Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  Margaux Hemingway: Don’t you get depressed?

  Myshkin: Sometimes.

  Margaux Hemingway: Diazepam helps me with that.

  Myshkin: I’ve never considered taking it.

  Margaux Hemingway: You don’t have to take Diazepam. They have loads of other meds. Like Clobazam and Lorazepam. There are so many of them I can’t think of them all, let alone pronounce their names.

  Myshkin: I’ll think about it.

  Margaux Hemingway: Great. Ask your doctor. Oops. Somebody’s at my door. Bye.

  Brody logged out of the Elysian Fields chat room, feeling better already.

  Chapter 10

  Riding in a taxi down the traffic-packed streets of Inglewood just outside of LAX, Marcello recalled his first contract killing for the ’Ndrangheta.

  Soon after Marcello had joined the gang, Hawk Eyes had told him he needed to remove a certain member of their deadly rival the Camorra. The member, Paolo, a twenty-seven-year-old with curly hair and a muscular build, had been identified as the man committing adultery with the wife of a member of the ’Ndrangheta. The sentence was death.

  Marcello’s boss had chosen him as the executioner, which convinced Marcello that somehow the ’Ndrangheta knew he had whacked Luigi—or why would they choose an assassination for his first assignment? Marcello had not asked any questions after receiving his orders.

  Hawk Eyes had provided him with the pistol and the silencer he was to use on Paolo—a Beretta 9 mm M9 fitted with a Gemtech sound suppressor. All serial numbers had been removed. The Beretta had come with a fully loaded magazine of subsonic 9 mm rounds.

  Hawk Eyes had told Marcello that the wife’s name was Sofia and she had arranged to have an assignation with her lover Paolo in a motel room. Hawk Eyes had found out the name of the motel and the number of the room where the two lovers would meet.

  When Paolo had entered the room, he had seen Sofia lying on the bed, spread-eagled, her head resting on two pillows stacked on top of each other, her skirt hiked up her thighs, a triangle of her black panties visible, her outstretched arms welcoming him, her lipstick-smeared mouth gaping with lust, her eyes closed.

  Burning with desire Paolo had smiled at her. He wanted to jump her bones, to launch himself at her and fly onto her awaiting sensual body, to land on her firm breasts, to take her in his arms, to smother her with kisses, to—

  He had realized something was wrong. She was lying too still. Her outstretched arms lay flat on the duvet. Her carmine lipstick looked like it had been applied haphazardly, smearing the corners of her mouth. Her turquoise eyeshade was smudged on her eyebrows as well as her eyelids. Her false eyelashes hung askew. She looked like a cheap tart selling herself on the street.

  Dumbstruck, he had realized she was dead. Somebody else had painted her face with makeup.

  A nylon stocking covering his head to prevent any of his hairs from being left at the crime scene, wearing surgical latex gloves, Marcello had stepped out from his hiding place behind the door, slammed the door shut, pressed the Beretta and its silencer against Paolo’s temple, and fired two shots in rapid succession before Paolo knew what had hit him. The subsonic 9 mm rounds made mincemeat of Paolo’s brains, some of which oozed out the opposite side of his head.

  Paolo had crumpled to the floor.

  Marcello had dropped the Beretta and its sound suppressor on the hardwood floor beside Paolo’s corpse, withdrawn a can of anti-DNA Erase spray from his grey sweatshirt pocket, and sprayed the entire floor of the small bedroom, in case a bead of his sweat had dropped on the hardwood. He decided to spray the gun, the bed, and the stiffs as well.

  He had left nothing to chance.

  Like a thief, he had stolen through the night, returned to Hawk Eyes, and collected a bonus for his troubles.

  It had been his first paid kill.

  Chapter 11

  As he was getting dressed in his apartment after taking a shower, Brody’s cell phone chimed. About to put on his shirt he threw it down on the bed to answer.

  “This is Deirdre Fox. Is this Scott Brody?” She sounded anxious.

  “Speaking.”

  “Are you OK?” she said with concern.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Oh my God. We thought you had a heart attack. We didn’t know what to do so we called 911.”

  “It wasn’t a heart attack.”

  “Are you sure? You were convulsing on the floor and frothing at the mouth. You looked like you were dying.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Nothing? You don’t black out and go into shock because of nothing.”

  Normally, he didn’t experience such intense seizures, and he didn’t experience them often. Milder episodes came and went without anybody paying attention. Nobody near him even realized he had experienced an episode. He would just stare for a minute or so, or twitch his hands. Nothing that disconcerted anybody.

  His grand mal attacks, on the other hand, also known as tonic-clonic seizures, were the ones that drew attention. These seizures for him were rare. Not only that, their origin was mysterious. Nobody knew what brought them on.

  Telling her the truth about his epilepsy wouldn’t help his cause.

  “It was food poisoning,” he said. “Something I ate.”

  “How long do you have to stay in the hospital? Can you still take my case?”

  “I left the hospital. No problem. I’m ready to get back to work.”

  “You sure you don’t need time to recover?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Have you found out who’s following me?”

  “I’m trying to find out who blew away Rakowski. It sounds like a professional hit from what I’ve read in the papers.”

  “A professional? Then it wasn’t my husband.”

  “I don’t think your husband shot him, but he could have hired the shooter. For that matter, anyone could have hired the guy. Rakowski’s death might have nothing to do with your case.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “That’s why I’m focusing my investigation on him. Finding his killer could lead me to the guy that’s tailing you.”

  “This stalker’s giving me the creeps. I don’t want him anywhere near me. I can feel his presence.”

  “Did Rakowski file any reports with you while he was in Cabo about the woman you thought your husband was seeing there?”

  “No. He hadn’t been there long enough.”

  “He was whacked as soon as he got to Cabo?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I’m debating whether I should fly to Cabo to investigate Rakowski’s murder—”

  “No. Don’t. Don’t leave me alone here with this sleazeball dogging me.”

  “It might help me find out the sleazeball’s identity.”

  “How can you help me in Baja if I get in trouble here?”

  “You think the stalker’s getting ready to try something?”

  “I do.”

  “I still think you should tell the cops. They might agree to give you protection.”

  “No cops. I don’t want cops nosing around spying on me.”

  “I’m not a bodyguard. I’m an investigator. The cops could do a better job than me of protecting you, if they think you need it.”

  “That’s the thing. My experience with cops is they don’t have the manpower to do much.”

  “You could hire a private bodyguard.”

  “You’re missing the point. I don’t want somebody following me around all the time. That’s why I want this stalker dealt with. Don’t you want this job?”

  “I do. I was trying to be helpful.”

  “Find out who’s stalking me and take care of him. If somebody hired him, I want to know who, because the problem won’t go away unless you take care of the instigator.”

  “What if it’s your husband who hired the stalker?”

  She paused. “I want to know who it is.”

  “What about Rakowski?”

  “What about him?”<
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  “Do you want me to take his place and follow your husband to see if he’s fooling around?”

  “This is more urgent at the moment. My life may be in danger.”

  “The stalker might have something to do with your husband’s fooling around.”

  She paused in thought. “I see your point. OK, find out if Lyndon’s seeing someone.”

  “Will do.”

  “He’s coming,” Deirdre whispered. “I have to go now.”

  She hung up.

  Brody finished dressing.

  Chapter 12

  “Who were you talking to?” said Lyndon.

  “That insurance agent,” said Deirdre, cradling the handset in their living room.

  Wearing black track pants with white piping down the legs and a white T, Lyndon had just walked in from the patio. He snatched a bottle of hand sanitizer off a bureau, squeezed gel onto his hands, and cleaned them.

  “How is he?” he said.

  “Fine.”

  “Lucky he didn’t die here. Can you imagine the scandal? Having an insurance agent die in our living room? We’d have to move.”

  “It would be dreadful.”

  With apprehension Deirdre wondered if Lyndon had heard any of her conversation with Brody. She couldn’t tell from his behavior. Of course, he could be pretending he hadn’t heard. Trust was a big problem between them. If he was indeed seeing another woman, how could she trust him about anything? She had to know the truth, no matter how unpalatable.

  “That guy was unreal,” said Lyndon.

  “Oh?”

  “He asked me personal questions that were none of his business. I felt like taking a swing at him. Did you find out if it was a heart attack he had here?”

  “He said it was food poisoning.”

  “You could have fooled me, the way he was squirming on the floor and frothing at the mouth. I thought he was a goner for sure.”

  “He didn’t look good.”

  “Where do they find these people? Don’t they have to take a physical before they get hired?”

  “A physical wouldn’t detect food poisoning.”

  “I suppose not. If it was food poisoning.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “He didn’t look healthy to me. Something not right about the guy.”

  “You think he has some condition?”

  “Whatever he’s got, I’m glad he’s outta here. Bad news, if you ask me.”

  “He was just doing his job.”

  “Not well, though. I can’t imagine he gets many clients with those questions he asks.”

  “He seemed OK to me.”

  “I’d fire him if he worked for me.”

  “You’re being too harsh.”

  “You’re such a softy,” he said, and, smiling, took her in his arms. “Maybe that’s why I love you.”

  Maybe it was somebody else who was stalking her, she decided, some guy not connected to Lyndon. But then who was it?

  She decided she had better things to do now than think about it, losing herself in his arms.

  Sporting a pink bikini, dripping water from her swim in the pool, Valerie entered the living room through the French window, drying herself off with a marmalade orange bath towel.

  “Did I miss something?” she said.

  “We’re celebrating,” said Lyndon, smiling at her.

  “What?”

  “Getting rid of a pesky insurance agent.”

  “Oh? Where did you bury the corpse?” said Valerie, toweling her hair and walking out to the hall.

  “Don’t drip on the floor, Val,” said Deirdre.

  Busby, their three-year-old grey Great Dane, scampered after her.

  “Hi, Busby,” said Valerie. “Where have you been hiding?”

  Deirdre felt a sudden sense of dread at Valerie’s question about Brody’s corpse. She hoped Brody wouldn’t end up like Rakowski, the PI he was replacing.

  Chapter 13

  At his laptop Brody googled Rakowski’s PI firm. He found out that Rakowski had a partner, Eileen Quester.

  He decided to pay her a visit.

  He drove his Mini to Rakowski’s Culver City office, which was located in a strip mall it shared with a taco joint, a bakery, and a Laundromat.

  He parked, got out of his car, walked past the Laundromat’s open door, where the perfumy odor of detergent drifted into his nostrils, and entered Rakowski’s office after a brief rap on the door.

  He turned the corner of the lobby and picked up on a blonde pushing forty sitting behind a desk eying him. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Eileen Quester.”

  “You found her.”

  “I have some questions about your partner Sam Rakowski.”

  “And who are you?”

  “The name’s Brody.”

  “Sam doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  He approached her desk, which had a laptop and two vases of red roses on it. Wearing a pale blue button-down blouse and a tan skirt, she had light brown eyes verging on hazel, shoulder-length chestnut hair, and good posture, like she worked out regularly at a gym.

  “Do you have any idea who murdered him?” he said.

  “How do you know somebody murdered him?” said Eileen, with a trace of annoyance.

  “I read about it in the papers.”

  “He was killed in a foreign country. It wasn’t reported in the local papers.”

  “His last client told me about it.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “To find out if you’ve found out who did it.”

  “The cops in Cabo phoned me and notified me of his death. They didn’t ID the perp.”

  “Don’t they have some idea who did the shooting?”

  “They suspect it was a robbery. Sam must’ve tried to defend himself so the mugger shot him. The perp probably didn’t know Sam was armed when he targeted him.”

  Brody cocked an eyebrow. “Sam was carrying a piece when he was attacked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “He was on assignment. He suspected he might encounter trouble.”

  “Following a guy cheating on his wife, he thought he needed a gun? Don’t you think that strange?”

  “Sam was an ex-cop. He never took chances. He packed on all his cases. He liked to be prepared for any occasion.”

  “Had his gun been fired when he was killed?”

  “The Cabo cops didn’t say. They didn’t tell me a whole lot other than somebody killed him. He had a business card on him with our office number on it, so they phoned me. They didn’t know who else to notify.”

  “Did Sam tell you he had found out the identity of the girl Fox was seeing?”

  “It was his case. He didn’t tell me anything about it.”

  “He told you nothing about it?”

  “He told me he was going to Cabo San Lucas on an adultery case involving Lyndon Fox.”

  “That all?”

  “He also called me to let me know when he arrived there.”

  Brody stared into the distance and rubbed his hands for thirty-odd seconds like he was washing them.

  “Are you all right?” said Eileen, puzzled by his actions.

  Staring, he kept washing his hands.

  “What did you say?” he said at last.

  “I asked you if you’re all right.”

  “Fine.”

  Shutting her eyes Eileen shook her head. “You looked like you were somewhere else.”

  An epileptic episode, decided Brody, unaware of what he had done. Was he having them more frequently? Should he be concerned?

  “Do you think Sam’s murder was the result of a robbery?” he said.

  “I’m just repeating what the cops told me.”

  “I’m asking you what you think.”

  “I don’t have any reason to think otherwise.”

  “I’m not so sure.�
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  “Why else would somebody shoot him?”

  “My client hired him to follow her husband and now she’s being stalked. I think there could be a connection.”

  “Retaliation by her husband for having him followed?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Eileen shrugged. “I can’t help you.”

  “Did you and Rakowski get along?”

  “We got along fine.”

  “Are you gonna investigate his murder?”

  “That’s not my job—unless a client hires me to do it. Is that why you’re here? To hire me?”

  “No. I thought you might want to know who killed your partner.”

  “I don’t do freebies.”

  “I suspect a professional hit man targeted Rakowski.”

  “Why not a robber?”

  “The killer used subsonic hollow-point .22 rounds. Two shots to the head.”

  She shrugged, unconvinced. “A robber could use a .22—”

  The phone on her desk commenced ringing.

  She glanced at the caller ID.

  “I gotta take this,” she said. Noticing he wasn’t leaving she added, “In private.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was holding anything back from him. He couldn’t think of a reason why she would. The problem was, you would think she would show more interest in finding out who killed her partner. Someone’s partner didn’t get whacked every day. She didn’t seem to care. Or not much, anyway. She wasn’t letting it get her down. It was business as usual for her.

  Maybe it was like she said. They worked separate cases and went their own ways. They just happened to share the same office.

  He left.

  Chapter 14

  Brody drove his Mini to Deirdre’s villa to ask her more questions about Rakowski.

  Turning down Georgina Brody spotted a late-model silver Porsche 911 Carrera GTS cabriolet with a red roof in her driveway and parked behind it.

  As he was walking toward the front door of the villa, he spotted movement in the front bay window that captured his attention. He darted to the window to get a good view of what was happening. Standing near a rhododendron bush he peered inside.

  Clad in faded ice blue jeans and a yellow halter top, Deirdre was bound to a wooden chair with ropes around her torso and legs, her arms behind her back, her face grimacing in anguish.