climbed the stairs of the old two-story apartment building. Moments later, Tony and a frizzy-haired blonde stuck their heads out a window. Tony yelled down for a pack of cigarettes. One of the goons threw a pack up to him. An hour later, Tony hurried out of the building, tucking in his shirt as he got into his car.
Sara carefully cased the building. There was a fire escape in the alleyway on the side of the apartment house. The front door had a buzz-in security system, but it wasn’t working, so Sara could just walk in. Leading up to the second floor was a steep staircase at least twenty-five feet long. And at the top of it was a large utility closet. At the bottom of the stairs was a rock-hard tiled floor. Sara had her plan.
The following Tuesday morning, Sara arrived at the apartment house at noon and waited in the utility closet for Two-Ton Tony’s arrival. He entered his girlfriend’s apartment at two o’clock sharp. Quickly, Sara strung a wire across the top step and went back into the closet, hoping no one else would use the staircase. No one did. Thirty minutes later, Two-Ton Tony hurried out of the apartment, tucking his shirt in over a grossly protuberant gut. He never saw the wire. Two-Ton Tony took a header straight down twenty-five feet. His head bashed into the tiled floor at the bottom of the staircase, with three hundred pounds of fat driving it in. Two-Ton Tony Giamarro was DOL—dead on landing. Sara hurriedly retrieved the wire and went back into the closet until the coast was clear. The next day she collected her ten thousand dollars.
Sara’s thoughts came back to the present. She again wondered about the concern in David’s voice. Something was bothering him. It had to be the hit before last, the old guy she’d conked on the head before pushing him into the ocean. No one had seen her—she was sure of that. But then again, how sure could one be? And if someone had seen her, the man’s death went from accidental drowning to murder. And that would be bad, very bad. She would have a dissatisfied client who might demand some sort of refund on the $15,000 fee. Sara would hate that. She had already invested the money.
The back door opened. David Westmoreland stepped out and looked up at the gray sky and light drizzle. “It’s more mist than rain,” he commented.
“It’s supposed to get heavy later on,” Sara said.
“The plants could use it.”
“Yeah.”
David lit a cigarette and glanced around the alley, making certain they were alone. “How did it go last night?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“It was straightforward,” Sara told him. “He went down a dark street in a bad neighborhood where they deal a lot of drugs. They’ll think an addict killed him for his money.”
“You empty his pockets?”
Sara nodded. “I didn’t even leave small change.”
David handed her a thick manila envelope. “There may be a problem with the guy you iced on that yacht.”
Sara’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression even. “Like what?”
“Like they’re going to do an autopsy on the guy.”
Sara shrugged. “They do that routinely in suspected drowning cases.”
“Is it routine to have the autopsy done by a renowned forensic pathologist at Memorial Hospital?”
“No,” she had to admit. “But that won’t change the diagnosis. The guy was holding his head as he went overboard. That meant he had plenty of time to suck seawater into his lungs before he died.”
“And that’s all they need to prove he drowned?”
Sara nodded again. “That’s what the pathology textbook I studied says.”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” David said evenly, but his eyes stayed cold as ice. “Because we don’t like screwups, do we?”
“No, we don’t.”
“I’ve got another job for you.” David pointed to the manila envelope. “The information is in there. It’s a doctor. A high-profile hit.”
“How high?”
“Big time,” David answered. “And it’s got to
Sara carefully cased the building. There was a fire escape in the alleyway on the side of the apartment house. The front door had a buzz-in security system, but it wasn’t working, so Sara could just walk in. Leading up to the second floor was a steep staircase at least twenty-five feet long. And at the top of it was a large utility closet. At the bottom of the stairs was a rock-hard tiled floor. Sara had her plan.
The following Tuesday morning, Sara arrived at the apartment house at noon and waited in the utility closet for Two-Ton Tony’s arrival. He entered his girlfriend’s apartment at two o’clock sharp. Quickly, Sara strung a wire across the top step and went back into the closet, hoping no one else would use the staircase. No one did. Thirty minutes later, Two-Ton Tony hurried out of the apartment, tucking his shirt in over a grossly protuberant gut. He never saw the wire. Two-Ton Tony took a header straight down twenty-five feet. His head bashed into the tiled floor at the bottom of the staircase, with three hundred pounds of fat driving it in. Two-Ton Tony Giamarro was DOL—dead on landing. Sara hurriedly retrieved the wire and went back into the closet until the coast was clear. The next day she collected her ten thousand dollars.
Sara’s thoughts came back to the present. She again wondered about the concern in David’s voice. Something was bothering him. It had to be the hit before last, the old guy she’d conked on the head before pushing him into the ocean. No one had seen her—she was sure of that. But then again, how sure could one be? And if someone had seen her, the man’s death went from accidental drowning to murder. And that would be bad, very bad. She would have a dissatisfied client who might demand some sort of refund on the $15,000 fee. Sara would hate that. She had already invested the money.
The back door opened. David Westmoreland stepped out and looked up at the gray sky and light drizzle. “It’s more mist than rain,” he commented.
“It’s supposed to get heavy later on,” Sara said.
“The plants could use it.”
“Yeah.”
David lit a cigarette and glanced around the alley, making certain they were alone. “How did it go last night?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“It was straightforward,” Sara told him. “He went down a dark street in a bad neighborhood where they deal a lot of drugs. They’ll think an addict killed him for his money.”
“You empty his pockets?”
Sara nodded. “I didn’t even leave small change.”
David handed her a thick manila envelope. “There may be a problem with the guy you iced on that yacht.”
Sara’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression even. “Like what?”
“Like they’re going to do an autopsy on the guy.”
Sara shrugged. “They do that routinely in suspected drowning cases.”
“Is it routine to have the autopsy done by a renowned forensic pathologist at Memorial Hospital?”
“No,” she had to admit. “But that won’t change the diagnosis. The guy was holding his head as he went overboard. That meant he had plenty of time to suck seawater into his lungs before he died.”
“And that’s all they need to prove he drowned?”
Sara nodded again. “That’s what the pathology textbook I studied says.”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” David said evenly, but his eyes stayed cold as ice. “Because we don’t like screwups, do we?”
“No, we don’t.”
“I’ve got another job for you.” David pointed to the manila envelope. “The information is in there. It’s a doctor. A high-profile hit.”
“How high?”
“Big time,” David answered. “And it’s got to
Similar Books
