At the sound of his voice, the others turned. Shocked, Linda moved to my side, between Kenny and me. We were all more or less facing the man now.
“Nobody move,” Ski Mask said. Nobody did. In fact, even the restaurant doors remained closed. I could hear traffic from 108th, maybe even from I-405 a couple of blocks east. I could hear crickets from the nearby planter. But nobody in our little group moved.
“Wallets and watches,” Ski Mask said. “Hand ’em over. Now!” His voice was sharp, but not so loud as to draw attention, even if there had been anyone else nearby. He sounded vaguely familiar, but I was unable to ID him—except to notice that he was too tall to be Eric Gaston.
“This is a stickup?” I said.
“Shut the fuck up, smart guy. Give me the stuff, now.”
The others were frozen, waiting for my lead. I’ve always wondered what I’d do in this sort of scenario—staring down a mugger who had the drop on me and who may be intent on killing me. Never thought it would happen in sleepy Bellevue, though. Matter of fact, the thought quickly flashed through my mind that this was no ordinary mugging. My mind flashed to the Leonard McKenzie “mugging.”
“Okay.” I turned to the others. “Let’s give the man what he wants.” Kenny and Linda both turned to me, as if they couldn’t believe what I’d said, as if they’d expected some heroics.
“You heard the man,” Ski Mask said. “Hand it over.” He waved his gun between Kenny and me. “You two, empty your pockets. Women, take your wallets from your purses.” Kenny and I pulled out our wallets, and the ladies took theirs out of their purses. My pockets were already empty except for my keys. I carry my favorite titanium Surefire folding knife in my back pocket, but I decided Ski Mask couldn’t see that and, besides, I don’t think he cared. I didn’t think this was your standard, everyday robbery.
“Set everything right there on that planter, then step back,” Ski Mask said.
We did, and he stepped up and scooped everything into a coat pocket. Then, he looked at Linda for a second. “What’s in the folder?”
“Just pictures,” she said, her voice trembling. “Reports. For work.”
“Good. I’ll take ’em. Set ’em on the planter.”
“I need these,” she protested.
Ski Mask responded by raising his gun and pointing it directly at Linda’s face. “I need ’em more,” he said. “Put ’em on the fuckin’ planter.”
He stepped back away from the planter to give Linda room, his gun still leveled on us.
“Why do you want her folder?” I asked, still playing for time.
“Shut up,” he said as he reached for the folder and picked it up.
At that moment, four people walked out of the restaurant. They noticed us standing there, but I’m not sure they could tell what was going on in the dim light.
“Say,” I called out to them. “You guys mind calling 9-1-1 and telling them we’re being held up?” They froze, not sure what they’d just heard.
“What?” one of the men said, apparently not sure he’d heard correctly.
“You fucking idiot,” Ski Mask said. He turned to me and quickly raised his gun toward my face. His eyes told me he was going to fire. I immediately shoved Toni out of the way, dropped into a fighting stance, reached for my .45 and slid to my right, all at the same time. The guy was close, but it’s not easy to hit a moving target, so at least I had that in my favor. On the other hand, we were positioned so that even if he missed, the muzzle blast alone would probably knock me over.
That’s the moment Kenny yelled “Stop!” I glanced over as I reached for my weapon and saw that while Ski Mask had been focusing on me, Kenny had already drawn and leveled his Glock. He started to say, “Drop your—” when Ski Mask spun toward him and fired a quick-snap shot in Kenny’s direction before Kenny could react. Kenny went down immediately, causing one of the women in the foursome at the door to scream. Time seemed to freeze for a second as the report from the gunshot echoed off the nearby buildings. Without pausing, Ski Mask fired again, and Linda dropped.
With his attention on Linda and Kenny for a split second, I had time to draw my weapon and get into the fight. I raised the 1911 and cleared the thumb safety in the same motion. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and as he spun back my way, I fired twice at him. He simply looked at me. I had to have hit him—I was ten feet away, and I don’t miss from ten feet. Still, I was shocked to see him remain standing. As I prepared to fire again, he dropped the file folder and turned and ran toward the garage. I held him in my aim, but his path took him right in front of the foursome at the door, so even if he’d have turned and started shooting again, I couldn’t fire for fearing of hitting the bystanders. Then he was around the corner and gone.
For a second, nobody moved. Then I took control. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled to the people at the entryway. “Tell them that there’s been a shooting and we need an ambulance right away! Two of ’em.”
One of the guys with the group nodded quickly, then yelled, “Got it!” and reached for his phone.
I scanned the area quickly to make sure there were no more threats. Seeing none, I turned and looked at Toni. “You okay?”
She stared at Kenny, transfixed. Kenny was lying on the ground beside me, completely motionless. Linda was beside him, moaning softly.
“Toni!”
She looked at me. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“You’re not hit?”
“No. I’m good.”
“Good. I need your help, then. You take care of Linda,” I said to Toni. “I’ll take care of Kenny.”
I quickly moved over to examine Kenny. He was flat on his back, arms splayed to his side. He was breathing, but he wasn’t conscious. I started my A-B-C first aid analysis. Airway: clear. Breathing: chest going up and down. Circulation: a small pool of blood had formed beneath his right arm. I knelt down and examined him. There didn’t appear to be anything gushing anywhere. Satisfied, I turned to Toni. “How is she?”
“Right upper chest. I don’t think there’s an exit wound.”
“Her breathing?” I was worried about a collapsed lung.
“It seems good,” Toni said.
I nodded. “Good. Here, use my coat.” I stripped off my Lands’ End jacket and handed it to her. This made it the second jacket in a week that would be ruined by being used as a bandage. “Use it to try and control the bleeding,” I said.
I quickly examined Kenny, then I said, “How many shots did that guy fire?”
“Two,” she said, quickly. “I only heard two. Then you fired two more.” This matched my recollection as well—two quick shots before I fired at him and he ran off. “Why?” she asked.
I studied Kenny again. “Because I can see one gunshot wound clear enough. But it’s just a little flesh wound on the inside of his upper arm, not much more than a scratch. Looks like a graze, actually. I’m holding pressure on it now, but I think it’s barely bleeding anyway.”
Toni was using her hands to press hard on Linda’s chest in an effort to control bleeding. “No other wounds?” she said.
I shook my head. “None that I can see. I checked. Twice.”
“If that’s his only wound, then why’s he unconscious?”
I shook my head again. “I don’t know.”
“He’s breathing normally?” she said.
I listened for a second, then said, “Yeah. Seems fine.” I grabbed his wrist. “And his pulse feels okay. Strong even.”
She looked over at him. “Do you suppose he fainted?”
I cocked my head. “Fainted?” I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. I suppose it could happen.” I leaned forward. “Kenny!” I said sharply. “Kenny, wake up!”
I tried again and then one more time. After my third attempt, Kenny stirred.
“My arm!” he said, groaning, eyes still closed. “I’m hit!”
I felt a surge of relief. “Relax, dude,” I said. “You got the million-dollar wound. You’re going to b
e fine. It’s just a scratch.”
I turned to Toni. “I’m going after him. You stay here with these two.” I got up and started to leave, then I turned back. “Toni, give the police my description. Ask them to please not shoot me.”
“I will. You be careful,” she said. “Go get him.”
Chapter 25
I SPRINTED TO THE CORNER OF the building, but before I rounded it, I pulled up short. I needed to clear the corner before I proceeded in case the assailant was waiting in ambush on the other side. I approached the corner the way I’d been taught in CID school: “slicing the pie” by taking a quick glance around the corner at a shallow angle. Then, finding this “slice” clear, I did it again, but I increased the angle, seeing a little more than the time before. I did this three more times, each peek looking a little farther around the corner. The last time I peeked, I was able to see all the way around the corner to 108th: the man was gone.
I turned the corner, sidearm at low ready, and started jogging toward the front of the building where the lobby was located. The parking structure for the building was subterranean, accessible only through the building lobby entrance up ahead. I kept moving, and a couple steps further I noticed the lights from the Transit Center across 108th reflect off something on the ground I thought I recognized. I stopped and knelt down to examine a small shiny spot. I touched the spot and then rubbed my fingers together. Blood. So I’d hit the bastard after all. Still kneeling, I did a quick scan of the area, then I stood up and continued.
A couple steps farther, there was another blood spot, then another and another. He was leaving quite a trail—I must have nailed him pretty good. I reached the point where the solid wall ended and the glass that marked the start of the lobby began. I stopped and repeated my corner-clearing routine—he might have been inside, waiting in ambush. Eventually, I was able to see inside. The lobby was clear, so I moved ahead and went inside.
At a little past seven on a Monday night, the Key Center lobby was completely empty—there was no guard desk, no information desk, or anything else like that. The only business officially open in the entire building was the Thai restaurant, and they weren’t that busy.
Inside, three large crimson blood drops glistened in sharp contrast against the gleaming light gray marble. Actually, they were bigger than drops and smaller than pools. His bleeding was getting worse. The trail led to the stairway.
I crossed the lobby, carefully opened the stairwell door, and took a quick, measured glance inside. The air was a little stale and smelled like a mixture of paint and dust. The immediate good news, though, was that no one was waiting on the other side of the door intent on killing me. I stepped into the stairwell and allowed the door to close. I remained still for a moment, listening, checking things out. The stairs themselves were of the prefab, welded-iron variety—kind of industrial, which I suppose makes sense in a parking garage. They were painted a bright, almost antiseptic white to help brighten up the stairwell. The overall effect with the fluorescent lights was harsh.
I couldn’t hear anything aside from the dull rumble of machinery somewhere. If anyone had been running down the stairs, there’s no way I’d have not heard the clomp-clomp-clomp on the metal stairway. It would have been amplified like a note on a guitar string. Since it was so quiet, I figured Ski Mask must have gone back inside already, maybe on P1 or maybe even P2. Or else maybe he was still on the stairway and not moving, waiting in ambush for an ignorant PI like me to come charging on down.
I took a quick glance over the rail, but the only thing I saw were several blood drops on the first flight. They were more frequent now than before. I started down, as careful and quiet as I could be, my 1911 at low ready. When I reached the first landing—halfway down to the first parking level—I saw another splotch of blood on the next flight. I tiptoed around the blood and continued down the stairs until I reached the next landing. This one had a door marked P1, and at the base of the door, another splash. Apparently, he’d paused here, deciding whether to go into P1 or continue.
I listened. Still no sounds from the stairwell below. I looked down the next flight of stairs, but I didn’t see any more blood. Unless he suddenly stopped bleeding as he went down the stairs, Ski Mask must have made the decision to exit the stairwell and enter the garage right here on level P1.
I turned and stood at the door for a second. This was a bit tricky. The door was a heavy metal fire door, but even though it might stop a flame, I didn’t think it would stop a large-caliber handgun bullet. When I opened it, I was going to be exposed for a second until I could clear the doorway and find cover inside. I crouched to the side of the door opposite the hinges and reaching up with my left hand, pulled the door open a couple of inches.
Thank goodness it was well lubricated and swung open without a sound. There was no action beyond the door—no one took a shot at me—so I opened the door a little farther, just to the point where I could start my standard corner-clearing routine.
From my vantage point, I couldn’t see anyone inside the garage. Most of the parking spaces were empty. From somewhere on the far side of the floor, an exhaust fan was working, the air making a muffled whooshing noise as it was turned over with fresh air from outside. Three more blood splotches led away from the door. The way they angled off, it was pretty clear that Ski Mask had gotten off the stairs here, entered the P1 level and made a left turn at the central drive.
The building above was supported by concrete posts along the center drive, every eight or ten parking spaces throughout the entire floor. Decent enough cover. I didn’t know what would happen after I entered, but I figured Ski Mask had to guess that he’d be pursued. He had most of the advantages, and if the stakes weren’t so high, I’d have just backed off. Let the police handle it. But I was committed now. Besides—this bastard shot two people including one of my partners.
I took one final look inside from the relative safety of the stairwell. Seeing’s how he’d turned to the left when he entered, my initial plan was to dash for cover on the right side of the first pillar I came to as soon as I was in. When I got there, I’d figure out what to do next.
I opened the stairway door just wide enough to squeeze through; then, crouching down, I sprinted for the first pillar, trying to be as quiet as I could.
Stealth didn’t work. Just as I reached the first column, a shot rang out. The noise was deafening in the concrete walls, floor, and ceiling of the garage—it sounded like a very heavy Whumpff!, just like someone dropped a heavy stack of plywood onto a concrete floor. The bullet whizzed by somewhere in front of me and smashed into the side of a minivan parked in the next stall behind me just as I dove for the safety of the column. Son of a bitch!
“Don’t come any farther!” Ski Mask called out.
I jumped up and made sure I was standing tall and thin and at the perfect angle behind the column to shield me from the direction of the gunshot. “You may as well give it up!” I yelled. “There’s no way out, and the police are on the way.”
“Fuck you!”
I took the opportunity to take a quick glance around the column. I was surprised to see the man seated on the ground, slumped over with his back against a support column just one column away from my hiding spot—maybe sixty feet or so—on the opposite side of the central drive from the column I was hiding behind. He had his Glock gripped tightly in his hand, resting in his lap.
I pulled back. “C’mon! It’s all over.”
It was quiet for a few seconds, then he gave a little chuckle. “Got that right.”
I heard a clatter coming from his direction, so I snuck another quick peak. He’d moved his arms and the Glock had fallen from his hand and was lying on the concrete floor beside him. His arms hung down limply at his sides, hands turned palm upward. His head was tilted forward, his chin resting on his chest.
I didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but I could definitely see he wasn’t holding his weapon anymore. I stepped from behind the column and started movi
ng quickly toward him, my .45 centered on his chest. “Don’t move!” I yelled out in my best command voice. If he went for the weapon, I’d have no choice but to shoot him again.
He rolled his eyes up and looked at me, lifting his head just enough to see. “You’re too late. I’m hit bad. Hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Just don’t move,” I repeated. As I got closer, I could see his entire shirt and coat on his right side were blood-soaked.
“Not going anywhere.” His voice was weak and ragged.
I reached him and first thing, kicked his firearm away to the side. I stood there for a second before kneeling beside him. It suddenly occurred to me that it might be smart to record our conversation. I reached into my pocket, grabbed my iPhone, and turned on the recorder. Then I turned back to him. “Here, let me help you lie down.”
“No, don’t! Just leave me right here. I want to be sitting up.”
“You’re hurt bad, man. I can do more to help you if I’ve got you on your back.”
He shook his head weakly. “It’s too late. I don’t want your help—you can’t do shit anyway. Leave me right here.”
I looked at him for a second. “Alright. But I’m at least going to slide this ski mask up.” He didn’t resist. The man was on death’s door and was no longer a threat, so I holstered my sidearm, leaned forward, lifted his mask, and looked into the eerie blue eyes of Robert Brownell. I suppose I should have been more surprised. His head still tilted forward, it was hard to see his face, but as the mask came away I saw his red hair, soaked with perspiration despite the cool night.
“Brownell. Here, hold still.” I adjusted him so that he was more centered against the column.
He laughed weakly. “I was thinkin’ about doing some push-ups . . . I can wait.” His breathing was labored and ragged. He coughed, and a trickle of blood came from his mouth. He was right—I must have hit him in the lung. He lifted his head a little. “Turned out to be a pretty fuckin’ stupid idea, didn’t it. Taking on two guys with guns.”
Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) Page 30
