Michael Koryta - Tonight I Said Goodbye

For a minute there was nothing but a light blue screen, and then a dimly lit room rolled into view. I leaned forward and squinted at the screen. There was a round card table and wood paneling, but nothing else was visible. I didn’t recognize the room. A lone man was seated at the table. Only his upper body was visible, but there was a lot of it. He was an enormously fat man, balding, with bushy gray eyebrows. As I watched, he looked up at something out of view of the camera and nodded his head, then got to his feet and walked out of the room. Three new men stepped into view, and I recognized two of them-Alexei Krashakov and Ivan Malaknik. Krashakov was the tall, blond Russian who had given me the twenty. I’d never met Malaknik in person, but Cody had showed us pictures of him. The third man, who was shorter than Krashakov but muscular under a black shirt, I’d never seen before. He was clean-shaven and wore a silver chain around his neck. His dark hair was short and curly.

The three of them sat around the table and talked. I tried turning up the volume, but it was pointless, because there was no audio. Wayne Weston hadn’t been as efficient as I’d expected. Somehow, I found that hard to believe. Probably there was an audiotape floating around, too.

Two minutes of talking passed. I’d been anticipating violence, but I was still surprised when it happened. All three men appeared to be laughing heartily when suddenly Krashakov slipped a gun out from under the table and shot the third man in the chest. I jerked when he did it. It seemed that out of place in the apparently jovial meeting. The third man slumped onto the table, and blood began to drip onto the floor. Krashakov and Malaknik got up and pushed the body out of the chair. Then Malaknik opened a rear door. The door appeared to open to the outdoors; a slight glow from streetlights on the pavement was visible. Malaknik disappeared outside, then came back a minute later with a blue plastic tarpaulin. Krashakov helped him roll the body onto the tarp. They folded the ends-to keep the blood from leaking onto their clothes, probably-and carried the body out the door. Several minutes passed, and then Malaknik returned with another man. I recognized him: Vladimir Rakic, who lived with Krashakov. Rakic had a bucket and a mop. The two of them set to work cleaning the floor. Krashakov never returned to the room. He was probably busy disposing of the body. Rakic and Malaknik worked on the floor for a while. I could hear Julie and Betsy Weston laughing in the bedroom, and I knew I might not have much more time. I hit the fast-forward button and advanced the film quickly. They continued cleaning the floor, and then they left, too. No one else came inside. Almost immediately afterward, the tape ended and the screen went blue again.

I rewound it and played the first five minutes again, staring closely at the first man in the room and the victim. I didn’t recognize either of them, but I wanted to be able to offer a good description. I didn’t know too much about camera surveillance, but my guess was Weston had been using a wireless camera system. He had told his wife a camera that was illegally installed captured the murder. That implied breaking and entering to install the camera, which meant it had to be small and well concealed. A closed-circuit camera seemed out of the question in that circumstance, because that meant the camera, recorder, and tape all had to be on the premises. That would be far more difficult to conceal than a wireless camera. Joe and I had equipment catalogs with some extremely small color video cameras that would broadcast a signal fifteen hundred feet or more. Some of them, the really expensive stuff, used satellite technology much like a cellular phone and could broadcast a signal as far as you needed it. Hubbard could certainly afford to pay for that, if he’d wanted such technology.

Betsy’s laugh grew louder, and I realized they’d left the bedroom. I ejected the tape, put it back into its box, and slid it under the couch, then turned to them. Julie’s eyes were searching me as if she could absorb what I had seen without asking. I kept my face impassive.

“Get the room cleaned up?”

“We made the bed real pretty,” Betsy said. “Wanna see?”

Julie laughed. “I don’t think Mr. Perry needs to see, hon.”

“She can call me Lincoln,” I said. “You guys ready for that walk now?”

“Yes!” Betsy said, clapping her hands. “I love the beach.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “To the beach we go, then. Hold on one second while I go brush my teeth.”

I went into the bathroom, carrying my bag, and removed the Glock. I clipped my holster onto my belt near the small of my back. The holster fit inside the waistband of my shorts, helping to conceal it, and it clipped onto the belt with two snaps, meaning I didn’t have to take the belt off each time I put the holster on or removed it. The gun was secure and hard to detect, but I could draw it quickly. I hadn’t been expecting to need to wear the gun at all times, but that plan had changed. Death can come when least expected. The morning’s video viewing had reminded me of that.

IT WAS an amazing day. The sun was out in full force, and the rays reflected off the sand and water, making the entire beach sparkle. There was a mild breeze off the water, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. We walked along the tide line. Betsy walked very close to the water, jumping back when the waves came close and shrieking with laughter when the water touched her feet.

“It’s cold,” she said. “Too cold for swimming. That’s not fair. I wanted to go swimming.” Her skin looked dark enough that I was sure she’d spent plenty of time in the sun the past few days. Julie’s was the same shade. I was trying not to pay too much attention to her skin, though. Once you started, it was damn hard to stop. Better never to get started.

“Don’t whine too much,” Julie said. “If you whine about the water being cold, Lincoln will probably get tired of you and throw you into the ocean.”

“He would not!” Betsy regarded me with wide eyes.

I shrugged. “No promises.”

“Mom!” she squealed. “Don’t let him throw me in the ocean.”

“He looks pretty strong,” Julie said in mock seriousness. “I don’t know if I could stop him.”

There were dozens of people lying on the beach on blankets or in lawn chairs, soaking up the sun and relaxing, but I knew it was nothing compared to what you’d see in the summer, when tourist season was at its peak. We walked north along the beach for maybe a mile. We passed nothing but hotels and saw nothing but more hotels stretching on before us in either direction. It was amazing. How many hotels did this town have?

After about a mile we turned and headed back. Betsy was still playing her game of dancing away from the waves, and she held her mother’s hand as they walked. They fit together so well, so naturally, mother and daughter, a little bit of one in the other. I wondered if Wayne Weston had fit in as well-if people sitting on the beach would have watched the three Westons stroll along and said, “Isn’t that a perfect little family.” Maybe I stood out to the people watching us as the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. Perhaps I could combat that by walking hand in hand with Julie.

“Well, Lincoln?” Julie said.

“Huh?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Sorry. Lost in thought.”

She smiled. “Betsy was talking to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, and looked down at the girl. “What did you say?”

“I said I knew you wouldn’t throw me in the water,” she announced. “And I was right. We’re back at the hotel and you didn’t throw me in.”

I snapped my fingers as if recalling a forgotten task. “I knew I had something to do before we went back inside.”