Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

I went over to my backpack and dropped the Glock in. When I walked back and stood in front of him, I thought he would faint. He couldn’t get his pants off fast enough. I pulled my sweater over my head and started to unbutton my jeans.

He stopped me. “I get an hour. Not a minute less.” I watched him put his hands on me. The sweat glistened around the edges of his palms. I watched him move them over me. I let him touch me wherever he wanted.

“No kissing,” I said. “Don’t touch my face.”

“Your face,” he said, moving me closer, “is not what I’m interested in.”

The large muscles of my back and shoulders, the muscles of resistance, had twisted into a massive knot of dull, aching pain. When I tried to swivel the tension out of my neck, it cracked and popped. But where it hurt most was in my gut. All the terrible thoughts in my head and all the memories of what Stewart had done-of what I had let him do-had slipped down into the boiling, spitting, churning pit of my stomach and hurt so much I was doubled over with my forehead on the steering wheel.

I was still in the parking lot of Stewart’s building. I had dressed as quickly as I could, pulled each article of clothing on with the clear conviction that I would burn it before wearing it again. They all smelled of him, and of me with him, and I wanted nothing more than to find a shower somewhere and wash myself clean. But what I understood, what was making my stomach hurt so much, was knowing that I couldn’t get clean with soap and water.

Jamie’s CD was on the seat next to me. I’d watched Stewart burn the loathsome file onto it. I’d watched as he’d gone through and deleted the same file from several directories. There was no guarantee that he didn’t have copies stashed somewhere, but I had done everything I could think of to erase at least his copies of Jamie’s bad deed. I had done more than I thought I ever could, and I still hadn’t gotten to Angel’s copy.

A wave of dead air came over me, then a disorienting pressure in my face. I closed my eyes, and all I could see was Stewart’s face floating over me and my own looking back at me in his mirror. I saw Robin Sevitch’s battered head and Harvey ’s eyes when he’d said, “Shame on you.” I saw Jamie shattered, and I saw Tristan betrayed, and I started to think there wasn’t anything I had done so far that was right. Then I saw Angel. I heard her laughing at me. I squeezed my eyes shut and ground my teeth until my ears rang. I waited for the pressure to ease. When it did, I reached into my glove box and pulled out the extra clip Bo had pressed on me. I took the gun from my bag and popped it in. I knew exactly what I had to do. Seldom in my life had I been as clear about anything.

STEWART HAD THE STEREO CRANKED UP AGAIN, so when I hoisted the nearby bag of potting soil through his front window, he didn’t hear. He didn’t hear me when I climbed through or came down the hall to find him lounging at his desk. Just the sight of him, bloated and satisfied, set off a storming rage inside, some for what he had done, a lot for what I had done, and all of it directed at him.

The first thing I needed was to make the music stop. I switched the gun to my left hand, reached over with the other, and tried to push the shelf unit over, the one with the stereo, the CDs, and the statues of comic book characters. It was heavy, so I had to slip my knee in for more leverage. I rocked it until I could feel it poised on the brink. A group of statues from one of the higher shelves slipped off and took headers straight into the hardwood floor. I pushed, and the music stopped. In its place was the sound of very expensive electronic equipment crashing about with magnificent force. It went on for a while.

Stewart bolted from his chair and ran for his life. He ended up in the corner with palms pressed against the sides of his head. By the time the last of the CDs had skated across the floor, he had his hands lifted to the heavens as if to plead for intervention. I raised the gun and pointed it at him. He wasn’t getting any.

As I lined him up in my sight, I didn’t feel anything. He could have been a paper target. He might have sensed that, because he stood frozen, staring at me in the silence, which was resounding after my cacophonous entrance.

“I had another clip, Stewart. Why don’t you come back and sit down?”

“You won’t kill me.”

I walked toward him, stepping around the pieces of equipment but directly on top of as many CD cases as I could. Some of them had sprung open, which left their discs vulnerable to the bottom of my boot. I liked the way they crunched underfoot.

I put the barrel against his right temple. “Look into my eyes, Stewart.”

He looked into mine, and I bored into his with every ounce of fury and hatred I could summon. He looked for a long time. I knew what he was staring at. It was ugly. I could feel it. Finally, he moved back to his chair and sat.

“Put your hands on the armrests.”

He did. But the armrests were too short, which meant he had to pull his elbows in close to his mushy body, which pushed his shoulders up around his ears.

“Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded in a small voice. “It was her idea. Please, don’t hurt me.”

I didn’t want him looking at me. I never wanted his eyes on me again. I turned the chair so he faced away, found his keys, and opened his desk drawer. I pulled out the clip he’d taken and stuck it in my pocket.

“What was her idea?”

“She told me you would do anything to get the video of your brother back. She told me what she wanted, and she said I would get a bonus.”

“If what?”

“If I could get you to have sex with me.”

I looked around at the equipment on the floor. “Did you make a video?”

“She said she didn’t need one.”

This was where I was supposed to fly into a rage, but I was already beyond rage. “Pull up the index of Angel’s archive. Use one hand.”

He had a hard time keeping his hand steady enough to maneuver, but eventually, he got to what I wanted to see. He clicked on the file, and a list came up. It looked like a directory list. Politicians-federal, state, and local. Law enforcement-federal, state, and local. Lawyers-civil and criminal. Judges and district attorneys. Media, sports, education, financial-brokers, investment bankers. He clicked on the file labeled “Lawyers,” and a list of names fell out. Next to each name was a code.

“What are the codes?”

“It’s how the videos are filed. There are no names on the files. Just the codes.” Like the ones I had seen on the Margolies video. “You have to have the key to know who everyone is.”

“Send the index to this address.” I read out Felix’s e-mail address to him, and he set it up and sent it.

“What kind of files did you make for Angel?”

“W-w-w-hat do you…”

“Whatformat?”

“CD-Rom.”

“Tell me where Angel keeps her copies.”

He paused just long enough for a moment of calculation. “I don’t know.”

I spun him around so I could see his face. He was pale, his skin was clammy and damp, and his jaw was trembling. But he was lying, and I wasn’t leaving without the information I needed. I had nowhere else to get it.

“Get out of the chair.”

“What?”

“Kneel on the floor, and put your hands on the back of your head.” I wasn’t sure who was talking. It sounded like me. The words were coming out of my mouth.

“Why?” I thought he’d been panicky before, but now I saw the true state of Stewart’s desperation. As he lowered himself, his entire body vibrated. The frizzy ends of his hair sparkled with perspiration. “Why do you want me to get down on the floor?”