Larson didn’t arrive until nearly 9:30.
Asshole.
“What’s the plan?” Larson asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“You do exactly what I tell you and nothing more.”
Larson smirked, but didn’t respond.
Durrie swept the binoculars across the impound yard once more, making sure there wasn’t anything he missed.
“The body?” he asked without setting the glasses down.
“Straight back from the building. Fifth row. An old, blue Mazda sedan.”
The angle from where they were parked was one that gave Durrie a view of much of the lot, so he was able to pick out the car. “Model?” he asked anyway.
“Hell, I don’t know. I told you it’s a Mazda.”
Durrie’s already-low opinion of the man sunk further. The cleaner was a firm believer that knowledge could be the difference between living and dying, a philosophy Larson didn’t seem to share. In Durrie’s mind, even a little thing like knowing the model of a car could be what stood between an agent and a bullet in the head.
He continued his survey, but all was as it had been. He turned his attention to the parking lot in front of the building. There were three cars there — two by the office and one parked closer to the road.
“The car by itself in the visitor’s lot,” he said. “That’s yours?”
“Yeah.”
Larson had at least been smart enough to take the woman’s car when he left earlier, so it wouldn’t be found. Durrie momentarily considered removing the extra car when they finished, but decided it was more effort than it was worth. It was stolen already. Might as well leave it where it would end up anyway. If Larson hadn’t been smart enough to avoid leaving any traces of his presence in it, too bad.
He set the glasses down, then laid out the parts of the plan Larson needed to know.
“Easy,” Larson said when he was through.
“No improvising.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Durrie said nothing. Worry was not something he’d ever feel for Larson. Concern about what Larson might do was the issue at the moment, because for the next ten minutes, their lives would be in each other’s hands. That didn’t sit well with Durrie.
Without any preamble, he started the engine and drove to the impound yard. Instead of pulling into the visitor’s lot, he parked at the curb along the street, parallel to the building’s entrance.
Durrie pointed out an imaginary path across the parking lot to the fence. “Just like that,” he said. “No deviations.”
“You’re sure?”
Durrie stared at him for a moment. “Yes.”
If Larson did as told, Durrie was confident the assassin wouldn’t be picked up on any of the cameras. This wasn’t just a guess. It was based on camera angles and Durrie’s knowledge of the equipment.
“All right. I’ll do it,” Larson said, as if it had actually been his choice.
Ignoring the comment, Durrie retrieved one of his kit bags from the back seat. From inside he pulled out two sets of comm gear, giving one to Larson, and donning the other himself.
“As soon as you’re in position, let me know,” he instructed. “I’ll tell you when you’re clear to move again. Time to go.”
Without a word, the smug bastard opened the door and got out. Durrie watched for a few seconds to make sure Larson was sticking to the path, then he pulled the jammer out of the bag. He took a moment to adjust the input settings, then hopped into the passenger seat and opened the window. Carefully, he stuck the magnetic base of the transmitter to the outside of the door so that it was facing the impound yard. Then he waited.
Thirty seconds later, Larson’s voice whispered in his ear, “In position.”
“Stand by.”
Durrie checked the settings on the control box in his lap once more, then flipped the “activate” switch. He could feel the box vibrate, then the digital indicator bar started rising. When it hit sixty percent, he knew the cameras would already be experiencing issues. At seventy percent, they were most likely disabled. But he waited two more seconds until the bars reached eighty-five percent, then said, “Now. And no kills.”
“You’re no fun, you know that?”
Durrie set the control box in the footwell, then scrambled back into the driver’s seat. After grabbing his kit, he climbed out, then jogged across the parking lot, not worried about being seen.
By the time Durrie joined Larson inside the secured lot, the assassin had already subdued one of the guards. Durrie gave the unconscious man a shot of BetaSomnol to make sure he stayed under for several hours.
“Any others?” Durrie asked.
“Still inside.”
“Wait here.”
“You don’t want me to—”
“No. I don’t.”
Durrie found the other guard on a couch inside, fast asleep. Once he determined there was no third member of the security team, he gave the sleeping man the same treatment his partner received, then went back outside.
It would have been nice if Larson had put Davies’s body in the trunk of the BMW instead of the Mazda, but his reasoning for not doing so was sound. There was a greater chance someone would show up to examine the BMW than the grime-covered Mazda.
The problem was they now had to do something about both cars.
“Get the BMW,” Durrie said. They were standing in front of the Mazda’s trunk where the woman’s body still lay. “I assume you know how to get it started without a key.”
“Fuck you,” Larson said, then walked off.
When he finally brought the car over — several minutes later than it would have taken Durrie — they transferred the woman’s body into its trunk. From his kit, Durrie pulled out a container of lighter fluid, and used half of it to drench the Mazda’s trunk. He then smashed in the driver’s door window with the butt of his gun, and used the rest of the liquid on the car’s interior. He threw the empty can into the trunk of the BMW with the body.
Not yet ready to torch the Mazda, he waved Larson over. “Show me exactly where you shot her.”
“Over there,” Larson said, pointing beyond the cleaner.
Durrie’s jaw tensed. “Show it to me.”
After an exasperated grunt, Larson said, “This way,” then started walking.
Durrie picked up his bag and followed.
“Here,” Larson finally said.
The car Davies had been hiding under when Larson pulled the trigger was one row back and several cars down from where the BMW had been parked.
Durrie set his bag on the ground, pulled out a flashlight and a quart of oil, then held them out to Larson. “Dump the oil on any bloodstains. If you need more, I have more.”
“Come on,” Larson said without taking either item. “That’s your job.”
Durrie didn’t move, his face impassive.
After several seconds, Larson rolled his eyes, then grabbed the flashlight and oil. “Fine.”
He ended up needing two quarts. When he was done, Durrie kneeled down and inspected his work. It would do.
He zipped up his kit bag and rose to his feet. Pointing at the two empty oil containers on the ground, he said, “Those go in the back of the BMW.”
Larson picked them up.
“Is there anything else we need to deal with?” Durrie asked. “Did she tear her clothes on anything? Did you?”
Larson thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Nah. Nothing else.”
Durrie stared silently at him.
“That’s it,” Larson said. “There’s nothing else.”
Once back at the other cars, Durrie told Larson to get the BMW started, then he walked over to the Mazda. The smell of lighter fluid was intense. Any barely competent investigator would immediately know what had caused the blaze. But that didn’t matter. Cleaning wasn’t always about making things disappear. More times than not it was about distraction and misdirection. In this case, a burned-out car, its blaze started with the same accelerant used in a rash of recent local auto fires.