by John Verdon
She looked anxious, confused. “From what you’ve told me about him, he sounds like a very logical, precise planner.”
“A precise, logical planner driven by a homicidal rage. Funny thing about contract killers. They can appear cool and practical about actions that horrify most people, but there’s nothing cool or practical about their motivation—and I don’t mean the money they get paid to do what they do. That’s secondary. I’ve met hit men. I’ve interrogated them. I’ve gotten to know a few of them fairly well. And you know what they are, for the most part? They’re rage-driven serial killers who’ve managed to turn their insanity into a paying job. You want to hear something really nuts?”
Her expression was more wary than curious, but he went on anyway. “I used to tell Kyle when he was a kid that one key to a happy life, a happy career, was to find an activity you enjoyed enough that you’d be willing to do it without being paid—then find someone willing to pay you to do it. Well, not many people succeed in doing that. Pilots, musicians, actors, artists, and athletes, mainly. And hit men. I don’t mean that professional killers end up happy. In fact, most of them die violently or die in prison. But they like what they do when they’re doing it. Most of them would end up killing people whether they were paid for it or not.”
As he was speaking, she was becoming more distressed. “David, what on earth is your point?”
He realized he’d worked himself farther out onto a limb than he’d intended. “Only that my withdrawing from the case now wouldn’t accomplish anything positive.”
She was making an apparent effort to remain calm. “Because you’re already on his radar screen?”
“It’s possible.”
Her tone began to fray. “It’s because of that vile Criminal Conflict program. Bincher using your name, tying you to Hardwick. That idiot Brian Bork created the problem. He needs to make it go away. He needs to announce that you’re off the case. Gone.”
“I’m not sure that would make any difference at this point.”
“What are you telling me? That you’ve managed to set yourself up—once again—in front of some lunatic murderer? That there’s nothing to do now but wait for some horrible confrontation?”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid—by getting to him before he can get to me.”
“How?”
“By finding out everything I can about him. So I can predict his actions better than he can predict mine.”
“That’s the pattern, isn’t it? You and him.”
“Pardon?”
“You and him. One on one. It’s the same life-or-death contest you always seem to get yourself into. It’s the reason I wanted you to see Malcolm.”
He felt numb. “It’s not the same this time. It’s not just me. I have people on my side.”
“Oh, really? Who? Jack Hardwick, who dragged you into this mess to begin with? The state police, whom your investigation is undermining? Those are your friends and allies?” She shook her head in a way that looked like a shudder, then went on. “Even if the whole world was willing to help you, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be just you against him. It always comes down to that. High Noon at the O.K. Corral.”
He said nothing.
Madeleine sat back in her chair, watching him. Gradually, a look of discovery changed her expression. “I just realized something.”
“What?”
“You never really worked for the NYPD, did you? You never saw yourself as their employee, as a tool of the department. You saw the department as your tool—something to be used on your terms, if and when you felt like it, to achieve your goals.”
“My goals were their goals. Catch the bad guys. Get the evidence. Lock ’em up.”
She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “For you, the department was really just backup. The real contest was always between you and the bad guy. You and the bad guy on the way to the showdown. Sometimes you took advantage of department resources, sometimes you didn’t. But you always saw it as your battle, your call.”
He listened to what she was saying. Maybe she was right. Maybe his approach to things was too limited, too restricted to his own point of view. Maybe that was a big problem, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just the natural product of his brain chemistry, something over which he would never have any control. But whatever it was, he had no desire to keep talking about it. He suddenly found the whole topic exhausting.
He wasn’t sure what to do next.
But he had to do something. Even if it led to nothing.
He decided to call Adonis Angelidis.
Chapter 41
A Cautionary Tale
Gurney’s call to the cell number given him by Angelidis had been answered immediately by the man himself. Gurney’s brief description of a rapidly developing situation that could be of mutual interest resulted in an agreement to get together at the Aegean Odyssey in two hours.
Not wanting to leave before making sure that Madeleine was ready to go to the Winkler farm in Buck Ridge, he was pleased to find her in the bedroom, packing a big nylon duffel bag.
She spoke as she stuffed a pair of socks into a sneaker. “The hens have enough of their regular food and plenty of water, so you don’t have to bother with that. But maybe in the morning you could bring them some chopped strawberries?”
“Sure,” he said vaguely, the request hardly registering. He was caught up in conflicting feelings about her whole involvement in this Winkler business at the fair. He found it both annoying and fortuitous. Annoying because he’d never much liked the Winklers, and liked them less now for their having talked Madeleine into spending a week as an unpaid alpaca wrangler to make their lives easier. But he had to admit it was fortuitous as well, since it provided a safe place for her at the very time it was needed. And, of course, the work with the animals was something she’d enjoy doing. She just plain liked to be helpful, especially if feathered or furry creatures were involved.
In the midst of these thoughts, he found her looking at him with one of her gentler, more impenetrable expressions.
Somehow it relaxed him and made him smile.
“I love you,” she said. “Please be careful.”
She put out her arms, and they embraced—so long and so tightly, it seemed to leave nothing that needed to be put into words.
When he arrived in Long Falls, the restaurant block was deserted. Inside the restaurant there was only one employee in sight, a muscular waiter with expressionless eyes. There were no diners. No one at the unlit bar. Of course, it was barely ten-thirty, and it was highly unlikely that the Aegean Odyssey served breakfast. It occurred to him that the place might be open that morning only as a convenience to Angelidis.
The waiter led Gurney through the bar down a dim hallway, past two restrooms and two unmarked doors, to a heavy steel exit door. He gave it a hard shove with his shoulder, and it swung open with a metallic screech. He stepped to the side and motioned Gurney into a colorful walled garden.
The garden was the same width as the building, forty or fifty feet, and extended out at least twice that distance in length. The only break in the redbrick walls enclosing it was a set of large double doors in the far end. They were wide open, framing a view of the river, the jogging path, and the manicured tranquillity of Willow Rest. The view from here was similar to the view from the problematic apartment three blocks away. Only the angle was different.
The garden itself was a pleasant combination of grass paths, vegetable beds, and herbaceous borders. The waiter pointed to a shaded corner, to a small white café table with two wrought-iron chairs. Adonis Angelidis was sitting in one of them.
When Gurney arrived at the table, Angelidis nodded toward the empty chair. “Please.”
A second waiter materialized and placed a tray in the center of the table. There were two demitasse cups of black coffee, two cordial glasses, and an almost full bottle of ouzo, the anise-flavored Greek liqueur.
“You like strong coffee?” Angelidis’s voice
was low and rough—like the purring of a large cat.
“Yes.”
“You might like it with ouzo. Better than sugar.”
“Perhaps I’ll try some.”
“You have an okay drive here, yes?”
“No problem.”
Angelidis nodded. “Beautiful day.”
“Beautiful garden.”
“Yes. Fresh garlic. Mint. Oregano. Very good.” Angelidis shifted slightly in his seat. “What can I do for you?”
Gurney took the cup of coffee closest to him and sipped it thoughtfully. On the drive up from Walnut Crossing he’d concocted an opening gambit that now, as he sat facing this man who might well be one of the cleverest mobsters in America, struck him as rather feeble. But he decided to give it a shot anyway. Sometimes a Hail Mary pass is all you’ve got left.
“Some information came my way that might interest you.”
Angelidis’s gaze was mildly curious.
Gurney went on. “Just a rumor, of course.”
“Of course.”
“About the Organized Crime Task Force.”
“Rotten shits. No principles.”
“What I heard,” said Gurney, taking another sip of his coffee, “is that they’re looking to pin Spalter on you.”
“Carl? You see what I mean? Bunch of shits! Why would I want to lose Carl? I told you before, like a son to me. Why would I think to do such a thing? Disgusting!” Angelidis’s big boxer’s hands had closed into fists.
“The scenario they’re putting together is that you and Carl had a falling-out, and—”
“Bullshit!”
“Like I said, the scenario they’re putting together—”
“What the fuck’s a scenario?”
“The hypothesis, the story they’re making up.”
“Making it up, all right. Slimy shits!”
“Their hypothesis is that you and Carl had a falling-out, you hired a hit on him through Fat Gus, and then you got nervous and decided to cover your tracks by getting rid of Gus—maybe doing that one yourself.”
“Myself? They think I hammered nails into his head?”
“I’m just telling you what I hear.”
Angelidis sat back in his chair, a shrewd look replacing the anger in his eyes. “This is coming from where?”
“The plan to hang the murder on you?”
“Yeah. This coming from the top of OCTF?”
Something about his tone gave Gurney the idea that Angelidis might have a line to someone inside the task force. Someone who would be aware of the major initiatives.
“Not the way I hear it. I get the impression that the move against you is a little off-center. Unofficial. Couple of guys who’ve got a bug up their ass about you. That ring any bells?”
Angelidis didn’t answer. His jaw muscles tightened. He remained quiet for a long minute. When he spoke, his tone was flat. “You drove up here from Walnuts just to bring me this information?”
“Something else, too. I found out who the hitter was.”
Angelidis became very still.
Gurney watched him carefully. “Petros Panikos.”
Something changed in Angelidis’s eyes. If Gurney had to guess, he’d say the man was trying to conceal a stab of fear. “How do you know this?”
Gurney shook his head and smiled. “Better not to say how I know.”
For the first time since Gurney arrived, Angelidis looked around at the garden and its brick walls, his eyes stopping at the doors that were open to the view of the river and cemetery. “Why are you bringing this to me?”
“I thought you might want to help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“I want to find Panikos. I want to bring him in. To cut a deal, he may be willing to tell us who bought the Spalter hit. Since that wasn’t you, OCTF can go fuck themselves. You’d like that, right?”
Angelidis rested his burly forearms on the table and shook his head.
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” Angelidis emitted a short, humorless laugh. “The part about you bringing him in. That don’t happen. Trust me. That don’t happen. You got no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Again Gurney shrugged, turning up his palms. “Maybe I need to know a little more.”
“Maybe a lot more.”
“Tell me what I’m missing.”
“Like what?”
“How does Panikos work?”
“He shoots people. Mostly in the head. Mostly in the right eye. Or he blows them up.”
“How about his contracts? How are they set up?”
“Through a fixer. An arranger.”
“A guy like Fat Gus?”
“Like Fat Gus. Top shelf for Panikos. Only a handful of guys in the world he deals with. They do the transaction. They transfer the payment.”
“He gets his instructions from them?”
“Instructions?” Angelidis let out a guttural laugh. “He takes the name, the deadline, the money. The rest is up to him.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let’s say you want a certain target whacked. Theoretically. For the sake of argument. You pay Peter Pan’s price. The target gets whacked. End of story. How he gets whacked is Peter’s business. He don’t take instructions.”
“Let me get this straight. The nails in Fat Gus’s head—that wouldn’t have been part of the deal?”
The point seemed to interest Angelidis. “No … that would not have been part of the deal. Not if the hitter was Peter.”
“So that would have been his own initiative, not an order from the client?”
“I’m telling you, he don’t take orders—just names and cash.”
“So the nasty shit he did to Gus—that would have been his idea?”
“You hear me? He don’t take orders.”
“So why would he do what he did?”
“I got no idea. That’s the problem here. Knowing Panikos and Gurikos, it makes no sense.”
“No sense that Panikos would worry that Gurikos might know something damaging? Or that he might talk? Or that he might already have talked?”
“You gotta understand something here. Gus did time—a lot of time. Twelve fucking years in that Attica prison shithole, when he could’ve been out in two. All he had to do was give up a name. But he didn’t. And the guy couldn’t have touched him. There wasn’t gonna be no retribution. So it wasn’t fear. You know what it was?”
Gurney had heard stories like this before, and he knew the punch line. “Principles?”
“You bet your fucking ass, principles! Steel balls!”
Gurney nodded. “Which leaves me wondering—why on earth did Panikos do what he did? None of this hangs together.”
“I told you, it don’t make no sense. Gus was like Switzerland. Quiet. Didn’t talk to nobody about nobody. This was a known and respected fact. Secret of his success. Principles.”
“Okay. Gus was a rock. What about Panikos? What’s he all about?”
“Peter? Peter is … special. Only takes jobs that look impossible. Lot of determination. High success rate.”
“And yet …?”
“Yet what?”
“I’m hearing a reservation in your voice.”
“A reservation?” Angelidis paused before going on with evident care. “Peter … is used only in … in very difficult situations.”
“Why?”
“Because along with his skills … there’s some risks.”
“Like what?”
Angelidis made a face as if he were regurgitating yesterday’s ouzo. “The KGB used to assassinate people by putting radioactive poison in their food. Tremendously effective. But you got to be very, very, careful using that shit. That’s like Peter.”
“Panikos is that scary?”
“Get on his wrong side, could maybe be a problem.”
Gurney thought about that. The notion that getting on the wrong side of a determined, crazy killer could be a problem made him
want to laugh out loud. “Did you ever hear that he liked to set fires?”
“I might’ve heard that. Part of the package you’re dealing with. Which I don’t think you really understand.”
“I’ve faced some difficult people over the years.”
“Difficult? That’s pretty funny. Let me tell you a story about Peter—so you know about difficult.” Angelidis leaned forward, extending his palms on the tabletop. “There were these two towns, not far apart. A strong man in each town. This created problems—mainly, who had rights to various things between the two towns. As the towns got bigger, closer together, the problems got bigger. Lot of shit happened. Escalation.” He articulated the word carefully. “Escalation, back and forth. Finally, there is no possibility of peace. No possibility of agreement. So one of these men decides that the other one has to go. He decides to hire little Peter to take care of it. Peter at that time is just getting into the business.”
“The hit business?” asked Gurney blandly.
“Yeah. His profession. Anyway, he does the job. Clean, quick, no problems. Then he shows up at the man’s place of business to get paid. The man he did the job for. The man tells him he has to wait—a cash-flow problem. Peter says, ‘No, you pay me now.’ Man says, ‘No, you gotta wait.’ Peter says this makes him unhappy. Man laughs at him. So Peter shoots him. Bang. Just like that.”
Gurney shrugged. “Never a good idea to stiff a hitter.”
Angelidis’s mouth twitched into what might have been a split-second grin. “Never a good idea. True. But the story don’t end there. Peter goes to the man’s house and shoots his wife and two kids. Then he goes around town, shoots the man’s brother and five cousins, wives, kills the whole fucking family. Twenty-one people. Twenty-one shots to the head.”
“That’s quite a reaction.”
Angelidis’s mouth widened, showing a row of glistening capped teeth. Then he uttered an eruptive growling sound that Gurney thought was probably the most unnerving laugh he’d ever heard.
“Yeah. ‘Quite a reaction.’ You’re a funny guy, Gurney. ‘Quite a reaction.’ I got to remember that.”
“Seems like a chancy thing to do, though—from a business point of view.”