They approached the table as if they were meeting a buddy for drinks and a few games. Tony took a cue from the rack nearby. “James? I’m Detective Ceola and this is Detective Simmons. How about a game while we talk?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t play pool.”
“Lucky for you, neither does he,” Simmons said with a nod in Tony’s direction.
Tony gave him a “screw you” look. He was better at pool than poker, which wasn’t saying much. “I found better ways to spend my formative years,” he said evenly as he racked the balls, then stepped back and gestured for Tranh to break.
Simmons walked around the table to stand near the guy. “Because we don’t want to draw attention by taking notes, I have a tape recorder in my pocket. Stick close to me so it can pick you up over the noise.”
Tranh’s gaze shifted anxiously from Simmons to his shirt pocket to Tony, then around the room. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you at all.”
“Hey, you called us,” Simmons replied. “We didn’t come looking for you. You want our help, you talk to us. You don’t want it, we’ll be happy to go back to what we were doing.”
Still looking uneasy, Tranh bent over the table. His break was lousy enough to make Tony look competent in comparison. “I want my family safe. If anything happens to them . . .”
“We’ll keep them safe,” Tony said. “What makes you think this guy is the vigilante?”
“He called out of the blue—said he was the solution to my problems. I told him I don’t have any problems, but he called again. Said he wanted to meet and discuss ways we could help each other. I’m not interested in a partner, and I’m damn sure not interested in meeting some stranger in an empty warehouse late on a Saturday night, not with some nutcase out there killing people.”
Tony moved around the table to sink a ball, then studied the balls remaining. “Did you tell him you weren’t interested?”
“No. He brought my family into it. He’s been coming to the restaurant, he knows where I live, he’s having my wife and kids watched. He threatened them.”
“Exactly what did he say?”
Impatiently Tranh repeated the conversation in detail while Tony pretended to concentrate on the game. Just his luck, he was playing better than he ever had when there was money or pride riding on the outcome.
“Okay. First, we’re gonna get some undercovers to check out your neighborhood. Does your wife have a cell phone?” Tony waited for Tranh’s nod, then searched his pockets for paper. The best he could come up with was a business card from his wallet. He snagged a pen from a passing waitress, then handed both across the table. “Write down her name, cell number, and address, and make, model, and color of her car. License number, too, if you know it. Another detective will call her and tell her to take the kids and leave. The undercovers will follow her, and if anyone else is following her, they’ll pick him up.”
“What if they lose her in traffic?”
“They won’t. They’ll be on the phone with her the whole time, telling her exactly where to go.”
When Tranh finished writing the information on the card, he offered it to Tony, who nodded to Frank. He took it, pulled out his cell phone, and stepped away a few feet to make the call.
“This bastard said that if she does anything out of the ordinary, he’ll have no choice but to take action. Leaving the house with the kids this late on a Saturday night is damn sure out of the ordinary. What if—”
Tony interrupted. “ ‘What if ’ nothing. Look, the guy is supposedly watching your house. That means he’s got to be close, and unless you just got a new neighbor, he’s got to be outside, either sitting in a parked car, driving back and forth, or walking up and down the street. For the house to be visible to him, he’s going to be visible to us. He’s not going to get a chance to do anything but go to jail. Your wife and kids will be safe. I promise.”
For several moments, Tranh looked conflicted, as if he knew better than to take the word of a cop, but the truth was, he had no choice. If the man who’d called him was the vigilante, trusting the cops was the only thing that would save his life.
Finally he nodded. “What about the meeting? Will you have cops there, too?”
“You’re not going.”
The panic came back. “But—”
“We’ll already have your family in custody. There’s no way we’re gonna send you into what is very likely an ambush.”
“You could go in now, before he gets there, then arrest him when he shows.”
“It’s not like TV,” Tony said patiently. “If he wants you there at ten o’clock, he’s either already there or has somebody there. He’s not careless, not with ten murders to his credit. He’s not going to walk in blind.”
“So he just walks away? What’s to stop him from going after my family tomorrow or the next day? They can’t live in police custody! I can’t count on cops always being around until this guy’s caught! You just said yourself, he’s killed ten people!”
“We’ll take care of you.” Also unlike TV, police protection for a private citizen wasn’t easy to pull off, particularly when the department had suffered so many years of budget cuts. But Tony could pull some strings for the family of an informant willing to set himself up as a target. He could go to the chief, if that was what it took. Being his godson had to be good for something besides a hard time in the Detective Division.
Simmons came back to the pool table. “We’ve got cars on their way to the Tranh house, Watson’s already on the phone with Mrs. Tranh, and there are cars headed downtown to check out the warehouse. That leaves us to set down somewhere with Mr. Tranh.”
“Why don’t you do that? I’m going downtown.” On the way he could call Henry and bring him up-to-date on what was happening.
“Why don’t we turn him over to Uniform Division East and I’ll go with you.”
“You take care of that, then meet me at the warehouse.” Tony didn’t have an address for the place, but like the caller had said, you couldn’t miss it. Three stories tall, brick, empty for longer than he could remember, it was just waiting for a buyer to come along and demolish it. In the meantime, some budding artist had painted a twenty-by-forty-foot mural on one side, of a horse running wild on the prairie. It wasn’t a neon sign with an arrow saying This is it, but it was close.
Tony sank the last ball, then returned the cue to the rack. “Which vehicle out there is yours?”
“The silver van,” Tranh replied. “Parked next to a lamppost.”
“Go out, get in it, and drive to the police station on East Eleventh between Garnett and Mingo. Simmons will be right behind you in a red Honda. I’ll watch until you’re gone.” If anyone in the pool hall or the parking lot showed any interest in Tranh’s leaving, Tony could check it out, though instinct told him there wouldn’t be anyone watching. The threat against his family was enough to control him, and the vigilante knew it.
As Tranh walked away, Simmons scowled. “Don’t go get yourself killed before I get downtown.”
Tony grinned. “Aw, Frankie, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Damn right I care. Something happens to you, they’re gonna pair me up with Darnell Garry and those damn pine-tree air fresheners of his.” He gave a doleful shake of his head. “I freakin’ hate the smell of pine.”
The air in the warehouse was stifling, despite the fact that every one of the forty-eight windows was broken out. Damon sat on his motorcycle in the dark of the northwest corner, a scoped Remington 700 rifle balanced across his knees. He’d been there since seven o’clock—an hour before William had made the call to Tranh—and he felt it in the sweat that dampened his skin and the ache in his butt from sitting so long. He didn’t get up and walk around to stretch, though. He figured Tranh for the wary sort who would hope to gain some kind of advantage by showing up early.
Hey, if he wanted to die at nine o’clock instead of ten, it was no skin off Damon’s nose.
On the north edge of downto
wn, the area was pretty quiet, except for the interstate a few hundred yards away. For a while he’d counted cars passing on the street to the west, but they’d come so few and far between that he kept losing count. Then he’d amused himself by thinking about Lucia. He’d left her naked except for that little silk robe again, sitting in the middle of the bed with one of those pouts she wore so well. She’d made him promise to come back when he got off work, and he’d said he would, without really intending to. After three hours or so in the warehouse, he was going to need a cold shower, a stiff drink, and a good night’s sleep. But when he got a hard-on just thinking about her in that little robe, he thought maybe he would keep his promise.
He watched out the nearest window as a car drove by, then blew out his breath. He would give a lot for a bottle of cold water, a candy bar, or even a pack of gum, but he never ate or drank on a job. William had ridden him for years about that. Everybody brings something to a crime scene, and everybody takes something away, he said every so often, as if Damon needed a reminder. Yeah, I’ve seen C.S.I., too, he’d wanted to snap back.
But if he overlooked the sanctimonious arrogance in William’s delivery, it was a good reminder. Everyone did pick up and leave behind microscopic spores and shit. Except him. He couldn’t help taking some stuff with him—dirt, gravel, blood, brain matter—but he was as sure as a man could be that he didn’t leave anything behind. No fibers— leather didn’t shed like other fabrics. No hairs, not with his motorcycle helmet fitting so snugly. No chewing gum. No wrappers or fingerprints. No brass unless he wanted to screw with the cops. Nothing but the Repent cards.
He was good, and he was careful. That was why he hadn’t been caught.
Another car drove past on Denver, followed within a minute by one more. Both turned onto the narrow street that ran along the front of the warehouse. Tranh coming early and hoping to sneak in a pal? Damon didn’t mind that, either. He could kill two as easily as one.
As the sound of another car approached, he pressed the button to illuminate the face of his watch. Another hour.
He’d just snuffed out the faint glow when a thud floated through the front windows. A car door closing. It was followed by another. The little bastard had brought a friend.
Damon shifted on the seat, then hefted the rifle. It was a good little weapon, but if he had to ditch it, it wouldn’t be of any use to the cops. The serial number was long gone, and there wasn’t so much as a single ridge of a fingerprint anywhere on it. He’d never touched either the gun or the ammo without gloves.
He imagined he heard the murmur of voices out front, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t in his head. In the cavernous space, with so much silence all around, small noises seemed magnified and nonexistent noises seemed real. Then came a different kind of thud that was all too real—a foot tripping over one of the loose bricks scattered outside.
It was time to get this show on the road. The rifle was loaded, the Repent cards were in his pocket, and the Ducati was ready to prove what a fine Italian machine was capable of. Dressed all in black—leather pants, jacket, gloves, and helmet with a dark-tinted full-face shield—he didn’t even have to worry about any witnesses outside. Any description they could provide the cops would be worse than useless.
From nearby came the scrape of boot on concrete. Someone was sneaking around the back of the building. At the same time, the front door creaked, then opened slowly. In the glow from the street lamp, he could make out a bulky figure wearing a flak jacket and helmet and carrying a big-ass gun. His senses went on high alert. These fuckers weren’t Tranh and a couple of his trusted associates—they were goddamn cops. The fucking gook had ratted them out to the cops, who thought they had him trapped. They were in for one hell of a surprise.
He waited until four of them had slipped inside, then started the Ducati with a mighty roar. By the time the startled cops directed a flashlight his way, he was already halfway across the warehouse, aiming for the door, not caring whether he took out a cop or two, as well.
The cops inside scattered like chickens. The ones outside dived out of the way, too—harder for them, since they were standing on high concrete steps. The Ducati soared over the steps, hit the ground with a hard bounce, then went into a skid as Damon maneuvered a tight turn onto Denver. Within six seconds, the speedometer had hit a hundred ten miles an hour and was still climbing, leaving a bunch of pissed-off, incompetent fuckers scrambling behind him.
Bent low over the bike, he gave a rebel yell that went unheard over the powerful growl of the engine. He was not only good, he was the goddamn best!
Checking the rearview mirror, he saw cops scrambling all around the warehouse door, like ants that didn’t know what hit them. He was laughing, feeling that exuberant rush that was better than sex.
Then the bullet hit him.
The ringing of the cell phone was an unpleasant interruption to Puccini’s La Bohème. With Antonio Pappano conducting the Philharmonia Orchestra, it was one of William’s favorites. Annoyed, he muted the sound, then reached for the phone and answered with a cold “Hello.”
“Uh, Mr. Davis, this is, uh, Potter. I know we’re not supposed to bother you, but, uh—”
William broke in impatiently. “Please do try to complete one sentence without saying ‘uh.’ Now what do you want?”
“Well, uh—sorry. Mr. Long’s not answering his phone, but he said I should let him know immediately if the Tranh woman left the house, and she did.”
Despite the silence, the lights on the stereo continued to flash, soaring when the music did, drifting back down on cue. William was missing his favorite part, but sometimes, he thought philosophically, business had to take precedence over everything—even Puccini.
A glance at his wristwatch showed that it was a few minutes after nine. Where could Nancy Tranh be going? To the grocery store, perhaps; even experienced mothers ran out of diapers and formula at inconvenient times. Or she could be taking the children to visit their father and aunt at the restaurant—in itself not unusual, though the timing was. She liked having her children in bed on schedule.
Or her husband might be trying to fuck with him. William had warned him of the consequences, but perhaps Mr. Tranh hadn’t taken him seriously.
“Mr. Davis?” Potter sounded antsy, and why shouldn’t he? Damon was the only one he ever dealt with. Having to report to the real boss was far outside his comfort zone. “What do you want me to do?”
“Where are you now?”
“We just turned off Yale onto Fifty-first. We’re heading east.”
East to Memorial, then south—that was the route to the restaurant. It could be perfectly innocent. “Continue to follow—”
“Holy shit!” There was a thud as Mr. Potter apparently dropped the phone, followed by distant curses and the squeal of brakes. Wonderful. The incompetent fool must have been paying too much attention to his nerves and not enough to traffic.
After a moment of rattling and bumping, Potter shrieked into the phone. “It’s the cops, Mr. Davis, they’re everywhere! What do I do?”
In the background came several commanding voices. “Put your hands on the steering wheel! Get your hands where we can see them!”
Heaving an exasperated sigh, William used his free hand to rub the tension between his eyes. “I suggest you do as they say, Mr. Potter. Don’t say a word. I’ll handle everything.”
He hung up, used the remote to unmute the stereo, then went to the vault in the north wall. The door was securely locked at all times and no one knew the code but him. Inside were his most valued acquisitions, along with his vanity—records every cop in the country would love to get his hands on. He knew documenting his activities was foolish, but he was also certain no one would ever lay eyes on the records while he lived, and after he was dead . . . was it too much to want recognition for all he’d accomplished?
Ignoring everything else, he pulled an aluminum carrying case from a shelf. He didn’t bother to check inside. No one had touched i
t but him, so everything was exactly as it should be. He didn’t tolerate incompetence in himself. He was getting damned tired of accepting it in others.
He didn’t pass any of the staff as he left the house and saw only one of his security guards on the way to the garage. He waved, and the fellow snapped to, then gave a hesitant wave in response. Inside the garage, he bypassed the Cadillac he normally drove for the seldom-used Mercedes, backed out, then headed for the back gate.
This wasn’t the way he’d intended to spend his Saturday evening. He paid people very well to handle whatever problems arose, not to dump them in his lap, and he resented that, at least with Mr. Potter, he wasn’t getting his money’s worth.
But that was all right. He would take care of Mr. Potter. The man wouldn’t disappoint anyone ever again.
Crouched in the bushes outside the gate, Selena watched as the Mercedes drove through. She had been able to keep her morning conversation with William out of her mind most of the day, but once Tony had left her to go to work, it was all she could think of. Too restless to wait with nothing to do, she’d decided it was as good a time as any to snoop around again. Now she debated returning to her car and following William, but since the lemon-yellow T-Bird was the very definition of conspicuous, she opted for sticking to her plan.
She had come prepared to scale the iron fence again, but when the gods offered small favors, she was happy to accept. She slipped through the gate as it swung shut, then set off for the garage at an easy trot. The lush grass muffled her footsteps, and the dark clouds scudding across the sky offered some protection from the nearly full moon. A storm was moving in, hopefully one of those full-blown thunderstorms Oklahoma was known for. With William gone, a little lightning and rain would likely keep his security guards safe and dry in the guard shack.
The Assassin Page 23
