Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  “So what’s the story?” said Mathers, when Stevens was gone. “You guys hook up or something?”

  Windermere straightened. “What? The guy’s married, Mathers.”

  Mathers cocked his head. “Okay . . .”

  “He’s like ten years older than me, dummy,” she said. “Got a wife and kids. Anyway, no. We just work well together.”

  “Okay.” Mathers turned back to his dinner. “Whatever you say.”

  Windermere stared at him for a moment. Then she turned back to her own food. “Never happen,” she said, shaking her head. “You big goof.”

  Mathers nodded. Didn’t say anything. Windermere stole another glance at him, though. Caught the shit-eating smirk on his face.

  28

  Stevens let himself in through the front door and bent down to untie his shoes as Triceratops, JJ’s big German shepherd, padded in from the living room, tail wagging, his big eyes inquisitive. The dog nuzzled Stevens, coating his face with slobber, and Stevens kicked off his shoes and pushed the dog gently away. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

  The dog looked at him. Stevens stood in the hallway and listened. He could hear explosions upstairs: JJ killing his video game monsters. Otherwise, the house was silent.

  Stevens hung up his coat and walked into the living room, the dog padding softly behind. His wife groaned and sat up on the couch as he entered. “Agent Stevens,” she said, yawning. “Where’ve you been?”

  Stevens sank into the couch beside her. “Duluth,” he said.

  Nancy Stevens frowned. “But of course.”

  “Caught a case,” he told her. “A murder. Ran into Donna McNaughton. She works violent crimes now.”

  Nancy sat up. “Doesn’t work them too well, I guess,” she said, “if they had to drag your butt all the way up there.”

  “Favor for Tim Lesley.” Stevens hesitated. “It ties into that shooting this weekend, Spenser Pyatt, downtown.”

  “How so?”

  Stevens explained it. Pyatt, Cody, Windermere. When he was finished, Nancy sighed. “So you’re working with the FBI again.”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “In fact, probably not. I’m working the family angle. Windermere’s catching the killer.”

  “Huh.” Nancy looked up at Stevens. “Did you ask for this assignment?”

  Stevens shook his head. “Of course not. It’s just Lesley wants eyes on the FBI side of things, I guess so he can bring something back to Mickey Pyatt. He knows Windermere’s on the case.”

  “And you’re friends with Windermere.”

  “Exactly.” He grinned. “I’m kind of a spy.”

  His wife leaned against him. Stevens put his arm around her, and she craned her neck up and kissed him. “I always liked spies,” she said.

  “That so?”

  Nancy kissed him again. Then she pulled back. “So long as James Bond comes back to me in the end.”

  “Every time.” Stevens pulled her close again. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  He kissed her, deeper this time, felt her body rise to meet his. Then the dog stiffened beside them and the front door slammed open. Stevens pulled back from his wife just in time to see his teenage daughter appear in the doorway.

  “Gross.” Andrea Stevens looked from her father to her mother and back again. “You guys were making out, weren’t you?”

  Nancy giggled. “Maybe.”

  “Gross.” Andrea groaned and disappeared down the hall. “Get a room.”

  Stevens stood, pulling Nancy up beside him. Held her close and kissed her again. “I’d say she’s onto something,” he said, grinning. “Wouldn’t you?”

  29

  Stevens woke up early Wednesday morning. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and planning his day, until Nancy shifted beside him and groaned, rubbing her eyes. “Morning already?”

  Stevens sat up and admired her, her tousled hair and her sleepy eyes. She was beautiful even now, the woman of his dreams, and though he’d grown used to waking up beside her, there were mornings, still, when he felt like a lottery winner.

  Nancy cocked her head at him. “What are you looking at?”

  “You.” He leaned over and kissed her. “That a problem?”

  His wife squirmed away. “Ugh,” she said. “Morning breath.” She held back a moment, teasing him. Then she leaned in and kissed him again.

  “You like it,” he said.

  “I do not. But I’ll suffer.”

  “A martyr. How noble.”

  She kissed him harder, slid her hand beneath the sheets. “You going to lie there and crack wise all morning, Agent Stevens, or do you have something better to do?”

  Stevens grinned at her. “Something much better,” he said, reaching for the drawstring on her pajamas. “Just you wait and see.”

  AFTERWARD, Nancy Stevens smiled at her husband and sat up in bed. “Well, all right, James Bond. You got the girl, now go save the world.”

  He ran his hand along the curve of her body. “You in a hurry?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she said, pushing the sheets aside and standing. “I’m due at the office in an hour. Got some paperwork to go through before the hearing.”

  “Cripes.”

  “No rest for the wicked. That counts you and me both. You planning on coming home for dinner?”

  “Not sure,” he said. “Got a long drive ahead of me.”

  Nancy circled the bed. Leaned down and kissed him. “Stay safe,” she said. Then she pulled back and grinned at him. “Don’t be afraid to ask for directions.”

  STEVENS DRESSED and ate a quick breakfast before piling his son in the Cherokee and dropping him at school. JJ barely waited until the Jeep had pulled to a stop before unbuckling his seat belt and dashing from the car, calling back a good-bye over his shoulder. Stevens watched his son until he’d disappeared amid a clump of friends. Then he shifted into gear and drove out to the highway.

  He spent the morning on Interstate 94, stopping for gas and a coffee in Sauk Centre before continuing northwest to Fergus Falls, sixty miles short of Fargo and the North Dakota border, nearly two hundred miles from home.

  Stevens pulled off the highway into town, drove up the main drag, and stopped and pulled out a map book to check his bearings. Then he drove east again, away from city hall to a lake just past the town limits, and a large home on the shore.

  It looked more like a hunting resort than a single home, Stevens thought as he pulled up the gravel driveway toward the front door. Certainly it was more mansion than rustic cabin in the woods.

  There was a black Range Rover parked at the head of the driveway, a red BMW roadster beside it. Stevens parked his Cherokee alongside the two cars and climbed out.

  It was quiet outside, and quite peaceful. Beyond the house, Stevens could see the lake, shimmering bright blue in the spring sunlight. The forest was alive with birds and insects, and the air itself smelled clean and fragrant. Stevens inhaled, stretching his arms high above his head, feeling the numbness in mind and body disappear. When he was limber again, he turned and walked across the driveway to the house.

  The front door opened after his second knock, almost like it had been waiting for him. It was a heavy wooden door, and it swung open slowly. On the other side was the woman from Eli Cody’s photographs.

  “Agent Stevens,” she said. “I’m Paige Pyatt. Please, come in.”

  30

  Windermere and Mathers took the first flight to Chicago O’Hare Wednesday morning. An FBI agent waited for them in the arrivals terminal. Windermere recognized him instantly.

  “Wintergreen,” he said, flashing her a wide smile. “Didn’t we do this before, you and I?”

  “Good morning, Agent Davis,” she said, ignoring the way his hand seemed to linger on hers. “Back for another try, are you?”
/>
  Davis snorted. “I could say the same for you. We going to find us a real bad guy this time?”

  “Probably not,” Windermere told him, “but we’re hopeful. This is Agent Mathers.”

  Davis gave Mathers an appraising look. His smile faded somewhat. “I’m outside,” he said, and led them through the terminal to an FBI-issue Yukon double-parked at the curb.

  Mathers stole a glance at Windermere as they walked. “You know this guy?”

  “Pender case,” Windermere told him.

  “He sounds like he missed you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He offered to give me a tour of Chicago last time I was in town. I respectfully declined. He didn’t take it so well.”

  Mathers glanced at Davis. Then he grinned. “Respectfully, huh?”

  Windermere grinned back. They climbed into Davis’s SUV, and the Chicago agent drove away from the terminal. “Our suspect’s name is Alex Kent,” Windermere told him. “Lives in Logan Square. We don’t think he’s dangerous, but we can’t be certain.”

  “So long as he’s home,” said Davis. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  They drove away from the airport and into Chicagoland. Davis took the Kennedy Expressway into the city, got off in Logan Square, and drove past a couple gas stations and strip malls before turning down a short residential street. He parked the Yukon across from a narrow, two-story brick house, and glanced over at Windermere. “Address?”

  Windermere looked out at the house. “That’s the place.”

  “No tactical this time,” said Davis. “You cool with that?”

  “Should be fine. But guns drawn. Mathers, go around back.”

  “Roger.”

  Windermere studied the house some more. It was a nice little place. Well taken care of. A white railing ringed the porch. It looked bright, freshly painted. “Okay,” she said, reaching for her sidearm. “Let’s go find Alex Kent.”

  31

  Alex Kent was home, anyway. That was a positive. It was about the only positive of the day.

  As with Allen Salazar before him, one look at Kent was all it took to convince Windermere she’d been fooled. Kent was a tall man, in his late forties, dignified. And he was black.

  He stood in his doorway, eyes dinner-plate wide, staring at Windermere and Davis and their guns. He held up his hands and lay flat on the ground, and let Davis handcuff him and take him out to the Yukon.

  “This is a mistake,” he said. Then he said it again. “What is it that you think I’ve done?”

  Davis eyed him in the rearview. “When was the last time you were arrested?”

  Kent shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. What did they book you for last?”

  “I’m a history teacher,” Kent told him. “I’ve never been arrested in my life.”

  Davis smirked in the front seat. “We’ll see.”

  THEY DROVE KENT to the FBI office on Roosevelt Road, just west of downtown. Found an interview room and left him alone for an hour. Then Windermere unlocked the door and went in. “You hungry?” she asked him.

  Kent looked up at her, eyes fierce. It only lasted a moment. His head dropped and he looked away. He nodded, wordless.

  “My partner’s making a sandwich run. Roast beef okay?”

  Kent nodded again. Windermere studied his face. He stared at a point over her left shoulder, his eyes wide, his shoulders hunched. Scared. Windermere sighed. Somewhere inside, she felt for the man. “You were in Duluth on Monday,” she said. “Why?”

  Kent opened his mouth. Hesitated. “My sister,” he said finally. “She was sick. Pneumonia. I went to help care for her kids.”

  Windermere made a note. “How long were you there?”

  “Three days. I left Friday afternoon. What is this about?”

  “You rented a car?”

  Kent nodded. “My sister—she doesn’t drive. Her ex-husband took the car.”

  “Who’d you rent from?” said Windermere. “What kind of car?”

  “It was a minivan,” he said. “A Dodge. For the kids. The Grand Caravan. I rented from Liberty.”

  “From Liberty.”

  Kent dared to make eye contact. He shied away quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What is it you think I’ve done?”

  Windermere shook her head. “Your name’s tied to a murder,” she said. “I’m going to take a wild guess you don’t know a damn thing about it.”

  Kent shook his head. “My God,” he said. “No. Lord, have mercy.”

  “You didn’t rent a blue Kia Rio on Monday, either.”

  “What? I rented a minivan. Red.”

  “And you’ve never heard of Triple A Industries.”

  Again Kent shook his head. He sagged like a beat dog. “Never in my life,” he said. “I’m a history teacher. I went to Duluth to help my sister. You can call and ask her. I didn’t kill anybody, I swear it.”

  Windermere watched him. Searched his eyes. Then she sat back and stared up at the ceiling. “Okay,” she said, sighing. “Let me check on that sandwich.”

  32

  Stevens followed Paige Pyatt back through the house and into a bright sunroom overlooking the lake. He recognized the view from one of Cody’s pictures. It was a beautiful spot, breathtaking. Pyatt pulled out a chair. “Coffee?”

  Stevens sat down. “Sure,” he said.

  Pyatt walked into the adjacent kitchen and started to fiddle with a coffee machine. She glanced back at Stevens. “Mickey said we should expect you,” she said. “He’s worried about us.”

  “Should he be?” Stevens asked her.

  “Oh, probably.” Pyatt shrugged. “Anytime you have money, people will want to take it from you. It’s a fact of life, Agent. Cream and sugar?”

  “Please. You think Spenser’s murder was related to money?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” Pyatt said. She returned to the sunroom with two steaming mugs of coffee. “Certainly, Spenser had enemies.”

  “Anyone who stood to gain from his death?”

  “All of them,” she said, “in one way or another. If not financially, then in other ways. Spenser was a great man, Agent Stevens. The weak will always try to pull people like him down.”

  Stevens took the coffee. Sipped it. “You came back to Fergus Falls,” he said. “I’d heard you lived in Minneapolis now.”

  Pyatt nodded. “We did,” she said. “We do. It’s just Mickey panicked. He thinks the family’s a target.”

  “Elias Cody was murdered. Monday afternoon.”

  Pyatt’s face clouded. She stared into her coffee. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

  “He seemed to have a bit of a fixation on you.”

  “Fixation.” Pyatt paused. “An understatement, maybe.”

  “Yeah?”

  Pyatt didn’t answer for a long moment. Didn’t look up. Then she stood, slowly. “It’s easier if I show you,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She walked out of the sunroom and disappeared into the house. When she returned a few minutes later, she was carrying a stack of papers.

  “Spenser didn’t know I kept these,” she said. “Though I don’t know why I did.” She set them down before Stevens. Letters, he saw, all of them. Faded envelopes. Faded handwriting. All addressed to Paige Sinisalo. “My maiden name,” Pyatt told him. “Eli never quite accepted that I’d married Spenser.”

  “All this time.”

  Pyatt nodded. “He wrote passionately. Certainly with more fire than I ever saw in his person. He was a slight man. Shy, unbecoming. But in his letters . . .”

  Stevens examined an envelope. Peered inside. “He was in love with you.”

  “Madly,” she said. “He never forgave Spenser.”

  “For marrying you?”

  “For stealing me.” Pyatt looked at
Stevens. “Eli always believed I was his by right. He’d known me first, you see, and he already saw Spenser as a rival, a threat. He hated his cousin for taking me from him.”

  Something in her tone triggered an alarm in Stevens’s mind. “Hate is a strong word,” he said.

  Pyatt nodded. “It’s the right word, Agent Stevens. Eli blamed Spenser for all of his life’s misfortunes, and he never let go of that blame. You must have seen his house. He withered away.”

  “Were you in contact with him?” Stevens gestured to the letters. “Did you keep writing?”

  Pyatt shook her head. “Spenser found out. He forbade me. Of course, I could see his point. I was a married woman.”

  “How long ago did you stop?”

  “About twenty years ago, I’d say.” She looked away, out over the lake. “I didn’t even love Eli. I suppose I just enjoyed the attention.”

  Stevens watched her. She was somewhere else, somewhere in the past, and he let her stay there for a few minutes. Then he cleared his throat. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to kill Eli?”

  Paige Pyatt shook her head sadly. “I can’t think of many people who knew he was alive.”

  33

  The kill was set.

  Parkerson checked the database on Wednesday afternoon. Found a message from the client. “Funds delivered,” it read. “Final half on completion.”

  Parkerson checked the Killswitch account and verified the payment: A hundred-thousand-dollar transfer had completed three hours earlier. Parkerson stared at the account balance, savored the moment. Then he logged out of the database and the account. Squared up to his computer. He had work to do.

  The client had forwarded a profile of the target, including a schedule of the target’s probable movements and a list of suggested kill spots. Parkerson had printed it when Jamie was at lunch. Now he examined it, scanning each page, and beginning to formulate a plan.

  THE PLANNING WAS THE FUN PART. The checklist. A weapon. A rental car and a hotel room. A bank account number. All of the logistics, the cogs in the machine. Parkerson relished the cleanliness of the operation, the fulfillment of a hundred distinct tasks that would, when completed, result in some poor bastard’s demise.