Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Smolev’s tooth began to ache and he rubbed his jaw. ‘I don’t know. The Brits got him.’

‘Yeah? Does he know what he’s letting himself in for?’

Smolev shrugged. ‘That’s not my business. All I’ve got to do is keep you safe until we’ve got the killer.’

Discenza thrust another handful of ketchup-covered French fries into his mouth and washed them down with Budweiser.

Smolev spotted a thermostat on the wall by the bathroom door. It was set at sixty-five degrees and Smolev felt comfortable, but he lowered it anyway. ‘Tell me, Frank. Why did you take out the contract on Vander Mayer?’

Discenza sneered. ‘That’s between me and my lawyer, Jimmy.’

Smolev sat down opposite Discenza. ‘Come on, Frank, you can tell me.’

Discenza loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. ‘It wouldn’t be smart for me to tell you, now would it?’ He pushed the plate away.

‘Something wrong with the food?’

‘I’m not hungry any more. Maybe the steak’s gone bad.’

Smolev picked up the plate and held it under his nose. ‘Smells all right to me. The food’s supposed to be first class here.’

‘Yeah? Well maybe the chef’s having a bad day.’ He took another swig of beer then slumped back on the sofa. ‘So you wanna know why I wanted Vander Mayer taken out, right? I guess it can’t hurt to tell you, what with the deal my lawyer’s worked out. The conspiracy charge has been dropped, right?’

‘That’s the deal, Frank.’

‘How much did they tell you?’

‘Me? They’re treating me like a mushroom.’

‘A mushroom?’ frowned Discenza.

‘You know, they keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit.’

At first Discenza didn’t get it, then he broke out laughing. ‘Good one, Jimmy. A mushroom. Good one.’ He picked up a white napkin and used it to wipe his forehead. ‘He killed my brother.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Killed him or paid to have him killed. Comes down to the same thing: one dead brother.’

‘How come?’

Discenza undid another button on his shirt. ‘We were putting together a deal in the Keys, a hotel development. Vander Mayer was putting up most of the money, I was doing the legal work and bringing in extra investors and a management team. My brother Rick was helping me. Keeping everyone sweet, you know? He was just a kid. Twenty-five years old. Just out of Harvard.’ Discenza rubbed his throat. ‘God, I’m thirsty,’ he said. ‘Get me some water, will ya?’

Smolev was going to protest but he could see that Discenza was in considerable discomfort. He went to the bathroom and filled a glass tumbler with water. ‘Why did Vander Mayer kill your brother?’ he called through the open doorway.

‘He’s got this assistant, this Oriental girl. Chinese or something. She’s always with him, he never goes anywhere without her. She’s some sort of adviser to him, and God knows what else. She took an instant dislike to Rick. Wouldn’t have anything to do with him. You got that water?’

‘Coming,’ said Smolev. He carried the glass of water out to Discenza, taking care not to spill any.

‘Seems she told Vander Mayer that Rick wasn’t to be trusted,’ said Discenza, taking the glass from Smolev and drinking greedily. He drained the glass and put it down on the coffee table. ‘Funny thing was, she was right. Even I didn’t know. He was planning to put Mafia money in the investment through a company in the Bahamas. He’d lost a bundle gambling and some pretty heavy guys were putting the screws on him.’

Smolev went over to the window and stood looking out. The laundry truck was driving out of the car park. ‘So Vander Mayer had him killed?’ Smolev asked.

‘Not right away. Rick went around to talk to the girl. Things got out of hand.’

‘Out of hand? How exactly did they get out of hand?’

‘Depends who you believe. Rick said she led him on, she says he tried to rape her. Two days later Rick disappeared and the deal was off.’

Smolev saw a man walk out of the front entrance of the hotel. Smolev vaguely recognised him but couldn’t place the face.

‘I knew it was Vander Mayer, but I could hardly go to the cops, could I? A friend in Dallas gave me a number, told me that a Swiss banker could get the job done for me for half a million dollars. Jimmy, I don’t feel so good. Maybe I need a doctor.’

Smolev tapped his fingers on the windowsill as he stared at the man walking away from the hotel. He frowned. Suddenly he realised that the man was the waiter who’d delivered Discenza’s food. But his appearance had changed: his hair was shorter now, and he was missing his moustache. Smolev turned around. Discenza was lying back on the sofa, his mouth open, his chest heaving. Frothy white saliva dribbled from between Discenza’s lips and his eyes were wide and staring. ‘Oh shit,’ Smolev gasped. He rushed over to Discenza. ‘Ted!’ he yelled. ‘Get in here.’

Discenza’s legs began to thrash about and Smolev pushed the man’s shoulders down onto the sofa. ‘Try to lie still, Frank. The more you move, the faster it’ll spread.’

The door opened. ‘Did you want. .?’ Verity began, but he stopped when he saw what was happening. ‘What the. .?’

‘The waiter!’ Smolev interrupted. ‘He’s lost the hair and the moustache and he’s wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. He was on foot but he must have a car nearby. Go!’

Smolev stood up and went over to the telephone as Verity rushed out and ran down the corridor. He told a girl on reception to call for an ambulance and to see if there was a doctor staying at the hotel. He slammed the receiver down and went back to Discenza. Discenza’s back was arched and the tendons in his neck were as taut as steel wires. Discenza grunted and his right hand fastened on Smolev’s shoulder, gripping like a vice. Discenza began muttering, but Smolev couldn’t make out what he was saying. ‘It’s going to be okay, Frank,’ Smolev said. ‘Lie still.’

Discenza kicked out and one of the Budweiser bottles skidded across the carpet. The poison must have been in the beer, Smolev realised. He cursed himself and he cursed the waiter and his white cotton gloves. No fingerprints, and a description that was worse than useless. His only hope was that Verity would apprehend the man, but Smolev knew that was no hope at all. The killer was a pro. Suddenly Discenza went rigid, and then he flopped back onto the sofa. Smolev searched for a pulse in the man’s neck, but he knew he was wasting his time. Discenza was dead. And so, thought Smolev bitterly, was his career with the Bureau.

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Cramer looked at Su-ming expectantly and she walked over and pressed a button on the device. ‘Yes, Jenny?’ she said.

‘It’s Mr Tarlanov,’ said the secretary.

Cramer got to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as Su-ming opened the office door. He heard Allan arguing with the visitor and went over to see what the problem was. A tall man in a fawn raincoat was standing by Jenny’s desk clutching an aluminium case to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. He was in his late thirties with thick eyebrows that almost met above a thin nose. He had several days’ stubble on his cheeks and chin and his face was drawn and tired.

Allan was standing in front of the man, his arms out to the sides, blocking his way. Tarlanov was saying something rapidly in Russian and shaking his head. Then in heavily accented English he said, ‘No. No. Leave me.’

‘Stay where you are, Mr Vander Mayer,’ Allan said as he continued to obstruct Tarlanov.

Martin moved over to stand next to Cramer, putting his body between Cramer and the Russian.

‘What’s the problem?’ Cramer asked Su-ming.