'What's going on?' Lucas asked.
'The Allen killing,' Mallard said. 'Anything at all?'
Lucas looked at Sherrill, who looked at Mallard and said, 'We're looking at her husband, a lawyer here.'
'Mafia connections?' Mallard asked, breaking in.
'No, nothing we've seen.You have information...?'
'Never heard of him,' Mallard said. 'Couldn't find any record of him at all, in our files - he never served in the military. Never even got a traffic ticket, as far as I can tell. A dull boy.'
'We've been looking at his wife, too,' Sherrill said, 'Trying to figure out something in her background that might get the attention of a pro, if this was a pro...'
'It was,' Mallard said.
'What...?'
'Go ahead with what you were going to say about
the wife.' He had a precise way of speaking, just like
an economics professor.
'We've been looking at her,' Black said, picking up
for Sherrill. 'We've had some of our business guys
looking over her assets, but there's nothing there. Her money's been managed for decades. No big losses, no big gains, just a nice steady eleven percent per year. No changes. We looked at this charity she works with, too. Her grandfather set it up, and she and her parents are on the board, with some other relatives. But it's mostly taking care of old folks. We can give you all the stuff, if you want it, but we don't see anything.'
Mallard looked at Lucas, then at Benson, the assistant AIC, then said, 'Goddamnit,' in a professorial way.
'Tell us,' Lucas said.
"The woman who did it is a pro,' Mallard said.
'She's not very tall - maybe five-three or five-four.
She once lived in St. Louis, or the St. Louis area. She
might have a southern accent. She became active
about twelve or thirteen years ago, and we think she's
killed twenty-seven people, including your Mrs. Allen.
We think she's got some tie with some element -
maybe just a single person - in the St. Louis Mafia
crowd. And that's wht we got. We would really like to
get more.'
'Twenty-seven,' Lucas said, impressed. 'Could be more, if she's taken the time to get rid of some of the bodies, or if it took her a while to
develop her signature - the silenced pistols, close up. But we're sure it's at least twenty-seven. She does good research, gets the victim alone, kills them and vanishes. We think she does her research to the point where she picks out the precise spot for the murder, in advance...'
'How would you know that?' Black asked.
'Because the caliber of the pistol is always appropriate for the spot. If it's out in the open, it's usually nine millimeter or a.40. If it's enclosed with concrete, like it was here, and a few other places, it's always a.22 - you don't want to be in a concrete stairwell with nine millimeter fragments flying around like bees. She uses standard-velocity.22 hollow points which turn the brain into oatmeal but stay inside the skull, for the most part.'
"That's it? That's what you've got?' Black asked.
'Not quite. We think she drives to the city where the hit takes place. We've torn passenger manifests apart for the airlines, all around the suspect killings, looking for anything that might be a pattern.'
'And nothing,' Black said.
'Oh, no. We found patterns,' Mallard said. 'All kinds of patterns. We just didn't find her pattern. We've looked at several hundred people, and we've got nothing.'
'She always works for pay?' Sherrill asked.
'We don't know what she works for. Some of the hits have been internal Mafia business - but some of them, maybe half, look like straight commercial deals.
We just don't know. Twenty-seven murders, and there's never been a conviction,' Mallard said. 'There have been a couple of situations in which wives were killed, and we suspect the husband was involved, but there's nothing to go on. Nothing. In none of the cases was it even remotely possible that the husbands were present for the killing: they were always in some well-documented other place.'
'Can we get your files on her?'
'That's what I'm here for,' Mallard said. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a square cardboard envelope, and slid it across the table at Sherrill. 'Duplicate CDs: everything we've got on every case where she's been involved. Names, dates, techniques, suspects, photographs of everybody and all the crime scenes. The first file is an index.'
'Thanks.'
'Anything you get,' Mallard said. 'No matter how thin it is, please call me. I want this woman.'
Louise Clark decided that she could talk to Carmel only after Hale Allen convinced her it was okay. 'I'm a lawyer, Louise,' Allen said. 'It's all right to talk to Carmel - the cops are just busting our balls.'
'If you're sure,' Clark said anxiously. She was a thin, mousy woman with lank brown hair, a fleshy nose, and nervous, bony hands. 'It's just that the police said...'
Clark did not look like any sex machine Carmel had ever seen; but, she thought to herself, you never
know. 'He's sure,' Carmel said abruptly. They were sitting in Denny's, and had been talking for ten minutes and the woman had started whining. Carmel didn't like whiners. She looked at Hale Allen. 'Why don't you take a walk around the block? I want to talk to Louise alone.'
So Hale Allen went for a walk, his hands in the pockets of his light woolen slacks, wearing a great blue-checked sportcoat over a black t-shirt. The coat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and both women watched him as he held the door for a woman coming into the restaurant with a child; the woman said something to Allen, who gave her the great grin, and they had a little conversation in the doorway.
After a few seconds, Allen continued on his way; and Carmel and Louise had their talk.
Carmel had a king-sized bed with two regular pillows and a five-foot-long body-pillow that she could wrap her legs around when she slept. Although she told people that she slept nude - all part of the image - she actually slept in an extra-large Jockey t-shirt and boxer shorts. With the shirt loose around her shoulders and her legs wrapped around the pillow, she lay in bed that night and re-ran mousy Louise Clark.
For the most part, Clark's story was the same oF story. She and Allen spent time alone, in their work. They shared a lot of stress. His wife didn't understand him. They developed a relationship based on mutual
respect, bla-bla-bla-bla. They fell into bed at the Up North Motel. Then the Mouse stuck it to Carmel.
'The first time I saw him naked in the motel there, it was afterwards. Really, after we made love, he was just so... beautiful. He's a beautiful man.'Then her eyes flickered, and she added, girl-to-girl, a little giggle, a half-whisper, 'And he's really large. Beautiful and really, really, large. He filled me up.'
Carmel squeezed the pillow between her legs and tried to squeeze the image out of her head. Hale Allen and the Mouse. Large.
The alarm went off at seven o'clock sharp. Carmel pushed out of bed, slow and grumpy, robbed of her usual sound sleep. Large? How large? She scratched her ass, yawned, stretched and headed for the bathroom. A half-hour later, she was drinking her first cup of coffee, eating her second piece of toast, and checking the Star-Tribune for leaks about Allen and Clark, when the phone rang.
'Yes.'
'Miz Loan? This is Bill, downstairs.' Bill was the doorman.
'What?' Still grumpy.
'We got a package for you, says Urgent. I was wondering if we should bring it up.'
'What kind of package?'
'Small one. Feels like... looks like... could be a video tape,' Bill said.
'All right, bring it up.'
Bill brought it up, and Carmel gave him a five-dollar bill and turned the package in her hand as she closed the door. Bill was right: probably a video. Plain brown wrapping paper. She pulled the paper off, found a note written with a ballpoint pen on notebook paper. All it said was, 'Sorry.'
&nb
sp; Carmel frowned, walked the tape to the media room, plugged it into the VHS player, and brought it up.
A woman's image came up, and Carmel recognized it immediately. She was looking at herself, sitting in the now-understandably bright light of Rolando's kitchen, just a little more than a month ago.
The on-screen Carmel was saying, 'Only kind I drink.' And then, 'So you made the call.'
A man's voice off-camera said, 'Yes. And she's still working, and she'll take the job.'
'She? It's a woman?'
'Yeah. I was surprised myself. I never asked, you know, I only knew who to call. But when I asked, my friend said, "She."'
'She's gotta be good,' the on-screen Carmel said. The off-screen Carmel decided that the camera must have been in the cupboard, shooting through a partly open door.
'She's good. She has a reputation. Never misses,' the man's voice said. 'Very efficient, very fast. Always from very close range, so there's no mistake.' A man's hand appeared in the picture, with a mug of coffee. Carmel watched her on-screen self as she turned it
with her fingertips, then picked it up.
'That's what I need,' she said on-screen, and she took a sip of the coffee. Carmel remembered that it had been pretty good coffee. Very hot.
'You're sure about this?' asked the man's voice. 'Once I tell them "Yes," it'll be hard to stop. This woman, the way she moves, nobody knows where she is, or what name she's using. If you say, "Yes," she kills Barbara Allen.'
The on-screen Carmel frowned. 'I'm sure,' she said. The off-screen Carmel winced at the sound of Barbara Allen's name. She'd forgotten that.
'You've got the money?' the man asked.
'At the house. I brought your ten.'
The on-screen Carmel put the mug down, dug in her purse, pulled out a thin deck of currency and laid it on the table. The man's hand reached into the picture and picked it up. 'I'll tell you this,' the voice said. 'When they come and ask for it, pay every penny. Every penny. Don't argue, just pay. If you don't, they won't try to collect. They'll make an example out of you.'
'I know how it works,' on-screen Carmel said. 'They'll get it. And nobody'll be able to trace it, because I've had it stashed. It's absolutely clean.'
'Then if you say "Yes," I'll call them tonight. And they'll kill Barbara Allen.'
Carmel, off-screen, had to admire her on-screen performance. She never flinched, she just stood up and said, 'Yes. Do it.'
The tape skipped a bit, then focused on a black telephone. 'I'm really sorry about this, but you know about my problem. I'm gonna have to have twenty-five thousand, like, tomorrow,' the man's voice said. 'I'll call and tell you where.'
The tape ended. Carmel took a long pull on her coffee, walked into the kitchen, poured the last couple of ounces into the sink, and then hurled the cup at one of the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on her balcony. The cup bounced, without breaking. Carmel didn't see it; she was ricocheting around the kitchen, sweeping glasses, dishes, the knife block, a toaster, silverware, off the cupboards and tables and stove and onto the floor, kicking them as they landed, scattering them; and all the time she growled through clenched teeth, not a scream, but a harsh humming sound, like a hundred-pound hornet.
She trashed the kitchen and then the breakfast area; and finally cut herself on a broken glass. The sight of the blood flowing from the back of her hand brought her back.
'Fuckin' Rolo,' she said. She bled on the floor. 'Fuckin' Rolo, fuckin' Rolo, fuckin' Rolo...'
Chapter Five
For the rest of the evening, Carmel worked her way through alternate rages and periods of calm; fantasized the painful end of Rolando D'Aquila. And finally admitted to herself that she was in a corner.
She called Rinker, left a number and said, 'This is really urgent. We've got a big problem.'
The next day, a little after one o'clock in the afternoon, Rinker called on Carmel's magic cell phone. She didn't introduce herself, she simply said in her dry accent, 'I'm calling you back. I hate problems.'
Carmel said, 'Hold on: I want to lock my door.' She stuck her head out into the reception area, said to the secretary, 'I need ten minutes alone,' stepped back inside and locked the door.
'All right...' she began, but Rinker cut her off.
'Is your phone safe?'
'Yes. It's registered under my mother's name -she's remarried, and has a different last name. Like the Volvo. It's good for... special contacts.'
'You have a lot of those in your job?'
'Enough,' Carmel said. 'Anyway, I'm calling about Rolando D'Aquila, who is the guy who put me in touch with you.'
'What happened?' Rinker asked.
Carmel explained, quickly, then said, 'I would have thought the people on your side would have been warned against this. You push somebody into a corner...'
'What? What would you do?' Carmel could feel the warning edge on the other woman's voice.
'I'm sure as hell not going to turn you in, or talk to the police, if that's what you're worried about,' Carmel said, defensively. 'But there has to be some kind of resolution. Rolo's a junkie. If I give him every dime I've got, he'll put it up his nose. When he's got every dime, he'll still have the tape, and he'll start looking around for somebody to sell it to. Like TV. Then I'm gone - and you, too. The cops will put Rolo through the wringer before they give him any kind of immunity, and you can't tell what'll come from that.'
'Maybe nothing,' Rinker said. 'He's off there on the edge of things.'
'Bullshit. Sooner or later, he'll give them the guy he called about you,' Carmel argued. 'Then they'll squeeze that guy. You know how it works. This is murder we're talking about; this is thirty years in the state penitentiary for everybody involved. That's a lot of squeeze. And believe me, I'm well enough known in the Cities that there'd be a hurricane of shit if this got out. This is not something the cops would let go.'
'When are you paying him off? This Rolo guy?' Rinker asked.
'I'm supposed to meet him in the Crystal Court
tomorrow at five o'clock. I put him off as long as I could, told him it'll take time to get the money together. The Crystal Court is this big interior court...'
'I was there,' Rinker said.
'Okay. Anyway, I give him the money, and he gives me the tape. I insisted that he show up, personally. But the best he'll do is give me a copy of the tape. He says there's only one, but he's lying. He'll want to come back for more money.'
'You're sure about that?'
'He's a fuckin' dope dealer, for Christ's sakes.'
After a couple of seconds silence, Rinker said, 'There's a flight into Minneapolis tomorrow morning. I can be there at eleven thirty-five.'
'I don't know...' Carmel started.Then, in a rush, 'I don't know if I want to see your face. I'm afraid you'll have to kill me.'
'Honey, there're a couple of dozen people who know my face,' Rinker said. 'One more won't make any difference, especially when I know she paid me for a hit. I'd rather you not see me, but we've got to fix this thing. You're gonna have to help.'
Carmel didn't hesitate: 'I know that.'
'The thing is, we're gonna have to talk to him about where the tape is,' Rinker said.
'Yes.Talk to him privately,' Carmel said. 'I'd figured that out.'
'That's right... Why'd you insist that he meet you in person?'
'Because I thought you might want in... at that point,' Carmel said.
Rinker chuckled: 'All right. You ever kill anybody?'
'No.'
'You might be good at it. With a little training.'
'Probably,' Carmel said. 'But it doesn't pay enough.'
Rinker chuckled again and said, 'See you at eleven fifty-five. Bring the Jag. And wear jeans and walking shoes.'
Carmel hadn't known what to expect. A tough-looking, square-faced hillbilly with bony wrists and shoulders, maybe - or somebody beefy, who might have been a prison guard at Auschwitz. The next day, at noon, she looked right past the first passengers getting off t
he plane from Kansas City, looking for somebody who fit the assorted images she'd created in her mind. When Rinker's voice came out of a well-dressed young woman with carefully-coiffed blonde-over-blonde hair and just a slight aristocratic touch of lipstick, Carmel jumped, startled. The woman was carrying a leather backpack, and was right at Carmel's elbow.
'Hello?'
'What?'