by Galen Winter
“This is Sandy Wilson, your on-the-spot television reporter. I’m at the Grant Law Office building - the scene of the grisly murder that occurred sometime this afternoon.” She moved to the side and shared the screen with an older woman.
“With me is Miss Darlene Hacker. She’s the secretary of the Real Estate Office right next door to where Charlotte Novitski was brutally shot and killed.” Sandy Wilson shoved the microphone in Miss Hacker’s face, “Tell us, in your own words, what happened.”
Miss Hacker wasn’t prepared for what she originally thought might be a microphone blow to her nose. Her eyes widened and she stepped back half a pace. Regaining her composure, she spoke.
“Well, I was eating my lunch and I heard a loud noise from out here in the lobby. I came out and looked around, but nobody was here.
Then, after work when I left for home, I saw something dark on the floor next to the law office door. It was blood. I opened the door and there was Charlotte, lying there on the floor. She was dead. I yelled and then called the cops. They told me I had to wait here. I want to go home.”
Then the reporter asked her: “How did you feel when you saw all that blood and gore?”
Jake switched off the television set. He turned to a silent Abdul. “Are you sure she’s dead?” he asked, sarcastically repeating the question he asked Abdul earlier in the afternoon. “Of course,” he said, repeating the answer Abdul had given. “Are you sure it was Grant?” he asked in the same acidic tone. “Of course,” he said, again repeating Abdul’s answer. He walked to where Abdul was seated. He put both hands on the table, leaned toward him and said: “Abdul, we have a problem.”
Chapter 21
As he drove from the Sahuaro Inn to Gigi’s apartment, an agitated Abdul muttered to himself. She was the same size. She had the same color hair. Her car was in the parking lot. How was he to know it wasn’t her? If Jacobson had given him a photograph there would have been no problem. It wasn’t his fault. It was Jacobson’s fault. His sloppy work meant the inconvenience of a twenty-four hour delay before his return to Monterrey.
Shortly after six-thirty, Abdul turned from Central Boulevard and entered McCord Court. Driving slowly, he found the street number of Gigi’s apartment building. He continued on to the end of the cul-de-sac. Turning around, he headed back toward Central Boulevard. He parked close to Gigi’s apartment building and remained in the car for a few minutes while he studied his surroundings.
He noticed there was neither pedestrian nor automobile traffic on McCord Court. He saw only residences and smaller apartment buildings. Except for the sounds of the automobiles on Central Boulevard, it was a quiet neighborhood. He left the car, turning up the collar of his jacket to obscure his face, and walked to the building with the address Jacobson had given him.
When he got to the driveway, instead of a black Jeep, an older pick-up truck was parked there. Abdul paused for a moment, questioning if he was at the right building. He took Jacobson’s note from his pocket and confirmed the address. The number on the front door was the same as the number he had been given. This had to be the place.
Listening for signs of activity, he heard only muffled sounds coming from an open window in Gigi’s kitchen. Abdul took the Beretta from under his jacket and walked down the driveway to the side door that led into the kitchen. If the door was locked he would break it down. He’d enter the room, shoot her and be done with it. Before he could get to the door, he heard the sound of it being opened.
A landscaper had planted ornamental evergreens next to the ground floor doorways of each of the rental units. Abdul slid behind the one that grew near Gigi’s kitchen door. Holding the pistol next to his body, he flattened himself against the side of the building. This would be easy. The Grant woman would come out. He would shoot her. He’d walk back to the automobile and return to Jacobson’s motel. The whole thing would take less than an hour.
Abdul was in for another disappointment. The kitchen’s inner door opened. Through the still closed screen door, he caught a glimpse of a man, in stocking feet and unbuttoned shirt. He was carrying a shorthaired yellow cat. The cat stoically hung down from the man’s right hand. It was willing to put up with this kind of insolent treatment because it was aware of the bowl of cat food in the man’s other hand. The man pushed the screen door open with his left elbow. He put the bowl on the door stoop and dropped the cat, saying, “Out you go Catastrophe. Here’s your dinner.”
Abdul, not eight feet from him, held his breath. This couldn’t be the right place. The woman he intended to kill wasn’t married. Jacobson said she lived alone. The presence of the man and an older truck in the driveway instead of a newer Jeep meant only one thing. Jacobson was an incompetent. He had given him the wrong address.
If the man with the cat saw him, he would be able to identify him. Abdul would not let that happen. He hoped the man would turn away from him rather than toward him when he returned into the house. Abdul did not want to announce his presence with a gunshot, but it might be necessary. Noiselessly, he raised the Beretta and prepared to use it. He froze when he heard another voice coming from the interior of the apartment. “Den. Come, zip me up.”
The man went back into the house without noticing him. When the inner door shut, Abdul exhaled, replaced his Beretta and, unseen, quickly returned to his car. He clenched his teeth in anger and wondered how could such a simple matter as the killing of an unarmed and unsuspecting woman get so complicated? It could have been so easy if Jacobson had given him a picture of the woman. It could have been so easy if he had given him the right address.
Den went back into the kitchen. He closed the door and for only a moment thought it was strange that the cat ran away from him rather than staying to eat the food he set out for it. Catastrophe was well aware of Abdul’s presence behind the ornamental fir. Den was not.
After placing a kiss on the back of Gigi’s neck, Den zipped up her dress. He assigned no significance to the sound of the car carrying a very angry Palestinian back to the Sahuaro Inn where he intended to berate Jake Jacobson for his stupidity.
Ten minutes later, Den and Gigi were ready to leave for dinner. Den saw a police car being parked in front of the apartment building. He watched as a uniformed patrolman and a man in plain clothes walked toward Gigi’s front door. Then he heard the knock. He held his finger against his lips, warning Gigi to be careful and stepped into the bedroom, partially closing the door behind him.
“Why would the police come here?” he wondered. “Could they be doing the work of Aegis? Could Aegis have already traced him to Tucson and to Gigi?” It didn’t seem probable, but it was possible. He took the revolver from his suitcase and returned to the door where he could listen to what was being said.
Den heard Gigi gasp when the detective told her Charlotte Novitski had been murdered at the Grant Law Office. Immediately, questions raced through Den’s mind with lightning speed. “Was it Aegis? Could Gigi be in danger? If it was Aegis, why would they kill Gigi’s secretary?” And then the alarm sounded. “They will search the apartment. I’ve got to get out of here. Now!”
In the living room, Gigi prepared herself for questioning. The detective, she guessed, had already studied the office appointment book. He knew Charlotte’s scheduling for the day. Her story couldn’t contradict it, but she had to be careful to keep Den completely out of the case. She decided to give long answers to the questions. She hoped it would give Den time to get out of the apartment before the detective began the search she was sure would be requested.
After a few preliminary questions, the detective asked Gigi to recount her activities and movements during the day. Gigi described her previous afternoon’s return to her law office after the Final Hearing in Johnson v Johnson and her decision to take time off to recuperate. She took her time. She reported the two appointments Charlotte had made for that day and explained why one of them could not be postponed.
“This morning, I went to the office and waited for the ten o’clock
appointment,” she said. “The man never showed up. I waited until about eleven o’clock, maybe a bit later, and then came home. I’ve been here ever since.”
By this time, Den had smoothed the bed, erasing any sign that two people had used it. He fluffed one of the pillows and put it in the closet. He took his toothbrush and shaving gear from the bathroom and stuffed them inside his suitcase. Satisfied that he had removed all traces of his presence, he quietly opened the window. Taking his luggage with him, he slipped out the building and into its narrow back yard.
Abdul was fuming by the time he entered the Sahuaro Inn parking lot. He jerked open the door to Jake’s room, entered and the slammed it shut. Jake was at the mini bar, an opened can of beer in his hand. Abdul slammed the door with such force that Jake jumped and spilled some of the beer.
Before the echo died down, Abdul was engaged in his verbal assault, berating Jake for his incompetence, for being unable to give him a picture of his target and for purposely planning to expose him to capture by sending him to kill at the wrong address.
Jake calmed him and, after hearing his story, picked up the telephone directory. He turned to the Gs and, tapping his finger on the address of G. G. Grant, he showed it to Abdul. In contrast to the Jordanian’s loud language, Jake spoke in subdued tones. “You are probably an expert in finding an oasis in the middle of some vast uncharted desert. How can you miss something as obvious as a street address in Tucson? Even a Jordanian imbecile should be able to do it.”
Abdul became defensive. “I went to that address. I checked it twice. She must have moved. A man named “Ten” and a woman live there now. I should have guessed it when I saw an old truck in the driveway.”
Jake began to show his exasperation. “Did it ever occur to that pile of Arab camel shit you call a brain that she might have been shacking up with some…” He stopped abruptly. “What did you say the man’s name was?”
“Ten. She called him Ten.”
“No,” Jake thought. “It wasn’t ‘Ten’. It was ‘Den’. Den Clark is with her. I’ve found him. I’ve found the son of a bitch. This time he won’t get away. This time, he’s a dead man.” Jake hid his reaction to discovering the presence of the man whose existence tormented him. Now Abdul would kill Den Clark.
Aloud and in a calm voice, he explained: “I was the one who recommended you to some of the Agency’s most important people. I said you were an experienced and reliable man. Was I wrong, Abdul? You have had two chances to perform and you have failed on both occasions.
“Now, matters have become muddled. You’ve screwed up twice. I’m going to give you your third and final chance. I’ll settle for nothing less than the dead bodies of both Grant and the man called Ten. I expect you will kill them both very, very soon.”
Abdul reservations about becoming a tool of the CIA had already slipped away. Now he saw the opportunity of easy CIA money slipping away. This man, Jacobson, had to be convinced he was a capable assassin. He had to be shown. Abdul would show him. Before the evening was over, Abdul intended to prove his ruthless efficiency beyond all doubt.
He arose from his chair, patted the Beretta in his shoulder holster and nodded. “I will do it. We will both go back to the woman’s apartment. You will drive the automobile. When we get there, I will kill the woman and I will kill her lover. You will watch and see with your own eyes what I can do.”
Abdul marched out of the motel room. A very unhappy Jake Jacobson followed him without comment. Jake did not want to be a witness to Abdul’s murders. Planning assassinations was one thing. Being in the same room and watching a man like Abdul kill was quite another. Jake saw only one advantage to being present when Abdul killed. He would be sure Den Clark would see him before Abdul killed him. Den Clark would see him and understand the man he sent to the hospital was exacting his revenge.
Jake got behind the wheel and Abdul sat beside him. Neither spoke a word. When they left Central Boulevard and turned onto McCord Court, they saw another vehicle parked in front of Gigi’s apartment. It was a police car.
Jake drove past the building. Through the apartment’s bay window, he could see a uniformed cop and another man, probably a plain-clothesman. They were talking with Gigi. Both Jake and Abdul knew they were questioning her about the murder of her secretary.
The presence of the police was enough to scare Jake. He wanted to go back to the Sahuaro Inn. Abdul would have none of it. He had enough of delays. What should have been a simple killing had gotten out of hand. Jake had challenged him to perform and Abdul intended to meet the challenge.
Abdul insisted they wait at the scene and finish the work. If it meant killing more than two, he would do it. The presence of the police didn’t bother him. He’d killed Israeli police and if American police got in his way, he’d kill them, too.
Abdul ordered Jake to drive past the apartment to the end of the cul-de-sac. He told Jake to turn the car around and park it facing Central Boulevard. If it became necessary to leave in a hurry, Abdul didn’t want to be caught traveling in the wrong direction on a dead end street. From where they parked, Abdul had a good view of the front of Gigi’s apartment.
“If the police leave without them,” Abdul said, “we will walk into the house and you will see what I can do. If it looks like the woman and the man are going to enter the police car, you will pull in front of it before they can start. Block them off as fast as you can. Don’t worry about witnesses. I will kill them all.”
Jake caught his breath. This was not what he expected. He was in over his head and he knew it. He hoped the police would leave Den and Gigi in the apartment. The thought of cutting off the police car frightened him. The possibility of being that close to a firefight was unthinkable. Abdul showed no signs of stress. He was relaxed. He leaned back against the front seat, wiggled into a comfortable position and waited.
When Den left Gigi’s bedroom, he closed the window from the outside and hid his suitcase behind the hedge that marked the rear edge of the apartment complex property line. Unobserved, he made his way along the hedge until he reached the buildings at the end of the cul-de-sac. He found a vantage point where he could see Gigi’s apartment and the police car parked in front of it. When the police left, he would return.
Inside Gigi’s apartment, the questioning continued. The detective showed interest in the ten o’clock appointment. He believed the man who made it was the one who killed Charlotte Novitski. Gigi could not identify him. He asked if Gigi knew of any reason why anyone would attack her secretary. Again, she could not help him.
The detective asked if they could look around the apartment. Gigi had no objection, but wished she had a way to stop the patrolman from looking in the bedroom. She breathed more freely when the patrolman came out of the bedroom with the report: “Nothing in here.”
Chapter 22
Den stood in the shadows of a darkened building near the end of the McCord Court cul-de-sac. He was thankful there were no neighborhood dogs to announce his presence. From his vantage point he could watch the squad car and the front door of Gigi’s apartment.
As he watched, Den saw another vehicle enter the Court and slowly drive toward the place where he was hidden. He slid behind one of the building’s evergreens as the vehicle passed him. It turned around at the end of the street and parked not too far from Gigi’s apartment.
At first Den thought it might be some kind of a stake-out. Two men were in the front seat. It was too dark to identify them, but the driver appeared to be watching Gigi’s apartment. The other was slumped against the seat, probably trying to rest until it was his turn to watch.
Den didn’t think the police would have any special reason to suspect Gigi for the murder of her secretary. “They may be there to protect her,” he thought. “Or maybe it was their policy to keep an eye on people closely associated with violent deaths.”
When the detective and the patrolman left the building, Den was relieved. Gigi was not with them. She was not being taken someplace for f
urther questioning. His relief was short-lived. As soon as they left, the automobile he thought was a stake-out moved forward and stopped in the space the police car had vacated. This was definitely not a stake-out procedure.
Den knew something was up. He watched the men get out of the car and walk to the apartment building and his attention turned into alarm. As they approached the door, he saw both men pull handguns from their shoulder holsters.
Den ran back along the hedge to Gigi’s apartment building. He hurried to the window of her bedroom, slid it open and silently re-entered the room.
When she saw the squad car drive away, Gigi went to her bedroom. Den had been thorough. There was nothing to show the police he had been there. She reviewed the questions asked by the police. Nothing indicated the detective suspected Den or anyone other than the man who made the ten o’clock appointment. She was wondering who might have a reason to kill Charlotte when she heard knocking at her front door. “They’re back,” she thought. “The detective is back with more questions.”
Gigi went to the door and, without thinking, began to open it. As soon as she disengaged the lock, the door was pushed open. Abdul immediately struck her with his Beretta. She fell to the floor, nearly unconscious and unable to cry out. Abdul ran into the kitchen, signaling Jacobson toward the bedroom. The kitchen was empty. He threw open the door of the utility room. “Ten” was not there. Before returning to the living room, he took a roll of duct tape from the shelf above the clothes washer.
Jacobson, his pistol still in his right hand and the butt of the weapon resting in his left palm, came back through the bedroom door. He had checked the bathroom and the closet, too. “He’s not in there,” he reported, “She has to know where he is. Make her talk,” he said to the Jordanian.