First Class Killing

Chapter 43

STEWART HAD THE STEREO CRANKED UP AGAIN, so when I hoisted the nearby bag of potting soil through his front window, he didn’t hear. He didn’t hear me when I climbed through or came down the hall to find him lounging at his desk. Just the sight of him, bloated and satisfied, set off a storming rage inside, some for what he had done, a lot for what I had done, and all of it directed at him.

The first thing I needed was to make the music stop. I switched the gun to my left hand, reached over with the other, and tried to push the shelf unit over, the one with the stereo, the CDs, and the statues of comic book characters. It was heavy, so I had to slip my knee in for more leverage. I rocked it until I could feel it poised on the brink. A group of statues from one of the higher shelves slipped off and took headers straight into the hardwood floor. I pushed, and the music stopped. In its place was the sound of very expensive electronic equipment crashing about with magnificent force. It went on for a while.

Stewart bolted from his chair and ran for his life. He ended up in the corner with palms pressed against the sides of his head. By the time the last of the CDs had skated across the floor, he had his hands lifted to the heavens as if to plead for intervention. I raised the gun and pointed it at him. He wasn’t getting any.

As I lined him up in my sight, I didn’t feel anything. He could have been a paper target. He might have sensed that, because he stood frozen, staring at me in the silence, which was resounding after my cacophonous entrance.

“I had another clip, Stewart. Why don’t you come back and sit down?”

“You won’t kill me.”

I walked toward him, stepping around the pieces of equipment but directly on top of as many CD cases as I could. Some of them had sprung open, which left their discs vulnerable to the bottom of my boot. I liked the way they crunched underfoot.

I put the barrel against his right temple. “Look into my eyes, Stewart.”

He looked into mine, and I bored into his with every ounce of fury and hatred I could summon. He looked for a long time. I knew what he was staring at. It was ugly. I could feel it. Finally, he moved back to his chair and sat.

“Put your hands on the armrests.”

He did. But the armrests were too short, which meant he had to pull his elbows in close to his mushy body, which pushed his shoulders up around his ears.

“Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded in a small voice. “It was her idea. Please, don’t hurt me.”

I didn’t want him looking at me. I never wanted his eyes on me again. I turned the chair so he faced away, found his keys, and opened his desk drawer. I pulled out the clip he’d taken and stuck it in my pocket.

“What was her idea?”

“She told me you would do anything to get the video of your brother back. She told me what she wanted, and she said I would get a bonus.”

“If what?”

“If I could get you to have sex with me.”

I looked around at the equipment on the floor. “Did you make a video?”

“She said she didn’t need one.”

This was where I was supposed to fly into a rage, but I was already beyond rage. “Pull up the index of Angel’s archive. Use one hand.”

He had a hard time keeping his hand steady enough to maneuver, but eventually, he got to what I wanted to see. He clicked on the file, and a list came up. It looked like a directory list. Politicians-federal, state, and local. Law enforcement-federal, state, and local. Lawyers-civil and criminal. Judges and district attorneys. Media, sports, education, financial-brokers, investment bankers. He clicked on the file labeled “Lawyers,” and a list of names fell out. Next to each name was a code.

“What are the codes?”

“It’s how the videos are filed. There are no names on the files. Just the codes.” Like the ones I had seen on the Margolies video. “You have to have the key to know who everyone is.”

“Send the index to this address.” I read out Felix’s e-mail address to him, and he set it up and sent it.

“What kind of files did you make for Angel?”

“W-w-w-hat do you…”

“Whatformat?”

“CD-Rom.”

“Tell me where Angel keeps her copies.”

He paused just long enough for a moment of calculation. “I don’t know.”

I spun him around so I could see his face. He was pale, his skin was clammy and damp, and his jaw was trembling. But he was lying, and I wasn’t leaving without the information I needed. I had nowhere else to get it.

“Get out of the chair.”

“What?”

“Kneel on the floor, and put your hands on the back of your head.” I wasn’t sure who was talking. It sounded like me. The words were coming out of my mouth.

“Why?” I thought he’d been panicky before, but now I saw the true state of Stewart’s desperation. As he lowered himself, his entire body vibrated. The frizzy ends of his hair sparkled with perspiration. “Why do you want me to get down on the floor?”

“I’m not getting played by you again. I’d rather have you dead.”

“At the cabin.” The words squeaked out. “They’re at her place in New Hampshire in a…in a hole under the floor.”

“What room?”

“In front of the fireplace. It’s under the rug.”

“Is it locked?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where are your copies?”

“I don’t have copies.”

“You’re full of shit. There is no way you didn’t keep copies for yourself.”

“She told me she’d have me buried alive if she ever found out I’d taken anything from her. She knows people…people who are in those archives. They’re bad. She knows people like that. I believed her.”

“I’m sure you believed her, Stewart. You just didn’t think she’d ever catch you, because you’re so goddamned smart. How would she ever know that you kept your own copies to get off on because you can’t get a date to save your life, and you have to force yourself on a girl to ever get any?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did. You knew exactly what you were doing, and you enjoyed it.” I nudged him with the gun. He squeezed his shoulders together and punched his head forward and away from contact with the barrel.

“I kept electronic files. No hard copies. I didn’t want her to ever find anything. My copies are all on the C drive. There aren’t any more. Please.” His head was still forward, his neck distended. He started to cry. “Please don’t kill me.”

I made him wait a few more seconds before relieving the pressure.

“Move over to the CPU very slowly, and take out the hard drive.”

He slipped over, barely raising his head, and went to work. He had become impressively docile, which was why I let him stand up when he was finished and hand the drive to me.

“Get me the other one, too.”

He put his hands lightly on his hips and shifted his weight, which gave him a slightly less-docile profile. “I don’t have another one.”

“You have a D drive. I saw it in your directory when I was here with you last time.”

“All my personal stuff is on the D drive-my taxes and my address book and my-”

I raised the gun and smashed the butt down on his keyboard. The tray it was on sheared off its mooring under the desk with a loud crack. Everything tumbled to the ground. Then I shoved one of his monitors over the edge of the desk. It teetered and finally crashed down onto the pile.

“Okay.Okay. Stop!” His arms flailed at nothing. “I’m doing it. Stop it.”

He fell to his knees next to the CPU and made all the appropriate disco

“Stay down, and put your hands behind your head.”

His raised his arms slowly. I couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders started pistoning in time with his loud sobs. “I did everything you wanted. Please, don’t kill me. I’m sorry for what I did. Please.”