The Exterminators

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Before anyone could answer Katy came out of the other rest room and saw exactly what was going on. “Guh,” she said. “Way to go, Mom.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “Not now, Katy.”

  Agent Parker gestured with gun. “Everybody back to the truck. We’ll be in L.A. soon.”

  “No,” Mary said, holding her ground. “This is as far as we go.”

  “Mom,” Katy said. “I don’t want to die at a rest stop. How gross would that be?”

  “Mary, let’s not waste time on this. We’re going to L.A.”

  “No. You just want to kill Bob and Klaus for the money.”

  “Well, you’re half right,” Agent Parker said. “I do plan to kill them. And guess what?” He pointed the gun at her. “You’re going to help.”

  Chapter Forty

  Bob was at the kitchen table with a headache, a cup of coffee, and a bowl of Lucky Charms. He turned on the TV to catch the morning news as he enjoyed the magically delicious cereal.

  Anchorman Todd Hererra hardened his face to give the impression that he was a man familiar with the darker side of human nature but no longer surprised by it. He said, “Shockwaves are rippling through Hollywood this morning as word spreads that Oscar-nominated director Peter Innish and an as-yet-to-be-identified young woman were found dead just a few hours ago at a house in the Hollywood Hills. Innish, whose latest film, Pole Position, has been described as the ‘gay NASCAR movie,’ reportedly received numerous death threats from motor sports fans after the release of the film. For the latest on this rapidly developing story, let’s go to our own Traci Taylor who is on the scene.”

  Traci, an angular brunette with a smile like a meat slicer, held a microphone in one hand while pointing over her shoulder with the other as she said, “Todd, as you can see, I’m standing in the shadow of the famous Hollywood sign.” The camera followed Traci as she turned to say, “And just across the street from another famous sign in Hollywood…crime scene tape.”

  Behind her, the end of a cul-de-sac and a uniformed cop guarding the gated driveway as moon-suited CSI techs scoured the grounds for forensic evidence and grey-suited detectives talked to the housekeeper and made notes.

  “Celebrities and murder,” Traci said as she walked slowly toward the scene. “Here in Los Angeles, they go together like Will and Grace, Law and Order, Sex…and the City.” She glanced at the sky. “And so once again we find the hills are alive with the sounds of emergency vehicles and news helicopters. Todd?”

  “What have you learned so far, Traci?”

  “Police aren’t releasing any details publicly but someone close to the investigation tells me that despite the fact there were no signs of a struggle, they consider the deaths…highly suspicious.”

  Todd donned a weighty expression and leaned toward the camera. “Have you been able to find out why they’re saying that?”

  Traci nodded as if she’d seen the question coming. “Todd, my source tells me the medical examiner ruled out natural causes almost immediately.” Here she raised her eyebrows and the specter of nefarious activities simultaneously. “Since there hasn’t been time for an autopsy—indeed, since the two bodies haven’t yet been removed from the house—I asked how the medical examiner reached that conclusion. I was told off the record that there was something about the condition of the bodies that makes them suspicious.”

  There was a quick knock at the door to Bob’s apartment, then it opened. Klaus came in with a newspaper folded under one arm. Bob looked up from the TV. “Hey, how’s your head?”

  Klaus shrugged as he poured a cup of coffee. Then he said, “Have you heard from Mary?”

  “Yeah, she called about an hour ago, said they were making one last stop up at Castaic.” He glanced up at the clock. “Should be here pretty soon.”

  Klaus leaned against the counter, snapped open the paper and began reading.

  Bob gestured at the TV with his spoon, spilling a marshmallow clover. “You seen the news?”

  Klaus peered over the top of the front page of the LA Times, gave it a shake.

  Bob shook his head and pointed at the TV. “No, I mean today’s news.”

  From behind the paper, Klaus said, “Peace in the Middle East?”

  “Better,” Bob said. “Celebrity death under mysterious circumstances. The guy who directed that gay NASCAR movie? Found dead in the sack with a young woman, the good money says aspiring actress.” He pointed at the television just as Traci was promising a special report in which she would deliver exclusive, shocking developments in the Peter Innish Murders.

  “Thanks, Traci,” said Todd. “We’ll check back with you later in the newscast.” Turning to camera one, Todd’s pliable face swapped grave concern for amused disbelief. He even gave the impression of suppressing a chuckle before saying, “Southern California drivers had a real monkey-wrench thrown into their morning commute today when an unusual hitchhiker appeared on the 405. The Highway Patrol confirmed reports of a chimpanzee dressed in a cowboy outfit dashing into traffic and pulling his six guns, causing a multi-car pile up and snarling traffic for five miles.”

  Bob looked at Klaus who was peering out from behind the paper. “You think it’s…”

  “I think it is unbelievable they call this news,” Klaus said before reaching over to turn off the television.

  Bob pointed at the black screen. “But, BeeBo…”

  “Bob, do you remember last night when Mary called to say she was holding a gun on two men, one of whom claimed to be a CIA agent, the other an apparent assassin with our photographs? Does any of this sound familiar?”

  Bob muted the television. “I was drunk,” he said. “But I wasn’t that drunk.”

  “So you remember the part about Miguel DeJesus Riviera offering twenty million for our deaths?”

  “Mary said she had it under control.”

  “So any concern about the assassin part of the story is unwarranted?”

  “You taught Mary and Katy all they need to know. I have full confidence in you.”

  Klaus stared at him for a moment before saying, “Your optimism troubles me.”

  “Uh oh, the sky’s falling again.” Bob took his bowl to the sink and said, “They’re an hour north of town, what’s to worry about? Besides, what can we do from here?”

  “We could be packing,” Klaus said. “I predicted this. I told you word would get out and people would come for us. And it has, and they have, and so we have to disappear again.”

  “Let’s talk to Treadwell, see if the DOD can help us out.”

  “They are the ones who got us in trouble to begin with.”

  “Perfect,” Bob said with a clap of his hands. “So they owe us.”

  Not long after that there was a knock on the door followed by Mary saying, “Bob?”

  “See? There they are.” Bob cinched his belt tight around his bathrobe as he crossed the apartment. When he opened the door he saw Mary, Katy, and a man in a priest outfit standing in front of another man who, apparently, had the gun.

  “Hi, honey,” Mary said. “We’re home.” She had the chagrined look of someone who’d had the tables turned on her.

  Katy said, “Hi, Dad. Guess what Mom did?”

  Agent Parker nudged Mary in the back and said, “Inside. Let’s go.”

  Standing in the living room, assessing the situation, Bob sounded more surprised than disappointed or accusing. “Sweetie, you said you had things under control.”

  Normally Mary wouldn’t have said what she did, but for the past hour or so Katy had been giving her relentless and snarky teenage grief for letting Agent Parker get the gun back. By now Mary was sick and tired of all the Monday-morning quarter-backing, so when Bob said “Sweetie, you said you had things under control,” she couldn’t help but say, “I did, Bob,
but shit happens.”

  “That would be me.” The man in the back of the group waved his gun in the air. “Agent Nick Parker, CIA. You knew my boss, Mike Wolfe?” He passed his free hand over his head. “Crazy old white-haired coot.”

  “Hard guy to forget,” Bob said.

  Agent Parker looked past Bob and spoke louder. “Klaus? I assume that’s you in the kitchen.” He held the .45 in the air again and pulled the hammer back. “Hear that? It’s a big gun, Klaus. So why don’t you just put down the knife or the can opener or the zester or whatever it is you planned to kill me with, and come on out. There’s a lot at stake here, and I don’t intend to let this opportunity slip away.”

  Klaus eased out of the kitchen with his hands raised in loose fists.

  Agent Parker took a step back, extending his arm, bringing the gun up, aiming at Klaus. “What’s in your hands?”

  “Nothing,” Klaus said. “Relax.”

  “Open ’em up. Now!”

  “Calm down.” Klaus kept moving toward Parker, his hands still closed.

  “I said stop!”

  Chapter Forty-one

  If he hesitated another second, it would be too late. He would be the one killed. So he squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded through the heart. He was still alive when he landed on his knees. You could see it in his eyes. But he was dead before his nose crunched on the floor.

  Leon sat back and let out a long breath. He read the words again. “Now that,” he thought, “is an opening action sequence.” He hit the “save” button and stretched to one side until something in his neck made a noise and felt better. “It’s not perfect, but it sets the tone.”

  For the past few hours Leon had been working the keyboard on his laptop like Scott Joplin playing “Maple Leaf Rag.” A blinding torrent of notes, becoming words, rendering character and action and plot. He hunched over the thing, hammering like a man possessed. On the desk next to a cup of coffee, How To Write a Screenplay in 30 Days was splayed open, the spine already cracked from constant reference. The room service tray with breakfast was almost untouched.

  The night before, thinking about what Lauren Carneghi had said about writing a killer’s story the way it really was, Leon had watched some pay-per-view, a couple of action movies that had been big hits. One was cops and gangstas, the other was special agents and terrorists. They were all gasoline explosions, machine guns, and death with no soul. As he watched these violent spectacles, Leon couldn’t help thinking that a man with his experience, a man who had done the things he had done, could do a lot better than these innocent screenwriters. All he had to do was tell the truth.

  He thought about all the close calls he’d had, the near disasters, the way things could go completely wrong in the blink of an eye. The perfect shots, the lucky ones, and that one about which he had regrets. His world was complex, morally ambiguous, and cinematic. And the more he thought about that, the more his pulse quickened. He had never thought about his life’s work; he’d always just done it. But now he was thinking. He was thinking Lauren was right. He was the guy to reveal the truth. He would be the guide into the underworld only he knew. Writing the script would be like planning a job, the only point at which he had total control over everything that happened, what went right and what went wrong.

  He started working on the opening action sequence and before he knew it, the idea of writing a movie about the ways of the assassin had seized him whole.

  In the quiet of his hotel room, the only sound was the hum of his computer. Leon was so caught up in the process, so immersed in the world he was creating, that he jumped when the phone rang. He looked at it for a moment before answering. Only two people knew he was there, the man he’d hired to locate Bob and Klaus, and the producer. He was surprised to find himself hoping it wasn’t the man with the information that would send him down the other road. He was too excited about this script, about meeting with Brad Pitt, about suddenly, and improbably, being a Hollywood screenwriter.

  Sure, Leon knew he could make twenty million for the murders, but that assumed he wouldn’t get killed trying, something for which there was no guarantee, given that Klaus had been one of the world’s best assassins in his day. And even if he didn’t get killed, he ran the risk of getting caught after the fact. So there were two strikes against, on the one hand. And on the other, there was the mystique of the movie business, the draw of the magic, the lure of the stars that was spreading throughout his body like a cancer.

  He picked up the phone and the young man on the other end said, “I have Lauren Carneghi for you.”

  A moment later she came on the line blurting, “Can you believe this shit with Peter Innish?”

  Her voice brought a smile to his lips. “No,” Leon said. “It’s unbelievable.”

  She paused when it dawned on her. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you? Don’t you watch the news?” She laughed.

  “I’m working on the story,” he said.

  “You are? That’s great,” she said. “That’s why I’m calling. The whole Innish thing—”

  “Wait, who is this person?”

  “Wrong tense,” she said. “He was a director. Did the movie Pole Position.”

  “What is he now?”

  “Dead. And suffice it to say, the shit has hit the Hollywood fan. We had to reschedule the meeting with Pitt’s people.”

  “His people?”

  She heard the disappointment in his voice. “We’ll meet with Brad eventually,” Lauren said. “He’s shooting right now. But the Innish thing derailed a huge project they had going. They’re scrambling to find another director to keep it alive. But they love what they’ve heard so far. They said Brad’s totally crazy about the project. He absolutely loves the noir angle. Said he wants it to be his next picture.”

  Leon smiled. “Really?” More disbelief than excitement.

  “Absolutely! So, listen, I’ll reschedule the lunch ASAP. You just keep writing.”

  “By the way,” he said, “I never told you my name.”

  “You can tell me next Sunday.”

  “Next Sunday?”

  “You’re my date.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Academy Awards.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  As Traci was finishing her segment, she noticed the housekeeper skirting the herd of reporters that had stampeded into the hills on the scent of fresh blood. It looked as if she was trying to get away before someone asked about the status of her citizenship but she stopped, lurking on the edge of Traci’s peripheral vision.

  “Reporting live from the Hollywood Hills, I’m Traci Taylor, Eyewitness Action News.” She held her expression until Ronnie, her cameraman, killed his lights and headed toward the driveway, said he needed to shoot some more B roll.

  Traci hung back, said she was going to check with the medical examiner to see if he had anything new, but she was curious about the housekeeper who kept inching in her direction, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. Finally she said, “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?” Traci looked up from her notepad.

  She kept looking around as if expecting the INS to swoop in and cart of her away at any moment. “Can I talk with you?”

  “Sure. What’s your name?”

  “Blanca.”

  “You’re the housekeeper, right?”

  “Sí, yes.” She nodded, still obviously nervous.

  Traci was used to people being nervous when they approached her. Even the minor celebrity of a TV field reporter had surprising impact on some viewers. Traci smiled, hoping to put the woman at ease. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I am the one who found the bodies,” she said.

  Traci knew this already. She nodded sympathetically. “That must have been
terrible.”

  Blanca nodded in agreement but didn’t speak for a moment. She looked at her shoes as if her next words might be down there. Finally she said, “But that is not all I found.”

  “Oh?” Traci wondered what else there could be. Two dead bodies was a pretty good find. Still, whatever it was, Traci’s instincts told her it was news. Possibly big news. Her heart began to race. Was this a scoop, an exclusive, the Holy Grail? If it was, she wondered why Blanca had approached her instead of any of the other two dozen reporters on the scene. Then she wondered why she was looking a gift horse in the mouth. She said, “What did you find?”

  Blanca nodded toward the Eyewitness Action News van. “Can we talk over there?”

  She assumed Blanca didn’t want the police to see her talking to a reporter about whatever she had found, which just made Traci that much more excited about the possibilities. She led Blanca to the other side of the van, out of sight. Blanca looked around one more time before she pulled a small videotape cassette from her pocket. “I also found this,” she said. “I didn’t want the police to find it.”

  Traci struggled to keep her jaw from unhinging and dropping to the asphalt. The tape was like a magnet pulling on her eyes. Felt like a retina might detach at any moment. She couldn’t look away. Whatever this was had local Emmy written all over it. The videotape found at the death scene. She couldn’t tell if Blanca was simply being loyal to her former employer or if she had something more profitable in mind. Not that it mattered. Traci wanted the tape, and she figured she would go to whatever lengths were necessary to get it. She pointed at the cassette, all nonchalant. “What is it?”

  Blanca seemed embarrassed when she said, “The camera was in the bedroom.” She looked uncomfortable with the insinuation. “I didn’t think—” She shook her head. “He was a nice man.”

  Traci gave a sympathetic nod. “It was in the bedroom?” She could hardly speak. “Where the bodies were?”

  “Yes. I put the camera away and took the tape.” She shrugged and dropped her head, as if she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing.