The two men from the Tsu gang were now on their way upstairs to make payment and take delivery. The earlier testing and tasting, wherever the hell that had taken place, had apparently gone off without a hitch. Hamilton had no interest whatever in those shitty five keys that had vanished in the night. Upstairs in apartment 5C, there were ninety-five keys of cocaine and only four people to look after all that dope.
He nodded to Isaac.
Isaac nodded back and then flashed his headlights at the car up the street. He still didn't understand all the details of the deal. He only knew that tonight they were making a move that would catapult them into the big time where posses like Spangler and Shower roamed at ease. He was confident that Hamilton knew what he was doing. You either trusted someone completely or you didn't trust him at all.
Together, they got out of the automobile.
Up the street, the doors on the other car opened. Black men in overcoats got out. The doors closed silently on the night. The men assembled swiftly, breaths pluming on the frosty air, and then walked swiftly to the front steps of the building. Eight of them altogether. Hamilton, Isaac and six others. Hamilton knew the odds would be two to one in his favor.
Together they climbed to the fifth floor of the building.
Hamilton listened outside the door to apartment 5C.
Voices inside there.
Three separate and distinct voices.
There now.
A fourth voice.
He kept listening.
He smiled. Held up his right hand. Showed four fingers. Isaac nodded. Four of them inside there. As promised by Ortega. Isaac nodded to the man on his right.
A single burst from the man's AR-15 blew off the lock on the door
The Jamaicans went in.
Hamilton was still smiling.
There were not four people in that apartment.
There were a dozen Colombians from Miami and a dozen Chinese from right here in the city.
Henry Tsu was one of those Chinese.
In the first ten seconds, Isaac - who still did not completely understand all the details of this deal - took seventeen slugs in his chest and his head. Hamilton turned to run. His way was blocked by the Jamaicans behind him. They, too, had realized all at once that they had walked into an ambush, and they were now scrambling in panic to get out of the trap. They were all too late. A second wave of fire cut them down before they reached the door. It was all over in thirty seconds. The only shot the Jamaicans had fired was the one that took off the lock.
Hamilton, still alive, started crawling over the bodies toward the doorway.
One of the Chinese said, 'Henny Shoe say tell you hello.'
Then he and another Chinese who looked remarkably like him fired twelve shots into Hamilton's back.
Hamilton stopped crawling.
Henry Tsu looked down at him.
He was thinking it was all a matter of which was the oldest culture.
* * * *
17
Carella signed for the Federal Express envelope at ten minutes past nine the following morning. It was from the Seattle Police Department and it contained a sheaf of photocopied pages and a handwritten memo. The memo read: Thought you might like to see this. It was signed: Bonnem. The pages had been copied from Paul Chapman's will. They read:
My daughters are Melissa Chapman Hammond and Joyce Chapman.
I give and bequeath to my trustee hereinafter named the sum of one million dollars ($1,000,000) to hold same in trust for the benefit of the first child born of my said daughters, and to manage, invest and reinvest the same and pay all costs, taxes . . .
'He was making sure the family line would continue after he was gone,' Carella said.
'If his daughters were still childless at his death, he was giving them a good reason to change the situation,' Meyer said.
'To get on with it.'
'To get going.'
'Melissa's words.'
'Here's the motive,' Carella said, tapping the page of the will that spelled out the firstborn provision.
'He was signing little Susan's death warrant,' Meyer said.
'Because if she'd never been born . . .'
'Melissa's baby would be the firstborn child . . .'
'And that's where the million-dollar trust would go.'
Both men continued reading in silence.
All the rest, residue and remainder of my estate, of whatsoever nature and wheresoever situated, which I may own or to which I may in any way be entitled at the time of my death, including any lapses or renounced legacies or devises, is referred to in this, my will, as my residuary estate.
'Defining his terms,' Carella said.
'The rest of his estate.'
'Millions of dollars, isn't that what she said?'
I give, devise and bequeath any residuary estate in equal shares to my daughters living at my death . . .
'Just what she told us.'
... or if a said daughter shall predecease me ...
'Here comes the motive for Joyce's murder . . .'
. . . then I give, devise and bequeath all of my residuary estate to my then surviving daughter.
'Kill Joyce and Melissa gets it all,' Carella said.
'Love or money,' Meyer said and sighed. 'It never changes.'
There was more to the will.
But they already had all they needed.
And the phone was ringing again.
* * * *
There were no windows in the room.
This was the first time Eileen noticed it.
Neither was there a clock.
Must be Las Vegas, she thought.
'Something?' Karin asked.
'No.'
'You were smiling.'
'Private joke,' Eileen said.
'Share it with me.'
'No, that's okay.'
She was wearing a digital watch. Nothing ticked into the silence of the room. She wondered how many minutes were left. She wondered what the hell she was doing here.
'Let's play some word games,' Karin said.
'Why?'
'Free association. Loosen you up.'
'I'm loose.'
'It's like snowballing. Cartoonists use it a lot.'
'So do cops,' Eileen said.
'Oh?'
'In a squadroom. You take an idea and run with it,' she said, suspecting Karin already knew this. If so, why the expression of surprise? She wished she trusted her. But she didn't. Couldn't shake the feeling that to Karin Lefkowitz, she was nothing but a specimen on a slide.
'Want to try it?'
'We don't have much time left, do we?'