. “The prime minister has disappeared!” he says, not waiting for me to say anything. “Come to the embassy. Now.”

  There were seven men and women from the cast and crew of Hedda Gabler standing on stage when I arrived at the theater.

  Now there are six.

  Then I remember what the mystery book writer told me about creating a plot. The obvious motive is never the right one. It’s the motive you miss.

  “Lucy,” I say. “I’ve made a mistake. Vickie’s murder was not about exposing Garland Taylor. It was a peasant curse from the Black Mountain.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I GRAB LUCY by the arm and lead her urgently offstage.

  “What about Garland Taylor?” she protests as we rush through the auditorium. “I have enough to arrest him.”

  “Leave him to Roy.”

  “Roy! This is my case! This should be my collar.”

  We’re in the lobby and Lucy tries to free herself from my grip.

  “There won’t be any charges against Taylor.” I won’t let her go.

  “How can you say that? He must have hired someone to kill Victoria West. He arranged to have that mystery book writer killed. And maybe even the man you call the Greek.”

  We’re out of the lobby and onto the street, standing under the marquee.

  “He didn’t kill any of them. He probably did pay to have Vickie killed, but he didn’t pull the trigger. You proved that when you retraced the killer’s steps.”

  Lieutenant Bonifacio is sitting in a police cruiser waiting for me.

  “That’s not fair,” Lucy says. “We could have gotten the son of a bitch on something. This is my last case. I want to leave the force with something positive on my record. Not my miserable performance from last night.”

  “Not worth it. Leave him to his fate.”

  “What fate?”

  “The word is now out about what he did to Valerie Crane. And there are probably others like her. He’s ruined. And he’ll go to jail.”

  I yank open the rear door of the cruiser.

  “In you go,” I say to Lucy.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To find the man who really killed Vickie West. Take us to the Montenegro embassy,” I call to Bonifacio. “Use sirens and flashers. This is an emergency.”

  The police cruiser pulls away with squealing tires, and Lucy and I are slammed back into the rear seat.

  “What’s going on?” Lucy demands angrily. “Did you know all along there was a second man?”

  “I never believed that either Arthur Cantwell or Garland Taylor had the expertise or the nerve to shoot Vickie at that distance and in the dark.”

  “Who was it then?”

  “Aubrey Sands gave us the key. He said it was never a ‘locked room’ murder: it was always misdirection. I didn’t take him seriously at first and didn’t think through what he told me. Finally, I realized Aubrey meant that there had to be two people involved: one to shoot Vickie, then pass the murder weapon unnoticed to somebody else to place the gun in Vickie’s hand to make it look like suicide. We know it had to be Garland because he was the only one to go into that drawing room.”

  “But Taylor had everything to lose with the death of his leading lady.”

  “He had even more to lose if she lived. Vickie was going to out him for raping Valarie Crane. And there were probably others victims. Garland had to silence Vickie. Permanently. But he didn’t have the skill or the nerve to do the job himself. So he hired someone who does these things for a living.”

  “How could Garland have arranged for a hit man? His circle of friends and acquaintances are actors, directors. Not gangsters.”

  “That’s not difficult if you know the right people. Garland Taylor has connections with the mob. His mother comes from Naples and has close family ties with several of the Mafia families. If you have the connections and the money, it’s not hard to find someone to do your dirty work.”

  “You haven’t told me who the murderer is.”

  “It’s not just Vickie’s killer we’re after. It’s the man who planned the whole thing. A man named Goran Drach.”

  “How is he involved?”

  “This was never just about Vickie. It was always about me.”

  “Why you?”

  “Goran Drach wants to punish me for the death of his brother, Mykhayl Drach, in Chicago at the hands of an angry mob a few weeks ago.”

  “What’s your connection?”

  “I was in Chicago to locate Mykhayl Drach. I was supposed to turn him over to the International Court of Justice for Crimes against Humanity. I informed certain individuals in Chicago where Mykhayl Drach was hiding. Drach was brutally murdered and Goran Drach holds me responsible. He’s from the valleys of the Black Mountain, where personal vengeance is a matter of honor. He wanted to hurt me in the most painful way he could imagine. He must have learned that Vickie West was a woman I once deeply loved, and he was determined to hurt me through her violent death, just as he was hurt through his brother’s death. That made her his target. After which I’m to be taken out.”

  “Was the man you shot last night at the reception the assassin?”

  “The real assassin wouldn’t show his hand so publicly. The real assassin is also in hiding now. He wouldn’t dare expose himself like that. Last night was a dress rehearsal by a second-string team hired from the Brooklyn Russian Mafia.”

  “Do you know the name of the assassin?”

  “He calls himself Domino. I don’t know his real name.”

  “How do we find this man?”

  “He’ll find me.”

  “Are you going to take him on unarmed?”

  “I’ll be armed. The FBI confiscated my weapon, but I’ll get it back.”

  “Why would they confiscate your gun?”

  “It’s a long story. My gun is waiting for me at the embassy. Besides, I’ll have you as backup.”

  I speak encouragingly. I need for Lucy to feel confident and assured. She better be. My life depends on it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  BONIFACIO PULLS UP to the front of the Montenegro embassy, and Lucy and I rush up the steps to the front door. “Follow us,” I tell Bonifacio.

  The iron gate to the embassy is locked. I press the brass doorbell hard, then call Rick Talbot on my cell phone and tell him we’re waiting at the front door. He tells me Nina is still missing.

  The short man with the steel-rimmed glasses appears on the far side of the inner door and shakes his head and blinks his eyes. Rick Talbot appears on the inside and argues with the short man, who reluctantly unlocks first the iron gate and then the glas
s doors. Lucy and I push in, followed by Bonifacio. The chubby receptionist stares at us in panicked outrage.

  “You are not allowed in,” the man in the glasses expostulates.

  “These people are here to help find the Prime Minister,” Talbot says. “Let them do their job.”

  The man in glasses is blocking our way.

  Ambassador Lukshich and Viktor Savich appear, on a run. “What is the meaning of this?” the ambassador demands angrily. “This is the official soil of the Republic of Montenegro. You have no authority here. You must leave immediately.”

  “We’re here to search for the prime minister,” I say.

  “That is our affair. We will take care of that matter.”

  “Are you taking care of that matter?” I demand.

  “There is no danger to Madame Voychek here,” the ambassador says. “Viktor has assured me the assassin was killed at the reception at the Lincoln Memorial. Is that not true, Viktor?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “We will find her,” the ambassador announces. “The prime minister’s absence is of no concern to the government of the United States.”

  “It is of great concern to my government,” Rick Talbot almost shouts. “I insist you let us search the embassy.”

  “Permission denied. Your presence here,” the ambassador says, “is a violation of our nation’s territorial sovereignty under international law and the terms of the Brussels Convention and the Treaty of Vienna. My government will protest to your government in the strongest possible terms this violation of our sovereignty.”

  “Have you forgotten the Helsinki protocol of 1869?” I demand. “Paragraph three?’

  The ambassador hesitates. He suspects I’m making this up, which of course I am, but so is he, and, in the heat of the moment, he can’t remember whether there is such a thing as the Helsinki protocol or, if there is, what it says. In hesitating, he loses the initiative. Never hesitate.

  “I cannot allow uniformed and armed members of your police into the chancery of our embassy” is the best he can come up with.

  “My officer will stay here in the reception area.”

  I tell Bonifacio to wait there but on no account be bullied into leaving the building.

  “I will not allow you to search the Chancery.” the ambassador is almost shouting. “That is off-limits.”

  “We’ll search the residence only,” I say.

  “The residence only.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And remember, we leave for Dulles Airport in less than an hour.”

  “At 4:10 exactly,” Savich adds. “We must not be late.”

  “Before you go,” the ambassador says to me, “I have something for you. A package was hand-delivered to the embassy just a short while ago.”

  The ambassador takes a small package wrapped in brown paper from the reception desk and hands it to me. The sender is listed as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC, but there is no name. The address reads: Detective Marko Zorn, care of His Excellency the Ambassador of Montenegro, followed by the embassy’s address. A note follows saying this must be delivered to Detective Zorn by hand and must not be opened by anyone else.

  The package is wrapped in heavy tape and feels substantial.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll take it from here.”

  I grab the package and Rick Talbot, Lucy, and I head upstairs at a run into the residential area. Savich follows.

  “We can’t allow them to exclude us from the embassy itself,” Talbot protests. “She could be anywhere in the building. Maybe even in the ambassador’s office.”

  “You’re overreacting.” Savich says.

  “There’ll be another attempt on her life,” I say. “Goran Drach will try again before she can get on that plane.”

  I take Savich to one side. “I suggest you and your security team search the offices in the chancery. Rick, Lucy, and I will search the residential parts of the embassy.”

  “Very well. I’ll organize search parties for the chancery area.” Savich hurries away.

  “Wait here,” I say to Lucy and Talbot. I go downstairs to the door leading to the embassy garage. No one’s guarding the entrance. The interior door to the garage is open. The two limousines sit side by side, washed, polished, and gleaming, ready for the trip to Dulles Airport. The American and Montenegro flags are secured onto the front fenders of the lead car.

  I yank the two flags from their brackets, cross to the number two car, and secure the flags into the brackets on its fenders: the US flag on the right fender, the Montenegrin on the left. I hope I remember the flag protocol correctly: Too late now to find out. I open the lockbox and switch the tags identifying the two limousines.

  I inspect the package the ambassador gave me, and I sense something is wrong. There’s a slight tear on one of the pieces of tape that seal the package. I can see that somebody has opened the package and probably inspected its contents. Then resealed it.

  I tear open the package. Inside rests my Ruger nestled in bubble wrap. I inspect the gun. The clip is loaded, with two rounds gone. I rack the slide and the action is smooth.

  But then I touch the firing pin and it feels rough, as if it had been abraded. I hold the weapon up to the light and can see the firing pin’s been filed short. The Ruger has been effectively disabled. If I have to use it, it will misfire. I replace the gun in my holster and hope for the best.

  Back upstairs, I find Lucy with Rick Talbot waiting for me.

  “I have no idea where that woman has got to,” Talbot says. “My teams are working through the residence, floor by floor.” He looks at his watch. “We’re supposed to leave in twenty minutes.”

  “We’ll have a better chance if we split up,” I say. “I’ll start in the basement. Rick, you take this floor. Lucy, you come with me.”

  I lead Lucy into the prime minister’s private suite and take her down a back corridor. We stop at a small door next to a wardrobe. I open the door. Beyond is a flight of narrow wooden stairs.

  “What’s this?” Lucy asks.

  “People staying in places like this aren’t supposed to be inconvenienced by servants emptying wastebaskets or carryings dirty linen. This is the back door to the servants’ quarters. Nina told me there’s always a back door.”

  We rush down the narrow staircase to the basement and through the storage rooms I remember from the last time I came this way: a room stacked with boxes, another filled with metal filing cabinets. We blunder through a room with no lights, then into a small conference room.

  “I’ll search the conference room,” Lucy tells me.

  “Will you be all right on your own?” I ask.

  She draws her Glock. “I’ll be fine.” She sounds confident, but I’m not so sure.

  I go along another corridor, past a room with recycle containers, open a door, and step into the embassy kitchen. It’s as I remember: the stainless steel cabinets, worktables, several large gas stoves, a walk-in refrigerator, and three deep iron sinks. The room is spotless, the surfaces gleam.

  Nina Voychek stands at one of the steel tables. She smiles a bit shamefacedly. “Sorry, Marko. I had to be by myself for a few minutes. Have I caused problems once again?”

  “Your security teams are looking everywhere for you.”

  “Viktor Savich said the danger is over. He suggested I come here and get a bite to eat before the trip to the airport.” She studies me intently. “Was Viktor wrong?”

  “Let’s go.” I take Nina by the arm and start to lead her gently but quickly to the kitchen door.

  “Not yet. We have unfinished business.”

  A man stands across the kitchen from us. He wears dark clothes and an open-neck shirt and has long blond hair. He smiles at us sweetly. In his hand he holds a Walther automatic. The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.

  I can’t make my mind work: I can’t process who this man is.

  He speaks not in the soft whispe
rs I’ve been accustomed to. It’s strong and deep and confident. Lily, or Props, as I’ve come to know this person, is no longer a shy, fragile woman—he’s now a man—calm and deadly.

  Nina Voychek looks at me. “Who is this man? What does he want?”

  “I am Domino,” he says, pulling the blond wig from his head. I see the red scar on his forehead. A lasting reminder of a pot of boiling tomato sauce thrown at him many years ago.

  “This is not a prop.” Domino points his weapon directly at Nina.

  My heart is pounding. Standing before me is the most dangerous killer I’ve ever faced. My Ruger is useless. Domino must know that.

  I step forward to stand between Nina and Domino.

  “Very gallant.” Domino smiles, almost a sweet smile. “Gallant. But stupid.” He holds the Walther automatic rock-steady, aimed directly at my forehead only a few feet away. He can’t miss at this distance.

  “Time’s up,” he murmurs. I force myself to stay cool and concentrate despite the fear pulsing through my veins. I look for a weapon—for anything. There is nothing.

  “Don’t move.” Lucy stands at the door to the kitchen, her Glock pointed steadily at Domino. Lucy’s voice is calm. “You’re under arrest,” Lucy commands.

  Domino is stunned. He doesn’t expect this and he hesitates as he turns to Lucy. A fatal mistake.

  Lucy is pointing the gun at Domino’s chest. I can see the rage in her eyes as she raises her Glock and points at Domino’s head. I want to scream: No, Lucy. Not a head shot. You’ll miss. Domino smiles at her.

  “Drop the gun, bitch,” Lucy commands.

  Lucy fires. A single head shot between the eyes, not far from the scar. A single red circle like a third eye appears on the forehead of the person I knew as Props.

  I let my breath out. She did what I told her not to do. She aimed for the T-Box. And she made the shot.

  She’ll make a great cop.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  LUCY’S GUN DROPS to the floor from her nerveless hand. “Dead?” she asks, almost a whisper.