Lethal People: A Donovan Creed Crime Novel (8 page)

“Creed,” I said.

“You know … what … to do,” Victor said.

CHAPTER 7

I
did know what to do, but I was curious about a couple of things. I asked Monica if she knew Victor.

“I know of him,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“Through my husband.”

I nodded. So Victor was killing her to punish the husband. At least that made some sense. I didn’t want to ask too many questions, though. Questions lead to answers, and answers lead to doubt, and doubt will ruin a good contract killer. I looked at Callie. She was about to explode, she wanted to know so badly.

“Tell me about Victor,” I said.

“I can’t. If I tell you, you’ll kill me.”

Callie and I exchanged a look. Callie couldn’t hold it back any longer; she had to speak. “This Victor guy, you’re saying he told you we’d let you go if you kept quiet about your conversation with him?”

Monica looked confused. “Is this a trick question?”

Callie looked at me in disbelief. “What a twisted fuck.”

“Hey, watch it,” I said. “You’re talking about our employer.”

We all sat there looking at each other for a minute. I could have forced it out of her, but I didn’t want to torture her. I could have threatened her into telling me, but that would require giving her false hope, and that didn’t feel right to me somehow. I decided to let the motive slide.

“Okay, Monica,” I said. “You didn’t tell us anything about your conversation with Victor or about your connection to him, so you did well. I won’t ask you again. But tell me this: why is his voice so weird?”

“He’s a quadriplegic.”

I nodded. “Still,” I said, “it’s eerier than that. There’s more to it.”

Monica was loosening up now, convinced she was about to be released. She had stopped crying, and her voice was steadier. She seemed encouraged. “It’s probably because he’s so young,” she said, “and a midget.”

Callie and I looked at each other. I said, “Midget?”

Monica gasped. “Little person,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Callie asked, “Young? How young?”

Monica looked at me before speaking. “I don’t know,” she said. “Early twenties?”

“Your husband must have done something terrible to make Victor this angry,” I said.

She nodded. “He saved Victor’s life,” she said.

CHAPTER 8

I
gently lowered Monica’s head back to the floor and held it there. I stroked her hair a couple of times to help calm her. And she was calm … until she caught sight of the syringe in my free hand. At that point, her eyes grew wide with terror. She started thrashing around in the van. Then she lost control of her bladder. Too frightened to care, she peed explosively. I heard it strain against her clothing, burbling hot against her crotch, down her thigh. Because of our close proximity, she managed to drench my pants leg in the process. I looked over at Callie, exasperated.

“Believe me, Donovan,” she said, “that can only improve your ‘coastal casual’ look.”

I frowned and loosened my grip ever so slightly—but just enough—and this time Monica’s scream was loud and piercing. Of course, it had no e
ff
ect out there in the middle of nowhere. I got her back under control, parted her hair, and pricked the side of her scalp with the tip of the syringe. A few minutes later, I slid open the side door and pushed Monica out. Her body tumbled into a thicket and skidded to a stop. She staggered to her feet and managed to walk a few shaky steps before falling down to stay.

Callie put the van in gear and steered it carefully through the underbrush and back onto the highway. She kept to the speed limit, drove south, and put the crime scene behind us.

“A real fighter, that one,” I said, making my way to the front passenger seat. “She impressed me just now, the way she got to her feet.”

Callie nodded.

The van’s tires thrummed rhythmically over the patchy road tar. We passed a golf course on the right and an ambitious condo development on the left, which appeared to be unfinished and abandoned. The few residential community entrances we passed were camouflaged by foliage so dense and overgrown, even in February, I had to wonder what sort of people would pay these astronomical prices to live a half mile from the beach, among the spiders and mosquitoes, without benefit of an ocean view.

“She had gorgeous hair,” I said.

“Very stylish,” Callie agreed. “And classy.” She paused a minute before asking, “How long you think before someone finds her?”

“This close to the plantation? Probably two days.”

“You think they’ll notice the needle mark on the scalp?”

“What are we, CSI? I doubt the ME will notice it.”

“Because?”

“I put it in one of her head wounds.”

Callie thought about that and said, “She must have hit the wall head first when you threw her in the van.”

“That’d be my guess,” I said.

We rode in silence awhile, content to watch the scenery unfold. We were on A1A, south of Amelia Island, where the two-lane road cuts a straight swath through the undeveloped scrub and marsh for fifteen miles. There was a primal element to this stretch of land that seemed to discourage the rampant commercialization running almost nonstop from Jacksonville to South Beach. A couple miles in, we passed three crosses and a crude, homemade sign that proclaimed “Jesus Died For Your Sins!”

“Monica seemed nice,” Callie said. “A little snooty, but that could be the money. Or the age di
ff
erence. Still, I liked her. She had great manners.”

I laughed. “Manners?”

“She had a premonition about the van,” Callie said. “But she didn’t want to o
ff
end me, so she came anyway.”

I tried the sound of it in my mouth. “She was killed because of her good manners.”

“I liked her,” Callie repeated.

“I liked her, too,” I said, “until she peed on me!”

I placed two bundles of cash in Callie’s lap. She picked one up, felt the weight in her hand.

“I like this even better,” she said.

We dropped the van o
ff
behind an abandoned barn a couple miles beyond the ferry boat landing. We removed the explosives from the wheel well in Callie’s rental car and positioned them throughout the van.

“How much you have to pay for this thing?” Callie asked.

“Four grand,” I said. “Not me, though. Victor.” Right on cue, my phone rang.

“Is it … fin … ished?” Victor asked.

“Just a sec,” I said. I climbed in the passenger seat, and Callie drove us a quarter mile before putting the rental car in park.

“Are we far enough away?” I asked.

“If we go too far,” she said, “we’ll miss the fun part.”

She got out of the car and dialed a number on her phone and the van exploded in the distance. Callie remained out of the car until she felt the wind from the explosion wash lightly over her face.

“You’re insane,” I said to Callie.

“It’s done,” I said to Victor.

Victor said, “Good. I … have … two more … jobs … for you.”

“Already?” I retrieved a small notebook and pen from my du
ff
el and wrote down the information. The names, ages, occupations, and addresses were so di
ff
erent, it seemed as though they’d been plucked out of thin air. I asked Victor, “Do you even
know
these people?”

“All … part … of a … master … plan,” he said. I covered the mouthpiece and said to Callie, “I take back what I said before, about you being insane.” Then I said to Victor, “Are there many more?”

“Many,” Victor said in his weird, metallic voice. “Real … ly … Mr.

… Creed … evil is … every … where … and … must … be pun… ished.”

CHAPTER 9

“
I
must
see the Picasso,” Kathleen said.

“Then you shall,” I said.

“And the maître d’,” she said. “They have one, right?”

“They do indeed.”

“Is he stu
ff
y? I hope he’s insu
ff
erably stu
ff
y!”

“He will be if I don’t tip him,” I said. We were in the Seagram Building on East Fifty-Second, in the lobby of the Four Seasons restaurant.

She touched my arm. “Donovan, this is really sweet of you, but we don’t have to eat here. I don’t want you to spend this much on me. Let’s just have a drink, see the painting and maybe the marble pool. We can share a pizza at Angelo’s afterward.”

“Relax,” I said. “I’m rich.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The Four Seasons is famous, timeless, and the only restaurant in New York designated as a landmark.

“Do you mean really, you’re rich,” she said, “or that you’re really rich?”

“I’m rich enough to buy you whatever you’d like to have tonight.”

She laughed. “In that case, I’ll have the Picasso!”

Did I mention I liked this lady?

I gave my name to the maître d’ and led Kathleen to the corridor where the Picasso tapestry had hung since the restaurant opened back in 1959. The twenty-two-foot-high Picasso was in fact the center square of a stage curtain that had been designed for the 1920 Paris production of
The Three Cornered Hat
. When the theater owner ran out of money, he cut the Picasso portion from the curtain and sold it. Now, with the economy in distress, Kathleen had heard the tapestry was about to be auctioned for an estimated eight million dollars. This might be her only chance to see it.

“Oh my God!” she said, her voice suddenly turning husky. “I love it!”

“Compared to his other work, the colors are muted,” I said. “But yeah, it’s pretty magnificent.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Impress me.”

“It’s a distemper on linen,” I said.

“Distemper? Like the disease a dog gets?”