Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery)

by Michael Koryta

  CHAPTER 11

  AFTER PARTING ways with Wayne Weston, Aaron Kinkaid had moved to Sandusky to work as the chief investigator for an established security company. A few years later he'd become part owner, and now he ran business operations alone, with a silent partner. He told us this as we sat in the office, waiting impatiently for Hartwick to call.

  "How'd you end up in the business to begin with?" Joe asked. "You weren't a cop?"

  "No, I was never a cop." Kinkaid gave a sheepish grin. "I know how pathetic this sounds, but, to be honest, I liked the way it looked in the movies. You know, Bogart as Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe? Or Nicholson in Chinatown? Man, I ate that stuff up when I was younger. I was in college, studying business marketing, anticipating a life of hyping paint thinner to hardware stores or some crap like that, but at night I'd go home and watch those old movies on TV and think about how much I'd like to have that job. The constant change intrigued me, the idea that a mysterious client could walk into your office any day and put you in the middle of something . . ." The words died off as Kinkaid stared at the wall, lost in his memories. He shook his head, bringing himself back into reality.

  "Funny," he said, "I went into the business for the intrigue, and now I'm running a security company, dealing more with marketing ploys and bottom-line figures than I am with investigation. I basically ended up doing the same thing I set out to avoid."

  "It works like that sometimes," I said, and Joe looked at me with an understanding Kinkaid couldn't share. After being forced to leave the department, I'd attempted to leave all the remains of my old life behind with the badge. I'd cut ties with almost everyone on the force, and I'd purchased the gym and plunged into work as a small business owner. It had been several months before Amy had convinced me to look into the murder of one of my gym patrons and pushed me back into the life I'd tried to abandon. Somewhere along the line, I'd realized what a mistake I'd made. I couldn't be happy in the business world. I fed off the investigative process, off the questions and the answers, the unknowns and the facts. I fed off the pursuit of truth. It was what made me complete, what gave my life purpose. I wouldn't try to leave it behind again.

  "I remember Bogart as Spade," Joe said, breaking in on my thoughts. "I was a kid when I saw it, and I've got plenty of years on either of you. Hell of an old movie. Who wrote the book?"

  "Dashiell Hammett," Kinkaid and I said in unison, and then all of us laughed.

  "What was it about that story that grabbed people so much?" I wondered aloud. "I mean, yeah, the movie was well done, and Bogart was a phenomenal actor, but what about the story itself? How'd that one endure so well? Hell, the book's still in print after seventy years."

  "It's all in the ending," Kinkaid said. "The idea that Spade's loyalty to his partner means more to him than money or love. He didn't like his partner much--he's even sleeping with the guy's wife--but he's still got that loyalty . . ."

  He stopped talking abruptly, his mouth still half open, as we all realized what he was saying. Joe and I looked away, and for the first time since he'd entered the office, Kinkaid seemed unsure of himself. I knew why. Kinkaid wasn't in this case because of loyalty to his partner. He was in the case because he still loved Weston's wife. If anything, he viewed Weston's death as an opportunity.

  "So," he said awkwardly, then laughed at himself. He was spared further comment by the ring of the phone. Joe picked it up.

  "Pritchard and Perry. Yeah, this is Joe Pritchard. You talked to Lincoln before, he's my partner. You need to hear the comfort of his voice this time, or can we handle this? Uh-huh. Right."

  Unlike the clerk at the Golden Breakers, this caller spoke in a soft voice, so Kinkaid and I could only hear one side of the conversation, but it clearly was Hartwick. We waited. Joe said a few more words, but nothing that suggested what was being discussed, and then hung up.

  "He'll meet with us," he said. "But it's a hell of a place he picked out."

  "Where is it?" I asked.

  "Just down the avenue. You know the little cluster of picnic tables behind the take-out Chinese place?"

  I took a moment to place the scene in my mind and then nodded. "I can picture it."

  "That's where he wants to meet. Seems like a strange choice."

  I shook my head. "Makes good sense, actually."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Think about it, Joe. If you're sitting at one of those picnic tables, you've got a clear view of everything in front of you and on either side, and the cemetery fence protects your back. There are three parking lots bordering that Chinese place. If he has his car up there, he could get out in a hurry, make a right turn onto the side street and head for Chatfield, pull out on the avenue and head in either direction, or even cut all the way through the Ford dealership parking lot."

  "I've already figured that out," he said. "That's why it's a good choice for someone afraid of being set up. But I thought we were playing that role?"

  It was a good point. I'd automatically considered the location from the perspective of someone looking to avoid danger. If I were looking to cause it, the location wasn't so good after all. There was too much open space, and visibility was too good.

  "Well," I said, "we shouldn't be too disappointed at his selection, then. It indicates he's not planning to kill us."

  "Yet," Kinkaid said.

  Joe grimaced. "You're a real optimist, aren't you?"

  He frowned. "In general, yeah, I am. But as I said before, I know Hartwick better than you. If he's involved in something dirty--and chances are he is--then he'll be looking to eliminate any threat. As far as I can tell, that's what you two are going to be to him."

  "It was your idea to call him."

  "I know. It wasn't my idea to be kept out of the meeting, though. And I'm not about to let you two wander over there alone."

  "We've been over this," Joe began, but Kinkaid held his hand up and interrupted.

  "I understand you don't want him to see me, and even though I don't like that, I'll go along with it. I'm just saying you're going to need some backup with this guy. Now, is there anyplace I can sit with a good look at the scene?"

  "Nowhere close," Joe said. "That's why this was a good choice for him, if he's afraid of us. If you're nearby he's going to see you."

  "It's getting pretty dark."

  "Come on, Kinkaid. The guy was a special ops soldier. This is what he's trained for. I suppose you could hang out across the street, but even that's a gamble."

  "The cemetery," I said. "That's where we can put him. Cemetery access isn't from the avenue, but once he gets inside he can work his way up to right behind us."

  "That fence is six feet tall," Joe objected. "It will block his vision."

  "It's a chain-link fence, so it won't be that much of a problem. But I wouldn't have him up close to it anyhow. We're not wanting him to be right on top of us, we're wanting him to have a clear line of sight to watch for an approaching threat, right?"

  "Right."

  "Okay. On the other side of the fence, the cemetery's built on a hill. It's a pretty gradual slope, but if he got up at the top of it he could see us clearly, as well as the rest of the parking lot."

  Kinkaid's head was oscillating back and forth between Joe and me like a fan, listening to the debate. Joe considered it all, then gave me a nod.

  "Top of the hill is the best option. He's going to be fairly far away, but he'll be able to see clearly, and that's the most important thing. And it will be easier for him to get up there undetected than it would be to keep him on the other side of the street or hidden in the parking lot."

  "That's the nice thing about Hartwick being an out-of-towner," I said. "He's got to handle this on the fly. We already know the terrain."

  "Right." Joe looked at his watch. "And we've got to be moving. He said he's down there now, and he expects to see us soon." He looked at Kinkaid. "You have a gun and a cell phone?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. If you see anything you don't like
, call my phone, let it ring once, and hang up. If Lincoln and I hear that, we'll clear out fast. If anything starts to go down, call the cops."

  Joe gave Kinkaid his cell phone number and told him how to get inside the cemetery. I opened my desk drawer and withdrew my Glock nine-millimeter. I checked the clip, then chambered a round so I'd be ready to fire instantly. I fastened my holster onto my belt, up against my spine, and then put the gun in it. My heartbeat had picked up a little, my senses heightening. I was ready to go.

  Kinkaid left, and Joe and I waited a few minutes to give him time to get inside the cemetery. Outside the sky was darkening quickly, the shadows deepening along the window. Joe checked the Smith & Wesson he kept in his shoulder holster, then replaced it, leaving the buckle open.

  "How do you feel?" he said.

  "Couldn't be better. You?"

  He was calm, but there was a new tension to his posture. "I don't know, LP. Something doesn't feel good about this guy."

  "It's just Kinkaid," I said. "All that talk about how dangerous Hartwick is went to your head."

  "Sure." He got to his feet and pulled his jacket on, leaving the zipper halfway down so he could reach for the gun easily. "Let's roll."

  We took Joe's Taurus. The Chinese restaurant was only a half mile from the office. Amy and I occasionally picked up carryout there. Not bad food, but a little heavy on the garlic. Fabulous wonton soup, though. Traffic was still quite thick with the lingering hangover from rush hour. Joe drove while I rode with my eyes on the street. Just like we'd done it thousands of times before. Only now we didn't have the badges, and there was no dispatcher waiting to send us backup.

  Joe pulled into the restaurant parking lot and stopped the car. A Dumpster stood in the corner of the lot alongside the cemetery fence. To the right was another wide expanse of parking lot, this stretch belonging to a drugstore. To the left was a Ford dealership with bright lighting and rows of shiny cars. There were five round picnic tables at the rear of the Chinese restaurant lot. In the summer there would be umbrellas over them, but now they were empty. A lone man sat at one of them, his back to the drugstore parking lot instead of to the cemetery fence as I'd expected. The green Oldsmobile was parked in front of his table, pointed toward the Ford dealership.

  "That's him," I said. "With his back to the parking lot, no less. I guess he's more trusting than we thought."

  Joe shook his head. "Nope. Just smarter than we thought. He's got that Olds parked so he can look straight ahead and still keep an eye on the lot behind him using the side-view mirrors. He figures the cemetery presents more of a threat because it's darker and less open, so he wants to be able to see it better than the parking lot."

  We got out of the car and walked toward the picnic table. Hartwick had his head turned slightly, watching our approach. His hands were under the table, out of sight. I kept my own right hand on my hip, edging toward my back slightly. I didn't like not being able to see his hands.

  We reached the table without incident, and I breathed a little easier. Hartwick nodded for us to sit. He was an average-size guy with a shaved head. His scalp was tan from the South Carolina sun, and the corded muscles of his neck told me that his body was well toned. He was like many of the Marines I'd known--not particularly large or intimidating but with a tightly muscled look that implied speed and power.

  "Perry and Pritchard," he said with a hollow smile. "Have a seat, gentlemen. And, Perry, do me a favor?"

  "What's that?"

  "Keep your hand away from the gun at your back."

  I took the hand away from my hip and placed both palms on the table as I sat. Hartwick was good, all right. He'd read my movements easily, and they hadn't been overt.

  "Nice to meet you, boys," he said. "In case you're wondering how I picked you out, Perry, it wasn't too hard. Pritchard sounded older on the phone."

  "He's pretty ancient," I said. "Not a tough guess to make."

  "Uh-huh. You guys made a decent call yourselves, getting my name so quickly. I've got to give you credit for that. When you drove by the second time yesterday, I knew you'd noticed me, but I thought I'd bought a few days by putting the stolen plates on the rental car."

  "That wasn't a bad trick," Joe said. "We're just too damn smart. Now, you want to tell us what you were doing there?"

  "Watching the Russians," Hartwick said. "Same thing you were doing, only I didn't feel the need to talk to them in person." He cocked his head at me. "What was that all about?"

  "That was just bad timing," I said.

  His eyes left us momentarily and went to the cemetery, scanning the darkness, as if he'd heard or seen something he didn't like there. I hadn't heard a thing, but I knew Kinkaid should be up on the hill. Hartwick stared into the shadows for several seconds, then shifted position slightly and looked back at us.

  "So you're working for John?"

  "That's right." Joe leaned forward. "All we care about is giving that man some answers, Hartwick. We don't give a damn what you're doing here, but we want those answers."

  Something seemed to flicker near Hartwick's shoulder. I squinted and looked closer, but it was gone. He was wearing a black sweatshirt, and his right arm was hidden in shadows. I kept my eyes on the spot where I'd seen the light, wondering if he had a gun or a knife tucked between his arm and the side of his body that had been caught momentarily in the glow of the streetlight.

  "You want some answers," Hartwick said, and his lips parted in a small smile. "Well, maybe we can do some answer-sharing, Pritchard. That's something I think we can probably manage. But I've come here to settle a score, and I'm not going to let you two, or anyone else, prevent me from doing that."

  The flicker returned, and this time I saw it clearly. It wasn't reflected light but a tiny red dot, the kind produced by a laser pointer or a--

  "Get down," I shouted, rising out of my seat and reaching for my gun as I realized the dot belonged to a laser scope.

  The red dot disappeared as quickly as it had come, and then there was a dull thumping noise, like an uppercut being landed on the soft part of the belly, and a dark hole punched through the center of Randy Hartwick's chest. Joe and I dived to the pavement as Hartwick fell forward onto the table and slid to the ground, dead, blood seeping from the gaping cavity near his heart.

  I hit the ground hard and rolled onto my side, pushing my body partially under the bench of the picnic table while I drew my gun. I knew Joe was somewhere to my left, but I didn't bother to look at him. Hartwick's body lay just in front of me, his mouth half open, his eyes vacant. I stayed on the ground for a few seconds, waiting for another shot. None came. Behind me, Joe was yelling into his cell phone, giving the 911 dispatcher our location. I rolled back to my right and got into a crouch, then slipped the safety off the Glock and lifted my head above the table.

  The parking lot to our right was empty, and to our left the brightly illuminated Ford dealership appeared harmless. No one was visible among the rows of cars. Behind us, on the street, traffic moved along as usual and the sidewalk was empty. The gunman had used a suppressor to silence the shot, and no one else even seemed aware of the incident. I dropped back to my knees and looked at Hartwick again. There was no point in wasting time with him. He'd been dead before he hit the ground.

  I'd seen the red dot of the laser scope pass over his right shoulder before coming to bear on his chest. That made the cemetery a possible location for the shooter, but it was more likely the bullet had been fired from somewhere near the Ford dealership. I set off for the rows of cars at a jog.

  "Lincoln, dammit, where are you going?" Joe yelled after me, but I ignored him and kept running, gun in hand. I circled the lot quickly and saw no one. There was a clear exit onto both the avenue and a side street, though. If the shooter had been inside a car, he would have been long gone by the time I got back to my feet. I returned to the picnic table.

  "He's dead," Joe said when I came back. He was kneeling over Hartwick's body.

  "No shit," I sa
id.

  "Shot probably came from the car lot."

  "Already checked it. Nobody's there. It could have been fired from the cemetery, though. Bad angle, but it's possible."

  Joe looked up from the body. "Where the hell is Kinkaid?"

  We both looked at the cemetery fence and yelled for him. No one responded.

  "This isn't good," Joe said, and I knew he was wondering if Kinkaid was still alive. I headed for the fence as sirens began to wail in the distance. Before I reached the fence, Kinkaid appeared in the darkness, his face pale and confused.

  "What's going on?" he said, putting both hands on top of the fence and pulling himself up so he could jump over it. He took a few steps toward us before seeing the body.

  "Oh, shit. What the hell happened?"

  "Someone took Hartwick out," I told him. "Where have you been? You see anything in the cemetery?"

  He shook his head, his wide eyes still locked on the body. "No. I just got in the cemetery a minute ago. You didn't tell me the gates would be locked. I had to leave my car outside, jump the fence, and run up here. It's a big cemetery, too."

  "There was no one else inside?"

  "Not that I saw." He'd slipped his own gun out now, a gigantic Colt Python that would probably bring a charging elephant to a halt. He looked around the parking lot nervously.

  "Where did the shot come from?"

  "Either the cemetery or someplace near the car dealership. I was hoping you would have seen someone."

  "No." He crouched down and stared at the wound in Hartwick's chest. "That's a pretty long shot, from either location. Probably was a rifle."

  "It definitely was a rifle," I said. "And it was silenced, too. They used a laser scope. I saw the dot a half second before Hartwick got aced."

  A squad car pulled into the parking lot, lights flashing and siren wailing. The driver cut the siren when he stopped, but he left the lights on, bathing Hartwick's body in colorful flashes and making me squint. Two officers in uniform approached, guns drawn, and shouted at us to step away from the table and raise our hands. We did as they asked.