A Killing Kiss Page 4

  He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t catch his breath. He had the urge to swallow. Swallow repeatedly. Swallow something that was hot and tasted salty. Hands flew up to his throat. Felt the deep slash across his neck. Felt the blood pulsing out with each beat of his heart. He tried to scream but only odd, frail gurgling noises came out of his throat. Feeling weak, feeling the strength leaving him, he took another step back and then sank to his knees. Holding his neck with both hands he looked up and into the smiling face of Smitty.

  “When you get there, Harry, say hello to Charlie for me. And don’t worry. A few more of your friends will be joining you soon. Trust me.”

  That was it. That was all Harry remembered. Remembered for the rest of eternity.

  #

  Oddly, last night’s hot, humid night and rumbling thunder never made any rain. And tonight, tonight it was the same thing. Hot. Sticky hot. Not a breath of air stirring. Lightning in the distance of an approaching thunderstorm. Impressive to watch.

  Driving across town he sat in a second rental car and worked the wheel with one hand. The other he had folded across the door’s open window. He liked the heat. He liked the humid air. He wasn’t in the least bit uncomfortable. As he drove in silence through the city traffic his eyes kept playing back and forth, looking, watching, always moving. He was going to take Harry’s place. He was going over to Dutch’s house and persuade them to stay out of this little fracas. Persuade them in the only fashion he was sure would remove any threat of Dutch and friends from reneging on their promises.

  When he heard the wail of the siren and saw the flashing red and blue lights of the rapidly approaching police car he didn’t flinch. The black and white patrol car was rapidly overtaking him, weaving in and out of the heavy early evening city traffic. But he didn’t feel in the least worried. Even when the police interceptor pulled up behind him and blinked its headlights at him a couple of times he felt completely calm.

  Pulling over in a semi-deserted parking lot he shoved the car’s gearshift up into park and sat back in the seat. Making sure both of his hands stayed in plain sight on the steering wheel. Dark eyes on the rear view mirror, Smitty watched as two patrolmen got out of the car and started walking toward him. The cop on the driver’s side approached directly to the open window, hand on the butt of his 9mm Beretta. Approached in such a fashion that it would force the dark-eyed man to almost twist completely around to look at him.

  The driver’s partner approached on the right-hand side of the rental. Hand on his gun and ready. As his eyes returned to watch the patrolman approach his side of the car in the door mirror, a smile played across his lips. Smiling. Yet keeping his hands visible on the steering wheel.

  “May I see your driver’s license, sir?”

  “Certainly,” Smitty said, a hand coming off the steering wheel and reaching inside his sport coat.

  He saw the officer behind him tense. Tense and grip his gun more tightly. And then relax immediately when he pulled out a flat leather credit card wallet and flipped it open. The free hand reached up and took the wallet and then angled it to one side so he could find enough light to read.

  “Your name is Innes? Harrison Innes from Topeka?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This other item says you’re a bonded, licensed private investigator, Mr. Innes. Are you armed?”

  “Yes I am. A concealed .45 Government Model underneath my left armpit.”

  “Licensed in this state, Mr. Innes?”

  “Yes indeed. Flip over to a second flap and you should find the appropriate documentation.”

  “Step out of the car, sir. And make sure we can see your hands at all times.”

  The driver’s side door opened and Smitty slid out of the car with his hands out and away from his body. When he stood up he turned and smiled into the face of the patrolman.

  “Is there anything wrong, officer?”

  “Keep quiet. We’ll ask the questions here,” the second police officer, who had now circled around the front of the rental, said gruffly.

  The dark-eyed man smiled. Smiled and waited patiently.

  “How long have you been in town, Mr. Innes?”

  “Two days. Flew in day before yesterday.”

  “What hotel are you staying at?”

  “I’m not. I’m staying at a friend’s house.”

  “The name of the friend?”

  “Menten. Mrs. Charlene Menten.”

  Both cops grunted and glanced at each other. Both gripped their guns a little tighter.

  “I think we need to take you downtown to answer some questions.”

  “Glad to oblige, officer. I’m sure the lawyers Mrs. Menten has working for her will be more than happy to answer any of your questions. I certainly plan not to say a word until legal counsel says I can. I’m equally sure they will voice their complaints to the police commissioner and to the mayor for interfering with my investigation.”

  “Investigation?” the patrolman behind him asked in a voice that sounded worried. “What investigation?

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Menten is distraught over her husband’s sudden death. A new wife, a new mother. You know how they can be. She’s convinced her husband died under suspicious circumstances. She hired me to make some inquiries. To see if her fears might be accurate. As you know, distraught women can sometimes be unreasonable. In Mrs. Menten’s case, with the influence she and her husband had in this city, I’m afraid that her erratic behavior might lead to repercussions. Unfortunate repercussions.”

  “Repercussions?” the officer in front of him repeated, a look of worry playing across his face. “What kind of repercussions?”

  “Stopping a man who has committed no apparent crime. Stopping him under unfounded suspicions. Bringing him downtown to answer unnecessary questions. After the man has openly and honestly answered all the questions you two have asked. Repercussions. The kind that could get a shift commander and a precinct captain in hot water. Very hot water.”

  The two cops looked at each other again. Frowns on their faces and worry in their eyes. But the cop in front of him made a decision. His hand came off his gun and he handed the black wallet to the dark-eyed man.

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Innes. Last night there was a shooting not too far from here. Eight, nine men killed. Two of them by a .45.”

  Smitty's lips pulled back into a snarl as he lifted a hand up and pulled the heavy weapon out of his shoulder holster. He had the ammo clip out and ejected the round in the firing chamber before the two officers could react. So fast. So incredibly fast. As they blinked eyes in stunned silence they watched the dark-eyed man offer the butt of the big semi-automatic toward them.

  “I can guarantee you this gun I’m wearing hasn’t been fired in over a month,” the dark-eyed man said, taking the small leather wallet and slipping it into his sport coat. “If you like, you can take it with you. Have your forensics lab run some tests on it. They’ll tell you there’s no match.”

  “No. That won’t be necessary, Mr. Innes. Sorry we bothered you. Good night, sir.”

  The man in front of him reached up and touched the bill of his officer’s cap and stepped back. Smitty, dark eyes flashing, smiled and nodded and slipped back into the rental. Closing the door he waited and watched the two officers return to the police car and get in. Waited for them to drive past him and disappear into the river of traffic sliding past the empty parking lot he was sitting in.

  He smiled. Smiled and thumped the ammo clip back into the semi's butt and casually pulled the slide back on the frame to slam a fresh round into the firing chamber.

  Staying calm. Staying calm in the face of uncertainty. Maintaining control and controlling the environment around you. The small things. Doing the small things correctly. Like changing weapons if one was unnecessarily... or unexpectedly... used. Like having a cover story, with appropriate documentation, to match his alibis if need be. If they had taken him downtown – if they had checked him out – they would have found t
hat Harrison Innes was a licensed, practicing private investigator from Topeka. And it would be him.

  The small things. Always the small things.

  #6

  The boss was late. Over an hour late. He didn’t like it. The boys were here. Everyone the boss asked for. Sitting around drinking booze and smoking cigarettes. Edgy. Wound up. They knew the score. Knew they were here to do a job that wasn’t going to be easy. The last thing he wanted to do was stick around much longer with these guys milling about in his place like pent-up caged monkeys.

  “Dutch, where the hell is he?” one of the boys yelled out from the kitchen and then appeared in the living room with a glass of beer in his hand. “Shit, when we gonna get this over with? I got things to do tonight. People to see.”

  Sam was always the impatient one. As big as a house. As strong as two draft horses. As smart as a sack of rocks. But good at what he did. Good with a gun or knife. Still, you had to guide him around like a child. Paint a picture for him that was black and white. And simple. Keep the instructions very simple.

  The schmuck.

  “Sam, we sit tight until the boss shows up. I don’t know who we’re taking out tonight, but whoever it is, the boss wants plenty of firepower. And no mistakes. No mistakes.”

  He had a small house out in the suburbs. Just a small ranch and attached garage. Big lawn. A deck in back. A barbeque cooker in the middle of the deck. He tried to keep the contacts in his business away from the house. Didn’t want the neighbors to start asking questions. But not tonight. Harry wanted the boys gathered up. Wanted them here when he came by. So here they were. Drinking his booze. Raiding his refrigerator. Dropping cigarette butts all over the place.

  “Dutch? Got any more bread? I think we’re out,” Sammy yelled from the kitchen, bent down with his head in the refrigerator. Again.

  “Fer chrissakes, Sammy. Get your ass in here and sit down. You fat slob. You’re gonna weigh nine hundred pounds if you don’t stop eating.”

  Jim was the smarter of the two. But not by much. And slightly smaller in build. But not by much. He was sitting on the divan in front of the TV with the clicker in his hand. Surfing through the channels absentmindedly as he waited. The two of ’em were so alike in looks and habits that they could be brothers. They weren’t. Just two gorillas momentarily out from behind bars and waiting for the first opportunity to make that big score. Like maybe the one that was supposed to happen tonight.

  Dutch shook his head in disgust at what the two fuckers were doing to his house. Turning, he walked to the picture window behind the TV set and lifted the edge of the closed curtain just enough to peek out into the front yard. In the driveway was his Chevy Suburban. Brand new. Gassed and ready to go. Glancing at the street he saw the curb in front of the house barren of any parked cars. No traffic moved down the streets. Not at this time of the night. Not in this neighborhood. Frowning, shaking his head irritably, he let go of the curtain and turned to look at the two idiots now sitting on the divan and threatening to make it collapse into itself from all the weight.

  That’s when the doorbell chimed up. A grin spread across Dutch’s lips. Nice touch, boss. Using the doorbell for the first time. Walking to the door he reached out a hand. But the door flew open – kicked open by a mighty force. It banged into his outstretched hand so hard he heard bones crack. And movement. A black shadow-like form came at him through the door.

  Yelling in pain, feeling hands grabbing his shirt, he tried to back up and take a swing. But he didn’t swing. Instead he felt the blow in his throat – a blow like a sledge hammer. A blow so hard it made his eyes water and gagged him at the same time. As his legs buckled he felt a hand reach around and grip the butt of the .38 revolver he preferred for close work. The weapon was yanked out of his pants and then – before he could scream – the gun and the hand holding it slammed into his jaw.

  Smitty stepped around the falling form of Dutch in one smooth motion, bringing the gun up and toward the two gorillas in the process. The attack came so fast... so viciously... the two on the divan had no chance. Before they could drop the beers from their hands the .38 in Smitty’s hand barked viciously. Twice. Each gorilla caught a bullet in the heart, the impact of the lead tossing them back into the divan.

  Behind him Smitty heard the semi-conscious Dutch groan. Turning, reaching behind his back, the dark-eyed man pulled out the Rock Island Government Model .45 caliber semi he had used the night before and aimed it at Dutch’s chest.

  “Nighters, Dutch,” he said, pulling the trigger.

  The big framed .45 belched flame and hot lead. Dutch was dead before his head bounced off the carpeted floor. Smitty moved. Quickly taking a handkerchief out of his coat pocket he wiped his fingerprints off the .38 and bent down. Grabbing Dutch’s hand he wrapped dead fingers around the butt. The trigger finger he pressed onto the gun’s trigger, before standing to face the thugs sitting lifelessly on a now blood-stained divan. He repeated his actions, this time taking the .45 semi-auto and sticking it into the hand of the smaller man.

  Evidence.

  It had to appear Dutch killed the two gorillas. But not before one of them, the smaller one, used his untraceable .45 caliber Government Model and plugged Dutch. Evidence would look like a triple homicide. Confusing evidence that would make the police scratch their heads. But he wasn’t finished. From his slacks Smitty pulled out the bloody switch-blade he had used on Harry Bosley. No fingerprints would be found. But lot’s of blood. Lots of Harry Bosley’s blood. Bending over the staring dead eyes of the bigger grunt Smitty slid the knife into the dead man’s front pocket.

  Good.

  Evidence would say the thug named Sammy sliced open the throat of Harry Bosley. Everyone knew Dutch worked for Harry. Everyone knew Dutch was a loyal soldier. So in a fit of rage Dutch invites Sammy and Jim over to his house and plugs the two of them in revenge. But not before Sammy puts one into Dutch. And just to make sure the cops came to the right conclusions the dark-eyed man pulled a couple of hairs out from a plastic sandwich bag he carried with him. Brown hairs straight from the hairbrush Harry liked to use mopping down what little he had left on his head. On the left arm, at the elbow, he gently deposited the hairs.

  Forensics had positive proof Sammy used his left arm to pull back Harry Bosley’s head to expose the neck. Sammy’s right hand held the murder weapon. Open and shut case. Except there would be no one to prosecute.

  Outside Smitty heard shouting. Neighbors coming out to check on the gunfire rattling the quiet residential night. Moving into the kitchen Smitty slid up to the kitchen door and opened it just a crack. Seeing no one he slid out into the night, stepped off the back deck, disappeared into a line of bushes which separated Dutch’s yard from a neighbor’s.

  #

  When he arrived at the Menten house Otto was there. Always Otto. He stood holding the kitchen door open. Stood and stared at the dark-eyed man. No emotion on his face. Nothing in his eyes. But the silent hulking giant stared unblinking for two or three heartbeats at Smitty and watched the smaller man move past him and into the kitchen.

  “Where is Mrs. Menten?”

  “Shopping. This is Thursday. Thursday’s she goes shopping.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not hardly. Three of the boys are with her. And Stu Sheppard. Stu is always with Mrs. Menten on Thursday’s. Always.”

  Smitty turned to face the towering mass of muscle and bone. The big man’s face was an unreadable mass of scars and more scars. But the tone in the voice. Disapproving. Curious, Smitty walked to the refrigerator and withdrew a beer before turning back to look at the giant. Otto had not moved a muscle. Had not blinked. Just kept staring at Smitty.

  “Otto, you have something on your mind? Something you want to tell me?”

  For a moment or two the unreadable behemoth said nothing. And then, pushing the kitchen door closed, he nodded. Reluctantly.

  “It is about Mrs. Menten and Stu. Perhaps I should have said something to you earlier. But I didn
’t want to bring more trouble into this house than there already is. Yet I have to say something. It’s been bothering me since the boss’s death.”

  Sipping the beer Smitty eyed the giant yet said nothing. Just stood in front of the refrigerator and waited. Waited for the giant to continue.

  “I’m fairly sure the boss didn’t know. Didn’t have a clue. But Mrs. Menten and Stu... I am fairly sure they have been having an affair for over a year now. Seeing each other behind the boss’ back. Secret rendezvous. Intimate dinners late at night.”

  “You’re fairly sure? Or you know this for a fact. Otto, tell me. How much do you know?”

  “I know. I know they’ve been seeing each other. I know Stu has been pursuing Mrs. Menten from the moment the boss brought her home. What I don’t know is what’s eating at me.”

  A grim, cruel little smile played across Smitty’s thin lips. Black eyes danced with fire as he eyed the giant. Lifting the bottle beer to his lips he took a long sip before lowering it and speaking.

  “What are you saying? You think Mrs. Menten killed Jacob?”

  The giant continued staring, unblinking, at the dark-eyed man. Absolutely motionless as he stood in front of the kitchen door. And then... ever so slightly... the merest suggestion of shrugging his shoulders.

  “Twice I caught the two in deep, heated conversations in the library. Whispering intently. Stu looked angry and kept jabbing a finger at the safe where the boss kept those two discs you mentioned the other day. Mrs. Menten looked as pale as a ghost. The second time I saw them like this it was a couple of days before the boss died.”

  “You think Stu or Mrs. Menten took the discs out of the safe?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is four people had access to the safe. The boss, me, Mrs. Menten and Stu.”

  “No one else? Just you four?”

  “No one else.”

  Smitty sipped more beer and kept his eyes on the big man. In the quiet kitchen the second hand of a big electric clock hanging on the wall ticked away seconds with a monotonous, almost hypnotic, drone.