He watched her close the show, turning to the camera with those pleading blue eyes and a rueful smile. “The issue is the death sentence. Is it right for a civilized nation to kill as revenge? Remember, when that executioner pulls the lever that sends fifty thousand volts coursing through another human being, he represents you and me. If what he does is wrong, aren’t we all guilty?”
He shook his head, reached forward, and shut off the five-inch screen. Oh yeah, she was good-had the golden touch, that girl. He lifted the black hat off the seat beside him, shoved it over his wig, and climbed out of the backseat. Two minutes later, he was standing attentively in a pitch-dark suit beside the long black car outside the studio.
Carolyn Fiorio was being honored as Newsperson of the Year at a big, fancy dinner at the National Press Club. The royalty of American journalism had flown in from far and wide for the big bash, to bask in the glow of her lovable glory. Her show ended at 7:00, and the dinner kicked off at 7:15, so she frantically dodged out the studio entrance and jogged straight toward the rear door of the shiny black stretch limo.
He held open the door and very politely said, “Evening, Miss Fiorio. Fine show this evening.”
“Thanks,” she murmured and climbed inside. Never gave him a second look. None of them ever did. The limo came from a service that shuttled lookalike cars and anonymous drivers to rich customers throughout the city.
He gently shut the door, admired his own reflection in the blackened windows, then walked swiftly around and got into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key, and pulled smoothly away from the curb. Miguel Martinez, the service driver, was stuffed on the floor by his feet, a bullet hole in his forehead.
He briefly glanced back and said, “National Press Club, right, miss?”
“That’s right. And I really need to be there in ten minutes.”
He chuckled. “So I gotta hurry, huh?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate it.” She dug into her purse and began pulling things out. “There’s a welcoming party, and some camera crews waiting for my entrance.”
He allowed a respectable minute to pass before he said over his right shoulder, “Tough life you got.”
Her laugh sounded more melodic than on TV. “I’m sitting in the back of a big stretch limo, raking in a fortune, and you think my life’s tough?”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right.”
He allowed another moment of silence to pass, one of those perfectly natural pauses between the hired help and the fat wallet in the backseat.
He said, “I, uh, I watched your show on the TV back there while I was waitin’.”
An alcohol pad was pinched between her fingers and she was furiously scrubbing off the thick studio makeup. She glanced up at him briefly, then returned to staring into the small mirror gripped in her other hand.
He said, “You really believe that? ’Bout the death sentence being immoral and all that?”
“Yes, I do. I never take a stance I don’t believe in.”
“Reason I asked is, I like the death sentence.”
“A lot of people do. That’s why it’s law.”
“I guess.” He adjusted his rearview mirror and studied her. “But see, I come at it different from you.”
She was applying liner around her eyes and still focusing on the mirror. “How’s that?”
“Figure it this way. Say you got caught doin’ somethin’ real bad and they give you a choice-life or the death sentence. What would you pick?”
“Life,” she answered.
“Too quick, Miss Fiorio. Some things are worse than death.”
“Like what?” she asked, not really focused on the conversation, painting her face and going through the motions of accommodating an overly opinionated and talkative driver. She was paid the big bucks to debate these things with big-time pros on the tube and wasn’t all that enthused about giving freebies to rookies.
“Well, like bein’ in a cage where your only company for the rest of your life is a buncha murderers, crooks, and street scum. You read these books… Christ, the things some of them criminals do behind those bars.” He glanced into the rearview mirror again. “Sickening stuff, you know? A painless death’s gotta be better’n that, ain’t it?”
“I don’t look at it from the criminal’s perspective,” she replied, swiping a tube of cherry-red lipstick across her lips.
“Well maybe you should.”
“No. They’re responsible for their actions, and I’m responsible for mine. If I support the death penalty, then I bear the burden of guilt.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Heard you say that at the closing. Real eloquent.”
Another long pause, then he said, “Thing is, you ever get to thinking there might be some people that just are addicted to killing? I mean, like, it’s what they do. Over and over. Only way to stop ’em is to kill ’em.”
“You mean sociopathic individuals?”
“Well, I don’t know the right educated word for it, but I guess, yeah.”
“They’re mentally disturbed. They should be treated, not killed.”
She had obviously been through these points before and had a glib response to every twist and angle. Like on the tube, there wasn’t the slightest glimmer of self-doubt when she spoke.
She had finished applying her makeup, and was studying her handiwork in the tiny mirror, oblivious to the fact that they were now twenty blocks away from the National Press Club. Or that the limo had just entered a section of D. C. that big shiny cars without drug dealers and pimps behind the steering wheels don’t often visit.
Other parts of the town were experiencing the final squirts of rush-hour traffic. This part of the city, few people had jobs, at least taxpaying jobs, and traffic was consequently sparse. A few kids were hanging out by corner bodegas, swigging bottles of Colt 45 and looking to score a few joints, though most folks were huddled in front of the TVs in their homes, wisely staying off the dangerous streets.
He said, “You know, I bet if I had like, say, two hours with you, I bet I could change your mind. I bet I could have you believin’ with your heart ’n’ soul in the death sentence.”
“No way.” She chuckled. “My view is rock-hard.”
He took a sudden left and carefully maneuvered the limo into the very narrow alley he had scoped out three days before. He shifted into neutral, spun around, and began climbing over the seat. She looked up in surprise, dropped her mirror, then sat stunned and frozen for a moment, saying, “Hey, what the-” then she saw the expression on his face. She tried desperately to open her door, only to discover that the alley walls were too close.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was 11:30 A.M., my first day, when the Gods sent a messenger to save my ass. The headquarters of Morris Networks, incidentally, is situated in a tower that resembles a thirty-story scotch bottle, one block off Route 123 in a Virginia suburb known as Tysons Corner.
Some thirty years ago, a gang of farsighted investors built a big shopping mall on this spot because it was twelve miles from the city, all farmland, and the acreage was cheap. A few years later, a few business towers went up beside that mall, then a second mall, then hotels, and more glass towers shot up, and pretty soon everybody went berserk, and what began as a mall turned into a full-fledged city with every urban inconvenience that a stunning lack of planning and idiotic growth can bring. It was a real nice place when it was farm country.
Anyway, I was trapped inside a huge conference room at a long table crowded with geeks and geekesses who mostly wore thick glasses and spoke in some strange foreign tongue. They were all fiercely pounding keys on calculators, tossing spreadsheets around like confetti, chattering about write-downs and hedged sales and amortizing assets, and if I had had a gun I would’ve popped every last one of them.
If I had only one bullet, I would’ve shot myself.
The door swung open and a young lady stepped inside, smiled brightly, and said, “Could somebody please help me? I’m looking for Sean Drummond.”