by Andy King
_____
Liv felt the van make a three-point turn and work its way to a stop. Blindfolded and dirty, her heart was full of hope. A hand under her elbow helped her up. She heard a man’s voice.
“I’ll put your hands on a railing. Count to ten before you take off the blindfold. Do not look back, somebody is watching you. If you do not comply, we shoot your husband.”
She nodded, mouth dry, legs cramped, unsteady. A door slid back. The man’s grip was firm. Pavement under her soft boots. He put her hands on a cold railing.
“Don’t move,” he said. She heard him clamber back in the van. The door slid shut with a thud. She heard the vehicle drive a few yards, stop, then accelerate. Cars passed by on a street.
She pushed up the blindfold and was dazzled by sunlight. Dazed and wobbly, she blinked. Looking left and right, she knew where she was, a library branch she’d been to dozens of times.
She hobbled to the door. A woman with a young boy walked out, saw her and recoiled.
A weak smile, she must look like a vagrant. No matter, she knew people inside. She swung open the door.
And fainted.
Liv was propped in a chair, sipping from a water bottle. Two library workers hovered, protective and concerned. She saw Charlotte Coil walk through the front door accompanied by a blond woman. Coil and Liv hadn’t exchanged a fifty words but had met a couple of times. Coil squatted down.
“Are you hurt?” Liv shook her head no.
“Just tired.”
“Did you see them at all?” Liv nodded.
“I was blindfolded today, but I saw three of them in the last two days. All Latino, I think. It’s been two days, right?”
She stretched, stiff and uncomfortable. An LAPD officer came through the door. Coil stood up.
“Captain Coil, SMPD, paramedics?”
“On the way, we can take it from here.”
“I’ll be sticking around, she’s a friend.” Liv managed a wan smile.
Library patrons gawked. More police officers arrived. The clamor was mounting, pandemonium threatened.
“Do you have a room?” Coil said to a librarian.
“We have a little break room with a sofa. Liv can lie down.”
“Thanks, we just need to get out of your way,” Liv said.
Coil helped her to her feet and they followed the librarian. Several cops tagged along. The room was too small.
“How about two LAPD officers and Detective Delaney talk to Mrs. Reneaux?” Coil said. “I want to get an idea of the drop-off.” The LA cops agreed. The blonde pulled out a small tablet.
“I’ll be bringing in her husband any minute,” Coil said.
Liv’s eyes teared up with gratitude. She had lived through it, and Dennis was on the way.
_____
McKuen wanted to drop by Dennis’s house. He and Amy had a dinner date but it could wait. Liv and Dennis were more important. He called Amy.
“I’m parking at their house right now,” she said.
“Oh.”
“When you told me what was happening, I called Dennis and told him he better keep me up to date. I was so happy to hear… Look, I’m walking up to the door, see you when you get here.”
McKuen put away his phone and smiled. It was like a family. He’d always wanted a family.
He knew Amy had a doctor friend and Dennis wouldn’t hesitate to pull out cash for a house call. By the time McKuen got there, the physician was heading out the door. The baby was probably fine. An ultrasound in the morning would cinch that. Liv said they had treated her well, considering.
”I’ve read a lot of stories of hostages around the world. Compared to that, I was at the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She laughed. He marveled at her courage. While Amy pampered her, Dennis steered McKuen into another room.
“This is bullshit,” he said.
“Is it worth starting a war over?”
“War’s been declared, man. Sooner or later, Zolo’s gonna find out who’s behind this.” His eyes were hard, his mouth in a line. “They’re gonna pay, they are going to pay,” he growled.
McKuen thought about reasoning with him, but decided to give it a few days. Essentially Dennis had a positive outlook, not like Liv or Amy, but he had a good heart.
It brought up a thought. Not really a thought, a fragment. When Dennis said, “War’s been declared,” McKuen saw a wisp of something, but the image was fading.
“Ready to go get cleaned up?” Amy was peering at him.
“Oh yeah, dinner.” Dennis made a shooing motion, wanting to dote on his gal and their unborn son.
“Security?” McKuen said.
“Got a brigade out there, Steve. They’re watching you, too,” Dennis said. Amy rolled her eyes.
“See you at home,” she said. McKuen smirked.
“Yes, honey.” He played the relaxed family man until he reached his SUV, but he agreed. War had been declared.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through Contacts, jammed his Bluetooth in his ear and pulled away.
“It’s Steve McKuen,” he said when the announcement ended.
_____
“Forty-five large,” Eddie said.
“Can’t do it, man.” Eddie scowled at the phone.
“Fifty. That’s my final offer.”
The man on the other end was silent. Eddie knew the temptation was huge. He willed the man to accept.
“Sorry, ain’t gonna happen,” the man finally said.
Eddie sighed and hung up. He had no other way to contact this Zolo guy and couldn’t think of any other way to reach his goal. He thought about the conversations he’d had, all dead ends. If he was going to get the paper, there was only one way—force.
He first thought about hiring a couple of guys who were pretty much psycho. Two years before at John Christian’s request, he had contracted with them to kill McKuen and Dennis, but when he steered Darlie Major into killing Christian and made off with the envelope, he cancelled them.
No, he needed to do this alone. Anything he did would require stealth, and the ability to think quickly and change course. He didn’t need to kill McKuen, just get the paper.
The ideal scenario was to slip on a ski mask, dart into McKuen’s office, hold a silenced pistol to his head and tell him he had nothing to lose by shooting him. If McKuen didn’t turn over the paper, shoot him and walk away.
An experienced mechanic, Eddie had built a crude silencer when planning to abduct Amy McKuen. It didn’t take him long to make another.
The silencer fit well on his gun. He had never tested the first one but he’d better do it this time.
He fired two test rounds in the alley. It shredded on the second shot but the first one worked fine. He should only need one shot. With the office door shut, the bar noise should drown it out.
He went back inside, made a second silencer and tested it. Then he fashioned a sling that held the gun against his forearm. A bulky sweatshirt would hide the gun and silencer. If he needed to shoot, push it forward. Pretty simple.
Satisfied, he made a third silencer, taking extra care. He destroyed the first two and packed the remnants in a box. There would be a convenient dumpster somewhere.
He looked at a wall calendar. Sunday night.
11
Saturday the 14th
Dennis felt like his hair was on fire. He clenched his fists and looked at the ceiling.
“Baby, it’s not that important. There’ll be other parties,” he said. Liv crossed her arms.
“It’s in four hours, we’re going and that’s that.” He looked at the ceiling again, mentally counting to ten.
“No honey, not after the last few days, no way.”
“But Dennis, my body, I want to dress up while I still have a figure.” Lips pushed out, he shook his head.
“Nope.”
A little louder. “I want to go.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” She jammed her face up to his.
“I sat around that st
inking warehouse for two days and now I wanna have some fun!” He clenched his fists but backed away.
“Ain’t gonna happen, baby. I’ll lock you up, I swear!”
“I’m going! You can stay home! I’ll call Zolo and tell him to put two guys around me, no three. He’s my friend, he’ll do it!” Dennis’s shoulders fell. He stared at the floor.
“This is wrong.”
Victory smile wide, Liv put a hand on the banister. “I’m gonna go upstairs and see what I want to wear. Thanks, honey.”
“I’m such a dope,” he muttered. She skipped upstairs.
He made the call. Zolo didn’t mind. Money flowed and sometimes a little extra stuck in his pocket.
Lo que será, sera.
_____
Jen had been sent home by Coil to rest before her night shift. She was polishing her place to perfection. The phone rang. She jumped. CeCe started talking about the hit.
“I’m worried,” Jen said.
“Look baby, this might be the last one, it’s gotta happen. You’re going to be alone at the station, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’ll be fine. I’ve got a great team working it. You’ll be done in five minutes, really.”
“You sure the guy’ll come out alone?”
“Yeah, he’ll be contacted by someone who looks like a fire chief, it’s an emergency. He has to go to his bar to deal with it. All you gotta do is drop him and walk away. The rest will be taken care of, promise.” Jen started to bite a nail and pulled her hand away.
“I wish I could be with you right now,” CeCe said. “I know how worried you are. You can do it, honey.” It wasn’t the words but the tone, the love, that came through.
“I have to go, I’m gonna be late,” Jen said. She could feel CeCe’s lascivious smile.
“Go, lover. Call me on a break, OK?”
“OK.” Jen knew she would. CeCe was her master. She didn’t mind being a slave one bit.
Late or not she was going to look perfect when she hit the station door. She dashed to the bathroom.
For a second, she felt the blackness, a lance between her shoulder blades. If cornered, CeCe wouldn’t hesitate to toss her to the wolves.
Then it vanished as always, replaced by blind love. In the mirror, I love you I love you I love you.
Late in the afternoon Coil stopped at Jen’s desk.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “Call me if anything big comes up.”
Jen nodded. She would hear from 911 and call Coil a few minutes later.
“Just want to say you’re doing really well,” Coil said. Jen smiled.
“Thank you Captain. You don’t know how much I appreciate hearing that.”
And she did. She liked her job and always loved praise from a woman. Coil nodded and walked away.
Jen knew it was a test. One of their team, Detective Micki Kelman, had noticed a couple times when Jen was away from herself and told Coil.
Someday she would catch that little snot like she caught the targets. That settled, she dreamed of her darling CeCe while working through reports.
They needed to be perfect.
_____
Darling CeCe had a problem, a loose end. When IRS lawyer Pete Shapiro opted out of their arrangement, it left her vulnerable. She emailed him and said she would be in the area late afternoon. She could meet him for a drink, just pick a place. Shapiro chose a bar in Pasadena.
She called Ty Jimenez, outlined a plan and told him to take a look. His team locked in and waited.
CeCe wanted to take care of it herself. Normally she would turn it over to Ty, but sometimes a girl just has to have fun.
She knew her sister BeBe was spending her weekend at the office. One of Ty’s men reported what BeBe was wearing that day. It wasn’t the first time CeCe worked the twin angle.
Late in the afternoon, she changed into an identical outfit, a real preppy affair, black sweater a size large over a white Arrow dress shirt and DKNY jeans with Kors boots. Not exactly her style but her ass looked great in the mirror.
.22 in a box, she drove to Pasadena in a stolen car, cool and collected. A public place and paper bag full of hundreds should put him at ease. The bar matched Ty’s photos, an open air affair in an old brick building. Picturesque alleyways that once housed winos, now clean and well-lit, dotted with restaurants and boutiques. Yuppie-Town, USA.
She left the car in a parking garage, key in view on the floor mat. Might last a day. She wiped it down and grabbed the bag.
Ten minutes early, she staked out the scene, gun tucked in the small of her back. It didn’t show. She was a big woman with a big sweater.
She greeted him on the sidewalk and puckered her lips for a cheek kiss. The fumes rolled off his breath. She smiled grandly.
“You know, I’ve never seen this side of Pasadena. How ‘bout you show me the sights?”
“Sure CeCe,” he said, all puffed up and proud to be promenading with a tall, gorgeous woman. Shouldn’t there have been a scant bit of suspicion? Probably too sloshed to care. The sun slipped below the horizon.
In no hurry, they strolled, Ty’s men around somewhere, pedestrians scattered. Good, witnesses. She asked him some questions and nodded at his meaningless chatter.
They turned left on De Lacey, a quiet street with fewer people.
They passed Forever 21. She stopped and held the bag open.
He gaped. His smile widened.
She held a finger to her lips. Not here. He nodded.
A few more steps past an alley. She looked around. Some people moseyed along, a half block away in the twilight.
“Now turn around and close your eyes,” she said, “I’ve got another surprise.”
He faced away from her, listing a little. She reached around, drew the gun and screwed on a silencer.
And shot him in the back of the head.
He stood for a half-second, then collapsed. A few drops of blood spurted when his head hit the concrete.
She walked down an alley, unscrewing the silencer. An SUV with tinted windows stood idling. She hopped in. The driver was silent. He knew where he was going. Thirty minutes later he coasted off the freeway into Chinatown. Down Broadway, left on Ord, he pulled over at Alameda.
CeCe hopped out and waltzed into Philippe The Original, Home of the French Dip Sandwich. A high-ceilinged room with long tables, tall wood booths and sawdust on the floor greeted her.
She spied a party of three, walked over and slid into the booth. Ty handed her a receipt and took photos with his phone. She nodded at him.
“Ernie fixed it with the computer guy?” He winked. She lifted a half sandwich and took a big bite. Shooting’s hungry work.
It felt good, better than good, two years since she killed someone face-to-face. Though she didn’t relish it like some people, the feeling was extraordinary.
A sensation of power rushed up her spine as she sat listening to Ty’s men talk about basketball. Awed to be sitting with the boss, they carried on, pretending like she wasn’t there.
She smiled and chewed, thinking about taking a life. The killing was necessary—she wasn’t a sociopath. Well, maybe a little. Think about it later.
_____
A few miles east BeBe raised a glass of water to her lips. She sensed a flash of something. A wave of euphoria, and she was floating. It had happened before.
Cee’s feeling it, too. In the past it pleased her, but now she wasn’t sure. Palms on the sink, she steadied herself, then sat down, wondering.
_____
Zolo’s best surveillance man, Jerky, spent a lot of time in his car. Some satellite radio, a pack of his favorite snack, a cigarette and a working heater was all he asked for.
One afternoon parked on a side street, he saw a chunky, dark-haired woman walk past, talking to herself. She unlocked the door of a storefront apartment, went inside and reappeared with a couple of canvas bags. He recognized the Olympus logo and wondered what a woman living in a low-rent dwelling was
doing with a high-end camera.
Then Liv was kidnapped and Zolo's crew went into overdrive. Caught up in it, Jerky forgot about the camera lady.
After Liv’s release, he found out that the lady was a well-known artist. It intrigued him more. He parked across the street from the apartment of the woman he now knew as Courtney Perez. He tailed her, and was surprised when she set up camp near the Santa Monica Police station. She hauled out the canvas bags, fastened a long lens to a camera and waited.
His angle made it hard to see what she was waiting for. A blond woman walked out of the station, around the corner and started pacing, talking on a phone. Courtney huddled against a concrete wall, anchoring the camera. Was she taking photos of a police officer? Jerky’s speculation ended when the woman went back inside and Courtney packed up her gear.
At dusk, he crept through the blue and silver shadows. He’d never contacted a subject before, but he was curious. What was she doing, following the police lady? He knocked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement behind a window covering.
“Ma’am,” he called. “Ms. Perez?” He knocked again.
The door opened so suddenly he jumped back.
They stared at each other, Jerky untucked and unshaven, hair sticking out to the side, Courtney in paint-spattered jeans and Uggs.
“I don’t have any money,” she said. He gave her a tentative smile.
“That’s not why I’m here.” She looked at him. He didn’t move.
“I’m busy,” she said, and started to shut the door.
“Wait. I saw you following this woman, a policewoman.” Courtney’s hand went to her throat. She stared.
“I saw you take her picture,” he said.
She looked away, held up a finger and disappeared. When she came back, she was holding a pane of glass cradled in a cloth. She held it up.
“I’m an artist. I paint faces.”
He looked at it. Definitely the female cop. He looked at Courtney, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. OK, he was a moron.
“Sorry, I just, uh…” He backed up a step. Courtney walked to a work bench and set down the pane. The room came into focus—lights, tools, half-finished illustrations.
