Cold Shot to the Heart (10 page)

“Beats working in a factory,” he said. “I've done that, too. You watch your life blow by you every day. And the days you're not working, you're too friggin' tired to enjoy anyway. You say you saw Wayne?”

“Two days ago.” She'd flown from San Antonio to New York, then taken Amtrak to Florida.

“How's he making out?”

“Hard to tell. He doesn't talk much about what goes on inside.”

“Doesn't want to worry you.”

“Maybe.”

She took shots of the boulevard, north and south. The light was all but gone now. She lowered the camera.

“Let's find a Kinko's or something, print these out,” she said. “Then go see Stimmer.”

He started the engine. “So, what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking,” she said, “that it's a go.”

*   *   *

Stimmer laid the guns out on the coffee table, a Glock 9 mm, a Browning automatic, and a short-barreled MP5 machine pistol. She picked up the Glock, turned it over in her hand, felt its weight.

They were in a bungalow Stimmer had rented a few miles west of the city, in a neighborhood of dead lawns and single-story stucco homes marked with gang graffiti. The living room furniture was a battered couch and cheap table, a pair of metal folding chairs. An open door led into the single bedroom. She had the couch, Stimmer and Chance the chairs. Paper printouts of the hotel shots were on the table.

“What's with the grease gun?” Chance said. “You looking to clear a room?”

“It's psychological,” Stimmer said. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and cargo shorts. There was a fanged skull tattoo on his upper arm, an elaborate crucifix on his calf.

He picked up the MP5, extended the metal tube stock, locked it into place.

“Weapon like this gets people's attention. Lets them know you're serious. That's what we want, right? What do they call it? ‘The illusion of imminent death'?”

The house smelled of mildew and rotted fruit, the jalousied windows covered by dirty pull shades. She wondered how he slept in here. A palmetto bug scuttled across the linoleum in the kitchen, disappeared beneath the refrigerator.

“I bought all of these down here,” Stimmer said. “They go right into a canal when we're done.”

She set the Glock back down. “I put together a list of what I think we'll need,” she said. She tapped a printout. “We were looking at those balconies.”

“So was I,” Stimmer said. He laid the MP5 across his lap. “The room with the game is on the beachside, 1102. The balconies are wider there, better for us. There's no way we're getting in the front door of that room while the game's going on.”

“We'll need to figure a way to get through that sliding glass door,” she said.

“Not an issue. No one smokes in the room, they have to go outside. So they leave the door unlocked.”

“We'll need rappelling equipment for two people. Can you swing that?”

“Shouldn't be a problem. I'll take care of it tomorrow.”

“Black jumpsuits for two of us,” she said. “A blue one for the third. We have to fake some stitching on the back, name of a maintenance company. Doesn't have to be perfect, just enough to pass casual inspection.”

Stimmer nodded. “Masks and gloves, too. I can do all of that.”

“About this rappel thing,” Chance said. “I don't know if I'm down with that.”

“You don't need to be,” Stimmer said. “I've done it. All you'll have to do is help organize the equipment up top, watch the safety lines.”

“That's better.”

“We need someone to take a look inside,” she said. “Maybe get some pictures.”

“I've been in there,” Stimmer said. “Couple weeks back. I stayed there one night, walked around the place. Eleventh floor, too.”

“Sure that was smart?” she said.

“I used another name and credit card. Nothing to worry about. Eleven-oh-two is at the end of the hall, north side. I was in 904, two floors down and one room over. Layout's probably the same. I sketched it all out.”

“Good,” she said.

“If it's different, we'll play it by ear when we get in there. Players start arriving about nine, but the game doesn't pick up speed until midnight or so. I figure we go in around one. Too early for people to start dropping out, but late enough that they're starting to get tired. Easier to handle.”

“That sounds right,” she said.

“Now, on every hall there's a maintenance closet,” he said. “Locked, but easy to pick. Each one has a trash chute that goes down to the basement, directly off the garage. That way we don't have to carry anything downstairs. We pack it all into a pair of duffels—money, guns, masks, everything—dump them into the chute. We walk away clean, just in case we're stopped. Then we meet up in the basement, pick up the bags, and get gone.”

“How do we get into the basement?” Chance said.

“It's a maintenance shop as well, open during the day. I was able to get a look inside. There's tools in there, so they lock the door at night, but it'll be easy to get through. No alarm. There's a reserved parking spot in the garage, right outside the door, for the maintenance company van. They're independent contractors, only there during business hours or emergencies. I got a couple shots of their vehicle.”

“So we'll need a van?” Chance said.

“I got that covered. The van's old, white. Easy to match. I found one like it over in Davie, bought it for five hundred cash. They'll keep it there until I pick it up. We'll need to do a paint job on the side, re-create the logo, but we've got the pictures to match it against.”

“So who's paying for all this?” Crissa said.

“I am, so far,” Stimmer said. “Afterward we'll do a normal split. Expenses off the top, then a three-way divide.”

“What about your inside guy?” she said.

“That comes out of my share. I'll take care of him.”

Or maybe he'll end up in a canal, too, she thought. Stimmer seemed the type. Cheaper than paying him, and one less loose end. In the long run, though, it was a bad way to do business. Bodies had a way of turning up, and greed and paranoia could ruin the best of plans.

“We'll have another car parked nearby,” Stimmer said. “We roll out of there in the van, split up when we reach the car. Whoever's driving the van takes the equipment and the money. Then we meet up later, here.”

He nodded at the Glock. “You want to take that now?”

She shook her head. “Night of. We'll leave everything here until we're ready.”

“Fine with me,” he said.

“I think we're done here,” she said. “We'll meet tomorrow, get the equipment sorted out, run through everything again. We don't have much time.”

“That's an understatement,” Chance said. “One day to get ready. Can we even make that work?”

“We will,” she said.

*   *   *

Chance dropped her at her hotel in Deerfield Beach. She went up to the room and got the disc Leah had given her, then let herself into the hotel's business center with her key card. The room was empty, the three computers and fax machine shut down for the night.

She sat at a terminal, powered it up, and slid the disc in.

There were twelve photos on it, all recent. Maddie at a swimming pool, water wings on her arms, splashing. Another on the front lawn of the house, Maddie crouched and smiling up at the camera. In the next, she was blowing out candles on a birthday cake, Jenny beside her. Then a class portrait on the school steps. The bottom of the photo read
GRADE FIVE — ELKTAIL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL — TWO RIVERS, TEXAS —
2011
.

She clicked through all the pictures twice, with that same pull inside she'd felt at the playground. You're a beautiful little girl, she thought. But you're not really mine anymore, are you?

This was a mistake, she realized. She should have waited until she got home to look at the photos, when the work was over. Right now she needed her edge, needed to be cold, smart. No tears.

She ejected the disc, punched the power button, watched the screen fade to black.

ELEVEN

She rode the elevator to the tenth floor, then got out and took the stairs. At the top, a fire door said
NO ADMITTANCE
. She pushed through, went up the short flight of stairs to the roof.

She'd come in the front door with a group of drunk conventioneers, joined them in the elevator. The doorman hadn't seemed to notice her. The conventioneers had gotten off at the fifth floor, gone noisily to their rooms, left her alone.

She opened the roof door and stepped out into the night. In front of her was the immense blackness of the ocean, the moon a glow behind clouds.

Stimmer and Chance were waiting in the lee of the big air-conditioning unit, sitting with their backs against it. They'd arrived an hour apart, Stimmer first, Chance dropping him off, then coming back with the van. She'd taken a cab, had it leave her four blocks away at another hotel, then walked here.

The air conditioner rattled and thrummed, the only sound up here besides the wind. Heat lightning pulsed on the horizon.

They got to their feet when they saw her. Stimmer was already in his jumpsuit, Chance in the maintenance uniform, both wearing gloves. Chance opened a duffel bag, began to draw equipment out.

The blacktop was warm through her sneakers—residual heat from the day. She looked around. On both sides were more hotels, a long curve of them following the beach. To the front, traffic moved on Seabreeze. The far right lane emptied onto the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway and led to the city proper.

Chance held out her jumpsuit. She pulled it on over her jeans and T-shirt, a tight fit, zipped it. There was a Velcroed pocket on each side, big enough for a weapon. Chance handed her the Glock. She checked it, slipped it into the right pocket, smoothed it shut. The bundle of plasticuffs he gave her went into the other pocket.

Stimmer had two nylon ropes anchored around the air-conditioning unit, was pulling on them to test them. Chance held up one of the harnesses for her. She stepped into it, tightened the belt, tugged on the leather rappel gloves he gave her.

Stimmer drew the MP5 from the duffel, the stock retracted. He'd jury-rigged a harness on his back for it, strapped it in place. Chance helped him into the rappel gear.

They got busy with the lines, feeding them through the carabiners and belay devices. She double-checked hers, tugged on the rope to test it. She gave Stimmer the thumbs-up.

A gust of wind blew in from the ocean, lifted grit from the rooftop, swirled it in the air. It was stronger than they'd expected. They'd have to take it into account when they went over the side.

She paid out rope, walking backward to the roof edge. She turned, looked down, felt a hollowness in her stomach. Thirteen floors below was the concrete patio, the blue light of the swimming pool, closed for the night, a stack of plastic chairs beside it. Beyond the patio, the empty beach. Light came through the ground-floor windows, illuminated a brief stretch of sand.

If the rigging failed, she'd have two choices. Push away and hope she cleared the patio and hit the sand, or angle in and try to make the pool. Either way, she knew, the fall would probably kill her.

“You ready?” Stimmer said. She nodded. He pulled on a black ski mask, handed her another. She tugged it down over her face, adjusted the eye holes. She tried to swallow, couldn't gather enough saliva.

She repositioned herself, looked down again. Directly below was the dark shape of an unlit balcony—1202. They knew it was vacant, had called the room twice tonight to be sure. Below that, the balcony of 1102, the flagstones faintly illuminated by light coming through a sliding glass door.

Chance was by the air-conditioning unit, checking the rigging. He gave her the thumbs-up. She hitched the harness to a more comfortable position, leaned back until the line grew taut. Then she stepped backward over the edge, planted her feet against the stucco wall.

She played out rope, the nylon stretching as it took her weight. Her right hand worked the belaying device at her hip. Don't look down and don't look up, she thought. Concentrate on what you're doing.

She lowered herself, testing the tension, letting the rope out in increments through the cinch links, her sneakers scuffing on the wall. She juddered in stages down the side of the building, the wind pushing gently against her. She felt exposed, waited for someone on the ground to see her, cry out.

She let out more rope, and then suddenly the first balcony was under her. The wind blew her toward the building. She braced her feet on the wrought-iron railing, let it take her weight. Three seconds of rest and then she let out more line, pushed away. She could hear the ocean.

Stretched across the railing, the line held her farther out from the building now. She looked down, saw the balcony of 1102 just a few feet below. More line, and then she swung her weight out—once, twice—let the momentum carry her back in, her legs extended. On the third try, she hooked the railing with her feet, pulled herself in. Then she played out a final three feet of rope, swung her hips over the railing, and landed soft on the balcony.

She crouched there, not breathing. The sliding glass door was open two inches, the breeze stirring the curtain inside. The room beyond was half-lit. A wind chime sounded from another balcony.

She put a hand on the flagstones for balance, used the other to undo the harness. She eased out of it, then double-knotted the trailing line around one of the carabiners.

Movement above her. She looked up, saw Stimmer coming down. He tried to swing in to the balcony, missed. She caught his ankle on the second try, guided him in. His feet touched the flagstones, and she pulled him down beside her.

They waited, listening. He eased his harness off, knotted the line, tugged twice. The two harnesses rose off the flagstones, brushed once against the railing, and were gone.