Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

“Just do what’s right,” I said to the ringleader.

He didn’t move for a second. He was hovering something gold over my body.

“Just do—”

“Michael Ryan?” he said.

He let that gold thing fall from his hand so that it wafted downward and landed directly on top of me. It was an envelope. Then he bludgeoned my skull.

Chapter 30

They’d left. I didn’t see them go—I woke up and they were no longer in my kitchen. I’d blacked out after the fancy envelope was tossed onto my chest. I didn’t hear Updike barking anymore, but at this point I wasn’t worried. I felt his presence.

“I already hate whatever this is,” I mumbled to myself.

I did a half sit-up to inspect the envelope before touching it.

I read what was written on the front. “To Ryan.”

No return address. I tore it open to find a greeting card inside that looked like a wedding invitation. It was a banquet announcement printed in Croatian except for the scrawl at the end.

“I…expect…you.”

I could barely decipher the rest of the scribble but I’d already anticipated who it was from. His name was at the bottom. My former boss.

Ivan Mesic.

The man who ran Boston’s slice of Croatia. The man whose son was dead on a Harvard campus. Ivan the Terrible.

So why had he sent three guys in hoods to almost kill me? The “kill me” part wasn’t surprising. The “almost” was.

I checked on Pupdike. He was fine. They’d shoved him in the bathroom and shut the door. I showed him the envelope. At this point, he deserved to be fully informed. The invite had beautiful calligraphy and the location was one I knew. Bay Standard Hotel. Saturday evening. Formal attire.

“That’s where I’m going,” I said to him.

He sniffed the envelope without comment. It was likely I’d be walking into my own tomb, but I knew I’d have to go.

They wanted to kill me. And I wanted them to want to kill me.

Chapter 31

There were security personnel standing along every wall of the ballroom. Not just chiseled, Slavic men in dark suits on headsets, but cops. Ivan-owned Boston cops. Bribes ran deep in these woods. Croatian money meets IRA money and it converges on the shores of Boston Harbor. Allison had presided over that junction, and though her death would jostle the local hierarchy a bit, its effect would be nothing compared to Ivan’s upcoming expansion.

I mean, look around. He was starting an empire.

“Your coat, sir?” said the porter.

So this was high society. A garish hotel crowd with gold balloons, gold ice sculptures, gold-colored champagne on gold trays, gold caviar, gold-dusted prawns, and all of it carried by gold-painted supermodels.

“Your coat?” repeated the porter.

In every direction I looked there was a steady stream of plump tuxedos and skinny women. Prosecution of the sex trade was at an all-time high but clearly Ivan’s business was thriving.

“Mr. Ryan?” said a voice approaching from the side.

It was the concierge. I didn’t know I was recognizable. I felt like the scruffy middle school kid who’d snuck into prom.

“I trust you’ll spend some time enjoying our open bar and gourmet buffet,” he said, then gestured. “When you have a moment, we’ll show you to the waiting room.”

“S-sure,” I said, unsure.

I pressed my forearm against the lapel of my rented tux, subtly dragging it down my chest to test for the bulge of my gun. I couldn’t imagine I was the only one in this room packing heat right now, but I didn’t want to be identifiable as such. They literally had Boston PD with rifles guarding the front. Rifles.

“There he is,” murmured someone next to me.

Everyone in the crowd began fussing over whatever was taking place above us. Visible on the balcony, an entourage of bodyguards and underfed women was flanking the small-statured, big-knuckled Mr. Ivan Mesic himself. He was now flashing a syndicated smile for the guests below.

“Really?” mumbled a random guy next to me. “So this is how the underground keeps a low profile?”

I looked over. One of those sideways talkers—some guy who couldn’t wait to state his disapproval of whatever social blemish was in front of him. He didn’t know who I was other than that I looked like someone who’d enjoy gossip. I wouldn’t. Which didn’t deter him in the slightest. “Maybe writing a ten-million-dollar check to city hall to quote, unquote ‘assist the fight on street crime’ is what keeps him so anonymous.”

I didn’t answer.

It didn’t matter. “City council each gets a cut,” he continued. “Police gets a cut. Bureau gets a cut. And then guess who? The dockworkers get a cut.”

“Bravo!” yelled the crowd after whatever Ivan had just said.

“Because at the end of the day,” continued my barnacle, “it’s all about the docks. It’s about cargo. Cargo standing next to us in six-inch heels.” He laughed, then scooted even closer to say even more laterally, “But I ain’t complainin’.”

Please don’t touch me.

I’d worked for Ivan Mesic in the past, but human trafficking hadn’t been in his repertoire back then. There were marketable women everywhere. His dukedom had broken new ground.

“Croatian people’ve had a rough go,” I murmured back to the guy.

He wasn’t listening. Ivan’s rousing speech was coming to a crescendo. The crowd was caught up in it, my barnacle included.

“If at all!” yelled Ivan—the punch line to whatever anecdote he’d just roused his audience with. “If. At. All.”

“Tonight is your night!” continued Ivan. “My way of thanking you! So let’s rock!”

Applause and cheers erupted. He certainly didn’t seem like a grieving father, did he? I turned to head toward the nearest source of beer—anything to placate the drying disdain in my gut—only to collide with the tiny concierge.

“Mr. Ryan,” said the concierge. “It’s time.”

We rode in a private elevator on the far side of the building. Two quietly angry-looking men stood on either side of me while the wiry little concierge stood in front.

“Shan’t take but a moment,” he said.

We didn’t go to the top floor. We went to the bottom, where we entered a large laundry room. The staff was immediately removed.

Dismiss the witnesses. I get it.

I kept my hands visible and benign. I knew the guards would take my gun from me. I knew they’d frisk me for a second piece of hardware. They did. And found nothing. Ivan then entered the room with two guys behind him, which made five henchmen total, which, along with us, made seven—seven grown men in a crowded laundry room.

Chapter 32

“Mikey,” said Ivan. “Thank you for coming.” He had a very disarming sweetness to him. You don’t scale the top of the criminal mountain without charm.

“Ivan,” I said. “Pleasure’s mine.”

“You’re teasing me but that’s good. I appreciate the effort.” He clapped his hands once. “So…do you know why you’re here?”

“Uh…” I droned. “Execution?”

“Of?” He looked genuinely perplexed until he suddenly threw his head back in gleeful epiphany. “You?! Hahahahahaha.” The signature Bond villain laugh. Where did they all learn this? “No, no, no, Mike, c’mon.” It was the first time tonight he seemed even remotely happy—briefly—and then he got serious again. “I’m not here to harm you. I’m here, believe it or not, to offer you…yes, offer you…a lot of money. A lot of money.”

I had no response.

“This room is crowded so you have witnesses,” he said. “I’m making a business proposal.”

I had nothing to say. I hadn’t expected this.

“My son has been murdered,” said Ivan. “I don’t know who did it. I don’t care. I just want the individual dead.”