‘ I agree, but let’s not blind ourselves to the possibility it might not be him.’
‘ Yep,’ Danny said flatly. Her gaze returned to the dead girl. ‘Let’s make sure we do things right — and when we’ve identified her, let me tell her parents.’
‘ You sure? You’ve had a tough few days.’
She spun on Henry. ‘Of all the people, I didn’t expect you to patronise me, Henry.’
‘ Hey — whoa, sorry.’ He retreated, taken aback by her anger.
She stormed away, leaving him open-mouthed.
Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, a man called Charlie Gilbert sat in the first-class cabin in a plane travelling at 37,000 feet, Miami International Airport 1500 miles behind.
Even though the cabin temperature was quite fresh, Gilbert was sweating profusely, as grossly overweight men often do, whatever the circumstances. He had a wide seat with plenty of legroom but was extremely uncomfortable. He looked as though he’d been forced into the available space, like a fat hamster pressed into a tobacco tin. He had very little room to manoeuvre and there was only just enough space to drop his food tray in front of him.
He wasn’t too concerned.
His business trip to America had been successful. Of course, there had been the little blip — namely, being arrested for taking part in the rape and indecent assault of a young girl — but that had been fixed. Mario Bussola assured him on that point. And when Bussola made assurances, they stuck.
The incident would be hushed up, he promised Gilbert. The press would not get to know about it. No further police would be taken, and appropriate revenge would be meted out.
Charlie Gilbert would be safe.
Thank God, because, after all, he had a reputation to think of.
Myrna realised what she had to do immediately was put together a strategy to ensure as much damage limitation as possible as far as Kruger Investigations was concerned.
Being Kruger’s number two, and having taken on full responsibility for running the company, there were many things for her to do — not least reassuring jittery customers, some of whom had already called and were sounding extremely agitated.
To quote one: ‘Just what the hell are Kruger Investigations up to, that their managing director has ended up dead in a fucking shoot-out with gangsters, for fuck’s sake’ — unquote.
Myrna quickly needed to soothe ruffled feathers. Then she needed to deal with the staff. They were shell-shocked — and rightly so. Within the space of a day, three employees had met very violent deaths, three people who were well-known and loved by everyone.
Myrna knew she had to act, hold it all together, otherwise she would lose other good people.
All thoughts of revenge, or mounting some sort of operation against Bussola needed to be shelved indefinitely. To hit out, strike back, was what she had desired to do initially… but that was a task for the legal process and if it failed, so be it.
It wasn’t a job for a respectable company and Myrna wasn’t about to put others at risk again.
She was in her office. It was an hour since the staff meeting. An hour since she had hurled up her insides.
She had just finished a phone call to Kelly, the comms van operator, who had returned home to Memphis whilst the Bussola threat was still in the air. Having given her the lowdown on the Kruger situation, Myrna suggested that maybe she would like to stay off work a little longer — on full pay. Eminently sensible lady she was, Kelly agreed to the idea.
Myrna’s hand was resting on the phone when there was a knock on the door. It opened a fraction to reveal Mark Tapperman, the tall, well-built detective, standing there. He wore a forlorn expression making him look like a little boy, not the hard, uncompromising detective Myrna had become acquainted with and despised.
‘ Come on in, Mark,’ she said softly, her instinct sensing something not quite right.
He entered the room and sat down.
She was perplexed by his whole body language. It was so incongruous to the usual swaggering macho stuff she had seen recently.
Then, without warning, it happened.
Mark Tapperman burst into tears.
‘ We’re pretty sure he’s called Patrick Orlove, at least as sure as we can be. He’s got dozens of aliases, but the prints from the gun at the scene put up Orlove as his original name. We don’t really know very much about his distant past, but recently he turned up in LA and did some work for the McGreevy cartel, which resulted in a murder one court appearance. He was acquitted: the usual witness problems. Next he turns up in the Big Apple, helping out one of the East Side gangs. Suspected of puttin’ a gunload of lead into a junkie informer’s grey matter, but mainly acted as close-quarter protection to a gang chief. From there, seems he got a recommendation to come south for Bussola, who we know axed and replaced a lot of his security since you and Steve were able to walk all over’ em and interrupt that gang-bang downtown. We think Orlove’s still in the city, but by the same token he could be in Cuba.’
Myrna nodded as she listened to Tapperman telling her about the man suspected of killing Steve Kruger; the man they had allowed to escape from the scene of the tragedy.
The noise had been incredible when the guns in their hands discharged and the two men who had been turning and drawing their weapons had been hit. Myrna’s mind saw it all again… the two men swivelled grotesquely and both fell down dead on the concrete floor, blood pouring out of their wounds. Tapperman raced to the third man, the one Kruger had punched in the nose before launching himself between the parked cars, and pointed his gun at the crouching guy’s head. He yelled to Myrna. ‘Cover him, I’m going after the other guy.’
Myrna had done as instructed, her arms locked in an isosceles triangle, keeping the man covered whilst he tried to stem the tide of blood gushing from his bust nose. Her eyes constantly flicked towards the two bodies close by. Both twitched like they were being tickled. She looked up towards Tapperman who was working his way methodically and cautiously down the line of cars, and she kept glancing to the gap where Kruger had thrown himself. She could see his feet. Why was he just lying there, not moving? Why didn’t he get up? She knew, even then, something was wrong.
Tapperman edged back, still wary. He stopped at the gap Kruger had gone into, not far from where Myrna stood. He stared between the vehicles, his chest heaving. He knelt down out of sight for a few moments then rose back to his full height, grim.
Myrna was hopping on her toes, desperate to know, dying to run and see, but her job was to keep the bloody-nosed man covered.
Tapperman walked over to her. He stood about three feet away from the kneeling man. His face became a mask of rage. He stepped back, then kicked the man in the head, pitching him sideways across one of his dead buddies.
‘ Bastard.’
As quickly as it came, the anger subsided. Tapperman swooped down and cuffed the man expertly, hands right up his back. He threw him face-down. Then he stood up again and regarded Myrna.
‘ What the hell was all that about?’ she demanded, shocked by his reaction.
‘ Steve’s dead,’ Tapperman responded simply.
And somehow the person responsible — now known to be Patrick Orlove — had escaped, and all they managed to find was his gun dumped in a trashcan when the scene was searched later.
Myrna shook her head and raised her face to Tapperman, sitting opposite her.
‘ He’s on the wanted list now.’
‘ And the chances of catching him are..?’
‘ Zero, if I’m honest, especially if Bussola’s looking after him.’
‘ What about the guy you practised your soccer skills on?’
‘ Saying nothing… but we’ve got him for illegal possession and he’s wanted in Nevada for a serious assault with a deadly weapon. He’s going nowhere ‘cept jail.’