wanna take a look.”
The file was there in Eddie’s tray, fifth down in a towering stack. Eddie had run the substance found beneath Urban’s nail, the lab identifying it as duct-tape adhesive. Stuck to the adhesive was a strand of white carpet matching that in Urban’s bedroom, where he was found.
Chewing his lip, Nate stared at the result, trying to figure out some way to make it relevant. Then he jotted down Urban’s address and headed for the exit.
The sky above the row of town houses had turned charcoal by the time Nate arrived at Danny Urban’s Van Nuys address. A shoe-box-size package waited on the porch, the orange-and-blue FedEx label frayed from transport. He toed it. Surprisingly heavy, it gave off a clank, its contents shifting. Behind a crisscross of crime-scene tape, the front door was locked. Judging from the way the door jiggled beneath Nate’s hand, however, it was not dead-bolted. He took a step back, looked in either direction, then kicked the door in. Ducking through the tape, he entered, reached back for the FedEx box, and eased the door shut behind him in the damaged frame. Then he clicked on the flashlight he kept stored in the cargo space of his Jeep.
The bullet holes pockmarking the entry wall addressed a question that had been lingering in a corner of Nate’s mind: Why hadn’t Shevchenko’s men tortured Danny Urban to force him to give up the number of his safe- deposit box? Answer: They hadn’t had a chance to. That’s the problem with trying to knock off hit men. They know how to shoot back.
Squatting, Nate opened the FedEx box, yanking and tearing until the cardboard gave way. When he glanced inside, the contents set his head ringing, and he glanced away and then back as if hoping to find something else there. Nested in the U of a curled hunting catalog were maybe twenty lock-blade knives. They looked so ordinary resting there, but Nate knew what they represented. Urban, stocking up for future jobs.
He left the box on the floor. The narrow flashlight beam restricted his view, so he progressed slowly, each movement a stomach-churning reveal. The town house’s interior told the story of the assault. Bloodstains on the counter in the kitchen, where the fingers of Urban’s left hand had been shot off. He must have had a weapon within reach when they’d burst in, for he’d returned fire quickly, punching divots into the entry wall and shattering a hanging mirror. Cupboards and drawers tossed, Shevchenko’s men turning the place upside down in their search. Bloody handprint on the wall halfway up the stairs. Cabinets knocked open in the hall off the landing, side table shattered by bullets. Bedroom door ajar, painted with a stroke of red. And then the cluttered master suite, covered with porn DVDs,
Tufts of foam poked through slashes in the mattress. A letter desk in the corner had been searched. The drawers were empty, half pulled out, papers rifled through by the Ukrainians or the cops or both.
Nate squatted over the amoeba of blood, which had hardened to rust in the thick carpet. Thinking about that white strand recovered from the duct-tape adhesive beneath Urban’s nail, he looked at the handprint smudges leading from the door at intervals. Urban had been dragging himself to safety. Nate pictured him wounded and desperate, clawing forward with a hand and a half, bathed in sweat as footsteps grew loud behind him. If they’d done this to a hardened hit man, what chance did Nate have against them?
He spun, scanning the wall, the flashlight beam picking across a stack of army-surplus woodland-camo fatigue shirts, a dented DVD player, and a single dirty sock. Something shiny winked at him, half hidden by the leg of the letter desk.
A roll of duct tape.
A crackle of electricity moved through him, pricking his skin, trepidation and excitement rolled into one. He crossed the room and picked up the roll. One edge speckled with blood. A few indentations, millimeters apart. Teeth marks. Nate called to mind the crime-scene photo, Urban’s square teeth spaced inside the terrible oval his mouth had formed in death. The man had needed to bite to tear the tape since by the time he’d gotten upstairs, he’d had only one functional hand.
With murderers on your heels, why go after duct tape?
Nate dropped the roll. Walked back to the blood splotch. Nothing. The flashlight beam moved toward the doorway as if of its own volition, illuminating the fallen chair. Then, slowly, Nate pulled it north to the ceiling above it.
A fan.
The electricity along his skin surged into a current. Urban had run up here not only to get away but to hide something. The thing Shevchenko’s men were after. He’d stood on the chair and taped it to the fan. He’d fallen off the chair. Twisted that ankle. Tried to crawl to a position of cover. And then.
His heart thundering, Nate walked across the room. Righted the chair and stood on it. Reaching up, he felt along the tops of the fan blades. Sure enough, on the second blade his fingers touched a lifted edge of duct tape. He tore it free and held it under the flashlight.
Adhered to one side like a glittering jewel-a safe-deposit-box key. Stamped on the head, 227.
He blew out the breath burning his chest, his vision spotting. Clenched the key in his fist. Relief. Now all he had to do was impersonate a dead hit man, provide false documentation at the bank, get into the vault, trick a manager into using the guard key, and remove the box’s contents while leaving no trace. Piece of cake. But still. He had the key. Which was further than Shevchenko and his team of expert thugs had gotten. Maybe Nate could find a way out of this yet.
The sudden ring of his cell phone cut through the silence, scaring him upright. He wobbled on the chair and had to take a quick step down, nearly turning his ankle in solidarity with Urban. His hands fumbled over the phone, finally opening it.
“Nate. Nate?” Janie’s voice, thin, wrenched high with fear. “You have to get here
Chapter 19
Nate screeched up into the driveway, back tire swiping across the lawn. Flew from the Jeep, leaving the door ajar. He banged on the house door, shouting, and then hands fussed at the dead bolt and chain and Janie was there, her nostrils and the rims of her eyes red. He grabbed her shoulders. “Where’s Cielle?”
“Cielle’s okay. She was up in her room. With Casper.”
Hearing voices, Nate charged back toward the kitchen. Janie had described the intruder in their brief conversation. Yuri, the giant from outside the bank. Yuri of the mashed nose and the rescue saw. “He came to the house,” Nate said, still grappling with the fact of it.
“Yes, the driveway.”
Nate rounded the corner and saw Pete sitting on the counter, cradling his hand, which he’d wrapped in a dish towel filled with ice. His mouth was clenched, lips bloodless and trembling, his broad shoulders drooping. Cielle stood before him, Casper leaned into the backs of her legs as he did when agitated or craving attention.
“I was in the car.” Pete choked back pain. “Right in the driveway. Janie was inside.”
Nate wheeled to Janie. “If he laid a finger on you-”
“No,” she said. “I never saw him. I heard the noise outside.” She carefully unwrapped the dish towel, and Pete’s breathing quickened. “And then he was gone.”
“What did he do to you?” Nate asked Pete.
“He grabbed my hand. Slammed it in the car door.”
Cielle gave out a little cry. “Why? Who
Janie finished unfolding the blood-spotted towel, laying Pete’s hand bare. It looked wrong, bent at the middle, his thumb lolling at an unnatural angle. His skin was pink, angry from the ice. “It’s broken, honey,” Janie said. “There’s no question. We need a doc to reduce and cast it.”
Pete said, “How will we explain it?”
“Fell off a ladder,” Janie said.
“What are you talking about?” Cielle asked.
