Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

He summoned yet another goon into the room. Maximilian. I didn’t actually know if that was his name or not, but I’d never seen someone look more Maximilian than this two-legged tank. Maximilian carried a large duffel bag in each of two gargantuan hands.

“Here is one million dollars in US cash,” Ivan said. “I’m showing it to you because you need to know it’s there. Incentivizing.”

Maximilian unzipped both bags. Inside were stacks of our cherubic Mr. Franklin.

“Find out who killed my son and kill him. On the spot. No questions asked. No torture. No theater. Just kill him wherever you find him. I don’t care if he’s clutching his newborn daughter. Midbaptism. Inside the goddamn Vatican. Make him dead.”

He took one step closer to me to emphasize his conclusion.

“And the money will be yours.”

Chapter 33

One million in cash. That would be my new retirement plan. I’d previously regarded a mere hundred thousand as the gateway to a new life, but one entire million? It’d be a six-digit funeral pyre to singe every inch of my old self. And a lifetime supply of fine cuisine for my dog.

“Thank you, Ivan,” I said. “I’m in.”

Maximilian squatted down, paused, made sure I saw the contents—I did—then zipped up the duffel bags. Ivan turned to me. I’d thought our time here was done, but no, this wasn’t a deal that ended on a handshake. “Beautiful,” he said. “But first…But now…Please. Yes? You join me for a drink. Yes?”

Tearful nights were etched in his face.

“One drink?” I said.

“Please. It’s very Croatian.” He missed his son. I could see it now, in his eyes.

He and his entourage ushered me up to the hotel’s back ballroom, which had been set up as a temporary casino for that night. They’d brought in luxury gaming tables for blackjack, craps, and even roulette. Ivan walked with me to the middle of the hoopla, glad-handing fifteen different business associates along the way. Then, amidst his smiling and waving at the elite, he mumbled, without looking at me, without breaking character, a rather terrifying sentence. “Mike,” he began, “you…uh… you didn’t have anything to do with the death of my son, did you?”

He didn’t stop his stride or stop his parade wave. Which meant he was completely paying attention. I had but one chance to answer this correctly or be decapitated.

Chapter 34

My blood ran cold. “The hit on Goran?” I said, for needless clarification.

“Yes.” Don’t be casual, Mike. Don’t be rigid .

“Whoever pulled the trigger…won’t be alive by the end of the week.”

My voice trembled, I knew. I didn’t feel convincing. I kept doing the one thing you shouldn’t do when you lie: visualize the truth—the alley where Milt blasted six flesh-eating rounds into two twenty-year-olds. Worse, I was visualizing the kid’s only brother ordering the hit.

“I’ll make sure of it,” I said.

The brother’s name was Vassotav or something, I thought. I vaguely remembered Ivan mentioning him years ago.

“I know,” said Ivan. “I know you will. I offered the job to a few other mechanics but you’re the only one who has the jaja .”

He turned to his posse expectantly.

“We’re here to enjoy ourselves,” he said. A tray of glasses of plum brandy had arrived for us to pluck from.

“Živjeli,” said the group.

“Živjeli,” said Ivan.

“God help me,” I said to myself, under my breath, before gulping down the two-ounce serving of battery acid.

I thought about the prospect of locating my new target. The brother. Varrotav. Or whatever his name was. He could’ve been anywhere in Boston. If he was even in Boston. If he wasn’t, he—fitting the infamous playboy reputation I remembered—could now be anywhere in the world, behind a swarm of machine-gun owners.

A second and third round of Croatian liquor were soon sloshing inside me. My mental facilities dulled. The golden glow of the room became a haze. Music blended, and details became friendlier.

Ivan had tallied a seventh or eighth glass of his national blood. His arm was soon around me, bodyguards in Armani suits following us without smiling. We headed toward a back room and a private card table.

“I would like to introduce you to someone,” said Ivan. “Someone who may be of help in your endeavor. Someone who insists that tonight we celebrate life itself.”

Ivan jovially pointed to the chair at the far end of the poker table. Seated in it was a young man of about twenty-three years of age.

“This is my other son, Vatroslav,” he said.

Vatroslav. That was the name. He said, “You should join us, Michael. Our game is under way.”

My search was over before it had even started.

Chapter 35

I had to focus on the basics. All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow. When I get nervous, I mentally sift through passages of Tolstoy, hunting down a remedy for the feeling. Not sure where it had gotten me this time. Light and shadow?

I sat down with Vatroslav and Ivan for a bone-chilling game of five-card stud. I paired two sevens on the very first hand.

“Raise,” I said.

I’m no fool. You don’t walk into a room like this and expect an honest deck.

“How much?” he said.

Vatroslav Mesic. Shorter than his father. Equally hirsute. Much more cunning.

“Fifty bucks,” I said.

I wasn’t playing to win. I was playing to look like I thought I could. To determine whether or not he knew that I knew. Could he have found out I’d talked to Allison? Could he have found out I’d killed her?

“Call,” said Ivan.

“Call,” said his son.

If he were ruthless enough to order a hit on his own brother, what would he do when he learned that his father had just purchased his demise?

The next cards were dealt. A couple of jacks landed elsewhere and I got no help from an eight of clubs. They could think I was on a straight draw, but that’d be a sucker’s play. Nobody smart would fear it. They’d just bet me off.

“Mike always overthinks the numbers,” joked Ivan.

Watching him, I calculated there was no way he knew “it” was a family affair. I’d seen every strain of lie that the Boston criminal population ran on. No one’s that good. If you’re aware that your own son killed your other son, you don’t relax the way Ivan Mesic did.

By the advent of the final card, I’d failed to improve my sevens. They remained a dull working-class duo, no more, no less. Yet in a game like five stud, virtually any pair will earn you the win.

“I raise one hundred fifty,” said the brother.

“Call,” said his dad.

“I’m out,” I said.

“No way,” said the brother. “Really?” He was genuinely lamenting the lack of competition from me. “C’mon. I’ll spot you the money.”

“Sorry,” I replied. “I can’t.”

“A loan. An IMF loan,” he joked. “Developing nations.”

We weren’t playing for a big sum, but it was definitely beyond my disposable income bracket. The irony of seeing a million dollars downstairs and coming to this room to fret over a couple hundred was not lost on me.

“I can’t accept your generosity,” I said. “I don’t have the cards and I don’t have the cash.”

“Why do I seriously doubt you don’t have cash?” joked the brother. His eyes lingered on me, the word you slightly elongated.

Jesus Christ: he was talking about the hundred and fifty thousand I’d been assigned. He didn’t know about the million. He was talking about the bounty he himself had put on his own brother.