Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) (29 page)

hanks, Paul,” the peppy news reporter says, her brunette hair flitting only a little bit in the wind as she grips a fine parka. “I’m here at Mother of Mercy’s cemetery where the body of Angela Donahue will be laid to rest beside her parents and brother, in spite of the protests of the District Attorney.”

The camera zooms in to show the headstones of the Donahue parents, Madeline and Richard, dating back to the fifties and up to the double digits of the new millennium. Loving Mother. Devoted Father. Various flowers anoint both. Nearby, the headstone of one Andrew Donahue sits with flowers a little less crisp due to age. And beside them, with no difference in regard, the headstone of Angela Donahue.

“Of course, police are unwilling to give many details about the turn of events involving the Donahues and the tragedy that’s befallen the family, but what they have released is nonetheless disturbing.”

A thin man, grizzled and sporting a stubble-beard, stands in front of the camera at a pretaped conference, dressed in police blues. “What I can confirm,” he begins, clearing his throat. “Is that in the early-morning hours today, shots were fired at the Donahue home, reported by a neighbor. The Saint Roch Police Department responded with multiple units. Thomas Donahue was found alive, with minor injuries and in severe dehydration.”

A reporter speaks out loudly. “Sergeant, is it true that bodies were removed from the home?”

The cop holds up a hand, a vague attempt to settle his audience. “I can confirm that the body of Angela Donahue was found at the scene. It is the belief of the District Attorney,” he says with some contempt, “that the murders of Madeline and Richard Donahue, along with their guests on the night of December 12, were committed by Angela Donahue, as well as the disappearance of her twin brother, Thomas.”

“I said,
bodies
, sergeant,” the reporter says.

He holds up his hand again. “I cannot give any further details regarding this ongoing investigation.”

The picture flicks back to the peppy reporter who, despite the tragic events, manages a cheesy smile. “And it was just an hour ago that Thomas Donahue returned from the hospital, driven by a friend of the family.”

The camera shows a recording of Thomas Donahue in the passenger seat of a Lexus, shielding himself from the camera as the gates of the manor that now belongs to him opens wide to permit his entry. The wrought iron bars close behind the car, locking out the world.

“We talked to some of the neighbors here, and they had this to say.”

Interviews flit on the screen of polo-sporting boys and blouse-wearing women in a comfy studio or perhaps even their own homes, so well adorned that they appear to be set dressings.

“The Donahues were wonderful people,” a young girl says, quietly wiping a tear that escapes her eye on command. “And this community is in mourning for their loss.”

An older man, who sold his company a month before a fatal flaw in the software he developed was discovered, says with a fond smile, “They were great people, so generous to those in need. I’m sure Tom will carry on the family name with pride and honor.”

The last is an elderly woman, wealthy on the still-lingering profits of the prohibition era. “I heard two shots. Pop. Pop.” Her floppy hat waves at the camera as she reenacts the moments. “And I thought, well, maybe they’re working on a fireworks show for the New Year. They were always so nice, putting on parties for the neighborhood like that. And then I heard another one. Pop! And then another. Pop! And I thought, Muriel, that young girl is up there all by herself. You should make sure she’s okay. So I called the police.”

“That’s the kind of neighborhood you have here, right? Watching out for each other?” a male reporter says, the microphone wavering before the old woman.

She nods, proud, hat moving like a flag on her head. “And when I heard the other two pops a little while later, I knew I did the right thing!”

The picture goes back to the peppy reporter. “We’ll be sure to keep you updated on any developing details of this story. Until then, back to you, Paul.”

Paul comes up on the screen, his toupee somewhat askew. “Thanks, Patricia! Our next story, the body of a man was discovered on the North End of Saint Roch in what police are calling a grisly murder―”

I lift the remote and flick it off, sick of hearing the same reports over and over. The room―Thomas’s bedroom―is much bigger than I’m used to though, and the television was helping me feel somewhat less out of place. But in the silence, all I can focus on now is Thomas, his steady breathing beside me punctuated only by his light snoring from time to time. I lift up his pain medication to the bedside lamp and check the dosage again, making sure I haven’t given him too much.

He did fall asleep pretty quickly.

As I turn off the lamp, dropping the room into darkness, I crawl closer to Thomas, draping an arm over his side and bringing my body against his. He presses back, still deeply asleep. I can’t imagine what his waking thoughts are like, nor would I want to. I’ve killed hundreds. Most deserved it. Probably a few who didn’t. But I never hesitated.

I have to wonder a little, though. With Angie’s finger on the trigger, the barrel pressing so hard against me, did he hesitate? Did he pause before he snatched my gun from the table? Did his finger stroke the trigger before he pulled it? Did he pause when the first bullet struck her chest, hoping it would end there? And the second bullet, that ended her life instantly, did he reconsider everything then?

His heart beats beside mine, and I finally know what true fear is.

ery few places in Saint Roch are as clean as the plush red carpet stretched from the entrance of the Crux to the curb where the wealth-drowned old men and their expensive dates are dropped off by their drivers. I want to call it pure, looking at the blood-red fabric, somehow untouched by the filth that washes down every other avenue of the city, but I know what goes on inside.

A car blacker than the moonless night arrives to the valet, and a haughty and plump man jostles out of the backseat, clinging to his blonde purchase of the evening. The girl, young enough to be his granddaughter, looks to be trying her hardest not to grimace, and I don’t envy her income methods.

While the car entrance may have been the way to go, I refuse. I want to make sure I’m noticed tonight. Cameras flash as the local media tries to capture every big name stepping into the club.

The governor, largely elected through funds laundered through the Crux.

The actress from one of the latest films to be flushed out of the West Coast. Sprouting a cup size since the last time Joe Public saw her.

The pitcher who came close to a no-hitter three nights ago at the stadium only a few blocks away.

Robert Nox owns the stadium as much as he owns the rest of Saint Roch City. And the Crux is his club. His Shangri-La. The glitz of the flashing lights and the glow of the neon signs make my eyes hurt, but I push past it. Just as I push past the clacking cameras. My dress swishes before the top-heavy actress, and I see her catch her breath. My hair, decidedly crimson, casts a wave to her, and she licks her lip.

Huh. Never knew she swung for both teams.

She stumbles as I walk ahead, the camera flashes pausing for a moment, the crowds dropping off to silence before surging back with sound. My picture is taken dozens of times. The photographers all grab on to one another, and I can read their lips and their eyes.

“Who is she?”

“She’s in that new movie, right?”

“I’m in the wrong business…”

“Damn!”

I pose. I flirt. I flaunt.

The velvet ropes lining the magma-colored carpet strain against the crowds, and I have no doubt that some of these men will charge the door after me. I only pray that Nox’s bouncers can handle a few desperate fools.

The governor looks back to me, and he can’t seem to face forward, his wife looking more than a little bothered by his salivation. My gown billows toward him as I walk into the club. I pucker my lips at him, and his breath catches.

I pass the plump man and his barely legal plaything, and he lets go of her to clutch at his chest. A momentary flicker of joy at being released crosses the blonde woman’s face, followed immediately by loathing.

They do tend to hate me. I’m okay with that.

The doormen, suited up and sporting sunglasses, are easy to spot. The casino floor could be robbed right now as all of them follow me with their eyes. I’m certain that not a single one of them is thinking I’ll rip off their boss. Rather they’re thinking how they’d rather rip my clothes off right then, consequences be damned.

I know this club. I know this casino. I even know a bit about the brothel fifteen floors up. Thomas let me look at the blueprints after he spoke to the family’s attorney and learned of the storage container his father had kept off the books. I know where my quarry is right now. Because with a little effort, I now have access to the security system of the building.

Thomas’s building.

Over the noise of the clanging slot machines and the blackjack dealers informing the players they should have picked another way to spend their evening, I can only just make out the whispers. The stares. The maps that the men and more than a few women are painting over my body with their eyes. How badly they all want me. How easily I keep them at bay.