Murder My Love (Kindle Books Mystery and Suspense Crime Thrillers Series Book 3) (6 page)

She starts examining me as soon as I step foot in her shop. Then she takes the camera and flips through the frames. She asks me about Zingor's relative height and body structure.

I tell her they are roughly similar to mine.

She's curious about what I'm going to do about the uniform.

"I'll take his."

"Do you think you can fake his voice well enough to be believable?"

"Gigi, you won't believe it," I say, "but I always had a talent for voices. His control of the language is very basic. He's a driver, for God's sake. I don't think they have a lot of subjects in common to chat about inside the limo. It's precisely the Zingovian accent that gives me the edge. I spent last night listening to him in the bar for a couple of hours. I think I got it. Don't forget I will wear a uniform."

You always take for granted the person wearing the uniform.

"I think it might work, but you better leave the digital camera with me. Come to see me tomorrow at five in the morning. I'll make a new man out of you."

Bright and early, at six o'clock of the following morning, I'm knocking at Zingor's door.

He comes out half asleep, trying to suppress a yawn. He doesn't have his uniform on. I must have caught him at breakfast.

I push him inside and follow him into the room, dragging the door shut after me. I force him down on a chair, take out the syringe I prepared and inject the heavy sedative it contains into his arm. It all happens very fast. He doesn't have time to react.

"Don't worry!" I reassure him. "You'll be as good as new in a couple of hours."

It will take most likely five or six, maybe more. But he doesn't need to know that. The good as new part is true enough, though.

"Don't worry. I only need to borrow your car for a couple of hours. I'll make it up to you," I say, and place twenty-one hundred dollars banknotes on the table in front of him.

"But I need the keys."

By the twitch of his left eye, I figure I'll find them in the left pocket of his pants.

He's softening down already. His eyelids are getting heavy, and he can't keep his eyes open for long.

"Where is the bedroom? You better go take a nap."

But it's too late for the bedroom. He slumps over the chair and is fast asleep. I ease him down on the floor and let him rest there. Besides, sleeping on the floor is healthier than on a mattress.

I have some trouble finding the uniform. The house is a two-room, kitchenette and bathroom affair so it cannot be but a matter of minutes. I finally locate it in the living room closet. I put it on, and, I'm glad to say, it fits me like a charm. I check myself in the mirror and then turn to Zingor. It looks good, really good. I have to give Gigi credit for the work she did on my face. The resemblance is incredible. You can mistake Zingor and me for identical twins.

I leave the house and don't forget to lock the door. I get into the black limo and I'm on my way.

During the drive, I spend most of the time rehearsing Zingor's Zingovian accent. It doesn't seem like a lot of fun, but I have a pretty good time with it, besides it gives the whole adventure an air of bonhomie and a humorous flair.

I stop at the castle's gate and toot the horn three times.

"Good morning, Zingor," greetings come through the voice-box and I'm let in.

"Good morning," I reply in the bad Zingovian accent I've been rehearsing on my way in.

I roll the car down the winding lane to the main entrance, and stop in the driveway under the portico, in front of the marble stairs. Bad memories invade my mind. I try to keep them out.

When you work so hard. When you've been waiting for so long, there comes a point when your project, any project, becomes a vital necessity. As important as the air you breathe.

I get out of the car as I have seen Zingor do innumerable times, and wait with the chauffeur cap in my hand.

Out they come, one by one, Michael, the first guard, leading the way. He's followed by Jack, who is smiling absent-mindedly.

Michael gives me the go over, while Guard #2 hurries down the stairs behind Jack, opens the back door of the limo, searches inside and motions Jack in. Both Jack and Guard #2 get in the back.

The first guard opens the door on the driver's side and looks inside, then moves into the passenger seat. I get back into my seat and we're all ready to follow our destiny.

Out from the ocean, angry waves rush to greet us, their foamy crests lapping on the shore as they break against the piers of the harbor. I see the cliff to my right and salute it, my grouchy, inhospitable, but trustworthy friend.

We've been riding on the local road for barely ten minutes when things suddenly take a turn for the worse.

I haven't paid too much attention to Michael, who sits next to me. But now I notice he acts preoccupied. The man is unhappy. There is a sour, suspicious frown on his face. For the last few minutes, he's been taking quick, nervous peeks in my direction.

Then he suddenly develops an itch to talk, "Good Morning, Zingor," he rehashes his earlier greeting. "How is your day going?"

His eyes strain, as he's peering at my face.

I play enchanted by the opportunity of small talk and beam a big smile, ear to ear.

"Good morning, Michael, I have good day. And you?"

"It's all good, couldn't be better, my friend."

He gives me a curious look. Maybe my accent doesn't convince him, or maybe my posture at the wheel is slightly off.

I feel the pressure of his surly unhappiness.

This makes me nervous. I observe, out of the corner of the eye, the deep creases on his forehead, his eyes peering suspiciously when casting quick glances in my direction. Some doubt must be jostling inside his cranium, fighting against the tedium of the day.

Yet he's undecided, and so far doesn't act on his suspicion.

"You know, Zingor," he says, "I used to have a Zingovian girlfriend, a while back."

"Zingovian beautiful girl," I approve enthusiastically his choice.

"You telling me?"

He lets out a soft groan.

This makes me take a closer look, down to my right and in his direction. I see his hand nervously grappling with the holster of his weapon.

"She always used to hum this song. How she loved it!" he continues nervously as he finally manages to unclasp the strap.

He's now humming the popular song while his hand is slowly sliding down his hip, and his fingers grip the handle of the gun.

"Good Day Love," I say, "is beautiful Zingovian song."

He suspects something is not right. Jack can be alerted any minute. I cannot allow Michael to spoil my game.

"There's something wrong here, boss…," Michael starts, turning his face toward Jack.

I grab one of Lana's cigarettes and flip it in the air.

This disconcerts him for a second.

"Good Zingovian cigarette… wanna' try?"

But the jig is up. I make a little more noise and unleash some creative chaos in our no longer cozy black limousine.

I plant the cigarette back into my mouth, a good luck charm from Lana, whom I haven't seen now in six months.

My switch-blade is hidden inside the car's left door pocket, under a greasy comb and a smattering of dirty used napkins, courtesy of Zingor.

I throw the burning cigarette in Michael's face after which I apologize humbly.

"Sorry, sorry, Michael… don't let cigarette burn."

At the same time, I grab the knife by the hilt, switch it open and throw my right arm, which is now holding it, in a large arching and ultimately devastating sweep. The blade slashes through Michael's throat in a fell swoop.

I turn my head and, forever polite, I apologize again, "Sorry for  accident," while grabbing Michael's gun, which is dangling loosely in its opened holster, in my right hand. I slow the car down and turn onto the shoulder of the road. My left hand secures the wheel. I look back just in time to see bodyguard #2 raising his gun. I shoot him between the eyes and turn the gun toward Jack's head.

Jack experiences a delayed reaction. Only now does he manage to get hold of his gun, but he doesn't have sufficient time to take aim.

"Now for you Jack," I say in my normal voice, with the gun pointed at his head.

I see him flinch.

"You be cool for a minute, Jack! Don't move or I'll have to shoot you in all kinds of weird places since I don't mean to kill you. Not right now, anyway."

I stop the car, get out and open the back door while watching Jack's every move. I take his gun. I need Jack's help to move Michael to the back of the limo.

When we're done with moving the body, we get back in the car and continue on our way to the city.

We both ride in front. I need to keep a watchful eye on Jack. I'm sure he'll try something, sooner or later.

He doesn't say a word. He wears a resigned look on his face, and I'm not overly enthused either. I realized, a few months ago, that what happened to my brother is what regularly happens in our business. It was a professional hit. Jack just happened to get at the wrong end of an unlucky contract.

But it got complicated, and now one of us has to die, and if I have any say in it, I’ll tell you right now, it won't be me.

We drive in silence to Jack's city loft.

I know the place. I've been here as well. Jack uses it mostly to entertain friends and colleagues, but he actually bought the place for his afternoon trysts with his young secretaries.

His place is going to get messy today since I don't plan to leave the bodies of the two bodyguards in the limo. After all, I promised Zingor he'll be getting it back in a few hours.

One by one, we haul the bodies onto the service elevator. We find a rolling cart inside the elevator, and this makes our work easier. We wheel them into Jack's loft without any further ado.

I need a drink and Jack needs one too.

"What will you have?"

"Do you have any Cointreau?"

"Yes, I do. I was waiting for you to come join my organization one of these days, relentless optimist that I am, so I stocked up. But you never did. Mark, I always wanted you inside. Outside you are too dangerous. People like you should not exist. You see, if you had accepted my offer, your brother would probably still be alive."

"Or we'd both be dead."

"Yes, you probably would, but I wouldn't."

It's quiet and anti-climactic. We sip our drinks in silence, like two old friends who don't feel the need to talk; the alcohol tickles my throat and makes me feel all warm inside. It goes directly to my heart and gives me a very cozy feeling inside.

"And when you think it'd never have happened if it weren’t for my chauffeur."

The comment comes unexpectedly.

I'm stupefied. I cannot say a word; I'm waiting for an explanation.

I lower my eyes, pick up the snifter, and slowly swirl the amber liquid around. I take another lazy sip and watch him with a quizzical look.

"What does Zingor have to do with my brother's death?"

"Well then, let me tell you the story if you don't know," he says as he takes his time lighting a cigarette.

I don't say a thing because now he's a friend telling a story to a friend and I want to hear his story, but I'm careful and watch his every move because in point of fact we are deadly enemies and only one of us will get out of here alive.

So I let him tell the story and I listen.

Well, you see, Mark, besides me Zingor has these clients, the Van den Lieber. A very old, very rich Dutch family, settled here when the city was called New Amsterdam.

I could tell you that they own half the city, but I'd surely be wrong. Suffice to say, they are rich beyond measure and extremely proud of their lineage.

Now it so happens that Patricia, their daughter, fell in love with your brother, Pete. They were students at North Haven; you know how these things often happen when you are young.

Eleanor, that is Mrs. Van den Lieber, was very upset about her daughter's choice of a boyfriend. But she was willing to take it on the chin, like a trooper, as long as the relationship stayed at the boyfriend-girlfriend level.

Patricia had fallen in love with a prole, a boy without any particular merit, no blue blood flowing through his veins; what's more, he was a foreigner from across the pond. A worthless boyfriend, to be sure; but even if their relationship proved to be a steady one, this too could be tolerated within limits. But when the two kids started talking matrimony, it became just too much.

The line in the sand had been crossed.

It is at this point that our friend, Zingor, enters the stage. The husband, George, and the mother, Eleanor, have been rehashing this story on and on for almost a year, it's been their main topic of conversation, and they bring it up day after day while riding in the back of Zingor's limousine. And Zingor listens.