by Teri White
“I’m surprised he hasn’t been giving us flack already.”
“We have three murders here.”
“But none of them are very important.” He locked the door again and followed Blue onto the dock. “Best thing we can do,” he said, only half joking, “is hope for somebody else to get wasted.”
Blue got into the car and slammed the door with undue force.
It was after eleven that night when they finally left the motel and climbed into Devlin’s Pontiac. Lars drove, with Devlin sitting next to him and Toby in the back seat. Each man was now armed. Lars had produced the weapons earlier, not revealing where they had come from. Nobody asked.
They didn’t say much to one another during the ride out to McCallister Field, a small private airport northeast of the city. There was only one wooden building at the far end of the single runway; it was lit, but otherwise the field was in darkness.
A battered black van was parked next to the building. Inside there seemed to be only one shadowy figure moving around.
Lars stopped the car at the opposite end of the field and turned off the engine. “You two stay here,” he ordered in a low voice, although whoever was inside the shack could not possibly have heard. “When the runway lights come on, deploy just like I told you. Okay?”
“Where are you going?” Devlin asked.
“Recon.” He checked the Walther beneath his jacket, then took the Uzi machine gun, tucked it under one arm, and got out of the car. In only an instant, he had vanished into the darkness.
Toby leaned over the seat and spoke, his lips practically touching Devlin’s ear. “He’s so damned good at this that it’s scary. Really scary.”
Devlin just nodded.
It was a couple more minutes before they heard what sounded like a single shot ring out. Neither man said anything; they didn’t even look at one another. Strangely, neither even thought of the possibility that it had been Lars who’d gotten shot.
At exactly five minutes after one, the lights along the runway suddenly blazed on. Devlin waited the space of one deep breath, then said, “Let’s move.”
Toby nodded.
They got out of the car and walked along the runway to the place Lars had indicated earlier. With a nod, they parted, going to opposite sides of the runway and then stretching out in the damp grass. They drew the guns.
Devlin’s mouth was dry. He tried to work up a little spit, just so he could swallow, but it wasn’t easy. A second later, he could hear the sound of a small plane circling overhead. Once, twice it went around the field. The lights on the plane blinked three times and the field lights answered by going off once and coming back on.
The Cessna finally came in and made a rather bumpy landing. It rolled to a stop just short of where Devlin and Toby were waiting. Devlin wiped a trickle of sweat from his face. The plane’s door opened and three men got out. Two were dressed in cheap black suits that seemed strained to the breaking point over their matching Sherman-tank bodies. The third was a much smaller man, dapper, and obviously the one in charge. There was a black briefcase chained to his wrist. All three men started toward the van, talking audibly in rapid French.
Devlin raised the gun a little, hoping to hell he wouldn’t have to use it.
When the window in the shack suddenly shattered, everybody outside jumped, including Devlin. Before the two gorillas could react further, a short burst of Uzi fire from inside the shack cut them both down. The little man with the briefcase turned and started to run.
Devlin took one more breath, then jumped up, gun held at shoulder level. “Stop!” he yelled, noticing with one part of his mind that Toby was up on the other side of the runway.
The man stopped.
“Don’t move,” Devlin urged him. “Lars?” he yelled over one shoulder.
The door opened and Lars emerged, the Uzi swinging from one hand as he walked toward them, in no hurry. The Frenchman stood very still, only his eyes betraying any sign of life.
Devlin could hear the raspy sound of Toby breathing across the way.
Lars reached them finally. “Well, well,” he said with mock cheer. “If it isn’t my old friend Jacques. Long time no see. Beirut, wasn’t it?”
Jacques looked at him bitterly. “Fool,” he said, then he spit.
Lars only laughed.
“Why did you not kill me with those two?”
“Because I wanted to be sure you had the stones first. You want to take the case off, please?”
“I have the diamonds.” He made no move toward the case, however.
“I can always just cut it off. Of course, that might also mean cutting off the arm.”
Jacques sneered. “You and your silly games, Wolf. I know very well that you are going to kill me. So do it now and take the diamonds. For all the good they will do you.”
“I expect them to do me a lot of good,” Lars said easily. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out the Walther and put it to the back of Jacques’s head. He pulled the trigger.
“Jesus,” Toby said. Then he turned away and threw up.
Devlin just stood there.
Lars knelt to search through the dead man’s pockets, finally pulling out a ring with two small keys. One key freed the case from the chain. “Halfway home,” Lars mumbled to himself. In another instant, he had the case open. Inside there was only one thing, a black velvet bag.
“Shit,” he said.
He opened the drawstring of the bag and carefully dumped the contents onto the smooth surface of the runway.
Devlin caught his breath at the way the diamonds captured and held the bright lights. Toby had quit heaving and now he moved forward for a better look. “My God,” he whispered. “They’re beautiful.”
Lars ran a finger through the stones. “JesusohJesus,” he said, sounding almost tearful. Then he looked up. “Didn’t I tell you guys? Didn’t I promise?”
“You promised,” Devlin said flatly.
Toby just shook his head. He picked up one of the diamonds and walked a few steps away.
Devlin crouched next to Lars, but didn’t touch the stones or look at the dead man.
Lars patted him on the thigh. “You okay?”
“Yes. I’m okay.”
Lars smiled. “We did it, lover.”
Devlin only nodded.
40
Blue carefully poured more wine into the glass that was balanced on the edge of the hot tub. This made one drink too many. He didn’t really give a damn. It had been a very long day and not a good one. True to Spaceman’s prediction, McGannon was making noises about forgetting the case, moving on to something new. There was no lack of fresh murders to occupy their time.
Water splashed as Blue kicked angrily. This was his case, damnit, and McGannon couldn’t just pull the plug on the investigation. Of course, McGannon could do just that if he wanted to and the realization that there wasn’t one damned thing Blue Maguire could do about it was the reason he was sulking in the hot tub and swallowing too much L’Enfant Jesus 1929.
He heard the doorbell and thought about ignoring it. But, finally, with a sigh, he leaned out of the tub and pressed the intercom button. “What?”
“Blue?”
“Come on in,” he said wearily.
Spaceman used his own key to open the door. A moment later, he appeared on the balcony. “Little cool for swimming, isn’t it?”
“Not in here.”
Spaceman just nodded.
“Was there something you wanted?”
“Not especially. I was just feeling bugged about this damned case.”
Blue grimaced. “Join the club.” He sipped some of the wine. “You want to hear the funny part? I can’t even remember what the Wexler broad looked like anymore. So much for my frigging cause célèbre.”
“Your what?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. Have a drink, why don’t you?”
Spaceman went for a glass, then came back and poured some wine, which he gulped down in two sw
allows. “Not bad,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Spaceman poured some more. “Those three guys have to be somewhere.”
“True. But they’re not on Reardon’s boat. Or in Conway’s apartment. Addison doesn’t know anything.” The gallery owner was in quite a state, because his newest star was apparently lost somewhere in the galaxy. Blue splashed water again. “Shit.”
Perversely, the madder he got, the cooler Spaceman seemed to become. “Oh, well,” he said now, “they’ll turn up.”
The phone rang.
“Maybe that’s them now.”
Blue made no move to answer the call. He didn’t want to, not tonight, his mood was low enough already.
“Want me to get it?” Spaceman said after two more rings.
“I don’t care,” Blue muttered. “Go head, answer the damned thing.”
Spaceman lifted the receiver. “Maguire’s,” he said. He gave a small shrug. “Hung up.”
“Good.”
“That guy still calling?”
“Once in a while.” Blue shrugged. “Like every night. I’ve got a short list of possibles on it. Social Security is checking them for me.” He drained the glass and sat up. “Forget it. You want something to eat?”
“Whatcha got?”
“Lasagna.”
“Okay, sure.”
A few minutes later they were in the kitchen and the lasagna was disappearing rapidly. “You know,” Spaceman said through a bite, “I’m thinking about having Lainie move in with me. What do you think?”
“Sounds good. If you want it.”
“Yeah, I do,” Spaceman said, but there was some doubt in the words. “I mean, one minute I do and the next I start to wonder.”
Blue shoved his plate aside. “Well, I’ll tell you, partner, I’m not exactly the one to come to for advice in the romance department.”
Spaceman looked at him, but before he could say anything, the phone rang again. Spaceman raised a brow. Blue just shrugged helplessly and answered it.
Spaceman kept eating while Blue listened and jotted down something on a memo pad by the phone. He hung up after a moment. “Well, I don’t think we have to worry about McGannon shutting down the case,” he said grimly.
“Oh?”
“This looks like it belongs to us.”
Spaceman smiled. “Told you they’d be back.” He didn’t even bother to ask what had happened. Instead, he just concentrated on finishing the meal while Blue went to don shoes and socks.
The bodies, four of them, had all been piled inside a small building at the airport. Two of the dead had been machine-gunned, but the others were dead of single gunshots to the back of their heads, with what might have been a Walther. It might not have been, too, but Blue would have bet the rent money. One of the dead was a Vietnamese and the others, according to their papers, were French.
Spaceman toyed with a length of chain that was attached to one of the men. “Looks like Wolf got whatever they were carrying.”
“Drugs?” Blue ventured tentatively.
“I doubt it. This shrimp couldn’t carry enough on his wrist to make all this trouble worthwhile. I’d say something smaller but very valuable.”
Blue surveyed the grisly scene. “I wonder if Conway and Reardon really know what the hell is going on.”
“Of course they do,” Spaceman said scornfully. “And I’m going to bring all three of the fuckers down. We’re going to do it,” he amended.
“Yeah, right,” Blue said. “We’re going to bring the fuckers down. Soon as we can find them.”
41
Lars was almost morbidly fascinated by the diamonds. He could sit for hours at the table, toying with the bits of shiny stone, watching the play of light caused by the sun. Devlin gave in to his request for some pictures of their treasure.
Toby, meanwhile, kept the television on, waiting for some news about the killings at the airport. He was beginning to think that the damned bodies were never going to be found, when finally a report showed up on the morning news. He was the only one in the room who listened. When the news was replaced by “I Love Lucy,” he killed the volume. “What next?” he asked.
The blunt question hung in the air.
Lars quit fooling with the diamonds and smiled. “Practical Tobias. That’s why I love you, man, because there’s just no bullshit. You always get right to the point. What next. Good question.”
“And I imagine that you have a good answer for me?”
“How about: I’m working on it. While you were out for breakfast before I set up a meet with Tran. In about”—he glanced at his watch—“ninety minutes, in fact. He wants his cut and I want him to do something for us.”
“Which is?”
“To find out if his people would be interested in buying the stones back from us.”
Toby stared at him in apparent awe. “Christ, Lars, first you rip them off and now you want to deal? You have got more balls than anybody I ever met.”
“Thanks.” Then Lars frowned. “Didn’t you say something once about how it doesn’t take brains to have balls?”
“I might have said something like that.” Toby smirked and turned back to watch Lucy stomp grapes.
“Funny man,” Lars muttered. He headed for the can to shower and shave, then paused in the doorway. “One of you comes with me. The other stays with the goodies.”
Toby and Lars arrived nearly fifteen minutes early for the meet with Tran. Lars said that was just the way he liked it. Toby parked behind the deserted fish market. “This place stinks,” he bitched. “Couldn’t we meet this joker someplace clean?”
Lars nodded absently, his attention obviously elsewhere.
Something in his posture or expression alerted Toby. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably nothing.” After another moment of silent watchfulness, he went on wryly, “Occupational hazard. Paranoia.” He pulled out the Walther and hefted it thoughtfully. “My security blanket. You wait here, Tobias. Anything happens that doesn’t seem quite kosher, do what you can.”
“Which means?”
“Which means save my ass, baby.” With that, Lars slid out of the car and walked toward the building.
Toby watched him go, chewing on his lower lip. Great. Just fucking great. Save his ass. He didn’t even have the damned gun. Should have brought it, of course. Lars probably thought he had. But just holding the thing made him nervous and this was just supposed to be a meet with Phillipe Tran. How could that turn into trouble?
But now he was in charge of covering Lars Morgan’s crazy ass. And just suppose something happened and Lars got blown away. That would leave him and Devlin Conway on the run with a shitload of very hot rocks. Not even to mention that if he had to go back to the frigging motel and report that Morgan was permanently removed, Conway would probably get very upset.
The end of the gun barrel planted itself firmly just behind Toby’s ear and all thought stopped briefly. When there was no immediate explosion, however, no sudden end, he started to think again.
Damn, was what he thought. It was getting a little tiresome the way people kept poking deadly weapons into various parts of his anatomy. I’m a lover, not a fighter, he wanted to tell the world at large.
“You will please step from the car,” a very soft voice said. “Carefully, because I would not like to pull the trigger quite yet.”
“Sure thing, buddy,” Toby said. He opened the door and got out slowly. With the damned gun again jammed into his ear, they started awkwardly toward the building.
Lars was apparently inside.
By the time they were about halfway to the door, Toby was mad. He didn’t like to lose his temper, but enough, damnit, was definitely enough.
Lars Morgan, after all, wasn’t the only one who’d been in the frigging Special Forces and who knew a few tricks. Toby smiled to himself.
An instant later, he pulled the famous fake-stumble routine. There was always the chance that
the damned gun would go off in a reflex move, but this time it didn’t. The gook ended up on the ground, out cold, without ever knowing what had hit him.
Toby flexed the fingers of his right hand thoughtfully, pleased with himself. All those broads who paid for his stud services never knew what they had, the stupid cunts. Well, he was done with that kind of shit now.
He took the gun from the fallen man and continued toward the building. The door was cracked open and he peered inside, the smell of old fish hitting him strongly. He could see Lars, pacing the concrete floor and smoking, apparently waiting. Toby almost called out to him, but at the last moment, he caught the flash of movement in the loft overhead.
Toby pushed the door open a little more and slipped inside. As he watched, the figure above knelt and took aim at Lars. Scarcely even thinking about what he was doing, Toby jerked the appropriated gun into position and fired.
He saw Phillipe Tran pitch forward and fall through the air. But at the same time, he was aware of Lars whipping around toward him, the Walther raised.
“Don’t shoot!” Toby screamed. “It’s me!”
After an endless moment, Lars lowered his gun.
Toby wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.
They both walked over to stare down at Tran.
“He dead?” Toby said hoarsely.
“Very. Good shot. You haven’t lost your touch.”
Toby fought down the wave of nausea that threatened. “Christ, I didn’t want to kill anybody.”
Lars glanced at him. “The bastard was trying to shaft us, Tobias. To do us in. You’ve got nothing to feel bad about.”
Toby just shook his head.
“Where’d that gun come from?”
“Guy outside.”
“You off him?”
Toby wiped his mouth again. “No. No, I did not off him. Cold-cocked, is all.” He held the gun out and Lars took it.
“Well, let’s get the hell out of here before the rest of the goddamned Vietnamese army shows up.”
They walked outside and over to where the unconscious man was. Lars wiped all possible prints from the gun and then pressed it once more into the owner’s hand. “This creep killed the guy inside. You got that, Tobias?”