Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Stan gave a little nod. His puffy finger scanned down the page, then back up. “Here it is. Six miles.” He gave an exaggerated frown. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. You helped me clear up some paperwork anyway.”

They shook hands again. “Thanks for the business,” Stan said.

“Sure thing.”

Tim sat in his car for a moment, figuring. The Stork had arrived with the van at Debuffier’s the morning of the hit. The Stork had probably picked up the van, then returned home to load up his black bag of tech gear. He probably hadn’t taken the bag with him to pick up the van; it was conspicuous as hell, particularly since the Stork could barely lift it himself. He would have parked his own car far away from the rental office so no one could ID it later, and Tim couldn’t imagine him leaving his beloved and priceless trinkets unattended in his trunk in this part of town while filling out bullshit paperwork.

I even took back the first van they rented me because it gave off a distinctive rattle.

An obsessive perfectionist like the Stork would have turned the van around at the first sound. Why had it taken him three miles to hear the rattle?

Because he was going somewhere else, completing a shorter round-trip. Like driving home to pick up his black bag.

Then he’d returned to VanMan and switched rentals before heading to Debuffier’s.

Six miles.

Three miles each way to the Stork’s house.

Three miles from VanMan Rental Agency.

Tim started driving in a widening spiral, looking for everything and nothing, recalling what he knew about the Stork. A pharmacy Rx sign in a strip mall caught his eye, and he pulled into the lot, passing the usual suspects-Blockbuster, Starbucks, Baja Fresh.

He pictured the Stork’s round face, his sunburned scalp and flat nose. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s called Stickler’s syndrome.

The Stork took plenty of prescription meds, but, in Tim’s experience, patient-confidentiality issues, DEA security, and his own lack of contacts in the field made tracing drug records next to impossible. Plus, the Stork was wise enough to be exceedingly careful about how he acquired his drugs. It was doubtful he’d be so foolish as to use a nearby pharmacy, if he used a pharmacy at all.

Tim closed his eyes.

The Stork’s house was likely within a three-mile radius of where Tim sat.

A connective-tissue disorder that affects the tissue surrounding the bones, heart, eyes, and ears.

Somewhere an optometrist had to have a file containing the Stork’s lens prescription, but again the Stork would know not to leave telling records anywhere near his house. Plus, his glasses looked as if they hadn’t been updated since the sixties.

Tim reversed his thoughts, considering the banal, the seemingly harmless. What are activities people do near their home? Which of these leave records?

Grocery shopping. Post office. Library.

Weak. Difficult. Maybe.

Tim opened his eyes again, gripping the wheel in frustration. Across the lot the yellow-and-blue sign caught his eye. He felt a quick surge as something in his mind crossed over, connected.

Now and then I’ll rent black-and-white movies when I can’t sleep.

He got out, his step quickening as he approached Blockbuster. The stenciling on the door said they were open until midnight, but the classic-movie section was anemic at best. Even Tim, hater of old movies, had seen most of the twenty or so black-and-white videos leaning on the shelves.

The acne-crusted kid at the counter was wearing his visor backward and sucking a Blow Pop.

“What’s the best place to rent old black-and-white movies around here?”

“I don’t know, man. What do you want to watch those for? We just got the new Lord of the Rings.” The Blow Pop had stained the kid’s mouth green.

“Is there a manager here?”

“Yeah, man. I’m it.”

“Would you mind suggesting another video-rental store around here?”

The kid shrugged. A passing customer with an abundance of facial piercings leaned on the counter, chewing her lip. “You an old-movie nut? Go check out Cinsational Videos. With a ‘cin’ like in ‘cinema,’ get it?”

The manager removed his Blow Pop and brayed laughter. “Sounds like a porn shop.”

“It’s the only place around here for that stuff. They don’t got it, you gotta head up to the West Side, like to Cinefile or Vidiots or somewhere.”

Tim thanked her and asked for directions, which she explained with dramatic gestures and clanking jewelry.

Six blocks over, two down, on the left. Tim parked up the street. A quiet area, mostly apartments. The store, a stand-alone square building, was set back from the street behind four slanted parking spaces and a streetlamp. Glass front door, windows cluttered with posters-a lot of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. The hanging sign was flipped to OPEN. Someone had Magic Marker-ed in the times; on Mondays through Saturdays, the store didn’t close until 1:00 A.M. The late hours matched the Stork’s inadvertent description and would likely necessitate a security camera inside.

The front door knocked hanging chimes when Tim entered. A kid with movie-star looks sat on a stool, engrossed in a video playing on a nineteen-inch TV on the counter in front of him. No customers.

Tim glanced above the counter and found the security camera-cheap Sony model from the eighties, run on VHS tapes. It hung from a ceiling bracket, angled across the counter at the front door. Glass front door. And visible through it were the two center parking spaces, most likely where someone would park late at night.

“Someone called me earlier in the week, said something about a problem with your security camera. I wanted to take a look.”

“On a Saturday?” The toothpick the kid had been working in his mouth bobbed with his words, his eyes never leaving the screen. Clint Eastwood gritted his teeth, scowled, and shot through Eli Wallach’s noose.

Tim took note of the narrow door behind the stool-probably a small office. Above the knob was what looked to be an autolocking double-cylinder, requiring a key on both sides.

“Yeah, well, my crew’s been slammed lately. I wanted to see what the problem was so they’ll know to bring any necessary parts next week.”

“Necessary parts? Like what? I installed the thing myself. It’s working fine.”

Tim’s rising irritation was directed as much at himself as at the kid. With a younger worker, he should have played the authoritative angle, impersonating a police officer or a deputy marshal. But now that he was committed, he couldn’t exactly back up and start over.

“Well, the owner called me last week and asked me to come by. I might as well make sure everything’s okay.”

The kid shifted on the stool, his eyes leaving the screen for the first time. He looked obstinate and mistrustful. “My dad never told me about anyone coming by. He would’ve.”

Tim raised his hands as if to say What the hell and turned to leave. When he reached the door, he threw the lock and flipped the sign so it read CLOSED.

The kid had gone back to his movie, but he sensed Tim’s presence and looked up. He caught sight of the front-door sign, and his hand darted beneath the counter and came up with a dinky. 22. Tim closed fast, his left hand sweeping out, catching the gun at the barrel and angling it away from both of them. His right hand pinned back his jacket, revealing the. 357 tucked in his waistband.

They were frozen together, motionless, Tim’s gun revealed but not drawn, the other weapon pointed between NEW RELEASES and FRANK CAPRA.

Tim braced for the gunshot, but none came.

The kid was breathing hard, a spill of blond hair down across his right eye.