I Kill Rich People: New Edition Released 11/27/14

by Mike Bogin

  “We’re moving!” she announced.

  Callie stared at everyone, uncomprehending.

  Shelley and Mike had bought a new house. They weren’t just looking, they had bought it. They wouldn’t be next-door neighbors anymore.

  “Sweetheart, don’t cry,” Shelley threw her arms around Callie. Owen stared into space. Mike had been next-door forever. Shelley had been there since before they got married. What was going to happen with the house? Who was going to be next-door now?

  “Lake Success is only fifteen minutes or so. Eight miles. We’ll still be seeing each other all the time.”

  Callie wasn’t listening to what Shelley had to say, just shaking her head no.

  Their business was doing well, but they were working eighty hours most weeks. Coming home to North Corona didn’t feel like any kind of reward for all the time they were putting in. When Mike saw this house listed, they went out to see it just for shits and giggles, knowing they couldn’t afford it. But it had turned out to be a short sale. They put in an offer way below the asking price, WAY below, and never thought the bank would say yes. It took so long they weren’t even dreaming about it anymore, but then the agent called them ten days ago and the offer was accepted! Needed work, like all the wallpaper needed to come down and the carpeting was shot, but their inspector said it was built better than houses that are brand new. A corner house, too, on Bridle Path Lane. How cute was that! Three bedrooms plus a bonus room with two-and-a-half baths. The master bath was huge. Double sinks, a soaker tub with a separate shower. They had no idea how they were going to fill the space! The closet was bigger than their second bedroom. $530,000.

  “Oh my God, the yard. We’ll have to get a riding mower or Mike will be spending half his Saturdays cutting grass,” Shelley gushed.

  They would wait until after they moved in before putting the house on the market. Their agent recommended clearing everything out, having the whole house detailed, and getting it staged before the sign went up. Lake Success, could they believe it? Lake Success.

  Callie would not say a word, leaving Owen to speak for both of them when he wished success. Callie cried.

  “I’ll miss you, too, buddy,” Mike told Owen.

  Owen pulled Callie up from her seat and took her out onto the deck, leading her down the lawn and onto the dock in the semi-darkness. Only yellow lights at the end of several docks and a thin new moon shining off the still lake showed against the black. Callie wobbled like she was walking on ice skates. Owen had to hold onto her shoulders to keep her upright until he sat her down with her back against one of the raised pilings. Owen worked himself in to share the backrest, being careful to avoid the slivers that poked through his shirt, and then took Callie’s hand.

  “I can’t do this,” Callie mumbled.

  Mosquitoes found them and bit Owen’s bare arms and legs. He swatted at one, then gave up and let them bite.

  “Callie, I can’t sell my dad’s house. I can’t do it.”

  “Eamonn’s dead.”

  “You don’t think I know that?”

  “I’m alive, O. Eamonn was far from perfect. You’ve got to stop idolizing him!”

  Owen knew very well that his father had flaws. Big ones. And maybe he did idolize the Big Man. But his dad was always there. Always. He never left Owen behind.

  “Dad wasn’t perfect,” Owen agreed. “But he was there,” Owen added defiantly.

  No matter what, he stayed. Only him.”

  “What about me, O? I’ve been here for you since we were fourteen. I gave you two wonderful sons. Your mommy left you. Get over it.”

  Owen laid down flat and watched the stars. He reached his hand out for Callie’s, but she would not respond. They stayed outside for hours. Owen tried again to take Callie’s hand as they walked up the lawn. She moved it away. By the time they came back in, Mike and Shelley had given up waiting. The big room was empty. Nothing was said when they got under the covers.

  * * * * *

  Sunday, August 5, Mamaroneck Beach

  Midtown Manhattan was ground zero for high-net-worth clients. Boston Consulting Group noted 2,692 U.S. families with net-worths above $100,000,000. The figure excluded the value of principal property and collectibles—art, jewelry, etc.

  Carver Fischer had served these families since 1863, through wars, market crashes, the events of 9/11, and every other challenging circumstance. The leadership at Carver had long since learned a critical lesson: longevity comes from seizing every opportunity to gain market share. Carver Fischer did not shrink from conflict. The Westchester Charity Ball it organized annually was not going to be cancelled for any reason.

  Personnel with proven experience in the Iraq conflict vetted every cook, server, valet, and entertainer. Nominally two thousand dollars per attendee, the actual cost for each of the 240 invitations to current and prospective clients was fully paid by Carver. Nothing was spared. 2001 Burgundy (Drouhin) with the duck and beef. 1895 Madeira (Malmsey) with dessert.

  He had in hand the KAC M110 semi-automatic, 7.62X51mm NATO round, Nightline Omega NL2124 Thermal Imaging Sight. Suppressor. The range was 850 yards. Air movement = null. Firing over open water.

  He watched the drummer steal a bottle of the Johnnie Walker Blue.

  Twenty-four tables, ten chairs per table.

  17:45. Guests to arrive 18:00.

  Private security stood on the roof, positions at SW, SE. Each had binoculars. Rifles? None visible. More security on the grounds. Buddy configuration, two-man teams. Walkie-talkies, semis. Six floating teams. Four stationary. Wide field of vision, 20 inches below grade, wire cover, full camo, suppressor. Exposure nil after nightfall.

  He used the time to commit the escape options to memory.

  Exit 1: Rushmore-Orienta, right. W Boston Post, right. Fenimore left.

  Exit 2: Rushmore-Bleeker, left. Orienta, right. Cove, left. Bear right. Open golf course, right. (Cover point.) Right at Eagle Knolls until it becomes Weaver. North to Hutchinson River Parkway.

  17:58. Silver Mercedes on approach. Black Mercedes Sprinter Van. Black BMW. White Lexus. Yellow Ferrari. Black Mercedes. White Rolls Royce. Black Lexus. Blue Bentley. Covered entry north side, no visual. Valets moving cars to west lot. Running back. North side behind main building.

  Black Maybach. Black Mercedes Sprinter. White Mercedes. Black Lexus. White Prius.

  Green dress. Diamond necklace, large center stone, multiple-string side stones. Drop earrings. Diamond. Large diamond ring. Approaching table, placing napkin on seat facing front. Placing napkin adjacent, too. Mark.

  Black tuxedo. Brown hair, short silver dress. Black tuxedo, red full-length dress, choke necklace. Diamond?

  Orange outfit, black pearl drop-earrings, platinum or white gold, black pearl necklace, huge center pearl, platinum or white gold, pearl ring, diamond ring less than 10 carat. After seating, mark orange.

  He looked backward to the spitting hiss when the automated sprinklers came on. A drip line was feeding into a shrub to the right side.

  Eight hundred meters over water, four degrees in arc of separation. Challenging shots. He used to have a spotter doing calculations with him for even one shot. But he was doing it on his own.

  Eight. He was going to take down eight.

  Three shots would be static, in original seating places. The next five more certainly had to be in motion. One, two, three to north sides of the tables. Away shots. Males first. No, two males, one female in flat shoes. Reset. Left to right far side, one, two, three. Exit right, right to left four, five, six, seven, eight. Full magazine. Twenty. One, spot two, spot three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Six to eight. Variables. Alternatives? Opportunity-determined. Take eight.

  Drip-sprinkler soaking lower left side. The cool water ran from his thigh down into his shoe.

  Band sto
pped. An absence of sound. Tinkling glass ringing through amplification, audible moved across the water. Man making a speech—One. Short speech. Raising glass.

  Scan one, right two, right three, right four, five, left six, left seven, left eight. BRASS. One (male, fifty, wife on left wearing rubies and diamonds, looking constantly to react to whatever he was saying or wanting…center forehead, chair flopped backward in a red mist). Two BRASS (male, center forehead…no whiplash…he looked like he smiled before falling). Three BRASS (blonde, tall, no heels, temple…the wig she was wearing spun away). Four BRASS (orange outfit, pearls, below ear through pearl earring. Right on the earring.). Movement every table now. Five (moving right, blue outfit, blue heels). BRASS. (Center-back. Swan-dive response, straight onto the table). Six BRASS (left, under table. No place to hide).

  An incandescent, blinding bolt of light moved through 225 lumens directly into his retina. Blind!

  Sighting eye useless. Aluminum boat moving east, 1000-watt spotlight scanning shoreline. Breathe. Center. Pulse 150. Breathe. Focus. Spotlight. Breathe. 1000 meters of shoreline. Half-mile to cover.

  Sight on spotlight beam? No. Think. Trust in your cover. Taking out the light halves the search perimeter. Rely on the camouflage.

  Collect shells. Right hand. One, two, three. Patting. Four. Sweep. Five. Six? Pat. Sweep. Six? No. Five. Breathe.

  Local police? Helicopter would be on the way. Breathe. Break down stock. Get it done. There. Bolt. Bolt. Bag open. In. Pulse 100. Better. Right eye still down.

  Close scope. Battery off. Remove suppressor. 27 inches. Bag 24. 27? Fits at angle. Panniers? Shells-check. Stock-check. Suppressor-check. Slow swing along shoreline. Spotlight. Under complete concealment. Leave screening, shelter in place. Zip bag. No. Think. Bottles. Four empty. Two full. Unzip. Bag one, two, three, four.

  Sirens. Lights across water. How long until helicopter? Move. Don’t get pinned down. Move out. Move.

  He pushed the cycle out to the street. Siren. Fire engine. Breathe. Slow.

  Route: Rushmore to Bleeker. Left. Breathe. Pulse 80 range. Dark. No headlight. Right along golf course. Shorter. Fewer houses. Dark. Turn on the headlight at Weaver. Corner ahead. Orienta. Right eye fucked. Orienta. Right. Cove. Cove to Eagle Knolls.

  The sixty-one-year-old driving had only going three blocks to go, straight from the club to home. Didn’t matter that he had a few drinks, not for a three-block drive home.

  The accident happened so fast. “Not my fault!” he insisted. “The idiot had no lights on! Damn motorcycle was right in the center of the road, speeding with no lights. That had nothing to do with having a little to drink. I didn’t hit him! Wasn’t me. He flipped the motorcycle over.”

  OK. Maybe they should have stopped. But what good would that do? The house was right there! Five hundred feet and they’d be home. They weren’t paramedics.

  He might not even be hurt. They could just go home and call from there. No, don’t use the home phone. Use the cell. Just let 911 know and leave it alone. Yes, he saw him tumble. What did she want, him going to jail because the idiot was driving with no lights on? The motorcycle driver was probably really drunk, not just a little high. They DID NOT HIT HIM!

  The shock subsided quickly. Dumb. Missed the headlights coming. Car didn’t stop. Better. Better they didn’t stop.

  Ah no. Damn. I fucked up the Harley.

  Only a distant porch lamp offered any light. He felt along the handlebars and winced when his fingers examined the crushed mirror and turn light. He tapped along the exhaust, not too hot, and then ran his fingers across deep scratches where chrome had scraped along the roadway. The gas tank was obviously crushed on the down-side. The lettering and custom paint were ruined. Not smelling gas. Tank was intact.

  His bike. Fuck!

  Body review. Nothing obviously broken. He smelled blood along where the rifle strap pulled on his neck. Deep bruising under rib cage, sternum. Rolled right over the M110.

  Right knee stiffening. Side hit. Hard. Air there. Feeling it. Pants are torn open. Palms aching. Fingers worked. Cycle functional? Right ankle fucked. High sprain.

  Should have dumped it, not twisting the fork and going over handlebars.

  He felt the wetness, thinking first that it was from the sprinkler. No. That was his left side. His fingers followed the blood up his right calf until he could feel a jagged edge. He nearly screamed when he stretched out to get a look. Two inches of broken mirror protruded from where a thick piece was stabbed deep into the muscle.

  Chopper noise. Where? There. Near the point. Scanning with searchlight.

  Knee is fucked. Pants glued to skin. Breathe. Umph.

  He leg pressed upward, using all the force to start moving the motorcycle off its side.

  Enjoy the pain. Motivate!

  Upright. Exhaling hard. Bike fires. Saddle up. Steady. Headlight off until Boston Post Road. Mix into traffic. Right eye better. Something.

  He had to get back to the trailer. He could make it that far.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Callie rose up from the pullout bed saying nothing. Angry. Sad. Owen with his half-done projects, like rewiring the house. So stuck. She had been up all night, falling asleep for ten minutes at a time then awakening to the same words and thoughts pouring over her in torrents. Mike and Shelley, no kids, got the big house in Lake Success. Her boys deserved that corner house with the big yard on Bridle Path Lane.

  Owen got the boys up early while Callie stripped the two bunk beds and the sofa and shoved the sheets inside the washer. Shelley and Mike could hear them packing. Mike whispered at Shelley to leave them alone.

  Liam and Casey slowly ate their cereal, not fully awake, as Callie cleaned and packed up with a hard efficiently. Owen had the Tahoe loaded at 7 a.m. They were ready to leave when Shelley and Mike came out in their pajamas.

  Owen and Callie had kept their mortgage situation to themselves, not telling even their best friends. Eamonn’s care costs had left them mortgaged to the hilt. They were upside-down, with 6.5 percent on the first and 8.25 percent on the credit line. They made every payment and the thanks for that was neither bank would let them refinance. Owen didn’t care that ten million other people were in the same boat. He didn’t want to air that laundry.

  “Mike, we’re going to head out early. It’s easier…the boys will sleep part of the drive home.”

  The wives held one another. The men finally offered, “See you, buddy,” back and forth before the car doors shut.

  Callie pressed her forehead against her window and looked away for most of the drive home. No stops for hash browns or strawberry waffles.

  At Orange, Owen turned on the radio. The station was still tuned to Emerson Elliot. Owen switched stations to news and traffic. No more tallies of who got shot and how much money they had.

  “…five dead, bringing the confirmed total to twenty victims.”

  Owen wasn’t certain what he had heard and tried to play it back through his head while the Pep Boys jingle played on the radio. Twenty? Five more? He double-checked the station. Could they be talking about something else? Owen turned on his cell phone to see nine messages in his voicemail. Callie was either asleep or staring out the window. He couldn’t tell which. He hadn’t remembered to bring along his hands-free earpiece, but decided to make the call anyway. Callie looked over as he called in to the Division.

  “Won’t fish with your sons without having a license, but you’ll break the law using the cell phone,” Callie observed caustically.

  “Five dead.” Tremaine told him. “Shooter was a long way out, Owen, I can’t believe how far. Local PD found the spot. Along the shore across the whole mouth of the bay. They retrieved a water bottle and a shell casing. I don’t know what else.” Dansk was pulling detectives to investigate.

  Copycat? Finding the shell casing
made Owen think about what Gonzalez said when they found the casing on the beach at Keaner’s estate. Gonzalez said that their shooter didn’t make mistakes. He didn’t leave his casings.

  There was a message from Al, too. As Owen dialed to return his calls, Callie turned to him. “Talking on the cell phone is illegal, remember? My kids are in the back seat.” She had never said that before. Her kids. Screw that.

  “Al, Owen Cullen. I heard. Because I was out of town with no cell. No, I can’t. Because I’m driving through Newark with my wife and kids.”

  Al could wait an hour. Owen could come in to the Bureau, leave Callie the car, and drive up to Mamaroneck with him.

  Al had a hunch. “I’ll tell you everything when I see you.”

  Owen lifted the console, making sure that his medallion, his Glock, and his FBI ID were where he had them stashed.

  “I have to work. Let’s go by the Federal Building and you can take the car and get the kids home. Won’t take fifteen minutes more.”

  Callie glared. Not one word. It felt a little scary to him, leaving her alone with the boys. This was not going to blow over. It was real. Mike and Shelley were moving.

  * * * * *

  “We might have caught a break,” Al said by way of a greeting. As soon as they found the shooter’s spot, Mamaroneck PD and Westchester County Police had the sense to back off and let forensics work the location—across the mouth of the bay from the beach club where the victims were killed. Bigfoot was shooting across open water from the south side of the bay.

  Size thirteen feet: “Bigfoot.” Al had named him, and it had stuck.

  “Mamaroneck PD’s harbor boat was offshore. The police boat may have cut off the shooter. Word is that the shooting stopped when they turned on their search beam.” As they drove, Al brought Owen up to speed. “The shooter probably was using a thermal sight; they found bi-pod markings and a 7.62mm NATO casing. Probably from an M110 semi-automatic. Also found a water bottle, unopened, so nothing there except a fiber caught around the cap. Lycra. Brown. Could be from the shooter. Lycra gloves wick moisture. Better grip.”