Paul said, “We appreciate your coming all the way over here, and we respect you for being straight about who you work for and not trying to lie about it. But you guys already exercised your right to choice when you hired a pair of amateurs to take over for us. We watched those two die while we were staring through rifle sights, waiting for our shot.”
“We didn’t hire them; that was Densmore.”
Paul glanced at Sylvie again. She was watchful, her face conveying nothing of what she might be thinking or feeling. Paul said, “When we got replaced, we came home. We’re out. We haven’t been paid anything, so we don’t owe you anything.”
“I can understand why you thought that, but I’m here to tell you everything’s okay. You can go finish the contact.”
“We’re out.”
“Then we’d like you to come back in.”
“What are you offering?”
“Paul.” It was Sylvie’s voice, and he could see in his peripheral vision that she was shaking her head, but he ignored her.
“We’ll pay in full what Densmore promised you.”
“Densmore’s dead.”
Carl studied Paul for a moment. He saw that Paul was not returning his gaze as a man might who was bluffing. Carl said, “I get the feeling that we started out wrong. I’m just trying to build an easy, open relationship so we can handle this situation efficiently. Mr. Schelling didn’t want you to worry when you heard Densmore was dead. We’re still around, and we’re still interested. You’ll get paid. We’ll live up to our end of the agreement.”
“The only agreement we had was with Densmore,” said Paul. “He’s dead, so there is no agreement.”
Carl wondered what strange thing he had done in some earlier lifetime to put him in a house in Van Nuys between two professional killers, each of them with one hand hidden so it could hold a gun. “I’ll tell you what. You give me a figure that will bring you back in, and I’ll call Mr. Schelling and see if it’s acceptable to him.”
“A million dollars.” It was Sylvie’s voice—a number called out in urgency, like an auction bid.
The two men turned to look at Sylvie. She stared back at them defiantly, letting the words hang in the room.
Carl spoke. “I don’t understand. You’re joking?”
“No,” she said. “This wasn’t a regular job from the beginning. From the minute we planted the bat and the bloody rag in Eric Fuller’s yard, everybody who mattered knew we were luring Wendy Harper into the open to kill her. Now the cops know it, too. They’re waiting for somebody to try again. If you think you can do it, go ahead.”
Carl Zacca looked at Paul Turner. “I’m going to reach into my pocket for my phone. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Carl moved his right hand slowly inside his coat pocket. His hand almost involuntarily moved to touch the handgrips of his gun. Verifying its presence was like touching a good-luck charm. He removed his hand, transferred the cell phone to his left, but kept his posture the same: sitting on the edge of the couch, bent forward slightly so his coat was pushed away from his body and the inner pocket was easy to reach. He pushed the button to dial Scott’s number and put the phone to his left ear.
After a few seconds, he said, “It’s Carl. I’ve met our two friends and we’ve been having a nice talk, but they want more money, and I need to run their offer past you. Is that something you can do now?”
He heard Scott Schelling say, “Is this figure a holdup?”
“Yes.”
“Just say yes or no. Is it a million?”
“Yes.”
“Take a very good look around you. See every security mechanism, where the furniture is, the alarm system, and so on. I’ll want you to draw a picture of it from memory the minute you get out of there. Can you do that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Then I’ll give you some time to look. Give the phone to Paul Turner.”
“Yes, sir.” He held the telephone out toward Paul. “He would like to talk to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. He’s waiting.”
Paul took three steps forward and accepted the telephone. Carl noticed that he, too, held it to his left ear. His right hand moved to the back of his shirt. “This is Turner.”
“Paul, this is Scott Schelling. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you and your wife. I really sent my friend Carl over there just to make sure you didn’t feel you were abandoned and on your own now. We want you with us. You’re the only ones who have seen her in six years, and I can’t find somebody else now. She’ll be in Los Angeles in three or four hours. Carl tells me that it will take more money. How much?”
“A million bucks.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“The only reason to do this is for a lot of money.”
“I suppose. But getting that much in cash on short notice is not easy.”
“If you want to let it go or have somebody else do it cheaper, we’ll never reveal anything we know about it. But if you want us, that’s what it will cost—in cash, as soon as it’s done.”
“All right. It’s a high price, but no hard feelings. I’ll have the money ready. You can get to work.”
“Then we’re in.”
“Paul!” It was Sylvie’s voice. Paul jerked his head to look at the man on the couch, then at her, but she had not been warning him of danger.
“What?” The phone had gone dead.
She was angry. “We need to talk.”
“We can talk while we’re getting ready. She has to be done today.” He tossed the phone back to Carl Zacca. “Carl, it’s been pleasant, but time is passing.”
Carl put the phone away and stood up. “Well, then, we’ll see you later with your money. You made a hell of a deal on this.”
“We’ll see.” Paul followed Carl to the door, closed and locked it behind him.
“Paul, have you lost your mind?”
“Sssh.” He had the gun in his hand, prepared to fire through the door as he squinted through the peephole. After a few more seconds, they heard a car moving off. Then he turned to her. “He’s gone. I haven’t lost my mind, and neither have you. That million-dollar thing was quick thinking. It made everything kind of crystallize.” He stepped close and hugged her, then kissed her cheek and released her. He hurried toward the bedroom, and she pursued him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You named the price, and he met it.”
“But that was just—”
“Brilliant.”
“You can’t possibly think this music guy is planning to hand us a million bucks.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then what are you doing? We’re all packed. We have reservations. We could be gone already.”
“We will be. It will just be a few days later before we get to Europe, that’s all. Pack the passports and shove the money I’ve been collecting into the suitcases. When the doorbell rang, I stashed it in the refrigerator.”
“What are you saying? We can’t leave now.” Her voice was a wail of frustration. “You just agreed to a job.”
“I’m not talking about running. We’ll do the job. We’ll get a million bucks.”
“I only said that to make him go away. And he only agreed because he expects to have somebody kill us afterward.”
Paul held Sylvie’s shoulders and looked at her as though he were trying to hypnotize her. “Sylvie, think about this guy. Six years ago, he made a mistake. So what did he do? He spent the next six years trying to find the woman who knows about it, even though she hasn’t told anybody. He’s a maniac about being careful.”
“That’s not reassuring. That scares the shit out of me. He’ll kill us, too.”
Paul grinned. “I know he doesn’t intend to pay us. I could have asked for New Jersey, and he would have agreed. But he’s also smart enough to know that no matter what precautions he takes, there is at least a slight possibility that he might find himself alone with us after we kill Wendy. He knows that if we show up to get paid and he isn’t ready to hand us a suitcase full of money, he’s dead. What do you think he’s going to do?”