Don't Blink (8 page)

“No shit, really?” he said, tossing back his head of jet-black hair with a surprised look. Then he summed up an entire city’s feeling with four words. “He broke my heart.”

We started comparing favorite Dwayne Robinson pitching performances. With lots to choose from, it wasn’t long before I lost track of the time.

“When was he supposed to meet you?” Jimmy finally asked, glancing at his watch.

“Noon,” I answered, doing the same.

Shit!
It was twelve thirty.
Here we go again!

I reached for my cell phone and dialed Robinson’s apartment. By the sixth ring I was about to hang up. That’s when I heard the beep of an incoming call. I hit the flash button to switch over to the other line, not bothering to check caller ID. I was sure it was Dwayne.

It was Courtney.

I dispensed with “Hello” and cut to the chase, my frustration leading the way like a bulldozer. “He didn’t show,” I said. “Dwayne Robinson screwed me again.”

“I know,” said Courtney.

I know?

“Are you near a television?” she asked.

I motioned for Jimmy to turn on the TV.

“What channel?” I asked her.

“Take your pick,” Courtney said. “I’m watching ESPN.” She didn’t say another word.

“ESPN!” I SHOUTED to Jimmy.

He punched the remote, the picture came up, and within a few seconds my heart sank down into the floorboards.

A reporter was talking, the street scene behind him not giving too much away. I could see a cop car, a bunch of people milling about.

But it was all summed up on the bottom of the screen in plain English.

DWAYNE ROBINSON IS DEAD.

The reporter was rambling on, but it was as if I’d gone deaf. Jimmy said something to me and I couldn’t process his words, either. I just kept staring at the TV screen in shock, getting numb all over.

The picture changed as a few words from the reporter finally began to sift into my ears.

Jump … building … apparent suicide … mystery man … now mystery death
.

I snapped out of it to watch the TV screen fill with the shaky image from what looked like a handheld recorder. There was a hardwood floor — a hallway — and the pink slippers of the woman running with the camera. She was heading for a sliding-glass door off her living room.

Word for word, I could hear the reporter’s voice-over.

“What you’re about to see is dramatic home video shot by one of Dwayne Robinson’s neighbors right after she apparently heard the crash outside her apartment window. I must warn our viewing audience that this footage is very unsettling.”

The handheld camera finally stopped jumping around, the focus tightening from blurry to clear. Dwayne’s neighbor was shooting from her terrace high above the street below.

Dwayne Robinson’s six-foot-four body was sprawled face-down on the roof of a white van, the impact creating a crater of twisted and bent metal around him.

I went partially deaf again as the shot returned to the reporter standing on what was clearly the same street where Dwayne had lived.

And died.

“Guess he’s not coming,” Jimmy muttered, sounding as shaken up as I felt. “The poor son of a bitch. He blew us off again, huh, Nick.”

THE SETUP MAN

BRUNO TORENZI OPENED the door to his room at the San Sebastian Hotel overlooking Central Park and gave a head-to-toe gaze at the five-foot-ten-inch blonde standing before him in the hallway. She was wearing a shiny red cocktail dress with matching high heels and strands of gold jewelry.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “Your real name?”

“Anastasia,” she answered. Her Russian accent was almost as thick as his Italian. “What’s
your
real name?”

Torenzi ignored the question and simply turned around, walking back inside.

“Nice to meet you,” the blonde said, closing the door behind her. “I’ll call you Sebastian, then. Like the hotel?”

“I get the joke,” Bruno Torenzi called back to the girl.

Torenzi’s preference was for Italian girls, but the ones on this side of the Atlantic were like eating at the Olive Garden: you would never mistake the experience for a home-cooked
meal. As for the American girls, they talked too much about themselves. And the Asians were too skinny for him, nothing to grab on to.

Thank God for the Russian girls. Or Polish, or Greek, for that matter.

“Take your clothes off,” said Torenzi, grabbing a beer from the minibar. There was no offer of anything for the girl.

“First things first,” she shot back.
“Sebastian.”

“Sure,” he mumbled, walking over to an open black duffel bag perched on a round table in the corner. He pulled out a stack of cash. “Two thousand, right?” he asked, removing the rubber band holding the wad together.

“Not including gratuity,” said Anastasia, hoping the Italian man, the apparently
rich
Italian man, didn’t know the rules of the game.

Torenzi peeled off twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and stuck out his hand. “I wasn’t born yesterday …
Anastasia
.”

She took the two thousand and thought that would be good — for a start.

Then she nuzzled up to his ear while sliding her hand down to the crotch of his black trousers. Nice material, Italian-made. “You know what
Anastasia
means?” she whispered through lips painted cherry red. “Means ‘flower of resurrection.’”

Torenzi took a swig of his beer. “Excellent. Now take off your clothes,” he repeated. “Forget about the history lessons.”

The big guy liked to be the boss and he was hardly the first, thought Anastasia as she reached for the zipper run
ning down the back of her dress.
Let him enjoy it while he still can
.

The former governor of New York notwithstanding, most men know that two thousand dollars was a pretty good price to pay for a call girl. Meaning she better be pretty and she better be good.

Anastasia didn’t disappoint. As the cocktail dress slipped off her shoulders, her blue eyes and high cheekbones became all but an afterthought to the rest of her. There was no bra, no panties underneath the dress. Just all-natural, gravitydefying talent and beauty.

“You know what, Sebastian,” she purred. “I like you.”

Torenzi finally laughed and then he unbuttoned his dress shirt. When it came off, along with his white undershirt, Anastasia couldn’t help but stare. He was solid muscle, chiseled to perfection. But that wasn’t all.

“My God, what happened to you, honey?” she asked. She couldn’t help herself.

The better question would’ve been what
hadn’t
happened to Bruno Torenzi. His left shoulder and arm were riddled with the scars of a shotgun blast — black tarlike circles the size of nickels and quarters. Count them all up and you had a buck fifty in change.

His other shoulder bore the scar of a severe burn, a sixinch patch of leathery skin that had the texture of beef jerky left out to bake in the sun for a month.

There was more. On one side of his stomach were two stab wounds, the scars bubbled up from the flesh. Very hard to look at.

Torenzi glanced down at himself but said nothing. Certainly no explanation. All he did was remove his trousers and underwear and climb onto the bed.

Anastasia didn’t press it. As it was, she was beginning to feel sorry for the guy.

“Oh, I get it,” she said playfully, the back of her hand gently brushing across the curve of her breasts. “You’re one of
those
. A real tough guy, right?”

She had no idea.

Neither did the two men just now stepping off the elevator, heading for the hotel room. Her partners.

For a year, the three of them had had the perfect scam going, but they had overlooked one thing this time.

Even contract killers get horny sometimes
.

THE BELOVA BROTHERS, Viktor and Dmitry, pumped up on adrenaline and blow, arrived at room 1204 of the San Sebastian. They eyed the plush hallway around them to make sure they were alone.

“Our father wouldn’t approve,” said Dmitry. He always said that before they did a job. Always.

“Fuck him,” said Viktor, who thought he was sounding more American every day. “Fuck our father, Dmitry.”

A dozen or so times before, they had stood outside expensive hotel rooms all over Manhattan, breathing fast to the point of panting while flipping off the safety switches on their Yarygin PYa semiautomatic pistols. The Yarygin’s seventeenround double-column, single-feed magazine was a major reason why it was the standard Russian military-issue sidearm. But for Viktor and Dmitry it was the ultrasleek stainless-steel
barrel that they loved. It felt sturdier than the old-school Makarov pistol, more reliable.

Not that they had ever had to pull the trigger during one of these jobs.

That was the beauty and the brilliance of the scam. Most of the time they caught their victims with their pants down.

More important, the johns were always too embarrassed to go to the police afterward.

These were men of some means, usually high-level executives traveling on business. They had reputations to protect. They had wives and children. Whatever was stolen from them wasn’t worth looking an NYPD detective in the eye and explaining, “I just got swindled by a prostitute and her two partners.”

And all it had taken was an ad in the back of
212 Magazine
promising the highest-quality escort for the discerning gentleman. “From Russia with Love” read the headline.

It was good enough to entice somewhere around twelve men to date — not that Viktor and Dmitry were keeping track. They were too busy counting the laptops, gold Rolexes, Kiton suits, and cold hard cash.

The brothers traded quick nods. Everything was good. Anastasia had placed the swath of tape over the lock chamber, same as always. All they had to do was turn the handle and they could stroll right in — no muss, no fuss.

But where was the fun in that?

Instead, the two of them burst into the room like a couple of class 5 hurricanes. They immediately spotted Bruno Torenzi lying buck naked above the covers.

“Don’t move, motherfucker!” barked Viktor, taking advan
tage of one of the design features of New York’s better hotels: thick walls.

Torenzi’s confusion lasted only a second. He eyed Anastasia standing at the end of the bed. She confirmed what he already knew. It was a setup; she was the bait and he was today’s sucker.

Sure enough, she started to put her dress back on. “Duffel bag,” she announced. “Jackpot.”

Dmitry’s eyes moved off Torenzi and he walked over to the black duffel bag on the table in the corner. His smile grew as wide as Red Square at the sight of the cash inside.

Then the smile disappeared. It was gone. Totally gone.

“What the hell is this?”

DMITRY REACHED DOWN into the duffel bag. He removed a gray rectangular block of C-4 explosive. A detonator wire was hanging from one end like a mouse’s tail. Next he pulled out an absolute beast of a handgun, the Model 500 Smith & Wesson Magnum. A box of .50-caliber cartridges followed.

This was one serious duffel bag.

Dmitry’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint as he looked back over at Torenzi. It was as if he’d just seen the second image in one of those optical illusion drawings.

This guy was naked, with the shiny barrels of two guns aimed directly at him. But he was completely calm and under control. Not a trace of fear.

Who is this guy? Is he connected? And why is it suddenly fucking hot in this room?

Dmitry pulled at the baby-blue silk shirt now sticking to his chest. “Do you work for somebody?” he asked.

Torenzi stared straight back, taking his time to answer. “Not your business.”

Dmitry jerked his head at the duffel bag. “What are you doing with this stuff?”

“Not your business.”

“I’m making it my business!” he snapped. “I say again, what are you doing with this stuff? You better talk to me.”

Torenzi continued to stare at Dmitry, only now he was silent. Then he actually smiled and scratched his balls.

Suddenly Viktor lunged forward, jamming the barrel of his Yarygin into the john’s cheek.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? SOME KIND OF JOKE? MY BROTHER ASKED YOU A QUESTION!” he yelled.

But Torenzi didn’t even look at Viktor. His eyes remained focused on Dmitry, over by the table. There was something else in the duffel bag — a box the Russian hadn’t discovered yet.

Viktor pulled back the hammer on his Yarygin. “HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YOU DEAF?”

“For Christ’s sake, answer him!” chimed in Anastasia. She was practically pleading with the Italian. “These guys aren’t fucking around.”

Neither was Bruno Torenzi.

Faster than Viktor’s trigger finger, Torenzi swung his hand and knocked away the barrel of the Yarygin pressed against his face. With his other hand he reached underneath the goose-down pillow behind him. He pulled out a Bersa Thunder .380 pistol.

The other box in the duffel bag was the extra ammo for it. Not that it was needed right now.

Bruno Torenzi’s first shot caught Dmitry Belova high in
the chest. The second split his forehead between the eyes. Only then did Viktor Belova’s reflexes kick in. He tried to muscle his gun back toward Torenzi, but it was no use. Torenzi was too strong, too quick, too good at what he did.

He pumped three rounds into Viktor’s stomach, causing the Russian to fall backwards onto the carpet. As he lay faceup and spilling blood, Torenzi stood and lodged his gun into Viktor’s open mouth. The blast sent his brains shooting out from his skull in a perfect circle.

It was a bad day for the Belova brothers.

Now the only sound in the room was Anastasia crying like a little girl.

She had fallen to her knees, the red cocktail dress still unzipped in the back, hanging off her shoulders. She wanted to run for the door but couldn’t. She was in shock, paralyzed, scared to death that she would be next.

“Get on the bed!” Torenzi ordered. “Take off that goddamn red dress.”

“Please,” she begged, her blond hair covering her face and tears. “Please, don’t …” But then she shrugged off the dress. She climbed onto the bed.