reporting live from Dixon. Back to you, Doug.” Howard
Decker’s serious face immediately brightened as he switched on a broad smile at the end of his report.
The screen returned to the grave-looking anchor. “A disturbing story—let’s hope we can get to the bottom of it. Debbie?”
The camera went to the female coanchor and she began a story about a farming policy going through the
state capitol. Josh turned off the television before she could finish.
“Josh, is that the apartment complex you were
telling me about?”
Josh didn’t answer.
“Josh, are you there?”
Josh had known as soon as they mentioned the name of the apartments that it was the construction project he had taken the bribe on. He couldn’t believe Bell had gone and done it. A chill ran through him, as if a chunk of ice circulated through his bloodstream.
Gooseflesh broke out along his arms and down his
back. Josh fell back onto the couch, relieved to be sitting down.
Bob was still asking if he was there. Josh interrupted him. “Yeah, that’s the project I worked on.”
“Do you think it was Bell?”
“It wouldn’t be anyone else. She came around after I came back from Forget-Me-Nots. She said if I refused to play along with her, she would do something to hurt me.”
“At least she didn’t mention any names.”
This is a warning. She will if I don’t comply with her demands.”
“Which are what?”
“I have no idea, but I’m sure I’ll find out.”
“Hey, man, are you okay?” Bob said. “You don’t
sound good.”
“Everything just seems to be going to hell. I think I’m losing this one.”
“Well, if you feel that way, you might as well give up and concede defeat. Tell Kate about the blackmail and the affair, walk into the cops and tell them about the kickback and tell Bell to go fuck herself,” Bob said sharply.
Josh didn’t understand Bob’s hostility, and the
change in character shocked him. “What’s crawled up your ass?” he asked.
“You. You’ve surrendered.”
“I haven’t given up.”
“Then don’t act like it. And if you need my help, call me. I’m here for you. But don’t give up on me, and more importantly don’t give up on you. You’ve got to bring this mess to a close.”
Bob was right. It was time to drop the self-pity. He had too much to lose by giving up.
“Thanks, Bob. I’ll be talking to you.” Josh hung up.
“Josh, is everything okay down there?” Kate called from the upstairs landing.
“It’s nothing. Everything’s going to be okay,” he said, but didn’t know if he believed it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The professional sat in his rental car, parked several houses down the street from Margaret Macey’s ranch home. He tutted his disapproval.
“Margaret, Margaret, Margaret, what have you
done?” he asked.
A police cruiser was parked outside the old woman’s house.
The cops won’t save you, Margaret. No one can save you. I told you that. The professional had warned her not to call the police; told her it wouldn’t do her any good. He’d discovered the police involvement on his scanner three days ago when he heard a request for a patrol to visit Margaret Macey. And here they were again, and he was certainly surprised to find them when he had something new planned for his target. But he could wait for the police to go. He had underestimated Margaret. She had more strength of character
than he gave her credit for. Her file had stated she was weak in all respects, but no matter, she could do little to hurt him and the police wouldn’t be able to track him. The police were more of a nuisance than a problem.
She would still die and it would look like natural causes. He waited.
He cast a quizzical eye over Margaret’s house. The siding had seen better days and looked as if it had been run through the washer one too many times. The moss covered wood shake was curled and hung at curious angles like the teeth of a none-too-proficient boxer.
The small, unkempt yard was ugly, filled with dead plants and overgrown weeds. Margaret’s house was no different than the neighboring homes. A shitty little house on a shitty side of town, he thought. He mused this was no way for someone to live out their twilight years. In the same position for over twenty minutes, his butt was going to sleep, so he shifted in his seat.
Like a cat watching its prey, he waited for the right time to pounce while he thought of the woman inside the house. A hundred and fifty grand—who’d’ve of thought it? An outsider would have never guessed Margaret Macey was worth a considerable six-figure sum, dead.
But how many times had he read about some old bird who lived like a bum with millions in the bank? Sometimes he failed to comprehend what made people tick. He could get into the lives of those he killed, establishing what they did and when they did things, but the
why always eluded him. A horn blared from behind
and the professional checked his mirror. One car had cut off another turning onto his street and the cars had narrowly missed each other.
He returned his gaze and his thoughts to Margaret Macey. What a sad and pointless life she led. Life to her was a malignant disease prolonging her suffering.
He wondered if anyone besides Pinnacle Investments wanted to see her dead. He considered that he would be doing her a favor, ending her life, like a considerate owner knowing when to have his beloved pet put out of its misery. The near-miss cars sped past. The force made his car shudder on its wheels.
Josh Michaels’s life was in stark contrast to Margaret’s.
He had so much to live for. And if the professional was brutally honest, Michaels was a more challenging target and he couldn’t wait to get back into the thick of that assignment.
But to deal with Michaels effectively he had to
be totally focused on the younger man and not have the distraction of Margaret Macey on his plate. Anyway, it wouldn’t take much for the professional to rid himself of Mrs. Macey. A couple more phone calls and a personal visit should do it. He would be glad when he had disposed of her.
He remembered his nocturnal visit to Margaret’s
house two days after his first phone call from Josh Michaels’s party. His investigation revealed no security systems and poor quality door locks, making it easy to get in and out when the time came. The operation had all the hallmarks of a slick assignment. It would be like taking candy from a baby—or life from an old lady.
The professional smiled smugly.
His smile hardened. A swift disposal of one of his targets would get that prick, Dexter Tyrell, off his back. Tyrell’s attitude annoyed him. The executive knew nothing of the work the professional did for him and the inventiveness needed to meet Tyrell’s criteria.
“I want the people in the files killed in a way that does not raise suspicion. It has to look like an accident or a random act of violence. You know, accidents with machine tools, heart attacks, muggings, car accidents, hit and runs. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what to do,” Dexter Tyrell had said to him during their initial phone conversation two years ago.
It had been easy for him to say, but not as easy for the professional to carry out. With the hassle he was getting from Tyrell these days, it hardly seemed worth the ten grand per head. It might be time to move on to higher-paying assignments.
