by Blake Banner
“Sheila.”
“Is that wise?”
“I think so. I’ll slip her a Mickey Finn, make sure she’s not there tomorrow.”
“If you think there will be no comeback. She might become suspicious.”
If there was an implied question, I didn’t bother to answer it. Instead I said, “What are your plans?”
“Regarding the girl?”
“Yes.”
“We’re still discussing it. It’s not easy.”
“You won’t hurt her.”
“We’ve already had this conversation, Harry. I told you we won’t.”
I sighed. “OK, I’ll call you tomorrow, when it’s over.”
“Good. Be safe.”
I hung up and stood staring out at the sea for a while. After a couple of minutes I turned and made my way through the gardens and back to the road. A hundred yards away, maybe a little more, there was a dark blue Ford sedan parked. It seemed the Air Force were still interested in me.
I crossed the road at a trot and made my way up to my apartment. The lock showed no signs of tampering, and when I opened the door there was only silence inside, and the place showed no signs that anybody had been there. So I spent the rest of the day, until five PM, mixing a lethal distillation of aconite with wholegrain flour, rolling it into small pellets and laying them out to dry. Also, just for the sake of completeness, I took the Sig, put it in my drawer and put the BB imitation in my shoulder holster, ready for the next day.
By five I had collected the pellets into a Tupperware box and put them in the freezer, cleaned the pot with bleach and boiling water and turned the place back from a poison lab to a kitchen. I showered and shaved and dressed, and at five thirty, with an increasing sense of foreboding in my gut, I called Sheila.
Ten
She was at Pavilions supermarket on Montana Avenue. I told her to wait there for me and ran down to the TVR. I couldn’t put my finger on the reason, but there was a coil of anxiety in my belly that was twisting hotter at every moment. I ran across the road, pressing the key as I went. The lights flashed, I slipped behind the wheel, slammed the door and pressed the starter button.
I backed out of the lot at speed, heard brakes squeal behind me, ignored them and floored the pedal, headed west. The TVR will go zero to sixty in less than four seconds. I covered the four hundred yards to Montana Avenue in fifteen seconds, with smoke billowing from the tires. I fishtailed into Montana and slowed to a crawl as I followed the snarled traffic for the half mile to the superstore, steadily pounding the wheel with my fist.
As I pulled into the parking lot I was thumbing her number. It rang six times before she answered.
“Hi honey.”
Another twist of anxiety. “Where are you?”
“I told you, I’m at Pavilions.”
“Where? I’m out in the parking lot.”
“Are you serious? What did you do, fly?”
She laughed and I smiled through my stress. “Sort of. What aisle are you in? I’ll come and meet you.”
“Oh, do you want to wait in the café? I won’t be long.”
“No, I want to wait with you, and help you do the shopping.”
“That’s so cute. OK, I’m by the fruit and vegetables.”
I pushed through the crowd of shoppers and into the supermarket. I scanned the aisles looking for the fruit and vegetables. People were milling everywhere with their trolleys, like colliding streams, or rivers churning together. I couldn’t see her. I pushed in and elbowed my way toward a broad aisle where I could see a stack of dark green watermelons, and beyond it a display of bright yellow lemons. The crowd was thinner here, with people pausing to examine the produce. I looked around. There was still no sign of her.
I moved forward, slowly, scanning each face as I went. I was telling myself there had not been time for anything to happen. There had been no shouts or screams. There had not been an abduction or a murder—not an overt one, anyhow. But then, a Cobra operative would not be overt. For a job like this, he would be subtle, stealthy.
I moved toward the seafood section. Stacks of apples, red and green on my left, bright oranges beside them, two women poring over bananas, crates of melons like bloated toads, a guy in a black suit and a beard tapping one and listening to it, like he wanted to be admitted inside it. Two women and three kids with a couple of trolleys talking about divorce. I stopped and looked around.
Sheila was not there.
A sudden hot burn in my gut. A voice in my head said, “She’s not here.” I moved into the seafood section and I wanted to kill somebody. I was fighting down the conclusions, trying to ignore my thoughts.
Then a hard jab in my back and a voice whispered in my ear, “Freeze, turn around real slow, and give me a kiss.”
I turned very slowly, suppressing the flow of lava that was running through my belly and my limbs. She was grinning up at me from under a purple velvet peaked cap.
“Were you hiding among the plums?”
“That’s rude.”
“So is your hat. Are you done? I want to take you home and peel you.”
She smacked my chest softly. “Stop that, mister! Yes, I am done. Let’s go.”
We collected her trolley and made our way to the checkout. She kept glancing at me and finally asked, “Are you looking for somebody?” I made an inquiry with my face. “You’re staring at everybody, like you were searching for somebody.”
“Oh.” I grunted and smiled. “Bad habits die hard. Not looking for anyone.”
While she was paying I did my best to calibrate everyone within shooting distance. There was no one that stood out. But I reminded myself that good operatives never did, and Cobra only ever employed the best.
I took the bags and we crossed the short distance to the TVR with me walking beside her with my head swiveling from side to side like Robocop, or the Terminator. I stood in front of her, shielding her as she climbed into the car and put the groceries on her lap, so I would not have to delay, opening the trunk when we got there.
Halfway down Montana Avenue I swung suddenly into 6th Street and kept my eyes glued on the cars that came in behind me. There was none. So I swung left again onto Washington and left again onto 5th, and made my way back to Montana followed by angry honks. As I finished my maneuver Sheila spoke, and there was no humor in her voice.
“What are you doing, Harry?”
I laughed. “Keeping my skills fresh. You never know when you might need them.”
“Is there anything I should know?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Sheila.”
“Do you know you’re scaring me?”
“Then let’s get up to my apartment as quickly as gravity will allow. At least I can guarantee that nobody is following us. And besides,” I grinned at her, “did you know fear is supposed to be a great aphrodisiac?”
There was very little amusement in her voice.
“Is that what this is about? I wasn’t aware I needed an aphrodisiac. And for your information, affection and a martini are much more effective.”
“Got it.” I found a space across the road from the entrance to the block and parked. “Martini and affection coming up.”
I climbed out and rounded the trunk to her side as she opened the door. I took the grocery bags and helped her out, scanning the street as I did so. The blue Ford was still there. For a moment the presence of the Air Force gave me a vague, if misplaced, sense of comfort.
She stood and I locked the door. The lights flashed and bleeped in the growing dusk. I offered her my elbow and we crossed. Two cars entered the street from California Avenue on our right. I blocked her with my body and gently shoved her onto the path. The cars accelerated past, one after the other. My pulse accelerated, then eased.
Somehow I made it to the door before her, opened it, blocked her entrance until I had scanned the lobby and then let her in. She called the elevator while I stood facing the entrance. The elevator clunked to a halt and the doors hissed o
pen. It was empty and I gently propelled her in. As it closed I positioned myself between her and the door and smiled at her. She wasn’t smiling back.
“What are you afraid of, Harry?”
“My bestial, primal appetites.”
She made a face which said that wasn’t funny. “I’m beginning to think this evening might have been a mistake.”
“Forgive me, in poor taste.”
“Why are you so edgy?”
“OK.” I sighed. “I’ll tell you inside while you cook and I make you a martini. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Just humor me till then.”
She sighed. “OK.”
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open again. There was nobody on the landing. As I stepped out I handed her the groceries. “Hold these for one second, will you?”
She took them and I hunkered down to inspect the lock. It had not been tampered with. I opened the door and stepped inside. The living room was clear and so was the kitchen. She followed me through and I closed the door behind her. She was staring at me. I gave her a quick kiss and propelled her gently toward the kitchen.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll fix us some drinks.”
She came back to the door, still holding the two bags and wearing a smile that was wearing thin.
“I want an explanation for your behavior this evening, Harry.”
“You’ll get one, but don’t expect anything interesting, Sheila, or you’ll be disappointed. You want to be putting the things away? I’m going to wash up and get some ice.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and I moved fast and silent into the bedroom. There was nobody there and it looked undisturbed. I moved to the en suite and found nothing there either. Two strides took me back across the room. I still needed to check the main bathroom next door. I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living room. I saw the sliding door onto the terrace and noticed it was open. For a fraction of a second I wondered if Sheila had gone out. Then a shattering pain split my head open, and as I staggered forward something brutally hard smashed into the back of my knee and threw me to the floor. The pain was hard to believe and for crucial seconds filled my world, making it impossible to think.
When I opened my eyes I saw the silhouette of a man framed by the light in the kitchen doorway. Sounds of cutlery and plates came to me. I struggled to get my breath, to regain control of my leg. I saw him raise an arm and I screamed to Sheila to run.
There was a violent crack, like a firecracker, and then another, and the silhouette moved inside the kitchen. I scrambled, trying to get to my feet, fighting to ignore the crippling agony. I fell, calling out to Sheila, sprawled facedown. Another crack, and the silhouette appeared in the doorway again, looking down at me.
He took three steps and stood over me. I knew I was going to die, and received the thought with gratitude. All I wanted right then was oblivion. But instead of shooting me in the head, he hunkered down, staring into my face. He had on a balaclava, but I could see his pale blue eyes, and the curly red hair of his moustache and beard. If he didn’t kill me, I would know him when I saw him again.
“You’re in over your depth, Harry,” he said. “Better run now, while you can. Things are going to get ugly.”
The accent was New Zealand or Australia.
“Why don’t you kill me?”
“I only kill who I’m paid to kill. I wasn’t paid to kill you.”
“Who paid you?”
He wagged his finger. “Tut-tut, you know better than that.”
“I’ll pay you. Name your price. Who sent you?”
“Unprofessional, Harry. Very unprofessional.” He stood. “My advice to you? Get the hell out of Dodge.”
He crossed the floor, opened the door and left, closing it quietly behind him.
I dragged myself to my feet and hopped, supporting myself against the wall, toward the kitchen. I knew what I was going to find. I could not bring myself to look at it, yet I knew I had to. I had to honor her, I had to be her witness. I had to look at her.
When I did I broke down and wept. I pulled my cell from my pocket and called 911. I told them what had happened, gave them the address and told them to alert Detective Frank Costello. Then I took a photograph of Sheila, where she lay on the floor, with two bullet holes in her chest and her face disfigured by a third to the back of her head. The floor was thick with her blood.
I sent the photograph to the brigadier with the message, “Did you do this?”
The phone rang almost immediately. I went back to the living room and lowered myself onto the sofa before I answered.
“Was this you?”
“You know it wasn’t.”
“Well, it’s one hell of a fucking coincidence, sir!”
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I have a concussion and I might have a broken leg.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Outside I could hear the wail of sirens. I said, “I can’t. The cops are on their way.”
“You called the police?”
“Yeah,” I snarled. “Right now I don’t know who I can trust! If you did this…”
“Harry!”
I hung up as I heard the cars pulling up outside. I struggled to my feet again, and again hopped to the front door. I opened it as Costello and two uniforms emerged from the elevator. There were boots tramping up the stairs too. Costello didn’t look happy. He scowled at me.
“What the hell happened?”
I jerked my head at the kitchen.
“In there. I got hit on the head. I think I also got kicked in the back of the knee.”
“Jesus!” He stood in the doorway, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, and said it like I disgusted him, but it was no less than he expected from a New Yorker. He shook his head and repeated, “Jesus…” He turned to me. “You do this to her?”
“Of course not.”
He looked me over. “Of course not? You want to tell me what makes that so obvious?”
I let the incredulity show on my face. The ME pushed in and behind him were the crime scene team dressed in white plastic suits. They jostled past me carrying their gear to the kitchen. When they’d passed I snarled at him:
“You want to get somebody to look at my head and my leg? And while you’re at it, maybe you can explain to me how I am supposed to have put three rounds in her while I was lying on the floor with a blunt axe in my head and a broken leg.”
He turned away. “Yeah, yeah. All I know is people who come to your apartment wind up dead.”
“Is that something you’re prepared to take to the DA, Costello? Because your man on the lawn downstairs didn’t come to my apartment.” I pointed to the bedroom. “My P226 is in the drawer in my bedside table. Check it, see if it’s been fired. See if it’s the gun that killed Sheila!” As I spoke I was acutely aware of the BB filled with poisoned pellets sitting under my arm. I went on, raising my voice. “Why don’t you check my hands for GSR?”
He stood watching the ME and the crime scene officers at work in the kitchen. “Don’t worry,” he said, without looking at me, “we will.”
I stood and hobbled toward the bedroom.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
I stopped and snarled back at him. “The john. You want to come and hold my dick for me?”
He turned back to the ME and I hobbled on my way.
In the bathroom I locked the door and, struggling against the pain in my leg and my head, I pulled off my jacket and my shoulder holster. Suppressing a cry of pain, I climbed on the toilet and, using my Swiss Army knife I unscrewed the vent, pushed in the gun and the holster and screwed back the wire mesh. As I lowered myself back to the floor, I wasn’t able to hold back a cry of pain through gritted teeth. A moment later there was a sharp rap on the door. “What’s going on in there?”
“My knee is killing me! Can’t you let me use the john in peace, for crying out loud?”
I dropped the l
id and flushed the cistern and after a moment let myself out. I found Costello where I had left him, talking to the ME as the body was bagged and lifted onto a gurney. I watched the anonymous black bag wheeled past me and out to the landing. Every instinct in me told me I should go with her and protect her. Then she disappeared into the elevator and was gone.
Eleven
They had a paramedic check me for concussion and a broken leg. I had concussion but my leg was just badly bruised and swollen. Costello didn’t seem to give a damn about either fact and took me to Olympic Drive where they tested me for gunshot residue and took ballistics samples from my gun. After that he hauled me into a dingy interview room with a steel and Formica table and no windows, where he took my statement. When I was done he asked me, “Why do you have a gun?”
“I was in a special ops unit for eight years. I made a few enemies. I have it for protection.”
“What about that knife? What kind of knife is that?”
“Fairbairn and Sykes. It’s a military fighting knife, issued to me when I joined my regiment. I keep it for sentimental reasons.”
He scowled at me, like I was speaking a different language. “Your regiment?”
“The SAS.”
“They’re British.”
“Is that a question? George Washington was British too. What’s your point?”
He grunted. “The guy who fell into your front yard, you think he might have been one of those enemies you made?”
“I have no idea. I never got to see him, remember? All I saw was a broken body lying on the lawn.”
“Speculate for me. Is it possible?”
I shrugged. “Most of the enemies I made were either Arab or from Latin America. Taliban, Al-Qaeda, Sinaloa, Bloque Meta…”
“I get the idea. I’m asking you if you think these two incidents might be related. You have to admit, it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Detective. I think I was maybe in the wrong place at the wrong time. This guy tonight was not after me. He hit me a blow on the head, then kicked me hard in the back of the knee. He could have killed me, easily. Instead he went to the kitchen. The light was on so he could see perfectly who he was taking out. He took his time, aimed, fired twice, then went into the kitchen and confirmed the kill.” I shook my head. “And then there was what he said to me. I asked him why he didn’t kill me, and he said it clear as day. ‘I wasn’t paid to kill you.’ Yeah.” I nodded. “You’re right. It’s a hell of a coincidence, a homicide and an apparent homicide in the same place within a couple of days of each other. One in my apartment, one just outside. But I’ll be damned if I can say what the connection is. If the first guy was after me, the second one wasn’t. If the first guy was after me, who killed him? I didn’t. And really—” I spread my hands and made a “pff!” sound. “What reason have we to think he was doing anything illegal at all?”