In Plain Sight (16 page)

“Miller leave?”

“Yeah. He got a call and took off.”

“You free?”

“I can be, mate.”

“Get in the car and drive to Whitney Billiards. It's near a restaurant in the West End called Greece on King.”

“I know it.”

“Get there and leave your phone on.”

I hung up on Morrison and went to my own room. Everything was in motion now. What I cooked up would either work out or end in a bloodbath.

T
he thin mattress in the room had two guns on it. The Glock police pistol, already on the hook for a murder, and the Colt .
45
. I wiped the guns down, making sure to get everything, even the brass cartridges. I didn't want to leave anything behind. I put the Colt in the shoulder rig and the Glock behind my back. I had to be careful about which gun I fired and at who. One wrong bullet would destroy any hopes I had of walking away.

I tore a piece of thin pillowcase off and wiped down every surface in the room. I put the rag in my pocket, turned off all of the lights, and stood by the door using the peephole to watch the parking lot. Time went by, and every few minutes I moved from the door to the hole in the drywall. Igor made no sounds at all from next door.

Eventually, an unmarked police cruiser rolled past the peephole, parked in the rear corner, and killed its engine. No one got out of the car. The bedside clock had only counted thirty-five minutes since I hung up Igor's phone. In the dark car across the lot, I saw the flare of a lighter, then the small circle of a cigarette. I knew it could go two ways with Miller. He could decide to kill Igor himself in an “attempted” arrest, earning himself a commendation, or he could trade up by selling Igor out to Sergei Vidal. I bet Miller wasn't going to try to kill Igor in an arrest attempt. There was too much chance an investigation into Igor might turn up his name or Igor's tapes. It would be better if Miller took care of Igor off the books. And if he was already freelancing, why not trade up for a better partner? Miller was corrupt already; why should he settle for being in bed with mid-level muscle when he could get in bed with upper management?

Miller sat quietly in his car while Igor lay silently in his bed. I watched Miller and listened to Igor, but neither man moved. I watched for nineteen minutes until a black Mercedes sedan pulled into the parking lot. The unmarked car flashed its lights once, and the Mercedes pulled in beside it. The two cars were snug together in the adjoining spaces. They stayed like that for a few minutes, probably talking through lowered windows, until Miller squeezed out of the police car. The man in the Mercedes followed — it was Sergei Vidal.

I waited, watching the Mercedes for more bodies, but there were none. Sergei had come alone. Sergei and Miller together must have been a result of a battle of wants and needs. Sergei needed Igor dead because he believed he was turning on him. Sergei was four men down, and Miller was the only way to get to Igor right away, so he had to work with him. Sergei needed Miller. Miller wanted the money working with Sergei would offer, but more than that he wanted to live. He must have insisted that Sergei come alone. That way, no one would kill him too. Miller needed Sergei alone to get what he wanted. Wants and needs had brought them together to kill a man in Room Thirteen.

Both men walked wordlessly across the parking lot. Whatever they had to say had been said when they were parked. Miller raised a fat arm and pointed to the room next to mine. Sergei, a man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair and wearing a black turtleneck and black pants, scanned the parking lot. He saw something to his left and said something I couldn't hear, or lip read, to Miller. Sergei broke away from the other man and strode across the parking lot towards whatever he saw. As he walked, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a knife. He opened the knife and let it hang low in his left hand brushing against his thigh as he walked. The only thing in front of him would be the manager's office. I remembered the glow of the television splashing out onto the puddles on the pavement as the kid inside working nights watched Romero movies — he'd never see the Russian coming. Sergei was beefy; his chest was barrel shaped, and he walked proudly with his shoulders back. His form told me he was powerful as a young man and surely now still stronger than most. His bulky frame left my view.

I used the time the murder in the office would take to concentrate on Miller. He had taken a spot to the left of Igor's door. His fat back was so close I could have touched him from the open doorway. I took a few steps back and pulled out the .
45
. Sergei would know the room was occupied when he killed the manager. The info would be in the logbook. If he decided to try to do the occupant of the room like he did the manager, he would find the black eye of the .
45
instead of a punk kid. If that happened, I would have to work on the fly. I backed up to the hole I had made in the drywall and listened with my eyes, and the gun, trained on the door. After a few minutes, the door inside Room Thirteen creaked open and shut.

There was silence while Miller and Sergei approached the body. I took a few steps away from the wall, out of earshot, and powered up the phone. I got Morrison after one ring. “Escarpment Motel just up the street. Room Thirteen. Now!” I hung up the phone and put my ear back to the wall.

“Wake up, motherfucker!” Miller said.

There was a murmuring that must have started somewhere inside Igor's broken ribs.

“What's that? Speak up.”

Another murmur.

“He's fucking high or something. I told you he was on the stuff. He doesn't even know where he is, but we know, don't we?”

“Finish it and let's go,” Sergei said.

“Go ahead, Sergei. Do it.”

“Nyet. You want in? This is the way. Otherwise, I will never trust you. You want to work for me? Fine. Do your first job.”

“I work for money, not for free.”

“Fine, fine. You will be paid, now do it.”

“Well, I do like to make a good first impression. Tell ya what, Igor. I think the grief of killing your wife became too much for you to bear. You ran, got high, and then shot yourself with your own gun.”

There was some grunting and rustling before Miller said, “Stand back. You don't want any brain matter on you. The spatter on the wall and ceiling has to be perfect, or someone will know there was someone standing near the body. Plus, that shit never gets out. We caught a body one time . . .”

“Do it!”

BANG.

“Take the shotgun,” Sergei said.

“Is it yours?”

“You work for me now. We are not partners, so shut the fuck up and get in the car. Da?”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean da, da.”

I got away from the wall and back to the peephole. A new car was parked in the middle of the lot. Detective Sergeant Huata Morrison was walking from the car to Room Thirteen. I eased the door open a crack so I could hear what went on outside.

Morrison drew his gun and screamed “Freeze!” when he saw Sergei leave the room. In his hands was the same squat revolver he had aimed at me in the cemetery.

Sergei said nothing.

“Hands where I can see them!”

If Sergei moved, I couldn't see it.

“It's all right, Morrison. I got this handled.”

“Miller?” Morrison was confused — his voice gave it away.

“Yes, sir. I've been on this Rusky for months now, and I finally got him red-handed.”

“What happened here, Miller?” Morrison lowered his gun, keeping two hands on the revolver; it was a textbook safety procedure.

“Single gunshot to the face inside the room. Sergei Vidal shot and killed Igor Kerensky.”

“And you caught him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you know he would be here?”

“
CI
, sir. Tipped me off an hour ago at the scene. That's why I left. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, but these bastards have ears everywhere. There's dirty cops everywhere on the force.”

“So you caught Sergei Vidal with that shotgun?” Morrison's head gestured to the gun I couldn't see from my spot behind the door.

“Yes, sir.”

“That is some good police work. My only question is: why is the suspect not cuffed? Why is he free to walk with you a few feet behind?”

There was no answer, at least not in words. A bullet took the back of Morrison's skull off. The big cop stumbled back, as his body figured out what his brain could no longer tell it, and fell to the pavement.

I wasn't surprised. Morrison was in a dark parking lot with a bent cop and the head of the city's Russian muscle, and he never thought to keep his gun up. I wasn't sure if Morrison was still trying to believe Miller over me or if he had no idea how deeply corrupt Miller really was. Whatever his reasons, Morrison died with his hand on his gun. He should have seen it coming like I did through the crack in the door. I made no noise as I adapted to the situation by holstering the .
45
and slipping out the Glock police pistol.

“Sorry I took so long to get out there. When I heard Morrison's voice, I went back for Igor's gun. New story is Igor killed his wife, got high, shot a cop, then turned the gun on himself. Tragic story — film at eleven.”

Sergei laughed, “I think you have Russian in you.”

If Miller did, the Russian in him was all over the pavement a second later.

I opened the door and pulled the trigger of the Glock. Miller caught the movement of the door, turned his head, and brought Igor's gun up. He was a second too late. Three bullets went into his chest. I pivoted to gun down Sergei, but he was already moving. Instead of going for a gun, he put his body behind Miller's staggering form and went for the shotgun still in his hand. I put a bullet in Miller's thigh, and his huge body lurched back into Sergei. The Russian gave up on the shotgun in favour of keeping the obese cop from falling on him. Sergei didn't hesitate; he used a shoulder to prop the fat man up while he went for the police pistol still on Miller's hip. The grope under the cop's cheap jacket took a few seconds as Sergei held Miller up while stretching his arm around the massive torso; it was enough time for me to shoot Miller's other leg. Sergei wasn't strong enough to hold the
300
plus pounds of dead weight up. Miller fell forward, leaving Sergei standing unarmed.

“Evening,” I said.

Here's a sneak peek at the next novel in the Wilson mystery series

T
he knock came at exactly seven in the morning. I was standing in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea and reading a story in the paper about a kid who had been dragged half a kilometre in a hit and run. The paper had plenty of quotes from the kid's parents, but no answers as to why the fifteen-year-old was out on the street, by himself, at three in the morning. Seven wasn't early for me — I didn't sleep much anymore, but it was too early for someone to be at the door. The knock had a fast beat: three solid knocks in quick succession. After the sounds, a heavy silence settled in like a fog. The quiet was interrupted by the sound of the furnace sputtering to life. The old machinery was struggling to keep up with the November chill.

I put my tea down and walked to the pantry. I had everything from the second shelf on the counter when the second set of knocks on the door sounded. I didn't waste time wondering who was outside — I knew who it was. Not long ago, I killed a cop and a few Russian gangsters. I thought I had gotten out clean, but the knocks said ­different. It was too early for salesmen, and I had never met one of my neighbours. It had to be the police at the door — Russians don't knock.

I poured three times, not caring about the overflow that soaked the counter. I had just put the metal container down and started corking when a third set of knocks rang out. Something was shouted, but all I picked out was the word “police.” The word was distorted from its trip through the door and down the hall, but it was understandable enough.

I had started taping when there was a new sound. The knocking had been replaced with a single sharp noise. Someone thought that they could kick my front door down. I grinned at the image of what had to be going on outside. Someone would be clutching his foot and swearing. The door had about half an inch of an old wooden door glued to the surface of a much more solid metal door. A foot would bounce off the door like bullets off Superman's chest. I had finished taping when something much more substantial hit the door. The sound came a second and then a third time. The third strike was louder than the previous two and I knew the door had started to buckle. I lit the tampon taped to the neck of the one-litre glass bottle and shouldered through the swinging kitchen door when the fourth blow sent the outside door crashing inward. The Molotov was airborne as the first cop stepped inside. The cop only managed to get one foot inside when the corked bottle exploded, sloshing the turpentine inside against the solvent-soaked fiery tampon duct-taped to the neck of the bottle. The patch of wall above the door burst into flames as a spray of liquid fire splashed onto the walls and floor. The police dove for the lawn while I backed into the kitchen.

I had managed to make three Molotov cocktails in under a minute. I kept the bottles, tape, turpentine, lighter, and feminine fuses in the pantry for a special occasion. Most people have food in the kitchen for unexpected company — I kept something for other kinds of visitors. I took the open container of turpentine and pushed the swinging door again. I saw the police on the porch shielding themselves from the flames; they didn't see me toss the can into the hall. The fluid went up in a whoosh as I dashed back the way I came. I lit the second Molotov, threw it against the wall, and the kitchen blossomed into an inferno as I grabbed my coat and slipped into the garage. I got behind the wheel, buckled up, started the engine, and drove straight through the garage door.

The police had parked on the street, not wanting to announce their presence. Their tactical decision gave me enough room to drive across the neighbour's lawn and around the crude roadblock set up in front of the neighbour's house. None of the cops were prepared for a car chase and I saw men running towards cruisers in my rear-view as I drove down the street.

The Volvo was a custom job; the exterior was old and worn but the engine under the hood could have almost met drag racing standards. The car was at eighty before I turned the corner and at a hundred by the time I skidded onto the main road. I weaved through the early morning traffic, using the sidewalk as a passing lane, until I saw the first major intersection. I careened around the corner and aimed at the bumper of a Hummer. The black H3 was a scaled-down version of the original design. The new Hummer was for yuppies and assholes, not soldiers. I rear-ended the SUV and felt the seatbelt catch my body as it was thrown forward and then back. I pulled the gun I kept holstered under the seat, lit the last Molotov, and opened the door. The H3 driver was already out of his car with his arms extended in a
what the fuck?
gesture. The anger changed to confusion when he saw me pitch a flaming bottle into my own car. The Volvo was suddenly a fireball and the H3 driver, a fat man in a leather jacket, was backing off. I grabbed him by collar, pressed the gun into his chubby neck right below his Bluetooth ear bud, and forced him back into the SUV. The fat man scrambled over the seat to the passenger side with his hands in the air as I slid into the Hummer. The other motorists and pedestrians were looking back and forth between the Hummer and the flaming Volvo. Some already had cell phones in their hands either to take pictures or to call for help. I put the Hummer in gear and hit the tail end of the green light. I used my elbow to shut up my passenger and then aimed the SUV for the highway.