“Thanks for taking care of her. Will you tell her I wish her well for me? I have to go.”
She nods and smiles before re-focusing on the wound. I quietly walk away and head back outside. I slide in behind the wheel of the Viper and call Josh.
“Adrian, are you alright?” he asks as he answers. “What happened?”
“I found Clara,” I explain. “I was too late to save the scientist — the sick bastards tortured him. They were leaving me a message. I’ve just brought Clara back to the hospital.”
“Christ… how’s she doing?”
“She’s been better. She’s resting up now though.”
“What’s your next move?”
“Well, Ketranovich and Dark Rain are a huge pain in my ass, but I can’t do much about them on my own. So instead, I’m going to work on getting Pellaggio out of my hair.”
“Be smart though, Boss. They’re still big enough that messing with them could have consequences.”
“I know. I’m going to frame Manhattan for the Jackson murder and use his arrest as a distraction to out of the city.”
Josh laughs. “Wow… that’s arguably the smartest thing you’ve said or done in a long time! All without my help… you’re finally learning!”
I smile to myself. “Kiss my ass, Josh.”
I hang up, start up the engine, and set off down the street toward the center of the city.
21
Any good assassin knows how to cover their tracks. If you do it right, most of the time it’s like you were never there. But on the rare occasion when you can’t deny that someone was present when a hit takes place, the trick is simple: make it look like someone else was there instead of you.
I pull up outside the Four Seasons, walk in, and head straight for the elevator. I press the button for the sixteenth floor and make the short ride up to Ted Jackson’s suite. The elevator dings open and I walk casually to the doors of the Summer suite, taking out the key card from my bag that I took the other day, and open the door.
The room’s exactly as I left it. Jackson’s still tied to the chair — and still very much dead. The bloodstains have begun to dry out and now they’re just dark, sticky patches on the carpet.
I walk over to the table in front of Jackson’s body and set my bag down in front of it, careful not to step in anything or disturb the scene un-necessarily. I take out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on. Then, I take out a tub of cocoa powder, a teaspoon, some sticky tape, and a small brush — like the one you’d use to marinate a chicken.
Stay with me — I’m not pausing for a hot chocolate or anything, I promise.
Finally, I take out the envelope Manhattan gave to me the other day with Jackson’s photo in it. I put it on the table and dip the brush into the cocoa powder, covering the bristles with a thin film. I gently brush over the surface of the envelope, specifically where Manhattan is likely to have held it.
The way it works is, your fingerprint consists of tiny ridges on your skin, and in between those ridges are sweat glands. When you put your fingertip on something, it essentially sweats, leaving a residue on the surface in the shape of your fingerprint. The cocoa powder on my brush, for example, will then stick to this residue, highlighting the fingerprint. It’s how forensic investigators dust a crime scene. I use cocoa powder because it’s very fine and easier to brush lightly, but CSI teams will use a special dust that does the same thing.
I find a full print near the top of the envelope, so I get some sticky tape and carefully lay a strip on top of it, pressing it down firmly. I then slowly lift it off the envelope, bringing Manhattan’s print with it. Holding it carefully between my thumb and index finger, I walk across the room to the gun on the floor that belonged to Clara. I press the tape down on the butt and rub it, transferring the print onto it.
Voila! Jimmy Manhattan now killed Ted Jackson!
I know there are more holes in that theory than your average sponge, but it’s enough to justify arresting him, which is all I’m aiming for. The gun fires the same bullets as my Beretta, so there’s the initial link. A detailed forensic test will prove the bullets that killed Jackson weren’t fired from this gun, but those things take time and they’ll have Manhattan in custody while they do all that stuff. Plus, any detective worth a damn will take one look at the room, see there’s a frightening lack of any other workable forensic evidence and determine it’s too clean a crime scene and could be a professional hit.
Which is true…
The end result is that Manhattan is out of my hair for the immediate future, which buys me plenty of time to settle up with Dark Rain and get the hell out of Dodge.
I carefully pack up my things and do a quick sweep of the place, retracing my steps and making sure I’ve not contaminated the scene in any way. I leave the room and take the elevator back down to reception. I walk over to the front desk and attract the attention of the young girl with dark hair, who checked me in a couple of days ago.
“Excuse me, Miss,” I say.
She looks at me and smiles. “Hello, Mr. Aday,” she says. “How can I help you today? Are you enjoying your stay with us?”
“Oh, yes, the place is lovely. Listen, I’m growing concerned about my associate, Mr. Jackson. He hasn’t been to either of our meetings and there’s no answer when I knock on his door. Can you please send someone up to check on him?”
“Of course, sir. I shall arrange a courtesy call right away.”
She walks over to a phone, dials a number, and quickly starts explaining what she needs. I smile to myself and walk out of the hotel. I climb into the Viper and drive off.
I’ll give it three hours…
It took two and a half hours… I was close.
After leaving the hotel, I’d driven over to Manhattan’s nightclub in the Neon district, and parked a reasonable distance away to wait. I figured after he’d regained consciousness in the portable cabin the night before, he’d make his way back to where he could protect himself. I’d bet that inside that club right now, he’s gathered as many local goons as he can, and he’s sitting in his office with the broken mirror, on the phone to Roberto Pellaggio asking advice and planning their revenge against me…
Talk about ungrateful! I mean, if you overlook the facts: I broke his noise, killed his bodyguard, and left him unconscious; I did technically save his life.
It would’ve taken ten minutes or so from me approaching the front desk at the Four Seasons to someone opening the door to Jackson’s suite to see if he was there. He was a rich and important guest, after all.
I imagine the guy who I recently found out was on my payroll would’ve volunteered for the job. He would have sounded the alarm straight away, and the hotel manager would have rung the police immediately.
They would’ve wanted the whole thing handled discreetly, as a hotel like that has to think of its reputation. They’d insist on the police dealing with it quickly and quietly, so a forensics team would’ve been there within the hour. They’d need half an hour or so to conduct their examination of the crime scene. The first thing they’d go to is the body; then the weapon.
The trick is to make it all look natural. Too much detail in the phony evidence and it’s too obvious it’s a set up. Too little, and they have nothing to go on. In the case of Ted Jackson, it will immediately seem strange that someone would use a gun to kill someone, not wear gloves, and leave the weapon at the scene of the crime. But, the fact they’d find a fingerprint means they’d have to bring in the owner of it in for questioning at the very least, even if they don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest and get a conviction in court. As I say, the room is completely clean apart from the gun, so it’ll look suspicious and they’ll assume it was a professional hit. They’ll look into Jackson and it’ll take a few minutes to see the link to Pellaggio. Factor in Manhattan’s fingerprint and it all makes perfect sense. A mob hit.