Paradise By The Rifle Sights (Greatest Hits romantic mysteries book #5) (Greatest Hits Mysteries) (3 page)

"The best defense against the atom bomb is not to be there when it goes off."

~
British Army Journal 1949

We landed at LAX, and I helped Cindee with her bag in the overhead compartment (
Hey, I'm not a cad.), then nodded my goodbye. Within an hour, I was safe in my hotel room with my thoughts. My empty, empty thoughts. I'd never had this problem before, and I'd certainly never gone into a job cold, with no plan.

Don
't get me wrong, sometimes in my business you have moments where you have to improvise because of timing. I did just fine with that. It just wasn't my preference. Like the time I'd planned for days for a hit on this Latvian terrorist. I'd spent weeks setting the job up, and he just happens to walk into the same men's room in Munich where I was washing my hands. Two minutes and a destroyed urinal later, my job was done. It wasn't pretty, and it was obviously a murder, but the Council considered it a job well done. I just would've preferred doing it my way.

You have to take pride in your work.
I could take on four or five guys bare-fisted and leave them all drowning in their own blood (And yes, I actually did that in Paraguay once). But that lacked style. Each of us in the Bombay clan had our own way of doing things. Some liked to delay the deaths with poison so they could be two time zones away before the Vic fell over dead into his beluga caviar. Others preferred a swift and bloody execution that left no doubt what had happened. Still others liked their hits to look like accidents. (Hint – don't visit the Grand Canyon if there's a contract out on you.) I just wanted to leave a little elegance behind. It's a personal preference.

The hotel concierge called as I unpacked and told me there was a voicemail for me.
It was from the show. I needed to be at the studios first thing in the morning for the audition. This was cutting things too close—I needed some sort of idea now. So I did the first thing I could think of…I ordered room service.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
These guys were fast. Through the spy hole I saw a waiter with a cart and opened the door.

For a second, the man looked surprised to see me, which was odd.
He quickly regained his composure. "Good evening, Sir." The man nodded as he pushed the cart past me into the room.

"
You can put it on the table," I said absently.

The waiter nodded again and slid the cart up to the table.
I waited for him to put the covered trays there, but he hesitated. Alarms went off in my head, and I checked him out. And that's when I noticed his shoes. They weren't the black, polished wingtips this hotel chain was noted for. They were brown. And they didn't match his black pants. That, in and of itself, was a crime.

His arm came up in a second
, and I saw the .45 with silencer in his left hand. How original. I charged him before he had a chance to fire. Straddling him on the floor, we wrestled for the gun. Who was this guy? Forcing his left arm to the floor with my left hand, I punched him in the throat with my right.

The guy started wheezing, struggling for breath.
I usually wouldn't hit someone in the throat without asking questions first, as this tends to crush their trachea, killing them prematurely. But I hadn't been expecting an attack, and he had a gun. The man choked while I held his gun hand down. After a few moments, he died. Prying the pistol from his hand, I got to my feet and then sat on the bed.

Yup, he was dead alright.
And I was very confused. Was there a hit on me? Or was this guy supposed to take out Liv—since the job was originally assigned to her? The only way I was going to know anything was to search the body.

The room was still.
It always felt still after taking a life. I always thought this was because my senses were on hyper-alert. The silence seemed blaringly loud, and my skin tingled. The adrenaline high had me in its grip.

What a moron.
He had his wallet in his pocket. I found a set of car keys on a Dodge truck key chain. I pulled out my cell and hit speed dial.

"
Hey, Paris." Dak sounded like he was in the middle of something.

"
Dak, I need you to look into something for me." I explained what just happened and got his full attention.

"
He had his wallet and keys on him? Is this a joke?" Dak laughed.

"
Yeah, and he also had a silenced .45. Stay focused!" I snapped. "According to his ID, his name is Luther Coswald." I paused to spell it and dictate the address. "There's five hundred dollars, cash," I sighed—wondering why so little. "Nothing else."

"
You want me to run it for you?" Dak asked.

"
No, I'll do that on my laptop. I just want you to put the word out to our contacts…see if Liv had a hit against her." My throat tightened. If anything happened to my sister…

"
Right. Do you want me to let her know?"

"
Yes, and I think you should let Gin and Leonie know too. Doesn't hurt to be extra careful."

Dak didn
't answer. I knew he didn't want to involve his new wife. But she'd been in the business before retiring. Leonie could handle herself.

"
On second thought," I said, "maybe Liv should get out of town for a while. Whoever did this thinks she's here, not me. And they'd be more likely to screw up."

"
Let them believe she is in LA. Good idea," Dak said. "I'll talk to mom about who the contract came from and let you know what I find out."

In seconds I was on my laptop, trolling for info about the dead waiter in my room.
The Bombays, thanks to my cousin, Missi, had some unusual search engines. We had complete access to DMV, census, and tax records—thanks to a long relationship with some government shadow agencies.

Luther turned out to be on the FBI
's Top Ten Most Wanted List for murder and counterfeiting—something I found ironic. How had he evaded the feds but couldn't get past me? The fact his face was hanging in every post office in America was odd. Usually the guys who come after Bombays are off the grid. Seemed a bit unprofessional to use this guy.

His address was actually just a few blocks from the hotel, in
Beverly Hills. And I had his keys. Perfect. Now, what should I do with the body?

Luther was a little heavier, but his jacket and white gloves fit me.
I'd use my own shirt, tie and pants, and the RIGHT shoes. The room service cart worked perfectly to smuggle out the body. It took a while to cram him in there so that a stray ankle or hand didn't pop out, but I managed. The dark green tablecloth covered everything but the back, but I'd be pushing it there so would probably be okay.

I
'd have to avoid the service elevator. I didn't want to run into the staff or end up in the kitchen. None of the guests seemed to think it strange that I was using the guest elevator. Hotel staff were usually invisible to most people. I made it to the parking lot easily enough.

Finding his truck wasn
't even hard. All I had to do was hit the unlock button on the key remote, and a navy blue Dodge truck flashed its lights. After unloading Luther into the vehicle, I started up the truck and made my way to the address on his driver's license.

I pulled up into a set of elite condominiums in
Beverly Hills. A row of carefully manicured hedges kept the door from view. After changing back into my own suit jacket, I made my way to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. I tried again. No point in letting myself in if there was a Mrs. Luther at home.

When several minutes passed, I inserted the key into the lock and turned.
The key to breaking into a house that isn't your own is to look like you belong there. Once the door was shut behind me, I let out a breath.

The condo looked more
like a showroom than an actual living space. There was no dust, no wrinkles in the upholstery, nothing to indicate anyone had lived here. The cupboards and drawers in every room were empty. Nothing was plugged into the outlets. Whatever this address was, neither Luther nor anyone else had ever lived here.

The condo was clean
—devoid of any information at all. Even the computer was a prop. Now I had a different problem. Do I leave the body here? That was my original intention. Someone would eventually find him here and think he died at home. But now, with this being a false address, a dead body would only make it very newsworthy.

But maybe that wasn
't a bad idea. The local news might find out more than I could. Besides, I was running out of time. I waited in the condo until darkness fell, and smuggled the body in through the sliding glass door out back. After arranging the body on the bathroom floor, to look like he'd fallen and hit his neck on the sink, (and planting his wallet back on him) I slipped out the back door.

Leaving the keys in the truck, I took side streets back to my hotel.
Back in my room, I checked out the gun. At least I had a weapon now. But I still didn't know how I was going to kill my target in the morning. Fantastic.

"
She grinned at me. 'You got types?'

Only you darling
—lanky brunettes with wicked jaws."

~
Dashiell Hammett,
The Thin Man

"
This is your front desk wake-up call…" the computer-generated voice sang in my ear, waking me to a sunny and hazy LA morning. After a quick shower, I turned on the news. There was no mention of a body found in a condo in Beverly Hills. I sighed as I suited up for my audition. This was good and bad. Good, because Bombays don't like to attract notice.

But it was bad because I had no new information on the guy.
I had no idea why he tried to kill me, or even if I was the target. I could always call in a tip to the police, but that had an element of risk I wasn't ready to assume.

Besides, I had to audition for and kill one of the most obnoxious producers in
Hollywood. First things first, I thought as I tucked Luther's .45 into my jacket.

Getting the audition wasn
't hard. And I had no intention of passing it. In fact, I was pretty sure that once I killed Plimpton, there wouldn't even be a show, which was a good thing—maybe even a service to the television-viewing public. And then, in a few hours, I'd be jetting back home. Granted, there was this strange attempt on my life, but I'd have more resources and time to deal with it later.

A Lincoln Town Car was waiting for me outside, complete with a chauffeur holding a sign that said, PARIS BOMBAY.
The driver was a woman. She was kind of hot, actually. Short, curly brown hair with light blue eyes and a sad sort of smile. I liked that but didn't welcome the distraction. Was my need for companionship making me look at every woman as a possible soul mate?

Once I was settled in the sleek, black sedan, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.

"All set, Mr. Bombay?" She asked.

I nodded.
"Please, call me Paris."

The driver smiled.
"Alright, Paris, you can call me Teri." She started the car and pulled out into traffic.

"
Do you want the privacy screen up, Paris?" she asked.

"
No. I hate those things." And I did. It made me feel like I was entombed. I wanted to see what was going on ahead. An assassin should always be prepared.

"
It should only be about an hour to the studios. Just sit back and relax. There's satellite radio, and the fridge is stocked with sparkling water."

An hour.
Was that all I had? In LA traffic? How was I supposed to come up with something between now and then? It wasn't like I could ask Teri to stop at a hardware store so I could pick up piano wire and duct tape. (I didn't want to just rely on the .45 if I could do it cleaner.)
Leave no trace
was the idea. Okay, well now I just sounded like the Boy Scouts.

I was one though.
An Eagle Scout. My project was to set up a handgun class for female victims of domestic violence. It worked pretty well too, that is, until one of them gunned down her ex husband at a Tastee Freez in front of a middle school jazz band. But that happened five years after the class, so I still consider it a success.

The car entered the freeway
, and I stared at the miles of concrete barricades under a smog-riddled sky. I never really understood the lure of Los Angeles. Too much pollution, too many cars, and the people all looked like they were molded out of plastic. Especially the women. Why did they do that, anyway? So what if they had a wrinkle here or a frown line there? I liked it. It gave them character. It gave me the creeps when I saw a woman whose face had been "ironed" by Botox.

I stole a glance at Teri through the rearview mirror.
She seemed like a natural beauty to me. And the crease between her eyebrows told me that she had lived—that she'd had emotions and knew how to express them. Her eyes caught mine, and I realized I'd been staring.

"
Are you staring at me?" she asked.

"
Sorry." To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed. Why was I acting so desperate? "It's just that you don't look like most women here."

Teri laughed.
"I don't know if you meant that as a compliment, but that's how I'm taking it."

"
It was a compliment," I insisted. She had a nice laugh. I could appreciate that too.

"
Well good. Then I won't let you off here and make you walk downtown," Teri answered. "I hate those stupid, vapid Barbie dolls."

"
So you aren't from around here, then?"

Teri shook her head, her eyes returning to the road.
"I'm from Chicago. And I'd wear a T-shirt that said that every day, if I had one."

I looked out the window just in time to see a blonde in a convertible pull up next to us.
She had oversized sunglasses that were only surpassed by her oversized lips. Her breasts were huge—maybe a quad D, if they made them that large. And she, and the car, were pink. I shuddered and turned my attention back to Teri.

"
I could never live here. I'm partial to real people." I hadn't realized I said that out loud.

Teri stared at me for a few moments
, and I wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she thought I talked too much. Maybe I should close the privacy screen and focus on what I had to do next.

"
What line of work are you in, Paris Bombay?"

My mind went into the smooth, well-
traveled back-story I'd used for years. "Marketing. I'm a consultant."

"
Is that right?" Teri looked back at the road. "And what is a marketing consultant doing auditioning for a reality show?"

That caught me off guard
, and I withdrew automatically. I'd already said too much to make her remember me. The last thing I needed was to have her tell the police all about me because I was stupid enough to stand out.

"
It wasn't my idea…" I said.

"
It wasn't your idea? Unless the process has changed, you have to apply to audition for a show like these." She shook her head. "Maybe you're just as vapid as the idiot women on this show."

That burned.
I'm not vapid. I was nothing like the others auditioning today. I didn't even want to be on this stupid audition. And where does she get off? She's paid by the same company to drive me around.

I punched the button
, and the privacy screen went up between us. And then I sulked the rest of the way to the studio.

We arrived at the gate faster than I thought we would.
After a brief pause at the security shack, the Town Car crept through the lots until pulling up in front of Stage Six. I heard the driver's door open and shut, before Teri opened the door for me. I got out quickly, handing her a tip before spinning on my heel and going into the building. Before the door shut I could swear I heard a chuckle behind me.

It suddenly occurred to me that I
'd made a mistake. Oh, I was in the right place. I just wasted the drive here fuming about my chauffeur, when I should've been working on my plan of action. Now I was here with nothing.

"
Mr. Bombay?" A young, skinny kid with a cheap suit, pimples, and clipboard stood in the hallway ahead of me. I nodded and followed him as he led me to a waiting area and motioned for me to join the other men auditioning. Skinny Kid left the room, presumably to collect more guys like us.

I was pissed off at myself.
There were five other "Bachelors" sitting on nondescript sofas about the room. Each one looked like the other. In fact, they all sort of looked like me. Dark hair, brown eyes, tall and lean…if it wasn't for the clothes, you'd be unable to tell us apart.

No one had searched me.
That was odd, but maybe I expected too much. This was Hollywood, after all. Chuck Plimpton probably thought actors were too stupid to attack him. He just never figured an assassin would be among the mannequins in the waiting room.

And with all these actors looking just like me, I had another advantage.
I was pretty sure Skinny Kid wouldn't be able to pick me out of a lineup with these guys. I'd have to do the job immediately and flee the scene unnoticed…

My brain was racing as ideas actually came to me.
If I could get into that room, behind the two sided glass, I could kill the Vic and his staff and maybe escape before it was even noticed. I was back in business. This gig was looking more like a cakewalk.

"
Paris Bombay?" Skinny Kid's voice squeaked. "You're up!"

Already?
I stood and straightened my silk, Hermes tie. I felt Luther Coswald's semi-automatic pressing into my ribs. It gave me the confidence I'd lacked since taking on this assignment.

I opened the door to the room Skinny pointed to and shut the door behind me.

"Mr. Bombay," a voice said from a speaker on the table in front of me, "please have a seat."

As I sat down, I took in the whole room.
It looked more like a police interview room than a studio audition site. Across the table, facing me was a large, two-way mirror—just as I'd thought. On the right was a door. One of two—including the way I'd just come in. The door didn't look like it had a lock on it. But I couldn't be sure. And there was no way of knowing how many bodyguards were behind it.

The table was about six feet long, with a white cloth and a red skirt around it.
I tried to hold back a grin. I knew just what to do. Planning was
so
overrated.

"
Mr. Bombay," the disembodied voice said, "tell us a little about yourself that we didn't see in your application."

I tried not to roll my eyes.
Standard, textbook interview crap. I rattled off a generic reply about growing up in the Midwest, wanting to meet a woman I could make a life with, my thoughts on jazz and literature…that kind of thing. There was no way of knowing if my interviewer liked it or not. And I really didn't care what he thought because within minutes, he would be dead, and I'd be out of here.

"
Mr. Bombay," the voice said, "you are at the top of our list even without that empty answer. What I want to hear from you, is whether or not you can sustain a whole season of dating one hot mess after another. I don't really care if you read, rescue puppies from house fires, or like long walks on the beach. You are extremely attractive, and you don't stutter like an idiot who forgot his lines. You fit our standards."

I leaned forward to respond.
"I can…I…" I sat back, my face twisting with pain. "I…" I stammered again, then fell sideways, out of the chair to the floor.

The sound of a doorknob turning in front of me, not behind me, made me smile as I got into position on the floor, rolling under the table, hidden by the table skirting.

"
Mr. Bombay!" A voice shouted as I saw a pair of shoes come around to where I'd been. The guard got down on his knees and lifted the cloth as I punched him in the temple and pulled him under with me.

He was a big guy, but I managed to get him under the table as I crawled out the other side, which was directly under the window, where they couldn
't see me. I screwed the silencer onto the gun as a voice barked into the speaker.

"
Nils! Nils! How is he? Is he alright?"

Awww, he was worried about me!
How nice. Too bad he didn't worry about the terrified people he trafficked.

I crept through the now-opened door before they realized what had happened.
A lone bodyguard stood just inside the door, staring stupidly at me. I took him out and put a bullet between the eyes of Chuck Plimpton himself. I didn't normally kill the paid help. But "No Witnesses" is our family motto, and it wasn't a reach to think these guys didn't help with his little 'hobby.'

With them dead, I dragged Nils into the room and shut the door.
After making sure there were no cameras and shooting Nils in the head, I began to search for a way out. The only way out was the door I just entered. I was just about to make my exit when the door to the interview room opened and nondescript-Paris-look-alike number two came in and sat down in the chair.

Well, that sucked.
I'd planned to just walk out and let everyone think my interview was over. I figured they might not discover there was a problem until I'd escaped the building at least. But now, there was a guy, sitting where I'd just sat, waiting for his interview to begin. Why did Skinny send him in, knowing I hadn't come out?

I shoved the body of my Vic out of his chair and pushed the red intercom button in front of me.
What was I going to say?

"
Please say your name, age and tell me about any acting experience you've had." I lowered my voice, hoping to match the deep timbre of the dead guy near my feet. I also hoped that this sounded like the kind of question you'd ask someone trying out for a reality show.