I took a deep breath and thought some more. What if Clarence was right? What if this Hornsby had killed Jesse Barre and made it look like a robbery? That too was a trick as old as the hills. I suspected the cops had looked into it, Clarence said Hornsby had an alibi, but alibis can be manufactured. Good ones take a lot of time and effort and planning. Would this Hornsby, the ex-con, be able to do it?
I saved the article to my computer’s desktop and pushed away from the desk, propping my feet on the low bookcase next to the wastebasket. I put my hands behind my head and thought about Clarence Barre. I knew that I liked him. And my wife has told me time and time again that I put a filter on my brain when it comes to people I like. That I see too much of the positive in people, sometimes even create it when it’s not there. Maybe so. There was the off chance that I was looking for something that would justify my case for taking on Clarence Barre as a client.
But objectivity is a bastard. The fact was I knew the criminal mind was not a bastion of logic. Throw some booze and drugs into the mix and you’ve got a human being reduced to his or her most base instincts. A desperate person walks by a studio that may or may not be some kind of cash business, it’s night, a woman is working alone on loud woodworking machines—the perfect opportunity for a smash-and-grab. Maybe the woman tries to defend herself or her products, and things get out of hand. It happens.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I thought Clarence Barre was most likely off base and wrapped up in the emotions of a grieving father, and that I had somehow fallen victim to his genuine earnestness.
My first impression of Clarence Barre was that he was a good man. Had probably been a good father. And he was a man who loved and cherished his daughter above all else, including logic. He was a good man, but he was probably wrong.
It seemed like there was really one right decision here.
But you know, I’d made so many fucking mistakes in my lifetime that one more couldn’t hurt.
I would take the case.
Chapter Seven
London
The Spook was disappointed.
The investment banker’s apartment was extremely luxurious. Marble floors. Turkish rugs. Original artwork worthy, in some cases, of museums.
All of which didn’t surprise the Spook. After all, the banker had been skimming profits, stealing from the bank’s partners for years. From the dossier that had been given to him, the Spook learned the investment banker had pilfered nearly twenty million dollars. The man’s partners, some of whom had ties to various illegal activities themselves, were not happy. Undue attention in their business could prove to be lethal.
None of that disappointed or even interested the Spook. What upset him was the quality of the guitars. Surrounded by trappings of extreme wealth, the guitars were a joke. A run-of-the-mill Yamaha acoustic, a new Fender, and that was about it. Even worse, the guitars were dusty and out of tune. The strings hadn’t been changed in ages. A disgrace.
The Spook was a guitar player. Although he loved his work, loved to get paid to kill people, he lived for music. The piercing wail of a bent third string, the soul-shaking shudder of a bluesy vibrato . . . it moved him in ways nothing else could. He looked at the guitars and shook his head.
This man deserved to die.
The Spook checked his watch. The banker’s name was Gordon Springs, and the Spook knew from countless hours of surveillance that he was due home in ten minutes. A routine that the man never failed to repeat, day after day, month after month. The human need for structure made the Spook’s job all that much easier.
He went to the nearest guitar, the Yamaha acoustic, and picked it up from its holder. Finding a pick and a slide—one couldn’t very well perform intricate finger work wearing surgeon’s gloves—he tuned the guitar to an open G and played a few notes. It didn’t sound that great. The strings were very old, and there was a rattle near the bridge. To the Spook, it was how a social worker must feel to hold a neglected baby.
He made some adjustments then played the opening to “You Got the Silver” from Beggars Banquet. One of his idol’s masterpieces of subtlety. No one could make a guitar do things the way Keith Richards could. Keith was more than just the famous guitarist of the infamous Rolling Stones, he was the Spook’s god. The Spook felt that what he was to the profession of assassins, Keith was to the profession of rock and roll.
He finished off the song and set the guitar back in its stand. The guitar pissed off the Spook. To be here, in London, Keith Richards’ home stomping grounds, and to see an apartment filled with expensive shit but mistreated guitars . . . well, it went against everything he believed in.
He checked his watch. Any minute now.
He went back to the guitar and turned the third string’s tuning key until the string itself began to sag and hang away from the body of the guitar. The Spook continued unwinding until he could pull the string through the tuning key’s hole, and then he popped the plastic peg that held the string in place at the center of the guitar’s body. When it was free, he took two kitchen towels, placed them in the palm of his hand, and then wound an end of the string around each hand.
Moments later, he heard the key in the lock, and he disappeared into the darkness of the apartment. He heard the door swing open, a pause, and then the door clicked shut. He heard Mr. Springs sigh. Relief at living another day without falling off the tightrope that is the criminal life. The Spook knew Mr. Springs had a mistress, a drinking problem, and a severe lack of self-control, but he didn’t care. Mr. Springs wasn’t a person—he was simply an assignment.
The Spook listened as footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Then the footsteps stopped. The Spook knew exactly what the banker was doing.
He emerged from the shadows.
The banker stood in the kitchen, his back to the living room. The Spook had rented a flat directly across the street with a perfect view of Mr. Springs’ apartment. Because of this, the Spook knew that Mr. Springs’ answering machine was on the kitchen counter and that the first thing Mr. Springs did when he got home every evening was put his briefcase on the kitchen’s island and then turn his full attention to the answering machine.
The Spook stood behind the British investment banker for just a moment, then reached up and looped the guitar string, cross-handed, over the man’s head. Springs heaved back, but the Spook easily pivoted and brought him down, then kneeled on the man’s back. He worked the thin metal cord back and forth like a saw until it had thoroughly cut through the soft flesh of the banker’s neck. The Spook heard a scream reduced to soft gurgles. Springs thrashed for several seconds before his nerves received their final instructions.
And then Springs was dead.
His contract with the bank’s partners fulfilled, the Spook stood, wiped the blood off the string with one of the kitchen towels, then went back to the guitar. He threaded the string back through the tuning key, tapped the peg back in place, and wound the string tight, tuning by ear.