Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

This was beyond reckless. Ivan was sitting right next to us .

“Stop flirting,” said Ivan.

Luckily, Vatroslav’s father’s bloodstream was basically syrup at that point. He was swaying just trying to sit still.

You seriously doubt, kid?

The son’s remark echoed in my head. It was a daredevil’s move. His father could expose both of us, right there at the table. I didn’t even want to glance toward him. There were four armed guards stationed in the room with Strojnica ERO imitation Uzis. Ivan could signal his platoon to eviscerate us. He could, but again, the alcohol. Ivan suddenly giggled. He drunkenly said, “Fold.”

Ivan could’ve stayed in the hand for free. But he didn’t. Vatroslav was left alone to show us what turned out to be, indeed, his pair of eights.

I didn’t know what dollar amount he’d wanted me to gamble and lose, but neither of us were happy with the outcome.

“Good hand,” he said.

“Good deal,” I said back.

My heart was racing. I got up and bowed my head to Ivan, a nod of respect, needing to be out of there before I sank into a vortex of anxiety. Ivan of course grabbed my forearm before I could rotate toward my escape route. “My sons are ev- verything to me,” he said.

“Understood,” I said.

“Find the bastard who tore my boy from me and tear that bastard from this planet.”

“Understood.”

“For that,” he said, “I’ll be v-very grateful to you.”

I glanced at Vatroslav, then looked back to the father and gave him my vow. “I’ll kill him, Ivan. I’ll kill him when he most expects it.”

Chapter 36

The prize was one million dollars. I began to tell myself I’d buy a new house. Sell the old one. Move on. A departure from a home whose every nook reminded me of a woman I could no longer touch. My second thought was a daily array of gourmet bones for Updike. It was around 2:00 a.m. when I finally returned to my porch.

“Sell,” I said to myself. “Last job. Then sell.”

Before sitting down at the poker table of life, mere hours earlier, I was plotting how my week would be devoted to tracking my target—bribing dance club owners for intel, scouring brothels, conducting a statewide manhunt. But Vatroslav—the son, the brother, the killer, the bastard—had been seven feet away from me. And judging by the final smirk on his face, he wasn’t about to run.

“Hey, little man,” I said to Updike. “Lemme check on our tenants, okay?”

Updike had greeted me at the door, tail whapping against whatever made the most noise. Together we went downstairs to the Kolpak 1010 freezer system to tell Maria the latest news, and to tell her yet again that I was sorry things had gotten so dire. I took a preparatory breath and opened the freezer door to confront the imagery. Nothing had changed. Everyone—all six of my guests—had remained in the exact same positions with the exact same facial expressions. They even smelled the same. A faint odor of lemon.

Maybe not surprising that no one had moved. But then most people have never stood in front of a dead spouse and dead backstabber, propped up next to a dead heap of middlemen.

“Can I trust you to take care of Updike?” asked Maria. There I was, checking the frost levels, inspecting the outer air ducts for incriminating odors, and reducing the risk of an alarming spike in my electric bill. These weren’t the idiosyncrasies of a madman. This was professional survival. I even scrubbed the upstairs flooring, in every room—took several hours, despite a severe lack of sleep—to keep the place pristine. I slid both house keys onto a special key ring and inserted the key ring into the penultimate chapter of my copy of Anna Karenina, as a bookmark.

“To answer your question,” I said to Maria, “Updike trusts me. He trusts me to hold one principle above all others. Loyalty.”

I closed the door and locked it. The dog and I left on schedule.

Chapter 37

If Vatroslav wasn’t staying at the Bay Standard Hotel, he was probably hidden in some equally grandiose lodging on the trendy side of town. I had a list of candidates, but instinctually the Bay Standard felt like the place to start.

The day was moving fast. I entered the lobby wearing a bulky Patriots hoodie and a Sox cap. I stood by a column and made a phone call to the concierge desk just yards in front of me. It was a trick I’d learned a few years ago while tracking down a stubborn target in a six-day, five-night self-barricade in a suite whose room number I’d never had.

“Bay Standard, this is Tangelo,” said the voice answering my call. “How may I provide you with award-winning service?”

“Tangelo,” I whispered into the phone. “Please listen closely…”

I told him I had a thousand dollars in cash for him if he’d pass on a warning to one of his guests. I told him that guest was Vatroslav Mesic. The catch was, I already knew what Tangelo would do.

Tangelo would refuse. If something bad were to happen, and a particular mob boss were to find out, Tangelo would face early termination.

Tangelo would realize all this midconversation. We’d then hang up with nothing gained.

I knew all this before dialing.

The real value for me was what Tangelo would do after our call. He wouldn’t use the phone to warn his guest. He’d visit his guest in person. And that would be my chance to follow him.

“May I place you on hold a moment?” Tangelo said.

“Okay.”

I felt good. I felt like I hadn’t lost my edge.

But Tangelo didn’t walk anywhere. I watched him. He didn’t even initiate a new call. What Tangelo did was give some squirrelly-looking valet two sentences’ worth of instruction. Then that valet came straight toward my column, and straight to me.

“Here,” said the valet, and he held out a parking permit.

I had no words prepared.

They knew I’d come here? And would stand by this column?

“Mr. Ryan,” said the valet. “It’s for you.”

“S-sorry?” I said, taking the paper from his hand.

But he left without discussion. My ruse had been out-rused.

The parking permit was for something called the Osiris Heights Condominium Complex. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded like a stack of McMansions built in the past twelve minutes, stocked with rich bachelor kids from the Mediterranean.

This thing in my hand was a not-so-subtle hint that my target was there, awaiting my arrival. He’d anticipated my gambit and was taunting me with a formal invitation to mimic his father’s formal invitation.

“Vatroslav,” I mumbled, “I salute the move.”

Any self-preserving man would skip the million dollars. I’d be dead upon arrival. But, as we are learning, I am no self-preserving man.

Chapter 38

One hour later, with no stops at any taverns, I would be parking my car down the street from those Osiris Heights condominiums. I would pull into the loading zone of a nearby public library, a half street down from the target building, perched on a river just across from Boston’s skyline. To the left, the endless Atlantic. To the right, the Cradle of Liberty. If you’re going to die, you might as well die with a view.

“Stay here, pup.” I scratched Updike’s chin, then put my Bruins beanie on. I kept my Patriots hoodie snug. “I’ll be back in nine minutes.”

He whined.

“I’ll do what I gotta do and I’ll leave, okay?”

He whined.

We’d parked a block away to facilitate any possible stealthy arrival. They knew I was coming but I still needed to pretend I had a chance. On the brisk walk toward my doom, I rehearsed.

The first line of defense was likely the front desk staff. Honestly, what was I supposed to say? “Hello, my name is Guy About to Die Upstairs. Would you please inform Mr. Riddle Me with Bullets that I’ve arrived? Thank you. I’ll wait.” Every single minimum-wage-making individual I’d encounter would have been briefed on how to handle me. In fact, it was likely that one of them—the plumber, the maid, the cable guy kneeling by a toolbox containing a Beretta M9A3 with suppressor—would be the grim reaper. I’d be killed when I least expected it, while most expecting it.