“Good plan.”
“Actually, Lisa was just here a couple of days back. She showed up unannounced in a helicopter. My guards lit her up like a Christmas tree with those red dots they have on their rifles.”
“What did she want?”
“Advice.”
David was tactful enough not to pry. “I’m glad you’re okay. Just don’t leave your island.”
What was she doing? Lying there whimpering like a kicked dog. That wasn’t her. Aria Eiffel was a smart, beautiful, resourceful fighter. She didn’t demur. She rallied the troops, set the agenda, and called the shots.
She sat up, then stood up as steel filled her spine. “I’m going to phone Tory now. Take care, David.”
Aria changed out of her swimsuit and into a fluffy white robe. Time to call my contract killer.
Tory didn’t answer.
She couldn’t leave a message because this was one of their special phones. She threw the cell onto the bed and turned to the bathroom. She wanted to hit the shower. It would help clear her mind and give her something to do. But first she walked to the entrance and placed her palm on the glass pad, activating the lock-down feature that sealed off her suite. She had to make that a habit now, engaging it whenever she’d be in her room for more than a few minutes.
Clicks and swooshes ensued, giving her partial peace of mind.
She dropped the robe on the floor and walked naked to the shower. It was the walk-in kind that could both bring a deluge from above and spray you from three sides. Kind of a standing massage. Aria stepped in and let the warm water pound away.
Part of her wanted to stand there for as long as it took to be safe, but of course that was impossible. What should she do next? The panic room was equipped to support her for a month. She could literally live there quite comfortably, safe as an eaglet high up in a tree.
To some that would have sounded like salvation, but to her the thought was not appealing. That was a retreat, whereas her nature was to advance. Aria Eiffel lived by making the world bend to her demands, not by caving. Add to that the fact that she’d go stir crazy locked in a concrete cage with no one but ghosts to keep her company, and she rejected that option outright.
But what if Tory didn’t answer? Not later tonight, not tomorrow. Then again, what if he did? Lisa had tried to disappear, and somehow she’d been killed en route. Murdered in her own plane. How did you kill just one person on a plane—and get away with it? Surely everyone aboard would be suspect? Was there a way to get the details? Of course there was. She could travel to San Clemente and splash some money around. But would it make her feel better, knowing that the killer had once again outwitted everyone? No, it would not.
What would make her feel better?
She turned off the shower and dried herself with a thick white towel from the warming rack. It was a wonderful luxury, caressing your wet body with warm organic cotton. The little things.
Aria knew she wouldn’t feel better until she had a definitive plan of action. She’d always been like that. Why would it be different now? But how could she devise a definitive plan when she couldn’t leave her house or confide in anyone who wasn’t potentially the killer?
From the bathroom, she walked into her huge closet. She went straight to the back, where she parted the hangers on a rack of lingerie. Silk slips and nighties and other lightweight items. She grabbed the bared bar hard with her right hand and gave it a twist. Once. Twice. When she heard the click she backed away, the clothes bar still in her grasp.
The closet moved with her, as if that entire section of the wall were a door. Once she’d swept it aside, she walked around to the exposed vault entrance and pressed her palm against an adjacent reader. The thick stainless steel responded favorably, sweeping open with a satisfying swoosh.
She walked inside.
The eight-by-ten room looked like Aladdin’s cave. Thick shelves were packed high with stacks of currency and weighted down with bars of gold. Glass-topped drawers protected important documents and displayed precious jewels.
Aria ignored the treasure trove and went straight for the gray metal box resting atop a pedestal that had once supported a marble bust. Lifting the lid, she removed the lone item lying on sponge padding. Her Ruger LC9.
As her warm, soft fingers took hold of the cold, hard steel, the elusive answer popped into her head. Just like that, she had it. Not foolproof. Not perfect. But a comfortable, convenient, workable plan.
63
Balanced Account
MIAMI WAS PACKED with funeral homes. I shouldn’t have been surprised given the demographics of the retirement state. But I was. I’d never noticed them before.
Tory had told us how he picked his partner establishments. “Most funeral homes belong to regional or national chains. I ignore those. Among the independents, I disregard the ones claiming 24-hour service, as I don’t want anyone around. From the remainder, I focus on those with the worst Yelp ratings, as they’re likely the hungriest. Then I go by location.”
We picked one for Tory to use in the demonstration that would confirm his entire story, and he made a couple of calls. The first was to offer Murdoch a fee in exchange for a reference. There was some risk in letting Tory talk to an accomplice, but I did the dialing, and Skylar had the omelet pan heated and ready throughout.
The second call, placed two hours later, went to their target operation, the Flowers Funeral Home. It proceeded as Tory had predicted. But then a call was just a call. Skylar and I wouldn’t have proof positive until we found the light left on above an unlocked door.
The three of us pulled into Flowers’ parking lot just after midnight. Skylar drove while I sat in back with my Sig pressed to Tory’s ribs.
“Not a car in the lot. No sign of police on the surrounding blocks. Are you satisfied?” Tory asked, his tone strained.
I didn’t have to guess why his voice was starting to give. The Finnish assassin’s face was cooked-lobster red, and the boils that covered it were turning crusty yellow. It was painful just to look at him, particularly his left eye. “We’ll call the police from inside. Our presence will add credibility.”
It was obvious that Tory didn’t like my plan.
I knew why.
He was banking on the accusations against him sounding absurd. No doubt he had concocted a tale of assault that made him the victim. Something that sounded more credible than talk of elaborate cons to replace anonymous clients.
But apparently he was also too tired to argue.
I didn’t know what technique the assassin was employing, but beyond being remarkable it had to be draining. Tory hadn’t screamed or wailed once. He hadn’t shed a single tear. Maintaining that discipline had to be depleting his secret reservoir.
Once we parked, I went around to pull our captive out onto the pavement. His ankles were still bound, but I had added a link between the straps so he could hobble. With the hotel room tai chi performance fresh in my mind, I had tripled-up on the zip ties for both ankles and hands.
We stood in silence for a second, the moon shining down, the city asleep. All of us aware of our surreal circumstance.
“This is so déjà vu,” Skylar said, looking my way. “I’m glad you’re beside me rather than five minutes behind.”
The Flowers Funeral Home didn’t have a covered glass walkway leading to its outbuilding. The crematory stood separate, like a garage with its own entrance.
I tried the door. It was unlocked.
“Satisfied?” Tory asked, taking his final shot.
I ignored the question and looked inside. The lights were on and the inner door was ajar. “No metal detector.”