John Lescroart - Damage

“As you wish. I’ll ring, sir.”

Bracco stood outside in a steady drizzle, a full two blocks down the street from the Curtlees’ home, waiting for the last two guys of the ten-man team that Lapeer had put together to effect the arrest of Ro Curtlee. He would have already moved the men into positions all around the house except that he wanted to be sure they didn’t compromise the element of surprise. And unfortunately the last two guys were coming from downtown, and bringing with them the physical arrest warrant.

A pair of headlights cut through the mist as it turned onto the street a couple of blocks down, and Bracco heaved a sigh of relief as the car pulled up and parked behind the small caravan that had already formed behind Bracco’s car at the curb. Unable to calm his nerves, Bracco jogged down and arrived at the car as its driver was just opening his door.

“Warrant?” was about all he could manage to say.

The driver tapped his chest with his knuckles-“Right here”-and from the sound of it, Bracco realized that these guys, too, were already wearing Kevlar, as was the rest of the team.

Nobody taking any chances.

And now everyone was ready. Another wash of relief swept over him. It was time. He counted the men one last time, now all of them having gathered close, ten of them present and accounted for.

“Okay, guys,” he said. “Quiet and careful. Let’s move it out.”

Eztli crossed to a small table at the back of the little study that featured a diminishing selection of nuts and hard candies. He picked up the little silver bell, identical to the ones in the kitchen and living room, and gave it a shake, which produced a melodic tinkle.

And which in turn produced one of the uniformed young women from the kitchen-Eztli did not always bother learning their individual names since he had so little interaction with them, and also because they tended to move along to their next posting to one of the Curtlees’ acquaintances within a year or so. He thought this one might be named Linda, but it wouldn’t do to call her by a name and get it wrong. Eztli prided himself on being unfailingly polite. “Another bottle of the Cristal, please,” he said. “The full-size bottle from the refrigerator. Oh, and two more champagne glasses.”

She looked over at where the Curtlees sat, let her eyes rest on them for a moment, her face, it seemed to Eztli, fighting against itself to keep an expression of resentment at bay. It was difficult, he knew-he was not entirely immune to some resentment himself-to be constantly aware of the unbridgeable gap between staff and principals.

When her eyes came back to him, he gave her what he hoped was an understanding nod, and she returned it, curtsying as she’d been taught. She then glanced at the nearly empty nut tray and went over to pick it up and carry it back with her. His eyes followed the smooth perfection of her hips as she crossed the dining room and disappeared back into the kitchen, and for an instant he thought he might reconsider his firm lifelong policy of never dating the help. This young woman was certainly pretty enough to make the effort worthwhile.

But he banished that thought as quickly as it had appeared. No good could come of it. Just look what problems Ro had had. Even though that was a lot of years ago, it was still wreaking havoc on his life. There were other women who didn’t live under this roof that Eztli could enjoy. It wasn’t as though he was hurting in that department.

It didn’t take the young woman thirty seconds to reappear with the glasses and the champagne wrapped in a plain white dish towel. Carrying the expensive champagne and the dainty expensive glassware obviously made her nervous-the glasses were clinking dangerously against one another-and she set all of the stuff down on the small table with visible relief that she’d made it without breaking anything. With another little bow, she turned to go back to the kitchen.

Eztli brought the champagne bottle over to Ro’s parents. Presenting it for their approval, he got a brisk nod from Cliff. Theresa said, “I believe that will do just fine.”

Half listening to the conversation that had now moved along to Sheila Marrenas and her latest column on Leland Crawford’s assertion of his vision over the police department and how well it was beginning to work, Eztli went back to the table, removed the foil expertly, then the wire, then turned the bottle carefully while holding the cork in place. With a satisfying little pop, the bottle opened with no spillage. First he poured one of the two glasses for Ro and crossed the room to deliver that. Next he would pour for Cliff and Theresa. Only then would he take care of his own half glass.

He was almost to Ro when, behind him, he became aware of the young woman returning again, this time with the tray of nuts under a silver dome. She set it heavily on the small table, clearing a space for it, and then stood still for a moment, her hands holding both sides of the table, as if she needed to do that to remain standing.

Aware of the unusual hesitation, Eztli turned back to see if everything was all right with her just as she removed the dome and placed it in front of the tray so that it blocked Eztli’s view of it. Then she reached down with both hands and lifted an object, and for an instant Eztli found himself confused by something that in this setting was so bizarre and unexpected that it paralyzed him. She was holding the big semiautomatic in both hands, beginning to bring it up.

As the confusion crystallized into a horrified and desperate certainty, Eztli dropped the bottle of champagne from his right hand and, in the same motion, threw Ro’s glass over toward the fire.

“Ez!” Cliff jerked at the sudden noise and movement. “What the…”

Eztli’s right hand was reaching for his own weapon, turning to face her, inadvertently giving her a larger target, but with no other real choice, and by the time he got his hand on the grip, she had brought the gun all the way up, centering it on his chest.

He never heard the first blasting report as the slug hit him just above the heart and threw him backward onto the floor. Then, as though from far away, he did hear and this time felt another shot, a searing pain in his shoulder, and then, all the sounds in the world growing fainter, several more reports in quick succession.

Until finally everything went quiet.

And then dark.

Ro didn’t believe that this was happening. This wasn’t how he was supposed to die.

He had been so relaxed with the weed and the glass of cognac that he felt molded to his chair, slumped down into the cushion, just reaching up to grab his glass when Ez turned and suddenly was looking at Linda, then throwing the drinks down and making a move toward his shoulder holster.

He never got to it.

And she kept pulling the trigger. Another shot hitting Ez-Ro trying to look everyplace at once, with nowhere to run or even duck away to.

Now he heard his mother scream and Linda had fired again at his father, who had been halfway to his feet, and who then went down. Now she was bringing the gun around, just firing away, not really taking time to aim, but pointing straight at his chest and…

He felt the first slug go all the way through him from side to side, low in his gut, as the force of it knocked him back and sideways now in the chair.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was still pointing the thing at him. He tried to put his hands up, but they didn’t seem to want to obey him.