David Liss - The Ethical Assassin

My stomach did little loops. I was on to something. “No trouble. I’m just wondering is all.”

“Kean,” she said again. “Is he bothering you? Please tell me he’s bothering you.”

“He’s not bothering me. Just confusing me a little.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that.”

I thought for a second. What exactly did I hope to learn? “What story is he working on?”

She laughed again. “What is he working on, or what is he supposed to be working on? Anything is possible with that guy.”

“But he is a reporter at your paper?”

“Yes, like it or not, he is.”

“And you don’t like it?”

“Nah,” she said, moderating her tone. “The kid’s great. Just a little weird. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do a decent job, when he puts his mind to it. Or goes after the story he’s assigned. Or makes deadline.”

“That bad?” I tried to sound sympathetic, like the kind of person to whom she would want to open up. “How does he keep his job?”

“This is where being a pampered, overeducated rich kid comes in handy for him. He’s the son of Houston Kean, a big shot in the business community here. The guy owns about a million car dealerships and he advertises a ton with us. A ton. So if the publisher wants this big advertiser’s son to remain employed…” She paused for a few seconds. “It’s late and I’m cranky. Forget I said any of that.”

“Sure. No problem. But can you tell me what story he’s working on?”

“I guess so. I mean, why not, right? There are two things. One I can’t tell you about except that we got a tip from another reporter, one who didn’t want to take the story herself. A woman who works for one of the local TV stations, but her beat is supermarket openings and celebrity visits, so she passed it along. There’s some funny business going on in a trailer park near Jacksonville. But that happened after Kean already left for Jacksonville, and it’s about as much as I can tell you.”

“And the other story?”

“Get this,” she said, as though we were old friends. “Pets. There’s been a string of dog and cat disappearances in the area, and he went down to investigate. Pets. A hot piece of investigative journalism. He’s been working on the story for three weeks, and he’s yet to file a single paragraph. It’s like he wants to get fired. I don’t get this guy.”

I got him. I got him with no trouble, because suddenly everything started to make sense. Well, not everything. But some things, and that was an improvement.

I was not about to waste any time. I ran down the stairs and found Chitra still in midchatter with a small cluster of friends. She looked happy and radiant, as though the business with Ronny Neil had never happened. That was bad. I wanted her to be afraid.

I took her hand. “Come on,” I said as I yanked her up. “We have to go.” I pulled her by the hand into the little building with the registration desk. “I need a room,” I told Sameen, who appeared very disturbed that I was still holding on to Chitra.

“Yes, certainly,” he mumbled.

“Sameen, I need it to be on the far side, by the parking lot. As far away from the Educational Advantage Media group as possible.” I took out my wallet and put three twenties on the desk. It was half the money I had on me, and I hoped I wouldn’t need it later. “This is a secret. You understand, sir? There’s a man in our group who tried to hurt this young lady tonight. I’m trying to put her somewhere she’ll be safe.”

The look on his face changed considerably. He slid the money back toward me. “I do not need to be bribed to do the right thing,” he said softly. “You are a good boy to help her.”

I blushed, since I didn’t feel like an especially good boy. “Thanks.”

I grabbed the key and, still holding her hand, half jogged around to the back of the motel, where we found the room. I opened the room, led Chitra inside, and shut the door softly, as though afraid to alert anyone.

“That’s some story,” Chitra said. She turned on the light and began to look around, as though the room might somehow be different from the one she was already staying in. The one with all her clothes, I thought.

I took her hand again and kissed her swiftly on the lips. “Listen, Chitra, there’s a lot going on and more than I have time to tell you. I need to go somewhere, and it is a little dangerous. I don’t want you to open the door for anyone but me. And if I’m not back by meeting time tomorrow morning, don’t wait for them to come looking for you. Call a cab and get out of here. Go to the bus station. Just go home.”

“What is this about? Ronny Neil can’t be that dangerous, can he?”

I shook my head. “It’s not about Ronny Neil. Not the way you mean. I think this whole operation, Educational Advantage Media- all of it- is a front for something else. I don’t know what, exactly, but it involves drugs, and there are some pretty high-powered guys involved, and people have already been hurt. Don’t trust any of the bookmen, especially not the Gambler. Bobby might be okay, but I’m not sure enough to tell you to trust him.”

“Are you serious about all of this?”

I nodded. “I wish I weren’t.”

“Let me come with you,” she said.

I laughed, a stupid guffaw of air. “It’s not a movie, Chitra. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to take you along for the fun of watching me try to figure it out. I just want you to be safe, that’s all. That’s how you can help, by being safe.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Remember, don’t let them come looking for you. If I’m not back by nine tomorrow morning, call a cab and go.”

“Okay.”

“And give me your home phone number,” I said. “In case I’m not dead, I want to call you.”

THE REPORTER WAS GONE, convinced that the story was all a hoax. He’d seemed reluctant at first, but a few hundred dollars had set him straight. The Gambler knew those guys liked to act all high and mighty, but they were no better than anyone else.

Now it was just him and B.B. He dumped some Seagram’s vodka into a plastic bathroom cup and then pulled the wet carton of orange juice from the ice bucket. Little disks of ice scattered over the brown carpet, and he idly kicked them under the dresser while he mixed the drink.

“You want?” he asked B.B., bracing himself for rejection, since B.B. generally wouldn’t drink anything but his fancy bullshit wine. Screwdrivers were beneath contempt.

B.B. shook his head. “Nah.”

“We’ve got things to discuss,” the Gambler said. “Big, strategic things that always work better with drinks. You want to get some wine and then sit down to hash it out?”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

Jesus, what was wrong with this guy? Another bombshell dropped, and he sat there looking like a retard. The screwdriver was too vodka heavy, but he drank it down because… why the hell not. He then sat at the foot of the bed and looked at B.B.

“Well, let’s do it. What do you think about the kid?”

“The kid?” B.B. asked. “Which one? The older one?”

Holy hell. He was still thinking about those boys outside. His little empire was falling down around him, and he was still thinking about sticking it to those boys outside.

“Altick.” The Gambler tried to rein in his impatience. “You think he’s probably okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“What did Desiree say about him?”

“She didn’t see anything weird with him,” he said, and then turned to look at the window, even though the heavy cloth curtains had been drawn closed. “She said he seemed okay.”