Hard as Nails

Unless he found the man who was murdering heroin users and dealers.

"One thing," said Gonzaga, smiling slightly as if remembering some amusing detail. "I should tell you that this psychopath hasn't just been whacking the dealers and users—he goes to their homes and shoots their entire families. Kids. Mothers-in-law. Visiting aunts."

"Twenty-two murdered and missing people," said Kurtz.

"Murdered people, bodies missing, but the people aren't really missed," said Toma Gonzaga. "These are all junkies or dealers. Heroin addicts and their families. No one's been reported missing yet."

"But they will be soon," said Kurtz. "You can't keep the lid on twenty-two murdered people."

"Of course," said Gonzaga. "Bobby." He nodded toward the bodyguard on the side bench.

Bobby handed Kurtz a slim leather portfolio.

"Here's what we know, the names of those who've been murdered, dates, addresses, everything we have," said Gonzaga.

"I don't want this job," said Kurtz. "This crap has nothing to do with me." He tried to hand the portfolio back, but the bodyguard folded his arms.

"It has a lot to do with you now," said Gonzaga. "Or it will at midnight on Monday—that's Halloween, I believe—especially if you don't find this man."

Kurtz said nothing.

Gonzaga handed him a cell phone. "This is how you get in touch with us. Hit the only stored number. Somebody'll answer night or day and I'll call you back within twenty minutes."

Kurtz slipped the phone in his pocket and pointed toward the bodyguard who was holding his.38. The bodyguard looked to Gonzaga, who nodded. The man dumped the cartridges out onto his palm and handed the empty weapon to Kurtz.

"Can we drop you somewhere?" asked Toma Gonzaga.

Kurtz peered out through the tinted windows. They were near the Hyatt and the Convention Center, within a block of the office building where Brian Ke

"Here," said Kurtz.

When he was standing on the curb by the open door, Toma Gonzaga said, "One more thing, Mr. Kurtz."

Kurtz waited. The cold air felt good after the stuffy interior of the limousine, filled with the bodyguards' cologne.

"There's word that Angelina has hired a professional killer called the Dane," said Gonzaga. "And paid him one million dollars in advance to settle old scores."

Cute, thought Kurtz. Angelina Farino Ferrara had warned him that Gonzaga was bringing in the Dane. Gonzaga warned him that she had. But why would either one of them warn me?

He said, "What's that got to do with me?"

"You might want to work extra hard to earn the hundred thousand dollars I mentioned," said Gonzaga. "Especially since all indications are that you're one of the old scores she wants to settle."

CHAPTER NINE

Empire State Security and Executive Protection had its offices on the twenty-first floor of one of the few high, modern buildings in downtown Buffalo. The receptionist was an attractive, bright Eurasian woman, impeccably dressed, who politely ignored Kurtz's bandages and bruised eyes; she smiled and buzzed Mr. Ke

Ke

"Security business seems to be booming," said Kurtz.

"It is," said Brian Ke

Ke

His office had a modern but not silly desk, three computer terminals, a comfortable leather couch, and a small oval conference table near the juncture of the glass walls. A professional quality three-quarter-inch tape video machine and monitor were on a cart near the table. Rigby King was already seated across the table.

"Joe."

"Detective King," said Kurtz.

Ke

Kurtz shrugged and took a chair, setting Gonzaga's leather portfolio on the floor next to his chair.

"Can I get you something, Mr. Kurtz? Coffee, bottled water, a beer?" Ke

"I'm good," said Kurtz.

"You left the hospital rather abruptly this morning, Joe," said Rigby King. Her brown eyes were as attractive, deep, intelligent and guarded as he remembered. "You left your clothes behind."

"I found some others," said Kurtz. "Am I under arrest?"

Rigby shook her head. Her short, slightly spiked hair made her seem younger than she should look; she was, after all, three years older than Kurtz. "Let's watch the tape," she said.

"Peg is still on life-support and unconscious," said Ke

"Good," said Rigby. "I called an hour ago to check on her condition."

Kurtz looked at the blank monitor.

"This is the surveillance camera for the door you and Peg came out," said Ke

The video was black and white, or color in such low lighting that there was no color, and it showed only the area of about twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet in front of the doors opening out into the Civic Center garage.

"No cameras aimed at the parked cars area?" asked Kurtz as the tape began to roll, yesterday's date, hour, minute and second in white in the lower right of the frame.

"There is," said Ke

On the screen, the door opened and Kurtz watched himself emerge nodding toward the shadow that was Peg O'Toole holding the door. Kurtz watched himself walk in front of the woman, who was staying back.

They had separated ten feet or so and started to go opposite directions when something happened. Kurtz watched himself crouch, fling his arm out, point at the door, and shout something. O'Toole froze, looked at Kurtz as if he was mad, reached for the weapon in her purse, and then her head swung around and looked into the darkness behind the overhead camera. Everything was silent.

He saw sparks as a bullet struck a concrete pillar eight feet behind them. O'Toole drew her 9-mm Sig Pro and swung it in the direction the shooting was coming from. Kurtz watched himself swing around as if he was going to run for the shelter of the pillar, but then O'Toole was struck. Her head snapped back.

Kurtz remembered now. Remembered bits of it. The phut, phut, phut and muzzle flare coming from the sixth or seventh dark car down the ramp. Not a silenced weapon, Kurtz realized at the time and remembered now, but almost certainly a.22-caliber pistol, just one, sounding even softer than most.22s, as if the shooter had reduced the powder load.