Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Ananberg pulled a cigarette from her pack, stuck it into her mouth, and patted her pockets fruitlessly. “What are you looking at?”

“Just the darkness.”

“You like playing Mr. Mysterious, don’t you? The brooding routine, the strong, silent thing. I think it gives you distance, comfort.”

“You got me all figured out.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She set her hands on her hips, studying him. Her curt amusement was gone. “Thanks for sticking up for me in there.”

“You don’t need sticking up for. I was just speaking my mind.”

“Robert can be pretty aggressive.”

“Agreed.”

“Does that concern you?”

“Absolutely.” Tim gave a glance back at the lit windows of the house. Dumone, the Stork, and Robert were waiting at the conference-room table. He scanned the side of the house, spotting Rayner in the kitchen pulling a bottled water from the fridge. Mitchell stepped into view, near his side, and Rayner drew him near, hand resting on his shoulder, whispering something in his ear. Tim glanced back over at Dumone and wondered if he knew that Rayner and Mitchell were swapping secrets two rooms over. Tim had assumed the two disliked each other-the egghead and the redneck enduring each other only as necessary instruments to help attain their respective aims.

“Dumone can keep him in line. Him and Mitchell.”

Tim chewed the inside of his cheek. “Your acuity threatens him. And your consistency.”

“Does it threaten you?”

“I think it’s exactly what we need.”

“Maybe so. But it feels petty, somehow. Even to me.”

“How so?”

“You see”-her eyes got shy, darted away-“I think it’s great that you’re seeking an idea of justice that you can hold in your hands. It’s courageous, almost. But for me that’s like believing in God. I think it would be fun. It would certainly be reassuring. But I stick with my statistics and little dogmatic regurgitations because I know the rules of that game.”

A thoughtful noise escaped Tim, but he didn’t respond. He worked his cheek, studied the dark shapes of the bushes.

She stood by his side, gazing at the garden as if trying to figure out what he was looking at. “That was something else you pulled off. The Lane hit.”

“Team effort.”

“Well, you had to front the lion’s share of the nerve.” She shook her head, and again he smelled her fragrance, thought about her hair. “Robert’s right on one count-I’m about as far from the street as you can get. I’m glad I’m on this side of things. Discussing, reviewing, analyzing. I could never do what you do. The risk, the danger, the courage under pressure.” She slapped him lightly on the arm. “Are you smiling at me? Why?”

“It’s not about courage. Or the thrill.”

“Why do you do it, then? Fight wars. Enforce the law. Risk your life.”

“We don’t talk about it, really.”

“But if you did?”

Tim took a moment to consider. “I guess we do it because we’re worried no one else is willing to.”

She pulled the unlit cigarette from her mouth and slid it back into the pack. “Not all of you.” She padded back to the house, head down, dodging snails on the patio.

The wind picked up, bone-cold and wet, and Tim slid his hands into his pockets. His fingertips touched a scrap of paper, which he withdrew, puzzled. A phone number and an address, written in a woman’s hand.

He turned, but Ananberg had already disappeared back into the house. After a moment he followed.

•All six members of the Commission were seated, awaiting Tim’s return. Centered perfectly before Rayner, like an awaiting plate of dinner, was a black binder.

The fourth, Tim thought. Then two more, then Kindell’s.

Lost in a blissful contentedness, the Stork was folding blank sheets into paper airplanes and humming to himself-the theme from The Green Hornet. Dumone sat cocked back in his chair, a fresh-poured bourbon chilling the V of his crotch.

Rayner leaned over, spreading a hand on the cover. “Buzani Debuffier.”

Blank looks all around, except Dumone, who grimaced. “Debuffier’s a big, mean, Santero. Goes about six-six on a bad day.”

Tim slid into his chair. “Santero?”

“Voodoo priest. They’re Cuban mostly, but Debuffier’s a Haitian mix.”

The Stork’s humming reached an annoying pitch.

“Would you shut the hell up?” Robert said.

The Stork stopped, his puffy little hands midfold. He rode his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle, blinking apologetically. “Was I doing that out loud?”

Tim reached for Debuffier’s booking photo. A displeased man with a shaved head stared back at him, the whites of his eyes pronounced against pitch-dark skin. He wore a flannel, ripped to expose his bare shoulders. His deltoids stood out, ridged and firm, as though he were straining against the cuffs. From the look of his build, he was probably making some pretty good headway. “What’s the case?”

Dumone flipped open the binder and paged through the crime-scene report. “Ritual sacrifice of Aimee Kayes, a seventeen-year-old girl. Her body was found headless in an alley, draped in a multicolored cloth, raw salt, honey, and butter smeared on the bleeding neck stump. The top vertebra had been removed. LAPD’s ritual-crimes expert found these details to be consistent with Santeria sacrificial rites.”

“They sacrifice people? Regularly?” the Stork asked.

“Only in James Bond movies,” Ananberg said, reaching for the medical examiner’s report. “The Santeros mostly kill birds and lambs. Even in Cuba. I did an anthropology study on them in college.”

“So what gives?” Robert asked.

“We’ve got a Froot Loop, that’s what gives.”

Dumone’s chuckle turned into a racking cough. He lowered his fist from his face, then drained the last of his bourbon. “The ritual-crimes expert testified that, based on the specifics of the sacrifice, Debuffier probably believed that the victim was a threatening evil spirit.”

“Stomach contents included sunflower leaves and coconut.” Ananberg looked up from the pages. “The meal before the slaughter. If she eats, it shows the gods approve of her for sacrifice.”

“I’m sure she found that slender consolation,” Rayner said.

The Stork waved a hand before his yawning mouth. “I’m sorry. Past my bedtime.”

Robert slid a glossy crime-scene photo across the table. “This should wake you up.”

“What links Debuffier to the body?” Tim asked. “Aside from the fact that he’s a voodoo priest?”

Dumone tossed the eyewitness testimonies at Tim. “Two eyewitnesses. The first, Julie Pacetti, was Kayes’s best friend. The two girls were at the movies a few nights before Kayes’s abduction. After the show Pacetti went to the bathroom and Kayes waited for her in the lobby. When Pacetti came out, Kayes claimed Debuffier had just approached her and asked her to go for a ride with him. He’d frightened her, and she’d refused. When the girls went out in the parking lot, Debuffier was waiting in a black El Camino. He saw that Kayes was not alone and took off, but not before Pacetti got a good eyeful.”

“A six-foot-six bald Haitian,” Mitchell said. “Not exactly inconspicuous.”

“The second witness?” Tim asked.

“A USC girl returning from a party saw a man fitting Debuffier’s description pull Kayes’s body from the bed of a black El Camino and drag it into the alley.”

Ananberg whistled. “I’d say that’s pretty damning.”

“She ran a few blocks, then phoned 911 at”-Dumone checked the report-“three-seventeen A.M. With a physical description of the suspect and the car, the cops got to Debuffier before daybreak. They found him outside his house, scouring the bed of his El Camino with bleach.”