Among the tools was a Sawzall.
“It’s possible I may have let my daughter’s boyfriend borrow it when his car was in the shop, something like that but, you know, no big deal. That’s his car, right there.” Smith pointed to the black Lexus parked in front of the house. His hand was trembling. “He lives outta town, visits quite a bit.”
“Mr. Smith, did you report your American Express card stolen recently?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Why are you asking me all these questions? I told you, there’s been a mistake. I don’t know anything about any shooting.”
“I said someone was murdered, Mr. Smith. I didn’t say anything about anybody getting shot.”
“Oh my God.” He slumped to the concrete floor, clutching his chest.
“Are you OK?”
“He told me it wouldn’t come to this,” Smith cried. “The Russian, he made him do it. Either he did what the Russian wanted, or they were gonna turn him in.”
“Turn who in?”
“My daughter, her boyfriend. He said if we told anybody, they’d kill us, too. Jesus. I think I need an ambulance. Oh my God.”
“Just breathe, Mr. Smith, try to relax. I’m calling 911 right now.”
I was punching in the number when the door connecting the garage to the house opened, revealing a young woman in pink dental scrubs and the shadow of a tall, angular young man standing behind her. I heard her scream, “Don’t!” as the man shoved her aside. All I saw was the nickel-plated semi-automatic he was raising up to fire at me. His right arm was straight, his hand flat, palm down, the pistol horizontal to the floor, the way gangsta rappers like to shoot.
Had it been Hollywood, I would’ve rolled to throw off his aim, bullets whizzing in slow-mo’ inches from my face. But this was no movie. I held steady and reached for the little revolver tucked in the small of my back. Instinct shooting is about smoothness, not speed. I could hear Laz Kizlyak, my old firearms trainer from Alpha, talking like he was standing there beside me. Grasp butt of weapon firmly, hand high on grip panels, and draw, not jerk, in single fluid motion. Trigger finger extends parallel to barrel, falling alongside frame above trigger as weapon is withdrawn.
Something hot smacked me in the shoulder. I ignored it, elevating the muzzle of my gun as I extended my shooting hand, swinging my other hand up and locking both hands together just as the revolver entered my peripheral vision. Wrap support hand around middle, ring and small fingers of gun hand, overlapping thumbs on backstrap of weapon. Do not clutch weapon. Clutching makes weapon shake. Face target squarely as weapon rises. Spread legs shoulder-width, assuming solid and braced firing platform. Bend slightly forward from torso and flex knees. Thrust hands out from the midline of your chest. Lock wrists, lock elbows, lock shoulders. Level muzzle just below eye level sliding index finger on shooting hand from frame of weapon onto trigger.
Even without a stopwatch, I knew that no more than a second had elapsed from the moment I first glimpsed the gun in the man’s hand to the moment I double-tapped my trigger.
Only after he was down and I had kicked his pistol away from his body did I realize that the man I’d killed was Lamont Royale.
TWENTY-FIVE
Everyone complains about hospital accommodations, like hospitals are supposed to be the Four Seasons or something. My stay at Cedars-Sinai couldn’t have been more luxurious. Dinner the first night was a Caesar salad with pan-seared ahi, whole grain muffins, and chocolate pudding with real whipped cream. I had a private room with a thirty-two-inch flat-screen TV and a view of the Hollywood Hills, a fine bed that adjusted about a hundred different ways, and sponge baths administered by certified nursing assistants who, if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, resembled the kind of scantily clad Nubian princesses one would expect to perform such services. I would’ve stayed a month had they let me — especially considering Gil Carlisle was footing the bill.
“Almost makes getting shot worthwhile,” I said to my menopausal battle-axe of a nurse as she changed the dressing on my wound.
“Almost,” she said, ripping a strip of surgical tape off my skin.
The bullet had shattered my left collarbone and lodged in my shoulder. A fraction of an inch lower, the surgeon had told me almost breathlessly, and it would’ve severed my subclavian artery. I probably would have bled out in the ambulance. As it was, I could expect a full recovery after a few weeks’ rest. The same could not be said for Lamont Royale. Two .357 slugs to the forehead have a tendency to do that to a man.
“By the way,” Czarnek said, standing at the foot of my bed and watching the nurse work, “Royale wasn’t his real name. His real name was London Bridges.”
“Sure it was,” I said. “And I’m the Empire State Building.”
“I’m serious. London Bridges. I mean, who names their kid London Bridges?”
“My husband has a first cousin named April Showers,” Nurse Battle-Axe said.
“I knew a guy in high school named Burt Nurney,” I said.
Nobody laughed. Tough crowd. Czarnek cleared his throat and waited while the nurse finished patching me up.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” she said. “Press the button if you need anything. I probably won’t answer.”
“Big surprise there,” I said.
She gave me a wink and left.
As Czarnek explained it, London Bridges, aka Lamont Royale, was a young man with a past. He’d grown up in Miami, the youngest son of an African-American real estate developer and his Swedish-born wife, and dropped out of the University of Miami his sophomore year to attend culinary school, hitting the links during his off-hours to become a scratch golfer. But apparently he found criminal enterprises more entertaining. With multiple prison stints on priors ranging from burglary to assault, he eventually skipped out on parole and traded the Sunshine State for Las Vegas, there to reinvent himself, as so many others do. London Bridges became Lamont Royale, golf pro. While giving a private lesson one day, he taught my former father-in-law how to nail a fifty-yard bunker shot, then shared his secret recipe for beef bourguignon (applewood smoked bacon, heavy on the Côtes du Rhône). Within a week, Royale had quit his country club gig and moved into the penthouse to work for Carlisle full-time.
Somewhere along the way, Royale had also been recruited by Russian intelligence operative and oil broker Pavel Tarasov.
“Tarasov found out about his criminal record. He knew Royale was on the lam, so he blackmailed him,” Czarnek said. “Anytime Tarasov wanted him to pull some little caper for him, all he had to do was threaten to rat him out and Royale danced like a puppet.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Your new best friend, Richard Smith. Can’t shut the guy up. A regular Chatty Cathy. He’s down on the coronary ward. He feels damn lucky he and his daughter survived the whole thing.”
It was Royale, Czarnek said, who’d introduced Tarasov to my former father-in-law, Gil Carlisle. There was a fortune to be made in the Kashagan oil field. All Tarasov needed was a willing investor with deep pockets. As soon as Carlisle’s check cleared the bank, Tarasov intended to have him die “accidentally,” after which he would take over the entire operation.
“Tarasov gets wind that Echevarria’s doing some investigative work for Carlisle. He worries that Echevarria’ll find out shit that’ll squirrel the deal in Kazakhstan, so he decides to have Echevarria whacked. He sends Royale to Arizona with orders to convince a guy he knows out there who’s on the Russian payroll to do the killing.”