So it was a matter of self preservation. Rothchilde was getting too careless, ordering murders like they were pizzas. He had to be taken down. The two hundred and fifty k wasn’t the motivating factor. It was just a bonus.
At least, that’s what Halloran kept telling himself.
He’d gotten into the mansion using the key Rothchilde had given him-the DruTech President didn’t want his servants to know how often Halloran came and went.
Rothchilde’s paranoia had served Halloran well. The icing on the cake was Rothchilde’s office-afraid of being overheard, he’d had it soundproofed. The guy was practically begging for someone to shoot him.
Halloran let himself in after a one-two knock.
“How did it go with the Schaumburg police?”
Classic Rothchilde. No greetings. No pleasantries.
“Fine. Where’s the money?”
Rothchilde offered one of his frequent condescending smiles. “It’s in my wall safe, of course. Do you think I’m going to let you just walk out of here with a quarter of a million dollars?”
Halloran didn’t like where this was going.
“How am I supposed to give it to him?”
“You don’t have to. I already made arrangements.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I called up Schaumburg myself. Strangely, the Captain there doesn’t even know you. But he was willing to look the other way for only thirty thousand.”
Halloran took out the piece. “I’m through messing around, Albert. Just give me the cash.”
Rothchilde continued smiling. “Frankly, Captain, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you had the stones to cross me.”
“The safe, Albert.”
“Isn’t it your intention to kill me anyway? Why should I also let you take my money?”
Halloran’s face twitched. He could feel the sweat climb down the back of his neck. The moment was getting away from him. Halloran had killed a man before, in the line of duty, clear self-defense. Killing in cold blood was a horse of a different color. If he was going to do it, it had to be now, before he lost his nerve. The money wasn’t the motivating factor. This was self-preservation.
Halloran thumbed off the safety.
“Before you shoot me, maybe you should know about my insurance.”
Rothchilde glanced up at the corner of the room. Halloran followed his gaze.
A video camera winked down at them from the corner.
“A rich man like me needs security.”
Halloran snarled. “Where’s the VCR?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you.”
It kept getting worse and worse. Halloran had spent his career talking to criminals who couldn’t understand how their careful plans had gone so wrong. He was watching the same thing happen to himself.
“I could make you tell me.”
“Perhaps. Or you could continue to work for me, and I’ll give you a nice bonus. Put away the gun.”
Halloran didn’t move. This had gone very sour, and the very last thing he wanted to do was give Rothchilde the upper hand again. But what else could he do?
Halloran shoved the gun back into his pocket.
“Good cop. I’ve got your bonus in here.”
Rothchilde opened his desk drawer and stuck his hand inside. Alarm bells went off in Halloran’s head. Rothchilde was moving too fast, and the expression on his face was wicked, almost bloodthirsty. Halloran dug back into his pocket, pulling at the 22, getting it caught on the fabric.
Rothchilde’s hand came out holding a large 9mm. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t talk. He aimed it at Halloran’s face and pulled the trigger.
Maybe he’s not a good shot.
That was Halloran’s last thought, and it went out the back of his head with a good portion of his frontal lobe.
Rothchilde watched the cop pitch over, a fine mist of vaporized blood settling to the ground after him.
It had been like shooting skeet at the club. Aim, squeeze, score. Easier, even; a clay pigeon was small and fast, not fat, stationary, and stupid.
Rothchilde stood up and walked around the desk, surveying the damage. There was a black, gooey hole where Halloran’s left eye had been. His other eye was wide open, still registering shock. It delighted Rothchilde so much that he located his Polaroid and took a picture.
When the novelty wore off, he realized that this had to be dealt with. There were stains, and as time wore on there was sure to be an odor. He picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number.
“Yeah.”
“Carlos, when you’re finished at DruTech, I need you and Franco at my place.”
“I got hit with a cactus.”
“I can’t say that I care. You both must come here when you’re finished.”
“Okay.”
Rothchilde frowned. Didn’t the man want to know why?
“I need you to dispose of something.”
“Okay. I said we’ll be there.”
Rothchilde tried to quell his desire to brag. This was his first kill, a symbolic rite of passage. He proved that he had the intestinal fortitude to get his own hands dirty-wet work, the mob called it. Carlos should have sensed that, offered to share their bond and welcome him as a member of the club. Instead, Rothchilde got blind obedience.
“How long will you be?” Rothchilde had to slip it in. “This body is doing terrible things to my carpet.”
“Should be soon. We’re pulling into DruTech right now.”
Was the man dense? Or was he so used to murder that it had become mundane to him?
“Fine.” Rothchilde sighed. “Keep me posted.”
He hung up, annoyed. Why did he care what Carlos thought, anyway? The man was a petty thug. Even worse, he was the hired help. Rothchilde would have to be content with keeping his victory to himself.
His spirits buoyed a bit when he noticed the hole in the far wall. Using his letter opener, he pried the slug out of the wood paneling. It was mashed on one side, like a small lead mushroom, still sticky with Halloran’s blood.
Rothchilde placed it in an envelope and locked it in his wall safe. If he couldn’t share the experience, at least he could keep a trophy.
Then he sat back at his desk and relived the whole scene in his head. The look on Halloran’s face was priceless. He wished he could do it all over again.
Then he remembered the security camera.
Excited, Rothchilde left his office, locking the door behind him. He moved at a brisk clip, down the grand staircase, into the library, through the keypad entrance where all of the security VCRs were located. Several minutes later he was watching the correct tape on his big plasma screen, mouth frozen in a grin and eyes wide as saucers.
It was hugely disappointing.
Rothchilde’s equipment was state of the art, but its purpose was to aid in security, not produce Hollywood blockbusters.
First of all, there was no sound. All of the delicious things Rothchilde had said-taunting Halloran, getting him to put away his gun, all of it was missing. And while the color was fine, the stationary downward angle didn’t show either of their faces.
But the worst part was the speed. The VCRs recorded in time lapse, so an entire twenty-four hour period could fit onto one eight hour tape. It only videotaped one frame every second, so things were ridiculously speeded up. From the time Halloran entered the office, until he was dead on the floor, lasted a measly eight seconds.
Rothchilde tried to watch it using the slow motion button, but the result was still jerky and unimpressive.
