Real Dangerous Fun (The Kim Oh Suspense Thriller Series Book 5)

by Kim Oh

  “Yeah . . .” I picked up my coffee cup – a real one, not styrofoam – and took a sip. “A lot of guys don’t realize what a turn-off that is.”

  I had told her about everything that had happened. About Umberto, at least. I figured, why not? Even if she broke the promise she’d made, to not talk about this stuff, she already knew enough to make trouble for me. But I was pretty sure she wouldn’t.

  The other stuff – everything that’d gone down with Lynndie finally, and César – she didn’t need to be filled in on. And she knew better than to ask.

  I glanced over to where my brother Donnie was sitting, his wheelchair parked next to one of the lounge’s electrical outlets, so he could keep his laptop charged up while we were waiting for our flight. He leaned forward, peering intently at the screen – probably more NASCAR stats. When we got home, I might tell him, since he already was clued in on our family business.

  “So when you did figure him out –” I set the cup back down on the little table beside me. “How’d you do it?”

  “Oh, that.” Mavis perked up. The type of girl who enjoyed other people knowing how clever she was. She stopped fooling around with the strap of the stuffed backpack at her feet, and leaned her shoulder against mine. “Well, really, it was both me and Donnie –”

  No surprise there. The little conspirators.

  “I just had this funny feeling there was something wrong.” Mavis gave a slow nod. “Maybe not about that Umberto guy – but something else. About what we got told.”

  “Told about what?”

  “About how those security cameras worked. You know, the ones hidden in the walls, so you couldn’t see them. And that video clip, the one the hotel manager showed us – you know, where you got whacked over the head –”

  “Not one of my most precious memories, but yeah, I know the one you mean.”

  “There was just something wrong with it.”

  “Sometimes,” I said, “you gotta go with your hunches.”

  “Exactly.” She was really getting into it – she grabbed hold of my arm, as though to keep me from running away before she was done. “So I went back to the website of the company, the one that made the stuff for hiding them in the walls.”

  That I did remember her doing, back in the hotel suite, hunching over her laptop when Umberto and I had been heading out the door. At the time, I had wondered just what was so interesting to her.

  “You see, I’ve had experience with video cameras – we use ’em all the time back at the university, to record the interviews when we’re doing a research project. And we always run them so they’re time-coded, just like those security camera videos. And that’s what was wrong.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “On the website for the company, there was a whole PDF manual for the system. So I could check it out, and see how everything was usually set up with the cameras and everything. And it said right there, that the default setting was that they were motion- and sound-activated. Most of the time, they’re not recording at all, but when the system’s sensors detect any movement, or the built-in microphones pick up the slightest little noise, then they start recording.”

  “Ohh-kay . . .”

  “Don’t you get it, Kim?” She got even more excited. “The video that the hotel manager showed us – that Jorge guy – it had a whole big stretch, nearly a minute long, where it just showed you lying on the floor. And there wasn’t any movement, or any sound.”

  That was true enough. I certainly hadn’t been moving around then. Not making any noise, either, unless you counted bleeding.

  “And the time code,” said Mavis. “The numbers kept running along the bottom of the video, the whole way through. Without any interruption. If the security system had been left on its default settings, the numbers would’ve jumped from when the video stopped, because there wasn’t any motion or sound to trigger it, to when Lynndie and that César guy came in and looked at you there. So that meant somebody had set that particular camera for something other than the default. The only person who could’ve done that would’ve been Jorge, the hotel manager – he told us he had all the controls for the system in his office.”

  “Huh.” I mulled it over. “So he must’ve known it was going to happen. The whole business about me getting clopped, so I wouldn’t be able to keep Lynndie from being snatched.” I nodded slowly, as the picture came into focus inside my head. “So they’d have the video, something to show Lynndie’s father, to prove how she’d been kidnapped. By whacking me on the head, so they could get to her. César wouldn’t have needed that, but Lynndie might’ve wanted it.”

  “I guess so.” Mavis wasn’t interested in that part. “But what it meant to me, was that I’d been right about there being something funny going on. With that security video, I mean. And that both those guys, the hotel manager and Umberto, must’ve been in on it, too. I couldn’t figure out what they were up to, of course, but it couldn’t have been anything good.”

  I saw it now, almost like another video clip, playing on a little screen behind my eyes. The two cousins had been in on it, all right – along with their business partner César. It would’ve been a simple plan, with Lynndie thinking they were on her side, when they’d already hooked up with her father. Would’ve been easily carried out as well, except for one thing. Jorge and César just hadn’t anticipated Umberto getting all personal and going it alone, to get back at me for what’d happened out at the grocer tienda.

  “So you talked to Donnie about it?”

  “Well . . . he is your brother. Plus, turned out he’d already figured there was something screwy going on. That’s why he left his video camera on – the one on his laptop.”

  “What?” First I’d heard of anything like this.

  “Yeah –” Mavis glanced over at him, then back to me. “When you took us back into the bedroom to talk to us. Remember, he’d been working on that vlog of his? So the laptop camera was already on, when Umberto came back in. Donnie told me he usually turns off the camera if he has to go do something else – you know, so he doesn’t have to edit stuff out afterward. But he wanted to know what Umberto would do when he thought nobody was watching him. So we looked at the video on the laptop, and we saw him.”

  That got a slow nod from me. “Unloading the guns . . .”

  “He grabbed them soon as we were all out of the room. Right out of your shoulder bag. He took out those things – what do you call them – that the bullets go into –”

  “The magazines.”

  “Yeah, those. He took the bullets out and shoved them down into the couch cushions. We found them there after you left.”

  “And you called me. To let me know.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “Thanks.”

  “That was why I took a picture of Donnie, with him holding up a piece of paper. Because we knew you’d had that phone on speaker mode before, when you’d been in the bathroom making a call –”

  “You listened in?”

  “We tried, but we couldn’t really hear anything. You had the water running.”

  “That’s why I do things like that.”

  “Yeah, right. Anyway,” said Mavis, “we were afraid you still might have had the phone set that way. And Umberto might’ve heard it. So that’s why we just sent the photo.”

  “Smart.”

  “Hey –” A cheerful thought struck Mavis. “Maybe I’m cut out for this.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Cut out for what?”

  “You know. What you do.”

  “No,” I told her. “You’re not. Nobody gets some cushy university position, with tenure and benefits and all that good stuff, doing what I do. So just forget about it.”

  Mavis glanced out the lounge door, to where the Arrivals and Departures board could be seen. “My flight’s boarding.” She leaned over and gave me a hug around the shoulders – which took me by surprise, but I guess that’s what girls do – then stood and picked up her backpack. “Ciao.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. Ciao.” I watched her go over and give the same to Donnie, then she was out of the lounge and headed for her gate.

  † † †

  Our flight didn’t leave until about a half-hour later. I didn’t drink any more coffee – I already had enough thoughts bouncing around inside my head. A whole to-do list I had to work through, so I could wrap up this job.

  Donnie and I got waved through security, the same way as when we’d come down here. I have to admit, that while I don’t much like rich people, there are some real advantages to working for them.

  The Meridién equivalent of the woman who’d walked us through the airport in L.A. – complete to the same smile – barely glanced at our boarding passes. “Miss Heathman isn’t traveling with you?”

  “No –” I shook my head. “She’s staying on for a couple more days. Fun’s not over, you know.”

  “Of course.” She handed the passes back to me, with a big phony smile. “Have a nice flight.”

  I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder. It was the same one I’d come down here with, only now it was a lot more scuffed up – at least César had found it out on the malecón and brought it back to the hotel. I was glad that nobody wanted to examine it. There were some things in there that would’ve seriously freaked out the security personnel. And I’m not talking guns.

  We got preboarded into first class, and that was nice as well. I already was dreading the day when I’d have to fly coach again. I started to stand on tiptoe to get my bag stowed in the overhead compartment, but then one of the smiling flight attendants took it from me and got it up there, even though I really didn’t want anybody else handling it. I got Donnie settled in across the aisle from my seat, and the crew rolled away the skinny wheelchair they use to get handicapped passengers aboard.

  Donnie glanced over at me. “You okay?”

  Maybe I looked tired or something. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Actually, I was looking forward to the in-flight meal – I figured up here in first class, it’d be pretty decent. I hadn’t anything to eat since the last of that pizza that’d been delivered to our suite, and a couple of Snickers I’d scavenged out of the courtesy bar.

  “I’ll be glad to get home,” said Donnie. “That wheelchair they had for me at the hotel . . . it was okay, but . . .” He shook his head. “It just didn’t have the performance. You know? Not like my regular one.”

  That was the NASCAR in him talking. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I might even have fallen asleep before the plane took off. Good a chance as any to rest up – I was going to be seriously busy when we got back to Los Angeles.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “You good for a while?”

  Our apartment looked dinky, compared to that hotel suite we’d been staying in. And it was a pretty good-sized place, way bigger than that postage-stamp hole-in-the-wall we’d started out in, when I first got into this line of work.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Donnie rummaged through his bag, that he’d set on the kitchenette table. “Where’s my charger?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Here it is.” He got his laptop plugged in and fired up. “You go take care of whatever business you need to.”

  “That’s the plan.” I slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll stop by that Thai place on Alvarado on my way home. The one you like. That sound good?”

  He already was squinting at some more race stats. All I got was a nod of his head. I kind of knew the reason for that. My brother didn’t make a big deal out of me coming and going, because we were both aware that there might be a time when I didn’t come back. Just the nature of the business.

  We’d taken a taxi home from the airport. Damn, that’s expensive – took up most of the cash I had on me. But now I needed to travel on my own. Down in the apartment building’s underground garage, I pulled the canvas cover off my Ninja 250, got on, and started her up. I took my helmet off the seat behind me and strapped my bag down with the bungee cords I always kept there. I didn’t wait for the steel gate to open all the way; soon as there was space for the handlebars to clear, I was up the ramp and out on the street. I leaned the bike to the right and headed back to the airport, the headlight beam slicing through the dark.

  I paid to leave the bike up on the seventh floor of the short-term parking structure, feeding enough quarters into the machine by the elevators to give me a couple of hours. I took my bag from the seat and locked my helmet to the hook underneath, then went down to street level and walked over to long-term parking lot.

  This late at night, there was no attendant to deal with. All I needed to fetch Lynndie’s BMW cabriolet was the bar-coded receipt I’d taken from her purse. Didn’t even have to pay to get the yellow-striped bar to raise up and let me drive out – she’d run her black Amex card when she’d left the car there.

  When I got to Heathman’s humungous place, I punched into the entrance gate’s keypad the six-digit code he’d given me, and drove on in. I took it slow, so the security camera at the gate could get a nice long scan of the Beemer and its rear license plate.

  “Well. Look who’s here.” Heathman answered the mansion’s tall front door himself. And with a gun dangling in one hand. I wasn’t surprised by that. I knew from before that he liked to spend a lot of time down in his toy room, letting off round after round in the soundproofed firing range. “Been expecting you.” He gave me one of those twisted little smiles, where one corner lifts higher than the other. “Come on in.”

  I took the elevator down with him. God forbid that somebody rich as him – especially now that he could latch on to all his daughter’s money – should ever have to take the stairs. Like before, the air down there smelled of shooting, and the paper silhouette targets at the far end were reduced to tatters. He laid the gun down on the range table and looked over the other pieces arranged there, with the abstracted air of a cigar smoker looking over the contents of his humidor, deciding which one to light up next.

  “How’d the trip go?” He didn’t glance back at me, standing over by the door. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Killer,” I said. “Like the fun would never stop.”

  “Good one.” He nodded in appreciation. “Oh – before I forget.” He reached up and took a small bundle from the shelf above the table. “Here you are.”

  “So you know?” I took the thick wad of cash from him and dropped it into my bag. “That Lynndie’s dead?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Heathman picked up a .44, swung it open to check that it was fully loaded, then set it back down so he could pick up the drink beside it. The ice cubes clinked as he took a long pull. “I had a phone call from César. He gave me all the details.” He drained the glass, then put it down again. “You really didn’t need to come by here and see me. Except to get paid, of course.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got other reasons.” He watched, frowning in puzzlement as I took a single latex glove from my jacket pocket and snapped it nurse-style onto one hand. From my shoulder bag I pulled out the bigger bundle that I’d brought back with me, wrapped up in one of the hand towels from the hotel. It was still cold and damp from the blue plastic freezer packs I’d kept it next to, inside my carry-on bag. “Something here you should see. So you’ll be sure.”

  He took it from me and unfolded the towel. A scowl of disgust clenched his face when he saw what was inside. “What the hell . . .” He kept looking at it. “Aw, man, that’s sick.”

  “Yeah, it is kinda.” He hadn’t even noticed as I’d stepped past him. I picked up the .44 from the range table. “But here’s the kicker.”

  His eyes went wide with the first shot that struck his chest. Then blank with the second one I fired. Then just nothing as I went on unloading the gun into his crumpling body.

  As a general rule, I don’t like using someone else’s piece to finish up a job. But I’d had to, this time.

  Kneeling down, I laid the gun on the floor, then peeled off the latex glove, wadded it up and stuck
it back into my pocket. From Heathman’s bloodied chest, I picked up the gift I’d brought him. Lynndie’s hand was spotted with her father’s blood, but that didn’t matter. Her own blood, where I’d hacksawed the hand from her wrist, had darkened black.

  From my shoulder bag, I took out the needle-nose pliers I’d bought at the ferreteria –

  To tell the truth, I was feeling a little nauseated. It wasn’t really the kind of thing that came naturally to me. Elton had taught me how to do it. Something he and his redneck brothers and cousins used to do when they’d been kids, down on some hick farm in Arkansas. Making grabbers, as he called it, from the claws of slaughtered chickens. Later on, he’d figured out another use for it.